Category Archives: Television

The Flood of History

Posted on by under 1950s, Books, Cold War, Communism, e-books, fallout, Fiction, flood, history, missile race, Novel, space, spies, suspense, Television

It is the late 1950s, and the Andersen family is at war with itself. As back-to-back hurricanes ravage the rural town of Pennsboro, the family suffers an irredeemable loss. Georgia becomes mired in a haze of medication and TV. Marsh retreats into work and fantasies of the redhead next door. Wil, a precocious boy with a fondness for a girl with almond eyes, suspects his parents are possessed by the aliens from his favorite movie.

Adding to their private grief is the collision of consumerism and the Cold War, and the rising threat of Soviet missiles that may render obsolete America’s last hope for defense, the newly completed Distant Early Warning Line. With the launch of Sputnik, the family’s anguish comes to a head.

As the Andersens watch the first man-made satellite write history across the sky, they wonder if they, and the world, will ever find peace. Inspired by true events, Distant Early Warning portrays the fears and dreams of a generation as it navigates the promise and perils of mid-century America.

Central to the story is the Flood of ’55, which devastated the Atlantic seaboard from Pennsylvania to Connecticut. Our family was lucky. While the backyard flooded, the house, located a mile from the rampaging creeks, managed to stay dry. when the rain ended, my father piled me in the car for a view of the destruction. I would later call it the disaster tour.

Given that I’d interviewed countless survivors during my time as a journalist, the opening chapter of Distant Early Warning felt as if I were chest-deep in the water as it washed away the Andersen’s house. August 18 is the anniversary of that fateful event. Let’s hope we never see a repeat.

Chapter 1

THE RAIN FELL like darkness, like retribution, like madness. It poured for the better part of that week in August of 1955, great sheets of water blowing over ground baked to rock by drought. And then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the sun returned, lawns sparkling like champagne and children vaulting puddles despite their parents’ warnings of tetanus and polio. The urgent throb of water, pinging the roof, pooling the yard, sluicing the streets—disappeared within hours, the creeks high but confined to their banks, relief spreading over the town like a quilt on a winter night.

       Georgia Andersen was sick of the rain. Gazing at the yard, she thought it a miracle they’d survived Hurricane Connie. And now, six days later, Connie’s twin, Diane, gathered her skirts, taking aim, giving Georgia a narrow window between storms to finish the chores. She’d put Penny down for a nap and made sure Wil had something to do other than splashing through the grass with the dog. Slipping into rubber boots, the wicker laundry basket tight against her hip, she trudged through the yard to pull sheets from the line, keeping an ear tuned to the radio and the creek that after days of rain had reached a boil. An infamous waterway that joined the Pennsboro Creek below the Iron Bridge, it drew its name from John Sullivan, the Revolutionary War general who cut a swath through the Northeast before decimating the Iroquois in New York. The creek’s sudden rise seemed in honor of the general. It was not a good sign.

       With the first damp sheet, Georgia realized that, lured by the break between storms, she’d made a mistake in hanging laundry. The air, thick as tar, burrowed into the knit top she’d worn for Wil’s birthday—an impractical choice for a woman with a seven-year-old and a colicky baby, but Marsh would approve.

       From the radio in the kitchen, the announcer read the want-ads as if it were just another day.

       For sale: used mobile home, twenty-seven-foot Walco 1953, $2,200. Houck Trailer Sales. Dial Pennsboro 4-0902.

       Georgia wished they’d broadcast an update on the storm. The Pennsboro Post reported that, four days after Hurricane Connie hit North Carolina, Hurricane Diane made landfall at the same place, near Wilmington. The second storm was moving at fourteen miles an hour, bringing more rain and wind gusts of up to ninety-five miles an hour. The forecasters in Pennsylvania didn’t seem worried, predicting that Diane would exhaust herself against the Appalachian ridge. They called for rain and windy conditions, the rain diminishing to showers that evening, and compared Connie and Diane to rambunctious twins, harmless as a pair of two-year-olds bent on throwing a tantrum.

