People – Page 8 – I Remember JFK: A Baby Boomer's Pleasant Reminiscing Spot

Bob Hope on the Tube

Entertainer Bob Hope talks with actress Barbara Eden during a United Services Organization (USO) show aboard the amphibious assault ship USS OKINAWA (LPH-3).

I was an avid Rolling Stone reader in the late 70’s. It was cool being nineteen years old and reading a hip publication that was considered to still be a bit “underground.” After all, its back pages featured ads for NORML! How cutting edge was that?

But I remember when I decided that the music magazine, which introduced me to artists like Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen, whom I still greatly enjoy, lost me as a regular reader.

It was an issue that featured Bob Hope on the cover. The less-than-complimentary photo should have alerted me to the accompanying article’s venomous contents. Bob was skewered as a right-wing fanatical Hawk.

How much more pleasant a place the world would be if the subject of politics could be avoided at all costs.

We Boomer kids grew up with Bob Hope Specials on the TV at quite regular intervals. Bob was a radio star, and in the early 50’s faced the same decision as his contemporaries: what to do about TV?

Television was clearly the future of entertainment in those years. So the great radio stars began their migration to the idiot box. Many of them floundered, as the paradigms of being a star on TV differed from being a star on radio in subtle ways that baffled all involved. Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen, Fred Allen, and Ed Wynn opted for regular series with varying results. Benny’s show was a hit for a few years. The others couldn’t score like they did in the old days.

Hope looked things over and made a very astute decision: don’t be on every week. Instead, make each show a “special!” Have a dozen or so a year. That way, audiences wouldn’t grow tired of your routine.

That brilliant insight led to his being a regular prime time staple for nearly forty years.

Hope’s specials would typically involve an hour (or possibly ninety minutes) of singing, dancing, and comedy skits. The sponsor was Chrysler, and their familiar trademark at the opening would be burned indelibly into a kid’s mind. There was plenty of eye candy, too, as gorgeous babes of the era like Barbara Eden, Brooke Shields, Morgan Fairchild, Raquel Welch, Nancy Sinatra, etc., etc. would strut their stuff at the height of their popularity.

The shows would get great ratings for NBC, and the public would look for them in their regular irregularity.

Bob and Jayne Mansfield entertaining the troops

Bob also had a long-standing tradition of entertaining US troops wherever they might be actively deployed. Evidently, this was the bee in Rolling Stone‘s bonnet. The Vietnam war was never more universally despised than the late 70’s, and anyone who hadn’t actively opposed it was viewed as suspect in character in a bizarre, miniaturized reversal of 1950’s Communist witch hunts.

John Wayne was the poster child for Hawks. His movie The Green Berets, in which a critical journalist Sees the Light about Vietnam, crossed the credibility line for many in the middle of the road, opinion-wise. They knew that Wayne’s red-white-and-blue stance was the diametrical opposite of the campus-trashing protesters, and common sense probably lay somewhere in between.

Hope, on the other hand, took gentle jabs at whomever was in office. His take on war? Its cause took a distant back seat to the need to provide its courageous participants with the distraction of entertainment.

So we were also treated to annual USO and Christmas specials during the Vietnam era. We knew that Les Brown and His Band of Renown were the swingingest musicians around. We knew that Thanks for the Memory was a great song without lyrics (at least I did, until I stumbled upon a late night weekend showing of The Big Broadcast of 1938). And we knew that Bob Hope would have his specials every couple of months until the end of time.

We were nearly right. Bob’s last hurrah was in 1996. Entitled Laughing with the Presidents, it costarred Tony Danza. You didn’t watch it? Unfortunately, neither did I. But it closed the book on a Boomer tradition that our parents also related to very well. IMHO, It’s a shame that my favorite Rock and Roll publication didn’t see it in the same light.

Biorhythms

We had our share of crazes in the 70’s. We went nuts over all sorts of things. For instance, our big, gas-guzzling cars had CB radios, so we could monitor Smokie’s whereabouts. We kids had sissy bars and cheater slicks on our bikes. And our parents, and possibly we ourselves, kept an eye on our biorhythms so as to know whether each day was a good day to take risks, be creative, or perhaps to cocoon whilst nursing a triple low cycle.

