Lawyer Oscar Ewing, Federal Security Administrator, is the principal Government salesman of the compulsory-health-insurance idea in the U.S.

May 28, 1949—For the eighth time in 10 years the American people are being urged to let the Government pay their doctors for them, with money collected from the American people. The system is called compulsory health insurance, and the theory is that everybody who doesn’t have enough medical care today will surely have it tomorrow, because the Government will see to it that he does.

Between theory and practice there is a tremendous gap, much of which is currently being filled with arguments. Many of them fall in a familiar groove, but they are pitched this time against a more substantial background than heretofore, namely, the actual experience of 48 million residents of Great Britain under a comprehensive National Health Service. The scheme entitles everyone in Britain, visitors as well as citizens, to all medical, dental, and hospital care at the expense of the taxpayers.

Curiously, Britain is being called to give testimony for both sides of the American controversy. Many of those who want compulsory health insurance cite the British plan as a shining example for us to follow. Their opponents, including the American Medical Association, point to the same program as a warning of dire things to come if we adopt any Government-directed system and propose, instead, an extension of voluntary health insurance, with financial help from state and Federal governments.

What is the story? Should Britain’s 11 months of nationalized medicine—socialized if you use the broad definition of that term—cause us to embrace or reject the compulsory plan so insistently advanced by President Truman, Federal Security Administrator Oscar R. Ewing, and the Wagner-Murray-Dingell group in Congress? In this article we shall look for an answer by examining the Administration’s health insurance plan in the light of the British experience.

The explanation for the two-way character of the British evidence is that, where there are as many people of intelligence and good will as one finds in England, no plan for the care of the sick will be a 100 percent failure—at least not at first. Most people are willing to give it a sporting chance. Even the British doctors, while swearing under their breath—and sometimes audibly—at Minister of Health Aneurin Bevan and the scheme which he and Parliament pushed through over their opposition, are trying sincerely to make it function. And certainly the majority of the working people—whose purchasing power has for years been much below that of Americans at comparable jobs—welcome a form of medical care supported mainly by taxes on the middle- and upper-income groups.

Yet it is highly significant that nearly everyone with whom I talked in England had some reservations about the scheme. People felt that too many were abusing it and thus jamming the traffic in the doctors’ offices, that many physicians were being overworked and underpaid, that dentists and eyeglass dispensers were making a killing, that the administrative machinery was cumbersome, slow, and inefficient. Even one of the government’s own regional officers remarked that “most people would not be so mad as to take over such a large thing all at once.”

The temptation to buy the whole package at one time is very great in this period of increasing dependence on government. In fact, the first danger in any proposal for government medicine lies in the ease with which it can be glamorized. Like the bodybuilding courses that come with a pair of 25-pound dumbbells, it looks magnificent on paper. Unfortunately, the result is usually far short of the pictorial promise in the advertisement. The dumbbell system has one advantage, though. If, after a few weeks, you are dissatisfied with your rate of deltoid development, you can stow the dumbbells in the attic and forget them. State medicine is not so easily shucked off, once you have installed it.

A good many of the British people admit they bought Bevan’s system a bit too hastily, and they now confess to a feeling of disillusionment. They had been won over by the bright promises of everything for everybody. Now that the scheme has been in operation almost a year, their enthusiasm has dimmed.

Three North of England women expressed this reaction in strikingly similar terms. Said a hospital superintendent, “I was for the plan, but this transitional period sometimes makes you wonder if it is worth while.” Then she added, “But I do think it will work out eventually.”

A miller’s wife, formerly a nurse, remarked, “I thought beforehand that nationalization of the hospitals would be good, but now that I’ve seen how it works out, I think I was wrong. … The county hospitals are operating 10 automobiles where they were running only one before. … Everybody feels he must get what he can out of the government before someone else does.”

And a woman doctor, brushing a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes as she signed a sheaf of certificates and orders, confessed, “I was for the plan, but now we family doctors seem to be in danger of becoming simply form fillers and traffic officers, shunting people to this hospital or that specialist.”

