Cakes and Ale

In 1962 I read an article about Herbert Hoover in Parade magazine. The article described his austere life in the Waldorf-Astoria towers, and noted the ex-president still received a half dozen letters each day. He would write his responses on a yellow tablet and sign the responses after they had been typed by his staff.

Knowing that my grandparents would place great value on a letter from Mr. Hoover, I typed a letter to him immediately, citing a Supreme Court decision long since forgotten. When I examined the letter I was chagrined by the strike-overs and added an apology for my typing. His response that I was a “master of the typewriter already” was not only gracious, it was a useful affidavit to show my typing teacher father when he complained about my eccentric two-fingered style.

Adlai Stevenson would have been 114 this month. I once took a girl I admired on a “date” to see him speak at Colgate University, circa February 1963. The effort did not sweep her off her feet, and I began to realize what it meant to go sadly for Adlai. He did send me a signed photograph, although the signature — appropriately enough — is fading.

With one exception, I haven’t solicited a celebrity’s or politician’s autograph since 1964. That exception was Heavyweight Champion Joe Frazier. In retirement, Joe represented a furniture company that happened to have a display room beneath my apartment on Charlotte Street in Pottstown, Pa.

When it was announced Joe was making a public appearance at the store in 1994, I was the logical member of the Pottstown Mercury staff to cover the event. Don Seeley of the Mercury sports staff told me, “He’s kind of hard to understand but he’ll be happy if you make him sound good.”

On the morning of Joe’s arrival, my friend photographer Kevin Hoffman and I followed the champ around the store. He was genial and friendly, but — as Don predicted — difficult to understand. I asked the champ about his relationship with Muhammad Ali, and he was clearly expecting the question. Puffing himself up almost comically, he said, “Ali say he got the Parkinsons, but I’ll tell you what he got.” He shook his large fist in front of my face. “THAT what he got,” he said, laughing. I reached out my hand to feel his biceps, which were like steel, and Kevin snapped the picture (below, right).

Later, I received an autographed picture of Joe from the furniture company. Kevin printed the picture of Joe and me and gave me a copy. I sent the picture to Joe and asked for an autograph, which he quickly provided — in exchange for a $50 donation to his favorite charity.

Years later, when I hung the picture in my National Council of Churches office in New York, an occasional passerby would look at the picture and say, “Ooo, you knew Dr. King?” As if Martin was six feet tall and would bend his arm in people’s faces and say, “Hey, Bud, feel that.” But I’d politely respond, “well, they were both Baptist.”

I can’t remember where I got this pin because Democratic campaign items were not plentiful in Morrisville, N.Y., in 1960. I remember that I wore it throughout the 1960 Kennedy-Nixon campaign, wore it throughout the Kennedy years, and was wearing it on November 22, 1963 when JFK was killed. It has rattled around in sock drawers and jewelry boxes for 50 years, and for a few days it has returned to my lapel. The pin, like a tinny portrait of Dorian Grey, has long outlived its honoree.

52 years ago Oct. 9, a former Secretary of State dictated a letter to a 15 year-old kid who yearned to enter the noble life of politics. Acheson was a leading architect of Harry Truman’s Cold War foreign policy, and he is remembered for keeping the peace. In October 1962, he advised President Kennedy to respond to Soviet missiles in Cuba by sending in the Air Force. As we now know, local Soviet commanders had authority to respond to attacks with nukes, so Acheson’s advice could have resulted in a nuclear conflagration. Fortunately, JFK — unlike Truman — ignored Acheson’s advice.

Thomas E. Dewey was unexpectedly defeated by President Truman 65 years ago this week, and 51 years ago this Thursday he was still grousing about Democratic presidents. In my bipartisan pursuit of politicians’ autographs, I wrote to him and received this response. My mother couldn’t stand this guy, and his response helped me understand why. (Posted on Facebook November 3, 2012)

LBJ also responded generously with personally autographed pictures. I’ve lost track of where they might be filed, and suspect they were misplaced in one of several moves. LBJ was my commander-in-chief during the four years I was in the Air Force, and his stern countenance staring down from orderly room walls was intimidating. He wasn’t popular enough among the troops to make me think I’d benefit from showing an autographed picture around that said, “To Phil, from his friend, Lyndon Johnson.”

In Robert Caro’s multi-volume biography of LBJ, the rising senator, vice president, and president is frequently described as taking time to deal with his correspondence. I have no idea how many staff persons were assigned to helping him respond to letters, but I don’t recall that he ever failed to write back. I began to suspect the duties of JFK’s vice president were not burdensome, but it didn’t stop me from writing.

Lyndon Johnson died 41 years ago this January 22. He was certainly one of the most extraordinary politicians of our era, and we might remember him as the greatest leader of the second half of the 20th century if he’d heeded Ike’s advice (“Don’t get involved in a land war in Asia.”) He was also a politician who, without benefit of computers or (for the most part) IBM Selectric typewriters, maintained a vigorous correspondence with constituents whether they could vote or not. I wrote to him in the first heady days of the New Frontier. It was his prompt response that ignited by interest in corresponding with political figures.

Winston Churchill’s death 49 years ago January 24 corresponded with my Air Force assignment to a three-year tour at RAF Bentwaters/Woodbridge in Suffolk. The cabbie took me past Buckingham Palace, where the Union Jack was lowered in Churchill’s honor but the royal standard was at full staff. The driver, noting my American accent, was apologetic. “The Queen ain’t no better than you nor me, but she can’t lower her flag for Winnie, he warnt a peer.”

I soon realized that the royal standard is never lowered, even when the monarch dies, to make it clear the monarchy continues. But in 1965 when I was 18, I revered cabbies for their innate wisdom.