The Great Decision: Eisenhower Makes The Call

In 1944, Dwight Eisenhower launched history’s biggest military operation against Nazi Germany. He had planned exhaustively for every contigency, right down to the details, to throw the Germans off-balance and create a foothold in Europe. But all his planning was headed for failure because a new, impersonal, unexpected enemy had arrived. Now he had to shift his plans and gamble everything on a slim window of opportunity.

General Walter Bedell Smith, Ike’s chief of staff, described the situation in the first of a sic-installment series entitled, “Eisenhower’s Six Great Decisions.” The whole outcome of the war might rest on his first great decision, which was “forced on the Supreme Commander not by the action of the enemy, but by the weather.”

This was the irrevocable order, issued shortly after 0400 hours on June 5, 1944, to launch the invasion of Normandy during a twenty-four-hour break in the worst June weather the always un- certain English Channel had churned up in twenty years. We were at Portsmouth, where an Advanced Command Post bad been set up overlooking the harbor. Everything the planners could do to insure the success of the gigantic undertaking bad been completed. The troops were in the armada’s 5000 ships, ready to converge on Normandy from every port in England. Weather could wreck the expedition, and already the assult had been postponed a day because of the Channel gale.

No commander bas ever faced a more formidable decision than General Eisenbower at that dawn meeting of his commanders in chief and meteorologists. With the wind blowing rain against the window, it was one man’s responsibility to weigh all the factors and decide—twenty-four hours before H Hour on the beaches—whether he would give the order to go.

The Supreme Commander made the rounds of assaulting divisions and noted with satisfaction that the troops seemed bard and eager. The soft English spring moved toward June in a succession of beautiful days and long twilights which deepened into perfect nights. If the weather held, the Supreme Commander’s decision would be a routine confirmation of June fifth as D day.

It was comforting to remember that General Eisenhower was not only a great commander but a lucky one. Everyone had said so since North Africa, when the calmest seas in the oldest inhabitant’s memory bore our first invasion shoreward. His reputation had been confirmed off Sicily, when a sudden storm lashed the invasion fleet on its crossing and then miraculously died in time for H hour.

But as May wore out, June dawned dark and stormy with a gale over the Channel. Up at Shipmate—code name of the Advanced Command Post on the bluff—we shivered in our tents and trailers. The meteorologists in their Nissen huts near Admiral Ramsay’s headquarters worked desperately, searching the fronts for clearer skies. They were not only trying to predict the weather, they were trying to make it. Commanders’ meetings at Southwick House were charged with worry. The sober fact was that the worst June storm in twenty years was whipping the Channel.

By 1000 hours on June third, it was evident that the weather was worsening, not improving. The meterologists confirmed it. Periodically that day we listened to their forecasts, but they could promise no immediate change. There could be no invasion on June fifth—the ideal day. At a special commanders’ meeting at 0200 on June fourth. General Eisenhower accepted the certainty of delay. After discussing the matter gravely with his commanders, he issued orders to postpone the operation for at least twenty-four hours.

The timetable required slower elements of the fleet to be in motion well before the major force was launched. Some were already under way. Because radio silence was imperative for the security of our plans, destroyers were dispatched to round them up. That afternoon the Supreme Commander sent me down to the harbor to see the men who came back to Portsmouth. It was heartbreaking to watch their faces. The eagerness had gone out of them, now that the edge of their expectation was dulled. I have never seen more unhappy soldiers.

There was no promise of a break in the weather that evening. With all their alchemy, the weather wizards could not lift the blanket of cloud that hung over our heads and our spirits. We drove back through the blackout after the ten o’clock meeting June fourth with dull realization that if we could not go on June sixth, we should almost certainly have to postpone our assault for another two weeks, the earliest date when the tide would again be right. Although June seventh would still have met our conditions if the weather cleared, some of the ships which had come down from northern ports would have insufficient fuel to carry through the assault phase if it were postponed…

It was still drizzling outside the trailer when I got up to attend the meeting set for 0400 on the morning of June fifth… All the commanders were there when General Eisenhower arrived, trim in his tailored battle jacket, his face tense with the gravity of the decision which lay before him. Field Marshal Montgomery wore his inevitable baggy corduroy trousers and sweat shirt. Admiral Ramsay and his Chief of Staff were Immaculate in navy blue and gold.

The meteorologists were brought in at once. There was the ghost of a smile on the tired face of the tall Scot. “I think we have found a gleam of hope for you, sir,” he said to General Eisenhower, and we all listened expectantly.

“The mass of weather fronts coming in from the Atlantic is moving faster than we anticipated,” the chief meteorolgist continued. “We predict there will be rather fair conditions beginning late on June fifth and lasting until the next morning, June sixth, with a drop in wind velocity and some break in the clouds. Ceiling—about three thousand.”

But toward evening of June sixth, his charts showed, there would be a recurrence of bad weather, with high winds and rough seas. It was impossible for the experts to predict how much longer the bad weather would last. They were giving us about twenty-four hours of reasonable weather. That was all.

General Eisenhower inquired how many hours he could count on for the attack and just when bad weather would resume. The morning will be fair,” the Scot said. “Good weather may last through the afternoon.”

All the questions had been asked, and then there was silence. No one broke it, and I suppose all the men were thinking, as I was, that postponement now meant two week’s delay. It meant an almost insoluble problem of what to do with the thousands of troops in the ships. I remembered their dejected faces. It was impossible to keep them closed in for two weeks, yet to let them out of the beach areas would almost certainly convey information to the Germans about our attack. There was the problem of the press correspondents, too— almost 100 scattered through the invasion force. The very fact that they filed no dispatches for two weeks would arouse suspicion. Finally, there would be the reaction of our Russian Ally, whose great eastern offensive was to be co-cordinated with our assault.

The silence lasted for five full minutes while General Eisenhower sat on a sofa before the bookcase which filled the end of the room. I never realized before, the loneliness and isolation of a commander at a time when such a momentous decision has to be taken, with full knowledge that failure or success rests on his judgment alone. He sat there quietly, not getting up to pace with quick strides, as he often does. He was tense, weighing every consideration of weather as he had been briefed to do during the dry runs since April, and weighing with them those other imponderables.

Finally he looked up, and the tension was gone from his face. He said briskly, ‘Well, we’ll go!”

Eisenhower didn’t make the decision lightly. He was never blinded by the self-assurance and hubris that has spelled the ruin of many military commanders. As proof, we have this public statement, which an aide later found in Eisenhower’s pocket, written in case the invasion was turned back.

‘Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based on the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt, it is mine alone.’

Be Very Afraid…

A large shadow lurks…a cat screeches…and is that a ghoul or just the crazy neighbor trying to scare us? Halloween covers through the years have given us delicious scares!

What’s That Noise? by Frederick Stanley

What's That Noise by Frederick Stanley
What’s That Noise
Frederick Stanley
November 7, 1925

What’s that noise? Maybe a book about Captain Kidd isn’t the best bedtime reading. Has Johnny gotten to the part where Kidd is executed for piracy? Could that be the sound of the hangman’s gallows he hears? The clopping sound of a wooden leg? Hopefully, Johnny will discover, sooner rather than later, that Fido is under his bed chomping on his shoes.

Halloween, 1926 by Edgar Franklin Wittmack

Halloween 1926 by Edgar Franklin Wittmack
Halloween, 1926
Edgar Franklin Wittmack
October 30, 1926

It’s Halloween 1926. You’re dressed up in your finest and on your way to a friend’s party. It’s very, very dark out. And frankly, we don’t know what that shadow is, but we have one piece of advice for this young man: vamoose!

Halloween Scare by Frederic Stanley

Halloween Scare by Frederic Stanley
Halloween Scare
Frederic Stanley
November 2, 1935

If you’re ever felt the dank chill of an October night and then heard the bloodcurdling screeching of cats, you know it’s scary. Frederick Stanley did seventeen Post covers and was great at showing kids being scared.

Witch’s Mask by Charles Kaiser

Witch's Mask by Charles Kaiser
Witch’s Mask
Charles Kaiser
October 31, 1942

The little girl wanted to see what her witch’s mask look like in the dark window, but we think she’s managed to scare herself. Wait a minute…was the mask winking before?

Tricking Trick or Treaters by Amos Sewell

Tricky Trick or Treaters by Amos Sewell
Tricky Trick or Treaters
Amos Sewell
November 3, 1951

There’s one in every neighborhood – the guy who jumps out of a makeshift coffin or poses as a scarecrow only to leap to life as trick-or-treaters walk by. Sure, we little goblins are fleeing now, but it’s guys like you, mister, who drive us to bars of soap or rolls of toilet paper.

Halloween by Norman Rockwell

Halloween by Norman Rockwell
Halloween
Norman Rockwell
October 23, 1920

Grandpa is very afraid. There’s a leering jack-o-lantern coming at him and if you look closely, you’ll see it’s wearing a little dress and shiny Mary Jane shoes. Speaking of shoes, I dig the spats on gramps. I know this 1920 Norman Rockwell cover is more cute than scary, but who can resist it?

Easy Homemade Scalloped Potatoes

Did You Know?
Yellow potatoes contain 810 mg of potassium. Their potassium content is higher than broccoli, bananas, and tomatoes. As such, these potatoes can help reduce the risk of hypertension and stroke and help maintain lean body mass.

Easy Homemade Scalloped Potatoes
(Makes 4 to 5 servings)

Easy Homemade Scalloped Potatoes

Preheat oven to 350 F. Coat 8-inch casserole dish with cooking spray.

In medium saucepan, heat oil and saute onion for 1 to 2 minutes. Add garlic and mushrooms and saute additional 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside. Line bottom of casserole dish with layer of 1/3 of the potato slices, gently overlapping like shingles. Sprinkle with pepper and 1/3 of the cheese. Add half of the sauteed veggies. Repeat potato layer, sprinkle with pepper, half of the remaining cheese, and other half of the veggies. Top with final layer of potatoes. Sprinkle with pepper and cheese. Pour the milk over the layers and bake for about 1 hour and 15 minutes. [Halfway through baking, gently press top layer of potatoes down.

“The Bus” by Shirley Jackson

Originally published March 27, 1965

Miss Harper was going home, although the night was wet and nasty. Miss Harper disliked traveling at any time, and she particularly disliked traveling on this dirty small bus, which was her only way of getting home; she had frequently complained to the bus company about their service, because it seemed that no matter where she wanted to go, they had no respectable bus to carry her. Getting away from home was bad enough, Miss Harper was fond of pointing out to the bus company, but getting home seemed very close to impossible. Tonight Miss Harper had no choice: If she did not go home by this particular bus, she could not go for another day. Annoyed, tired, depressed, she tapped irritably on the counter of the little tobacco store which served also as the bus station. Sir, she was thinking, beginning her letter of complaint, Although I am an elderly lady of modest circumstances and must curtail my fondness for travel, let me point out that your bus service falls far below…

Outside, the bus stirred noisily, clearly not anxious to be moving; Miss Harper thought she could already hear the weary sound of its springs sinking out of shape. I just can’t make this trip again. Miss Harper thought; even seeing Stephanie isn’t worth it; they really go out of their way to make you uncomfortable. “Can I get my ticket, please?” she said sharply. and the old man at the other end of the counter put down his paper and gave her a look of hatred.

