From the local paper in Ontario, Oregon
June 20, 1938

The 1938 newspaper photo is fuzzy, but you can see Luanna Scott to the near right carrying her canvas Saturday Evening Post bag. The caption reads: “When the Al G. Barns and Sells Floto circus came here (Ontario, Oregon) yesterday, the railroad tracks were a Mecca for the kids—and a good many adults. Members of this group of wide-eyed, breathless youngsters is (sic) typical of the hundreds that swarmed over the tracks.”

In 1937, Franklin Roosevelt was president of the U.S. and unemployment was a continual problem. The average cost of a new House was $4,100 and average annual wages were between $1,700-1,800. It was the year that the Golden Gate Bridge was completed and opened; Amelia Earhart disappeared; and the pride of the German air fleet, the Hindenburg, went down in flames. And, of course, it was the year little Luanna started her first job.

In the very early 1900s, Curtis Publishing developed a network of young boys (and occasionally girls) to sell their popular magazines: The Saturday Evening Post, The Country Gentleman and (at that time) The Ladies Home Journal. Since youngsters needed every penny they could earn, it became a great way to get these issues in nearly every American home.

“It was a depressing time for our family in 1937,” Luanna Mitchell wrote, “but I was very fortunate at 7 years old because my older brother signed up the sell The Saturday Evening Post. He changed his plans before the magazines arrived, so I got to have his job. We lived in a very small town during that time in Ontario, Oregon. There were maybe 1500 people in the whole area.”

June 18, 1938

We determined that the newspaper photo Mrs. Mitchell sent us ran in the local paper on June 20, 1938, so this was probably the issue of The Post she carried in that canvas bag. The June 18 issue had five fiction stories and two serials, as well as an editorial staff that was not fond of Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal policies, and was keeping a leery eye on that Hitler guy in Germany.

“The Post sold for a nickel each and I got to keep 1.5 cents a copy. This was big money to a little girl. Every Saturday morning, 25 magazines were delivered to our home. My first delivery of magazines came with a white canvas pouch for me to carry them in, which I still have today. I could easily sell these magazines because they were the most popular of that time. And, how many businesses would turn down a little girl working hard for her five cents when times were so difficult? I also became a pretty good sales person and learned some business savvy in the next few years that has helped me throughout my life in many ways. I held sales jobs all through school and I had a small business of my own, a craft and collectibles shop that did very well.”

Carl and Luanna's 60th wedding Anniversary
January 2012

This is our hard-working newsgirl today at age 82. The handsome gentleman is Luanna’s husband, Carl, 87. The photo was January 2012 on their 60th wedding anniversary. We thank Luanna for sharing her early Saturday Evening Post experiences. And, by the way, we wish Luanna and Carl a very happy anniversary.

Were you (or was someone you know) a Post newsboy (or girl)? We’d love to share your story with our web readers! Comment below or e-mail Diana.

Baby Carriage
By: Norman Rockwell
From May 20, 1916

It was a brush with destiny. A young artist named Norman Rockwell had a dream: to do a Saturday Evening Post cover. To this end, he showed a painting of a lovely ballerina to his buddy, Clyde Forsythe. His friend’s reaction: “C-R-U-D! Terrible. Awful. Hopeless.” Apparently, Forsythe was not one to mince words. Then Forsythe picked up one of the illustrations Rockwell had done for Boys’ Life magazine. “Do that,” he said. Do what you’re best at—kids.”

Following his friend’s suggestion, Rockwell was over the moon when “Baby Carriage” appeared as his first Post cover in 1916. He was twenty-two. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship that lasted a remarkable 47 years and over 300 covers.

Celebrating Norman’s 84th birthday in 1978, the Saturday Evening Post collected a variety of quotes from celebrities:

Leapfrog
By: Norman Rockwell
From June 28, 1919

“A Norman Rockwell painting makes you feel happy and warm.” – Bob Hope

“When I was a boy, I used to deliver the Saturday Evening Post in our neighborhood on Long Island. With what joy and excitement I opened the bundles of magazines and studied each new Norman Rockwell cover. I’m so glad that the Post is honoring him on his 84th birthday and I would like to add my personal message to him, “Happy Birthday, Mr. Rockwell, all the way from the Aloha State.” – Jack Lord

“Norman Rockwell is timeless and without a doubt, universal. His warmth and humanity cover you like a winter quilt. Norman Rockwell celebrates life, and it is a wonderful feeling to help celebrate his.” – Henry Winkler

Rockwell Portrait
by Gene Boyer

In 1978 a “new Post cover artist,” Gene Boyer, wished Norman Rockwell happy birthday in his own special way with this portrait.

“For his openness, his goodness and honesty and intelligence, the world thanks him and wishes him a great birthday. He is a great man. And would be embarrassed to be so called.” – Ronald Reagan

“Norman Rockwell is, I think, the most thoroughly American artist of all. Historians a thousand years from now will be able to learn a great deal of what life was like in the United States in the 20th century from studying the warm, human impressions by an artist who obviously loved his subjects.” – Steve Allen

Gramps at the Plate
By: Norman Rockwell
From August 5, 1916

“Norman Rockwell’s name has become synonymous with a whole age of innocence in America, and his great paintings evoke in all of us a nostalgia for a simpler and happier time.” – Walter Cronkite

“Norman Rockwell has always had a way of staying in touch with the feelings and hearts of the American people. In this time of constant hunting by the news fraternity for the provocative, the thoughts and moods and illustrations of Norman are most welcome and refreshing.” – John Wayne

“Norman Rockwell is America’s greatest, and I wish my home was full of everything he ever painted. Love, Lucy.” – Lucille Ball

“Some of us grew up thinking that Uncle Sam’s real name was Norman Rockwell; I still do.” – Paul Harvey

Rockwell Painting Nasser

Rosey Grier’s Needlepoint

Rosey Grier’s Needlepoint
From November 1, 1974

This cover was designed by a needlepoint expert—Rosey (Roosevelt) Grier, a former pro for the L.A. Rams and the New York Giants.

According to this issue, Grier appeared on a talk show in the 1970s and “one of the guests brought her work and Rosey was so taken he spent—after she taught him—the entire program pulling yarn through canvas. Later, Rosey would haul his sewing to card games. If he had a good hand, out would come the needlework from under the table, an unusual alternative to the poker face.”

Grier at the 2008 Movieguide Faith and Value Awards Gala.
Photo from lukeford.net

Johnny Unitas by Leifer Neil

Johnny Unitas
by Leifer Neil
From December 12, 1964

Widely considered one of the NFL all time greats, Johnny Unitas of the Baltimore Colts appeared on the cover in December 1964. By this time, photographs had replaced work by artists that the Saturday Evening Post was so known for. Not that photographers aren’t artists, as this great shot by Leifer Neil shows.

The article in this issue was ironically called, “The Runaway Colts.” This referred to an outstanding season in 1964, one of Unitas’ (and the Colts’) best. The title has no bearing on “Bob Irsay’s Midnight Ride,” abandoning Baltimore for Indianapolis, which didn’t occur until 1984. Although he had been retired for a decade by then, Unitas and fellow players were outraged by the move. Unitas passed away in 2002.

“Quarterback Pass” by Maurice Bower

"Quarterback Pass"
by Maurice Bower
From October 12, 1935

Artist Maurice Bower was brilliant at capturing moments of high-energy action, as this 1935 cover will attest to. Other great examples of this were Bower’s many covers of another kind of athlete: horses. Galloping, muscles straining, nostrils flaring and manes flying—see “Maurice Bower’s Horse Power” from 2009.

“Inflating Football” by Harrison McCreary

"Inflating Football"
by Harrison McCreary
From October 16, 1926

Equipment sure has changed since the Roaring Twenties. For one thing, you needed a good set of lungs just to keep the ball inflated. Secondly, it is hard to imagine the helmet provided much protection. A really cute touch to this illustration by artist Harrison McCreary is the 4-leafed-clover pinned to the boy’s sweater for luck. Apparently, the need for a good set of lungs continued into the 1940s—see below.

“Grandma and Football” by Russell Sambrook

"Grandma and Football"
by Russell Sambrook
From October 26, 1940

In this 1940 cover, the helmet looks a bit more sophisticated, but that ball still needs to be inflated the hard way. If I were this young man, I would do it myself and let grandma get on with her apple peeling. I don’t know how the game will turn out, but something tells me a rockin’ apple pie is in his future.

“College Man’s Number” by George Gibbs

"College Man’s Number, 1900"
by George Gibbs
From October 27, 1900

The Saturday Evening Post started out as a newspaper. It didn’t sport a cover and start looking like a magazine until 1899. So, with a virtually new format, artist George Gibbs paints a football cover. Gibbs did several early Post covers as well as inside illustrations and covers for other prominent magazines of the time such as The Ladies Home Journal and Redbook.

We hope you enjoyed our multi-decade gridiron salute and have a great time watching the Super Bowl!

The late Don Asher and Dr. Lois Goodwill, his partner of more than two decades, discovered their answer and share the tale in the memoir Entangled: A Chronicle of Late Love.

