FDR - Jean Edward Smith [232]
The 1936 Democratic National Convention was the most placid on record. There was no fight over the platform, no contested delegations, and, for the first time since 1840, no roll calls. Senator Alben Barkley of Kentucky treated the delegates to another spellbinding keynote and brought down the house with a slam at the Supreme Court. The trouble lay not with the Constitution, said Barkley, but with the men who interpreted it. The Democratic party wanted the Court to treat the Constitution “as a life-giving charter, rather than an object of curiosity on the shelf of a museum.” When he asked rhetorically whether the Court was too sacred to be criticized, the convention roared its dissent.32 Both Roosevelt and Garner were renominated by acclamation, but it required a full day to do so. The president’s nomination was seconded by a delegate from every state and territory—fifty-five in all—and more than seventeen delegates spoke on behalf of Garner.
The high point came Saturday night, June 27, when Roosevelt addressed the convention. A crowd of more than 100,000 crammed into the University of Pennsylvania’s Franklin Field to hear the president while millions more tuned in their radios to listen. A light drizzle had fallen but the sky had cleared, and a pale half-moon rose overhead. Instead of the usual brass bands, the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra under Leopold Stokowski played Tchaikovsky. When the incomparable coloratura soprano Lily Pons sang “Song of the Lark” from The Seasons, even reporters were on their feet cheering. “Something had happened to that audience,” wrote the Washington journalist Raymond Clapper. “It had been lifted, not to a cheap political emotional pitch, but to something finer. It was ready for Roosevelt.”33
Shortly before 10 P.M.—seven o’clock on the West Coast—the president’s limousine entered the stadium, circled the field, and stopped near the platform from which Roosevelt was to speak. As FDR was helped to his feet and began his laborious walk to the lectern on the arm of his son James, Stokowski led the orchestra in a stirring “Hail to the Chief” while a dozen spotlights illuminated the president’s progress. The stadium shook with applause. Smiling broadly and shaking hands as he went, Roosevelt made his way to the stage. He recognized the unmistakable white beard of the elderly poet Edwin Markham, whose “Man with a Hoe” had been a battle cry for the forgotten man during TR’s time.34 As Roosevelt reached out to greet Markham, he was jostled and lost his balance. The brace on his right leg came open and FDR went down, the pages of his speech spilling into the crowd. Mike Reilly of the Secret Service dived and got his shoulder underneath the president before he hit the ground. Farley and others clustered around to hide the scene, while Gus Gennerich knelt down and snapped FDR’s brace back into place.
Roosevelt was pale and shaken as he was helped to his feet. “Clean me up,” he ordered. “And keep your feet off those damned sheets.” While Farley and Gennerich brushed the dirt from the president’s clothes and straightened his tie, James retrieved the manuscript. “I was the damnedest, maddest white man at that moment you ever saw,” said Roosevelt. “It was the most frightful five minutes of my life.”35 When everything was in order, FDR said “Let’s go.” He started toward the platform, but, catching sight of Markham, who was quietly sobbing, the president stopped again, smiled, and took the old man’s hand in his for a moment.
When Roosevelt reached the platform, he was greeted with another thunderous ovation. He had regained his composure and stood waving and smiling as he unobtrusively reassembled his speech and put the crumpled pages in order. When the applause died down, the president struck a bipartisan