Biorhythms (and I’m a better than average speller, but I’m going to vary the spelling of the term here because I couldn’t figure out how to spell THAT word at first!) were all the rage in the polyester era. An edition of Time Magazine from 1978 had its cover story devoted to the subject. It fit in perfectly with all the other pseudo-science that bloomed during that particular decade.

The man who started it all was one Wilhelm Fliess, who was a Berlin doctor and Sigmund Freud’s closest friend for more than a decade. A nose and throat specialist, he believed that the nose was responsible for many neurotic and sexual ailments, which were curable by applying cocaine to strategic areas inside the nostrils.

Reminds you of another craze partaken of by the Hollywood elite and rock stars of the 70’s, doesn’t it?

Anyhow, Fliess also theorized that three cycles governed our overall performance in living our lives: physical, emotional, and mental. The three cycles, he postulated, would be (conveniently) identical for any number of individuals born on a given day. This would create a market for arcade and handheld games circa the late 70’s to tell you exactly how you were doing, biorhythm-wise.

He impressed Freud (who planned on a death at the age of 51 based on Fliess’s predictions) and a few others, but in the 70’s, during the age of metaphysics, his ideas sparked a real craze.

Books hit the best seller list. Newspapers started publishing charts. And the aforementioned electronic devices started selling briskly.

It reached the point that cabbies in Denver were allowed days off if their biorhythms were at a triple low. An Exxon refinery in Texas would send out safety reminders to employees on the days that they were in the same foreboding predicament. Muhammad Ali’s loss to Ken Norton was pinned on the champ’s bad biorythms. And, wouldn’t you know it, when Elvis died in the throne room in 1978, he just happened to be on a triple low (as well as under the influence of a plethora of Colonel-Parker-provided-prescription drugs).

There was a lot of money to be made here, and made it was. If you wanted to check your cycles, a quarter at the video arcade would let you know. So would fifty bucks at Radio Shack for a portable unit. And if reliable, trustworthy folks like Julie Newmar, Jackie Gleason, and an executive of the Dallas Cowboys were believers, why shouldn’t the rest of us join in?

So we did. It lasted until about 1980, when it quietly submerged. But it never disappeared.

Art Linkletter’s House Party

Art Linkletter interviewing kids on House Party

When we decided we liked TV series during our childhoods, we REALLY liked them. Hence the longevity of shows like Art Linkletter’s House Party, which started on radio in 1945 and lasted 25 years.

One of the most delightful aspects of being out of school in the summer was being able to watch TV shows that you could otherwise not see, the VCR being many years into the future. One of my most eagerly anticipated daily viewings was Art Linkletter’s House Party.

I can’t remember exactly what time it aired, but I believe it was about 1:00 in the afternoon. The show would start with Art’s monologue, then progress to guest interviews, performing acts, quizzes where audience members could win prizes, and then the grand climax: interviews with kids.

Linkletter was a very appealing character to children. I remember just automatically liking the guy. And kids on his show were quick to open up to him, telling him ALL SORTS of juicy stuff.

Linkletter would frequently get the best (and most embarrassing) answers out of the kids by asking a very simple question: “Is there anything that your mommy or daddy told you NOT to say today?” Classic responses included “My mom is going to have a baby but my father doesn’t know.” Other kids hinted at daily visitors to the house that daddy didn’t know about, mommy’s frequent trips to the liquor cabinet, and other secrets now open to a television audience.

Art was a father figure to a generation of youngsters. He was like a family member to everyone else. Perhaps that’s why we were so deeply touched and hurt at his anguish when his daughter committed suicide in 1969, allegedly under the influence of LSD.

Art went on to become an outspoken opponent of drugs, and his voice had an impact. He frequently referred to losing his daughter, and the sheer pointlessness of the act. Today, he’s still alive and skiing. Still outspoken, he now is giving the message that growing old doesn’t mean getting old. In 2004, in an interview with Life Magazine, he boasted about still tackling the double diamond slopes.

