I had a really good nap in the early afternoon, and my alarm woke me close to 4:30 pm. After showering and washing my hair, I carefully got dressed in a black shift-dress, with a frilled bolero-style jacket. For this special occasion, I had decided to get my ears pierced--in my late fifties! Surprisingly, it only took one attempt to get a pair of 'dress earrings' on, to match the necklace and ring I wore. The challenging part was getting used to the inch-high dress shoes I bought. Most of the time, I wear flats on my feet, or just socks!
So--dressed and made-up to the nines, I left the hotel around 5:30, for the short walk to The Morgan. I noticed it had rained while I napped: the sidewalks and streets were damp, and it was a bit humid. As a precaution, I brought along my 'Flanders Poppy' umbrella I'd bought in Ypres, Belgium, in November 2010. I walked slowly south along Park Avenue, trying to get used to the 'high' heels, and turned left on 37th Street to Madison Avenue, and entered the Museum.
After 'signing in' at a registration table, I checked my umbrella in at the coat-check desk and walked into the large room behind the lobby, where several tables and chairs were set up. Nearby was an improvised bar, with various varieties of drinks. I ordered a glass of sparkling water and moved to one of the tables and sat down to watch the other guests arrive. For some time, there were only a handful of people in the room, along with the catering staff (a couple of tables for snacks like crackers, cheese and fruit were also on hand), so it was a bit quiet. But not for long.
Just after 6 pm, the room began to fill up, and the noise level increased too. I mostly sat and observed; I didn't know anyone else in attendance except my friend Allen Packwood from the Churchill Archives Centre--and he would have been busy chatting with the 'real' V.I.P.'s who were arriving. No one else sat at my table for some time, until an older couple and a woman and her young son came over. They asked if I was saving the seats for anyone, and I said 'Be my guest'. The four of them appeared to know each other, so they chatted amongst themselves while I merely listened. I'm not much for small-talk and schmoozing.
In the course of the conversation, I learned the young man's name was Jeremiah, and he was a student at Oberlin College in Ohio, majoring in US History and Political Science. He was a well-spoken and well-mannered young man. I did introduce myself to him and his mother--and I discovered that Jeremiah was studying about the American Civil War. His mother had some connections with the University of Cambridge, the Churchill Archives Centre, and Allen. Unfortunately, I did not catch her name. But she was very friendly.
The older couple, it turned out, also knew Allen and the University of Cambridge. But the really bizarre thing about them was....they were from Syracuse, New York. When I told them I live near Syracuse, they were just as amazed; what were the chances of our meeting, amongst 300-odd other guests at this reception?? The husband, whose name was David, was a retired Director of the E.S. Bird Library at Syracuse University. His wife was a university professor and historical researcher. They split their time between New York City and Syracuse, but the wife said they'd recently sold their NYC townhouse, and would now live in Syracuse full-time.
While we chatted amongst ourselves, we were approached by a distinguished-looking British gentleman, who greeted David and began chatting with him. This man was the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, Professor Sir Leszek Borysiewicz; his name was listed on the invitation to the reception! Jeremiah's mother told me Sir Leszek (whose friends call him "Borys") was born in Wales of Polish-born parents who were doctors, and who joined up with British forces after fleeing with the army of General Wladyslaw Anders, during the Nazi invasion of Poland in 1939. He is also a medical researcher specializing in Immunology, who helped develop the vaccine against the Human Papilloma Virus (HPV). But Jeremiah's mother also said 'Borys' is a very down-to-earth man. And I could see that, from observing the conversation with David.
Around 7 pm or so, the party was called to attention by a Morgan Library staffer, who welcomed us to the reception, and made mention of several special guests--including the British Consul General in New York, London Mayor Boris Johnson, Churchill's granddaughters Edwina and Celia Sandys--and Caroline Kennedy and her husband Edwin Schlossberg. I recognized Mayor Johnson and Ms. Kennedy as they came in. It was a strange feeling seeing them 'in-person'. Before, I'd only seen them on TV or in news stories on the Internet. If I'd been less shy and nervous, I might have walked up and introduced myself to both them. But I didn't do that.
During the Library staffer's speech, I noticed Allen had come in, and was standing a couple of tables away, chatting with other people. I tried not to be real obvious in catching his eye, but he came over to me eventually and welcomed me, asking, 'Enjoying it?" I responded "Oh yes!" He then went off to do more schmoozing.
