Whistled Like a Bird Read online

  Copyright

  Grateful acknowledgment is given for permission to reprint the following:

  Lyric excerpts of “Blue Skies” by Irving Berlin on page 66 © Copyright 1927 by Irving Berlin. © Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  Poems “To Dorothy” and “A House in a Hammock” from Floridays by Don Blanding, published by Florida Classics Library. Copyright 1941 by Don Blanding. Copyright Renewed 1969 by Security-First National Bank. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission of Florida Classics Library.

  Photograph of Amelia Earhart at the Double Dee ranch from Jim Dunrud. Used with permission.

  1940 photograph of Junie, Dorothy, and David at Immokolee and 1944 photograph of George Weymouth owned by George Weymouth. Used with permission of the owner’s sister, Barbara McCallister.

  Copyright © 1997 by Sally Putnam Chapman

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2497-2

  This book is dedicated to the memory

  of my parents, Nilla and David Putnam,

  and my sister, Binney.

  And to my husband,

  Jack

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As long as I can remember I have wanted to write this book, but often questioned whether I, a nonprofessional writer, could overcome the difficulties long enough to complete the task on my own. In the beginning I considered hiring a collaborator to assist me, but ultimately I realized that no one else could write my grandmother’s story but me; so after two years I finished my book. But writing this story was only the beginning. Many talented people have been involved in its creation, and I can honestly say that the privilege of making these new friends has been my greatest reward.

  Ben Forkner, my friend and scholar from Angiers, France, offered his editorial eye during the first draft. Shrinking the Atlantic Ocean was a bear at times, but we managed it. Thank you, Ben. I share the smooth and tight finished product with Stephanie Mansfield. For several months we pruned and reshaped my manuscript. It wasn’t always easy cutting words and changing style, but Stephanie is a skilled professional and I am grateful for her editing.

  Acknowledging a ghost is a helpless endeavor, but I want to thank my grandmother Dorothy Binney Palmer. Though her spirit is all that remains, she continues to live through her diaries. Four months after her death in 1982 I ventured into Tibet, where the first few lines of this book were written. Though I was still grieving, the mystical setting at the top of the world inspired me to begin this memoir.

  Larry Kirshbaum of Warner Books first read my proposal and listened to my story two years ago. It was Larry’s infectious enthusiasm that launched me headlong into the greatest challenge of my life. His guidance and brilliant attention to structure and clarity led me to the conclusion of Whistled Like a Bird. I could not have survived this wild adventure without him. Also to Mari C. Okuda at Warner Books, my deep appreciation for her compassion and able assistance. Not only is she an artist, but a sensitive and bold professional. To Ann Adelman, who copyedited my manuscript, thank you. Her astute discoveries were the finishing touches my story needed.

  A few friends read the manuscript in progress and made helpful comments. Most notably, Anne Wilder, a writing legend in her own time. Her guidance and support from the first chapter forward were priceless. Also my love and gratitude to Olive and Pete Peterson. Their biased but fresh comments nudged me back on course from time to time. To Elaine Harrison and Bob Rodman, my very special flying friends, thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my early efforts. To Laura Evans, tentmate, soulmate, and inspiration; she has been with me over the long haul, and knows from experience the trials of writing a book. I am grateful for her empathy and friendship. A warm thanks to Kathy Weymouth without whom I would never have had the pleasure of meeting the wonderful Weymouth family. Her kindness has touched me deeply.

  Since 1976, when I first began to research my family’s history, a number of people contributed their knowledge through interviews and letters. Their decisive quotes have enriched the narrative. Others associated with my family over the years have opened doors and their hearts to my ambitious undertaking. I am indebted to them for their willingness to share: Janet Baldwin, George G. Barnard, Sheldon Bart, Nancy Bignell, Jerry Coe, Allen Dennison, Jim and Joan Dunrud, Tom duPont, Frank Fee, Patti Hobbs, Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Holley, Jerome Lawrence, Robert Lee, Anne M. Lindbergh, Charles S. Lovell, Mary S. Lovell, Barbara McCallister, Muriel E. Morrissey, Claudia M. Oaks, Whitney O’Keeffe, Eric Paisley, Charles Palmer, John A. Pope, Patsy Raudenbush, George Rieveschl, Jr., Lee Rodgers, Arthur O. Sulzberger, Jr., Louise M. Thaden, Bradford Washburn, Theodore M. Wassmer, Fay Gillis Wells, and Joan and Dean Young.