Don Asher was an 80-year-old pianist in San Francisco, and Lois, who goes by Sarah in the book, was a 69-year-old semi-retired clinical psychologist with a penchant for travel and art. They seemed happy together, but after twenty-two years with Don, Lois met a former Jesuit priest and formed a startling romantic connection with him, triggering an excitement in her that she hadn’t felt since she was young.

The results of her departure and subsequent love affair obviously shook both Don and Lois and Entangled offers both sides of the couple’s story. (Don’s perspective is written after the events while Lois’ diary is written during them.)

It’s not easy to read about Don’s depression and anxiety, but the memoir paints a vivid picture of the fractured relationship, and the story of how each of them picked up the pieces and moved forward is both intense and startlingly beautiful.

Surprisingly, I was most drawn to Lois’ diary entries, written while she was embarking on a new course and starting a new relationship. Her thoughts, worries, and pleasures make her seem open and alive, still enjoying life at nearly 70 years of age.

Don Asher previously wrote for the Saturday Evening Post, and his half of the book is equally intense as he lets us into his life, revealing his fears about returning prostate cancer and his sadness about losing his love.

Entangled is truly a story of new life and new love, showing us that love and affection never truly die, even as we get older.

Entangled: A Chronicle of Late Love is available from Heyday at a list price of $14.95.

“Rockwell Models”

Rockwell Models in "Progress?"
From August 21, 1954

One advantage of living near Rockwell in the 1950s is that you had a good chance of being forever remembered in a Saturday Evening Post cover.

“Progress?” – August 21, 1954

"Progress?"
From August 21, 1954

This is progress? The construction crew is meant to build a cellar, but along come the local would-be All Stars pleading, “Gee, mister, this is our baseball lot!”

Rockwell gathered up models for this scene in midwinter by knocking on doors (in Stockbridge, Mass.) and rousting up members of the Little League team. My favorite touch is tiny Scott Ingram sucking his fingers as the negotiations proceed. The boy in the baseball suit is big brother, Kenneth Ingram. We’ll see Scott again.

The workers appear sympathetic, but we suspect things do not bode well for the great American pastime.

According to Kenneth, Scott’s best buddy was Eddie Locke (below).

“Before the Shot”– March 15, 1958

"Before the Shot"
From March 15, 1958

We recently showed you Eddie Locke as “The Runaway” (see: ROCKWELL: BEHIND THE CANVAS). The young man shows up on yet another classic Rockwell cover: as the boy checking out the doctor’s credentials before getting a shot.

The physician preparing the shot was Donald Campbell, a real local doctor. “Norman lived across the street from me for a number of years, said Dr. Campbell in a 1976 issue of the Post. “It was a familiar sight to see his long legs carrying him down to the studio regularly before eight a.m. “

Dr. Campbell continued, “Norman couldn’t help being nice to people, especially children. When my five-year-old Betsy fell from her bike because a little dog followed her, barking, Norman gathered her up, stopped her tears and took her home with him. With Betsy on his knee, he drew a series of pictures as in a cartoon, showing a little dog chasing a little child on a bike. The picture showed the little girl’s face with the caption, ‘See. The nice little dog only wanted to play.’”

“Girl at the Mirror” – March 6, 1954

"Girl at the Mirror"
From March 6, 1954

Rockwell once called Mary Whalen his favorite model, even if the young girl on the cover didn’t think she measured up to Jane Russell (who did?). The artist captures the “in-between” age well between the cast away doll and the closer “necessities” of lipstick and hairbrush.

Mary’s first memory of the artist “was at a high school basketball game in Arlington, Vermont, about 1950. His son Tommy was on the local team, so along with nearly everybody else in town, Norman was there to cheer them on. When I harassed my Dad for a Coke, a friendly man sitting behind us gallantly reached over my shoulder and invited me to drink some of his Coke. That was the beginning of my admiration for Norman Rockwell.”

How did Rockwell get the facial expressions he wanted from the kids? “He would laugh and shout, pound the floor, or jump up and down,” Mary recalled. “He did the acting while I reacted. What a wonderful moment of joy when Norman drew forth from me the expressions he wanted. He would burst out laughing, with happy shouts. It is the memory of those triumphant, creative moments which I treasure most,” she recalled, more than twenty years later. “I can still hear deep within me his laugh of celebration.”

“A Day in the Life of a Girl” – August 30, 1952

"A Day in the Life of a Girl"
From August 30, 1952

Earlier in 1952, Rockwell did a cover called “A Day in the Life of a Boy,” which follows a boy getting up and ready for school, playing baseball, getting distracted by a pretty girl, and so on. A few months later, the summer version, “A Day in the life of a Girl” appeared. Both covers featured Charles Marsh, Jr. and Mary Whalen. Mary awakens, then it’s off to go swimming, where a young man promptly tries to drown her. The spirited lass returns the gesture, and it was love at first fight.

The last row shows a chaste kiss, which Marsh just couldn’t pull off. “I considered her my girlfriend then,” he said later, but I had never built up enough courage to kiss her. Mr. Rockwell finally gave up on trying to get me to kiss her and posed us puckering separately.” The ordeals of being a model!

“The Missing Tooth”- September 7, 1957

"The Missing Tooth"
From September 7, 1957

When Rockwell needed a child for a Crest ad (“Look, Ma! No Cavities!”), he asked his friends, the Morgans, if he could borrow their daughter. When cute little Ann Morgan showed up at the studio, she was missing two front teeth. Oops. “Mr. Rockwell went ahead and painted my front teeth in for the ad,” said grown-up Ann Morgan Baker in 1976, “but my missing teeth may have given him the idea for a Post cover.”

Living near a famous artist had its perks: “Being on the cover changed my life,” Ann said, “People were always saying, ‘I saw you in Chicago,’ or ‘I saw you in a drugstore window in New York.’ I thought of myself as a tiny little international star.” And the modeling fee? “$25 when you’re six is a lot of money.” Famous AND rich—what more could you ask for?

Having Rockwell as a family friend has its odd moments, too. The artist would call Ann’s mother “at 7 a.m. and say, ‘Don’t make the beds. I want to come and look at some messy rooms.’ Then he would come and wander through our morning rubble.”

Ann’s first love? Neighbor and fellow Rockwell model, Scott Ingram (above as the littlest ball player and below).

“The Discovery” – December 29, 1956

"The Discovery"
From December 29, 1956

Poor little Scott Ingram—this unexpected discovery is suddenly answering a lot of questions. The good news is that this 1956 cover also made him a celebrity of sorts. He actually got fan mail and even made a television appearance with the famous artist. He enjoyed working with Rockwell, and looked forward to the end of each session, when he would be treated to a milkshake.

The painting is more multi-faceted than the first glance would indicate. The way Rockwell captured the burling of the wood of the dresser is one such detail. And life for the artist would have been easier had he just closed the door. Instead, he replicated the patterned wallpaper outside the room, illuminated by the light of a window we have the barest glimpse of.

Next: Rockwell in the 1950s Part II —including a controversial topless model.

“What’s wrong?” Warren asked. “Too old and crummy?”

“Huh?”

“This tricycle.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“What are you staring at?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, turning away.

Another time, Lena happened to spot a hunched figure on a corner waiting for a traffic light, and once again a lost memory began to emerge. No way! Inevitably aged, with glasses and half as much hair, but otherwise no mistaking him. Little Miller! She rolled past slowly, confirmed the sighting, and that evening after dinner, when she and Warren fell into their nightly routine of kitchen clean up, said, “Today I saw a weird guy I used to know. Did I ever tell you about Little Miller?”

Warren, a man who liked to eat large drifts of peanut butter on toast and drive around listening to tapes he’d made with his brother when they were fifteen and had a band called “Mr. Peabody” said, “You’ve hardly told me anything. Who was he?”

The children screamed and fought. But she didn’t have to run to them immediately, did she? Better if they worked it out themselves, and so she began to explain.

The house with fruit trees and flowers had started as hers and Tom’s (her only boyfriend before Warren). They found it together, amazed by their luck. They were juniors, but having a life together off campus was all they cared about. They bought a set of china at the Goodwill and became known for their lavish dinner parties, until their budget gave out. No choice but to rent out the back bedroom they’d been using as a dumping ground. After dozens of calls came in, they settled on Yori, a Grateful Dead-loving free spirit with a Smith Barney account.

Soon Yori was joining them for meals, and before long, Yori’s friend Miller was hanging around most of the time, too.

Miller was a cipher. He was as small as a child, but looked old like a troll if you peered into his eyes. He wasn’t affiliated with the University. Yori said he’d met him downtown at a free concert. He said Miller was down on his luck and that he wanted to help him out for awhile. Miller clearly didn’t mind, happily playing the sidekick, laughing at Yori’s jokes, wearing his cast offs and accompanying him around town in the hand-me-down Volvo from Yori’s parents. Lena both felt sorry for Little Miller and disliked him. It was annoying he was always there waiting for his next meal, and his only possession was a dirty little backpack filled with crummy little things.

Even worse, he had started sleeping in the corner of the living room every night, emitting a slightly fungal smell. The house that she and Tom had loved so much had been invaded. Finally the day came when Lena and Tom asked Yori if he’d stop bringing Little Miller around so much, and to their surprise, Yori didn’t mind at all, as if looking for an excuse to get rid of him. That evening, while Lena and Tom were at a poetry reading at the bookstore, Yori delivered the blow. And when they returned home, Little Miller was finally out of their lives.

