If you want to know how a man could feel equipped to serve four terms as President of the United States, all you have to do is sit on a little bench that overlooks Bellefield, the back lawn and hay field of the Franklin Roosevelt Library, in Hyde Park, New York. Opening out before you will be one of those magnificent, gorgeously deceptive Hudson River vistas. There are the thick woods of the estate that mask any manmade additions, such as the railroad tracks and the River Road. The broad eddies of the Hudson itself, and the tranquil fields and hills stretching out for as far as the eye can see along the west bank. It’s easy to see how, growing up in such a place, one could feel born to rule.

The Roosevelt estate was the first presidential home and library to be placed under the care of the federal government, and it is easily one of the best historical preservations in the country. Unlike the bombastic shrines erected to the memory of so many more recent—and mediocre—presidents, the Roosevelt library is maintained on a refreshingly human scale; a wonderfully tranquil, captivating place to visit or to do research at. Small wonder—it was planned meticulously by its namesake, who built the archives and willed the estate to the government while he was still in office.

One is largely free to roam about the library and museum, the large but never ostentatious house that Franklin’s father built, and the extensive grounds. Together, they do a splendid job of conveying not only the highlights of FDR’s political career, but also the subtle, somewhat mysterious world of the old Hudson River aristocracy from which he so astonishingly emerged. In the grand stables, one can still view the tail of a champion racehorse, owned by a Roosevelt ancestor. In the basement is the folded-up iceboat, looking just as sleek and beautiful as it was when Franklin and his wealthy friends used to zip about the river ice at speeds approaching seventy miles an hour.

There are, as well, reminders of the suppressed, inner turmoil that marked Roosevelt’s life. One can easily picture his formidable mother, Sara, in the little room where she gave daily directions to the estate staff almost until the day of her death. The dining room where she presided at the head of the table—even after Franklin’s marriage. It is no surprise that Eleanor Roosevelt never felt at home in her mother-in-law’s domain; up a steep hill just to the east one can visit Val-Kill, the homey cottage she had built to hold her “world of love”—the steady stream of friends, admirers, and political allies she hosted for many years after the Franklin’s death. And now, even farther up the hill, one can visit Top Cottage, a little nook Franklin quietly planned and built with his secret intimate, his distant cousin Daisy Suckley, to be his own refuge in the years after his presidency. With the River families there were always layers above layers, secrets within secrets.

FDR frequently romanticized Springwood—the family name for the estate—but always in the best of ways. “It looks dead,” he remarked on seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. “I like my green trees at Hyde Park better. They are alive and growing.” From 1912 on, he planted some 1,000-4,000 trees a year on the estate, most of them yellow poplars and white pines. And from 1933 on, the conserved and planted millions of more trees around the nation.

But if you wish to know what truly prepares a man to serve twelve years as president, just go around to the front of the house. There, after his crippling bout with polio, FDR would try everyday on his crutches to make his way down the quarter-mile to Route 9, the old Albany Post Road. Sometimes he would fall, and then have to wait, lying face down in the road, for someone to happen upon him and help him back up. What better training has any leader ever had?