A portrait of my mother hangs in the entry hall outside my apartment. It was painted by Elizabeth Shumatoff, the same artist who was painting my grandfather's portrait — "the unfinished portrait" — when he died in Warm Springs, Georgia, on the 12th of April 1945. The nation stopped in disbelief to grieve the only president most of them had ever known: friend, trusted guide in depression and war, "traitor to his class," hero to "the forgotten man." My mother's hero. She treasured his companionship and love. When my father left for the war, she and I moved to The White House.
My mother Anna was a beautiful and gifted woman. Perhaps like most children, I wanted her more for myself. She lived gracefully in the shadow of two larger-than-life parents. She was proudly a Roosevelt through and through, but never only a Roosevelt. She made a life of her own, modeling that accomplishment for my sister, my brother and me, so that we could do the same for ourselves. I am five years older than she was when she died. In May each year, her birthday and Mother's Day, I remember her, miss her, am grateful for her.
For my earlier published writing about my parents and their families, see A Love in Shadow (NY: W.W. Norton, 1978)
Eleanor Roosevelt, Anna Roosevelt Boettiger, John Roosevelt Boettiger
Mercer Island, Washington, October 1939