  Closer to home, my thanks to Sherlock and to my assistant, Lyn Lane, who cheerfully took the many handwritten drafts and made them a home inside my computer. In addition, at Immokolee there are two special people whose responsibilities have quadrupled in order to take up my slack; Ralph and Mary Jane Paul. In the midst of chaos, they made peace and comfort. I am grateful for their tireless help and devotion.

  My extended Putnam family blessed me with information. To my brothers, David (the real writer in the family) and Doug Putnam, and to my sister-in-law Jan, they all know the story too well. Doug’s clippings, letters, photos, and more recently, diaries, are a golden thread that bind this book. Sadly, Mom and Dad are not here to read this labor of love, but their lifetime of patience and guidance share in the birth of Whistled Like a Bird. Nor is my sister, Binney, here today, but her unsurpassed encouragement became the foundation from which my story grew. Thank you for the little silver fish, Binney. To Nilla Childs, Jane Portman, Dolly Dudley, and Sally Thompson, Binney’s darling daughters, my love and respect.

  To Uncle George and Marie Putnam, their incomparable firsthand recollections helped me paint an accurate portrait: my sincere gratitude. To Cynthia Putnam Trefelner, my appreciation for sharing the missing pieces of our grandmother’s life and the collection of family photographs. Her encouragement and Immokolee’s first gift of daisies will long be remembered. To my cousin and dear friend Tad Girdler, it was like old times again, thank you for the memories.

  And last but not least, I owe my deepest gratitude to Margaret “Peg” Lewis, my grandfather George Palmer Putnam’s widow. Her tireless energy and dedication to my story plus her sharp memory and wealth of facts became mine for the asking. From the bottom of my heart, Peg, I thank you. This book could not have been written without her undying assistance.

  I feel as though I have been seeking answers forever. During the long journey, I have been supported by my family. Most of the time my dedication to Whistled Like a Bird has left little of me to give back to them. Their patience and never-ending love forgave my long absences and enabled me to complete this book. John and Alex; David, Phoebe, Alexa, and Christina; Steve, Liz, Steven, William, and Maggie: I love you all.

  Lastly, to my partner and husband, Jack. For years he watched me curled with Dofry’s diaries, sometimes laughing, other times making notes; and many times he left me alone to cry, but he was always there. For two years Jack was “Mr. Mom,” and rarely enjoyed a homecooked meal. He held our family together and became my secretary and chauffeur. In all honesty, Whistled Like a Bird could not have flown without him.

  —Sally Putnam Chapman

  Contents

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDG
MENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  PART ONE 1888–1927

  1 FRIENDS

  2 A PRELUDE TO DOROTHY

  3 TROUBLED WATERS

  PART TWO 1927–1928

  4 THE PUBLISHER’S WIFE

  5 A SPIRIT OF ADVENTURING

  6 THE TUTOR

  PART THREE 1928–1929

  7 THE FLYER

  8 THE FRIENDSHIP

  9 G.W. AND A.E.

  10 “LIGHT LOVE”

  11 DEAD RECKONING

  12 A CONGRESSIONAL HERO

  13 THE PASSENGER

  PART FOUR 1930–1982

  14 AN ORANGE GROVE FOR A GARDEN

  15 AMELIA AND GEORGE PUTNAM

  16 TORN OUT PAGES

  17 NILLA’S DREAM

  18 TRANSITIONS

  19 ONCE MORE FOR LOVE

  20 THE LEGACY

  MEMORANDA

  BIBLIOGRAPHY AND ADDITIONAL SOURCES

  INTRODUCTION

  I have waited twenty years to write this story.