Some of the British criticism of the National Health Service is bound up in a growing dislike of the whole idea of the welfare state, in which food, housing, fuel, and now medical care are at least partially provided by the government.

One of England’s leading medical scientists, head of an important government council, feels so strongly on this point that he told me, “If I were a young man in England today, I would get out and go somewhere else. I don’t object to seeing that the poor get enough to eat,” he said, “but why should I be taxed to the limit to put bread in the mouth of the employed worker, who should work hard enough and be paid enough so that he can buy his own food without heavy subsidies?” The comment is frequently heard in England that so much subsidizing is destroying the people’s initiative.

While the British health program differs in details from the compulsory health-insurance measure of Senators Robert F. Wagner and James E. Murray; and Congressman John Dingell; and their cosponsors, the two plans are cut on the same basic pattern. Both spread the wings of government-directed medicine over all or nearly all of the population. Both lean heavily on central government authority. And both are compulsory in that all wage earners and taxpayers must pay for the services, whether or not they approve them or make use of them.

The out-patient Department of New York's Presbyterian Hospital. Would these people get better or worse care under a national health program?

The scope of the new Wagner-Murray-Dingell bill is not quite so broad as that of Bevan’s plan, since the former would cover only those under Social Security, with a few additional categories. But the trend is to broaden Social Security to take in almost everyone. “We aim to have everyone who is the head of a family become taxable,” explains Mr. Dingell, “so that he and all his dependents under 18 would be entitled to benefits. … Why, this is the most liberal proposition in the world.”

Many of Mr. Dingell’s opponents think his bill is far too liberal. Why, they ask, should tax-supported medical care be offered to everyone, the $10,000-a-year man as well as the family getting along on $1,500? The coverage of government medicine is one of the crucial issues of the whole controversy. Both sides agree that no one who needs medical care should be denied it because he is unable to pay. The opponents of compulsory insurance maintain that it is in the American tradition that those who are able to care for themselves and their families should not lean on government for help. The Wagner-Murray-Dingell group maintain it is too hard to determine who is able to care for himself and who isn’t, and that the easiest and fairest way is to make medical care freely available to everyone on the basis of compulsory wage deductions.

Mr. Dingell recalls that his own family lacked means for adequate medical care when he was a boy. “I contracted diphtheria,” he said, “at a time when it cost 25 dollars a shot for anti-toxin. My family couldn’t afford that, and I guess I was one of the very few who pulled through without it.”

He declares that he has seen people refused admission to hospitals because they had no money, and he cites the case of a man brought in from the street in Detroit with third-degree burns. “Because no one, including the policeman who brought him in, could insure the fellow’s bill,” Dingell said, “the patient was turned away from one hospital and had to be carried clear across town to the city receiving hospital. Under a system in which every hospital knew the Government would pay every patient’s bill, this would not have happened.”

December 9, 1944—Your recent doctor’s bills probably shared the envelope with a leaflet warning you against “socialized medicine.” The leaflet, sponsored by the National Physicians Committee, explains that, if anything like the Murray-Wagner-Dingell Social Security Bill passes, doctors will become state jobholders with no more personal interest in your tonsils than could be expected of the clerk of bills at the city hall. Friends of the medical-care sections of the Wagner Bill protest that the National Physicians Committee doesn’t really represent the docs, but the fact remains that your family doctor, who is wearing himself out by his efforts to spread medical care as far as he can, thinks his number is up.

Right or wrong, this is what most doctors think, and if you doubt it, the thing to do is ask your doctor. He will probably talk your arm off, but after all you get a $250 amputation for nothing. I can testify that there is no better way to outlast the other patients in the waiting room of a doctor’s office than to stop saying “Ah” long enough to introduce some such line as this: “Doctor, I heard on the radio the other night where a fellow was explaining that only reactionaries were against this Wagner Bill.” I have tried this topic on all sorts of doctors, from orthopedists to the plain general practitioner (G.P. Joe, as I suppose he will be known from now on). The result is practically always the same. My researches indicate:

1. That American doctors are against socialized medicine or any modification thereof which subordinates them to bureaucrats, makes them salaried officials, or interferes with their professional standards.
2. That American doctors are definitely interested in making medical care available to more people, and in plans to pay doctors’ bills on the insurance principle—provided such plans are nonpolitical.