But so was Lena’s jewelry! And other things as well. Lots of things. Her stereo. Her clock. Some books. Even a small framed watercolor of an emu.

Furious that he’d been kicked out of the house, Little Miller had clearly gone on a rampage, looting and pillaging. They pounded on Yori’s bedroom door, and found him hanging upside down on the anti-gravity table he’d gotten from his parents for his birthday, listening to the Dead on headphones.

“What the hell happened?” Tom said.

“Did the deed,” Yori replied. “He was cool about it.”

“Are you sure he was cool?” Lena cried. “A lot of our stuff is gone.”

“He ripped us off!” Tom said.

Yori loosened his ankle straps and did a flip off the table. “Miller wouldn’t do that. Miller?”

Lena didn’t like to be accusing her housemate’s friend of stealing, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the little troll swiping a few things for revenge. He could sell the stuff at the flea market, make ends meet for a few days more.

“Why did we ever get a housemate anyway,” Lena cried that night. All her favorite necklaces, rings, and bracelets were gone, things she’d been given by friends and family over the years.

Next morning, as they sipped their first cups of coffee, there came a knock at the back door. To their amazement, Little Miller stood on the stoop. The nerve!

“Hey, I came by to get my sweater,” he said.

“Did you take our stuff?” Lena accused.

“What stuff?”

“You know! All the stuff, everything!”

“I didn’t take anybody’s stuff. I just want my sweater.”

Tom appeared behind her. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Hey man, my sweater!”

By now Little Miller had worked his way into their living room, but Tom was blocking him. “Give us back our stuff or get out.”

Little Miller tried to dart past him, but Tom was much bigger and he pushed Little Miller roughly.

“This is uncool!” Little Miller yelled.

“I said get out.” Tom shoved Miller so hard, Miller fell backwards. Then Tom lunged at him, and tore off Miller’s little knapsack.

Tom yelled, “Open it! See if anything’s in there!”

Lena didn’t like seeing Little Miller struggling on the ground and didn’t want to paw through his backpack, either. When she failed to respond, Tom grabbed the grimy pouch and shook it out onto the floor. A few t-shirts, an orange, some pens, some underwear, and a bag of potato chips fell out.

Illustrations by Owen Freeman.

“You jerk!” Miller gathered up his belongings and tried to stuff them back in. “I hate you guys!” He looked as if he might cry. But to Lena’s surprise, Tom still had no mercy. He began to kick Miller. He kicked his arm. He kicked him in the side. And when Miller stood up to put on his pack, Tom pushed him back out the door, sending him flat on the ground.

“You’re going to be sorry!” cried Miller.

“God! Did you have to be so mean to him?” she said.

“He stole our stuff!”

“So what!” Lena said.

“What do you mean, so what?”

Though they had been together almost three years, Lena and Tom didn’t last long after that episode. Lena was haunted by the way Tom had behaved. When they broke up, she even told him it was partly because of Little Miller.

Funny thing, because a year later, Lena ran into Tom at a Chinese restaurant downtown. He was with his new girlfriend, but he swaggered over to say hello anyway. He said, “Hey, by the way, remember that TA we used to have over for dinner sometimes, Richard, from Philosophy? Remember his spacey girlfriend Sunshine? Remember how we thought she was just using him? Turns out, Sunshine is the one who stole our stuff. She and some other guy. Richard found your emu picture in a box of junk in his garage, so you can get it from him sometime. What do you think about that?”
Lena gasped, “Poor Little Miller!”

The children were quiet now, and Lena was decidedly more relaxed. “So anyway,” she said, “I always felt like the whole thing happened for a reason. That Little Miller was a good luck figure for me.”

“Good god, why?” Warren said.

“Well, because if I hadn’t seen Tom attack him like that, I might not have realized how violent Tom was before it was too late.”

“Oh, so that’s the only reason you didn’t spend your life with Tom?”

“I doubt it, but who knows.”

“But,” Warren said, “maybe if there hadn’t been a Little Miller, Tom would never have reacted that way to anything.”

Lena shook her head. “No. It was just a matter of time.”

Warren said, quite irritably, “Who knows. If Little Miller was hanging around here, I’d probably attack him too.”

“You’d talk to him, you’d tell him to leave. Sure. But you wouldn’t go crazy like that. I know you wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Warren hissed.

“Evie needs a bath,” he sighed.

After that, a peculiar thing began to occur. Lena began to see Little Miller all over the place. Morning, noon, and night, in all different parts of town, she spotted him shuffling down the street with his backpack. Uncanny. It was as if a whole army of them had been unleashed, pacing the boundaries of her world.

There wasn’t much to complain about in Lena’s California town. The weather was clement year round. A little foggy sometimes in summer, and in the fall an occasional wind whipped in from the sea. Storms in winter. Nothing exceptional. Nothing except earthquakes rattling china cabinets and knocking down a chimney here and there. Nothing was perfect. How could she complain about a season of Little Millers?

“It’s weird, I keep seeing that Little Miller guy,” she told Warren one evening during their kitchen routine.

“I thought he was your good luck charm,” Warren said.

“Now I’m starting to feel like he’s some kind of curse.”

“Should I go beat him up?” Warren said, scouring a frying pan.

Warren was a good husband. She couldn’t complain about him, either. He did his own laundry and the children adored him. Nothing was wrong. Yet sometimes, Lena thought back to the days when she’d left this town and worked on the east coast at a distinguished magazine. It was the time of her life—she knew it even then. Sometimes she’d even think, “This is the time of my life.” Staff editor by age 24, bringing home manuscripts in her backpack every night on the T, discussing them the next day with the brilliant editor who was her boss and considered one of the great minds of his time. Lena had her own office at the magazine. It had high ceilings and beautiful moldings and a view from the old brownstone to the swan boats in the Public Garden. By now she would have risen up the masthead and would be spending summers out on Nantucket or the Cape. Her mind would be firing on all cylinders like a Mercedes-Benz engine purring over the Simplon. Full steam ahead.

Meanwhile, Warren often spent an hour driving home from the supermarket, circling around the neighborhood, just to listen to his old tapes. He always claimed the lines in the store were long, but Lena knew what he was really doing. She’d seen him once, barreling down the road, howling his head off with the windows up. Why did he have to listen to Mr. Peabody secretly? Looking back was a guilty pleasure, it seemed.

“It seems fairly certain you had lots of adventures before you decided on me,” Warren grunted, drying his hands.

“We’ve had lots of adventures too,” Lena said.

“Have we?”

“Of course!”

“Name one,” Warren said.

“What about having children and living in this house?”

“I suppose picking out grout and tiles and carpet squares is pretty adventurous,” he said.

She’d met him freshman year. Back then she thought of him as too straight-laced for her. The rest of her friends were sitting around listening to loud music and wearing hippie clothes. Warren wore plaid shirts with pens in the pocket.

Whenever he saw her standing at the bus stop, he’d pull over and offer her a ride into town. He had an old Datsun with ripped seats and a rattling dashboard. Wires hung from beneath it and tickled her legs. The heater was on all the time. If you let go of the wheel it took a nosedive off the road.

One Friday night she knocked on his door, her pupils wide and black as tiddlywinks.

“It’s Friday, Warren!” She could see he was studying with a hot gooseneck lamp on his desk.

“I have a mid-term Monday,” he shrugged. “How about you?”

“Well, there’s a party downtown if you feel like going.”

“Hmm. Okay,” he said, as if agreeing to a journey he would not complete for some time. “I could use a break.”

They lurched down the hill from the college. The air was so warm they had the windows down, and the sky was bright with stars and a moon nearly full, and when they reached the party people were putting eggs in the microwave and watching them explode. There was an apparatus in the living room you could hang upside down on to stretch your spine, and people were trying that, while others were dancing, and yet others were giving foot massages and smoking loosely rolled cigarettes of marijuana in the hall. Tom had invited her, and introduced her to his friends. After awhile she noticed Warren standing outside, his back to the party, perfectly still. Warren was strange, she thought. He didn’t care if he seemed like an oddball. He didn’t care if she saw him outside, standing alone.

In a while she came out to check on him.

“Shhh,” Warren said.

“What?”

On the moonlit lawn sat an opossum with brindled fur and a harlequin-shaped face, and it hissed at them, showing its pointy teeth.

“Wow,” Lena said.

The opossum hissed again.

“It’s stuffy inside,” Warren said.

“And it smells like rotten eggs,” she added.

“Do you want to stay?” He pulled his keys from his pocket. She assumed he wanted to get back to study, so she let him go. And it was the night she and Tom got together. But Warren had made a sound investment, and they stayed in touch over the next few years. One thing led to another. When he visited her in Boston, no longer did Warren seem square. He had become a nice looking man. He called it the opossum party—I didn’t want to go home and study, he told her. Didn’t you know? She hadn’t seen that at all.

One night, scrubbing chocolate out of a baking dish, Lena said, “So want to hear the latest chapter of the Little Miller story?”

“Okay, if I must.”

Yes, she had spotted Little Miller again, tiptoeing down the sidewalk like a mouse. This time, she pulled over and jumped out of her car and stood waiting as he approached.

