Pop quiz time.
Guess who is in the photograph. Not the skinny kid on the left with that cheesy Nancy Reagan stare. But the urbane chap on the right.
If any of you know him by his face, I would be shocked. Even though he was, at one point, one of the most powerful men in the federal government. Certainly, a member of the most elite club in Washington.
Please meet Potter Stewart. Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court for almost twenty-three of America's most turbulent judicial years. From the late 50s through the early 80s.
He was my favorite justice on the court during those years. Starting in the summer of 1962. Between the seventh and eighth grade.
I was a political fan in those days. My friend Chad could recite Roger Maris's batting average. I could recite the names of the members of Congress and their district numbers. My mother thought I was a baby step away from playing Rainman.
The Supreme Court names were a snap. Nine men -- they were all men until President Reagan appointed Sandra Day O'Connor to the court, to fill Potter Stewart's seat. With memorable names.
Black. Frankfurter. Douglas. Clark. Harlan. Brennan. Whittaker. Stewart. They could have been the starting lineup for the Cubs.
During the summer of 1962, the Supreme Court issued its decision in Engel v. Vitale -- one of the school prayer cases from the 1960s. Stewart was the sole dissent from the court's decision. But his opinion seemed far more persuasive and reasonable to me than the majority's.
Back then, I suffered from the same type of myopia that clouds the vision of most Americans when they look at the Supreme Court. Most Americans see the court just as another political body imposing its policy will on the nation. Rather than as a body of judges interpreting the law and the Constitution without regard to their personal political agenda.
But there was something more. Something about his reasoning. The Warren Court was slipping into high gear in its "we make up the law as we go along" judicial philosophy.
That was not Stewart's philosophy. He thought the majority was ignoring the intent of the Founder's in its interpretation of the Establishment Clause. And, in the process, the majority was usurping the prerogatives of Congress and the state legislatures.
He applied that philosophy in Griswold v. Connecticut -- where the Supreme Court found a Connecticut statute barring the
use of contraceptives in violation of a "Right to Privacy." Stewart could not go along with the court. Even though he thought the statute was an "uncommonly silly law," he could
not find a "Right of Privacy" in the Constitution. For good reason. It is not there.
He was one of the earliest proponents of "originalism" -- even though the philosophy would not take on that name until the late 1980s.
His moderate pragmatism even caught the eye of the editors of GQ who endorsed him for the presidency in 1968. I would have worked for him -- abandoning the candidate for whom I was working at the time.
He was wise enough to avoid that swamp. He avoided another when Richard Nixon considered nominating Stewart as chief justice in 1969. Instead, he stayed on the court developing a judicial philosophy that some of his successors should review.
The photograph? It was taken the summer of 1970. My college pal John and I, both of us on our way to our political science and history degrees, flew to Washington for an existential pilgrimage.
We met senators and congressmen. And made the usual rounds of monuments and museums.
Before we left, I had arranged an appointment to meet my judicial hero. He was just returning from his vacation in New Hampshire and promised us some time during our week there.
I had already decided that I was going to be a lawyer by that point. If I had not, this visit could have been the deciding point.
The public area of the Supreme Court building has the feel of a temple. But beyond the guards, the chambers of each of the justices has the feel of a combination of priesthood and Renaissance princedom.
The man in the photograph looks as if he could be the president of a midwestern bank. And that is exactly how he came across. No pretension. No paternalism.
He talked to us as if we were intelligent adults. Perhaps his neighbors. Explaining the court's process -- peppered with several fascinating anecdotes. For instance, Felix Frankfurter, one of the most political men appointed to the court, believed so strongly in the separation of powers that he gave up voting when he was appointed to the court.
We exchanged letters over the years. The last one is a letter describing the process to apply as a clerk at the court.
I never followed up on it. In 1979 I graduated from law school and set up a private practice. Less than two years later, he resigned from the court. And died four years after that.
I find it hard to believe he has been gone for thirty years. But the judicial philosophy he promoted still battles on. As long as it does, there will be a refuge for those who respect both the Constitution and the democratic decision-making of the people and their elected officials.