Miss Harper ordered her ticket, deploring her own cross voice, and the old man slapped it down on the counter in front of her and said, “You got three minutes before the bus leaves.”

He’d love to tell me I missed it, Miss Harper thought, and made a point of counting her change. The rain was beating down, and Miss Harper hurried the few exposed steps to the door of the bus. The driver was slow in opening the door, and as Miss Harper climbed in she was thinking: Sir, I shall never travel with your company again. Your ticket salesmen are ugly, your drivers are surly, your vehicles indescribably filthy…

There were already several people sitting in the bus, and Miss Harper wondered where they could possibly be going; were there really this many small towns served only by this bus? Were there really other people who would endure this kind of trip to get somewhere, even home? I’m very out of sorts, Miss Harper thought, very out of sorts; it’s too strenuous a visit for a woman of my age; I need to get home. She thought of a hot bath and a cup of tea and her own bed, and sighed. No one offered to help her put her suitcase on the rack, and she glanced over her shoulder at the driver sitting with his back turned and thought: He’d probably rather put me off the bus than help me; and then, perceiving her own ill nature, she smiled. The bus company might write a letter of complaint about me, she told herself, and felt better. She had providentially taken a sleeping pill before leaving for the bus station, hoping to sleep through as much of the trip as possible, and at last, sitting near the back, she promised herself that it would not be unbearably long before she had a bath and a cup of tea, and tried to compose the bus company’s response to her letter of complaint. Madam, a lady of your experience and advanced age ought surely to be aware of the problems confronting a poor but honest little company which wants only…

She was aware that the bus had started, because she was rocked and bounced in her seat, and the feeling of rattling and throbbing beneath the soles of her shoes stayed with her even when, at last, she slept. She lay back uneasily, her head resting on the seat back, moving with the motion of the bus, and around her other people slept, or spoke softly, or stared blankly out the windows at the passing lights and the rain.

Sometime during her sleep Miss Harper was jostled by someone moving into the seat behind her; her head was pushed and her hat disarranged. For a minute, bewildered by sleep, she clutched at her hat, and then said vaguely. “Who?” “Go back to sleep,” a young voice said, and giggled. ”I’m just running away from home, that’s all.”

Miss Harper was not awake, but she opened her eyes a little and looked up to the ceiling of the bus. “That’s wrong,” she said as clearly as she could. “That’s wrong. Go back.”

There was another giggle. “Too late,” the voice said. “Go back to sleep.”

Miss Harper did. She slept uncomfortably and awkwardly, her mouth a little open. Sometime, perhaps an hour later, her head was jostled again and the voice said, “I think I’m going to get off here. ‘Bye, now.”

“You’ll be sorry,” Miss Harper said, asleep. “Go back.” Then, still later, tile bus driver was shaking her. “Look, lady,” he was saying. “I’m not an alarm clock. Wake up and get off the bus.”

“What?” Miss Harper stirred. opened her eyes, felt for her pocketbook.

“I’m not an alarm clock,” the driver said. His voice was harsh and tired. ”I’m not an alarm clock. Get off the bus. ”

“What?” said Miss Harper. again. “This is as far as you go. You got a ticket to here. You’ve arrived. And I am not an alarm clock waking up people to tell them when it’s time to get off; you got here, lady, and it’s not part of my job to carry you off the bus. I’m not— ”

“I intend to report you,” Miss Harper said, awake. She felt for her pocketbook and found it in her lap, moved her feet, straightened her hat. She was stiff, and moving was difficult.

“Report me. But from somewhere else. I got a bus to run. Now will you please get off so I can go on my way?” His voice was loud, and Miss Harper was sickeningly aware of faces turned toward her from along the bus — grins, amused comments. The driver turned and stamped off down the bus to his seat, saying, “She thinks I’m an alarm clock,” and Miss Harper, without assistance and moving clumsily, took down her suitcase and struggled with it down the aisle. The suitcase banged against seats, and she knew that people were staring at her; she was terribly afraid that she might stumble and fall.

“I’II certainly report you,” she said to the driver, who shrugged.

“Come on, lady,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night and I got a bus to run. ”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Miss Harper said wildly, wanting to cry.

“Lady,” the driver said with elaborate patience, “please get off my bus.”

The door was open, and Miss Harper eased herself and her suitcase onto the steep step. “She thinks everyone’s an alarm clock, got to see she gets off the bus,” the driver said behind her, and Miss Harper stepped onto the ground. Suitcase, pocketbook, gloves, hat — she had them all. She had barely taken stock when the bus started with a jerk, almost throwing her backward, and Miss Harper, for the first time in her life, wanted to run and shake her fist at someone. I’ll report him, she thought; I’ll see that he loses his job. And then she realized that she was in the wrong place.

Standing quite still in the rain and the darkness, Miss Harper became aware that she was not at the bus corner of her town, where the bus should have left her. She was on an empty crossroads in the rain. There were no stores, no lights, no taxis, no people. There was nothing, in fact, but a wet dirt road under her feet and a signpost where two roads came together. Don’t panic, Miss Harper told herself, almost whispering, don’t panic; it’s all right, it’s all right, you’ll see that it’s all right, don’t be frightened.

She took a few steps in the direction the bus had gone, but it was out of sight, and when Miss Harper called falteringly, “Come back” and “Help,” there was no answer to the shocking sound of her own voice except the steady drive of the rain. I sound old, she thought, but I will not panic. She turned in a circle, her suitcase in her hand, and told herself: Don’t panic, it’s all right.

There was no shelter in sight, but the signpost said RICKET’S LANDING. So that’s where I am. Miss Harper thought; I’ve come to Ricket’s Landing and I don’t like it here. She set her suitcase down next to the signpost and tried to see down the road; perhaps there might be a house, or even some kind of barn or shed, where she could get out of the rain. She was crying a little, and lost and hopeless, saying. Please, won’t someone come?, when she saw headlights far off down the road and realized that someone was really coming to help her. She ran to the middle of the road and stood waving, her gloves wet and her pocketbook draggled. “Here,” she called. “here I am. Please come and help me.”

Through the sound of the rain she could hear the motor, and then the headlights caught her and, suddenly embarrassed, she put her pocketbook in front of her face. The lights belonged to a small truck, and it came to an abrupt stop beside her and the window near her was rolled down and a man’s voice said furiously, “You want to get killed? You trying to get killed or something? What you doing in the middle of the road, trying to get killed?” The young man turned and spoke to the driver. “It’s some dame. Running out in the road like that.”

“Please,” Miss Harper said, as he seemed about to close the window again, “please help me. The bus put me off here when it wasn’t my stop and I’m lost.”

“Lost?” The young man laughed richly. “First I ever heard anyone getting lost in Ricket’s Landing. Mostly they have trouble finding it.” He laughed again, and the driver, leaning forward over the steering wheel to look curiously at Miss Harper, laughed too. Miss Harper put on a willing smile, and said, “Can you take me somewhere? Perhaps a bus station?”

“No bus station.” The young man shook his head profoundly. “Bus comes through here every night, stops if he’s got any passengers.”

“Well,” Miss Harper said, her voice rising in spite of herself; she was suddenly afraid of antagonizing these young men; perhaps they might even leave her here, in the wet and dark. “Please,” she said, “can I get in with you, out of the rain?”

The two young men looked at each other. “Take her down to the old lady’s,” one of them said. “She’s pretty wet to get in the truck,” the other one said.

“Please,” Miss Harper said. “I’ll be glad to pay you what I can.”

“We’ll take you to the old lady,” the driver said. “Come on, move over,” he said to the other young man.

“Wait — my suitcase.” Miss Harper ran back to the signpost, no longer caring how she must look, stumbling about in the rain, and brought her suitcase over to the truck.

“That’s awful wet,” the young man said. He opened the door and took the suitcase from Miss Harper. “I’ll just throw it in the back,” he said, and turned and tossed the suitcase into the back of the truck. Miss Harper heard the sodden thud of its landing, and wondered what things would look like when she unpacked. My bottle of cologne, she thought despairingly. “Get in,” the young man said, and, “My God, you’re wet.”

Miss Harper had never climbed up into a truck before, and her skirt was tight and her gloves were slippery from the rain. Without help from the young man, she put one knee on the high step and somehow hoisted herself in. This cannot be happening to me, she thought clearly. The young man pulled away fastidiously as Miss Harper slid onto the seat next to him.

“You are pretty wet,” the driver said, leaning over the wheel to look around at Miss Harper. “Why were you out in the rain like that?”

“The bus driver.” Miss Harper began to peel off her gloves; somehow she had to make an attempt to dry herself. “He told me it was my stop.”

“That would be Johnny Talbot,” the driver said to the other young man. “He drives that bus.”

“Well, I’m going to report him,” Miss Harper said. There was a little silence in the truck, and then the driver said, “Johnny’s a good guy. He means all right.”

“He’s a bad bus driver,” Miss Harper said sharply.

The truck did not move. “You don’t want to report old Johnny,” the driver said.

“I most certainly —” Miss Harper began, and then stopped. Where am I? she thought. What is happening to me? “No,” she said at last, “I won’t report old Johnny.”

The driver started the truck, and they moved slowly down the road, through the mud and the rain. The windshield wipers swept back and forth hypnotically, there was a narrow line of light ahead from their headlights, and Miss Harper thought, What is happening to me?

“We’re going down to the old lady’s,” the driver said. “She’ll know what to do.”

“What old lady?” Miss Harper did not dare to move. even to turn her head. “Is there any kind of a bus station? Or even a taxi?”

“You could,” the driver said consideringly, “you could wait and catch that same bus tomorrow night when it goes through. Johnny’ll be driving her.”

“I just want to get home as soon as possible,” Miss Harper said. The truck seat was dreadfully uncomfortable, she felt clammy and sticky and chilled through, and home seemed so far away that perhaps it did not exist at all.

“Just down the road a mile or so.” the driver said reassuringly,

“I’ve never heard of Ricket’s Landing,” Miss Harper said. “I can’t imagine how he came to put me off there.”

“Maybe somebody else was supposed to get off there and he thought it was you by mistake.” This deduction seemed to tax the young man’s mind to the utmost, because he said, “See, someone else might’ve been supposed to get off instead of you.”

“Then he’s still on the bus,” said the driver, and they were both silent, appalled.