The fact that any group should want anything else is a complete mystery to the doctor. He is driving himself at top speed to meet the demands on him, and is baffled by sociologists who think he could trot from bed to bed faster, if only the Federal Government would take over. Caught off guard, he is likely to give you something like this:

“You pay for your groceries, give the landlord his monthly check, and pay the undertaker a fabulous sum to bury you. But just let the doctor identify a strep infection in time, fix you up with the proper sulfa drug, and send you a bill for $28, and down you sit to write to your congressman demanding that doctors be sovietized and medical expenses subsidized by the state. I don’t get it.”

You say, if he hasn’t shut your face with a clinical thermometer: “But, doctor, there are a lot of people who simply can’t pay medical bills. Furthermore, even the average middle-class man with a good salary is knocked for a loop if he is hit by a $500 operation that keeps him from work for a couple of months. Nobody is blaming the doctor or expecting him to support his patients when they are flat on their backs. The problem is to find a way to help people pay for medical care, so that the doctor won’t have to treat the poor for nothing, hoping against hope to land enough rich men who don’t mind paying $2,000 to have an appendix lifted.”

Of course, your doctor hasn’t been listening. He has been waiting for you to stop talking, maybe snapping a nose elevator in the air to calm his nerves.

“You mention the people we treat free in clinics. Do you know what will happen to them under state medicine? In our clinic they get the attention of the best men in the profession. When Wagner and Murray get through with medicine, no doctor of any standing will ever see such a patient. Why? Simply because there will be a fee attached, and you can be pretty sure that some shyster with a brother-in-law at the city hall will grab all those cases.”

“All right, all right,” you interrupt, pushing aside the stethoscope, “but something has got to be done.”

“Sure,” agrees the doc, “but understand at the outset that you are dealing with the services of highly trained professional men and not with something you can dish out over the counter at the supermarket, or, if the customers can’t pay, through the Surplus Commodities Corporation.”

Let’s not assume from all this that the doctor has done nothing to meet new conditions. Actually, he has done quite a lot to put himself on a semi-collective basis. The individual doctor can no longer afford to equip himself with all the expensive machines and gadgets used in modern practice. If he lives in a city, he probably works around a hospital where he can treat his very sick patients and consult with other doctors on cases that puzzle him. If he is a country doctor, he does the best he can. Doctors have for years grouped themselves together to feed an assembly line of diagnosis and treatment without benefit of politicians. The trouble is that relatively few laymen can afford this attention. Some crotchety doctors think the patient isn’t missing much.

Because modern medical care is expensive, we have free clinics, special arrangements for the middle-class poor, and a gradual extension of treatment in hospitals at standard prices. Recently, a writer in Medical Economics protested that hospitals were providing too much medical care administered by salaried doctors and thus presenting a menace worse than “socialized medicine.” Obstetrics at flat rates, X-ray treatments, salaried anesthetists, and tonsillectomies “packaged to include surgical as well as hospital costs in one fee” were among the marketing schemes complained of. “It is time the medical profession prepared to defend the stand to which it gives lip service,” said the article. “It takes more than strong language at the AMA meeting once a year to turn the tide. We are approaching a day when physicians will be merely a class of skilled laborers, readily hired and fired by their community medical centers.”

To the man in the doctor’s waiting room this sounds like the corner grocer worrying about the supermarket. The layman is indifferent to the dilemmas of doctors because he isn’t familiar with them. At any rate, he was before the National Physicians Committee began its campaign to tell the customers how state medicine would affect them. The committee reports that its surveys reveal a trend away from socialized medicine as a result of the family doc’s mild words in his own behalf.

The patients never wanted state medicine anyway, but only some sort of prepayment scheme which would make it possible for a man of modest income to pay his own medical bills. Actually, the doctors want this too. They welcome patients who carry health insurance and many of them encourage and participate in group-insurance and group-medicine plans. But they don’t want a system, like that proposed in the Wagner Bill, in which the qualifications of doctors, educational standards, and the right to specialize in practice are determined by a board headed by the Surgeon General.

