The Brown family, a farming family with roots in the American Revolution, invited my family to watch the McCarthy hearings on television. We didn’t have a TV and, like most of the established families in our little Massachusetts town, the Browns wanted us to know they didn’t like Joe McCarthy and his witch hunt one bit.

So, one day, after services at the Unitarian church, Wilbur and Mary Brown invited us to sit in the living room of their rambling old farmhouse and watch Republican Senator Joe McCarthy allege that the U.S. State Department and other government institutions had been infiltrated by Americans with communist leanings.

No one, including Joe McCarthy, knew what a communist was — and they still don’t. Communism has never existed anywhere on the planet in the form defined by Marx, Engels, Trotsky, and Lenin — but Joe McCarthy was confident that he knew what communism was and that he could spot a Communist — with an upper-case “C” — from across any Senate hearing room.

The hearings began in 1950 after the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) had laid the ground for McCarthy’s alcoholic inquisition with a spectacular attack on Hollywood’s allegedly hammered-and-sickled Babylon. The Hollywood attacks began in 1947, before anyone had a television.*

I must have been about six or seven when the Brown family invited us to watch the suited Senator Joe McCarthy et al grill the suited alleged communists. There were no women Senators involved or any woman communists. I remember a mob of men in suits, white shirts, and neckties sitting behind microphones at the hearing tables. I remember the televised sound had a harsh, tinny ring to it, and McCarthy droned over the proceedings in a malicious monotone.

I recall watching the black and white figures leaning into the microphones, while the Browns and my parents expressed their outrage at the proceedings. We attended several sessions at the Browns, but Steve and Derek Brown usually lured me out to the barn to build hay bale forts in the hay loft.

At four o’clock, Wilbur Brown would amble into the barn to begin the evening milking. He would keep the radio tuned to a classical music station. No McCarthy hearings for Wilbur’s Holsteins. They preferred Strauss waltzes.

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*Friend and classmate Tony Kahn, was, like me, the son of a blacklisted American. Tony’s father, Gordon Kahn, had been fired from Warner Bros studios after being subpoenaed during HUAC’s 1947 hearings. Much, much later, Tony wrote and produced “Blacklisted,” a powerful radio docudrama about his father’s — and his family’s — fate under fire. Highly recommended!

Years ago, we attended a fundraiser for affordable housing (an ongoing dilemma) on Martha’s Vineyard. The evening began with a reception on a large property where the Clintons had stayed while he was still in office, then fanned out to smaller parties across the island for special dinners and entertainment. We attended a “magic” party…we had been clued in to request this event, as it would be special. We knew most of the people there, the venue was gorgeous, host and hostess most gracious and the mystery guest was incomparable. Our host had hired him for corporate events, so already knew his caliber of work.

Our hosts lived next door to David Letterman, who was a reclusive presence on the Vineyard. They had private beaches on Edgartown Great Pond. I would see him jogging while I was on my morning bike rides. He’d wave and I would wave back, but he didn’t participate on the charity circuit. He came to relax. He also had a place in Montana, for longer get-aways. He was still the king of late night when this transpired and his son was young, so the Vineyard was an easy, relaxing get-away from New York City. Letterman was friendly with his next-door neighbor, who brought Jason Randal over to meet him before that first event started. Letterman was truly fascinated.

It was time for Jason’s act. We could not believe what we saw. He did up-close magic with cards, mind games, sleight of hand. He was phenomenal, the best any of us had ever seen. Great patter, pleasant demeanor. He sat with us later and chatted. We were entranced. I can’t describe what I saw, but will include a video of a Letterman appearance, since Dave loved him too. Dave called him his favorite magician and would have Jason on to celebrate Dave’s birthday – a huge compliment.

The fundraiser happened for several years and our host brought Jason back. One year, Letterman came over to introduce him, then disappeared. That was extremely rare, as he just didn’t do such things. He gave a little monologue by way of introduction. One woman shouted something at him. His put-down: “Lady, I work alone.” He was in cargo shorts and a tee-shirt. But he was there to support Jason. High praise, indeed.

Here is a Vimeo clip of an appearance on the Letterman show doing his card tricks. Letterman is as amazed as we are. Amy Sedaris is the other guest.

I must have been around 7 or 8 when I got my first bike, a Schwinn 3 speed with silver fenders and a head light similar to the Featured photo. My father dutifully ran along side me as I learned to pick up speed while gaining my balance. I had to know how to start from a standstill and brake while gently putting my foot down safely. Now that I think about it, I had an earlier bike – handed down from my brother; a boy’s bike with a crossbar that had training wheels. I have a vague memory of tooling up and down our street on that. I had a Dutch Boy haircut and people who didn’t know me said, “Hello, son”. That really irked me.

