Thanks, Robert Buck. Goodbye, Willie Gillis.

We were saddened this week to hear of the death of Robert Otis Buck.

The name may not be familiar to you, but the face should be. Norman Rockwell chose it  for his Willie Gillis series, which portrayed events from the life of a young American GI.

Willie first appeared on the cover of the Post on October 4, 1941. When he next appeared, a year later, the editors ran this short item:

There have been so many questions about the first Willie Gillis cover by Norman Rockwell that we’re glad to supply a few answers. No, Willie is not a soldier. He works in a sawmill near Mr. Rockwell’s Vermont home.

And that was all they said about Mr. Buck.

Over the next two years, Willie Gillis had adorned the Post cover eight times and had become a celebrity. Like Rosie the Riveter and the Americans shown in the Four Freedoms, he had become a symbol of the American war effort. He had become so popular, the Post finally divulged the model’s identity.

Willie in real life is Robert Otis Buck, known to his friends as “Little Buck.” Norman Rockwell, seeking a model for his Willie Gillis Post covers, spotted Little Buck in the summer of 1941 at a square dance at Arlington, Vermont, where the Rockwells live.

“Norman stared at the boy so long,” Mrs. Rockwell said afterward, “that Buck was ready to take a poke at him until Norman finally explained that he wanted him for a model.”

The following June Little Buck was graduated from Salem Washington Academy, Salem, New York, and went to work for General Electric at Pittsfield, Mass. Mr. Rockwell made a number of sketches of Little Buck for future Willie Gillis covers.

Rockwell liked Buck’s looks. He wasn’t glamorous. He didn’t exude bravery and nobility. To Rockwell, the character of Willie Gillis was “an inoffensive, ordinary little guy thrown into the chaos of war.” He would look decent and unsophisticated, but ready to adapt to life in the Army.

Rockwell also liked the fact that Buck had a medical deferment, which kept him out of the draft, so his model would be available for posing throughout the war. But by 1943, Robert Buck was tired of sitting out the war.

The trouble with the country and the world, too, is that nothing stays put. Not even Pvt. Willie Gillis.

We hope your illusions are good sturdy fellows, able to take it on the chin when we report, as we feel bound to do, that Gillis is leading a double life—has been since May, when he joined the Navy.

On May fourteenth, Buck entered the Navy as apprentice seaman at the Naval Training Station at Sampson, New York. The following day the Rockwell studio at Arlington burned and all [of Rockwell’s sketches of Buck] were destroyed. The Navy, with the generous realization that life must go on for Pvt. Willie Gillis, lent him back to Mr. Rockwell long enough for the artist to make new sketches.

Little Buck, who, the Rockwells agree, is a swell youngster, hopes to become a Naval flying cadet at the end of eight months’ training.

He himself sees no impropriety in his up and joining the Navy after becoming, as Willie Gillis in Army togs, America’s No. 1 pin-up boy. As for his reason, it was simple. ” I just liked the Navy better,” he said.

Well, it’s Willie Gillis’, excuse us—Little Buck’s, young life to lead and to offer to whatever branch of the service he prefers. We’ve always rooted for the Annapolis football team ourselves. But all the same, Willie’s turning up in the Navy does underline the instability these days of all so-called established things.

In all, Buck/Gillis appeared on 11 Post covers. The last one showed him as a young man, discharged from the Army, studying at college. The American soldier was now the American scholar, one of 7.8 million Americans taking advantage of the G.I. Bill.

It was as happy an ending as Rockwell could have painted for the war. He gave the original painting to Buck, who never parted with it.

Classic Covers: The All-American Soldier Willie Gillis

“Willie Gillis in Church” by Norman Rockwell

Willie Gills in Church by Norman Rockwell
Willie Gillis in Church
Norman Rockwell
July 25, 1942

This Memorial Day, we remember Norman Rockwell’s WWII soldier, Robert Buck, who passed away May 22, 2011, with warmth and gratitude.

“Willie Gillis on KP” by Norman Rockwell

Willie Gillis on K.P by Norman Rockwell
Willie Gillis on K.P
Norman Rockwell
April 11, 1942

Most artists depicted the WWII soldier as a big, strapping man with chiseled features. Rockwell wanted the boy next door. So he studied faces. “The model Rockwell used for Gillis was my wife’s uncle,” emailed Jarrod. “Apparently, they met in Vermont. He (Bob Buck) said that this guy wouldn’t stop staring at him and that he was about to knock his block off when the guy said he was Norman Rockwell and that he wanted to paint him.” By the time of this 1942 cover, many a soldier could identify with the homesick Willie eager for news from home. The war meant financial strains and spiraling costs for everything: it was with this issue that the price of The Saturday Evening Post rose from five to ten cents.

“Willie Gillis’ Package from Home” by Norman Rockwell

Package from Home by Norman Rockwell
Willie Gillis’ Package from Home
Norman Rockwell
October 4, 1941

Robert Buck said he was sixteen when he first posed for Rockwell, and both model and artist were surprised at the success of the Willie Gillis covers. This is the first of eleven covers of the “every soldier.” Nothing like a package from home to make you a popular guy. “Norman was a kind gentleman to work with,” Buck wrote. “I had no experience or training for modeling. Many poses or expressions had to be held for agonizing periods of time. Norman’s patience was terrific.” It sounds like the model showed great patience as well.

“Willie Travels”  by Norman Rockwell

Willie Travels by Norman Rockwell
Willie Travels
Norman Rockwell
June 26, 1943

This eighth cover from 1943 is ironic: A fakir with the power to charm cobras is astonished at Willie’s string trick. Looks like the small-town boy made it to the Middle East and possessed some charm himself. Rockwell was crushed when his “soldier” joined a branch of the Navy, leaving him without the model for his popular series. Ah, but Norman was clever, as we will see.

“Double Trouble for Willie Gillis” by Norman Rockwell

Double Trouble for Willie Gillis by Norman Rockwell
Double Trouble for Willie Gillis
Norman Rockwell
September 5, 1942

When two young ladies check their mail at the same time, the result is trouble. Both have photos of our favorite soldier and each is signed, “Love, Willie.” Maybe you should stay in the war zones where it’s safe, Willie. This shows how smart Rockwell was to create another Gillis cover, using only a photo of Willie. It also shows how handy it was to have a good friend and neighbor like Post artist Mead Schaeffer, who happened to have a couple of pretty daughters to pose for the cover.

“Willie Gillis in College” by Norman Rockwell

Willie Gillis in College by Norman Rockwell
Willie Gillis in College
Norman Rockwell
October 5 ,1946

The final Gillis cover was in October 1946. Our favorite soldier, looking different in civvies, is using his G.I. Bill of Rights to attend college. After finishing this cover in Vermont, Rockwell enlisted the aid of his model to haul the painting to the Saturday Evening Post offices in Philadelphia, where Bob Buck was treated like a celebrity. Mr. Buck, soldiers from different generations will identify with these portraits of military life. Rest in peace, Bob.