  My grandmother Dorothy Binney Putnam’s life had always seemed so ideal, without pain or hardship—I thought.

  All of that changed, however, when—at the age of eighty-two—she entrusted me with her private diaries, ten 3 by 5 leather-bound books, spanning the years 1907–61. “These are for you, Sally,” she told me. “You have always wanted the family history, and my place in it. I believe you are ready for them, dear.” Fighting back a rush of tears, I lowered my head and felt her hand against my face. “Yes, dear, you may use these diaries in your book.” The yellowed pages revealed a strong, cursive script, even though the indigo ink was often smudged, bleeding through to the other side. Amid her words, I discovered four-leaf clovers, notes, and faded photographs. It was a treasure trove of intimate memories and observations, which has become the heartbeat of Whistled Like a Bird. Excerpts from the diaries appear in italics throughout the text.

  Simply put, she was the most remarkable person I have ever known.

  The journals—complete with her own secret codes, which I later deciphered—began while she was a college student and detailed her private reflections, including the time of her highly visible marriage to America’s most powerful publisher, George Palmer Putnam; her friendship with the world’s most celebrated heroine, Amelia Mary Earhart; and her passionate love affair with a younger man, which ultimately gave her the strength to end her troubled sixteen-year marriage. In questioning her marital commitment, she wrote: “Love—Why is it there are so many men who consider love outside the bonds of matrimony the privilege of the male only? There are so many.” However, while the world was aware of George and Amelia, my grandmother led a deeply private life.

  Her thoughts remained within her heart and her diary. Few outsiders realized that in the midst of the record-breaking events achieved by Amelia Earhart, there had developed a poignant love story between Dorothy and George Wey-mouth, a student at Yale University who was nineteen years younger.

  At the same time, Amelia Earhart and my grandfather George Putnam had fallen in love, and “Dofry”—the nickname we called our grandmother—chose not to fight for her husband.

  Years before Dofry was willing to share the truth with the world, she wrote a brief note to me, saying: “I refused to be the workhorse in the background any longer, and besides, there was another woman in the background. A.E.”

  Dofry was a sensuous woman, and I remember her eyes as blue and clear as a hot Florida sky. Her figure was statuesque, her stately stride bold. But it was her words that pulled you in like a warm embrace. She had the same seductive effect on men and women alike.

  She married four times and was fearless in her pursuit of passion, yet surprisingly insecure.

  Fortunately for Dofry, she was a woman of means. Her father had invented the Crayola crayon, so she was not dependent on any man for her own financial security or identity.

  In releasing George Putnam to Amelia Earhart, my grandmother embarked on her own flight to freedom. And while the world was showering the boyish-looking aviatrix with fame, my grandmother was equally heroic for the times. What I had never known about Dofry growing up was her fierce struggle for independence. Her pursuit of fulfillment was a risky endeavor in its own way, and an uncelebrated flight from the home-and-garden security she had treasured.

  As a child, I was fascinated by Amelia and her relationship with our family. She had given my father his first flying lessons and the image of Amelia the aviator was etched in my girlhood vision. I was a freckle-faced, towheaded tomboy who climbed trees rather than practiced the piano. Small wonder—it was the famous flyer who was my idol.

  Toward the end of the war, I recall my dad buzzing our house in a B-25 bomber, waving his wings. When I reached sixteen and learned to fly, I did the same thing to him, in a small yellow Piper Cub. My flying career ended, however, when I left home for college. Before long, marriage and family replaced my wild lust for the sky. Yet still today the mystery of flight causes me to look up at the sound of a plane.

  Although “Grandpa George” is portrayed by biographers as a dour, insensitive promoter, interested only in pursuing his career, I remember him as a magical storyteller, who fished with me on the Indian River and climbed to the top of my rickety treehouse. He died when I was thirteen, so I was too young to know of his feelings for my grandmother. But I know now, from reading her private diaries, how deeply he loved her and how wrenching their divorce was, despite the public perception that Amelia Earhart had stolen him away from her. This was simply not the truth. In fact, quite the opposite; Amelia gave Dofry the excuse she needed.