Ahead of them a light flickered, showing dimly through the rain, and the driver pointed and said, “There, that’s where we’re going.” As they came closer, Miss Harper was aware of a growing dismay. The light belonged to what seemed to be a roadhouse, and Miss Harper had never been inside a roadhouse in her life. The house itself was only a dim shape looming in the darkness, and the light over the side door illuminated a sign, hanging crooked, which read

BEER
BAR & GRILL

“Is there anywhere else I could go?” Miss Harper asked timidly, clutching her pocketbook. “I’m not at all sure, you know, that I ought —”

“Not many people here tonight,” the driver said, turning the truck into the driveway and pulling up in the parking lot, which had once, Miss Harper was sad to see, been a garden. “The rain, probably.”

Peering through the window and the rain, Miss Harper felt, suddenly, a warm stir of recognition, of welcome. It’s the house, she thought; why, of course, the house is lovely. It had clearly been an old mansion once, solidly and handsomely built, with the balance and style that belonged to a good house of an older time. “Why?” Miss Harper asked, wanting to know why such a good house should have a light tacked on over the side door, and a sign hanging crooked but saying Beer Bar & Grill. “Why?” asked Miss Harper, but the driver said, “This is where you wanted to go. . . . Get her suitcase,” he told the other young man.

“In here?” asked Miss Harper, feeling a kind of indignation on behalf of the fine old house. “Into this saloon?” Why, I used to live in a house like this, she thought; what are they doing to our old houses?

The driver laughed. “You’ll be safe,” he said.

Carrying her suitcase and her pocketbook, Miss Harper followed the two young men to the lighted door and passed under the crooked sign. Shameful, she thought; they haven’t even bothered to take care of the place; it needs paint and tightening all around and probably a new roof. And then the driver said, “Come on, come on,” and pushed open the heavy door.

“I used to live in a house like this,” Miss Harper said, and the young men laughed.

“I bet you did,” one of them said, and Miss Harper stopped in the doorway, staring, and realized how strange she must have sounded. Where there had certainly once been comfortable rooms, high-ceilinged and square, with tall doors and polished floors, there was now one large dirty room, with a counter running along one side and half a dozen battered tables; there was a jukebox in a corner, and torn linoleum on the floor. “Oh, no,” Miss Harper said. The room smelled unpleasant, and the rain slapped against the bare windows.

Sitting around the tables and standing around the jukebox were perhaps a dozen young people, resembling the two who had brought Miss Harper here, all looking oddly alike, all talking and laughing flatly. Miss Harper leaned back against the door; for a minute she thought they were laughing about her. She was wet and disheartened. and these noisy people did not belong at all in the old house. Then the driver turned and gestured to her. “Come and meet the old lady,” he said; and then, to the room at large: “Look, we brought company,”

“Please,” Miss Harper said, but no one had given her more than a glance. She followed the two young men across to the counter; her suitcase bumped against her legs and she thought: I must not fall down.

“Belle, Belle,” the driver said, “look at the stray cat we found.”

An enormous woman swung around in her seat at the end of the counter and looked at Miss Harper. Looking up and down, looking at the suitcase and Miss Harper’s wet hat and wet shoes, looking at Miss Harper’s pocketbook and gloves squeezed in her hand, the woman seemed hardly to move her eyes. It was almost as though she absorbed Miss Harper; without any particular effort. “Hell you say,” the woman said at last. Her voice was surprisingly soft. “Hell you say. ”

“She’s wet,” the second young man said. The two young men stood one on either side of Miss Harper, presenting her. “Please,” Miss Harper said; here was a woman, at least — someone who might understand and sympathize, ” please, they put me off my bus at the wrong stop and I can’t seem to find my way home. Please.”

“Hell you say,” the woman said, and laughed, a gentle laugh. “She sure is wet,” she said.

“Please,” Miss Harper said.

“You’ll take care of her?” the driver asked. He turned and smiled down at Miss Harper, obviously waiting, and, remembering, Miss Harper fumbled in her pocketbook for her wallet. How much? she was wondering, not wanting to ask; it was such a short ride, but if they hadn’t come I might have gotten pneumonia, and paid all those doctor bills; I have caught cold, she thought with great clarity, and she took two five-dollar bills from her wallet. They can’t argue over five dollars each, she thought, and sneezed. The two young men and the large woman were watching her with great interest, and all of them saw that after Miss Harper took out the two five-dollar bills there were a single and two tens left in the wallet. The money was not wet. I suppose I should be grateful for that, Miss Harper thought, moving slowly. She handed a five-dollar bill to each young man and felt that they glanced at each other over her head.

“Thanks,” the driver said. I could have gotten away with a dollar each, Miss Harper thought. “Thanks,” the driver said again, and the other young man said, “Say, thanks.”

“Thank you,” Miss Harper said formally.

“I’ll put you up for the night,” the woman said. “You can sleep here. Go tomorrow.” She looked Miss Harper up and down again. “Dry off a little,” she said.

“Is there anywhere else?” Then, afraid that this might seem ungracious, Miss Harper said, “I mean, is there any way of going on tonight? I don’t want to impose.”

“We got rooms for rent.” The woman half turned back to the counter. “Cost you ten for the night.”

She’s leaving me bus fare home, Miss Harper thought; I suppose I should be grateful. ”I’d better, I guess,” she said, taking out her wallet again. “I mean, thank you.”

The woman accepted the bill. “Upstairs,” she said. “Take your choice. No one’s around.” She glanced sideways at Miss Harper. “I’ll see you get a cup of coffee in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Miss Harper knew where the staircase would be, and she turned and, carrying her suitcase and her pocketbook, went to what had once been the front hall, and there was the staircase, so lovely in its proportions that she caught her breath. She turned back and saw the large woman staring at her, and said, “I used to live in a house like this. Built about the same time, I guess. One of those good old houses that were made to stand forever, and where people —”

“Hell you say,” the woman said, and turned back to the counter.

The young people scattered around the big room were talking; in one corner a group surrounded the two who had brought Miss Harper, and now and then they laughed. Miss Harper was touched with a little sadness now, looking at them, so at home in the big, ugly room which had once been so beautiful. It would be nice, she thought, to speak to these young people, perhaps even become their friend, talk and laugh with them; perhaps they might like to know that this spot where they came together had been a lady’s drawing room. Hesitating a little, Miss Harper wondered if she might call “Good night” or “Thank you” again, or even “God bless you all.” Then, since no one looked at her, she started up the stairs. Halfway, there was a landing with a stained-glass window, and Miss Harper stopped, holding her breath. When she had been a child the stained-glass window on the stair landing in her house had caught the sunlight and scattered it on the stairs in a hundred colors. Fairyland colors, Miss Harper thought. remembering; I wonder why we don’t live in these houses now. I’m lonely. Miss Harper thought, and then she thought: But I must get ‘out of these wet clothes; I really am catching cold.

Without thinking, she turned at the top of the stairs and went to the front room on the left; that had always been her room. The door was open and she glanced in; this was clearly a bedroom for rent, and it was ugly and drab and cheap. Miss Harper turned on the light and stood in the doorway, saddened by the peeling wallpaper and the sagging floor. What have they done to the house? she thought; how can I sleep here tonight?

At last she moved to cross the room and set her suitcase on the bed. I must get dry, she told herself; I must make the best of things. The bed was correctly placed, between the two front windows, but the mattress was stiff and lumpy, and Miss Harper was frightened at the sour smell and the creaking springs. I will not think about such things, Miss Harper thought; this might be the room where I slept as a girl. The windows were almost right — two across the front, two at the side — and the door was placed correctly. How they did build these old places to a square-cut pattern, Miss Harper thought; how they did put them together; there must be a thousand houses all over the country built exactly like this. The closet, however, was on the wrong side. Some oddness of construction had set the closet to Miss Harper’s right as she sat on the bed, when it ought really to have been on her left; when she was a girl the big closet had been her playhouse and her hiding place, but it had been on the left.

The bathroom was wrong, too, but that was less important. Miss Harper had thought wistfully of a hot tub before bed, but a glance at the bathtub discouraged her; she could wait until she got home. She washed her face and hands, and the warm water comforted her. She was further comforted to find that her bottle of cologne had not broken in her suitcase and that nothing inside had got wet. At least she could sleep in a dry nightgown, although in a cold bed.

She shivered once in the cold sheets, remembering a child’s bed. She lay in the darkness with her eyes open, wondering where she was and how she had got here: first the bus and then the truck; and now she lay in the darkness, and no one knew where she was or what was to become of her. She had only her suitcase, and a little money in her pocketbook. She was very tired, and she thought that perhaps the sleeping pill she had taken much earlier had still not quite worn off; perhaps the sleeping pill had been affecting all her actions, since she had been following docilely, wherever she was taken. In the morning, she told herself sleepily, I’ll show them I can make decisions for myself.

The jukebox noise downstairs faded softly into a distant melody. My mother is singing in the drawing room, Miss Harper thought, and the company is sitting on the stiff little chairs, listening; my father is playing the piano. She could not quite distinguish the song, but it was one she had heard her mother sing many times. I could creep out to the top of the stairs and listen, she thought, and then she became aware that there was a rustling in the closet, but the closet was on the wrong side, on the right instead of the left. It is more a rattling than a rustling, Miss Harper thought, wanting to listen to her mother singing; it is as though something wooden were being shaken around. Shall I get out of bed and quiet it so I can hear the singing? Am I too warm and comfortable; am I too sleepy?

The closet was on the wrong side, but the rattling continued, just loud enough to be irritating, and at last, knowing she would never sleep until it stopped, Miss Harper swung her legs over the side of the bed and, sleepily, padded barefoot over to the closet door.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked aloud, and opened the door. There was just enough light for her to see that it was a wooden snake, head lifted, stirring and rattling itself against the other toys. Miss Harper laughed. “It’s my snake,” she said aloud, “it’s my old snake, and it’s come alive.” In the back of the closet she could see her old toy clown, bright and cheerful, and as she watched, enchanted, the toy clown flopped languidly forward and back, coming alive. Then Miss Harper saw the big beautiful doll sitting on a small chair, the doll with long golden curls and wide blue eyes and a stiff organdy party dress. As Miss Harper held out her hands in joy, the doll opened her eyes and stood up.

“Rosabelle,” Miss Harper cried out, “Rosabelle, it’s me.”

The doll turned, looking widely at her, smile painted on. The red lips opened and the doll quacked, outrageously, a flat, slapping voice coming out of that fair mouth. “Go away, old lady,” the doll said. ” go away, old lady, go away.”

Miss Harper backed away, staring. She slammed the closet door and leaned against it. Behind her, the doll’s voice went on and on. Crying out, Miss Harper turned and fled. “Mommy,” she screamed “Mommy, Mommy. ”

Screaming, she fled, past the bed, out the door, to the staircase. “Mommy,” she cried, and fell, going down and down into darkness, turning, trying to catch onto something solid and real, crying.

