A Day in Colorado

Westward from the man on the hospital terrace swept the Rockies, flecked with the gold of the cottonwoods and aspens, beneath cloudless autumn skies. To the northwest stood Longs Peak, 14,255 ft., and to the southwest Pikes Peak, 14,110 ft., their shoulders cloaked with snow; on the way out to the horizon, amid intervening tiers and hollows, lay places like Clear Creek, where Colorado's first important gold strike was made in 1859. ("Panned out eight treaty cups of dirt," the prospector said, "and found nothing but fine colors.")

The prospect that extended 100 miles before him was deeply satisfactory to the man on the terrace, for within it he had ridden trails, painted the colorings, read the local history, gone fishing, driven back in his father-in-law's Packard from Eldorado Springs on the first trip he had taken after his wedding. Contemplating it, he seemed unusually relaxed and contented, for here was the segment of land that he had always most liked to come back to. Suddenly from below, from the croquet garden of the hospital, came shouts denoting that here was another day, spent in Colorado, to be remembered. "Happy Birthday, Ike," several convalescent patients were calling up to him. "Happy Birthday, Mr. President."

Before noon, several truckloads of birthday presents, corridors of flowers, eight big sacks of mail, were accumulating at Fitzsimons Army Hospital. Mamie Eisenhower, first in to see her husband on his 65th birthday, gave him a plastic easel equipped with boxes for brushes and paints. Major John Eisenhower's choice was a set of Autobridge, enabling the President to play all four hands in turn. From the President's grandchildren came a book of crossword puzzles, another book called 150 Ways to Play Solitaire, and a phonograph record of a monologue, What It Was, Was Football. In the President's room bloomed red roses and autumn flowers, picked from his mother's garden at Abilene. Kans.

"A Great Human Host." After breakfast, which included the second cup of coffee the President has taken since his heart attack, one of his aides brought word of official gifts: from the White House staff, flowering plants and shrubs; from the Cabinet, quinces; from the 48 state organizations of the Republican Party, Norway spruces--all to be planted along the driveway of the President's farm at Gettysburg, Pa. "We . . . are joined with a great human host in wishing you new health, long happiness," read the birthday message from the Cabinet. The President got a great belt of laughter out of a gift from the White House reporters: a pair of dark-red pajamas with a five-star general's circlet of stars on the collar tabs and a gold-lettered device across the pocket. MUCH BETTER THANKS, to help the President reply to inquiries about his health. "Laborsaving pajamas," read the card.

Sounding through the congratulations and the greetings was a note of regret and resignation, indicating acceptance of the probability that the President would not run for reelection. "Serene years that lie ahead,'' was the phrase penned by the White House staff. "The peace and quiet of your home," was the theme of the Cabinet. But such tidings were for the future, and this was a day for rejoicing. Into the President's 25 birthday cakes--enough for all 2,128 staff members and patients of the hospital--went 62 1/2 lbs. of flour, 50 lbs. of sugar, 33 1/2 lbs. of egg whites, 2 lbs. of baking powder, 16 3/4 quarts of milk, 25 lbs. of shortening. Into the President's medical log went an unusually favorable report: "The President's condition continues to progress satisfactorily without complications. His morning examination showed that his temperature, pulse and blood pressure continue to be normal. His cardiogram has stabilized at a satisfactory level."

"Warm Regard." Quietly, the President relaxed through the rest of the day, gazing out at the sweep of the Rockies, lunching on trout, napping, listening to music, taking only one slice of his birthday cake at supper. Before the day was over, the President recalled that this was also the birthday, the 47th, of Jim Rowley, the chief of the White House Secret Service detail. So from his hospital room, surrounded by testaments of affection and respect that did not cease, the President dictated a note to Jim Rowley, and signed it: "The prohibitions that surround me here have been relaxed long enough to let me say happy birthday to one who shares with me a birthday anniversary. With my best wishes and warm regard come, as always, my warm thanks for everything you do for me. Sincerely, Dwight D. Eisenhower."

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