After a short speech given by Sir Leszek, he introduced Mayor Johnson, who would 'officially' open the Churchill exhibition. I couldn't see him as I was in the back of the room. But his speech garnered a number of laughs: he claimed that the difference between Churchill and many current-day British politicians was that Churchill was never guilty of 'moral'--i.e., 'sexual'--indiscretions in or out of office. Mayor Johnson also quoted some of Churchill's most famous speeches along the way--demonstrating his 'power with words': the theme of the exhibition. After receiving a rousing response, the Mayor 'officially' opened the exhibition.
I did not take any photos of the reception, as it would have felt too 'tourist-like'. I did, however, see some guests taking photos with their smartphones. I'd brought along my digital camera, but thought better of taking it out. I was intimidated enough by the educational caliber of the guests--most of whom were likely college graduates. I never attended college myself; and I was caught off-guard when questioned by David and his wife: 'And what do you do?" I hesitated for a bit before saying I was a 'part-time historical researcher', and told them about my findings about the life of Churchill's maternal grandfather, Leonard Jerome. David and his wife didn't know that Leonard Jerome was born in Pompey Hill, New York!
Soon, it was my turn to view the exhibition. It was in one of the main galleries off the lobby, and contained many original documents and letters written by, or to, Churchill during his life. As I entered the room, I noticed Churchill's Nobel Prize for Literature, awarded in 1955. The display case contained a beautifully-designed bound certificate in English and Swedish, along with the gold Nobel medal. While I was admiring this display, out of the corner of my eye I saw Caroline Kennedy, her husband, and several other people standing and talking close by. I could have reached over and touched her shoulder easily!
Just opposite the Nobel Prize display was another award: a proclamation by Caroline Kennedy's father, President John F. Kennedy, awarding Honorary US Citizenship to Winston Churchill in 1963. The case contained the proclamation, a medal, and a US passport in Churchill's name. Sadly, Churchill never got to use the passport. He died two years later, in January 1965.
The exhibition was grouped by different phases of Churchill's life: childhood, young manhood, his political life, and later years. In each phase were documents relating to that period: letters to his mother, Lady Randolph Churchill, begging her to come visit him at school; his headmaster's less-than-enthusiastic assessment of the young Winston, in childhood. As a soldier serving in India and the 'North West Frontier' (now part of present-day Pakistan), I saw his draft manuscript for one of his earliest books, The Story of the Malakand Field Force--with hand-written scribbles and revisions all over the pages.
Some of the documents were rather sad: a letter from King George VI to Churchill, expressing grief at the sudden death of US President Franklin D. Roosevelt is an example. But there was one rather amusing note from an American doctor treating Churchill in 1931, after the latter was run over and nearly killed by a New York City taxi driver on Fifth Avenue (Churchill, as a Brit, was looking the 'wrong way'--to the right--before crossing the road). It was the Prohibition era in the US, but the doctor recommended daily doses of alcohol (probably brandy) to aid in Churchill's recovery! It never fails to get a laugh....
The creators of the exhibition also put up two interactive display-screens--where visitors can get an up-close look at the documents and learn more details about Churchill's life and work. And this is where I found my small contribution to the event: a layout of the Jerome family tree, going back to one Timothy Jerome (the first Jerome to settle in the Pompey Hill area) and ending with Leonard Jerome's daughter Jennie--Churchill's mother. I found this family tree at the Onondaga Historical Association in Syracuse's research library; I tracked the descent from Timothy to Jennie through the male line. Allen's team did the rest, by putting it into an easily-readable format. The most embarrassing thing for me to see was my name listed as the source!
While I was standing at this screen, I chatted with two young women (sisters) from Long Island, who had visited Churchill-related sites in the UK. The elder girl was a law student, and shared her experience of visiting Churchill's gravesite at St Martin's Churchyard in Bladon, Oxfordshire: not far from Blenheim Palace. I told her how jealous I was of her visit; I didn't get a chance to visit Blenheim Palace or Bladon, in November 2010. Both young women were impressed with my knowledge of the Jerome family and their connection with Churchill. I hope I wasn't boasting....
Flanking the two interactive display screens was a small theatre, where one could hear recordings of some of Churchill's most famous speeches, and watch contemporary newsreel footage and still-photos. I sat down briefly on the one bench in the theatre and listened to Churchill's "Finest Hour" speech. Great stuff.
