Whistled Like a Bird, page 22
Dorothy’s life as a single woman was anything but dull. In 1939 she penned her own lyrics for the song “Thanks For the Memories.” My grandmother did not identify the poem’s recipient, but knowing the name behind the verse would do little to enhance the clever joy found in her words.
Thanks for the memory of candlelight and wine
Of roads and jasmine vine
Of starlit nights together, your cigarettes and mine
How lovely it was!
Thanks for the memory of sunny afternoons
And singing theme song tunes
And motor trips and burning lips
And your morning toast and prunes
How lovely it was!
Many’s the time we feasted
When we really should have fasted
Gee it was swell while it lasted
We did have fun, and no harm done
And thanks for the memory of that connecting door And lovemaking galore
You might have had a headache
Thank God you never snore
So thank you so much!
Thanks for the memory of a cathedral’s moldy wall
And an early morning call
That weekend on Long Island
When colors screamed of Fall
How lovely it was!
Thanks for the memory on the City of Mexico
Tela Rancho Telva, perched up in the mountain at Taxco
Strolls of window shopping
Just happily on the go
Then peaceful the hours of musing
When adolescents would be twosing
But that’s all right: we’ll love tonight
And thanks for the memory of glaciers in the park
And trout fishing after dark and startled deer at Granite
And a wrestle with that shark
I thank you so much!
D.
As president of the Fort Pierce Garden Club, Dorothy traveled throughout the state lecturing on the use of native materials in arranging flowers. One project undertaken by her Garden Club was planting royal poincianna trees throughout the town. Among those dozens of bright orange-red beauties, only a few survive today. Ironically, three of them, though chopped off across the top, still mark the entrance to Immokolee Road.
On the society pages of the Fort Pierce News Tribune dated June 18, 1939, an article appeared announcing Dorothy Binney Putnam’s invitation to present a flower arrangement at the New York World’s Fair. (Since Dorothy’s divorce from Upton, she reverted to using the name Putnam.) Her prize-winning exhibit was made from local flowers, leaves, and other tropical vegetation. Dorothy named her arrangement “Blue Summer.” I still have a postcard of the exotic display: The blue-ribbon arrangement is perfectly balanced, and beneath the tall pottery vase it reads, “Greetings from IM-MO-KO-LEE.”
In 1940, Dorothy was the subject of another story in the Miami Daily News claiming that she was “the leading spirit of the movement to keep the roadways beautiful. To this end she led the women of the city in a raid against unsightly billboards and pulled up over 1,000 of them herself!”
During that same summer in 1940, Don Blanding came to Immokolee for what was planned as a brief visit. The inevitable occurred, and what had been a warm friendship over the years blossomed into love. On June 13, less than three weeks after Don’s arrival, he and Dorothy were married. The previous day she had written in her diary, “I’m deeply in love with Don and I know he is with me. Why don’t we marry and go the rest of the road together.”
Blanding evidently agreed. “This a.m. at 10:45 I said ‘yes’ to Don. Hurried excited lunch and then—marriage license, family—and Dr. Howard married us 6:30!”
Although they had been friends for years, the decision to marry was an impulsive one for my grandmother—still the incurable romantic. It would be impossible to estimate which of the two had the stronger ego. Both were stubborn, independent, highly critical, and sharp-tongued. Rather than mellowing with age, both seemed more set in their ways, and for Don to suddenly find himself with a wife as formidable as Dorothy must have required a considerable amount of patience. Don’s long bachelorhood had left him with an inflexibility that would threaten this newly discovered ardor. Nonetheless, Don had seized on Florida as a suitable place to inspire his next book of poetry.
The flamboyant artist was introduced to Dorothy’s longtime friend A. E. (“Beany”) Backus, another talented young painter. Dorothy had discovered Beany’s landscapes in Fort Pierce and had become one of his supporters. She arranged for him to share Don’s “Floridays” studio, and the sun-filled space was often the meeting place for an eclectic group of artists and writers. It was here Don began writing his chatty column, which appeared daily in the local newspaper.