“Hello there!”

He stopped in his tracks and peeled off his dark glasses.

“You’re Miller, aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Lena. We knew each other a long time ago. Remember Yori?”

“Yori,” said Little Miller. “The clown?”

“Yori was a clown?”

“Yori the clown was a clown,” Little Miller said.

Lena said, “I was thinking of the Yori who lived in the house over on Cayuga Street. Who liked the Grateful Dead. I was his housemate. Remember? We used to eat together a lot?”

He squinted. “I meet a lot of people.”

“Remember when I accused you of stealing my stuff?”

Little Miller pursed his lips. “Don’t think I want to do business with you, ma’am.”

“Remember my boyfriend Tom, grabbing your backpack and shaking it out?”

Little Miller began to move on. “You’re stuck in the dismal past, lady.”

“We found out later you didn’t do it,” Lena called after him. “See, I’m trying to tell you I’m really sorry!”

He kept walking. How could she make him understand how much she’d thought about it all this time?
“You know, I was so mad at Tom for the way he treated you, we broke up,” Lena cried.

“Truth is,” Little Miller turned, “some bad things happened to me and I got mixed up with some really bad people, which is regretful, but people took advantage of me. Lots of them! Then I decided to draw the line. Now life is peaceful. Very serene. Beautiful. I’m blessed. God bless you.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Lena. “Anyway, I made you some brownies. Here.” She uncovered the plate she was holding. Wrapped in Saran, it was heaped with thick, chocolaty squares.

“What’s in ’em, rat poison?”

“Mostly just butter and cocoa,” Lena replied.

She took a few steps his way. He took a few towards her.

“Here,” she said, and bit into one herself. “Yum.”

With unexpected speed he advanced and latched onto the plate. He peeled open the Saran and neatly stuffed an entire brownie into his mouth. “Excellent,” he said, choking it down. “Bliss to you.”

“You did that?” Warren nearly shrieked. “Today?”

“Yep,” Lena said.

“You should have told me first. I probably would have said no. He’s obviously a mental case!”

“Warren,” Lena said, “if you said no, I would have done it anyway.”

“You would have? Don’t my feelings count?”

“What’s with you? I can’t believe you’re saying this.”

“I can’t believe you approached some borderline personality on the street with a delicious dessert. He’ll probably start stalking you.”

“God, Warren. You’re so sterile!”

Warren did the pots and pans for a while in silence, his elbows jerking wildly.

“He might have attacked you,” he said, after awhile.

“Warren, I’m the one who attacked him, remember?”

The children were watching a documentary about gorillas, gentle ones. There was static in the air, and Warren dried his hands.

“Then does this lift the curse? Are we free of Little Miller?”

“I think we are,” she said.

“You know, I’ve had a few adventures in this town.” He lifted the garbage pail towards the door.

“I’m sure you have.”

“Once I stole a birdbath. From the chancellor’s house.”

“A birdbath?” Most mischievous, most unlike him. “Why?”

The past flickered in his smile. “Someone wanted it. I had my reasons.”

“Tell me!” she cried.

“Never assume you have a man pegged,” he admonished, tripping out into the night.

The man with his pipe makes a cameo appearance.

We’re continuing our tour of Rockwell by decades with Part Two of his 1960s illustrations, featuring covers that don’t exactly look like “Rockwells.”

“In Fellowship Lies Friendship”– August 27, 1960

"In Fellowship Lies Friendship"
from August 27, 1960

This rather daunting edifice is the University Club of New York. The club’s motto was “In Fellowship Lies Friendship,” and the fellows inside seem to be interested in the “friendship” developing outside.

Also interested in the tall sailor chatting up the shapely blonde are a few bystanders. Two of those rather non-pedestrian pedestrians are in the lower left corner—Mr. Rockwell, we presume, walking alongside his daughter-in-law, Gail.

What appears to be a simple scene is actually quite detailed. I for one am amazed at the “texture” in the stone. The birds flying by are easy to miss, and leave it to Rockwell to be faithful to the Italian Renaissance details, including the unusual keystones above the windows. The building is still an architectural landmark today.

“Well!” (Jack Benny) –March 2, 1963

"Well!"
(Jack Benny)
from March 2, 1963

Well! What else can one say about Jack Benny? Okay, for you younger readers, the delightful Jack Benny had a way of saying, “Well!” that…well, you just had to be there. This painting could also be called, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking!” as in his standard response to the line “Your money or your life!” Really, this stuff wasn’t that corny at the time…

As we saw in the previous feature, Rockwell painted world figures in far-flung places, but, interestingly, he was nervous about meeting the beloved comedian. He called Bill Davidson of the Post and told him, “I’m really nervous about meeting this Benny fellow. Would you be good enough to help me over the hurdle?” Ironically, about a half an hour earlier, Benny, who was beloved by millions and the friend of presidents and kings, called Davidson with the same request. He was nervous about meeting the great Norman Rockwell. So Davidson was there for the meeting. Hey, world leaders come and go. Benny and Rockwell were classics!

“The Golden Rule”– April 1, 1961

"The Golden Rule"
from April 1, 1961

Norman Rockwell, whose first Saturday Evening Post cover appeared in 1916, was still painting classics 45 years later in 1961. Taking a serious turn, he created “The Golden Rule,” which is, of course, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Oddly enough, the models who depicted the humanity of many nations, all came from the general area of Rockwell’s studio. Rockwell had a passion for costumes and had collected many from his travels abroad. Of the rabbi, the artist chuckled, “he’s Mr. Lawless, our retired postmaster. I put whiskers on him, and I think he fits the part quite well, even if he is a Catholic.” Barely visible in the upper right corner is a face painted by memory: Rockwell’s late wife, holding their first grandson, a child she hadn’t lived to know.

Rockwell received the Interfaith Award from the National Conference of Christians and Jews for this cover.

“Stained Glass Artistry”– April 16, 1960

"Stained Glass Artistry"
from April 16, 1960

Among our Rockwells that don’t look like Rockwells, we have this Easter 1960 cover. The idea came from a trip Norman took to Westminster Abbey in London, where a craftsman was high on a scaffold repairing a stained glass window.

Oh how the artist toiled to capture that luminosity of the backlit stained glass. He just couldn’t do it. Finally, he found stained glass designers Rowan and Irene LeCompet of New York and they traveled to Rockwell’s studio bearing detailed plans of a window they had designed for a Washington church. That’s Rowan LeCompet up on the scaffold repairing a break. Rockwell studied church window after church window, inside and out, before he finally captured that radiant quality.

“Midnight Snack”– November 3, 1962

"Midnight Snack"
from November 3, 1962

This cover is another example of Rockwell’s attention to minute detail, and an example of his wild sense of humor. The scene takes place at the Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester, Massachusetts, which must be a fascinating place to visit. The knight in shining armor atop the horse was a display that caught Rockwell’s fancy. The detail in the tapestry is wonderful. Not part of the collection, but a figment of Norman’s imagination, is the guard having a midnight snack. And we really, really hope the disapproving glare of the horse was part of Norman’s fancy, too!

COMING UP: A three-part series of the 1950s Rockwell, with some classics and some surprises.

Why the need to find someone or some entity (the devil, for instance) to blame? It’s simply human nature to not take responsibility and “make it easier to live the unexamined life.”

Campbell writes in an easy-going but highly informative style that makes the reader think. For example, we learn that the term “scapegoat” has a quite literal origin. It was coined by William Tyndale in his 1530 translation of the Bible to describe the Jewish Day of Atonement ritual of sacrificing two goats. But this transference of sin was not exclusively a Jewish practice.

“Every early culture had ceremonies in which they removed sin from the community,” writes Campbell, previously Books Editor at The Literary Review. And the notion was ingrained that this sin or blame could be transferred to another entity. Sacrifice a goat, hang a witch, appease the spirits, and that should take care of inexplicable events like catastrophic weather for the time being. Convenient.

It was difficult for the Church to reconcile the fact that God was omnipotent with the fact that horrible things happened, so the Devil made an excellent scapegoat. Once persecuted, Christians became powerful and found others to persecute. Jews became “responsible” for a variety of ills, even the Black Death. In addition to these Christian and Jewish scapegoats, there is a chapter on “The Sexual Scapegoat,” which is, of course, woman. Blamed for the original sin, the misogyny continued through the witch hunts of the middle ages to explain local events, such as the death of a child or a fire. “Witches,” of course, were mostly female. The treatment of sacrificial animals is difficult to digest, but Campbell’s riveting account of the treatment of “witches” is heartrending.

And it continues today. On a private scale, where we once blamed the Devil or Fate, or a handy animal to stone or sacrifice, now we blame genes or upbringing. On a public scale, we can no longer blame Jews or Communists for problems such as our current economic woes, but there are plenty of rich bankers with fat bonuses we can blame. While some of that blame may fit, transferring censure eases the notion that we have any responsibility. It certainly cannot be our own fault for racking up unsustainable debt and blithely assuming a nice salary would be there forever and ever, amen. We need scapegoats.

“We still crave simple explanations for complex happenings,” writes Campbell. “We take false comfort in blaming others and in an age of technology where spreading these ideas has never been easier, it is perhaps an opportune time to take stock.”