       How could they be right? All year, the weathermen had missed the mark, the excessive snow of February followed by a dearth of rain in March and April. Then the drought, July the driest month in years, with temperatures soaring into the nineties, far too warm for the Northeast, the hot spell dragging through August, with no relief in sight. Lawns baked. Patience withered with the grass. The creek by their house dried to a jagged stitch. Then, in early August, Connie hit, killing twenty-seven people in North Carolina and dumping more than ten inches of rain on eastern Pennsylvania. And now Diane, drawn into Connie’s wake, threatened to drench the already saturated ground. They couldn’t take another storm.

       Clean, deep mined anthracite. Stove and nut, $12.90. Pea, $11.50. Low ash. Cramer’s Coal.

       Not fifty feet from their home, Sullivan’s Creek bounced over rocks and broken limbs as if it were running an obstacle course, shouting its challenge to the town. Wil said he could hear the water talk. Such an active imagination. She was afraid to ask what he heard. What would the other children think, his teacher or his father, for that matter? She feared for Wil, a small boy with big ears and shy eyes, his sandy hair fine as a girl’s. The world didn’t make room for dreamers. Then again, neither did the creek.

Wreckage of the Iron Bridge that linked the boroughs of Stroudsburg and East Stroudsburg, Pa.

       Unknown to her son, she also heard the murmur, the warning beneath the gloss, the repudiation of their complacency, their obsession with comfort, with all things shiny and new. Tailfins and barbecue grills, Buicks and Breck. If nature wanted to reclaim the land, she would, and nothing they’d built would stand in the way.

       Baby carriage, good condition, reasonably priced. Phone PB 4-1892.

       Penny would turn six months in September. Georgia could sell the carriage, contribute to the new house.

       Thunder shook the clouds, dragging its bootheels across the treetops, beginning its march. Her nerves vibrated in response. Within those clouds, something coiled, something terrible that waited for them to drop their guard. Her head confirmed it. A change in the weather, her husband would say. A drop in barometric pressure, his brother the Civil Defense chief would offer. An early warning, she thought, but as with most premonitions, she guarded the feeling. Even her family might not make room for dreamers.

       The first pelt of rain stung her arms. Loading the basket, she turned to watch her son bound across the soggy yard, playing tag with an imaginary friend. He was almost too old for these games. And yet she wanted to preserve this part of him forever, the part that believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the innate goodness of people. She chased Wil toward the back door and, two by two, they marched into the ark.

       Inside, the air tightened its grip, as if the storm would burst through the walls at any moment. Georgia opened the windows to the sound of the creek as it churned beneath the bridge, one of only four lifelines out of town. Before he’d gone to work at the newspaper that morning, Marsh had told her not to worry. The dams and bridges that held during Connie would survive Diane. Besides, forecasters said the storm was weakening. If there was an emergency, the authorities would tell them what to do. Yes, she’d said, but what if they had to leave? Where would they go? To the church or the fire hall or the basement of the courthouse, he’d said, even though each sat perilously close to the lowest part of town.

       Yes, it’s true. Two machineless waves for $7.00 or $3.95 each. Suzanne’s Curl & Twirl, Pennsboro.

       She hadn’t had a perm since Penny’s birth. As if those things mattered.

       Dampness clung to the sheets, to her clothes, to her hair. Everything smelled like the cellar. She had to make room in the next load for the baby’s diapers, so she folded the sheets and left them in the basket by the playpen. She’d air and iron them later, when she felt less unsettled.

       The sprinkles had turned to drizzle. If the creek rose any higher, their neighbor would be the first to evacuate—an early warning sign that should have calmed her nerves. She checked the thermometer tacked to the windowsill. The temperature had dropped to eighty-four, the sign of a front on the move.

       At the kitchen sink, Wil mounted a stepstool and ran water into a metal bowl for their beagle, an animal with perpetually droopy eyes and ears, as if, in her first months of life, she, too, had grown weary of the rain.

       “Didn’t you give her water this morning?” Georgia asked.

       “Skippy’s hot.”

       Wil dipped his head, the way he did when reprimanded. She hadn’t meant to shame him. She wished he never felt that way, never felt bullied at school, by the children or his teachers or any of the well-meaning adults who felt justified in disciplining other people’s children because no one would challenge their authority.

       Georgia forced a smile. “How did you know?”

       “Her tongue was sticking out.”