Also on display was one of Churchill's oil paintings: a landscape. It was loaned to the exhibition from his country home in Kent, England: Chartwell. And near that was a nasty Nazi propaganda poster accusing Churchill of being a 'child-killer', because of the saturation-bombing of German cities during the Second World War. Quite a contrast.
It took about 45 minutes or so to go through the exhibition. The crowd had begun to thin out, as the time approached 7:30 pm. But I didn't really want the evening to end, yet. So I decided to check out some other parts of the museum: J. Pierpont Morgan's own Study and personal Library. Even though my feet were aching from the stupid shoes, I was determined to see what I could. And I was, as the British say, gobsmacked; Morgan's study had deep red wallpaper and a high carved-wood ceiling. A massive marble fireplace (probably ripped out of a French chateau!) stood at one end of the room, with a large oil painting of Mr Morgan on the wall above. The walls were covered with original Renaissance-era paintings, and stained-glass windows.
According to the staffer on duty, this was where Morgan did his business deals. He said that if a visitor was able to sit across from Morgan in front of the fireplace, Morgan would do business with him. This room was created to impress--and probably intimidate a prospective investor!
Across from the Study was Mr Morgan's personal Library. The room was stacked floor-to-ceiling with hundreds of leather-bound books; one had to use a ladder to get to the highest shelves. The shelving was all shining, beautiful wood. And the ceilings were breath-taking: they were covered with either mosaic or frescoed artwork, in a Renaissance-era style. I didn't know if it was original work done for the house, or if it was taken from some Renaissance palace in Italy. But it sure was dazzling!
On display in the Library were some priceless original books that Mr Morgan collected during his lifetime--including one of three Bibles printed by Johann Gutenberg. The staffer in this room said that most museums in the world would be lucky to acquire one of these rare treasures. But Morgan owned three!! This Bible was very large.
My last stop at The Morgan was in a smaller room off the Library, which also contained more leather-bound books (was this Mr Morgan's 'overflow' room?)--and an incredible collection of ancient and medieval coins, small sculptures, and pieces of jewelry, that Morgan also collected. In front of one of the displays I found a woman scribbling and sketching in a small book. I asked her what she was doing, and she replied she was taking notes for a novel she was writing. Her patient husband stood nearby, and we chatted for a bit: he was from Houston, TX, and was a Regional Director for the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). He knows both Allen and Sir Martin Gilbert--this gentleman had raised funds in the US for the Churchill Archives Centre and the University of Cambridge. And, he said he also helped to fund one of Allen's previous Churchill exhibits in the US. I enjoyed chatting with him a lot.
By now, it was close to 8 pm, when the reception would end. I went back to the lobby to get my umbrella from the coat-check--and to find Allen, and thank him for inviting me to the reception. When I did find him, I made certain to thank him for all the work that was put into the exhibition--which he immediately deflected to his staff back in England. Some weeks before the event, he'd brought up the subject of a private tour of the exhibition, and I asked him if it was still on. He said 'yes'; he would lead a small group the following morning--just before I was to catch the train back to Syracuse. Allen said to come back to The Morgan before 10 am, and he'd let the staff know I was coming along. With that, we wished each other 'good evening', and I left.
It was still light out, when I emerged from The Morgan. By now, my feet were absolutely killing me. In fact, I encountered a reception guest outside, and we chatted briefly about men's and women's fashion. I commented that men were lucky not to wear bleeping high-heels. He responded that men were lucky not to be slaves to fashion. He's totally spot-on!!
Since I didn't eat anything at the reception, I was now rather hungry. In spite of my sore feet, I made it to the Pret A Manger restaurant on Fifth Avenue at 36th Street, and ordered supper: another chicken Caesar salad with dressing, chocolate cake, and a berry-bar with a lemonade. Armed with sustenance, I literally limped back to Park Avenue, and the hotel. There were still many people around, so I didn't fear for my safety. But when I entered the hotel lobby, I threw my shoes off--to the amusement of the hotel staff--and went to the elevator, and my room, in my stockinged-feet! I turned on the TV, ate supper, and started packing up for the trip home the next day.
One thing I didn't want to forget to do: I made sure to write Allen a note, to thank him for allowing me to participate in the exhibition. I would present it to him before or after the private tour the following day.
And with that, the day--and this amazing experience--was nearly done. And I didn't want it to be over.
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