“Look, lady,” the bus driver said. “I’m not an alarm clock. Wake up and get off the bus.”

“You’ll be sorry,” Miss Harper said distinctly.

“Wake up,” he said, “wake up and get off the bus.”

“I intend to report you,” Miss Harper said. Pocketbook, gloves, hat, suitcase.

”I’ll certainly report you,” she said, almost crying.

“This is as far as you go,” the driver said.

The bus lurched, moved, and Miss Harper almost stumbled in the driving rain, her suitcase at her feet, under the sign reading RICKET’S LANDING.

Limerick Laughs for November/December 2010

The Saturday Evening Post will award $100 to the author of the winning limerick for this picture.

Limericks must contain five lines. Entries will not be returned. Enter as many times as you wish.

The Nov/Dec 2010 Limerick Laughs winner will be announced in the Mar/Apr 2011 issue. Entries must be postmarked by December 6, 2010.

Send entries on a postcard to:
Limerick Laughs
The Saturday Evening Post
1100 Water way Blvd.
Indianapolis, IN 46202

We extend our congratulations and $100 to Paige Schenker, Sierra Madre, California, for the Jul/Aug 2010 winning entry.

© SEPS.

This man’s in a bit of a crunch.
Too quickly he bragged to this bunch
That in a very short time,
He’d make dinner sublime.
Let’s just hope they all ate a late lunch.

Honorable mentions

“There’s nothing to it!” He’d boast.
He’d be both the chef and the host.
But now is the hour,
He’s waist-deep in flour,
And his poor guests may have to eat toast.

—Ruby Denton, Indianapolis, Indiana

The boss is over tonight,
Expecting a gourmet delight.
Bob’s got the notion
He’ll get a promotion,
So he’d better get this meal right!

—Robert M. Dillow, Bel Air, Maryland

Classic Covers: A Dog Is a Girl’s Best Friend

We’ve seen many Post covers with a man and his beloved hunting dog, or a boy and his furry best buddy. And from Wolfhounds to tiny laptops, Saturday Evening Post artists showed us how a dog, not diamonds, is a girl’s best friend.

Woman and Wolfhound by W.H. Coffin

Woman with Wolfhound by W.H. Coffin
Woman with Wolfhound
W.H. Coffin
October 17, 1925

This is no lap dog. The wolfhound and pretty lady were painted by artist W.H. Coffin. Born in Charleston, South Carolina in 1878, Coffin did over thirty Post covers between 1913 and 1931, each one of an attractive woman. His portraits were sometimes stark, but as he progressed he added props for contrast and interest: a spray of flowers, a feathered fan, a dog big enough to rip your throat out…okay, just kidding about the last part. He’s a beautiful animal.

Lady with Riding Crop and Dog by Harrison Fisher

Lady with Riding Crop and Dog by Harrison Fisher
Lady with Riding Crop and Dog
Harrison Fisher
August 28, 1909

Clearly, in the early twentieth century, charming ladies were a popular cover subject for Saturday Evening Post artists. Harrison Fisher did an amazing eighty-eight covers, frequently of ladies in fabulous hats. This one is from 1909. I can’t decide: is the hat or the dog cuter?

Tipping the Scales by Joseph Farrelly

Tipping the Scales by Joseph Farrelly
Tipping the Scales
Joseph Farrelly
October 13, 1923

Okay, so a dog isn’t always a woman’s best friend! Next time, she’ll learn to get a smaller dog. This cute cover from 1923 is the only one we have by this artist, but at least one Post staffer thinks it would make a great framed print for the bathroom. One needs humor by the bathroom scales.

Woman Resting After the Shoot by Edward Penfield

Woman Resting After the Shoot by Edward Penfield
Woman Resting After the Shoot
Edward Penfield
The Country Gentleman
December 15, 1917

Where there was a hunting cover, and there were many, there was a dog. And sometimes the hunter was female. This lovely autumn cover from a 1917 Country Gentleman magazine (a sister publication) was by artist Edward Penfield. His Country Gent and Post covers at the turn of the century were of varied subjects: horses and horseless carriages, Presidents Teddy Roosevelt and Grover Cleveland…and the occasional pretty lady.

Girl Scout by J.C. Leyendecker

Girl Scout by J.C. Leyendecker
Girl Scout
J.C. Leyendecker
October 25, 1924

The girl scouts started out in 1912 with eighteen members in Savannah, Georgia and today boasts over three million members. It was enough of an entity by 1924 to capture the attention of renowned Post cover artist J.C. Leyendecker. This young lady is practicing her first aid skills and her furry friend is being, well, a good scout.

Woman and Small Dog by Clarence Underwood

Woman and Small Dog by Clarence Underwood
Woman and Small Dog
Clarence Underwood
February 14, 1920

Clarence Underwood illustrated Post covers between 1903 and 1926 – over forty in all. This one is a lovely study in black and white, with a small red feather for contrast. And yes, you can get reprints of thousands of beautiful, humorous and interesting Post (and Country Gentleman) covers at www.curtispublishing.com. If you’re looking for a particular cover or want to see a certain cover subject in a future Featured Artists column, contact me at: [email protected].

When A Big Government Solution Worked

Imagine the outcry today. The president asks for $100 Trillion (in 2010 dollars) to upgrade the nation’s infrastructure. Congress approves the idea. Of course, the whole project takes more time and money than planned, and yet, a generation later, it is generally considered one of the country’s best investments. Unthinkable today, it happened in 1955, when Dwight Eisenhower asked for a program to build 40,000 miles of interstate highways.

Getting Congressional approval in 1955 wasn’t the political miracle it would be today.  The economy was in better shape than now. Post-war America was generally more confident in its power to solve problems. Also, the project was launched by a popular, Republican president with strong bipartisan support.

Having grown up with the interstate system, it’s hard for a baby-boomer to sense just how extraordinary the idea was. A Post article of 1955, “The Case of the Obsolete Highways,” captures some of the astonishment Americans must have felt at the scope and farsightedness of the project.

During the past several weeks, millions of Americans have been jolted into recognizing the fact that, though we are several years into the Atomic Age, this country has never even caught up with the Automobile Age. The most official jolt, was delivered in the form of a White House message to the 84th Congress on the twenty-seventh of January, in which President Eisenhower asked for legislation energizing a special twenty-five-billion dollar, ten-year, highway-construction program. And, unless the new Congress is completely unrealistic, he’ll probably get it.

Now, everybody loves a highway program. Like the Girl Scouts, better schools and Christmas, the better-roads program is a continuing institution that has no enemies. So, if you are in favor of progress, you will probably favor this 25-billion-dollar investment

But wait a minute—twenty-five billion is $25,000,000,000! This astronomical outlay is almost 10 per cent of our national debt and represents about one third of our annual Federal Government income. In order to invest twenty-five billion in roads, every man, woman and child in the United States would have to contribute $150—in addition, that is, to the present, normal tax levies.

A president making such a proposal today would be asking for impeachment.

1950's Interstate Map
These “trunk-line highways” represent little more than one percent of our total highway mileage—but they carry 20 percent of our out-of-city-traffic.

This same twenty-five billion would pay our national bills for four months. Or, to phrase it for those who like superlatives —this projected twenty-five-billion outlay is the biggest, single-issue expense—aside from World War II—the American people have ever been asked to underwrite. The fact that the costs will be spread over a ten-year period does not detract a cipher from the total; actually, Americans are going to be asked to dig deep to pay for bills that have, in part, been accruing for a quarter of a century.

Is this project a Utopian dream-of-the-future or is the program necessary to America’s continued prosperity and, perhaps, to its very survival?

Does America really face a highway transportation crisis?… The basic reason for our highway traffic troubles can be found in three facts.

(1) In 1954 there were 58,000,000 motor vehicles registered in this country.

(2) Between 1941 and 1953 we added 39,000 miles of public roads to bring the national total to 3,348,000 miles.

(3) During that same period —1941 to 1953 —we almost doubled the vehicle-miles of travel on these roads and highways. Squeeze two cars or trucks onto a road area designed for one—and remember that many of these roads and highways were unsatisfactory even by 1941 standards— and you have a traffic problem that spells out wholesale slaughter on the highways, terrific economic waste, and possible disaster in the event of a national emergency.

It is estimated that in 1965 we will have 80,000,000 registered vehicles on our highways and that they will travel 814,000,000,000 vehicle-miles during that year.  This means that if we continue building highways at our current rate— we will have three vehicles on the same highway area that carried one vehicle during the stop-and-start year of 1941. If this comes to pass, 1965 may well be the year when we all get out and walk.

If this sounds appalling, just think of 1975—for 1955 is the year when we must start planning for our 1975 traffic. Two decades from now there will be an estimated 92,000,000 vehicles on our highways, and during that year you and your children will drive an estimated trillion vehicle-miles — or die trying.

In fact, the traffic estimate was a little low for 1965; 90,000,000 vehicles were using America’s highways. By 1975, the estimate was even farther off: there were 130 thousand vehicles instead of 92 thousand.

What sort of highways will we get if the Federal Government carries through with the ten-year, $25,000,000,000 program of refurbishing this 40,000-mile national network? A preview of these 1965 roads has already been afforded us by the best of the East’s toll turnpikes and the West Coast’s new freeways.

This new interstate road system crisscrossing the nation and weaving the urban centers together will be designed for the traffic pattern to be expected in each section: the roads will be multilane—eight, six, four and occasionally two lanes—limited-access highways with a median strip separating the traffic streams. There will be few lights or traffic signals, no sharp curves, no steep grades and, except in those urban feeder roads which will be made a part of the interstate program, there will be no intersections.

When completed, the interstate system would bring new efficiency to travel and reduce transportation costs for businesses. It would also provide an efficient road system for civil defense. But one of the biggest selling points for the Federal highway program was safety, as was noted in a 1956 Post article, “Coast To Coast Without A Stoplight in 1956.”

The fifteen year campaign to get our traffic moving is under way; with a little luck and lots of co-operation from everyone, we’ll be riding from border to border without a stop light or a traffic snarl by 1972. The Automotive Safety Foundation estimates that, during its first ten years of operation, the improved Interstate System will save 35,000 lives. Will you or your children be among that army of the repreived? If so, you can count the time and the money the new highways will save as just another dividend.

Dijon Chicken Parmesan

Look no further for tonight’s dinner recipe. Try this quick and easy Dijon Chicken Parmesan.

Dijon Chicken Parmesan

Dijon Chicken Parmesan
Dijon Chicken Parmesan

Preheat oven to 350 F. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.

