My father was a passionate man. Whether in his writings (he had three novels published by the early 50's) or art or in his political beliefs, or in the way he enjoyed life, there was no half-way.
His laugh could be heard blocks away. He loved making people laugh and, when his five brothers were around, it was like the Marx Brothers were in town. Pure crazy insanity. At he drop of a hat, he might break into some crazy dance (sometimes, with my mother).
The "Loyalty Oath" was a big deal then. If someone didn't sign, it was very hard to find a job. All kinds of people had to sign them. You couldn't even be a teacher if you didn't sign.
As a kid, it all seemed so stupid to me. If I was some kind of a crook or bad guy or whatever, do you think because I signed a piece of paper I wouldn't continue doing whatever I was going to do?
"Gee, Charlie. We gotta stop! We can't rob this place. We signed that oath thing. Damn, now all our plans are shot. Oh well, let's go home and watch some TV."
As I got older I understood how this was one of many ways some people tried to scare others into not talking or giving their opinions or opposing certain ideas. It was called, The McCarthy Era.
I would run into my share of bullies growing up, but, this was one very, very scary bully. When I was older, I realized that Mr. Richard Nixon was one of the big bullies of the day. Time sure didn't improve him.
My family had friends who lost their jobs and couldn't find work just because they wouldn't answer to a Nixon or a McCarthy and say what they wanted to hear. Some people tried to support candidates who really cared about the rights of others but they didn't seem to have too much luck.
My Dad was the campaign manager for a politician that our family and friends liked. Sometimes, I would go with him in our blue '41 Willys and nail little posters on phone poles. I don't think this was legal but everyone seemed to do it. It was kind of fun and a little scary.
It seemed like everything was a communist front organization. People used to joke that there was a communist under every bed. (In my case, it would have been my brother. We had bunk beds.)
Even the movies played a part in scaring us. It felt like every other film was about outer space and invading creatures or monsters that had radiation on them and crawled out of lakes.
And, we were always having "drop drills" in class. When the teacher yelled, "DROP!" we were supposed to fall on our knees under our desk and put our head on the floor with our hands behind our necks. Or we were supposed sit with our back against the wall with windows above our head.
This was supposed to protect us from a nuclear bomb.
"That way the glass won't hit you in the face," our teacher told us.
After seeing newsreels at the Rivoli Theatre of atom bomb tests where the houses are blown apart and disappear into nothing, I wasn't quite sure how covering my head under my desk was going to do much good.
My dad had a friend who was in the Merchant Marine and worked as a radio operator in World War II. He got into trouble because the radio operator's union was supposed to be a communist front. Anyone who belonged to the New York Boy's Club was also suspect for the same reason.
And the list went on and on.
My father had several blacklisted friends who could no longer write for a living. One good friend was named, Holly. I thought that was funny because he lived in the Hollywood Hills. Sometimes a friend would turn in a writer's script without using their name and pretended that it was their script and collect the money for the writer.
Lives and careers were ruined. Some months later, Holly committed suicide.
A bunch of the probation officers decided they wouldn't sign the loyalty oath. My father was all for the protest and did not sign. Soon after, he found out that a group of officers had chickened out at the last minute and did sign the oath. His boss told him that the best thing he could do to avoid further "problems" was to resign.
For the next few years, I can still remember FBI officers coming to our house. They looked just like they did on TV. Gray suits, hats, short hair, very polite and very scary.
They kept saying they wanted, "names".
So much of what I had learned up until then didn't seem to matter anymore. Freedom of speech and the first amendment were always mentioned at school and yet all that suddenly seemed not to be true.
One cruel trick some friends and I would sometime try was to ask one of our teachers what communism is. Immediately, some excuse was given to avoid answering or, after some stammering or hemming, "We'll have to get into that some other time-now, ah, please, take out your spelling books."
My Uncle Harry was pretty conservative and angry at my father for his thoughts. They would have some pretty loud "conversations". At one point, during an argument, Uncle Harry threatened to "turn my father in."
Co-existing on the same little farm became a lot less friendly. First losing a job and then the threat of some kind of investigation coupled with the loss of a paycheck, made for a very stressful time for my Dad and Mom.
The tensions increased. We didn't have a phone but we used to make calls in Uncle Harry's house which was in the front part of the lot. It was now not only awkward to use the phone but every message or call for my father might be some kind of new "problem."
Weeks went by and it felt like our little acre was now divided into the north and the south. Living together was becoming very difficult. My father kept waiting for the other "shoe to drop".
In the meantime, Uncle Harry increased his weekly ritual of burning stuff in the back of the lot. The fires seemed to get more frequent and more intense.
Then my Dad, who was from a family of seven, decided to write back east to his four brothers and a sister and explain what was going on.
During the next few weeks, letters started arriving for Uncle Harry. I learned latter that these were not friendly, "How ya doin'?" letters. They were all from the brothers about what a terrible thing Uncle Harry was considering. In our family, long distance phone calls were usually reserved for deaths in the family or something worse. But, several calls were placed to Uncle Harry from his brothers.
For a week or so, everything seemed still. It was like in an old movie I saw at the Rivoli Theatre in Van Nuys with Jon Hall. I think it was called, "The Hurricane". Anyway, there was this incredible storm and then it was suddenly quiet and calm.
They said this was the "eye of the storm" and the wild winds would soon return.
I waited for the winds.
But, they never came. The matter just kind of faded away. However, my Mom and Dad realized that it was now time to consider moving. And, then another phone call. And, like I said, it was about death.
My great Uncle Wolfe, an ophthalmologist
who loved to raise birds in large outdoor cages, had died. He left a bit of money for my Dad who was now able to make a down payment on a real house with a tub and a sewer connection and a kitchen in its own room and a back yard and some other neat stuff. It would be quite a few years, making payments on the $9,000 home, before he actually owned it.
I wasn't truly aware of all that was really going on during this time but I did feel the tension and the worry that lived in our house. It wasn't until some years later that I began to understand and appreciate what had actually occurred. I knew that what my Dad did was right and I was always proud of him for sticking to his beliefs and living with the consequences.
Memories sometimes have a way of blurring out the sharp edges leaving imaginary smooth surfaces. I had wonderful times and adventures growing up in the 40's and 50's but it was also a time of many restrictions. It was a period of less tolerance for anything that wasn't kind of vanilla and a certain way.
The partial counterfeit of the times is clearer now. My rose colored glasses now have some dirt on them.
(To be continued)