Thanks, Art, for many happy summer afternoon memories of watching House Party.

Arnie and His Army

Arnold Palmer and friend Jack Nicklaus, 1966

Golf, the TV sport, has lived and died by the charisma of its dominant players. When Tiger wins, everybody watches. When Billy Mayfair wins, not so much.

Golf has enjoyed recent good years, TV-viewership-wise. It can be summed up in one word: TIGER. But other charismatic players have caught the public’s attention, as well. Phil Mickelson, Vijay Singh, Ernie Els, and many others are recognizable by the average person, the demographic required for the success of broadcasts.

TV golf wasn’t doing so well in the 1950’s. It was new, and boring. Ben Hogan was the sport’s big name, but he was already in decline when broadcasts began being aired. And the public wasn’t hooked by names like Doug Ford and Dow Finsterwald. That all began to be changed when a Pennsylvanian by the name of Arnold Palmer won his first tournament, the Canadian Open, in front of a TV audience watching the first airing of this particular tournament (in Canada). Who WAS this guy? He would take a drag on his cigarette, toss it to the ground, and determinedly step up to the tee and take a mighty rip, his style looking more like a Sunday hacker than a pro golfer.

But the ball would take off like a rocket and land 300 yards away, no small feat with a persimmon driver and a wound ball whose roundness was checked by the caddy before the round. Even the balls the pros got were known to be sometimes out of round.

Arnie’s celebrity status, and golf’s audience, soared mightily when Arnie won his first Masters in 1958. This time, the whole world was watching. When he donned that first green jacket, he was king of the PGA. And the PGA was quite happy to have him reigning.

Suddenly, working stiffs who had never swung a club were tuning in on Sunday afternoons to see this blue-collar phenomenon (Arnie had actually quit playing for a time to join the Coast Guard) take mighty rips at the ball and hearing “Arnie’s Army” roar in approval.

Another factor drives golf viewership: a rivalry. This is much more difficult to accomplish, because it requires TWO superstars at the peaks of their games who are consistently dominant over the rest of the field. In 1960, a chubby amateur named Jack Nicklaus lost by a single stroke to Arnold Palmer in the U.S. Open.

The next few years would be very good for golf, indeed.

Jack turned pro two years later, and he and Arnie were familiar sights at the tops of leader boards. For example, Arnie won the 1962 Masters. Jack won it the next year. In 1964, Arnie won it back.

The public instantly loved Arnie. It took a while for Jack to grow on them. Jack was lacking charisma in the early days, but as the 60’s wore on, he slimmed down, lost the flattop, and kept winning. Arnie, in contrast, was like a bright, shining star. His game declined noticeably, although he won as recently as 1973.

Golf started the Senior Tour in 1980, and it drew more viewers than the main tour for events like the Senior PGA, which Palmer won it in its inaugural presentation. Ironically, the regular tour’s PGA was the only major tournament which eluded his grasp, having finished 2nd three times.

Arnie won ten Senior events, putting the new tour on a very solid foundation. I would say that it owes its existence to Palmer, because it could have sputtered and died in those early years.

Tiger is the Man these days. But we Boomers have fond memories of Arnie hitching up his pants, glaring down the fairway, and taking a rip at the ball with a swing that was a lot like us weekend golfers.

Billy Carter

Many Presidents have had brothers who were also in the limelight. Most notably, our site’s namesake, JFK, had two famous siblings who also chose political careers.

But arguably, the most entertaining presidential brother as one William Alton Carter III, otherwise known as Billy.

Jimmy Carter came from nowhere to become the Democratic presidential frontrunner in 1976. The press were intrigued by this Georgia peanut farmer who had captivated the public’s interest so quickly and so thoroughly.

So small town Plains, Georgia suddenly became a haven for news crews from all of the networks, as well as many powerful print publications. They all wanted to know more about what made Jimmy Carter tick, especially his family.

They weren’t disappointed. Among his relatives were many colorful characters, but surpassing them all was his baby brother.