A Better Skin Cancer Treatment

Smaller than the eraser on a pencil, scaly areas on your face or hands are easy to ignore. But the sandpaper-like spots—called actinic keratoses (AKs)—can take a nasty turn if left untreated.

“AKs are a direct result of UV damage to cells in the top layer of the skin called keratinocytes, and have up to a 20 percent chance of degenerating into squamous cell skin cancer,” points out cosmetic surgeon and skin cancer specialist Dr. William Beeson, a clinical professor at Indiana University School of Medicine. “That’s why most doctors prefer to treat AKs early.”

Topical treatments such as freezing (cryotherapy with liquid nitrogen spray) or applying prescription drugs (5-fluorouracil [5-FU] or imiquimod) can take care of small areas on the head or hands.

But when larger parts on the body require treatment, many dermatologists are using a newer treatment called photodynamic therapy (PDT) to protect healthy skin cells.

“During PDT, doctors apply a special liquid (5-aminolevulinic acid, ALA) that readily penetrates upper skin layers and is absorbed by precancerous cells,” explains Beeson. “Then, a special type of light is used to activate the ALA, killing abnormal cells without harming normal ones for quicker healing and faster recovery.”

Most people resume their usual activities within 3 days after PDT treatment. In contrast, typical laser therapy vaporizes the entire top layer of skin, leaving the treated area very red for about 9 weeks.

“Studies show that photodynamic therapy treatments actually stimulate new collagen in the skin, and many physicians use this same treatment to rejuvenate skin for an improved cosmetic effect,” adds Dr. Beeson. “It may also be used to treat some teenagers with severe cases of acne.”

Of course, always use sun precautions and sunscreens to prevent skin cancer recurrence.

Classic Covers: The Situation Bears Watching

Pop psychologists these days talk about key changes in life; an “aha moment”. Post cover artists, however, are fond of “uh oh” moments.

Worried Rental Agent by Richard Sargent

Worried Rental Agent by Richard Sargent
Worried Rental Agent
Richard Sargent
March 7, 1953

While potential renters are checking out the closet space, the rental agent is checking out the child. A little boy with a big slingshot is scoping out possible new targets. Did we mention lots of nice windows? Definitely bears watching. This is from 1953.

Public Aquarium by George Hughes

Public Aquarium by George Hughes
Public Aquarium
George Hughes
May 15, 1954

Okay, which little boy came up with this bright idea? “Swimming with the fishes” does not normally have a good connotation, but it sounds cool to these kids. Maybe they’re thinking of diving for buried treasure. The security guard is having one of those “uh oh” moments. This is from 1954 by artist George Hughes.

Dr. and the Dog by Richard Sargent

Dr. and the Dog by Richard Sargent
Dr. and the Dog
Richard Sargent
November 21, 1953

Talk about a guard! Little Billy is tensed up for a shot and the dog isn’t sure the doctor should proceed. Maybe. We can’t exactly tell the dog’s mood because we can’t see his eyes. But the prognosis for the doctor doesn’t look good. Like the cover with the worried real estate agent above, this cover was by Richard Sargent.

Automobile Showroom by Amos Sewell

Automobile Showroom by Amos Sewell
Automobile Showroom
Amos Sewell
December 8 , 1956

Wow! A cool new 1957 something-or-other! Teen One is dying to drive this baby to see how fast she can go. Teen Two is daydreaming about how hot Mary Ellen would look in the seat next to him. And Teen Three is underneath the car soon to emerge with a mechanical question that will stump the watchful dealer. Artist Amos Sewell painted this cover, so the editors dubbed the vehicle the Amos Sewell Super-whiz. That’s the cool thing about being an artist; if you want a hot new car you can just manufacture it yourself.

Saturday Rain by Earl Mayan

Saturday Rain by Earl Mayan
Saturday Rain
Earl Mayan
April 25, 1959

The raindrops bear watching, but it looks like the happy gardener is going to win this round. Artist Earl Mayan painted himself as the chagrined golfer, and a friend of his posed for the role of happy flower guy. But will the clouds pass and produce fine golfing weather after all? Well, there’s always next weekend.

Kittens in the Basement by John Falter

Kittens in the Basement by John Falter
Kittens in the Basement
John Falter
January 8, 1955

When Harry the Cat turns out to be Harriett, it is definitely an uh-oh moment. Let’s hope the kids don’t get too attached to the little cuties because while they’re thinking up names for them, Mom and Pop are trying to figure out ways to get rid of them. That will make the dog happy, because right now he looks like he’s lost his best friends.

Lincoln’s Early Loss

When war began in April, 1861, Northerners and Southerners alike were talking about a quick, glorious victory. Abraham Lincoln wasn’t among them. He knew, long before most Americans, that the war would be costly, long, and bitter. He also learned the pain and loss many Americans eventually felt when his friend, Elmer Ellsworth, was killed on May 23, 1861.

On that day, Colonel Ellsworth and his regiment were clearing out the Confederate troops in Alexandria, Virginia, right across the Potomac, within sight of the Capitol and White House. On June 5, 1861, the Post quoted from the Army’s official report:

It appears that Ellsworth was marching up the street with a squad of men to take possession of the telegraph office, when, in passing along, he noticed a Secession flag flying from the top of a building. He immediately exclaimed—“That has to come down” and, entering the building, made his way up to the roof with one of his men, hauled down the rebel emblem, and wrapping it around his body, descended.

“While on the second floor, a Secessionist came out of a door with a cocked double-barreled shot-gun. He took aim at Ellsworth, when the latter attempted to strike the gun out of the way with his fist. As he struck it, one of the barrels was discharged, lodging a whole load of buckshot in Ellsworth’s body, killing him instantly. His companion instantly shot the murderer through the head with a revolver, making him a corpse a second or two after the fall of the noble Ellsworth. The house was immediately surrounded and all the inmates made prisoners.”

The remains of the deceased were brought over to the Navy Yard this morning. The doleful peals of all the bells in the city are announcing the sad news to the citizens. The President visited the Navy Yard and saw the remains of his friend Colonel Ellsworth.

Like Robert E. Lee and Ulysses Grant, Ellsworth was a representative man of his time. While still a teenager, he left his New York home and travelled to the wilds of Illinois where he took several jobs, worked hard, and lived frugally. In the late 1850s, he was inspired to form an elite militia corps. Its soldiers would wear the distinctive uniform of the French Zouave soldiers, and would be trained for agility and strength. Each man would be moral, sober, and utterly dedicated to the corps and its training. Soon Ellsworth was travelling the country, putting on demonstrations and drill practices with his Zouaves before amazed and enthusiastic crowds.

But it ended when he struck up a conversation with Abraham Lincoln after a demonstration in Springfield. Elmer Ellsworth immediately hung up his fanciful Zoave uniform and disbanded the militia so he could became a law clerk at Lincoln’s firm.

