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Page Two of Travels with JFK's Suitcase and Other Relationships

 

In 1969, our second and third sons (ages 15 and 13) were planning a trip to Mexico together and without us.  We were sending them to a small village deep in Chihuahua to visit our old housekeeper who had been a second mother to them during their formative years.  Our youngest son Adam, had gone alone to the remote ranch the year before, and raved so much about illegal fireworks being legal there, the middle son opted to go along the second year.

When it was time to pack, middle son Josh insisted he was taking the JFK suitcase.  He swore up and down he'd take good care of it, and over my blustering objections, took the suitcase, returning with it six weeks later, now showing grease stains on the top lid and down one side, which I was sure came from tacos (then Josh's favorite food). We bought some leather polish and cleaned it as best we could. The suitcase went back in the closet.

Years passed.  I lost my husband of 42 years, my sons grew up, moved away, were married, had children of their own.

Twenty five years after moving to Spain, Elke came for a long visit, photographing Ed's paintings and my collections of textiles and costumes.  She also photographed the JFK suitcase.

That same year, I read that Sotheby's in New York was planning to hold an auction of JFK memorabilia.  I sent them the photo of the suitcase asking if they were interested.  They were, most definitely, but they wanted proof of how I acquired it.

I called the luggage maker in Providence, RI.  No number.  I called the city's chamber of commerce and were told the luggage maker had closed shop thirty years ago.  I called the dental school.  There was no longer anyone who knew Ed or the dentist he'd acquired the bag from.  No way I could prove the story and Sotheby's passed.

A year later, a notice in the San Francisco Chronicle about another auction of JFK memorabilia caught my eye.  The auction house was Guernsey in New York.  I sent them a letter, telling them the story and that I lacked authentification.  They replied it didn't matter.  Just write the story on my letterhead and have it notarized.  Which I did. And that was sufficient.

Guernsey planned to hold the auction at the New York City Armory and the affair was widely publicized.  I even saw my suitcase on the evening news. The catalogue of the exhibition showed a photo of the suitcase, stains quite evident and explained them this way:  "John Kennedy enjoyed traveling, not as much for the scenery but to acquire a sense of understanding about people, their history, and their lifestyle.  His love for history prompted much of his travel, and this suitcase bears the marks of his journeys."

So much for history.

Ten days before the auction, very unfavorable stories began to appear daily in The New York Times, claiming the Kennedy children (Caroline and John) objected to many of the items being offered and were obtaining an injunction to hold off the sale.

I had no idea how much the suitcase could bring.  I'd told Guernsey's I'd not take less than $5,000.  I told four friends if I got $100,000 we'd all go to Hawaii.

The auction was held, but poorly attended and prices did not bring what had been anticipated. Guernsey never called to tell me the results. Three days passed. Finally, I could stand it no longer and called them.  "Oh yes, it sold," I was told.  "It went for $12,000."

A few weeks later I had a check, less ten percent and my shipping costs, and promptly bought myself a ticket for Italy.  I was to meet two lady friends in New York and we planned on spending a few days in Rome, a week in Florence, a few more days in Viareggio, more Florence and then home.

Nine years after Ed died, quite by accident,  I met a man I thought had possibilities.  Arturo.   He was sensible, highly intelligent, a scientist, easy to talk to and it felt comfortable to be with him.  We went for a few walks.  Wanting to be honest with me and not wanting to hurt my feelings, he carefully explained there was another woman, a friend of his late wife, with whom he'd been involved the past year.

I thanked him for his honesty, told him I had no intention of hurting another person and would absent myself from his life instead of making it more complicated.

That's when I went to Italy with my friends.  In Rome, Gail insisted I throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain.  Like every other tourist. But this time, I was not too proud.  She handed me the coin, told me to turn my back to the fountain and toss the coin backwards.  But first I was to make a wish.  I wished for Arturo. Or someone exactly like him.  I didn't want anything bad to happen to the other woman ... just for her to disappear.

Two weeks later I returned home and among my mail, was a handwritten letter from Arturo. The relationship with the other woman had ended, he wrote and if I wanted to continue exploring further friendship, to give him a call.

Which I did.  Three days later.

And that's how Arturo and I came together eight years ago.  A link in the chain of events. But it doesn't end there.

About five or six years ago, Elke's mother began to fail.  Elke was an only child and her mother could no longer make the trips to Spain and Elke's trips to Germany were growing more and more frequent.  Finally, she closed her condo in Madrid and moved into her mother's home in Shorndorf, not far from Stuttgart.  Here she's lived most of the year, caring for her mother, and visiting Madrid for vacation whenever she could get away.

Elke's mother died, and Elke has stayed on in Germany mounting two major exhibitions of her photography and overseeing another book. Last month she traveled to Berlin for a Flamenco Festival.  All her friends, all the artists from Madrid and around the world, were attending and she was planning to see them all.

She was particularly taken with the changes in Berlin. The new architecture, the great museums, the concert halls, the art galleries, the theatre.  She walked everywhere trying to get her feel for the city where she was born. She came to the Brandenburg Gate where the Berlin wall had been.  As she was gazing, she noticed a shining building across the street.  The sign read:  Galerie Kennedy.

Elke walked into the gallery, paid her admission and looked around.  There, on a prominent stand in the center of the exhibition, was the suitcase. The one with the taco stains, that no longer show up in the current photo in the catalogue.  Maybe it's the angle of the photo but there's no mistaking the JFK suitcase.  It's found a home.

Return to Page One<<


Jean Harris was educated at Brooklyn College and the New York Public Libraries. She married Edward Harris in 1948, a surrealist painter and jazz impresario.  They pooled their talents (creativity, imagination, chutzpah) and produced our own radio programs for Mutual Broadcasting system.  With the birth of their first son in 1950, they left New York and show biz, moving to Walnut Creek, California where they have resided ever since.
 
In 1958, after birth of third son, Jean opened first of three womens' apparel shops over which she presided for forty years, traveling the world buying for the shops. She's been a writer since the age of seven, filling notebook after notebook with stories, poems, plays, essays, lectures, and stories.  Some have been published, most not. 
 
An inveterate optimist, Jean sees order where others see chaos, and is still awed by the wonder called life. You can reach her at jeanrharris@sbcglobal.net

©2007 Jean Harris for SeniorWomenWeb

 

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