Billy was born on March 29, 1937, in the little Georgia community. Billy was thirteen years younger than his big brother, and was doted upon by his father, who feared that he had been too strict with the older Carter children.

Billy and Earl were inseparable, and Billy was deeply devastated by his father’s death in 1953. Earl’s death at a young age from pancreatic cancer would be tragically replayed in the Carter family again and again.

Jimmy, away in the Navy, moved back to Plains to run the family peanut business. Sixteen-year-old Billy wasn’t happy about it, and went off to join the Marines as soon as he was old enough.

Billy’s Plains, Georgia service station, 1975

Four years later, he was back in Plains, working for his older brother in the peanut biz.

Jimmy began pursuing politics in the 60’s, serving as a state senator. Billy ran the peanut operations while his brother served in public office, and did quite well.

In 1975, now Georgia governor Jimmy began his run for President. Billy was soon in the limelight as the press discovered the plain-spoken, beer-swigging businessman, now owner of his own gas station. Billy was always good for a quote.

We don’t know what was said at private family gatherings, but Jimmy staunchly kept pursuing the presidency (and ignoring his brother’s doings) while Billy entertained the media. In 1976, any embarrassment his younger brother might have caused was outweighed by the public’s resentment of Nixon’s pardon, and Carter defeated Ford.

Now the President’s brother, and ever the businessman, Billy sought to cash in. He created Billy beer, which, for some reason, bombed. It certainly wasn’t from lack of publicity. The public’s view of his hijinks began to change from innocent country-boy fun to those of an out-of-control alcoholic. Billy once relieved himself on the airport tarmac in front of the press and VIP’s who were there for his arrival.

Billy soon sank into financial hardship as his beer venture failed. He ended up selling his house to pay IRS back taxes. The peanut farmer/service station owner eventually took on a job as a foreign agent of the Libyan government, picking up $220,000 in shady-looking loans in the process. He also made comments that sounded strongly anti-Semitic, though he would apologize later.

The Senate investigated, the scandal grew, and Jimmy ran for re-election. The bad press didn’t help his brother’s cause, and he lost to Reagan in a landslide.

Billy eventually publicly admitted his alcoholism, gave up drinking, and strove to help other addicts.

But in 1988, at the age of 51, he succumbed to the same pancreatic cancer which killed his father, his mother, and eventually his two sisters.

Thus ended the saga of Billy Carter, who lit up the headlines and talk show circuit in the late 70’s. Of his many quotes, this is my favorite:

“My mother went into the Peace Corps when she was sixty-eight. My one sister is a motorcycle freak, my other sister is a Holy Roller evangelist and my brother is running for President. I’m the only sane one in the family.”

Rest in peace, Billy.

Being a Cub Scout

When I was eight years old, I managed to convince my thrifty father that I needed to be a Cub Scout.

The lure was irresistible. After all, I had spent two entire years at Nichols School in Miami, Oklahoma watching older kids parade around in their Cub Scout uniforms. The beautiful blue outfits, complete with those sharp blue-and-gold neckerchiefs and that cool metal device that the ends threaded through that fit up against the uniform collar . . . what seven-year-old kid wouldn’t be green with envy at the thought of actually donning such an outfit?

I’m not sure what kind of age requirements the Cub scouts have today, but back in the 60’s, you had to be eight to join. That meant I had to wait until third grade before I was eligible. But when I crossed that magical eight-year point shortly before the 1967 school year began, I began relentlessly hounding my parents to let me become a Cub Scout.

To my delight, they agreed that it would be a good idea.

The first thing my parents and I learned was that official Cub Scout gear wasn’t cheap. After all, not just any blue uniform would do, it had to be official. The same was true of that sharp-looking neckerchief. In fact, there were all sorts of gewgaws that needed to be purchased from an official Cub Scout merchandise retailer.

In Miami, it was a department store called Belk’s. That first night that we went in looking to get me outfitted with the garb a Cub scout wore was accompanied by much wailing on the part of my father. He couldn’t believe the cost of the officially sanctioned gear.