Lincoln appears to have taken Ellsworth under his wing, encouraging him, inspiring him, and acting very much like an older brother. He probably recognized himself in this earnest young man who was taking the hard, solitary road to success. In turn, Ellsworth became devoted to Lincoln and, eventually, a valuable part of his presidential campaign. He followed him to Washington after his election and was a frequent guest at the White House. Then, in May, with a fresh commission from the president, Ellsworth marched off to his fate.

Washington, May 25— The remains of Col. Ellsworth were this morning conveyed to the East room of the White House, where they lay in state for several hours. The President and his family visited the remains and took a farewell look at the face of their much-loved friend, before the crowd was admitted.

Even Lincoln’s closest associates admitted that he rarely shared his thoughts or feelings. But on this occasion, he made no effort to hide his grief, as Senator Wilson of Massachusetts observed when he visited Lincoln on May 24.

As we entered the library we observed Mr. Lincoln before a window, looking out across the Potomac… He did not move until we approached very closely, when he turned round abruptly, and advanced toward us, extending his hand: “Excuse me,” he said, “but I cannot talk.”

We supposed his voice had given away from some cause or other, and we were about to inquire, when to our surprise the President burst into tears, and concealed his face in his handkerchief. He walked up and down the room for some moments, and we stepped aside in silence, not a little moved at such an unusual spectacle, in such a man and in such a place. After composing himself somewhat, Mr. Lincoln sat down and invited us to him. “I will make no apology, gentlemen,” said he, “for my weakness; but I knew poor Ellsworth well, and held him in great regard. Just as you entered the room, Captain Fox left me, after giving me the painful details of his unfortunate death. The event was so unexpected, and the recital so touching, that it quite unmanned me.”

Ellsworth was honored as a hero, and the souvenir hawkers were soon busy.

The flags which Col. Ellsworth seized and carried, the oil cloth on which he fell, &c, have been divided, and the pieces are carefully preserved by curiosity hunters. A resident of Paterson, New Jersey, boasts of possessing and exhibiting a piece of cheese which the gallant Colonel had in his haversack!

For months, newspapers and politicians spoke the name “Ellsworth” to evoke the spirit of patriotism and sacrifice. It was soon obscured by the growing casualty lists and, by war’s end, was barely remembered, just one death among 600,000.

The Final Letter from Elmer Ellsworth

Elmer Ellsworth Last Letter
Elmer Ellsworth Last Letter May 23, 1861

THE LAST LETTER— The following letter gives us a higher idea of Colonel Ellsworth than we previously had. We had looked upon him as a dashing, daring, but reckless and somewhat superficial soldier—this letter shows, however, both depth and nobility of character, and that he was at heart a religious and believing man. There is a tone of sadness in the letter, almost ominous of his approaching end;

Head Quarters, First Zouaves, Camp Lincoln:
Washington, D.C., May 23, 1861

My Dear Father and Mother—The Regiment is ordered to move across the river tonight. We have no means of knowing what reception we are to meet with. I am inclined to the opinion that our entrance to the city of Alexandria will be hotly contested, as I am just informed a large force have arrived there to-day. Should this happen, my dear parents, it may be my lot to be injured in some manner. Whatever may happen, cherish the consolation that I was engaged in the performance of a sacred duty; and tonight, thinking over the probabilities of tomorrow, and the occurrences of the past, I am perfectly content to accept whatever my fortune may be, confident that He who noteth even the fall of a sparrow will have some purpose even in the fate of one like me.
My darling and ever loved parents, good-bye. God bless, protect, and care for you.

Elmer

[Saturday Evening Post, June 8, 1861]

The Gone-With-The-Wind Sequel That Wasn’t

For years, Margaret Mitchell worked at an Atlanta newspaper by day and, by night, worked on her novel. She showed it to only one publisher, who immediately recognized a work of great talent.  When “Gone With The Wind” appeared, 75 years ago this month, it won the Pulitzer Prize and was an immediate best-seller. Since then, over 30 million copies have been sold, and it has become America’s best loved novel (according to a 2008 Harris poll.)

Despite such a resounding success, Margaret Mitchell, like that other great Southern novelist, Harper Lee, published only one novel. She must have heard endless pleas for a sequel, or another novel. But she steadfastly refused— or did she?

In 1940, the Post reported it had received

a flat brown envelope, with the name of a famous publishing house written in the corner. In the envelope was a letter and a fifty-page manuscript. The letter, typewritten on the stationery of a Park Avenue hotel, said:

Undoubtedly you have heard of, or possibly read my book “Gone With The Wind.” I have since created the direct opposite of my heroine “Scarlett O’Hara.” Dolore Day, the star of my new book “The Sun Broke Through,” is as kind and unselfish as Scarlett was spoiled and self-centered.

I should be extremely grateful if you would introduce… this special condensation of my book which I have enclosed.

I am leaving immediately, for a vacation and shall have the book published upon my return. You have my full authority to use this material without any further instruction from me.

Sincerely,

Margaret Mitchell

The Editor, taking a deep breath, then turned to the first page of the manuscript and read:

I advise you, also, to take a deep breath before you try reading the following two (only two) sentences.

THE SUN BROKE THROUGH

Exhausted, with broken spirit and heavy heart, fifteen year old Dolore Day, who had already at her age experienced the hardships and sufferings of a depressed world, walked home slowly after a difficult day at school, where she was none too ready to answer the confusing questions hurled at her by her instructors, concerning the day’s lessons, for Dolore’s mind was a million miles away in a beautiful haven where she and her family would be forever safe from the miseries of the slums. A place where her dear Dad would not have to get up at five on a cold winter morning, in spite of his cronical cough which was his souvenir of the war, and his everlasting backaches, to make steam so that his family and the family above him would not feel the piercing winds through the cracks of their two-story frame house where Lawrence Day, Dolore’s forty-year old father, froze all day in the cold Barber Shop beneath the apartment, to feed and meagerly clothe his six children all of whom were younger than Dolore.

The Editor picked up the phone, called the real Margaret Mitchell in Atlanta, and told her someone was using her name in vain. The would-be Mitchell never contacted the Post to get back her work.

The story would have ended there but the Post learned that this “Margaret Mitchell” was a woman of multiple ambitions. Shortly after this item ran, the editors received a note from the Bronx Home News, along with a letter:

“Despite the many stories we read of modern Cinderellas, the fact still remains that unless one is born wealthy or famous, there is very little if any chance for success.

“Recently I wrote a book entitled “The Sun Shines Through,” and sent it to David O. Selznick, of Hollywood.  I know very well that an eighteen-year-old girl with no previous literary credit to her name would find it difficult to have a book published, or even read, so I signed the name of Margaret Mitchell. I also sent a carbon copy of the book to The Curtis Publishing Company.”

Something makes me wonder if the author was, indeed, eighteen years old.

The signature was “Debbie De Lane”; the address, a dental firm in the Bronx.

Debbie De Lane. . . . Something about those syllables sent a Home News reporter to the files. He came back with another letter, rebutting an editorial comment on a young woman who had applied for the post of official executioner of the state of New York:

“Have people the right to call me heartless just because I had the courage to apply for such a job? Would they condemn doctors who wield the knife on them to save their lives? Then why should they condemn a girl who is willing to punish criminals to save innocent people from future fears and troubles? If there were nobody willing to administer the punishment to offenders, none of us would be safe.”