Because he isn’t much on politics, the doctor messed up his case pretty badly at first. Consequently, he got himself sued under the antitrust laws and pictured to the untutored as a leech who translates the oath of Hippocrates into English as “Never give a sucker an even break.” Actually, every man knows that his own doctor is a faithful and hard-working practitioner whose personal convenience is always at the mercy of his most capricious patient. We all know doctors who perform endless labors for nothing and treat the indigent as faithfully as their few wealthy customers. But so bad have been medical public relations that advocates of state medicine have succeeded in creating a doctor who doesn’t exist at all—a cold, calculating, selfish, reactionary politician whose object is to keep a very few people just well enough to pay exorbitant bills, but not healthy enough to dispense with the doctor. That picture, however, is changing. People are coming to find the bedside manner of Wagner, Murray, and Dingell a little unctuous.

The doctors have more to do—and I’m passing this along to the next doctor who treats me, if the door is handy—and that is to understand a little more fully than some of them do now that the public is not much interested in socializing them, but is genuinely concerned with the costs of medical care as a real problem in the lives of most people. Pari passu, the social planners may as well climb down from their high horse and interest themselves in the development of medical care on evolutionary lines, and by doctors, instead of a device to make doctors into political functionaries, thereby making the lot of the patients, including the poor ones, worse instead of better.

“Fixing a Flat” by Norman Rockwell

August 6, 1946

How to put together a cover for The Saturday Evening Post: First, get an idea and run it by the art director for approval. Second, find the setting for the scene. Locating a ramshackle cabin in Vermont proved difficult, so Rockwell found a nicely kept hunting lodge and, to say the least, took liberties.

Next, borrow a couple of goats from a neighbor. Finally, choose your models. The lazy, good-for-nothing onlooker on the porch was a friend of the artist who was nothing like the shiftless character portrayed here. The young ladies were daughters of friend and fellow cover artist, Mead Schaeffer. And the landscape? It sprang from the imagination and palette of the artist. “You just couldn’t make it look like Vermont,” Rockwell said, “because in Vermont, they’d yelp.”

“Convention” by Norman Rockwell

May 3, 1941

Rockwell liked faces with “character,” so this pretty young lass is atypical of his models. The scene is somewhat atypical as well—a big city convention. First jobs often consist of being a babysitter or a soda jerk, but a coat rack? Can she remember which black umbrella went with which gentleman?

“The Charwomen” by Norman Rockwell

April 6, 1946

Certainly Rockwell was loved for his paintings of children, but what other illustrator would think of painting two elderly charwomen? Typical Rockwell touches include the minute detail of the patterns on the aprons, a well-worn mop handle, and an environment less than “perfect”—a little debris here and there. That was part of Rockwell’s brilliance—so many artists “cleaned up” the setting, even of kids playing outside.

The ladies in question were well-respected neighbors of the artist, who had reservations about posing as cleaning ladies. Rockwell convinced them they were only acting, and they played their roles very well. They were delighted with the result and said they would pose any time without arguing about the roles to be played. It wasn’t always thus. One matron was “Rockwellized” as a portly maid and never spoke to him again.

“The Flirts” by Norman Rockwell

July 26, 1941

A gorgeous blonde in a convertible? How can it not be love at first sight? Stopped at a red light (which we see reflected in the truck’s mirror), a trucker picks petals to determine if “she loves me” or “she loves me not.” A few questions spring to mind: why did the guy just happen to have a daisy on hand, and how did the lady keep her hat on—never mind her hair perfect—driving an open car? And why, oh why have people complained that this cover is an example of sexual harassment? Oh, please! It’s clearly all in the spirit of fun! (Geez, I thought the blonde in the convertible needed to lighten up…)

Two unique things about this cover: This was the first cover where the artist just used his streamlined initials instead of his full name, and Rockwell played with the masthead as part of the truck signage.

