This is the combined biography of two domestic servants, a mother and her daughter, each of whom worked for thirty years in the White House. In 1909, he mother was hired by President Taft, who was the first president ever to allow a Black person to enter the White House. She worked in the White House until 1939. Her daughter was hired by President Hoover in 1929 and she worked there until the final days of the Eisenhower Administration in 1959. This book should be required reading for every serious student of American history. The authors were eye witnesses to some of the great events of history and offer different prospectives from that found elsewhere. For example, we learn that when Calvin Coolidge announced in 1927 that he did not intend to run for re-election, he was playing hard-to-get. He believed that the people would insist that he accept a third term of office. He expected to be drafted. He actually wanted a third term in office. Coolidge was disappointed when Herbert Hoover was nominated as he disagreed with Hoover's ideas and policies. We learn that in the last year and a half of the presidency of President Woodrow Wilson, he had to be wheeled around the White House in a wheel chair and was often engaged in "sickbed rambling." When Franklin D. Roosevelt took office as president, he was an invalid, confined to a wheelchair. Few Americans knew this and elaborate means were devised to make it appear that Roosevelt was robust and healthy. Whenever he was to speak, railings were created beside where he was to be standing. This was done so that it would appear that FDR was walking, taking a few steps up to the speaker's podium, when in reality the handrails were holding him up and he was dragging his feet a short distance to create the illusion that he was walking. Also, Roosevelt was dependent on his mother, Sara Delano, who had all the money and controlled his finances.

The autobiographical story of the White House doorkeeper from the Lincoln presidency to the administration of Theodore Roosevelt.

In this splendid book, one of America's masters of nonfiction takes us home--into Hometown, U.S.A., the town of Northampton, Massachusetts, and into the extraordinary, and the ordinary, lives that people live there. As Tracy Kidder reveals how, beneath its amiable surface, a small town is a place of startling complexity, he also explores what it takes to make a modern small city a success story. Weaving together compelling stories of individual lives, delving into a rich and varied past, moving among all the levels of Northampton's social hierarchy, Kidder reveals the sheer abundance of life contained within a town's narrow boundaries. Does the kind of small town that many Americans came from, and long for, still exist? Kidder says yes, although not quite in the form we may imagine. A book about civilization in microcosm, Home Town makes us marvel afresh at the wonder of individuality, creativity, and civic order--how a disparate group of individuals can find common cause and a code of values that transforms a place into a home. And this book makes you feel you live there.

BY HENRIETTA NESBITT There be five ihuu Aitd -j, The Preside if nf lec. uic vi71 have These are the sort of messages Mrs. Henrietta Nesbitt took in stride during her eleven years in the White House one of the largest, most complicated, and most fascinating households in America. Her story is a succession of intimate anecdotes of the great and the near-great Alexander Woollcott, Pade rewski, the King and Queen of Eng land, Jose Iturbi, Winston Churchill, and of course the Roosevelt family it self. It is also a salty and sprightly rec- ord of the worlds most demanding job of housekeeping. ne It was my first view of the White House. For that matter, Id never been in Washington before. Dad and I - Dad being my husband, Henry F. Nesbitt got up early the morning before the inauguration and went through the streets straight to the presidential mansion, as if wed lived in the capital all our lives. This was Mr.. Roosevelts first inaugural, in March 1933. We went up to the White House and stood looking through the northwest gate, and I felt like the old woman in the ditty, not certain if it were I, or somebody else. To tell the truth I was scared half to death. It was the biggest home I had ever seen. Like a big wedding cake, I said to Dad. The kind with the white mountain frosting. We walked all around, peeking through the eight gate ways and the iron fence to the green lawns and the flower beds, all planted new for the new president, and across the semicircular drive to the big beautiful house with the tall-pil lared porte-cochere. Even the trees looked important, with their names set in the bark, like trees in a park. I didnt know these very trees had been singed when the British soldiers set fire to the White House, in 1812, that Dolly Madison and her James led cotillions under the elms, and that the big magnolias, starting to bud even this early in the spring, were planted by President Jackson because he was homesick for his Tennessee. All the Presidents, it seems, planted trees to add to the beauty of the grounds. But I didnt leam these facts until later, along with a lot of other patter I memorized to reel off to guests in the White House, such as commenting on the classic architecture and the historic pieces, and the fact that thq cornerstone was laid in 1792 and President Washington hadnt been there to see it put down. I never did find out why. All I knew this morning was that the White House had me awed, and I didnt know how Id ever get up enough courage to walk in. But we were going to do just that, Dad and I, right after the ceremonies that had the whole city, and the country itself for that matter, all stirred up. We were going through those gates and into the White House as if we belonged thec. I said to Dad, not to show how nervous I was, It must take a sight of gardeners to keep all the leaves raked up and this place looking right. Of course I wasnt thinking much of the garden, because it wasnt my business. The White House was my affair. I was trying to count all the windows, but I gpve up somewhere around ninety. How were we going to keep them all clean But those windows would have to shine. The handsome, dignified building was the most important in the United States, and that meant in the world. As soon as the Roosevelts moved in, Id have the care of it. Care of the White House. I didnt know it that mom ing, hut this would be my job and my address for the next thirteen years. Through three Roosevelt administrations I would have personal charge of the house at 1600 Pennsyl vania Avenue, Washington, D. C, But we didnt know it would be that long, back in 33. So I just hung onto Dads arm and spoke as pertly as I could. Pshaw, its only four years, I can stand anything for four years. I guess the Roosevelts, back where wed left them in the Mayflower Hotel getting ready for the inaugural, had the same idea then. The White House would be a big responsibility, but Mrs...