The signature was “Betty La Salle”; the address, the same dental firm.

We have no knowledge, of course, why Miss La Salle’s application was rejected, but at least one reason suggests itself to us: There was official fear that, in place of the electric chair, she might be tempted to substitute readings from The Sun Shines Through.

I’ve been trying to come up a concluding remark to this story, but it’s just too…

Classic Covers: How Rockwell Changed Illustration

Boy with Baby Carriage by Norman Rockwell

The Baby Carriage by Norman Rockwell
Boy with Baby Carriage by Norman Rockwell, May 20, 1916

Rockwell was thrilled to see his first Saturday Evening Post cover on May 20, 1916. “Two million subscribers and then their wives, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, friends. Wow!” he said when the possibility of a Post cover arose. He accomplished this coveted feat at the age of twenty-two. Covers were printed with the two-color process: black and one other color, usually red. They were done in “duotone” until 1926, when the Post’s first color cover was done—again, by Norman Rockwell.

Lady in Red with Fan by N.P. Zarokilli

Lady in Red with Fan by N.P. Zarokilli
Lady in Red with Fan by N.P. Zarokilli,  September 2, 1916

This is not a Rockwell, but a typical magazine cover from 1916. The key ingredients: a pretty lady, a lovely gown, and a possibly a prop, such as a fancy fan. It is a very pretty picture, but young artist Norman Rockwell was different. He did not seek “perfect” models; he looked for “real” faces and characters.

Family Night Out by Norman Rockwell

Family Night Out by Norman Rockwell
Family Night Out by Norman Rockwell, October 14, 1916

Rockwell’s Family Night Out shows not only real faces, it showed what real people did, like going to the movies. Oh, I’m not saying real people didn’t sit around in a fancy gown holding a fan just so… well, okay, I am saying that. I love the play of light and shadow on the faces and the young girl’s look of amazement as she beholds the magic of theater. If you’ll notice the playbill, you’ll see the family is enjoying the antics of Charlie Chaplin.

Kitty Cooldown by Parker Cushman

Kitty Cooldown by Parker Cushman
Kitty Cooldown by Parker Cushman, September 9, 1916

There is absolutely nothing wrong with this 1916 cover by an artist named Parker Cushman. In fact, it’s downright adorable. A beautiful, well-dressed, blonde boy holding up a fluffy kitten for a “cool down” in front of the fan—what’s not to like? But contrast this cutie to one of Rockwell’s models below.

Backfence Grafitti by Norman Rockwell

Backfence Grafitti by Norman Rockwell
Backfence Grafitti by Norman Rockwell,  September 16, 1916

No one has to explain a Rockwell cover. You can tell the whole story at a glance. That’s just how the artist wanted it. And the boy—red hair, freckles, barefoot, and wearing clothes that have seen better days—had a genuine temper. I think he’s going to get the rat who linked his name with Hattie Perkins and drew the kissy-faced art on the fence. And when he does, it won’t be pretty.

The Circus Barker by Norman Rockwell

The Circus Barker by Norman Rockwell
The Circus Barker by Norman Rockwell, June 3, 1916

Playing the circus strongman was Billy Paine, who was in the Baby Carriage cover above as the boy smugly tipping his baseball cap to the poor babysitter. Rockwell used him in fifteen Post covers. Alas, there is a sad end to Billy’s modeling career. Paine died at age thirteen after a stunt from a second-story window. “He was the best model I ever used,” Rockwell said. The word “Sandow” is scrawled across Billy’s shirt. Eugene Sandow was a real muscle man of the era, frequently referred to as “The Father of Modern Bodybuilding.” Rockwell’s “slice-of-life” art style lead some to call him the Father of Modern Illustration. Happy anniversary, Norman!

The Old Sign Painter by Norman Rockwell

The Old Sign Painter by Norman Rockwell
The Old Sign Painter by Norman Rockwell, February 6, 1926

I can’t mention the first color cover in 1926 and then not show it to you. George Horace Lorimer chose Rockwell for the honor. Lorimer had an issue with the model, James K. Van Brunt, who had a face only a mother and Norman Rockwell could love. “I think you’re using that man too much,” the famous editor complained. Indeed, if you look at old Post covers, that face, usually with a big bushy mustache, kept cropping up. Rockwell broke the news to Van Brunt that he couldn’t use him again unless he shaved off that distinctive brush. The model wouldn’t, and, dejected, left. He returned to Rockwell’s studio two weeks later and said he’d do it for ten dollars. “I guess the notoriety he’d gained from posing for me had overcome his pride n his mustache.” Rockwell paid him. (For more covers with this model, enter Van Brunt in our search engine for our feature, “I Know That Face!”)

Classic Covers: The Art of Golfing

Miserable Golfer by Lawrence Toney

Miserable Golfer by Lawrence Tony
Miserable Golfer
Lawrence Toney
August 8, 1925

The look on this poor guy’s face says it all. If it didn’t, the busted golf club would be clue number two. Artist Lawrence Toney’s 1925 cover shows us all that a bad day golfing may not “be better than a good day at work”. The same artist shows us a golfer having a better day in the next cover.

Hole in One by Lawrence Toney

Hole in One by Lawrence Toney
Hole in One
Lawrence Toney
September 11, 1926

Is that a…it can’t be…it is! A hole in one! This 1926 golfer has a witness to the feat and the caddy is just as astonished as the player. Great facial expressions and body language – note the boy’s clenched fist. Artist Toney did a dozen Post covers.

Stinky Putt by J.C. Leyendecker

Stinky Putt by J.C. Leyendecker
Stinky Putt
J.C. Leyendecker
March 13, 1920

J.C. Leyendecker, the artist who painted more Saturday Evening Post covers than any other (322!) shows us a caddy with a different opinion. We take it the shot stinks. One of my favorite golf covers was done by Leyendecker’s protégé, what’s-his-name (below).

Important Business by Norman Rockwell

Important Business by Norman Rockwell
Important Business
Norman Rockwell
September 20, 1919

“Gone on Important Business”, says the note on the door. The inspirational saying above the desk proclaims “Do It Now”, so the gentleman is doing just that. Out of deference to Leyendecker, Norman Rockwell painted one less Post cover.

Eighteenth Hole by John Falter

Eighteenth Hole by John Falter
Eighteenth Hole
John Falter
August 6, 1955

We’re not sure if the man in the yellow sweater is studying the green or smelling it, but apparently the putt was thaaaat close. We are sure this is from 1955 by terrific Post cover artist John Falter.

Woman in Sandtrap by Penrhyn Stanlaws

Woman in Sandtrap by Penrhyn Stanlaws
Woman in Sandtrap
Penrhyn Stanlaws
June 6, 1928

She may be in the dreaded sandtrap, but this is one stylish lady. If you love covers of pretty, fashionable ladies, the artist named Penrhyn Stanlaws did thirty-seven of them between 1913 and 1934. Although this looks like a blazer I might have worn in 1969 or 1970, this lovely cover is from 1928.