“Don absorbed in his new studio. Its good for him and will give his ego a chance. Sally swims alone! Aged 4, 22 strokes! Whoops”
As a child, I can remember calling my grandmother’s new husband “Pappy Don.” My earliest memories of Don center on birthday parties and diving lessons, but he wasn’t at Immokolee long enough to be thought of as part of the family. Looking through his tenth book, Floridays, I am always delighted by one verse dedicated to my sister, Binney, and me.
WATER HYACINTHS
for Binney and Sally
When they’re about five years older.
…With water-bugs for pirates and pollywogs for whales, You search for high adventure, tiny pixie vagabonds…
With silken banners flying, frail bright banners yet untried, you are like the thoughts of children, innocent and young and brave.
May the kindly God of Children let his friendly power guide ’Til you find snug harbor waiting in a world that’s dark and grave.
Aside from his newspaper duties, Don devoted his days to painting black and white silhouettes and writing poetry. The whimsically illustrated Floridays is a result of his love for Immokolee, and Don dedicated it
TO DOROTHY
“Thy People Shall Be My People”
I said I’d love this land because of you. I love it for itself… for it has brought haven and peace to you when your heart sought surcease in beauty from the pain you knew.
The very early days of their marriage were blissful, at least according to my grandmother’s diaries. “Sabal palm in bloom and loveliness everywhere. Each day a little sweeter and happier than its predecessor” On one of her regular trips to New York, where she loved to walk and attend the theater, Dorothy was delighted to see her husband’s new book displayed: “New York. Errands at Wanamaker’s. Don’s ‘Floridays’ out today. Fun to see it in the shops”
But while Don’s literary accomplishments appealed to my grandmother, his presence at Immokolee was to become more and more of a strain. He simply was not the outdoor type, and there were quarrels over the most innocent housekeeping and gardening decisions. My grandmother tried to appease him by building a studio at Immokolee, and she organized a grand party for its opening, attended by three hundred friends and supporters.
Don resented his lack of authority in Dorothy’s world and, increasingly frustrated, resorted to penning her a witty but stinging evaluation of their lopsided arrangement:
Dear Gal,
Let me draw you an amusing, but serious little picture, and don’t look for hidden barbs because there are none. But I believe this little picture will help you to see us in clearer perspective and clear the way to a better understanding of problems we have to meet Immokolee is a charming little kingdom by itself or rather it is a charming little Queendom owned, ruled to The last inch and operated by that charming, generous and lovable benevolent dictator, Queen Dorothy (that’s not politically correct language, but you know what I mean). I am nothing but The Queen’s consort… It’s a gracious job and my Queen is generous, lovable, passionate, everything a Queen should be, and also everything that a Queen is…Imperious, accustomed to giving absolute orders, which it is her right to give, while she’s a Queen alone. But when she takes a consort she has problems. The Queen’s consort is and always has been a faintly ridiculous figure in The eyes of The rest of The world. And in his own eyes because he is given a little scepter to play with (but mustn’t make any serious gestures with it). He can even have his small toy army, but he must just parade it and blow little trumpets to scare The guinea hens. He mustn’t be a serious threat to The absolute power of The Queen.
Now, if he was raised for that kind of job he is content with his little toy army and his little toy scepter, but you see, I’ve been King Don in my own little kingdoms, and I think I’ve done a damned good imitation of The ideal Queen’s consort, seldom stamping in public or in any way appearing to usurp The Queen’s powers.… In the whole of Immokolee there’s just one small space, about The size of a grave, where I by God have authority and that’s The studio… I’m just not The material for Queen’s consort, and if I were, you’d be very disappointed because you do not like spiritless men.… You’ve made quick decisions (had to make them) so long in running your life and The homes, etc., so that action and reaction are almost simultaneous.… Just something to think over.
With love and kisses,
Don
Dorothy hastily scribbled her reply to the letter on the outside of the envelope: “Very excellent and tastefully said. I agree, but it was a shock as I had not realized it.” Predictably, she assumes responsibility for his criticism.