“The Decorator” by Norman Rockwell

March 30, 1940

Another cover that doesn’t look “like a Rockwell.” Hubby’s favorite chair may be in for a bit of spring brightening up, and he may not be pleased with the idea. Or maybe he just wants to enjoy his sports page and pipe in peace.

“First Evening Gown” by Norman Rockwell

March 19, 1949

Far from home in Vermont in late 1948, Rockwell rented a studio while visiting sunny California. Only it wasn’t. That particular winter was rainy, and the poor natural lighting in the studio frustrated the artist to the point that he kept taking this painting into the men’s room to review it in better light. The result, despite the problems, is a delightful bobby soxer checking out her first gown. Somewhere there must be a mother grateful to see the dungarees, loafers and socks disappear, if only for an evening.

“Second Thoughts” from August 16, 1947

"Second Thoughts"
August 16, 1947

Norman Rockwell painted many Saturday Evening Post covers featuring kids in everyday situations, beginning in 1916. Still going strong in the 1940s, the artist remained a master at capturing youth.

“Second Thoughts” from August 16, 1947

"Second Thoughts"
from August 16, 1947

Striving for realism, Rockwell took a long board and stuck it out of a second story window. Then he told son Peter, “I want you to crawl out onto that board and look scared.” Rockwell models became adept at acting a part. Peter was not acting; he was terrified.

“We’re all on diving boards, hundreds of times during our lives,” Steven Spielberg said in a 2010 article in The Oregonian. “Taking the plunge or pulling back from the abyss…is something that we must face. For me, that painting represents every motion picture just before I commit to directing it—just that one moment, before I say, ‘Yes, I’m going to direct that movie.” Hmm, maybe we should all have this one on our walls.

“The Census Taker” from April 27, 1940

"The Census Taker"
from April 27, 1940

In 1790 the U.S. Government decreed that a census be taken every ten years to keep track of the ever-populating land called America. In 1940, this census taker shows up with his big black book to interview an ever-populating housewife. She appears to be much like the old woman who lived in a shoe, with so many children she didn’t know…how to recall all their birth dates. Or perhaps she’s even trying to remember just how many cute little red-haired moppets there are!

“Home From Camp” from August 24, 1940

"Home From Camp"
from August 24, 1940

Just as they do today, droves of youngsters in the 1940s made their way to camps for an outdoor adventure. This particular one came home with everything except the cabin, making it a perfect vehicle for Rockwell’s passion for detail. She seems sad to leave the friends she made and get back to real life, where it remains to be seen if Mom and Dad will go along with the critters she collected.

“Devil May Care” from March 21, 1942

"Devil May Care"
from March 21, 1942

Rockwell and his wife were not blessed with girls, so the artist must have located a young lady’s vanity among his neighbors. The background is even pink to emphasize that this is girl territory. Rockwell did have three boys, however, and this was one of them. If young Tommy Rockwell did have a sister, no doubt the little scamp would be having a ball sneaking a peek at her diary for the juicy stuff.

“Cover Girl” from March 1, 1941

"Cover Girl"
from March 1, 1941

People often call after finding old issues of the Post, thinking they’ve uncovered a gold mine. They often forget that for many decades, it was printed by the millions, and then the would-be nouveau riche take our advice and troll the Internet for sites that sell vintage magazines. They are disappointed to find an issue they thought was old (1940s, for example) may go anywhere from $4.95 to $25.00. On occasion, up to $75.00. With the exception of this issue.

Sure it has an adorable Rockwell cover, but that isn’t why this is the most sought-after issue of the Post. If you can find it, be prepared to pay over $1,000 because of its rarity. And the rarity is because of the groundbreaking Jack Alexander story, “Alcoholics Anonymous.” AA had been showing striking success in the past six years (since its founding in 1935) in achieving sobriety for the “medically helpless.” Thousands of reprints were requested and the article was key to spreading the idea that alcoholism is a disease rather than a character flaw. (Read more about the “Alcoholics Anonymous” article here.)

Groundbreaking story and issue rarity aside, back to our man Rockwell with his Saturday Evening Post cover-within-a-Post-cover. Leave it to Norman to show how yellow socks and scuffed oxfords contrast with perfect make-up and a sophisticated chapeau.

