NOVEMBER 10, 1945
NEW YORK, Friday—Yesterday morning I was interviewed by a group of students in journalism from Columbia University. They seemed somewhat surprised when I said that one of the most important requirements for the career of a journalist was good health. When I explained that they might be sent on assignments where health, comfort, food and shelter were a matter of indifference to anyone except themselves, and where they must keep their curiosity and their ability to observe always alert, I think they began to realize that I was not talking utter nonsense. It was a long interview and I only hope it was of some value to the students.
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Afterward I lunched with the members of The Woman Pays Club, a most distinguished and delightful group of women. I was particularly delighted to find that Mrs. Sigmund Spaeth was the president. I had not seen her since she and her husband stayed in the White House, when Mr. Spaeth gave my husband such a pleasant evening that he often spoke of it later on. At the end of luncheon Josh White came in and sang a few songs, and it seemed a perfect ending for a very pleasant midday interlude.
The rest of my afternoon was somewhat busy. At 5:30 I went to Newark to speak for a meeting of the National Citizens Political Action Committee. I had stupidly made two engagements for the same evening; and so I had to go and speak before anyone was allowed to eat, and then return to New York for the rest of the evening. All went well, however, and I had plenty of time for everything—which shows that an old adage which my mother-in-law used to repeat to my children: "Remember, my children, you have all the time there is," is a good thing to bear in mind when you think you are somewhat hurried. Sometimes you can fit in all that you want to do if you just feel time is never-ending!
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I went out to Newark and returned by the tube and, as usual, discovered how kind people are! On the way out, I got off my train at Journal Square, having some quaint idea in my head that that was where I had to change. It took two kind gentlemen to buy me a ticket and put me on the train to go on to Newark. Coming back, another kindly gentleman talked to me and chaperoned me all the way. This time I changed quite correctly at Journal Square, and then my gentleman saw that I got off at Ninth Street. He told me that he lived not far from Oliver Street, where Governor Alfred Smith had lived, and he, like another gentleman who sat with me on the way out, told me how much my husband was missed in the family. "He was like a friend who came and talked to us every now and then." Both of them sighed: "A great President. We are glad that General O'Dwyer was elected, but he isn't Mr. Roosevelt."
These spontaneous outbursts of affection for my husband, from casual people whom I have never seen before, are spoken so sincerely that I often wish my husband could hear them himself.