Innocent Merriment

Washington had been hot and steamy. But ever since morning the Presidential C-54 had bored steadily westward. Now, off in the cool Northwest evening, Harry Truman could see the dark green of fir forests, the snowy, glacier-scarred bulk of Mount Rainier. When the plane landed at McChord Field, his old Senate friend, Washington's Governor Mon Wallgren, was waiting. Together they drove to the lawn-bordered red brick governor's mansion at Olympia. Then, for five days, Harry Truman forgot the cares of office.

Rummaging in the Governor's closet, he appropriated a battered hat, an exclamatory sweater knitted by Vancouver Island Indians. He won a $5 bet from Governor Wallgren that his own suit was the older (it was bought in 1939). He rose early to stroll on the wide lawns, sometimes played the piano before breakfast. Going to the Capitol, he sat down at an organ under the lofty, music-amplifying dome, launched into Beethoven's Minuet in G and the Blackhawk Waltz. Then, with the Governor and Press Secretary Charlie Ross, he sang Peggy O'Neil and Melancholy Baby.

One day he drove an open car on an exploring trip past Puget Sound inlets, where white salmon trollers and log booms lay moored. Lounging at the wheel, he followed the blue salt water of Hood Canal which lies, fjord-like, in the shadow of steep Olympic Mountain foothills.

Next afternoon he went up Puget Sound to a famed stretch of salmon water off Anderson Island. No fisherman, the President got into a skiff with a crew of willing advisers: Governor Wallgren; Nick Bez, a burly Yugoslav who operates Alaskan fishing fleets; and Costa Lazzaratti, the Governor's excitable Italian cook. Despite them he hauled in nothing but a sharklike dogfish. But the wind was cool, the day bright, and a nearby fisherman presented him with a 12-lb. king salmon.

Next jaunt was a 75-mile trip to Mount Rainier. Mist hung low as the President's car moved up through the foothills, crossed a river at the foot of Nisqually Glacier. But as he drove higher between high snow walls, the sun came out and the 14,000-ft. peak above them hung dazzling white against a blue mountain sky. At Paradise Valley, 5,400 feet above sea level, the President threw snowballs, stared at the heights through glasses, went into sprawling Paradise Inn to play a few pieces on the piano.

This week, rested and refreshed, he took off the gaudy Indian sweater, prepared to fly to San Francisco and take up again the burdens of the Presidency.

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