This missive was enough for my grandmother to admit that while he was a solution to her loneliness, an enduring union required more. “Blue—disheartened: Things go wrong. Two Egocentrics! Vanity and personal conceits clash. You hurt my pride!”
Few of Dorothy’s intimates were surprised the marriage didn’t last. “Don Blanding was a man who wore Hawaiian shirts and wrote poetry, none of which endeared him to George [Putnam], who saw him as ridiculous,” Cap Palmer later recalled. “We were together once speaking on a panel and I thought George was going to take off on the guy.”
By now my grandmother was considered one of the most influential grove owners in St. Lucie County, despite the fact that her acreage was small in comparison to the larger commercial ones. Managing her grove was the only job in her life that gave her such a feeling of accomplishment. Even now, as I survey the clean, straight rows of trees surrounding our home, I can imagine her overseeing the picking crews. In a letter written to a friend she boasted. “Have run and managed a citrus grove at Fort Pierce (Indian River Fruit!)” Don was right; Immokolee was her Queendom.
DECEMBER 7, 1941 At dawn Japs bombed Hawaii. Terrible excitement. Radio all day. 16 to curry supper and Special Game here in p.m. Everyone talked war.
Don left Fort Pierce immediately to enlist in the service. Like most women at the time, Dorothy was proud that her husband and two sons had joined the military. “Dave accepted as Ferry Pilot for Pan Amer. Co.!! Sad for me, but what he wants. June and Rene [his wife] late last p.m. June goes to Navy tomorrow! Both my sons at once. And a snotty letter from Don—all in one day!”
At the age of fifty-five, my grandfather also enlisted in the army air forces. The old warrior who had reupped was the quintessential patriot whom Dorothy had so admired thirty-six years before. Major Putnam—an intelligence officer—was assigned to the task of planning attacks and briefing combat crews in a Superfortress operation headquartered in India. In a strange twist of fate, both my grandfather and G.W.—a major in the same Air Transport Command—were involved in ferrying planes between Taspor, India, and China (“over the Hump,” as the dangerous mission across the Himalayan Mountains between China and India was called).
“George was the type of guy who could never stand something exciting going on and not be in it.… His job was to debrief the crews when they came back, and then translate the stuff” recalled Cap Palmer. “He flew one mission. A rather hazardous one in fact. But they got back all right.”
As the war raged on, my grandmother waited for news of her loved ones. The Fort Pierce beaches were closed to civilians, having been taken over as the new U.S. Naval Amphibian Training Base. But Dorothy could still wander through her groves and along the shores of the Indian River.
One spring night as the moon cast its light across the river’s surface, she was reminded of G.W. Standing at the water’s edge in the dark of the town’s shadow, Dorothy had driven in from the country and had tried to leave the burden of the world’s warring behind. Fifteen years before, she and G.W. had created an anniversary she obviously would never forget:
MAY 19, 1942 This day or all days to me and yet its now more than 10 years ago! A brown thrush!
Dorothy would become a grandmother again when her youngest son, George Junior, and his wife welcomed the third George Palmer Putnam. “I drove to Valdosta! A baby son and June there!! To see Rene at hospital then drove home all day with June. Grand visit with him” Three years earlier Junie had given his mother a namesake, Dorothy. During these trying war years, Dorothy lent her growing family a sense of strength and comfort. In October 1942 my father, David, left Pan American’s ferrying service and enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force. A few months later, on February 19, 1943, my mother gave birth to my brother David, Jr. “Nilla has a six pound baby son born 5 a.m. today! Champagne toast to David Binney Putnam, Jr.! Binney and Sally overnight with me. Ten of us to supper.…
“More war news and I know both June and Dave are en route to North Africa. June by tanker, Dave in his plane. Waffle supper at Ruth’s”
With the opening of the Naval Amphibian Training Base, Fort Pierce—a town of less than eight thousand residents— was invaded by hordes of servicemen. My grandmother knew how the parents of these young sailors must have felt, and she opened up her private pool, preparing home-cooked meals for hundreds of navy men at a time: “Served at U.S.O. after working at Red Cross. Sundays are invariably full-up with boys, A mob to cook for, etc. But it means much to them and I’ll do it if it kills me.”
