Blueberries and Radios:
Remembering
a Summer Evening with Rosalynn & Jimmy Carter

Former president Jimmy Carter recently passed away at the age of 100, and my father, the publisher, editor, and all-things-do-er of California Update, asked me to share memories of the time I met Rosalynn and her husband, a guy who really loved her and also happened to be the 39th President of the United States of America.

It was the summer of ‘99, and I was an idealistic 17-year-old, volunteering as a conservationist in the summer before college. A bit of a procrastinator, I’d missed out on all my first choice National Parks — Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, Hawaiʻi Volcanoes. Fortunately, my application must’ve been decent because I ended up getting a location I hadn’t even listed: The Jimmy Carter National Historic Site. 

Yes, this was the summer I felled trees, razed a weather-beaten shed and rehabbed a peanut patch in the sweaty heat of Plains, Georgia. It’s also the summer I had an intimate dinner with Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter. 

How the dinner materialized is another story, but once the invite was accepted, our small group of eight teens and two crew leaders hurriedly prepared the meal: vegetarian jambalaya and homemade peach ice cream. Now, you may be thinking, homemade ice cream? With an ice cream maker? When you were camping? Outside? In August? To which I’ll answer: yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.

As the Carters rode their bikes across the two blocks that comprised all of Plains, we arranged our thrift store dinnerware. We wanted the President to eat off a frisbee that we also used as a plate. Why? Because why not.

Initially we arranged the frisbee at the top of the stack. Then we wondered, might he offer Rosalynn first go? Hesitantly, we reorganized, placing the frisbee second.

Soon, the Carters arrived, their Secret Service trailing behind. As we engaged in surprisingly routine small talk and introductions, our anticipation was as heavy as the humidity — would our plan work? Would we soon possess a frisbee that a President had eaten off of? 

Finally, it was time for jambalaya, a dish our guests expressed either genuine or convincingly genuine excitement over. True to form, the President extended his hand and said, “Rosalynn, why don’t you start us off?”

It was a mundane gesture, but it spoke volumes. Even in the small moments, even when there were no cameras, even probably when it was just the two of them, they treated each other with remarkable care and consideration. 

Throughout dinner, the President and First Lady were charming and delightful. As he spooned seasoned rice from his frisbee, Mr. Carter and I chatted about what it was like growing up in Plains and on the peanut farm where we were living and working. 

Mr. Carter shared stories about milking cows and canning vegetables on the farm, and one of us — I won’t say which — may or may not have told a story about skinny dipping in the pond down the road. Together, we mourned the loss of the old shed (it was unsafe and had to go) and made a not-very-detailed inventory of the strange antiques we’d rescued before its demolition. At one point, Mr. Carter playfully taught us four ways to pronounce the word “pecan.” For the curious, it’s: pea-can, pea-cahhn, pih-can and pih-cahhn.

One thing we didn’t talk about: the presidency. Because who likes talking politics at dinner? 

As we slurped the last of the mostly-melted ice cream, Rosalynn asked how we were “gettin’ on” at the farm. We told her about the mosquitoes (too many), the humidity (too high), and the poison ivy (as thick your neck, and, turns out, Amir is not immune), then we mentioned it would be nice if we had some music, on occasion. 

“Oh?” said Mr. Carter. “We used to have a windup radio we got for Sudan. Maybe we can lend it to you.” 

We eagerly accepted. 

“And when you get the radio, you should pick some blueberries,” Rosalynn added.

Even better! Our faces beamed. Yesterday we were just a bunch of sweaty kids. Today we were sweaty kids who had dinner with a former first couple and visited their private residence!

Within a few minutes we’d said our goodbyes and the intimate, 30-minute dinner was done. 

Shortly after, we popped by their house. In hindsight it was silly to think, but at the time I expected the President and First Lady to meet us at their house, show us where to find the berries and hand us the vintage radio with a quick but informative tutorial. Just, you know, like old friends.

As it turned out, I had already said my final goodbye to Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter, and the windup radio was not an antique but a contemporary gizmo with a self-explanatory fold-out crank. 

On one hand, the dinner had seemed extraordinary. On the other hand, I was starting to wonder, had I imagined the special connection? Had I simply experienced the everyday charm of a seasoned political couple? Had I mistook the dinner for something more than what it was?

The next day, the rangers, all of whom had met Mr. and Mrs. Carter on several occasions, were eager to hear about the dinner. We told them about the food, the frisbee and the conversation. They gave a chuckle at our plate-arranging shenanigans.

Then I mentioned how long the Carters had stayed. The rangers’ eyes grew wide.

“THIRTY MINUTES?!?” one of them finally gushed. “He doesn’t stay ANYWHERE for 30 minutes.”

Then we mentioned the windup radio.

And the blueberries.

They couldn’t believe it. “They must’ve really liked y’all,” another of the rangers added.

I guess maybe they did. Maybe I liked them, too. 

~ Star Zagofsky