Love golf covers? We have dozens! Or if there’s another theme or activity you’d like to see on old Saturday Evening Post covers, let us know!

Indoor Tanning and Skin Cancer

Tanning salons across the country are gearing up for wedding and prom season. But whether young women don’t know—or don’t care—we need to let them know they are endangering their lives, warns Dr. Cheryl Karcher, educational spokesperson for The Skin Cancer Foundation.

Nearly one in three women ages 18 to 24 are tanning indoors and almost quarter of them are oblivious to its dangers, according to research published in the Archives of Dermatology.

So, don’t delay. Tell the women in your life that staying away from indoor tanning salons can save their skin—and maybe even their lives.

Need proof? Read on for 5 facts about indoor tanning from the Skin Cancer Foundation:

1. Tanning beds emit UV radiation, which causes skin cancer.

2.  People who tan indoors are three times more likely to develop melanoma (the deadliest skin cancer), 2.5 times more likely to develop squamous cell cancer, and 1.5 times more likely to develop basal cell cancer than those who don’t.

3. The International Agency for Research on Cancer includes ultraviolet (UV) tanning devices in its Group 1 list of the most dangerous cancer-causing substances, along plutonium, cigarettes, and solar UV radiation.

4. Frequent tanners using new high-pressure sunlamps may receive as much as 12 times the annual UVA dose compared to the dose they receive from sun exposure.

5. Ten minutes in a tanning bed matches the cancer-causing effects of 10 minutes in the Mediterranean summer sun.

New York state wants to ban minors from indoor tanning salons, and we agree it’s a smart move. What’s your opinion?

Classic Covers: Mother’s Many Duties

Boyfriend’s Baby Pictures by George Hughes

Boyfriend’s Baby Pictures by George Hughes
Boyfriend’s Baby PicturseGeorge Hughes March 14, 1953

1953 Post editors speculated that the girl might be thinking, “Oh my gosh, if Bill and I got married, would we have funny-looking babies like that?” Aw, come on guys – she’s thinking he was sooo cute! I think this is payback for the way Bill behaved at the grocery when he was little (cover below).

Sack Full of Trouble by Richard Sargent

Sack Full of Trouble by Richard Sargent
Sack Full of TroubleRichard Sargent April 14, 1956

The redheaded Indian in the grocery bag has that look – what my folks used to call “pure orneriness”. Mom looks like she’s been through the wringer today with Big Chief Billy and his bow and arrow. But be careful, junior; Mom always has ammo of her own – remember the photo album.

Kitchen Haircut by Harold Anderson

Kitchen Haircut by Harold Anderson
Kitchen Haircut Harold AndersonNovember 11, 1933

In 1933 you didn’t take your kid to the mall (what mall?) for a haircut. It was a mom duty. My memories are of Mom haircuts and home perms in the 1960’s. I didn’t say they were good memories. Moms may not often be good stylists, but they got the job done.

Removing the Splinter by George Alsop

Removing the Splinter by George Alsop
Removing the Splinter George Alsop July 21, 1917

Going barefoot is fun – until you get a splinter. We went clear back to 1917 for this one from The Country Gentleman magazine, a sister publication to the Post for many decades.

New Woolies by Frances Tipton Hunter

New Woolies by Frances Tipton Hunter
New Woolies Frances Tipton Hunter February 27, 1937

Shopping is not Billy’s strong suit – it’s a good thing it is Mom’s. Artist Frances Tipton Hunter did eighteen Saturday Evening Post covers, each cuter than the next.

Spirit of Education by Norman Rockwell

Spirit of Education by Norman Rockwell
Spirit of Education Norman RockwellApril 21, 1934

You would think we’d be grateful Mother buys us warm underwear and sews our costume for the school pageant. But, noooo. All we care about is having to wear a dumb ol’ sheet and our friends snickering at us. Hopefully, Norman Rockwell’s lad will get into the spirit.

Did any of these classic covers provoke a memory? Share your comments below. And have a Happy Mother’s Day!

Bargaining With The Flood

This past Tuesday [May 3], the Army Corps of Engineers blew several holes in the Mississippi river’s levees. As a result, floodwaters are pouring into the Missouri lowlands. Eventually they will cover 130,000 acres of farmland (that’s 195 square miles to us cityfolk). When the Spring floods abate, the ground will re-emerge under a thick cover of silt and debris that will make it un-farmable this year and maybe next.

It hardly seems the best way to handle the problem, but there are no ideal solutions in flood control—only trade-offs. The only alternative was to let the flood lift the river over the Illinois bank to wash away the town of Cairo.

This is not the first time the Engineers sacrificed the planting season of Eastern Missouri to save Cairo, Illinois. When they first employed the Birds Point/New Madrid floodway, back in 1937, they drove 5,000 Missourians from their property to keep the 13,000 residents of Cairo above water. This year, the controlled flood will affect 300 Missouri households to spare 2,800 residents across the river.

Naturally, Missouri farmers are unhappy about this trade-off. Nor are the people of Cairo delighted with their prospects. While they may have been spare this year, their families, homes, and businesses will continue to live with the annual threat of flooding.

Another Illinois town, just 98 miles up the Ohio river, faced a similar challenge. After 135 years of determinedly fighting the river, they finally admitted defeat, as the Post reported in 1940.

looking down from the top of the levee
Looking down from levee top to ferry at normal river stage.

Fourteen times the river has burst through on Shawneetown in major floods, each usually worse than the last, and the last worst of all, in 1937. It was then that the town, which did not know when it was licked, gave up.

There were disastrous floods in 1832, in 1847, in 1853 and 1858. When another came in 1859, the exasperated town folk started the first levee. In 1867 the river rose to a new high and burst over and through the levee.

Shawneetown responded by enlarging and strengthening its levee, which kept the flood out of town for 15 years.

Then came the three successive floods of 1882, 1883 and 1884, each set­ting a new mark and driving everyone to the hills. This time the Federal Government came to the aid of Shawneetown. At a cost of $200,000, it raised the levee one foot and length­ened it.

The sixty-one-foot mark at top of levee.
The sixty-one-foot mark at top of levee. The Ohio River reached sixty-six feet in 1937.

In 1898 the river topped fifty-five feet for a new record and drowned twenty-six persons, with a huge property loss. The levee was lengthened and strengthened again, but not raised, for never could there be such a flood as 1898’s again.

All was well until the great flood of 1913, when the Ohio topped fifty-nine feet. When Shawnee­town dug out of this, it spent an addi­tional $130,000 on its barrier wall. These were large sums for a town of never more than 2000 persons. Twenty years went by without a repetition, but the wary dwellers by the river re­built the levee in 1933 just to make sure, raising it to sixty-one feet above the low-water mark. At normal river stages the town was almost invisible from passing boats.