But he did spring for it. Had I walked in to my den with some sort of makeshift uniform, I probably would not have been turned away, but it would have been humiliating nonetheless. No, dad would not hear of that, so he plopped down probably twenty or so 1967 dollars to get me decked out in style. He even sprang for a toothbrush that folded up into its own case.

I remember to this day the pride I felt when I first wore that Cub Scout uniform to school. The den meetings were on Thursdays, as I recall, and Nichols would have a slew of blue-bedecked third-graders running around campus each week on that day. As soon as school was over, it was off to the den. In my case, it was a house that faced Goodrich Boulevard, perhaps a half-mile from school.

Each week the meeting provide us with a different slate of activities. Sometimes it would involve creating crafts. One project in particular that I recall was taking a chunk of 4×4 pine that had been cut six inches long, painting it, gluing a small round base to it, then attaching a mason jar lid to one side. My picture was glued to the jar lid, and “Chip off the old block” was engraved in my childish scrawl underneath it with the aid of a woodburner.

A more recent Pinewood Derby, just like I participated in in 1967

Dad kept that big ugly paperweight for years.

The Cub Scout manual was full of cool stuff, too, especially knot-tying techniques. I loved just taking a big piece of rope and practicing the various knots that were illustrated.

And I remember marching in parades, too.

Then there was the Pinewood Derby. I wrote about that a while back.

And the year climaxed with the Blue and Gold Banquet, an extraordinary social affair at the Nichols lunchroom that was attended by all of the scouts in Miami and their parents. Interestingly, both sets of parents was the norm at such functions, a rarity today.

The next year we moved, and the rural area I lived in didn’t have any organized Cub Scout program. Thus ended my career.

It’s been many years since I was a Cub Scout, but I still feel a little tingle of excitement in my gut when I see a proud eight-year-old schoolkid decked out in his blue and gold finery anticipating a pack meeting later on that day.

An American Family: the Birth of Reality TV

The year was 1971. The typical American family was the Brady Bunch. So said one side of Hollywood. I beg to differ, said the other side. The typical American family is going through a divorce, and has a flamboyantly gay son who likes to go drag racing every now and then.

Thus were the American public presented with An American Family, And they were also presented with the birth of reality TV, for better or worse.

I’m not here to sit in judgment of reality TV. An argument could be made that Candid Camera was a prehistoric form of the genre. And I ‘m heavily into The Deadliest Catch and Ice Road Truckers, two shows which seem to fit into the mold.

However, much of what constitutes reality TV homes in on the baser segments of human nature, and there are certainly some seriously low spots that can be tapped. An argument could be made that they are simply following the lead provided many years ago by PBS and the Louds.

The Louds were considered the typical American family by producer Craig Gilbert. In fact, they were well up the financial chain, and living in a very desirable area on the west coast, where summer and winter are differentiated largely by whether or not it was raining.

The deal was that they would agree to be filmed while they went about their day-to-day activities. The bonus to PBS was that those activities would include a marriage falling apart and a son coming out of the closet.

The result was a gut-wrenching presentation that would eventually make TV Guide’s Top 100 all-time series list. And it would also be recalled when the extremely profitable genre of reality TV arose in the late 1990’s.

The Louds agreed to be filmed in 1971, and some 300 hours of footage was shot. During the filming, husband and wife Bill and Pat decided to separate and get a divorce. It was all caught in living color.

Also, during the course of the twelve episodes, we deduced that son Lance was a homosexual. Hey, we’re talking southern California, no need to be coy about it. But the American TV public were exposed to it on a straightforward basis for what for them was the first time.

And this was the family that PBS decided was a typical one. LOL, nothing has changed there.

This column is not a bash of PBS. I’ve enjoyed many of their offerings over the years. But the year was 1971. Just how mainstream were the Louds?

It really doesn’t matter. They were fascinating. An American Family was one of the most-watched PBS offerings. It was a soap opera, but even better. The heartaches and anger were real.

The biggest tragedy about the show is that it’s not available any more. The Louds came and went in 1973 without anyone hitting the record buttons on their Betamaxes. And PBS has thus far been loath to re-release the episodes.