Justice Stewart, you were correct. We do know it when we see it.
"I am going to be in Portland on Wednesday -- at the Grotto. I know you aren't interested in going there, but I would like to see you."
It was my friend, Patti. You met her earlier in coaxing the blues out of the horn. She is currently undergoing a series of chemotherapy treatments for liver cancer.
I knew why she wanted to go to the Grotto (the popular name for The National Sanctuary of Our Sorrowful Mother). "A welcoming presence and beautiful environment conducive to peace, quiet, and spiritual inspiration" -- according to its web site.
It is also a place of pilgrimage for Roman Cathlolics seeking the intercession of Saint Peregrine for illnesses. Especially cancer.
But, for Patti, it was not only a place for intercession. It was a legacy trip. Her mother took her there as a child, just as her grandmother had taken her mother there. Patti was sharing the place with her daughter.
They thought I would not care to go there because I am not Catholic. I am catholic in the sense I believe in the universality of the Christian faith. I am simply not a Roman Catholic.
But, Patti was wrong. I did enjoy the spiritual nature of the place. The grotto -- the carved cave topped with a rather pedestrian copy of Michelangelo's Pieta -- is not noteworthy in any artistic sense. But there is a sense of peace there.
One of the lessons Mexico has taught me is a greater respect for other people's religious practices. Some people find symbols helpful in reaching out to the divine. I have stopped looking at those practices, as I once did, through prejudiced eyes.
Symbols do not work for me. But they are certainly efficacious to others.
That is the same feeling I had while walking with Patti and her daughter. They lit a candle and placed it with the choir of other flames sending petitions to God. And, even though, I did not light a candle, I added my own prayer.
More than that, I enjoyed spending the afternoon with a very special friend who has been a big part of my life for the past thirty-seven years. And will always be.
We are indeed pulling for you, Patti.
Youth can intoxicate us.
The truth of the adage popped up while I was tossing photographs from my 1988 campaign.
This one is a favorite. My district included a large number of mobile home parks. (I learned early that letting the words "trailer park" trip off the tongue would result in a monetary -- and social -- fine amongst park residents.)
Rental fees in the parks had been rising for years. Partly due to increased property tax assessments. And it was causing budget problems for most of the residents.
My opponent had made populist hay out of promises that government would repeal the law of economics on behalf of the residents. As a result, he had cornered one of my natural constituencies -- seniors.
After all, I had clients and friends who owned mobile home parks. And I had plenty of family members and friends who were residents.
The photograph features a meeting I had with my aunt and uncle -- and some of their neighbors -- at their home. Together, we knew we could come up with a solution that preserved everyone's economic liberties.
In the photograph, everyone reflects confidence that everything will turn out right in the end. That is, except me. I look a bit baffled. Far too earnest. Almost overwhelmed.
Compare it to this photograph. I am talking with two gorgeous twins at a fundrasier. They are the daughters of an attorney neighbor. Both of them worked diligently on my campaign.
I cannot tell you what we were discussing. But I certainly seemed a bit more engaged. And I know myself well enough to note that I am that shallow. A moment of beauty will always make me beam.
Of course, that may not be a fault. Mexico has taught me that enjoying the moment is one of life's most rewarding philosophies.
Rather than judging my joy in the second photograph, I wish I could have shown the same life in the first.
My mother thought you might like this birthday photograph.
She has a far better photographic archive of my younger years. This gem comes from one of her albums.
We were living in Eugene when my birthday rolled around. So, there I am. About to blow out the four big candles on my cake.
My brother, Darrel, is trying to help me with my birthday task. And, I am resisting his assistance. I like to think I would be a bit more gracious these days. After all,I might need help to blow out my current forest of candles.
The gentleman to my left is my maternal grandfather -- Daniel Bruce Munro. I am not certain I ever saw him dressed in anything other than a coat and tie. Even when he was working in the garden.
Thanks for the photograph, Mom. In fact, thanks for the gift of life. I hope I have put it to good use.
Sixty-four years ago -- at 5:30 AM -- I made my entrance into this world.