“[An] often beautiful jewel of a book . . . Black’s power as a writer means she can take us with her to places that normally our minds would refuse to go.”—The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice) From the New York Times bestselling author of The Still Point of the Turning World comes an incisive memoir about how she came to question and redefine the concept of resilience after the trauma of her first child’s death. “Congratulations on the resurrection of your life,” a colleague wrote to Emily Rapp Black when she announced the birth of her second child. The line made Rapp Black pause. Her first child, a boy named Ronan, had died from Tay-Sachs disease before he turned three years old, an experience she wrote about in her second book, The Still Point of the Turning World. Since that time, her life had changed utterly: She left the marriage that fractured under the terrible weight of her son’s illness, got remarried to a man who she fell in love with while her son was dying, had a flourishing career, and gave birth to a healthy baby girl. But she rejected the idea that she was leaving her old life behind—that she had, in the manner of the mythical phoenix, risen from the ashes and been reborn into a new story, when she still carried so much of her old story with her. More to the point, she wanted to carry it with her. Everyone she met told her she was resilient, strong, courageous in ways they didn’t think they could be. But what did those words mean, really? This book is an attempt to unpack the various notions of resilience that we carry as a culture. Drawing on contemporary psychology, neurology, etymology, literature, art, and self-help, Emily Rapp Black shows how we need a more complex understanding of this concept when applied to stories of loss and healing and overcoming the odds, knowing that we may be asked to rebuild and reimagine our lives at any moment, and often when we least expect it. Interwoven with lyrical, unforgettable personal vignettes from her life as a mother, wife, daughter, friend, and teacher, Rapp Black creates a stunning tapestry that is full of wisdom and insight.

Life may have been hard on Addie French, but when she meets friendless Emma Roby on a train, all her protective instincts emerge. Emma's brother is seeing her off to Nalgitas to marry a man she has never met. And Emma seems like a lost soul to Addie-someone who needs Addie's savvy and wary eye. It isn't often that Addie is drawn to anyone as a friend, but Emma seems different somehow. When Emma's prospective fails to show up at the train depot, Addie breaks all her principles to shelter the girl at her brothel, The Chili Queen. But once Emma enters Addie's life, the secrets that unfold and schemes that are hatched cause both women to question everything they thought they knew. With Sandra Dallas's trademark humor, charm, and pathos, The Chili Queen will satisfy anyone who has ever longed for happiness. The Chili Queen is the winner of the 2003 Spur Award for Best Western Novel.