In medium bowl, whisk together dijon, vinegar, and pepper. Mix chicken tenders into bowl and coat thoroughly (can also marinate for 1 to 2 hours or overnight). In shallow dish or pie pan, mix together bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese. Take mustard-coated chicken tenders and dip into crumb mixture, breading both sides. Place tenders on baking dish. Bake on center rack for 12 to 20 minutes, depending on thickness of tenders, until cooked through.

Stimulus Funds and Health Care

We expect ATMs to nearly instantaneously dispense cash at locations around the globe, and assume that flight reservations made from home computers will come off without a hitch.  Yet the lion’s share of our daily transactions with healthcare providers still take place the old-fashioned way—by calling on the phone, leaving a message, and then waiting for a return call or postcard in the mail.

The national buzz around “meaningful use” of interactive healthcare technologies such as electronic health records has focused primarily on financial benefits to the healthcare community. But what does it mean for the regular Joe, or Jane?

To find out more about technology and the future of your healthcare, the Post spoke with Wayne Oliver, Vice President, Washington DC-based Center for Health Transformation (healthtransformation.net), and Ryan Sorrels of global technology company NCR, one of CHT’s 100 member companies.

“People have come to expect easy access to the airline and banking industries in their daily transactions,” notes Sorrels.  “Healthcare is certainly more complex than checking in for a flight. But we now have interactive technology solutions to address that complexity in meaningful ways, making it easy for patients to directly communicate with providers and access information.“

“Meaningful use” is a key component of the Health Reform Bill passed last spring. The bill contains federal stimulus funds designed to accelerate adoption of new healthcare technologies.

“Meaningful use is the government’s terminology within the stimulus package to determine whether physicians, hospitals, and other providers would be eligible for enhanced reimbursement,” explains CHT’s Wayne Oliver. “To qualify for some funds, doctors must comply with a specific group of objectives to demonstrate that they are meaningfully using technology to advance patient care.”

Requests from doctors requesting information on storing medical records online have jumped 36 percent since passage of the Reform Bill, according to Medefile.com, a healthcare technology and services organization.

Advocates emphasize, however, that innovative technologies from NCR and other groups will improve healthcare for everyone, even should federal regulations change.

“Many providers are looking at technologies to streamline the processes that happen within their offices,” Sorrels points out. “But the message from patients should be: Don’t stop your electronic processes at the front desk. Transactions that happen between the facility and the patient’s home need to be part of the conversation, too.”

And that’s where medical consumers—you—can get involved.

“For patients, the first step in helping move our healthcare system into the 21st century is having a conversation with their physician,” advises Oliver. “Talk about his or her plans to use technology that creates an environment in which patients and providers can better interact, and in a way that enhances care.”

Questions for your provider may include: Do you intend to utilize an electronic health record (EHR) system? Are you considering creating your own website to securely post lab results? Will the website provide personal health records (PHRs) for your patients? Are you willing to communicate via e-mail?

Here are 6 ways that self-service and kiosk-based technologies could change your future doctor visits.

  1. Book Your M.D.: Access a secure web link to schedule an appointment.
  2. Sidestep Paperwork: Use a check-in kiosk at the doctor’s office to electronically enter and verify demographic information, sign consent forms and complete health-related questionnaires.
  3. Access Lab Results: Obtain test findings via a computer or mobile device.
  4. eChat with Your M.D.: Exchange secure electronic messages rather than making phone calls.
  5. Pay Your Bills: Log online to view payment histories and settle outstanding balances.
  6. Pre-Authorize Payments: Expedite bill payments by pre-authorizing a credit card for co-payments and balances not covered by your insurance provider.

Classic Covers: That First Nip of Autumn

“Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.” – William Cullen Bryant. These Saturday Evening Post and Country Gentleman covers evoke the first coolness of autumn.

Fall in the Park by Neysa McMein

Fall in the Park by Neysa McMein
Fall in the Park
Neysa McMein
December 3, 1938

You can feel that nip in the air with this cover by artist Neysa McMein (1888-1949) from 1938. McMein created almost 60 Saturday Evening Post covers between 1916 and 1939, all of fashionable women. She is probably best known for creating the image of Betty Crocker for General Mills.

Geese Flying South by William Meade Prince

Geese Flying South by Wm. Meade Prince
Geese Flying South
Wm. Meade Prince
October 1, 1925

We love the colors in this William Meade Prince (1893-1962) cover for The Country Gentleman magazine (a sister publication of the Post). There are many charming or humorous CG covers by Prince, nearly 50 in fact. You can see more of Prince’s work here.

Hunter and Spaniel by J.F. Kernan

Hunter and Spaniel by J.F. Kernan
Hunter and Spaniel
J.F. Kernan
November 3, 1928

Many J.F. Kernan (1878-1958) covers depicted a delightful older gent, and this is one of the most beautiful. From 1928, the hunter and his beloved spaniel are framed by the cool beauty of autumn. You may recall the “What Happens Next?” piece a couple of weeks ago that featured Kernan’s Country Gentleman covers of a man making fun of his wife’s choice of political candidate. Kernan illustrated over 50 covers for CG and the Post.

A Walk in the Woods by John Newton Howitt

A Walk in the Woods by John Newton Hewitt
A Walk in the Woods
John Newton Hewitt
August 1, 1931

Gazing on this lovely country scene, it is difficult indeed to believe that artist John Newton Howitt (1885-1958) became known as the “Dean of the Weird Menace Cover” for his dime pulp and horror magazine art! We’re delighted to show this side of the fine artist/illustrator.

Pointing to the Pheasant by Paul Bransom

Pointing to the Pheasant by Paul Bransom
Point to the Pheasant
Paul Bransom
November 1, 1937

Paul Bransom (1885-1979) was a young comic-strip artist, but ended up spending most of his time at the Bronx Zoo, sketching the animals. The zookeeper noticed Bransom and allowed him to set up his own private studio in the lion house. Filled with confidence, he met with the editor of The Saturday Evening Post who immediately purchased four covers and several other illustrations. Quite the coup for a young man in his early 20s. This autumn hunting scene is from 1937.

Pumpkin Patch by Sarah Stilwell-Weber

Pumpkin Patch by Sarah Stilwell Weber
Pumpkin Patch
Sarah Stilwell Weber
November 7, 1914

How soon that nip turns to a chill when the wind is blowing. Sarah Stilwell-Weber (1878-1939) depicted many a charming child for The Saturday Evening Post. Picking out just the right pumpkin is a rite of fall, but we think this little lass is going to need assistance here, as it appears her choice weighs more than she does.


Why We Still Like Ike

Seven years after leaving the White House, Dwight D. Eisenhower was voted the most admired person in America. Normally the winner of this annual Gallup poll was the sitting president, but in 1968 Lyndon Johnson had become too unpopular because of his Vietnam policy.

Still, it’s remarkable that, of all the notable Americans alive that year, the choice fell to a 78-year old ex-president. Even in retirement, with poor health restricting his public appearances, he was still highly regarded by Americans.

He probably never lost the admiration he earned as Supreme Commander of the Allied armies in World War II. No doubt his decision to run for president as a Republican instead of Democrat cost him some supporters. But while he was the leader of his party, he never became a political president; he would always promote the national good before party interests.

He kept the Republicans’ promise to reduce taxes, balance budgets, and decrease government control over the economy. But he also increased the minimum wage, expanded Social Security, ordered 1,000 U.S. soldiers to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce integration, and launched a massive public-spending project: $25 billion to build 40,000 miles of superhighway across the country. (The original 12-year project eventually lengthened to 35 years, and the price rose to $114 billion, and we still think it was a bargain.)

For a time, Eisenhower seemed to antagonize conservative Republicans more than his Democractic opponents, especially when he opposed the grandstanding red-baiter, Senator Joe McCarthy. Yet Eisenhower was an implacable enemy of communist imperialism. He never used accusations and threats, but applied steady pressure against Russia through diplomacy, foreign aid, and occasional military intervention. And when a U.S. spy plane was shot down over Russia, Eisenhower took personal responsibility.

He left office in 1961, ready to enjoy the pleasures of private life. In March of that year, he wrote about the life he saw before him in “Now That I Am A Private Citizen.”

On January twentieth I ended, with mixed feelings of satisfaction and regret, an almost complete half century of public service… the first four years were spent as a cadet in West Point, some thirty-seven as an officer of the Army, and the final eight as commander in chief of the armed forces and President of the United States…

From December, 1941, until the completion of my two terms in the Presidency, there have been few periods in which I have not been confronted with important public problems, for the solution of which I have borne some decree of responsibility.

But now, having left the White House, Mamie and I have become a part of America’s private citizenry. We have no governmental responsibilities, no duties except those belonging to every other individual in this republic. We had often, through the years, looked forward eagerly to this kind of existence…

Adjustments, big and little, began soon after I left the platform last Inauguration Day. I have now learned, once more, how to dial a telephone and how to drive a modern automobile, something I have not done for nearly twenty years…

Ike knew he would miss the daily news briefings he enjoyed as a president. No longer could he simply pick up a phone and call in advisors and experts to inform him breaking news stories. But this, he realized, was how Americans lived. They pieced together news stories. They discussed and debated among themselves. They worked hard to keep informed.

President Eisenhower illustrations by Norman Rockwell
“What a mobile face he has! He registered grave contemplation when told he should be an artist’s model, then cracked it up into a grin.”—Norman Rockwell

I believe that every good citizen owes it to himself and his country to formulate his conclusions on vital national issues as carefully as if he were actually sitting in the President’s chair. He will not find this easy. There is no magic formula for reaching satisfactory decisions; certainly none that would be acceptable to every thoughtful person.

I here set down without explanation or argument, and in terms of basic tenet, the highlights of my political beliefs. These are not original; some are hoary with age. But, among others, they include:

• We live in a society founded upon a deeply felt religious faith dedicated to the maintenance of human liberty and dignity, of the nation’s security, and of public order.

• Only in a world of peace with Justice can the peace and prosperity of any nation be assured.

• Lincoln’s description of the purpose and function of government is still valid. He said, “The legitimate object of government is to do for a community of people whatever they need to have done, but cannot do at all, or cannot so well do for themselves, in their separate and individual capacities. In all that the people can individually do as well for themselves, government ought not to interfere.”

• To insure the nation’s security and progress requires a balanced strength— spiritual, economic, military. To neglect any of these necessarily weakens all.

• An intelligent approach to every political question, domestic or foreign, must seek the enlightened self-interest of this nation.

• A free, competitive economy is essential to the existence of maximum human liberty.

• Maintenance of a sound, stable currency is essential to the growth of a free, competitive economy.

• Deficit spending by the Federal Government is justified only in emergencies of the gravest kind. The inevitable effect is to place an increasing and stifling burden upon the economy and to rob the future of its legitimate heritage.

• The promotion of the overall national good must always take precedence over any attempt of a special group to advantage itself.