According to my baby book, my arrival was expected to be a bit dramatic. I was situated to appear on stage -- bottom first.
The potential mooning was a portent of my future view on life. But not on that day.
I apparently showed some propriety by righting myself. Leaving the comfort of the womb for the comfort of family and friends. And enjoying every moment of it -- even into my seventh decade.
Rumors to the contrary, this photograph is not how I entered the world. I was actually born clutching a brief case. For some inexplicable reason, I am not holding it. The nurse was probably washing it when the photographer was in the delivery room.
Birthdays are a good time to reflect. But Socrates was not correct. The unexamined life is often worth living.
So, my advice to myself is to keep on accepting the adventures that life has to offer. Wherever that may be. And let other people do the examination for me.
Cleaning out the house has led to a few moments of sentimentality. But there have been far more guffaws.
Yesterday I found this gem. I do not know why it is in a frame. But I know why it is has been so honored. Someone knew irony writ large.
Some readers have been kind enough to compliment my writing style. And everyone appreciates compliments. Even all of those American teenage girls who think they sound like Beyonce instead of Bea Arthur.
But the framed prose was not about writing -- even though the first line would lead you to believe it was. It was about penmanship.
Even though I had been writing stories for the previous three years, I was never very good at penmanship.
Like most Americans, I was introduced to the arcane ways of cursive in the third grade. Whether it was my hand, eye, or mind control, I was never able to copy the rather fascist white strokes on green cardboard that topped our chalk board.
After three months of forcing the right and left sides of my brain to communicate with each other, my technique had not improved. This example is from early 1958. And Miss Romig was obviously not impressed.
Even though I told a compelling tale -- in Hemingwayesque prose -- about Columbus, discovery, and Indians, the best I could get was a 4-. If Miss Romig had been Dr. Romig, my penmanship would have been in intensive care. On death watch.
Of course, she was correct. As penmanship, the piece is a disaster. On the other hand, it is an interesting piece of calligraphy.
It may even be a nascent Saichō. That may explain the frame.
There is a resemblance, isn't there?
In the same way that Russel Crowe's singing voice is similar to Colm Wilkinson's.
I was not going to post this morning. There are still too many areas of the house to be cleaned before can put it on the market.
Then I read Felipe's piece on tombstones. About death, sadness, remembrance.
I have had an essay idea running around in my head since late November. While tossing some old correspondence, I ran across a post card of Timberline Lodge -- a WPA-constructed resort on the slopes of Mount Hood.
At one point, it must have been in a scrapbook. A tattoo of Scotch tape offers a clue.
But I did not keep the card for its artistic value. The note on the other side is what made (and makes) it worth keeping.
It is from my mother and father. The year was 1957. From Portland. Our family was living in Powers at the time. From the address, we must have been staying with my grandparents.
I initially thought the two of them might have been at a logging conference. Logging was the family business back then. But my father had the foresight to see that felling trees offered a limited future -- as are all jobs dependent on natural resources.
That was about the time he decided to move the family to Portland. But that would be a year away.
The card is special because it is one of the few notes I have from him in his handwriting. The message is simple: "Hi, men. I wish you could come up. I miss you a whole bunch. Love, Dad."
I don't remember receiving the card. But three things would have been special to a boy of eight.
His father called him a man.
His father missed him.
His father loved him.
Those are thoughts worth saving. And save them I will.
My father does not have a tombstone. He died in 1996 and was cremated. His ashes sit in my dining room (right next to one of his favorite candy dishes that I doubt has been refreshed since his death). Awaiting some yet-to-be-determined adventure.
No fancy urn or marker for him. His home is the same cardboard box that we received from the crematorium seventeen years ago. Complete with what looks like a UPS label.
He would not have wanted anything more. It reflects perfectly his modesty. And his readiness to pull up stakes.
But he does have a stone -- of sorts. His life lives on in the memories of people who knew and loved him.
And he lives on in a note he sent me (and my brother) fifty-six years ago.
Dad --
You are a man.
I miss you.
And I love you.