If you’re one of those readers who likes to alternate your “light” and “heavy” reading, I would suggest that Scapegoat would fit anywhere in your early 2012 reading. The book gives a great deal of insight without plowing through tedious jargon. It does more than give us good water cooler or dinner conversational tidbits—it makes us stop and examine our all-too-human but non-productive tendency to find someone or something to blame. “So who is to blame, if not the scapegoat?” Campbell asks. “Well, we are, of course, for most things.”

This slim (208 pages), thought-provoking book will be published in February 2012 by The Overlook Press.

“Rockwell Paints Nehru”– Feb 13, 1960

"Rockwell Paints Nehru"
from January 19, 1963

Forget freckle-faced boys, scruffy dogs and swimming holes. Rockwell was a seasoned traveler in the 1960s, often painting world leaders along the way.

“The Connoisseur”– January 13, 1962

"The Connoisseur"
from January 13, 1962

You can stare at the man staring at the Jackson Pollock-like picture all day and still not decide if he is thinking of whipping out his checkbook to buy it, or wondering, “What in blue blazes is going on here?”

Rockwell himself attended some classes “in modern art techniques. I learned a lot and loved it.” He had fun with this one. He put the canvas on the floor, dipping into paints and splashing them far and wide. It happened that a worker was washing the windows of his studio, so the artist invited him to help. The man climbed to the top of a ladder and obligingly dumped a can of white paint on the canvas below. One can’t help but wonder whatever happened to the laborer who actually helped Norman Rockwell paint a Post cover!

“Gamal Abdel Nasser”– May 15, 1963

"Gamal Abdel Nasser"
from May 15, 1963

Not what you think of as a “Rockwell,” is it? But Norman Rockwell was a great portrait painter (see the paintings he did of candidates Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy in “Presidential Post Covers” from February 19, 2011). Nasser of Egypt was a pivotal figure in world politics since becoming president in 1954.

Nasser knew he was a handsome man and insisted on a frontal view with a toothpaste smile. Rockwell was just as insistent on a profile portrait. The artist would pose him the way he wished and begin sketching and Nasser would turn around and flash that big smile again. Now, clearly Norman was dealing with a powerful world figure, and not one to trifle with. This was a man who had helped organize the overthrow of the Egyptian royal family—a man with many guards around. Big guards. But Rockwell persisted in posing the President as he wanted, and, uncharacteristically, Nasser finally gave in.

“Nehru”– January 19, 1963

"Nehru"
from January 19 1960

Another day, another hot spot in the world. Rockwell accompanied Post Editor Robert Sherrod to India to report on “the epical struggle between China and India, which engages a third of mankind.” The article included photos of India of the early sixties, including one of college girls getting “emergency rifle training” from an army instructor.

Rockwell and his wife Molly enjoyed India and were invited to Nehru’s home. There they met Nehru’s daughter, Indira Ghandi, a future Prime Minister. The Rockwells were flattered and more than a little startled to find that Madame Gandhi had a room lined with Rockwell prints for her children.

“The Window Washer”– September 17, 1960

"The Window Washer"
from September 17, 1960

“Sakes alive! What ever has come over Norman Rockwell?” mused Post editors. “Does he hold with this sort of behavior?” Actually, Rockwell initially envisioned a different type of woman. He had in mind “a very prim girl, looking shocked,” he told us. “But the idea of youth calling to youth worked out more effectively. The girl isn’t going to date the fellow, however. You may assure the public of that.” Aw, Norman, that would have made a nice ending!

“Modernizing the Post”– September 16, 1961

"Modernizing the Post"
from September 16, 1961

The Pennsylvania Gazette was started in 1729 by an innovative young man named Benjamin Franklin. The Gazette is one of the many mastheads on display on the easel. Although it was the most successful newspaper in the colonies in 1815, long after Franklin’s death, it ceased publication and reportedly became a paper called The Saturday Evening Post. The connection is nebulous, but we remain determined to say we were started by Ben Franklin, so work with us here. Said paper was in dire financial straits by the 1890s and was purchased for $1,000 in 1897 by Cyrus Curtis, publisher of The Ladies’ Home Journal. From time to time, the Post changed its appearance; hence, the varied mastheads you see here.

Norman Rockwell, himself a rather important piece of Post history, depicts art designer Herbert Lubalin deciding on a clean, streamlined “POST.”

NEXT WEEK: The portrait with the title: “Well!” Part II of II of Rockwell in the 1960s.

Mark Duxbury was a drug salesman for Johnson & Johnson company Ortho, tasked with selling the performance-enhancing drug Procrit as an alternative to blood transfusions. Duxbury’s belief in the drug, combined with his natural charm, allowed him to become one of the best Procrit salesmen in the country.

And that’s when things started to fall apart.

Sharp traces the story from the drug’s development in the 1980s and Duxbury’s early days at Ortho through Duxbury’s descent and his struggle to bring a lawsuit against the company for illegal selling practices and for encouraging non-FDA-approved uses of Procrit. Sharp continues the story through 2010, during which the lawsuit was still ongoing.

Though this compelling tale is a work of nonfiction, it reads like a thriller. Sharp’s exclusive rights to interviews with Duxbury and other key players allow her to give readers a thrilling look into the world of Big Pharma and whistleblowers. I particularly enjoyed the way Sharp tells not only the story of Duxbury’s time with the company but also the aftermath of the lawsuit and the way it shaped his personal life. Moreover, she thoroughly covers the histories of his friend and co-claimant, Dean McClellan, and their lawyer, Jan Schilchtmann, Esq.

Most importantly, the book isn’t just entertaining, but also informative. Sharp educates readers about the inner workings of pharmaceutical companies and medical practices, making this book a useful addition to the bookshelf of every patient and family member dealing with cancer and dialysis.

Blood Feud: The Man Who Blew the Whistle on One of the Deadliest Prescription Drugs Ever by Kathleen Sharp is available now at an Amazon list price of $27.95.

The young man in this 1939 cover by artist Douglass Crockwell doesn’t look happy. And with good reason. It’s hard to impress a girl when she’s taking a call from another guy.

Seventeen-year-old Fred Randall had run into a classmate he hadn’t seen in over a year. He and Naomi were having a great time catching up, when an artist entered the store and offered to buy them a sundae if they would pose for a photograph. Randall wasn’t sure what would become of the photo, but he knew the guy with a camera was interrupting a pleasant reunion. All he could remember was that the man’s name was Douglass. Lo and behold, Fred found himself on the cover ofThe Saturday Evening Post, much to the teenager’s delight. The painting on the cover was simply signed “Douglass.” There’s a reason for that. Artist Douglass Crockwell took to signing his work with just his first name in order to avoid confusion with another artist of the period. You can probably guess which one.

Fred started taking drum lessons as a boy of 9 and plays to this day. Music lessons were a luxury in those days. His father passed away when he was 7. “His mother took in laundry, washing everything by hand because the family had no electricity,” wrote reporter Kathy Ricketts at the The Daily Gazette in Schenectady, New York. Fellow Gazette reporter Jeff Wilkin noted in an earlier article that Fred “worked as a paper boy, delivering the Glens Falls Post-Star for three cents a copy. Randall and other news boys earned a penny per paper; if he sold 100 papers, he had the $1 tuition for another lesson.”

Music remains his passion, and he has played for some of the greats: Rudy Vallee, Sophie Tucker, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Kate Smith. And what about Kate Smith’s signature song? “Probably around ’37, ‘38 in the Hotel St. Moritz at Lake Placid,” Randall told reporter Ricketts, “Kate Smith came in, and came over to the band, and she said, ‘I’ve got a new song I’d like to try; would you play it?’ It was ‘God Bless America.’ What a thrill.” Actually, Irving Berlin wrote the song in 1918 and revised it in 1938. It was this version made famous by the great Kate Smith. Randall told us she had the band run through the song the first time and asked if they’d do it again so she could sing it. “Everybody in the band was on their feet, cheering,” recalls the lucky drummer.

Randall was an “older” draftee, being inducted in 1944 at the age of 27. “He was a sergeant with the Army’s First Division and saw many major battles, including the Battle of the Bulge,” Ricketts noted in her 2008 article. When we asked about his war experiences, he said he didn’t like to discuss them, then shared a disconcerting story about calming down a soldier who had just seen the body of his twin. “He didn’t even know his brother was over there,” Randall said.

His drumming didn’t get by the Army. Once “after I came back from a 20-mile hike, the captain said he wanted to see me. I always had drum sticks in the bottom of my foot locker, and he was standing there holding them,” Randall explained to the Gazette. The captain asked what they were.

“Well, they’re not knitting needles, sir,” Randall replied. The captain took him down to the Officer’s club where a band was rehearsing. They had no drummer. “He told me to get up in back of those drums, and I played swing music two nights a week with the band.”

Fred Randall at the 16th annual Flag Day Ceremony at the Annie Schaeffer Senior Center. Photo courtesy of Peter J. Guidarelli.

Between the Army and National Guard, Fred Randall did over thirty years of proud service. The photo at left shows Fred Randall addressing a group of dignitaries and attendees at the 16th annual Flag Day Ceremony—an event started and maintained by Fred himself. (“I am an ardent volunteer.”) The event is held by Annie Schaeffer Senior Center. (Fred “also did extensive video taping and documenting of the construction of the facility when it was constructed approximately 20 years ago,” his friend Peter J. Guidarelli told us.)