• The need for balance in governmental programs is always present—a balance between current pressures and future good: between individual liberty and the meeting of nationwide requirements by government; between creature comforts provided by the state and the maintenance of a national creative capacity depending upon individual initiative, self-confidence and self-dependence; in sum, a balance that repudiates extremes in vast human affairs and seeks practical solutions so as to mobilize the energies of the vast majority.

• Added to these are certain precepts, such as:

—assemble all the facts on a problem, and it often solves itself;

—all generalities are false, including this one;

—make no mistakes in a hurry, but any decision is better than none;

— finally, and probably the most important, always take your job seriously, never yourself.

For me, they spell sound, balanced and progressive government.

These points were more than just nice ideas to Dwight Eisenhower. They were principles by which he lived. Which is why historians may argue Ike’s decision, but few argue his integrity.

Introducing Ike: “The Army’s Favorite General”

On this day in 1890, Dwight David Eisenhower was born on a farm in Abilene, Kansas. He was probably the last American president to take the mythical path to the White House. Though not born in a log cabin, he did grow up on a small farm far from the city, enlisted in the army, rose through the ranks,  achieving a brilliant victory, and then moved into politics.

As late as 1942, though, Eisenhower was still unknown to America. That year, Post writer Demaree Bess wrote “The Army’s Favorite General” to introduce him to the country that would soon be entrusting him with their sons.

The toughest assignment in the world today is the opening of a second front. Meet the soldier who has it, Ike Eisenhower, of Kansas and London.

A few weeks ago, talking in Washington with a veteran Army colonel, I remarked that I was gathering material for an article about Lt. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man who has been sent to England to organize the American share of the second front against Germany.

“Well, you’ll find it hard sledding to write an exciting article about Ike Eisenhower,” commented the colonel. “There’s nothing romantic about him. He’s never done anything spectacular. The public never heard of him until a few months ago, and most of the politicians have never laid eyes on him. But there is one thing about Ike Eisenhower—he’s the Army’s favorite general.”

That phrase—”the Army’s favorite general”— stuck in my mind. I decided to find out whether it was true and, if so, why. Now, having talked with dozens of officers and men who know General Eisenhower, I have concluded that it probably is true. Certainly his appointment is unanimously approved by the soldiers—from generals to privates— who have worked with him and over him, and under him, during his twenty-seven years in the regular Army of the United States.

The exciting part of General Eisenhower’s story lies, not in his personal life, but in his professional career. A little more than a year ago, Dwight D. Eisenhower was just one of several thousand colonels in our regular Army; and, so far as the American public knew, he was no different from the rest. But today he is one of our Army’s sixteen lieutenant generals, holding rank equivalent to the highest that George Washington attained. He has been advanced more rapidly than any other American officer. More than that, he has been handed the toughest assignment at the disposal of the War Department—that of cracking German defenses on the continent of Europe.

Bess assured the country that this young (52 years old that year) general had risen without influential friends or powerful connections. He had risen through the ranks on merit alone. He had graduated in the upper half of his West Point class. During the First World War, he had earned a brevet rank of Lieutenant Colonel for his work in training America’s fledgling tank corp. General MacArthur was so impressed by this unassuming young man, he chose him as his top military aide in the Philippines. The top brass were impressed with this young officer’s ability to see the big picture without losing sight of practical matters.

One reason why General Eisenhower was selected for his present post is that he was perhaps the first of our staff officers to suggest a second front… when asked for his plans, he submitted details which persuaded his superiors that his plans are both brilliant and sound. He was able to create these plans because, for more than a quarter of a century, he has been an inspired student of mechanized warfare and because, in recent large-scale maneuvers in this country, he revealed extraordinary originality in his direction of this type of combat.

What Bess couldn’t know at the time of this article was that Eisenhower also had a genius for diplomacy.  Time after time, Ike was able to win cooperation from Allied generals and politicians. He spent years was negotiating, arguing,, pleading, cajoling, and manipulating such prickly men as Churchill, General Bernard Montgomery, George Patton, Charles de Gaulle, and the Russian General Zhukov, to keep the great alliance alive.

Perhaps his great accomplishment was successfully landing 24,000 soldiers on the French coast, directly in sight of massive German defences. It was an extraordinary feat of planning, which called for the kind of military genius needed in modern war, as described by British essayist Walter Bagehot:

The soldier—that is, the great soldier—of today is not a romantic animal, dashing at forlorn hopes, animated by frantic sentiment, full of fancies as to a love-lady or a sovereign; but a quiet, grave man, busied in charts, exact in sums, master of the art of tactics, occupied in trivial detail; thinking most of the shoes of his soldiers, as the Duke of Wellington was said to do; despising all manner of éclat and eloquence; perhaps, like Count Moltke, silent in seven languages.

General Eisenhower is not exactly a grave and quiet man; he likes plenty of good conversation and his share of fun. But he certainly is no “romantic animal, dashing at forlorn hopes.” Being an infantryman, he knows the importance of shoes for his soldiers; and, being a tank expert and a qualified pilot, he fully appreciates the role of tanks and air- planes in modern warfare. For more than a year he has been “busied in charts” which directly concern his present mission; and his associates can attest to his passion for “trivial detail.”

 

Kiwi Couscous

Did you know a serving of kiwifruit has more potassium than a banana? Ideal for maintaining fluid and electrolyte balance and for releasing energy during exercise, these fuzzy little fruits add more than just color and flavor to your favorite dishes.

Kiwi Couscous
(Makes 4 to 6 servings)

In small saucepan, lightly salt water then bring to boil. Add couscous, stir, cover and remove from heat. Let stand until water is absorbed, about 5 minutes. Peel kiwi and cut into chunks. Dice pepper and slice large cherry tomatoes in half. Pit olives if needed and thinly slice green onions. Place all in a medium bowl.

Whisk vinegar with oil, garlic, oregano and pinches salt and pepper. When couscous has cooled, gently stir with kiwifruit mixture. Toss with dressing to coat. Stir in feta and basil. Salad will keep refrigerated for 1 to 2 days.

“I Like American Manners”

The name of Alice Duer Miller has come up several times in recent discussions about Post authors. She produced several exceptional pieces for the Post, including this essay from August 13, 1932, in which she speaks up for American etiquette.

Her comments on Europeans may not be as correct today; the Second World War, the cold war, and today’s steadily shrinking globe has erased many differences between the old and new worlds. But if she is off the mark about Europeans’ insularity, her comments about the rough-but-principled manners of Americans still hold true. What she couldn’t have known was that, over the next seven decades, America’s style and manners—for better and worse—would spread throughout the world.

I Like American Manners

In order to like American manners—and I am talking now of the manners of the man in the street—you must have a real taste for equality. You must not ask to be a sheltered child or an unacknowledged king, but just an equal. In France, any stranger is an inferior—a creature who, having had the basic misfortune of not been born French, is an object for protection, guidance, and a little natural contempt. In England, if you behave properly, you are assumed to be a nobleman [incognito], but in America you are one of ourselves— a mere equal; and if you don’t enjoy equality, you will not be happy…

But if you try to say something like this to high-born foreigners they answer bitterly that they are not treated as equals in the United States, but as idiotic and negligible inferiors. This isn’t true; it is the reaction of those accustomed to being acknowledged superiors. Foreigners sometimes assert that we are not even as democratic as they—that the peeress who dances with her footman at the annual servants’ ball, and the Spanish grandee who can be seen walking a country road with his hand on his drover’s shoulder, are more democratic than anything we can show. They are quite wrong; condescension from an assured position is not democracy. Nor do they understand that in America two types of manner acceptable enough in an aristocracy are absolutely taboo. Here it is worse than a crime to be either subservient or condescending. To be civil here you must convey the idea of equality.

As a test of this, I like to tell the following anecdote: Some years ago, in a large California city — I hesitate to say whether or not the largest in the state — I, fresh from the chilly habits of the Eat, went into a shop to buy, let us say, a yard of ribbon. I had had no special impression of the girl who sold it to me; I was thinking of something else, and finally said quite mechanically: “And now what do I owe you?” Her reply was: “Eighty-five cents, and I simply love your hat.” I have told this story to a great many foreigners, who think it convulsively funny and rather a crack at America. To me, it seems exactly the opposite; it seems to me an example of all that is brightest and best in our national life—a true proof of that friendliness and spirit of equality on which good manners in this country are founded.

But are good manners different in different countries? Is there an essence that underlies them all? And what constitutes good manners? The curse of expressing yourself in print is that sooner or later you must alienate half of your readers by attempting a definition of terms on which, five minutes before, all were entirely agreed.

Is it a proof of good manners that a Frenchman will not permit himself to be fine minutes in a drawing-room with a lady to whom he has not been introduced without demanding an introduction— thus flatteringly suggesting that he cannot tolerate being in the same room with so much beauty and charm unless he has the right to address them? Is it good manners that the English allow a stranger to enter a restaurant or a railway carriage without lifting their eyes? That hard, hostile stare which, in all other countries, greets the newcomer and causes him to trip over his umbrella or walk up his wife’s skirt is always agreeably missing in England. Or is it good manners that, as a European once said to me, if anyone is taken ill in a foreign pension in the night and a doctor is required, it always turns out to be an American who has gone to fetch him? I would answer that all these examples are signs of good manners, and I would then burst boldly into my definition: Good manners are the technic of expressing consideration for the feelings of others.

When the technical aspect is conspicuous, as in the drawing-room, American manners are not usually on so high a level as well-bred European manners, but when pure kindness of heart emerges, as in the foreign pension, then I believe that our manners are the best in the world. [italics added]

Many years ago, before the war, I was traveling from a small Italian town toward France, making many changes of trains. I had had a bad motor accident, and, less injured than the other members of the party, I was making my way back to Paris alone to join my family. My right hand was in a sling, and in my left hand I carried the luggage necessary for the journey. Thus encumbered, I was ill fitted for lighting for a place in crowded corridor trains. I would open the door with difficulty, push it back with my shoulder, and prepare to pass through, protecting my right arm as best I could. But just as I got the door open, waiting crowds of my fellow travelers would rush through, pinning me against the door, taking all the seats, and meeting me at the door of each compartment with the single word “complet.” I sat for hours on a small seat in the aisle, swelling with rage and telling myself that there was no section of my country in which a woman crippled as I was would not have received the tenderest care from the roughest people.

Of course, if I had had a bowing acquaintance with any of these people, the story would have been very different; and a European would say that the story I have just told is not an example of bad manners at all, but of the natural instinct of self-preservation—manners not being concerned with the taking of railway seats from crippled strangers, but with social usages among people who know one another. He would then go on to point out how much better, under this definition, his manners are than ours; and would probably add that it was natural that they should be better, since Europe has been working out the technique of good manners for many hundreds of years, and had, until the other day, a king and court to keep everyone up to the mark. He would say that an aristocrat knows how to be polite as a fireman knows how to be brave—because it is his job. Kings have beautiful manners because everyone suffers so much if they are rude—everyone is so happy if they are gracious.