Norman Rockwell “the Artist” – February 13, 1943

Norman Rockwell the Artist
From February 13, 1943

“The Gossips” From March 5, 1948

"The Gossips"
From March 5, 1948

A great illustration tells a story, and we all know this tale. Don’t you hate when someone starts a rumor about you? Well, it happened to Rockwell and he didn’t like it one bit. But he had a weapon: a paintbrush and a platform viewed by millions: The Saturday Evening Post cover spot.

It’s fun to look at the expressions: some appalled, some relishing the scandal. Afraid he might offend his neighbors/models (love the lady in curlers and the guy in the bowler hat), Rockwell included his wife and himself among the rumor spreaders. Mary Rockwell is second and third in the middle row and Norman is at the end, first with a “Who? ME?!” expression, then giving what-for to the lady who started it all.

“Rosie the Riveter” From May 29, 1943

"Rosie the Riveter"
From May 29, 1943

We’ll review Rockwell’s covers from the war years soon, but for now—what can be more classic than Rosie the Riveter? With the men fighting the war, women had to step up to the plate and keep factories, farms and offices going at home and this gal looks more than capable. She may have a dirty face, muscles and a crushed copy of Hitler’s “Mein Kampf” under her sensible shoe, but she’s still a girl at heart. A compact and ladylike hanky peak out from one pocket.

“The Babysitter” From November 8, 1947

"The Babysitter"
From November 8, 1947

No babies were harmed in the creation of this cover. In fact, the baby was too darned happy. After some search, Rockwell borrowed a big, strapping baby boy to paint from a neighbor. The artist wanted a big lusty wail, but Post editors inform us that “the baby was as good-natured as a kitten full of milk; he wouldn’t even frown.” The babysitter sat and waited. The artist sat and waited. They gave the boy a cookie and the uncooperative little sod was happier than ever.

Eventually, the tot dropped the cookie and let out a brief yell. Ready with his camera, Rockwell got the shot and had a photo of a squalling kid to paint from so he could finish his artwork. It was the only peep they had out of the baby the whole time.

This is a prime example of Rockwell’s enthusiasm for detail. The attention to the minutiae of the chair pattern and wallpaper is almost enough to make the viewer dizzy. It is easy to miss items like the open geometry book and soft drink the beleaguered lass may never get back to by the lamp. And ever the storyteller, the artist shows us that nearly everything has been tried: rattles, a bottle, a bear, a doll, a coloring book. Let’s hope her booklet, “Hints to the Babysitter,” has something useful to offer—and soon!

“The Three Umpires” From April 23, 1949

"The Three Umpires"
From April 23, 1949

There is a game riding on the weather-related decision these umpires are making. The Pittsburgh Pirates are ahead 1-0 in the sixth inning. The Brooklyn Dodgers, at home here at Ebbets Field, stand to lose if the game is called on account of rain.

Post editors speculated on the conversation between the guys to the right. They figure Brooklyn coach, Clyde Sukeforth, pointing at the sky, is declaring, “You may be all wet, but it ain’t raining a drop!” Whereas the huddled figure of Pittsburgh manager Bill Meyer is probably saying, “For the love of Abner Doubleday, how can we play ball in this cloudburst?”

“The Correct Time” From November 3, 1945

"The Correct Time"
From November 3, 1945

The giant clocks at what was then Marshall Field and Company in Chicago suggested a cover idea to a visiting gentleman named Rockwell. The two massive bronze clocks were electric and controlled by a master, so it was only after a power outage that a workman had to get out the tall ladder, climb the 17 ½ feet and set the hands. It is probably artistic license that this gent is synchronizing the time with his trusty old pocket watch.

For many years, Chicagoans have depended on the time display as they scurry back and forth. Apparently, they weren’t the only ones. To the left and above the 9, Rockwell suggests that the intricate scrollwork was also convenient for birds to build nests.