The Senior Center is where Fred still plays with a 15-piece dance band, which plays Glenn Miller and other big band music. “The clientele is mostly, shall I say, elderly.” He is still a proud member of “Musician’s Union Local 85. I joined in 1932 when I was 16.” He can’t help noting that dues were once $3 per year.

He just turned 96 on New Year’s Day and says his doctor told him, “Fred, I don’t know how you do it. I sure can’t find anything wrong.” Maybe it’s those visits to the gym. “I work out like everyone else there,” Fred says.

So it probably makes sense that Fred has big plans. “I want to have a big gig when I turn 100. I’ll invite all the local TV stations. There’ll be saxophones, clarinets, a piano, and four or five guys lined up to take my seat at the drums!” We can’t wait.

“Call me back any time,” says our friendly cover boy. “I’ll be happy to tell you more. If you can catch me.”

This edition of Famous Contributors to The Saturday Evening Post focuses on the renowned Poet Laureate of Harlem, Langston Hughes.

Hughes’ life crisscrossed with other famous African-Americans—he went to Lincoln University along with famed civil rights attorney and Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall; his uncle was John Mercer Langston, the first African-American elected to the US Congress; and he worked alongside important figures such as W.E.B. DuBois during the Harlem Renaissance to foster creativity and expression in the black community. Hughes won the Harman Gold Medal for Literature, was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship, and received the NAACP’s yearly Spingam Medal for outstanding achievement.

His work focused on the exploitation and oppression of fellow African-Americans and, during the 1920s and 30s, much of it showed a nod to Marxism. In 1932 he visited the Soviet Union, an experience that moved the young writer deeply.

However, his controversial viewpoints would come back to haunt him later in life.  He was called in front of Joseph McCarthy’s Subcommittee on Investigations in 1953, and, although he was not charged as a “card-carrying” Communist, he was unable to make a decent living afterward. Even so, he is remembered as one of the greatest poets—of any color—in American history.

Hughes’ relationship with the Post could be described as “love-hate.” In his younger years, he described the publication as a “magazine whose columns, like the doors of many of our churches, has been until recently entirely closed to Negroes,” and criticized the magazine in his poetry. However, the relationship became more amicable as Hughes got older and he eventually submitted poetry to the magazine. Below are two poems from Hughes as they originally appeared in the Post.

“A Christmas After-Dinner Dream” by Kate Greenaway

"A Christmas After-Dinner Dream"
by Kate Greenaway

It’s 1875 and The Saturday Evening Post is more like an oversized newspaper than the slick magazine we’ve known in our lifetime. So imagine turning to the last page of the paper and seeing the page dominated by this Kate Greenaway drawing. If you’d like to know what all the craziness of the girl’s dream is about, we have a special Christmas gift for you: a PDF file of the story, “A Christmas After-Dinner Dream” in all its Victorian charm: Click Here

“Angels” by Charles Louis Hinton

"Angels"
by Charles Louis Hinton

“Full soon the midnight bells, that through the year tolled out the passing days, rang joyously, and all the East was radiant with the Star,” reads the 1898 Christmas story, “Legends of the Child Who is King” by none other than legendary publisher, George Horace Lorimer. The exquisite artwork was by Charles Louis Hinton.

“Is He Coming?” by Norman Rockwell

"Is He Coming?"
by Norman Rockwell

Yes, Virginia, Norman Rockwell did artwork for publications other than The Saturday Evening Post. These adorable children hoping for a glimpse of Santa were originally on the cover of Life magazine in 1920. In 1975, this was the cover of The Post. It would be interesting to know if there is other artwork out there that appeared on the covers of two different publications. But, wait! Is that…? It is! It’s the sound of reindeer hooves!

“Choir Boys Will Be Boys” by Frances Tipton Hunter

"Choir Boys Will Be Boys"
by Frances Tipton Hunter

Awww, aren’t they little angels? We didn’t say perfect little angels. But at least they can set aside their differences long enough to sing of the joy of the season. This is from 1938 by Frances Tipton Hunter. If you haven’t had your fill of cute today, see more covers by this delightful artist:
“The Art of Frances Tipton Hunter”

“All Wrapped Up in Christmas” by Richard Sargent

"All Wrapped Up in Christmas"
by Richard Sargent

Some wrappers are all thumbs. Post editors suggested that he need not attach a tag: it will be obvious that Pops was the one who wrapped the gift. And it will be just as apparent that he would go through this ordeal for one person only—the one he loves best.

“Christmas in Hiding” – George Hughes

"Christmas in Hiding"
by George Hughes

This 1960 cover from artist George Hughes is one of my favorites. Mom and Dad are hiding gifts…and they are not alone. It would appear a mole has infiltrated the jackets hanging in the closet, and not the four-legged kind. It is not clear whether the spy gets away clean or not.

A special thank you to Dwight Lamb of The Post for taking the scan for the 1875 story,
“A Christmas After Dinner Dream” and converting it into a readable format.

Over the past year, she’d come for two of his best friends. Both went kicking and screaming into that not-so-good night. Poor old Wayne didn’t even know who he was for the last couple of months.

Charlie resolved to go with more dignity when his number came up. He told the guys down at the Lucky Wishbone that before his health got too bad he planned to stuff his pockets with bacon and walk into the Bitterroot Mountains for a one-way hike with the grizzly bears. His wife, Rachel, had scoffed, judging that such an idea proved his mind was “well past gone” and went on to dub him A Man Called Pooh.

Unfortunately for Charlie, his diagnosis with pancreatic cancer snuck up on him in the middle of winter. All the grizzly bears had long since curled away in hidden dens and would offer no help at all.

The Saturday before he was supposed to start chemo he woke up early, dressed in the dark, then kissed Rachel on the cheek. He stood by the bedside for a long moment, staring down at this woman who’d spent so many years by his side. He kissed her again and patted her softly on the rump. She was used to him getting up early and mumbled a reminder for him to put on the coffee.

Outside the bedroom, under the grinning portraits of five freckled grandchildren, he slipped into insulated winter boots and shrugged on a heavy wool coat. He pressed the start button on the coffee maker before slipping quietly out the kitchen door.

He would have to take care of this himself, without the aid of bacon or grizzly bears.

Montana was an easy place to be lost. He didn’t have to trudge very far off the logging road where he left his pickup before he was out of breath and chilled to the bone. He’d strapped on a pair of old snowshoes, but they didn’t make traveling much easier in the deep snow. As frail as he was, he didn’t figure this would take very long. He made it about three miles deep into a good stand of tamarack before he found a likely spot and sat down on a stump to wait.

Charlie had been sitting there on that stump, letting the cold wrap in around him, for nearly half an hour when the woman shuffled to the edge of his clearing. A weary back protested as he groaned to his feet. He chuckled despite the popping in his arthritic knees. Rachel would have been proud. Even with death coming for him through the snow, he’d retained a modicum of chivalry.

The gal staggered in from the tamarack shadows, into the pale blue glow of a forest snowfall. She moved as only a woman with high principles could stagger—shoulders pinned back, each hip pausing slightly before the other moved forward to take the lead.

Countless popcorn snowflakes floated down on still air, vacant the slightest breath of wind. Chickadees fluffed themselves on silent limbs. Even the chattering red squirrels had fallen mute. Apart from the squeaky crunch of the woman’s snowshoes, the clearing was quiet as a tomb.

She wore a plaid green mackinaw coat and charcoal gray slacks of the same heavy wool. It was impossible to tell her true build under the bulky clothing, but judging from the rosy, round apples of her cheeks, Charlie guessed she was somewhat on the stout side. Red hair spilled in a riot of curls from beneath a camel hair tam. The hat tilted jauntily above a flawless, oval face. She wasn’t young, but if she was anywhere near Charlie’s age, her years had been much less burdensome. Her green eyes held an inquisitive but world-wise sparkle.

If this beautiful creature was Death, Charlie decided he’d go along without a fuss.

“Oh, you gave me a fright, I don’t mind tellin’ you.” She pressed a hand to her breast, panting at the effort of maneuvering wide rawhide snow-shoes across the deep drifts. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. When I spied you through the trees, I feared I’d run across a banshee or some such thing.” A thick Irish brogue curled from her lips like smoke from a fine briar pipe.

Charlie tilted his head to one side, grinning like a fool. “No ma’am. Not a banshee. Just plain, old Charlie Muldoon.”

Surely Death would have recognized him for who he was—a sick man on his last legs—easy pickings. Still, he supposed the real deal would have some sneak to her. She was, after all, a redhead.

Charlie shivered in spite of himself. A cloud of vapor enveloped his face as he spoke. “I hope you have a cabin hidden nearby.”

“I fear ’tis not the case, Mr. Muldoon,” the woman said, still panting. Charlie supposed Death might be tired enough to pant, what with all the work she had to do.
“I thought you might lead me to shelter,” the woman went on. “And what do I find but a man stuck knee deep in the same fix as I.” She tilted her face toward the sky, one hand on the tam the other still at her chest. Charlie followed her gaze, as if there was something above the treetops beyond gunmetal clouds and endless falling snow.