  I decided to write this book when my grandmother was still alive. Many years before her death, we spoke openly about my intentions. We talked for hours on the open loggia, she in her hammock and I seated on a blue wooden stool. I marveled at her willingness to respond, the directness in her eyes when my questions strayed into painful territories. To Dofry, I had finally come of age and was a companion more than a granddaughter. To her, I was a woman who could empathize with her past.

  It wasn’t until my husband, Jack, and I bought and renovated her historic Florida home, Immokolee, that Whistled Like a Bird began to unfold. I can feel her presence within these walls. By entrusting me with her diaries, there was an implicit understanding that her story would be told; and as the house came to life again, so did my grandparents and their dazzling array of friends and lovers.

  Amelia may have inspired my dreams as a child, but it was my grandmother who led me back as an adult to Immokolee, “my home place.”

  —Sally Putnam Chapman

  “No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.”

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  PART ONE

  1888–1927

  Life.

  And so, on with the voyage or our lives, a voyage

  that we make in general by dead reckoning, for we

  have scant time to take an altitude.…

  D.B.P.

  1

  FRIENDS

  I OFTEN DREAM I AM FLYING.

  My grandmother must have felt she was dreaming that hot August day in 1928 when, seated behind her close friend Amelia Earhart, she rose up from the ground at Bowman Field on the wings of a small Avro Avian airplane. In one way, the two adventurers had much in common. In another, they were light-years apart. I love the one photo taken just minutes before they took to the sky, my grandmother standing confidently next to the silver biplane. She was a beautiful woman, tall and slim. On that day she was relaxed and radiant, her face lit up with the thrill of the impending flight.

  Amelia was wearing goggles, as she peered down from the open cockpit. A silk scarf circled her long neck. A waif of a woman, both boyish and feminine, she was proudly waiting to share her skills with the elegant Dorothy Binney Putnam.

  I can imagine the deafening roar of the plane’s engine; the sensation of being pulled from the seat with each banking turn. My grandmother must have clutched the sid
es in anticipation, but she was a fearless woman, and like Amelia, addicted to risk.

  They had met two months earlier when my grandfather George Palmer Putnam asked my grandmother to join him in Boston to await the departure of Amelia’s historic flight in the Friendship across the Atlantic. The thirty-one-year-old flyer had soared into worldwide fame by becoming the first woman to fly the Atlantic on June 18, 1928. During the following six weeks she was a house guest at the Putnam home in Rye, where she was to write a book about her daring exploit. The first typed draft was finished just the night before her morning flight with my grandmother, making their joint airborne adventure a special celebration.

  Speeding toward the airfield down an almost deserted road, they could taste the salty air wafting in from Long Island Sound. Dorothy had put the top down on her new yellow roadster before leaving home. She had been driving her own car for years, almost always a convertible, and loved the feeling of power and freedom, for she lived in a time when well-bred young women were afforded few outlets for such pleasure.

  The pair of tousle-haired dreamers racing toward excitement were lively portraits of Americana. Dorothy, at the age of forty, was five foot ten, blessed with a strong, athletic figure and intelligent blue eyes. Amelia, at five nine, was more willowy. Both had cropped hair, as was the latest fashion, and were fond of loose-fitting, flowing drop-waist dresses and cloche hats.

  These spirited young women were living proof of the thrill-seeking 1920s. Dorothy had flown many times before, but this would be the first time she had flown in Amelia’s Avro Avian. However, that was not the only thing on her mind this glorious day.

  Her high-profile marriage was beginning to unravel.

  As far as she was concerned, it was hardly a passionate union, and over the past few years she and George Putnam had inexplicably drifted in opposite directions. “Oh, for years, it’s been so antagonistic. I can’t imagine looking at him with longing or desire. And yet I am passionate and demonstrative. Why, oh why should I want another’s touch and embrace!”