Here’s a suggestion: The next time it’s fundraising time, why don’t you PBS folks offer a nice boxed set of the travails that the Louds went through in front of your cameras? My guess is it could make for a nice haul, what with all those Jon and Kate fans out there ;-).

Air Raid Drills

Kids have things to worry about now, for sure. In the 50’s and 60’s, we didn’t know what ozone was. Global warming? Never heard of it. Gas stations were fighting to gain the business of our parents, not putting surly clerks behind bulletproof glass to sell them fuel at per-gallon prices approaching the minimum wage.

But today’s children have never felt the paralysing fear that an air raid siren would cause, as a kid would scramble to get underneath a desk in a futile effort to cover up from the effects of a nuclear blast.

Some communitites would sound the awful siren, some would simply rely on the schools to conduct the air raid drills as they saw fit. But the schools were required to do so by many city and state governments.

nd this was a source of contention for many. You see, the proactive nature of ducking and covering implied that the practicers of such a tactic might have a snowball’s chance in a very hot place of surviving an actual nuclear blast.

Fear became a daily part of the average American’s life beginning on August 29, 1949. That was the day the Russians, who had blockaded Berlin and had also pushed their way into Poland and Eastern Europe, turning the hapless nations into godless communist regimes, joyously announced the detonation of their first atomic bomb.

The ecstasy of winning WWII now seemed a distant memory. The threat of widespread death and destruction at the hands of the enemy now became very real to the average American.

In 1951 the film Duck and Cover was released. Don’t worry, kids, animated Bert the Turtle will teach you how to survive those pesky nuclear bombs. The first thing that you do is take cover at the first flash of a nuclear blast or first sound of a warning siren. Duck to avoid the things flying through the air, then Cover to keep from getting cut or even badly burned. Kids were also encouraged to wear metal identification tags. That way their bodies would be able to be identified by survivors.

That naive, optimistic reptile also appeared in comic books handed out to the class.

Bert the Turtle teaches kids to duck and cover

Is it any wonder that this generation would soon take to the streets to protest war?

It got much, much worse on August 12, 1953. That’s when the Russian Bear exploded its first hydrogen bomb.

Many schools began duck-and-cover drills as early as 1950. The h-bomb blast caused many, many more to join the routines.

The kids’ experience of air-raid drills ranged from boredom to terror. Teachers would sometimes lead the class in comforting prayers or religious songs as they cowered from the imaginary incendiary devices.

As the drills took place more and more often, eventually students’ fears diminished. And this was what got the dander of many up.

Realistically, there was little chance of surviving nuclear war. And the protestors viewed the drills as a way to brainwash a future generation into believeing that the Russians could be outslugged if push came to shove.

Their voice was heard, at least to a degree. Local governments began seeing the folly of educating kids on how to survive the unsurvivable. By the time I started first grade in 1965, the air-raid drills were long gone.

Sadly, nowadays kids in some communities are taught to duck and cover for another reason: the potential of a crazed gunman opening fire at random.

At least they have a shot at survival if they follow the teacher’s instructions.

A Mover and Shaker Named Ladybird

Ladybird watches her husband sign the Highway Beautification Act

In November, 1963, Lyndon Johnson found himself suddenly thrust into the role of President. His wife Ladybird was equally shocked to be the new First Lady.

Ladybird Johnson, nee Taylor, was a woman of Texas stock who was sure of her convictions, and was not afraid to stand behind them. So she promptly got to work on something she believed in very strongly: the beautification of America.

She was a woman of high intelligence and business sense. She had received a substantial inheritance, and used part of it to purchase an Austin, Texas TV station over her husband’s objections. She gently reminded him that she was spending her money, not his. The station ended up being Austin’s sole VHF-transmitted franchise for many years, and her investment paid off very handsomely indeed.

The first thing Ladybird Johnson went to work on was the overall ugly physical condition of America. Highways were lined with litter, massive billboards were being erected as fast as possible to sell advertising space along our rapidly-developing Interstate Highway System, and her memories of driving through pristine Texas Hill Country were feeling very distant indeed.