 

But the Schwinn was MINE and a girl’s bike – no crossbar. I loved that bike. I pretended it was a horse named “Star”. The head light was the horse’s head. We rode together for several years. I don’t know why I pretended it was a horse. I had no affinity for horses, I’d never ridden one or been near a real one. Perhaps by that point I’d read “Black Beauty” or “National Velvet” and loved those books. Or maybe it was Mr. Ed on TV. Whatever the impetus, I loved my own “horse/bike”.

I was only allowed to ride around the block. I couldn’t cross the street by myself at that age. But in my mind, I had lots of adventures as I rode. Around the block was Renfrew Rd. I had several girlfriends who lived on the next block, but I couldn’t yet visit them, as I’d have to cross the street. But the brilliant Michael Kinsley lived on the block directly behind me, so I’d pass his house on my frequent rides. He was two years older (and went to Harvard with several of you Retro writers), but his younger sister Susan was an elementary school peer of mine. Rounding the corner onto Bloomfield Street, I remember hearing a plaintive bird call. I stopped to listen. It captivated me; I searched out its source and discovered the bland grey/brown bird. I had discovered a mourning dove. I listened intently. It’s melancholy call spoke to me in deep ways.

Turning the corner I was back on Briarcliff Rd. I quickly passed the creepy, unkempt Gothic house, then the neighbors where the blue jay had fallen out of its nest. I was home again. I repeated this pattern day after day. I didn’t ride with anyone else. I was happy in my solitude. I could think and observe the natural world.

We moved out of Detroit to a near-suburb when I was just shy of my 11th birthday in 1963. In other stories, I have previously described the trauma associated with that event: my mother’s nervous breakdown which led to her taking to her bed for many weeks, the JKF assassination the day before my father’s 50th birthday. We held his party/housewarming that day with my mother still in bed. No one was capable of celebrating. My birthday  followed three weeks later. I got a bigger, better bicycle as a present. I remember it well. My mother was up, but barely functioning. She wasn’t really “present” to wish me happy birthday. She was off to a psychiatrist appointment, which she hated. He was evidently a strict Freudian who told her she hated her father. She  was not prepared to hear that and the therapy didn’t do much good.

But I loved my new bike, a 12 speed beauty. On it (in better weather), I roamed the neighborhood to get away from my increasingly erratic mother. Now I could visit my girlfriends, once I had some.

I had two mother-surrogates, both cousins, whom I loved to visit and I was always welcome in their homes. Depending on how much time I had, my near rides were to my cousin Harriet’s, just a few blocks away in Huntington Woods. I was friendly with her son, though he was several years younger than me. He visited me once when I lived in Chicago.

A farther ride was to cousin Connie’s in neighboring Oak Park; several miles, a good ride. She had three sons, all younger than me. I’m still friendly with all, went to all their b’nai mitzvot even though by that time I was married and had to fly in from Boston – worth it to see my family. They came to Boston for my kids’ ceremonies as well.

The household was lively and fun. I still stay with Connie when I go to Detroit (I haven’t visited since 2015). All are welcome with me anytime. That bike gave me the ability to come and go as I pleased, away from my mother’s hectoring and anxiety. I often used it when I was home from college.

Some 30+ years ago, I bought a UniVega 12 speed and used to ride a lot in Newton and the Vineyard. My rides would vary between 8 and 20 miles. In Newton, I’d ride on the carriage lane, or the street, as I rode further up the hills made famous by the marathon. As long as the roads had no snow or slush, I’d ride down to 35 degrees. I had winter gear. I loved the exercise. On the Vineyard, I stuck to bike paths, but they were full of people rollerblading, walking, pushing strollers, etc. Increasingly, people were “plugged in” and couldn’t hear when I shouted “passing on your left”. It was an accident waiting to happen. Dan bought a fancy new, expensive bike in 2018, promptly had three serious accidents in two years and is now forbidden to ride outside at all.

I gave up riding as I took up other forms of fitness. I took up Pilates twelve years ago, got serious about losing weight ten years ago and began gym workouts (including doing intervals on a recumbent bike). So my very old bike rusts in our garage. I haven’t touched it in years.

”And that’s the way it is.”

I’ve written about my family dinners as we listened to Lowell Thomas reading the day’s news on our Emerson radio,  and how to my childish sensibility it seemed he was speaking directly to us in the intimacy of our kitchen.   (See Kitchen Radio)

Years later on my parents’ black and white TV we watched the distinguished journalist Walter Cronkite,  called “the most trusted man in America”,  on the CBS Evening News.

And then that awful night in November 1963 we watched him wipe his eyes as he announced the death of President Kennedy,  and we felt he was trying to wipe our tears away too.

RetroFlash  100 Words

– Dana Susan Lehrman