the little boy laughed and held his stomach. He went to his fatherâs side, stood on tiptoe and whispered: âBzzzz-bzzzzzzzâbzz-bzz.â The President threw both hands in the air, reared back with surprise, and whispered: âYou donât tell me!â The effect on the boy was to cause him to fall to the floor, rolling over with laughter. It was repeated almost every morning.
The Kennedy children were accustomed to having one parent home. When father went on a trip, quite often mother remained with them. When mother flew away for a rest, father was in the White House. This morning, neither was home and they sat in the dining room with Miss Maude Shaw, their British nanny. The lady was slender and middle-aged.
She slept in a small alcove bedroom between theirs, and time and understanding had built a solid edifice of affection among the three. The children were well behaved and tractable. Sometimes, when they awakened before seven in the morning, they would ask respectfully: âGood morning, Miss Shaw. May we get up now?â
She permitted them to chatter for a longer period this morning, and there was still plenty of time. It was 8:15 A.M. * and Miss Shaw said that Caroline had time to wash her hands before going upstairs to the little private school composed mostly of children of old Georgetown friends of the Kennedys. It was a bright room with a ramp leading upward toward the shafts of morning light, and the other students arrived by vehicle at 8:45 A.M. and waited in the front lobby of the White House until schooltime.
Then, said Miss Shaw, she would take John-John for a walk around the White House grounds. His happy hope was to be on the South Grounds when a helicopter landed or took off. The only better one he could think of was to be in one.
The big cellar kitchen of the Hotel Texas was charged with excitement. The chefs and waiters had arrived early, and breakfast orders were being filled quickly and carried up by service elevator to the members of the most important group ever to grace the sedate edifice. An order had come in from 850, and everyone paused to listen. Peter Saccu, the short, dark, jovial man who supervised all the catering and food, took the order.
âThe President,â he said, âwants a large pot of coffee, some extra cups and saucers, orange juice, two eggs boiled five minutes, some toast and marmalade on the side. Come on now. Letâs move.â Saccu turned to a tall, dignified Negro waiter. âGeorge Jackson will handle it.â Some of the other faces relaxed in resignation; Mr. Jackson began to beam. At once, he got a rolling table, a pad, a snowy tablecloth, some napkins, knives, forks, spoons, cups and saucers, and his expert fingers flew as the tools were placed on the table. He kept shaking his head. âMan,â he murmured. âI have never even seen a President of the United States. Now Iâm going to walk right into the room with him.â
In five minutes, the steaming snowy eggs were lifted out of boiling water and placed in a side dish. The table moved off with George Jackson behind it. When he arrived on the service elevator at the eighth floor, a man stood in the doorway of his elevator. He lifted the covers of dishes, stooped to look at the underside of the table, gave Mr. Jackson a cursory study, and nodded for him to proceed.
A silent man outside the door of 850 studied the table and the waiter and gave him a small orange pin to wear in the lapel of his white jacket. George Jackson pushed the breakfast tray inside the small foyer and into the living room to the right. He said, âGood morning, Mr. Presidentâ at once, and Mr. Kennedy, chatting with Kenny OâDonnell near the coffee table, said, âGood morning.â
The Chief Executive appeared to be bright and forceful to the waiter. A âtake-chargeâ man. Mr. OâDonnell was explaining that the rancorous battle between Senator Ralph Yarborough