Then the long-sleeping Ohio in 1937 vaulted high over all past records to sixty-six feet. This was five feet higher than the top of the levee, but long be­fore the river reached that stage the town had been evacuated and the levee dynamited to prevent the possibility of its sudden collapse. The waters swirled twenty-five feet deep in Main Street and surged twenty-two miles inland to engulf Harrisburg, a town of 12,000.

“How deep was the water in here?” you ask the clerk in the high-ceilinged drugstore.

“About eight or nine feet,” he says, “upstairs!”

The refugees gathered in a Red Cross camp inside the township high school to discuss their future.

They were reminded that the Federal Government and the Red Cross had spent in fifty years more than $600,000 on the levee and for rescue and rehabilitation work here.

The refugees… voted 44 to 1 to surrender to the river.

Government-built new town on the hill.
Government-built new town on the hill. Most of the houses are new; a few have been moved from the old town.

A few residents stubbornly held on, living in the old family homes downtown, but most residents moved to high ground, three miles from the river. They left the houses and commercial buildings to the inevitable flood they knew would sweep them all away.

Today, 1200 people live Shawneetown, Illinois. Down by the river, though, 200 residents live in Old Shawneetown, which still survives, along with its old houses, stores, and its great neo-classical Bank. The great, all-destroying flood that Shawneetown fled to escape never arrived.

What You Need to Know About Varicose Veins

Listen up! Experts want to separate fact from fiction about unsightly leg veins (varicose veins) and inform you about new laser therapies. Here’s what everyone with problem veins needs to know:

#1: Varicose veins are NOT a cosmetic issue. It’s a progressive medical condition that can lead to sores and circulation problems.

#2: Men DO develop varicose veins. Forty percent of women experience varicose veins, but about 25 percent of men do, too.

#3: Treatment does NOT require a hospital stay. Surgical vein stripping has been replaced by laser therapy that seals veins from the inside, can be done in a doctor’s office, and is almost always covered by insurance.

“Until a few years ago, vein stripping was considered standard treatment for varicose veins,” says Dr. Jeffery Schoonover of Vein Clinics of America in Indianapolis. “But now the transition has been made to utilizing thermal ablation—minimally invasive procedures that don’t require hospital stay.”

During the new treatment, called endovenous laser treatment (EVLT), doctors utilize ultrasound technology to guide an optic fiber into the problem vein, and then activate the laser to heat and seal it. After the vessel closes, blood reroutes to healthy veins.

Medical Update (MU) talked to Dr. Schoonover about varicose veins, and an advanced laser fiber featuring a protective gold tip to reduce bruising and promote healing.

MU: When should people with varicose veins seek medical advice and care?

Dr. Schoonover: People with medically significant varicose veins suffer from leg aching, throbbing, and pain. Symptoms may improve with periods of leg elevation, pain medicines, and compression socks. But they typically recur and disrupt activity.

MU: What’s special about VenaCure EVLT?

Dr. Schoonover: The VenaCure fiber has a durable gold tip that is highly visible with ultrasound guidance technology.  Other fibers can be difficult to see, increasing the risk of vein perforation and excessive bruising.

In addition, the gold tip reduces the amount of carbon that can accumulate on the laser fiber. This helps ensure uniform energy distribution throughout the firing of the laser and speed healing.

MU: How long is the typical recovery period?

Dr. Schoonover, VenaCure EVLT takes about 30 to 60 minutes, and patients can return to the work the next day.

MU: Has the new fiber gone through clinical trials?

Dr. Schoonover: Yes, it is FDA approved and in use across the country.

MU: Who are the best candidates for VenaCure EVLT?

Dr. Schoonover: A wide range of patients will tolerate this procedure. Those with a history of venous surgery or problems would require additional workup. As always, ask a doctor about the best treatment options for you.

Below is an animation of the new laser therapy for varicose veins.

Gutted

The Post presents the winning entry in the 2010 Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 7:03 a.m.

Joseph Dromski gazed upward along the length of the crane, squinting through the already stifling haze. His reddened eyes followed the steel arm to where it reached out over the beams and girders, the skinless skeleton of the skyscraper under construction. He wondered just when it was, and how, he had lost it. “God, I’m tired,” he said aloud.

It seemed to him that there had been definite events which had caused it. Lost promotions that had gone to less qualified, as favors and payoffs. Jackie running away, what, seven years ago, eight? Joseph could not see the incidents as the skidmarks they were, merely warning signs on a long, steadily descending stretch of highway. And he did not wonder how negativity and hatred had replaced their opposites in his life, for it was such a gradual process.

And so it was that he did daily now things unconscionable ten years before, justifying his personal evolution in steps as it paralleled his perception of the world’s decline. Each step could be justified from the one preceding it, yet Joseph Dromski had no conception of the huge number of such steps; they ran together in his mind which latched onto only a handful of specific events which must explain, he would tell someone across the bar, the laziness and lack of morality in today’s youth or the warring in the Middle East. And so as he stared through the haze at the crane’s arm, he tried only to justify the action of the previous step, last night … Careless, he thought. Stupid kid.

Joseph Dromski watched the crew spreading slowly out over the site, and he, too, moved sluggishly toward the elevator cage. But as it lurched into motion, lifting him over the city, he felt none of the thrill he remembered once feeling. He sometimes saw it now in the eyes of the younger men, and he thought them foolish, unrealistic. Wise up, he sometimes told them (he’d told Teddie). Wake up and smell the coffee, and the burned toast, he’d chuckle, watching their eyes to see if his blows registered.

Tiny sweat droplets formed on his balding head, and inside, the dull throbbing began again. “God, it’s hot,” he told no one in particular.

Joseph looked around the elevator, peering guardedly at the grim faces of the other six riders, men he had known, it seemed, forever. He remembered when their moods were light and easy, and the men looked up to him, quick with a joke and the next round of Pabst. But now they hardly looked. So they’re guiltier than I, Joseph took this to mean, and knew that soon he could believe it … One more step.

The sun sliced through the wire cage and left lined shadows on the gray overalls of the riders. Their clothing now matched their faces, appearing like a prison chain gang.

Monday, August 2, 1989. 5:19 p.m.

Maggie sat on the concrete steps of the brownstone that was like all other brownstones, anywhere, and waved to Ted as he let her father out and drove off. She liked Ted, had dated him from time to time, and he had lately taken to coming into the bar some nights near closing time. Yet after a couple of drinks he would leer like a predator, overtipping and bragging about “going places.” He acted as if he deserved her rather than wanted her, and at times he spoke of life in the cynical terms he had learned from her father. Jackie had escaped before he could be so influenced, yet Teddie seemed sometimes to lap it up so eagerly. What were they doing in the middle of these nights, she wondered.

“You look like a hooker on the corner of Rush,” she heard her father say. You should know, Maggie thought, not meeting his eyes. “Find a sailor to slap you around a little, huh?” And he was past her and into the building.

Yet the remarks no longer drew blood as they once had, as when Jackie had first left. Maggie silently prayed that this was not because she was drained like her mother, an embalmed body in which no blood remained. She thought again of Teddie, who was apparently unaware that he, too, was losing blood to this man.

