TEES, TIGERS, TITMICE--& A PRESIDENT TOO?

Whether they are running or nonrunning, the top G.O.P. presidential potentials must fight gamely to keep up with their home and hobby life. Remarkably enough, most of them seem to be winning the battle.

Barry Goldwater still putters in his Phoenix saguaro cactus garden, where he has rigged heat lamps that glow automatically whenever freezing temperatures threaten. Nelson Rockefeller steals moments at his hifi, sits fascinated by the Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman bands of the '30s. Dick Nixon thrills to the rough (but losing) play of New York's hockey Rangers. Maggie Smith sits with opera glasses in her Silver Spring, Md., apartment, spots sparrows, cardinals and titmice flitting among ten feeding stations and birdhouses. She sets out raisins, notes that "the mockingbird always takes two, four, never an odd number." Henry Cabot Lodge likes to walk in the Saigon zoo. With surprising delight, he tells how he once strolled too close to a tiger cage and the big cat sprayed him with urine. "The Vietnamese," he says, "tell me it's great good luck to have something like that happen to you."

Day-Stretchers. One way to find moments of leisure is to stretch out each day. Goldwater normally arises by 5:30 a.m., takes a sandwich at his Washington desk if he lunches at all. George Romney gets up at 5:45, jogs through his Lansing neighborhood in sweat togs before breakfast, lugs peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the office in a brown paper bag. Bill Scranton is up at 6:30 in his Indiantown Gap executive mansion, 20 miles from Harrisburg. Mrs. Smith is awake at 6:45, keeps a blender in her office to whip up a dietary lunch of powdered milk, cereal and a caloric mix.

For some, the logistics of housekeeping are enormously complex. Rocky and Happy constantly shuttle between the executive mansion in Albany, their 14-room Fifth Avenue apartment (estimated cost: at least $150,000, plus yearly maintenance of $20,000), and their 3,000-acre estate in Westchester County's Pocantico Hills. If there were time they could also visit their fully staffed house on Washington's Foxhall Road, their summer home in Seal Harbor, Me., or their Venezuela ranch, where they honeymooned. Bill and Mary Scranton often drive 150 miles from the executive mansion to spend weekends at Marworth, their $350,000 longtime home at Dalton, Pa. Their furniture is still scattered among these two homes and a Georgetown residence in Washington, which was sold to the Averell Harrimans and then occupied temporarily by Jacqueline Kennedy last December and January. The Lodges have plenty of household help in Saigon--and also quite a gaggle of boarders: two of their live-in Vietnamese servant couples have a total of twelve children.

With the Walls. In furnishing their homes, the wives exhibit tastes that differ about as sharply as the political views of their husbands. Emily Lodge so loves gingham that one wall of her living room is lined with the red-checked material, a den has a blue-checked gingham motif, intimate dinners are served on a red gingham tablecloth--and Mrs. Lodge sometimes blends with the walls in a gingham dress. Pat and Dick Nixon's Manhattan apartment, next door to the Rockefellers, has a cheery living room facing Central Park, contains an Oriental drawing by Mme. Chiang Kai-shek and a winter scene by Dwight Eisenhower. The Rockefeller apartment is full of statuary, as well as modern paintings, which Rocky has a constant compulsion to straighten.

Few of the Republican hopefuls find as much fun in not being President as Goldwater. A dedicated hobbyist, he rag-chews worldwide on ham radio from Arizona (call letters K7UGA) and Washington (K3UIG), keeps in touch with Peggy by walkie-talkie when hiking in the desert hills, has logged about 4,000 hours piloting his own private aircraft, another 4,000 hours in military planes (he is a major general in the Air Force Reserve), has taken some 8,000 photographs of Arizona Indians and landscape with enough skill to qualify as an associate of Britain's Royal Photographic Society. To raise campaign funds, Goldwater is selling a book containing 50 examples of his photography. The handsome price: $1,500--but then, each copy is autographed. He collects guns and makes plastic models of them, cooks to a chefs taste, goes gaga over gadgets of all sorts. A heating contraption converts his shower into a steam bath at the flick of a switch. He also golfs in the low 80s, once shot a hole in one, but took a three because his first shot hit a lake, adding a penalty stroke. He and Peggy dig Dixieland: their current favorite is Nightclub Vocalist Margaret Ann Peterson's rendition of My Cutle's Due at Two to Two Today,

Dealing with the Fever. Presidential fever, whether confirmed or merely suspected, poses problems for the wives of the men afflicted. Peggy Goldwater enjoys painting and fashion design, seems comfortable at country clubs but not in politics. Only last summer she declared: "I don't enjoy it and I never have." While she does not make speeches, Peggy now accompanies Barry in his New Hampshire campaigning, appears in danger of liking it. In previous campaigns Mary Scranton displayed a deft touch in wooing women's groups, could be a big help in a Scranton presidential drive, but so far seems dead set against one. "Bill hasn't a role this year in the national picture," she has said. "He's not a candidate. That's all I have to say on that subject."

Lenore Romney is equally adept at politicking when the spirit moves her, and even now she speaks to about five groups a week--on nonpolitical topics. As for the presidential talk, she says it has one advantage: "It places the spotlight on Michigan and the accomplishments being made here." She adds: "I do not daydream about the possibilities of being in Washington. I am completely happy here. If we end up in Sanpete County, Utah, or any other desolate spot, we can still be happy."

Emily Lodge is a gregarious woman who would love to entertain larger groups than her husband prefers, gets furious when Cabot invariably beats her at pingpong ("I still think I'm better than he is," she insists). She says that she "never had so much fun" as in her husband's 1960 vice-presidential campaign. While the idea of a presidential race does not bother her, she contends: "We are overjoyed that we came to Viet Nam. We like it, and we'd like to stay a while." Pat Nixon does not discuss politics with anyone these days, seems most content while shopping with daughters Patricia, 18, and Julie, 15 (both pupils at Manhattan's Chapin School), without being recognized.

The unassuming graciousness of Happy Rockefeller has charmed many voters in New Hampshire. Returning late at night from campaign appearances, Happy and Rocky nuzzle in buses and planes. In Albany she often picks him up in a state car, brings him home for lunch. Now in her sixth month of pregnancy, she must increasingly limit her travels. When Rocky is away, Happy's four children by her previous marriage to Dr. James Murphy often keep her company. The Rockefeller apartment has extra bedrooms and a playroom for the Murphy children.

Just Maggie. The only candidate whose home life is little affected by presidential politics is Maggie Smith. A widow, she associates mainly with members of her Senate staff, shuns the Washington social circuit, lives simply in her compact apartment (two bedrooms, two baths). She is a tidy housekeeper who contends that "nothing can clear the mind like vacuuming." Her one luxury is a standing order for three cut roses twice a week from a florist at a cost of $2.10 a week. "The Senate is my whole life," she says. "I have only myself and my job as a United States Senator." Mrs. Smith has no illusions about moving into the White House, tells well-wishers: "We learn to be practical in this business."

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