“Ugliness is so grim,” she once said. “A little beauty, something that is lovely, I think, can help create harmony which will lessen tensions.” Perhaps it seemed a little naive, but tensions were rising fast during the 60’s. Whatever might help soothe them was welcomed.

So Ladybird began doing something. She forged a friendship with American Association of Nurserymen executive Vice President Robert F. Lederer. She used his influence to encourage the planting of wildflowers along America’s highways, and also the protection of threatened wildflower species.

She also threw her weight behind the Highway Beautification Act, which would limit billboard construction and force the removal of certain types of signs along the Interstate System as well as the existing Federal-aid primary roads. The act also required certain junkyards along these byways to be removed or screened and encouraged scenic enhancement and roadside development.

Support for the bill was split along party lines, but the Democratic-controlled House and Senate ran it through, and Ladybird’s Bill, as it was known, became law.

Ladybird’s legacy: a beautiful flowered Texas highway

Ladybird loved the environment, and worked hard to protect it. But she was also a driving force behind America’s Civil Rights movement.

Her mother scandalized neighbors by entertaining Negroes in her home. Her father didn’t share her mother’s views, but tolerated the practice. This had quite an effect on a little girl being raised in east Texas.

So during the 1964 election, she traveled through eight Southern states in her own train to promote the Civil Rights Act, at one point giving 45 speeches over five days. It was the first solo whistlestop tour of a mover and shaker First Lady.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 also blew through the House and Senate, to the great consternation of many southern states. LBJ remarked to a friend after its passage that the Democratic party had lost the south for a generation.

While that particular prophecy was not to be true, the bill would never have passed without the firm backing of both Lyndon and Ladybird.

After her White House days, Ladybird continued to battle for causes that would protect the environment. By her recent death on July 11, 2007, she had backed or organized dozens of programs dedicated to beautifying her nation.

So here’s to Ladybird Johnson, a staunch Texas spirit who never shied away from rocking the boat.

A Crying Indian

Iron Eyes Cody, in his famous commercial

His name was Iron Eyes Cody. He appeared in over 200 films, alongside Roy Rogers, Richard Harris, and Clint Eastwood, among others. But perhaps his most familiar role is that of an Indian who is appalled by how polluted his nation has become, and who is seen shedding a single, but powerful, tear.

The commercial turned Baby Boomer kids into ecologists. We were deeply moved by Cody’s performance. But we didn’t know the half of his acting abilities.

The commercial has been rated as one of the greatest ever, by the folks who keep track of such things. Its message is clear as a bell, as Cody’s Indian paddles his canoe through a river with floating trash visible while factories in the background belch forth plumes of smoke. Then, pulling his canoe ashore, he walks over to a highway, where a passing motorist flings a bag of trash that explodes at his feet. Finally, as the camera pans up to his face, we see the tear.

The whole time, bold music is playing as might be heard in one of Clint Eastwood’s Sergio Leone westerns.

It made quite an impression on us.

A few years after the commercial’s 1970 release, we heard, as Paul Harvey would put it, the REST of the story.

Iron Eyes Cody, who had long claimed to be parts Cherokee and Cree, was actually born Espera DeCorti in the small town of Kaplan, Louisiana. His parents were Sicilian immigrants.

As a young adult, he moved to Hollywood, where he changed his name to Cody. At some point after that, he also lost the Italian first name and became known as Iron Eyes.

He took the art of acting to its ultimate point: he became an American Indian. He adopted native American causes, spoke out loudly about their plight, and was always seen in his beaded moccasins, buckskin jacket and braided wig.

He married a native American and adopted two children, also Indians. When rumors of his true ancestry surfaced, he vehemently denied them.

But the proof is in the paperwork. Iron Eyes Cody did, indeed, masquerade as an American Indian. But he was not castigated by his adopted race. The community recognized that he made a choice to become one of them, and support their causes in the process. They accepted him as one of their own.

Cody also spearheaded the Keep America Beautiful campaign, and today, that polluted river he paddled on 37 years ago is much cleaner now, as is the rest of the nation. And a great deal of the reason is that single tear glistening on Iron Eyes Cody’s face.