“How cold do you expect ’tis?” She said, still gazing heavenward. Snowflakes clung at her lashes like bits of feather down.

Charlie hunched his shoulders in a shivering shrug. His nose hairs were freezing, but such a thing seemed too indelicate to speak of with this particular woman.
“Five, ten above,” he said. The temperature would drop like a stone after dark. Bony and frail, he’d never make it through the night. That had been the plan before she’d arrived. Now, with the redhead, an unwelcome hope had settled in with the cold.

He looked at his elk rifle leaning against the weathered stump of a ponderosa pine as big as an oil drum. For a time, after he’d walked off from his pickup and the snow got deeper, he thought about using it. In the end, he decided he was too proud to be found like that. Better to let the elements take him. That wouldn’t be so hard on Rachel. She’d already be left with nothing but his meager retirement. No point in topping that off with the knowledge he’d blown his brains out because he was too big a coward to face a slow death by lingering illness.

“Don’t suppose you have any matches?” he asked the woman, trying to clear away thoughts of his dear Rachel.

“Sorry.” She tossed her head like an insolent filly, smirking at her own stupidity. “I’ve spent enough time in these mountains. You’d think I’d know better than to wander away from camp without a kit…”

She closed the distance between them quickly, the swish of wool against her thighs harmonizing with the crunch of snow.

“Marley FitzSimons.” She extended a mittened hand and met his gaze with a red-lipped smile so genuine it chased away the chill as surely as any fire. “I cook for Cyrus Brune, though I must admit I’m a better housekeeper than a cook… which is to say not too good at either.”

Brune guided elk hunters out of a camp beyond Badger Creek almost five miles from where they stood, over a sizable mountain range.

“You’re a long way from home,” Charlie mused.

“I am at that,” Ms. FitzSimons said. “I grew weary of so much man-talk in camp and strolled off for some fresh air like I was thick in the head with nary a gun or kit. I do have a pair of legs under me, if I you don’t mind my sayin’ so. Before I knew it, I’d gotten myself turned around on these logging roads. This snow’s covered my tracks or I’d retrace my steps.”

“Be dark soon.” Charlie patted the stump where he’d been sitting. It was already covered with an inch of new snow. “You must be beat, Ms. FitzSimons,” he said. “Please, have my seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Muldoon. A true gentleman.”

“You’re wel—”

“How long, do you think?” She cut him off, nestling herself down on the stump, snowshoes kicked up before her to make a foot rest, boots still in the bindings.
“How long ’til what?” Charlie cocked his head.

“Until we freeze out here without a shelter or fire.” There was a calm sadness in her voice. No terror, just a practical woman looking for an honest assessment.
“Forgive me for saying so, Ms. FitzSimons, but you don’t strike me as the sort of woman who gives up quite that easily.”

Emerald green eyes locked on him like the twin high beams of an oncoming truck. “Oh, if I were young and still held fast to the notion that everything works out for the best, then,” she cocked her head, “maybe I’d have a wee bit of hope. But we’re miles from another living soul. You said yourself the dark will be on us soon enough—and we have no fire.” Her shoulders slumped when she finished, but only a hair.

Charlie chewed his bottom lip while he thought. “If we had a shelter…”

Ms. FitzSimons stared at the ground. “I’m no woodsman, but I do believe this snow will kill us before we build a cabin.”

“We can build the shelter out of snow.” Charlie shrugged as if it was all so simple. “See how it’s drifted up by those trees? It’s got to be six or seven feet deep there off the road.”

“A cave.” She looked up at him, a hint of jade hope sparkling in her eyes. “What’ll we use to dig?”

“I will use a snowshoe,” Charlie said. “You rest.”

“Rubbish.” She dusted the snow from her lap and wallowed to her feet. “I am a strong woman, Mr. Muldoon, both in will and constitution. If I am to spend the night with you in this snow shelter of yours, I’ll be helpin’ build it. Besides, the work will warm us twice; once with the building and again when we’re inside the cave.”

Charlie located a likely spot where a previous wind had pushed a deep drift against a low swell of ground. He probed with his walking staff and couldn’t feel the bottom.

Once he’d stomped out a sunken trail of packed snow to stand on, he took off his snowshoes and stuck one in the drift.

“Nothing fancy,” he said while he used the curved toe of his shoe to scoop out a rough, T-shaped opening through which he’d excavate. “Just big enough we can squeeze in together.”

His back screamed for mercy by the time the hole was big enough to get his shoulders inside. Perspiration dripped off the end of his nose.

“Slow down, Charlie. We mustn’t sweat,” Ms. FitzSimons scolded, working to pull the snow away as he pushed it back to her. “The cave won’t do us any good if we’re soaked to the skin.”

Charlie stopped to catch his breath. Their wool clothing would provide some insulation even when it got wet, but she was right, hypothermia would creep over him fast once he stopped moving.

“There’s not much chance of me staying dry once I have to crawl in there and dig us out enough space to curl up.” Vapor poured from his mouth as he spoke, settling to the ground at once in the frozen air.

“I see your conundrum.” Ms. FitzSimons was on her knees, leaning on the snowshoe she’d been using as a rake. “We’ll have to strip out of our long drawers while we dig, then put them back on before we go in for the night.”

Charlie slapped his knee. “That way we’ll have dry woolies between us and the damp. You’re a mighty wise woman, Ms. FitzSimons.” He gave her his best smile. The one from long ago. The one he usually reserved for Rachel.

“Well then…” she said, tossing him a quizzical look through the fading light.

“Well what?”

“Well, then,” she wagged her head back and forth. “Turn away if you please. I’ll not have you seeing me in the nip with nothing but my tam.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie mused. This woman was a handful. He turned and began the quick, ungainly dance of stepping out of boots, then his outer layers, finally stripping off his wool long johns. The sloppy wet kisses of snowflakes against his bare skin caused him to scramble back into his wool trousers, suspenders, and heavy shirt. He was buttoning his coat when he heard a throaty chuckle from behind him.

He turned to find Ms. FitzSimons holding a small bundle, presumably made up of her unmentionables. A mischievous twinkle said she’d not bothered to turn around herself.

She winked, reading his thoughts. “You never said I should.”

They hung their long johns on the low branch of an aspen tree that looked as bony as Charlie and went back to work.

Charlie chuckled to himself as he dug. Rachel definitely would not approve of this woman.

A half hour later as the last pale shades of gray light faded from a charcoal sky, Charlie planted his snowshoe in a drift beside a dark hole that lead to their new home.

“She’s done,” he said. “It’s tight—hardly enough room to turn over—but she should keep us alive.”

“I find myself indebted to you, Mr. Muldoon.” The mysterious woman pulled the collar of her mackinaw up tight around her neck. “Now, I have a surprise for you.”

Charlie swayed on his feet, lightheaded from the intense labor of moving over a thousand pounds of snow. “What? I don’t have to turn around this time?”

“Mr. Muldoon!” Ms. FitzSimons’ hand flew to her chest in mock embarrassment. “I’ll have none of your shenanigans.” Her chiding over as quickly as it began, she opened up her fist to reveal a Snickers bar. It was Charlie’s favorite.

“This is my surprise,” she said. “A bit of nourishment to warm us from the inside. I’ll split it with you, though from what I saw of your bony self, you could use it more than my broad behind.” She patted her stomach.

Charlie shivered, grinning like a love-struck school boy. He swung his arms in an effort to push warm blood to aching hands. His feet were nothing more than icy lumps at the end of quivering legs. “No matter which way you decide to look this time Ms. FitzSimons, I need to retrieve my woolies. I’m gonna catch my death if I don’t get into something dry.”
“And we wouldn’t want that,” Ms. FitzSimons whispered, dusting the snow off Charlie’s rolled long johns and passing them to him with a soft smile.

“I have one more surprise left in my pocket,” she said after they’d dressed.

Charlie looked at her, afraid to hazard a guess.

“It’s a tiny flashlight off my keyring.” She held it up like a Christmas present. “It’s not much as far as lights go.”

A skiff of wind jostled the trees around the clearing, pushing the two together against the sudden chill. Charlie took her by the arm and guided her toward the cave. “After you, Ms. FitzSimons, I fear there’s a storm blowing our way.”

He shivered so badly he thought he might chip a tooth. Breathing deeply of the icy, metallic air, he shuffled in on hands and knees behind the woman, first dropping down, and then climbing up to the raised sleeping ledge no bigger than a twin bed. The top of his head bumped against her rear end in the blue darkness. She said nothing.

Charlie had raised three boys at the edge of the Montana wilderness and knew a thing or two about digging snow caves. Once finished, the little shelter was amazingly warm, relative to the plummeting temperature outside.

The tiny LED lit the chamber like a torch, bouncing brilliant white light around the rough, oblong dome.

“This side is a wee bit more your size,” Ms. FitzSimons played the light on the far wall. “You’ll have to crawl over top of me, but I believe you’ll fit better.”

Charlie kept his head low to keep from knocking snow from the arched ceiling. Moving on all fours, he worked gingerly across the reclining figure of Marley FitzSimons. Halfway through his journey, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. He was close enough he could smell the sweetness on her breath, see the sheen of moisture on her lips. He paused there for a long moment, him not moving, her not speaking.