Maggie remained on the steps, listening, as her father heavily climbed the wooden steps inside, angrily but without the energy to be. Bitter.

Joseph Dromski entered the kitchen his wife had made even hotter by using the oven. Without a word he took a beer from the refrigerator and slumped into the leather-cracked stuffed chair in the front room. He unbuttoned the straps of the gray overalls, revealing a sleeveless tee-shirt sweat-stained the color of his teeth.

“Do you think you might sometime serve something cool in weather like this?” he called toward the doorway, switching on the television to drown her possible answer.
But she offered none, only acknowledging another check on a mental calendar, another day unchanged. Della had felt her energy, her life in these past years, escaping in tiny wisps, sucked out through the door that each evening he reentered. More and more it seemed locked from the outside behind him.

He used to tell her it was she who had changed, but recently he had begun telling her the opposite—that change was demanded and she had not. “You’ve got to modify,” he’d say. “You’ve got to get tough.”

“They’ll kill us, Del,” he used to tell her, before he had modified. Before he began working nights and talking less.

And Maggie told her not to listen, to take the blows and think of her own dreams, of returning to teaching, or just getting out. But Della did not sleep well, and her dreams she tried not to remember.

She, too, wondered how and why so much had been lost. She did not understand the steps involved, could not trace it. I still miss Jackie, she thought. If I could get past that, I know I’d be better for Joseph. “He’s takin’ you, Ma,” she heard her son, could it be eight years ago, “surer than if he was beatin’ you with his fists …” Thank God, at least, for that, she had thought at the time. Yet now, as she held the counter, the nauseating emptiness warm inside her, she was not so sure.

“Do you work again tonight?” Della asked, calling over the television, spooning chicken casserole onto a faded china plate, its blue flowered design worn unrecognizable. He did not answer, and as she handed him the meal his eyes did not leave the screen.

Maggie remained on the front steps, listening to the television news pouring from the second floor window and thinking of her mother. Finally she rose and checked her watch, knowing she would be early for work.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 2:12 a.m.

Joseph Dromski awoke with a start as the filter of the cigarette held loosely between his fingers seared his knuckles. He swore under his breath and stared across the room, completely disoriented. Worn furniture was bathed in blue-gray radiation light emitted from the silent television. Joseph stared blearily through the smoke at the small rectangle of light in which Groucho Marx was miming “You Bet Your Life.” The emcee handed a schoolteacher from Iowa fifty dollars for using the word attached to the foot of a suspended duck. “. . . a common household word, something you see every day,” Joseph mocked thickly. And then all was silent again save for an occasional passing vehicle on the still stifling street outside.

Joseph Dromski glanced at his watch now and rose quickly. He found his work boots lying neatly beside the door and mechanically tugged the laces through eyelets, pulling them tight as his hockey skates decades ago. He did not hear his wife breathing unevenly in the bedroom whose door stood ajar.

If we could finish this place tonight, he thought as he closed the door and slipped down the wooden stairs, maybe I could get some sleep. Yet as he stepped out into the moonless August night, he was wide awake, his mind actively calculating.

It had been a fine old building, 1920 maybe, and if the yard man believed even older, the bricks could sell for at least twenty-eight cents apiece. At least twenty-two hundred in the truck meant he could cut Teddie his seventy-five—for two hours work, more than I ever made at his age, the ingrate—and still have, what, five hundred plus in his pocket. That would buy a long nap, and maybe an afternoon at Arlington with the ponies.

The truck turned over grudgingly on the second try—the damn thing runs better in a Chicago winter, he thought—and Joseph drove slowly toward the south side, not worried that Teddie may have waited as he overslept. He’ll get paid, Dromski told the rearview mirror, nodding at the deserted streets.

Behind him in the brownstone, Della Dromski lit a cigarette and sat up in bed, feeling somehow better the moment the door closed behind him. Endurance seemed the only goal on nights like this.

Yet it had not always been this way, she counseled herself again. She remembered the winter nights watching from behind the glass as he glided over the ice so swift and full of boyish determination. And then the breezeless summer nights like this one, passing back and forth warm pints of beer on a blanket by the lake. Watching the barge silhouettes far away and the stars. Kissing, laughing. High school, she thought. And then the wedding and the Army and the children and still, she thought, they had been happy. Yet somehow, she could not place exactly when, it stopped feeling the same.

It was partially now, Della thought, that dammit she still loved the man. And partially her upbringing, for her mother would never have imagined leaving her father, whose drinking bouts and violence were much more common than her own Joseph’s. She had taught Della perseverance and preached forgiveness, always forgiveness, and as Della did now, had often blamed herself. And when Maggie pleaded with her to get out, she could never muster the strength to abandon that boy on the blanket by the lake so long since gone.

Della Dromski rose, stubbing out her cigarette, and entered the warm kitchen. With resolve she began laying out bread and mustard and sliced ham, the ritual and the mere motion of it a comfort.

She could not continue to hear the voices of Maggie and Jackie in one ear, and Joseph in the other. Her love went out to both sides, yet she was torn and unsettled.

Della listened to the steady, scuffing beat of the ancient coffee percolator. Outside, a car engine neared and quieted. She heard Maggie’s footsteps on the stairs, and looked up to see the front room an eerie blue-gray as the television played on silently without audience. She turned back to her work.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 2:37 a.m.

Maggie closed the door quietly, wearily, and saw her mother’s back to her at the counter, bread laid out in neat rows before her. She knew her entrance had been heard, and moved behind her mother, kissed her cheek.

“Take these over to . . .” her mother began, then stopped, thinking My God, that was just like him, and tried to smile. “Honey, how did it go tonight?”

Della felt suddenly defensive, not wanting her daughter to say a word. Embarrassed to be making him sandwiches in the middle of the night. She turned her head slightly so that Maggie’s words might be channeled into her right ear, Joseph’s ear.

Maggie loved her mother, and she knew what her mother had begun to ask. She understood her, and part of her loved the unfinished order. Was this where she was different from Jackie, she wondered, and more like this woman at the counter?

Yet the part of Maggie that did not love this “slip” by her mother, the unanswered love her action represented, the weakness . . . this part of Maggie hated her father, suddenly and deeply. She realized this feeling had existed for as long as she could remember. Jackie, she thought, help me now.

Maggie had watched her father gouge into people as his own self-hatred went unacknowledged. She felt him trying to take from her all that was inside her, because he had relinquished all that was inside himself. And she had watched him take away her mother’s self-respect and her dreams, almost laughing that it was so easy.

Maggie had watched this since her youth, and had found her mother in tears, or worse, like this now, many times. And she had been there to comfort her. But did she
respect her mother for taking all this—for letting him destroy her because he felt wronged? Part of Maggie despised this weakness in her mother and in herself.

Maggie hesitated. “I’ll run the sandwiches over to Daddy,” she said. “I’m still wired from work, could use the air. I know the area they’re working—Teddie told me the other night.” Her mother looked up seriously.