Well, it’s all true. A well-bred foreigner has a certain gentle assured courtesy that we never attain, or almost never—there was that Boston lady, married to a prominent English statesman, of whom Kind Edward said that she had come over to teach them manners. But in a drawing-room, a foreigner can make the average American feel crude and inept. To save ourselves from this dreadful sense of inferiority, we are apt to say that foreign good manners are false. But they are not false—not falser than any technique is false— not falser than any of the mechanisms that we have built up to keep us from reverting to savagery.

What we might say with justice is that foreign good manners are enormously concerned with getting the owner of them is own way without undue social friction. [italics added]

Ms. Miller’s views of American society aren’t all laudatory. She points out one element missing in American manners: the male influence.

Little boys, in America, are taught manners by their mothers—well taught—to get up when older people come into the room and to offer chairs to old ladies. But by the time they reach college there is a general impression that the American man has something more important to think about than manners. The boys have probably never heard a word on such a subject from their fathers. One of the great emancipations for the American youth entering college is his emancipation from the bondage of having any manners at all. Perhaps, if the standards had not been so entirely feminine, boys at this most masculine age would not react from them so completely. For a few years, until he falls into the hands of his wife, he answers no invitations, pays no visits but those that amuse him, and feels no obligation to limit his dancing to parties to which he has been asked. [Now there’s a dated reference.]

Then he marries and finds himself again submitted to the discipline of a social life quite alien to his ideas of enjoyment, and, like his father, he begins to say that he leaves all that sort of thing to his wife,

This is a situation essentially American. In Europe, men have an equal or a greater share than their women in forming the social manners of their time.

American women have not made a very good job of American society. Let the executive genius of the American man have a chance. Men would undoubtedly make changes. Conversation, I believe, would be more interesting and less chattery. Men would not put forever with the middle-aged wives of their contemporaries and would insist on a few lovely young faces at every party, and thus the age stratifications into which American social life has fallen would be broken down. But, of course, the great advantage would be that men themselves would better pleased and more responsive They would cease to be sulky aliens at their own parties and would become happier and, therefore, better mannered.

Hip Resurfacing

Placing a durable metal lining over hip joints badly damaged by overuse, injury, arthritis, and other conditions offers a high-performance option for younger adults with severe pain who are looking to resume active lifestyles.

The innovative procedure, called hip resurfacing, restores joint function and mobility by shaving and capping (rather than removing) the top portion of the thighbone that fits into the hip socket. Other advantages for suitable candidates include a lower risk of dislocation and a better chance of walking with natural ease when compared to total hip replacement (THR). Resurfacing implants are expected to wear well, perhaps even for a lifetime suggest some investigators.

Risks of the relatively new procedure (first approved for use in the US in 2006) are similar to those posed by standard THR.

Beth Barney
Ten years after hip resurfacing, Beth Barney completed a triathlon at age 32, placing first in her age group. She is currently expecting her fifth child. Photo courtesy of Beth Barney 

What should you look for in an orthopedic surgeon if you are exploring hip resurfacing? Expertise matters, of course—and the more resurfacing procedures that a surgeon has done the better, says Post writer Unmesh Kher in the 2006 article “Joint Decisions: Hip Resurfacing.”

Depending on the patient’s bones and goals, orthopedic surgeons in the U.S. now have several hip resurfacing devices to consider, including the:

Birmingham Hip* Resurfacing System (Smith and Nephew)

Cormet Hip Resurfacing System (Stryker)

Two years after both his hips were resurfaced, Michael Carroll, currently 52, resumed his career as a Navy Seal Officer and later served in Iraq. Carroll now trains Navy Seals in San Diego. Photo courtesy of Michael Carroll

ReCap Femoral Resurfacing System (Biomet).

Beth Barney (pictured above, right) and Mike Carroll (at left) were treated at the Joint Replacement Institute, St. Vincent Medical Center, Los Angeles, California, founded by hip resurfacing pioneer and developer of the Conserve Plus device, Dr. Harlan Amstutz.

Hip resurfacing may not be an option for people with poor bone quality, osteoporosis, or osteonecrosis (bone death that occurs due to lack of blood supply), among other conditions.

Secretariat Speaks: “A Century of Derbies”

Being the true thoughts and reflections of Secretariat himself, as ably noted and transcribed by our best horse intereviewer, Starkey Flythe, Esquire.

Originally published in 1974.

The first week in May. The jockey’s silks are as bright as a bridegroom’s cravat. We are rubbed to the patina of antique Georgian furniture. Thirteen of us. There is the soft smell of leather and light tweed, earth that a hundred years of horses have kicked up and a hundred years of juleps in silver stirrup cups have wet down. And rising, ever so faintly, above the crowd, over the salt tears that edge out of eyes when “My Old Kentucky Home” blares, a whiff of roses. (I just gave you that hit of purple prose to dissociate myself from those other talking equi and muli, Mr. Ed and Francis.)

Anybody can run in it. At least if they’re registered by the Jockey Club. And there’s a story about a horse from out West who was asked not to, but whose owner insisted, until the nag was entered only to refuse to go into the starting gate, but once in with the help of all the King’s men, refused to go out, and finally out with the same aid, ran backwards. But “anybody” rarely wins it. Of the ninety-nine starts, forty-three post-time favorites have won.

IT is the ninth race in a day of ten. Post time is 5:30. And for the moment, Churchill Downs is the center of the universe. For racing? No, not just for racing. For radiance. The horse that wins will wear, not just as long as his head is above the turf — but forever—a crown of glory. A brass name plate on his turn-out bridle. A plaque on his stall door. He will become a living moment in the big and noble hearts of Thoroughbreds. He will never be referred to again as a stakes horse, normally a compliment opposed to being called a “plater”— one who competes for trophies. He—or in one case, she—will always be a Derby winner.

The money is $125,000 to which are added nomination fees, entry fees ($2,500) and starting fees ($1,500). The mutuel pool my year was $3,284,962. The total bet, over $6 million (a record). The value to the winner, $155,050. Which isn’t bad for 1:59.4. Which was a record for the track. Which, noted the Daily Racing Form, was fast. But nothing compared to me. I ran faster the last quarter than the first. Went by the stands last first. And first last. Which is when it counts.

Elation. True elation. It is a rare experience. Mares have said when they’ve dropped a foal and seen it, wet from birth, struggling to its feet awkward as a chapped-lip whistle—and seen that its points were those of a champion—straight and flawless legs, trim and tight knees and ankles, and that the colt would race and someday people would know his name—then they have experienced elation.

Elation came to me-more I think at the Derby than at any other race. I didn’t mean to be a ham, though Mrs. Tweedy says I am—”He pricks up his ears and gazes off nobly into the distance when he hears cameras clicking”—what do they expect of you when they take a million pictures of you?— one photographer even has a recording of mares in heat he plays to get our attention—but the grandstands seemed the place to lead. Ron Turcotte was no more than a fly or a gnat on my back when he struck me with his whip leaving the far turn. Then he switched it to his left hand. Flashed it. It seemed my lungs swelled, like water wings, lifting me into the ether—I never touched the ground again —the rest of the world seemed to have wound down to a snail race. I could hear the rows of men, see their arms high, know that it was me they were calling—almost to come back—but I had gone beyond them and could never go back. My heart was a boiler of blood. It seemed to me it might explode, but I could not stop. Then something outside of me took over and I was not merely me anymore. I was Pegasus, flat and lean, hurled against the sky. There was no resistance. The elements lay docile at my feet. Until I had passed; then they shoved me. A pair of wings crossed the finish line. I was already in the winner’s circle and Mrs. Tweedy was leading me out to the roses.

I could remember Sham, the horse I competed with who beat me in the Wood Memorial, and who came in second at the Derby, his mouth the color of roses too. Only it was blood. When we were being loaded into the starting gate. Twice a Prince—he ran next to last—perhaps he knew he was going to—refused to enter his stall. He reared up and threw his jockey. Shoes clanged against the metal of the stall divider. Sham’s head hit the gate, drawing blood, nearly knocking out his front teeth. Ron, smart as the horsefly he is, hadn’t loaded me in yet and turned me away from the clatter. Somebody got Twice a Prince out of the gate and soothed him. They got his jockey back up and all of us were in our stalls and off.

My hood is checkered—the colors of home—The Meadow-blue, white—it is like the flags at a Grand Prix-and on the backstretch I could see the blood flying from Sham’s mouth and right up to the wire I knew he was there, running fine, fast, rising over the pain and fear he felt. It would have been his race—any year but this one. Two who in any company would shine were this year against each other. Still, I could never have known myself against any but the best. Sham is the best. Races are never between the quick and the dead. They are between the quick and the quick.

There’s another horse I have to name, too. My stable mate, Riva Ridge. Riva is a dark bay—almost mahogany with sable legs and mane, a shortness of grace and going; he now stands at stud across the lane, a paddock away from me, at Claiborne Farm. I see him, silhouetted, motion even standing still, and there has been, at times, envy between us. When he won the Derby—the ninety-eighth running—he was the center of attraction. When I came along, there was trouble. People used to come see me in my stall, passing Riva Ridge. And he knew it and would turn his backside right up to the stall door, letting them have a taste of their own fickleness.

Riva was the horse that first brought glory to The Meadow and made us all celebrities. And when Christopher Chenery, who founded The Meadow and gave us all our chance and had always wanted to have a Derby winner, was so ill and down in bed, Riva won and we don’t know, but we think Mr. Chenery understood, sick as he was, that he had a winner, and he went out happy.

The famous spires, built in 1875. A hundred-thousand people—almost the amount of the purse—jam Churchill Downs for America&rquot;s horse racing classic.
Photo by Tony Leonard.

Sometimes I think about the hardships of racing. About the cold morning workouts. About the other horses, the sting of the earth as it flies up and hits your belly, the closeness of the other horses, their fear and your fear, the tricks unscrupulous jockeys sometimes play on you, the animosity among trainers in the barns and stables at racetracks, the way we know we are going to be run (instead of the usual four quarts of oats for lunch, there’s half a quart, and the hay outside the stall is taken away),  the way they—grooms, trainers, hands—try to make you relax, and how it never quite works. When they are nervous, you are nervous. “Horses ain’t like humans,” my friend and groom of last year, Eddie Sweat, said. (And we can thank the great Four- Legged One above for that.) Eddie says, “They have a mind of their own and you never can tell what they’re going to do. You think you have them settled down, but something happens, and it might bother them.”

Well, we’re hyperopic (farsighted). And we can’t see things close up unless our noses are practically touching them. Nor can we see directly in front of us, but to either side, behind, and to some extent above and below.