“Charlie,” she said at length. It was the first time she’d called him anything but Mr. Muldoon. “You have saved my life, that’s certain. It troubles me to say it, but at my age, I’ve found myself looking up from this position at more than a few men.” Thick lashes fluttered. Her body moved under him. “But I can tell from those kind eyes of yours you’ve never looked down on but one sweet girl.”

The spell broken, Charlie shuffled over next to the wall. Maybe Rachel would approve of this woman after all.

“Well, Ms. FitzSimons,” Charlie said with a sly grin. He situated his weary bones next to the wall. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I just got back into my dry clothes. I don’t think it prudent to get all sweaty again under the circumstances.”

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Muldoon,” she said, scooting her rear end closer so it rested against his thighs. “You may wrap your arms around me if you wish… for warmth.”

“We fit together pretty good this way,” he chuckled. “Like spoons in a drawer, my wife would say.”

“Everyone fits together this way, Charlie.” She switched off the LED throwing the cave into darkness. “Because we’re all spoons of a sort. Though I fear I’ve become more of a ladle in my later years.”

Charlie let his arm slide under her shoulders. He pulled her closer for the warmth she brought him body and soul. “Women with a little meat on their bones are more my style.” His teeth rattled in concert to his shivering. “You just ask my wife.”

“Women like us…” Her whisper was somber in the darkness of the cave. “…we give shade in summer, warmth in the winter… and when we die, you can use our skins to make a boat.”

Charlie rose up on one arm, knocking down a shower of snow. It sent a wet chill down his back. “Hey, where did you get that? That’s what Rachel always says.”

“We’re not much different,” she said, “your Rachel and I. Now…” She gave his hand a gentle pat where it lay across her waist. “Time for you to go to sleep, Charlie.”

Charlie woke up aching all over. Cold air licked him in the face. Snowmelt dripped down the front of his collar. Screaming muscles told him he was still alive, but muffled, disembodied voices said death wasn’t too far away.

………

“Charlie?” The voice sounded low and vaguely familiar. “Charlie Muldoon, you in there?”

More snow hit him in the face. His eyes flicked open in time to see a plastic shovel break through the top of his cave. A brilliant streak of sunlight sent him cringing into the blue shadows. His hand flung out beside him, searching the snow.

“Where is she,” he said, shielding his face from the light.

“Where’s who?” It was that Sedwick boy who worked for the county paramedics.

“Ms. FitzSimons,” Charlie said, beginning to worry. “She was right here.”

“No one here but you, Mr. Muldoon,” the Sedwick boy said.

Charlie felt himself being lifted out of the cave. Had it really come to this? The scrawny little Sedwick boy could lift him so easily.

“Anyone know who he’s talking about?” Charlie heard the boy say.

Rachel was suddenly by his side, holding his hand as they strapped him on a stretcher with warm blankets.

“He’s always had a thing for Maureen O’Hara,” she explained as the paramedics worked. “Her real name was FitzSimons. He must be imagining things.” She bent to kiss him, tears streaking her face. “What were you thinking, you silly, stupid man? You could have died out here.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, his voice sounding far away, even to himself.

He tried to make sense of what had happened as they carried him to a waiting helicopter. Maybe Marley FitzSimons was just a figment of his imagination—but oh, what a lovely figment she’d been. She reminded him of Rachel.

He remembered now, falling asleep thinking of his wife, hoping for the first time in a long time that he might have another few moments on earth with his sweet Rachel.

A movement at the edge of the trees caught Charlie’s eye as they loaded him in the medevac chopper. He smiled weakly when he saw the heavy green mackinaw coat. Ms. FitzSimons had taken off the jaunty tam, showing a full head of fire red hair. She waved, smiling brightly, as the men finished strapping in the stretcher.

“I’ll see you again, Charlie Muldoon.” She blew him a kiss. “But not quite as soon as you think.”

As the title suggests, the principal draw of the book comes from the more than 350 (primarily black and white) family photos, many of which have never before been published. There are interesting and surprising pictures of the author from every stage of his life, starting with photos of him as a child dressed in girl’s clothing, moving on through his time as a wounded young soldier in WWI, stopping to explore his five years in Paris, and, finally, settling on the older, white-bearded “Papa” that most of us probably picture when we hear the name “Ernest Hemingway.”

Ernest Hemingway in 1906: a tiny hunter in the grass. (From Hemingway: A Life in Pictures.)

Aside from photos, the book also reproduces letters and other historical documents such as Hemingway’s birth certificate and his war correspondent card. One of the most revealing documents is the letter from Agnes von Kurowsky—Hemingway’s first love and the basis for the character Catherine Barkley in A Farewell to Arms—in which she tells him, basically, that she doesn’t love him. Nearly as fascinating is a hand-corrected page of text from the manuscript of A Moveable Feast in which he expresses admiration for F. Scott Fitzgerald. These kinds of personal artifacts help humanize the writer, allowing the reader a glimpse through the “man’s man” persona that he tried so hard to cultivate.

As great as the pictures and artifacts are, the confusing structure of the book lets them down a bit. Instead of being set up chronologically straight through (from the beginning of Hemingway’s life to its end) the book is broken into eight thematically specific sections—“An American Childhood,” “Africa, the Last Frontier,” and so on. The information in each section is, indeed, presented chronologically; however, each section only contains information that is linked to that section’s theme. The divisions cause problems when, for example, we’re introduced to Hemingway’s third wife, Martha Gellhorn, on page 52 (in the section on Hemingway’s attraction to war) before we meet his first wife, Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, who doesn’t pop up until page 65 (in the section about Paris). As a relative novice on the life of Hemingway, the text’s scattershot presentation of biographical details left me scratching my head (and pulling up Wikipedia) on more than one occasion.

Ernest Hemingway writing in Paris, 1944. (From Hemingway: A Life in Pictures.)

Personally, I’ve never been a big Hemingway fan; nevertheless, the informative text and candid photos in this book succeeded in making even me feel connected to the man. Learning about—and seeing—his domineering mother and Puritanical, repressed father, for example, helped me understand why he grew into the person he became. And his childhood idolization of Teddy Roosevelt certainly explains a lot about him, too! Devotees of Hemingway will undoubtedly appreciate the treasure trove of previously unseen photos in this engaging tribute to an American literary icon.

Hemingway: A Life in Pictures, a 208-page, oversized paperback book, is available now from Firefly Books.

“Woman in Black Hat” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Woman in Black Hat"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From October 25, 1913

Penrhn Stanlaws was born in 1877 in Dundee, Scotland. A prominent illustrator of the 1910s through 30s, his ladies would show up everywhere from cigarette ads to the covers of Colliers, The Ladies’ Home Journal and The Saturday Evening Post. This 1913 cover was one of his first for the Post, and shows just how sophisticated a doe-eyed young lady could be. As an interesting aside, note where it says at bottom left, “Interview With.” Cut off are the words: Theodore Roosevelt.

“Bouquet of Roses” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Bouquet of Roses"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From May 24, 1924

Typical of the thirty-seven Post covers Stanlaws painted, we have a stylishly dressed, rather haughty lady and a hat to die for. The artist frequently used props (in addition to the dazzling chapeaus) such as bouquets or coffee cups.

About the name: Stanlaws was born Stanley Adamson. His brother, Sydney Adamson, was also an illustrator so Stanley changed his name to avoid confusion. Some might say that it would be difficult to come up with a name as confusing as Penrhyn Stanlaws, however.

“Elegant Lady Drinking Cup of Tea” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Elegant Lady Drinking Cup of Tea"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From February 20, 1926

The pretty teacup punctuates this 1926 painting. This was the year George Burns married Gracie Allen, the dance craze was the Charleston and Harry Houdini died. And elegant ladies wearing dead animals sipped tea.

“Lady in Wide Brimmed Hat” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Lady in Wide Brimmed Hat"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From – March 24, 1928

A reprint favorite, this 1928 cover is elegantly chic. Gift idea: Paired with the 1926 cover above, these two framed prints make a gorgeous wall display.

The ever-interesting Mr. Stanlaws dabbled with more than just paint: he played a key role in building the now historic Hotel des Artistes on West 67th Street in New York and even directed some silent Hollywood films in the 20s.

“Billboard Painters” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Billboard Painters"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From – July 9, 1932

The next time you see a billboard, it might be good to remember the days when they were painstakingly and skillfully hand-painted, a job taking days. The process must have been fascinating to observers. And what a treat to see this chic lady emerge. There is something about the model…could this be the same profile as the lady with the wide-brimmed hat above?

“Woman in Black” by Penrhyn Stanlaws

"Woman in Black"
by Penrhyn Stanlaws
From April 14, 1934

This lady is the very picture of urbanity in black, with white gloves and netted hat. From 1934, this is one of the final covers Stanlaws did for the Post.

The artist passed away in 1957. Note his distinctive signature: the capital “S” is resting in a circle of contrasting color.

For reprint information, contact Janie Mahoney at Curtis Publishing: jmahoney@curtispublishing.com. Questions about Post covers or other archive-related issues should be addressed to Diana at d.denny@satevepost.org, or simply by leaving a comment below.