They stared at each other for a moment. Della’s eyes sought an answer, what two construction workers could be doing in the middle of the night. Then, Maggie thought, they seemed to dart, to withdraw the question.

“I love you, Mom,” Maggie said simply, pouring hot coffee into the thermos.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 3:21 a.m.

Joseph Dromski waited by the truck in near-total blackness, sweating. He saw no lights on in the apartment building opposite the abandoned brick structure where he stood, and no sign of human life at all on the other sides, a small park and a dusty, littered vacant lot. Ted emerged from the condemned building, his shirt perspiration soaked, pushing the wheelbarrow laden with clay-colored bricks.

“That’s got to be about it,” Teddie panted. Joseph frowned, seeing room in the pickup for maybe, he quickly calculated, seventy more.

“A few more,” said Joseph Dromski, looking at the truck.

“The interior walls . . .” Teddie began, frustrated, catching his breath. “. . .shouldn’t try,” he attempted, faltering, knowing it was dangerous to spark Joseph’s short fuse.

As Joseph helped him stack the bricks into the bed of the truck, Ted knew that he would reenter the gutted structure. Joseph finally stood still and waited, as Teddie lifted the wheelbarrow the last time.

“Greedy bastard,” Ted muttered under his breath, cursing more himself, for a lifetime of yielding in this game of chicken. He rolled the cart through the doorless entryway and into complete darkness.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 3:29 a.m.

Maggie had passed and rounded the same block twice before she recognized her father’s truck. In the blackness it was barely visible beneath the structure that stood, she could tell, without glass in the windows or occupancy of anything but pigeons and rats.

Her Volkswagen stalled, the engine dying, as she saw the barrel-like form of her father and the tall, massless skeleton of Teddie pushing a wheelbarrow. The men exchanged words, but in the silence from a block away she could not make them out. What were they doing?

There was a moment, then, of total absolute silence, which Maggie thought she had been granted to understand something. Something you already knew, Jackie would tell her. But as she watched Teddie reenter the hollow structure she thought, I’ve missed it.

It was not, she would think later, violent or deafening, even played upon the background of complete silence. It was soundless, like a film she suddenly remembered
seeing in grade school, of an earthquake somewhere out west. Buildings fell this way, she remembered thinking. Without narration or description; without emotion.

The last brick . . .

And then she remembered Teddie, as three of the exterior walls of the building in slow motion collapsed upon each other like a house of cards. The coffee in the thermos on the seat beside her remained hot.

Maggie turned the key and the car sputtered. The engine caught. She sat for a moment comforted, concentrating on this low rumbling, grateful. And she spun the car around, in the rearview mirror seeing the figure of her father leap into the cab of the truck. She accelerated, screeching around one corner and hitting the lights, stopping only when she felt out of reach and the telephone booth appeared in her path.

She was quite calm with the police, she thought later. Speaking evenly and giving no names, saying please just send an ambulance quickly I know nothing more. And just as calmly and rationally she somehow knew there was no hope. He has taken from Teddie what he took from Momma, and me, and God knows who else. What he took from the building itself . . . And we will all eventually collapse, she thought, our insides looted but the facades left apparently unblemished, betraying no damage.

Maggie packed quickly, leaving a note in her mother’s handbag, nothing more than Jackie’s address. Yet she knew her mother could not follow her now.

As the first streaks of hazy light appeared in the rearview mirror, Maggie saw the silhouette of the city, the skyscrapers rising proudly from the darkness beneath. And only then did the tears begin to fill her eyes and fall silently onto the work shirt she had never changed. There was something different about these tears, she thought, for they were not shed and lost in the night to be found again the next. They meant something, for they came with motion, and change. She gripped the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead.

Tuesday, August 3, 1989. 7:18 a.m.

The elevator cage stopped at the top of the city, and the man closest to the gate hesitated a moment before sliding it aside. And it seemed to Joseph Dromski that the shadows of prison stripes remained on the overalls of the seven men long after they had stepped out into the sun. “God, it’s hot,” he said.

One-on-One with Author Gregg Cusick

Why does Gregg Cusick write fiction?

image
Author Gregg Cusick

“I couldn’t not do it even if I never got anything published,” he confides. “I do it for myself.”

He has heard other authors say the same thing, “But it’s true,” he says. “Writing helps me figure things out.”

I’m talking with Gregg about his short story “Gutted—” an excerpt appears in May/Jun issue of The Saturday Evening Post. It’s the first-place winner in the recent Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition, administered by the granddaughter of Pulitzer Prize-winning author Ernest Hemingway.

Gregg thinks a literary gene must have passed down from his father. “My dad wrote short stories as well as working in management at AT&T. He always wanted to try to make a living at writing, so he took a year off and became a full-time writer. My mom went to work in a department store to support us. I was 11 or 12 at the time. At the end of the year, he went back to AT&T, but he’d sold a couple of stories and won an award.”

Gregg’s own early fiction featured a horse named Nag and was accompanied by hand-crayoned illustrations. He went on to receive a master’s in English-Creative Writing from North Carolina State University in 1990.

“Maybe I got it from my dad, but I always thought being a writer was the best way to make a living. Of course, it’s hard to do. I’ve taught, worked as a paralegal, been a construction worker, moved furniture,” he says. “I couldn’t sit down to be a writer like John Cheever did, where you do it six, eight hours a day.”
He shrugs philosophically. “Today, I work as a bartender. That’s proven to be a real good job, in that it leaves plenty of time to write. And you get a lot of story ideas from being behind the bar.”

Gregg and his wife, Katie, an architect, live in Durham, North Carolina. However, he mostly grew up in upstate New York. “It’s a place I’ve used a lot for settings in stories, a wonderful crystallized memory, magical in a way.”

“I’ve come to realize if I go a certain amount of time without writing, it’s like an itch that gets worse. I find that I need to put something down on paper.”

“Writing is so solitary,” he says. Although his dog Jeepers often keeps him company, his wife gives him space. “She can tell when my need to write starts building up.”
Gregg has had a number of stories published in small journals like Chelsea, The Alchemist Review, Inkwell, and The Bellevue Literary Review—and collected into such anthologies as Wordstock Ten 2008.

“After reading about competitions in Poets & Writers, I started doing the contest thing. I’d do it once a month, package up a short story and mail it off.” He’s twice won The Robert Ruark Foundation Fiction Prize, and placed first in the Ernest Hemingway Festival fiction contest, the E.M. Koeppel Awards, and the Alligator Juniper Fiction Contest, among others.

“Two years ago, I won second place in the Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition. She was so encouraging, I kept at it and this past year nailed first prize.”
Lorian Hemingway takes pride in her winners’ accomplishments. “I consider it my job to honor the talent of emerging writers—and if those who enter this competition are compelled to continue to write as a result of receiving the recognition they so deserve, then we are each richer for it.”
Yes, no question about it. Gregg Cusick will keep writing. He can’t avoid it.
–Shirrel Rhoades