Stick your finger out in front of you. Now blink your left eye. Then your right. Fast. The finger seems to jump. Your eyes are an inch apart. Ours are six. Think how inanimate objects spring out at us. Then think that our ancestors knew running away was their only defense. Far-sightedness shows us the enemy at a distance. Farsightedness creates time for head starts.

So against this heritage—not to mention the Arabians bred with English mares 200 years ago— the registered Thoroughbreds in America are descended from three sires: the Byerly Turk, the Godolphin Barb and the Darley Arabian—we are expected to perform in a world where people are our only friends, where stall walls are too high to enable us to get aquanted with any horses. Throughbred is a distinct breed of horse, just like Morgan, Hambletonian, Percheron or Hackney. We have a dished or straight profile, a long, slender neck, sloping shoulders, fairly short back. The width of brisket—the space between our forelegs—is large, making room for the great heart of a Thoroughbred and the powerful lungs. Our muscles are flat and stringy, mane and tail thin and fine, veins violin strings, skin so thin we suffer terribly from flies and hot weather. We are high-spirited, but rarely mean or stubborn; ruined by rough treatment and easily gentled as a foal by kindness. Courage and quickness, spirit and delicacy mark us—no horse in the world can stay with us on the track; none can outjump us in the field. And we all have the same birthday, January first. At a year we are considered to be seven. At three, we are one and twenty and our lives—in some stallions’ cases—are paved with woo.

People say Ron Turcotte and I have our own style, that we break from the gate and then drop back; that’s a nice thought. The competition isn’t a bunch of drays, though, or the race an amateur version of The Iceman Cometh. They’re the fastest horses in the world and they’ve been trained all their lives for this day.

We have our own starting gate at The Meadow—and at Belmont, where I trained. So we’ll know how to break. So we won’t be afraid. Mrs. Tweedy thought of that and discussed it with Lucien Laurin, my trainer. (I love it when people discuss around us, their voices are quiet and soft—they don’t want to upset us—vexation never won a race.) Lucien said he thought it was a good idea.

I like Penny Tweedy. She said the first time she saw me, “Wow!” And it stuck. “The Wow Colt.” “The Wow Horse.” She’s sort of like me. Well bred (old Southern family-The Meadow belonged to her father’s people before the War between the States), well educated (Smith, Columbia University-business administration), she knows what she’s doing, and she does what she knows, and pretty (people cheer when they see her—and pretty is as pretty does so she got a public relations firm to handle the dishing out of me as a public figure), and, heaven forgive me, well fed.

Most stallions do fairly well on twelve quarts of oats a day. I like sixteen. And I nibble hay while the sun shines, and after it goes down, I have a special supper. A sort of mash of oats fortified with vitamins and minerals plus carrots and “sweet feed”—molasses-coated grain. Some horses won’t eat after a big race. But it just works up my appetite. I hate to use the word tub, but bucket doesn’t really size it up. One of my grooms describes me as a “neat eater.” “He has a sip of water every now and then between his mash. Then he picks up any stray buds on the floor and varies everything with a few wisps of hay. But, lordy, the amount.”

Well, consider my size. Twelve hundred pounds. Supported on legs less than yours. Like a bumblebee or a C-47 (from an engineer’s point of view), I shouldn’t be able to fly. And I’m still growing. My girth is seventy-five and three-fourths inches—about an inch more than Man 0’ War (who was also called Big Red) and I have to have a custom-made girth to hold my saddle. I can cover twenty-five feet in a single stride. You can see how that would eat up the Derby track, one and a quarter miles.

Ron always says, “I like to let him find his feet. Then he gives me his speed when I chirp to him.” Sometimes, the “chirping” gets lost in the noise of the race and he calls out with the crop. I don’t like it. I never have. I remember when he first used the whip. 1972. It scared the fodder out of me. I ducked into another horse and our number was taken down for a foul. I had begun my career in racing at Aqueduct—Fourth of July—appropriate date for the “horse of the century”-when another horse bumped into me at the gate and knocked me out of my direction. “If he hadn’t been such a strong horse, he’d have gone down,” the jockey said. Still, I got myself together and finished fourth. Since that day I’ve never been out of the money. Unbeaten—a good word in most sports—never really applies in racing. Man 0’ War and Citation were beaten. I’ve been beaten. But finished first in eleven out of fourteen races. How can we, after all—mute according to our masters—say we feel bad and want to stay in the barn, that we are under the weather or the weather is under us. At the Wood Memorial at Aqueduct in April, a few days before the Derby, I came in behind Angle Light and Sham. For the drama of the Derby, I suppose, I couldn’t have done better had I tried. Many sportswriters and racing experts said I’d blown it. Of course the odds are the real sportswriters. And they remained $1.50 to $1.00. Sham’s were $2.50 to $1.00 and Angle Light’s were the same as mine. Angle Light finished tenth and Sham, of course, second. So from the gate we are fighting. Even when

we drop back. Strategic withdrawal you could call it. But the more you spot the competition, the farther you’ve got to go to catch up. Then you have to pass. And keep up. They said at the Derby when we swung around the outside, passing horses until only Sham was in front, we could never keep up such a rally to the finish. Just before the midstretch, I caught him—perhaps it was the sting of the whip I feel I’d have got him anyway—and beat him by two and one-half lengths for the fastest Derby ever.

I often think green and while are the colors of the South. They know how to hang deep green blinds on spanking white walls, or how to plant a magnolia against a snowy column. That’s the look I get saddling up in the paddock. Thousands of tulips blooming just for us. The whole Derby is like a flying flag. Patriotic, colorful, wild in the bluegrass breeze.

The moment the jockeys touch our backs—one of my friends said they look like squabs turned up in a Christmas pie with their little rumps—we start for the track where the outrider in a red jacket, usually on an Appaloosa, meets us and leads us out for the post parade and the warm-up. Like athletes—why say “like” athletes, we are athletes—we have to warm up our muscles.

I love the far side of the track—it seems almost a far country. Even on Derby day when the inside of the track is filled with bodies—mostly young people with their shirts off for the warm May sun so that the track seems to be some giant public pool—quite a different sight from the boxes on the other side which cost $1,600 for the day—the noises hang in the air, a distant fantasy, a conglomeration of the great ocean liner Churchill Downs seems to be, its restaurants, its bars, its vast halls and betting windows, its milling throngs, closed circuit television, its wild people who never go outside to watch the races but sit, eternally  glued to their racing forms—it would seem they would bet on themselves before they trusted in us to bring in their fortunes—all that seems a million miles away. On this side is still the barn. (Churchill Downs has 1,200 stalls, 50 barns.) And the warmth of the fresh hay, the cool spring water they give us, mingle with the memory of the nice snooze I had before I came here. (Ninety minutes I lay down for. Most horses are so nervous they paw through the floor.)

The outriders are urging their horses on, eyes—theirs, not ours; ours are fixed on the distance of around and back again—study jocks and mounts, looking, hoping for weaknesses, faults to be taken advantage of. The condition of the track, “That loam you have at Churchill Downs sticks to your face like cement when it flies up,” says one trainer: The brass of the post horn—a recording even on Derby day—becomes, with the shouts and urgings a welter in our ears; the gate breaks and the last of life for which the first was made begins. Three camera towers grab us from three different angles, freezing us in our rage for honor. Motion picture film flies over the wire to a hot developing room; is sent back to the stewards for viewing any infractions: horses bumping, crossing over, impeding the progress of another horse. None. A clean race.

There’s a party in the Director’s Room after the race. Champagne and very select company. Seventy-five invited guests. I heard Bob Gorham, one of the officers of the track, bemoaning having to turn down some senator. I’ve heard them talk about that room, prints of Epsom, our Derby, now a print of me with Ron and Lucien, the six tufted black-leather chairs, scrolled, Victorian, deep, downy. The quiet butlers who fill your drinks before they’re empty. Of course, we have our own party. But we still had the Preakness and the Belmont to go.

Now above the roses, I wear the Triple Crown, the first winner of it in twenty-five years. Perhaps the Belmont and the Preakness were more spectacular runs for me—thirty-one lengths beats the dead heat syndrome—but nothing ever seemed to capture the stopped-heart thrill of racing like the Derby. And even more than my being the Triple Crown winner, people—especially those who come to see me in Kentucky where the land rolls gently, almost sensually—those people always say, “Turkey dinner, Derby winner.” And thank heaven I’m protected. Fans would grab for souvenirs like I was a rock star. And, after all, I only have one suit.

Sometimes, I think of racing days as I watch the mares and colts frolicking across the meadows at Claiborne, the beautiful Hancock farm near Lexington, Kentucky, and the swans stretch their lovely necks on the meandering stream across the road from the white-columned house where the Hancocks have lived for so many years, and I wonder about the value placed on my blazed head. Six million dollars. Plus the money earned racing. Could anyone be worth that? And calling me ‘horse of the century.’

If another horse wins the Triple Crown next year, will he be the horse of the century? That horse won’t have the three white socks and blaze, won’t be a public relations item, won’t be the subject of postcards and tee shirts, the recipient of millions of letters, and the donor— yes—of charity on a colossal scale—no, I don’t just mean the taxes my owners have paid on my earnings. I mean the windfall to the state charities which benefit from betting. People were so thrilled, especially the two-dollar bettors, at having bet on me and at my winning, that hundreds of thousands of ticket holders did not cash in their tickets, preferring to hold them as souvenirs. “And that other horse won’t be playful as a puppy,” says a stableman at Claiborne.

“You just don’t think of a horse that strong,” says Mrs. Tweedy, “being that kind.” “Secretariat’d never be mean,” says Lawrence Robinson, my best friend at Claiborne, and the man in charge of the breeding barn.

There are other friends here too. “Snow,” a man whose face always seems to get into every picture with me. Pick up any magazine, and there’s Secretariat. And Snow. Then there’s “Buster Brown,” or some people call him “Charlie Brown,” a half cairn terrier, half mongrel, and four other halves. He slips into my paddock under the gate—”He wouldn’t dare go into any of the other stallions’ paddocks,” says Lawrence, and I have to chase the little mutt out. Then there’re the Hancock racing colors—bright orange and black—and they’re friends too. I know somehow the days of glory aren’t really over, that a new crop of colts will be bounding across the meadow next year and that they will bear my blood and the blood of my sire, the great Bold Ruler whose stall is home for me now, and all the way back to the immortal Eclipse, the immortal English sire of the eighteenth century. And I remember five hundred of the darkest, reddest roses; small, tight buds, thorns stripped, draped over my withers. And I know of the pride of the woman who makes the rose wreaths and has since the 1930’s. “Never,” she says, “has a single rose fallen off before being put on the horse.” And I think that maybe one day, one of my sons will stand there and receive that same glory. And to tell the truth, I’m a little jealous.