Mrs. Doud's Son-in-Law

Mrs. Elivera Doud's home at 750 Lafayette Street, Denver, is the kind of solidly comfortable, nondescript dwelling in which millions of middle-aged Americans spent their childhood. Built of the grey-brown brick favored by Denver architects 40 years ago, it sits right up against its neighbors and is separated from the street only by a short, steep terrace and a patch of fine green lawn. Its wide porch is equipped with a glider and wicker chairs; red geraniums grow in low flower boxes on the railings. Last week, in this unremarkable survival of the parlor era, 75-year-old Mrs. Doud was putting up her daughter and son-in-law, who had come all the way from Washington, D.C. to spend their summer vacation with her.

Mrs Doud's son-in-law was not in a position to forget his job completely but he rapidly settled into a routine which successfully combined work and relaxation. Up every morning at 6:30, Ike Eisenhower shaved himself with a safety razor and danced noisily under a shower, first hot, then cold. Once dressed he headed downstairs to the large, old-fashioned dining room, whistling a tune as he went. His current favorite: Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darlin', from the movie High Noon.

Armed Companions. After breakfast (half a grapefruit and coffee), Ike rode in a Secret Service-driven car to nearby Lowry Air Force Base, where operators on a special switchboard set up for the 18-man presidential staff were answering calls with a cheery "Denver White House. Here in a small, sparsely furnished room, whose only official trapping was the presidential flag, Ike pushed his way determinedly through the no bills he had brought with him from Washington, studying each bill carefully before he signed it.

Ike usually managed to get through his work in a couple of hours. Most afternoons he showed up at the Cherry Hills Club for a round of golf on its tough, 72-par course. As he played, he was trailed by four Secret Service men, all carrying golf bags from which protruded three or four ancient and ill-assorted.clubs. Two of the bags contained an additional item o: equipment which many a golfer has wished for in moments of stress--a carbine. The other two masked walkie-talkies for emergency communication. An Army Signal Corpsman, whose golf bag also contained a walkie-talkie set, sat beneath a white arbor near the clubhouse ready t<< make contact with the Eisenhower party in case of trouble in Washington.

Both Ike's mood and golf improved at Cherry Hills. Before one round, he amiably tried some practice shots for the benefit of the photographers. Several cameramen plunked down in the grass a few feet in front of the President so that he would be shooting directly over their heads and one called out: "Will I bother you here, sir?" Ike eyed the green, then the photographer, and chuckled: "No, but you might get bothered yourself."

An Old Chant. Once last week Ike passed up golf to go fishing. With Denver Mortgage Banker Aksel Nielsen, an old family friend, he drove out into the Rockies to South Platte River. On his third cast, Ike hooked a ten-inch rainbow trout, and by noontime he and Nielsen had pulled in a dozen. At that point Ike took complete command of the party. Driving to a nearby ranch house, he "borrowed" from the flustered housewife a slab of bacon, a pound of butter, a large paper bag, cornmeal, salt & pepper. Thus equipped, he moved on to a campsite where he built a fire and set the bacon frying in a skillet. While it fried, he put cornmeal, salt & pepper in the bag, and shook the cleaned fish in it. "Never put batter on a fish," said he. When a goodly amount of fat had melted from the bacon, he added an equal amount of butter to the pan and laid out his trout. Within minutes, he was dishing out a mouthwatering meal to Nielsen and the ubiquitous Secret Service agents.

After lunch, Ike and Nielsen went back to the stream, where they alternated between fishing and shouting boasts at one another. Early in the afternoon, they were spotted by a passing busload of children, who shouted the old campaign chant: "We like Ike. We like Ike." Said Ike, at once pleased and displeased: "This is a hell of a place to hear something like that!

On Sunday, Ike went to 8:30 a.m. services at the neighborhood Corona Presbyterian Church, walking the 2 1/2 blocks from Mrs Doud's home. Just before he started, Ike noticed in Denver's Rocky Mountain News a story about six-year-old Paul Haley, who is slowly dying of cancer.

Paul's greatest wish, said the story, was to see Ike, whom he admires even more than his TV-cowboy heroes. A few minutes after church services ended, a trim figure of a man strode up to the Haleys' small clapboard house in West Denver. "Good morning," said the President of the U.S. to wide-eyed Paul Haley. "I hear you want to see me." He chatted for five minutes, then slipped away before reporters and photographers could find him.

Bridge & a Bull Session. Ike's evenings were spent with Mamie and Mrs. Doud. Sometimes there was bridge with old friends, and occasionally Mamie sang, accompanying herself on an old upright piano. More often the family just sat around the living room and chatted until 9:30 or 10, when Ike was ready to go to bed. Once last week Ike stretched his evening out, sat up late for a bull session with Presidential Aide Robert Cutler and Special Counsel Bernard Shanley, who were in town briefly from Washington. About midnight, shortly before Cutler's plane left, the party broke up in a fashion not untypical of the American male. The "boys" barged in on Mamie, who had retired early, and sat around the bed teasing the mildly protesting First Lady.

The happenings at Mrs. Doud's home last week fitted right into the classic American vacation pattern. When Ike Eisenhower gets back to the office he could say, along with many another tanned family man, "We spent our vacation visiting the folks back home."

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