The wounded servicemen were all heroes to Dorothy and she ached as they were brought to shore from ships attacked by German U-boats off the Florida coast. Her admiration for their courage was boundless: “Wounded men being brought home to U.S.A. and many heroes decorated, we have several in Fort Pierce. Fine records of merit.”
In 1944, when her last two grandsons, Douglas and Richard, were born, both their fathers were still overseas. Fatherhood afforded them a brief leave of absence from their duties, and my grandfather, who was stationed in India, arranged to meet his two sons in Miami. “G.P.’s 57th birthday and he is with B-29s superbombers in Burma. A major in Air Corp., more power to him.” Dorothy clearly admired George for his courage, but it was G.W. who was now returning to her thoughts. “Gorgeous moon these nights. I will always remember The ‘October Full Moon.’ Oh, please, won’t this war ever end!”
On April 12, 1945, Dorothy heard the stunning news that Franklin D. Roosevelt had died: “President Roosevelt died at 4:30 p.m. and nation is shocked! We heard it at dairy, 5:30 en route home. The whole world is shocked and mourns the loss of great allied leader. All ‘commercials’ off radio and beautiful tributes from everywhere.”
Servicemen returning home were moving slowly across the country, and Dorothy’s own prayers were answered when at last she received word from her sons. They had both survived the ordeal and were coming home. “A wonderful heavenly month. The war over and our men returning, and safe—Praise God.”
* MAY 7, 1945 * Peace in Europe! 8:45 a.m. radio report. Rheims, France. Unconditional surrender to Allies! V-E. Great news. Thank God.
In a radio broadcast delivered in Fort Pierce at the end of the war, Dorothy spoke of hope for the future, and a desire for a better city to raise children in:
We have just passed through four bitter years of work and worry. Our sons and husbands have come home from war (thank God) and once again we can bend our efforts not to destruction but to construction and civilian achievement. Now is the time to show our returning men that we want them to come back to a better world and city. We want a better state and a better city for our families, for our children and our grandchildren to grow up in.
It was the last weekend in June 1945, and Dorothy had made plans to travel to New York, leaving Immokolee at dawn on the first train north. The ride that morning seemed interminably slow, but Dorothy’s heart was racing and a secret rendezvous had called her back.
July was stifling and Grand Central Station was teeming with sailors and soldiers returning from duty. There was only one soldier Dorothy wanted to welcome and she worried if he would be there, as the train was three hours late. Spotting him across the terminal, she caught her breath. He walked slowly at first, then began to run; they embraced and were together at last. The tall man and woman left the station arm-in-arm, oblivious to the hectic rush of traffic and crowded sidewalks.
In my grandmother’s diaries, she does not recount details of the postwar rendezvous, nor does she identify the person by name. This is the only time she ever deliberately omitted naming the person with whom she was staying. I can only surmise from her cryptic notes and the small hints she gives that it was G.W. It had been sixteen years since their first days in love, and the reunion must have been glorious. “Sunday. New York. Nice cozy breakfast late, and a visit to The Museum of Natural History. Chinese food later. I refuse to think!” By 1945, the Museum of Natural History housed a permanent Arctic exhibit from the Putnam Baffin Land Expedition of 1928.
Though Dorothy wrote the following words in 1928, she could just as easily have written them at the end of her stay in New York: “Why should one need to apologize for loving people; why this ‘guilty’ passion. And why do one’s knees feel empty. Is our morality kept there that they shake and give way so?”
Their friendship had stood the test of time and war.
An extraordinary man, George Weymouth lived his life fully. He became a founding partner in a prestigious investment firm, and took his greatest pleasure in his children and grandchildren. George Weymouth, Jr., G.W.’s namesake, once said of his father, “George told his children that a polar bear chewed his thumb off, when in fact, it became infected on the expedition when he cut it on a can.” And in another story, “They were playing parlor games… my dad walked down the stairs on his hands and put his feet right through the chandelier. He could walk on his hands up until he was in his fifties or sixties.… None of us could do it.”