“The Dugout” From September 4,1948

"The Dugout"
From September 4,1948

Rockwell wasn’t the only artist to paint memorable baseball covers. John Falter’s wonderful cover of Stan the Man and others can be seen in “Great Post Baseball Covers.” But “The Dugout” from 1948 has to be one of Rockwell’s classics. It wasn’t a good year for Chicago baseball, with both the Cubs and the White Sox having a dismal season. This Post cover did nothing to boost the morale of Windy City fans.

At a game in Boston, Rockwell and a Post art editor strode onto the field and chose people to sit above the Cubs’ dugout. The artist would point to a spectator and contort his face into a gleeful or disgusted look asking the fan to emulate him while a photographer snapped them. Later, Rockwell would paint them in, raspberries and all. The happy ones were, not surprisingly, Braves fans: the delighted woman to the left was the daughter of a Braves coach and the lady clutching her hands a few faces over was the wife of a Boston pitcher. (Yes, in 1948, it was the Boston Braves, before they became the Milwaukee Braves, and eventually, the Atlanta Braves.) The Cubbies were actual players (and their manager, second from left in the dugout, living up to his name: Charlie Grimm) and this was an actual Sunday afternoon double header.

“Inn in Ogunquit” – John Falter

"Inn in Ogunquit"
John Falter
August 2, 1947

Post cover artist John Falter spent many vacations at this inn in Ogunquit, Maine, and we are told he painted it very true to life. The older folks have prime seats in their porch rockers for watching the parade of characters heading to the beach.

“4-H Fair” – Stevan Dohanos

"4-H Fair"
Stevan Dohanos
August 28, 1948

It wouldn’t be summer without the 4-H fair. This 1948 scene is also set in Maine, but by another great cover artist, Stevan Dohanos. The editors informed readers it was “the Skowhegan State Fair, a time-tested Maine recreation which claims to be the oldest fair in the land. Founded in 1819, the fair has been held every year since, without a break,” even in wartime. Here’s a pop quiz: What are the 4 “Hs”? (Answer at the end.)

“On Leave” – Norman Rockwell

"On Leave"
Norman Rockwell
September 15, 1945

This is my favorite summer cover. A lot of returning WWII soldiers were happily pulling hammock duty as in Rockwell’s 1945 cover. The artist borrowed the house from one neighbor, the hammock from another, and the dog from his son. An idyllic sun-dappled day of pure relaxation—and we wish many such blissful days for our troops returning today.

“Rainy Day at Beach Rental” – Stevan Dohanos

"Rainy Day at Beach Rental"
Stevan Dohanos
July 31, 1948

Alas, not every summer day is sun-dappled; some are rain-drenched. Artist Dohanos had his friends pose for him with the sun shining brightly in Martha’s Vineyard. He took the painting home to Connecticut, sure that the whole summer would be sunny and bright. But “I had a marvelous break,” he said. “It rained for three days straight. I could go out any hour of the day and get rain research.” One man’s nuisance is another man’s “rain research.”

“Tan Lines” – Albert W. Hampson

"Tan Lines"
Albert W. Hampson
September 27, 1941

The pretty lady in this 1941 cover is learning a lesson relearned summer after summer. Tan lines and party dresses don’t mix. I love the pretty details on the vanity table.

“Housepainter and Bird’s Nest” – Stevan Dohanos

"Housepainter and Bird’s Nest "
Stevan Dohanos
May 12, 1945

This is one of those situations where you’re an artist and you hire a guy to paint your house—and the guy ends up posing for you as a house painter. You know, one of those situations. The idea of the bird’s nest was the artist’s, but the house painter confirmed he had run into the situation many times. The painter (house painter, not the cover painter) said he always tried to give the birds as much leeway as possible, carefully returning the nest to it’s proper spot. The artist, Stevan Dohanos, noted: “I found out that the overalls he was wearing had just escaped being washed the day before. That would have been tragic, because it would have made them spotless and taken away that typical bag in the seat.” Well, what do you expect from a guy who does “rain research”?

“Willie Gillis in Church” by Norman Rockwell

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

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

“Willie Gillis on KP” by Norman Rockwell

"Willie Gillis on KP" by 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

"Willie Gillis’ Package from Home" by 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, 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, 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, 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.