Ike and Mamie felt strange as they left the White House on January 20, 1961. It was a cold, wintry day as he drove his own automobile through the iron White House gates, then out by the Catocdn Mountains, the location of Camp David, and finally on to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, away from the pressure for the first time in twenty years, away from the responsibility he, the oldest man ever to have been President, had left to his successor, the youngest man ever to be elected President (whom Ike called in jest, “little boy blue.”) The loss was palpable, but now, finally he could turn to such things as growing hay and barley, raising black Angus cattle—commonplace activities of the rural Pennsylvania that he and Mamie had talked about living in for so long. Still, he was aware that the nation and the way of life he so loved were passing into hands much, much less capable. The new President had been a PT-boat skipper in the Pacific (and not an entirely successful one at that, his boat having been run over by a Japanese destroyer) when he, Eisenhower, had been directing all Western forces to victory against Hitler's Germany. As he stopped at the gate to the Gettysburg farm, getting out into the snow to open it, he realized that retirement in the true sense would not be possible. There would be telephone calls and correspondence to answer, books and articles to write, and trips to make from time to time back to Washington. The pace and choice of activities, he hoped, would at least be of his own making—certainly there now would now be more time to spend with his friends and grandchildren.