Category Archives: American Presidents

The night Kennedy was elected

ImageOn the evening of November 8, 1960, when the Presidential election was called for John F. Kennedy, my father, Bill Hardy, woke me up, took me outside, pointed to the starry sky above and told me, “This is the dawn of a new era!”

Now that I come to think of it, maybe the reason he woke me up that historic night had less to do with ushering in Camelot and more with getting me to pee in an actual toilet.  I was a chronic bed wetter; for years my parents woke me before going to bed themselves in the off chance that my bed would be dry come morning.  They were dreamers in so many ways.

I trace my interest in politics to that 1960 campaign.    My Dad was teaching at Purdue at the time and Indiana was a very Republican state.   Its long-serving Senator, a Republican, was up for re-election against a Democratic upstart – Birch Bayh.  The name Birch Bayh might sound funny, but, trust me, to an eight year old, the Republican’s name — Homer E. Capehart – was hi-larious.

My understanding of politics was pretty basic back then:  Democrats were good and Republicans were ridiculous at best and evil at worst.  Come to think of it, that’s still pretty much what I l think.  One of the first, indeed, one of the only two songs I have ever written, was about the 1960 senatorial election.    Sung to the tune of “Hey, look me over!” it went like this:

Hey, look me over! I’m your kind of guy!

Vote for Indiana’s own Birch Bayh.

He’s Indiana’s own family man.

With a little of this and a little of that,

He’ll beat that old Republican rat.

My brother Peter and I used to sing this to the general amusement of our parents, although he claims to have no memory of this.   I suppose he thinks he could have done better and perhaps he’s right.  Over the years he has proven himself an accomplished lyricist, while my only other stab at song writing was   in eighth grade —   set to the tune of Beautiful Dreamer and entitled Beautiful Strata,  it featured such rhymes as  ‘strata’ with ‘data’, ‘quartz’ with’ two or three sorts’ and ‘delve’ with ‘Continental Shelf’.  I know.  Don’t quit my day job.

When Kennedy was shot three years later, I was devastated, even once I was disabused of the idea that he was all that was standing between America and Nuclear Winter.  When the Kennedy silver dollar came out a few years later, I had one made into a pendant to wear about my neck – a talisman, an amulet.  So many Kennedys gone now, including the little boy saluting his father’s casket as the funeral procession rolled by – but JFK was my first and his loss, the hardest to bear.

I eventually stopped wetting the bed, but I never outgrew my belief in the possibility of Camelot.  Feet of clay notwithstanding, I have my heroes: FDR, JFK, RFK, MLK and now Obama. They are my father’s heroes as well and we cling to them as we would the wreckage of a foundering ship on a high sea.  For, you see, hope floats and  it’s one of the only things that does.

The Presidents Project

constitutionMy father, Bill Hardy, moved into a nursing home this year.   His mind continues sharp, but his body has long passed its Best Before date; he is frail and his infirmity envelops him in a sound-dampening blur that it is sometimes difficult to penetrate . . . but always worth the effort. He has things to say.

We had hoped for a private room for him, but have had to make do with a shared space. Fortunately his roommate – a shadowy figure named Pete – leaves first thing in the morning to return at lights out.  No one knows where he goes.  Well, I suppose someone knows where he goes, but we prefer to keep his peregrinations cloaked in mystery.  The only words Dad says to him are, “Goodnight, Pete!”

Pete has yet to reply.

Remembering the big house on Tenney Circle, it’s hard to imagine Dad in such a small space, but the truth is he takes up very little room these days.   When I call him, he always says, “It’s very quiet here.” We both lament the political morass in Washington and, increasingly, in Raleigh, declaring that, “It’s just not fun anymore!”  Then he goes on to tell me about the audio book  that he, a seven-time novelist, is currently listening to.  Increasingly, it’s history.  “I find myself drawn more and more to history these days,” he told me last week. “I suspect you understand that.”

I have always been a history bluff.  I was one history course short of a double major in History and English at UNC and did my graduate work in Early Church History at the University of Toronto.  What I never found very interesting, however, was American History.

The Tea Party changed all that.  I found their constant harping on the Founding Fathers and the almighty Constitution particularly noisome because I was in no position to argue with them.  Everything I knew about the beginning of our country, I learned in public school, which I can reproduce for you here:   “Bunker Hill. Paul Revere. Lexington and Concord.  At some point the Delaware gets crossed. God knows why. Fast forward to the Liberty Bell and the next thing you know, the British are burning the White House. No, wait. That was later.”      It irked me that I could not counter the doubtless specious arguments of these know-nothings and when I am irked, I take action. Book action.

Enter, The Presidents Project.  A year ago I committed myself to reading (or, to be more accurate) listening to someone else read a biography of each American President in sequence. (I retain information better if I can knit, drink and listen simultaneously.  It’s a learning style.)  Thus far, I have made it through James K. Polk, who, I have to say,  was as mind-numbingly dull as his one term presidency was momentous (the acquisition of the American Southwest and the Oregon territory – hello!).  ( In the interest of full disclosure, however, I must confess that there were some Presidents who were such clunkers that, out of’s over 150,000 audiobooks, they don’t rate a book — I’m talking about you, Martin Van Buren, William Henry Harrison and John Tyler.)

Nevertheless, eleven (more or less) down, thirty three to go! I’m stoked!

This is the thing about history.

When we are young, we loom large on the stage of life.  Or at least that’s how we perceive it.  Our personal dramas preoccupy us.  Everything  matters.  As we grow older, it is the stage that grows large and we who grow small. My father sits in his chair in his half of a small room in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, cocooned in frailty, and contemplates this.  I sit on my bed in Port Stanley, Ontario cocooned with dogs – his and mine — and do the same.  We are both, at our different rates, fading away, growing smaller, gazing back to where we have been —  as Hardys, as North Carolinians, as Americans  — and asking ourselves, “What was that, really?” and “Is that how that happened? I never knew.”

The Founding Fathers, though possessed of a kind of collective genius, were flawed men, motivated by self-interest to set up society in ways that would best serve them.  Nor did they consider the Constitution tantamount to the Ten Commandments, that is to say, set in stone by the power carver finger of God. Thomas Jefferson was a big fan of viewing the Constitution as a living document. Among the many statements he made to this effect was this in 1825 in a letter to Edward Livingston, “Time and changes in the condition and constitution of society may require occasional and corresponding modifications.”   Yeah, like when ‘arms’ stopped meaning ‘muskets’ and started meaning ‘assault weapons’ and when ‘people’ stopped meaning ‘white male landowners’ and started meaning ‘everybody’.

The fact is, if you are a middle class North American, now might not be so great, but then really sucked.  Do you really want to churn your own butter and die in childbirth? I’d bet you anything that George Washington would have preferred modern dentures over those made with slave teeth. And what about outhouses?  Outhouses alone would be a deal breaker for me.  So why, Tea Baggers, why do you want to go back?

Because you’ve confused the Founding Fathers with the twelve disciples of Christ, and the Constitution with the Bible, and the early days of the country with the early days of the church . . . which  is particularly ironic since Jesus’s posse was no less flawed than the Founding Fathers, the Bible was written over a millennium by multiple authors, and the early days of the Christian Church were far from halcyon.  Never mind outhouses.  Try being a human torch to light one of Nero’s games or a fresh snack for his lions.   And you believe this  because you don’t know history.  Trust me,  if you did, it would scare the Jesus out of you, much less the be-Jesus.

So, yes, Dad, it’s very quiet here.  And, yes, Mom, there are a whole lot of stupid people out there doing big things.