       She bent until his eyes met hers. “Doesn’t it always?”

       “That’s how they stay cool. They stick their tongues out.”

       “Now how do they do that?”

       She caught the cautious glance over his shoulder to see if anyone would scold him. Confident no one else could see, he stuck out his tongue. She laughed, which earned a smile in return.

       “Well, Skippy is just a puppy. She’s going to need a lot more water than that.” He could let the rain fill the bowl, but she topped it anyway. “There. That should hold her.”

       The screen door slammed. She watched her son slog across the side yard to the coop and set the bowl in front of the dog, the water sloshing over his sneakers. Kneeling, Wil scratched Skippy’s neck, the dog’s ear dwarfing his small hand. By the time Marsh got home, both would be soaked.

       Wanted: office girl, experienced. Write to Box No. 88, care of the Pennsboro Post. Sewing machine operators: hand sewers, experienced only. Apply in person at Kingdom Dress Co. No phone calls, please.

       She could sew. When Penny got older, she could work outside the home, help them save for one of their own. If Marsh would allow it.

       The screen door complained of rust and age. Wil had pushed halfway through the opening when Georgia said in a forced whisper, “Shoes, please!” Shucking them into the corner, he sat at the kitchen table, waving his feet as if treading water, and asked if he could change the radio station. He fanned through Frank Sinatra, the Les Baxter Orchestra, the Mitch Miller Chorus, and a bouncy new song called “Rock Around the Clock” before landing on KYW News Radio in Philadelphia. The announcer described the flooding in North Carolina and the path of Diane, now headed up the steep slope of the mountains through Virginia and Maryland. The wind speed and rainfall amounts had dropped, but the storm marched on.

       “Not so loud,” Georgia said. “We don’t want to wake the baby.”

       Through the ceiling, Georgia heard the faint murmurs of a waking child. Soon, she’d need to change and feed Penny and start dinner—Italian meatloaf with Parmesan cheese and tomato sauce—but she could not wrest her eyes from the window. The rain had turned the air to tinsel. It pelted the roof in a steady tattoo. It would lie in wait all night, watching for an open window, a broken board, a crack in the foundation, any chance to wash them from their beds. For the umpteenth time that day, she mounted the stairs, the loose rubber treads clacking under her heels. Hefting Penny from the crib, she buried her nose in the whorl of hair at the baby’s crown, the warm scent of powder giving way to the faint tang of the bathroom.

Our house outside the flood zone

       “Time to get you some new duds.” Dropping the old diaper in the pail, pushing the oversized safety pins through the cloth, she let the Chordettes’s “Mr. Sandman” drift through her mind, along with a fantasy very different from the song. Bring me a dream, she thought, but make sure he knows how to feed and change a child.

       Baby clamped securely in her arm, she made her way downstairs. In the kitchen, she lowered the volume of the radio, set Penny in the playpen, and gave into Wil’s incessant request to watch TV. Regardless of the storm, Marsh would arrive at his usual time. He would rest a hand at the small of her back, nuzzle the lobe of her ear, and tell her not to worry. He would assure her the hurricane wasn’t as terrible as she’d imagined and that this, too, would pass. She would inhale his aftershave and brush the stubble of his cheek, and sway to the murmur in her ear.

       Her insides stirred, one of the few times since they’d had Penny. She stole a look to see if Wil had noticed. He squinted at the television as if it were an eye chart, oblivious to everything except the world on the screen. In the playpen, Penny crawled toward imagined freedom beyond the bars. Stepping outside, sheltered by the overhang, she watched for her husband as rain burst through the trees, bringing with it the smell of ancient things—rotting wood, decaying leaves, the dying lawn. In the shifting currents, the grass moved like seaweed, resigned to its fate, waving farewell to a former life.

       She crossed her arms against the dampness, the coming night, the storm that hid within its folds. What had happened to them? While Penny’s birth had gone as well as expected, it had opened a gap with Marsh, giving her a kind of vertigo. What had upset their careful balance? Was it lack of sleep, a change in Georgia’s appearance, the presence of another child, another mouth to feed? The baby’s colic exacerbated that distance. Even Wil noticed it, claiming she spent all of her time with the baby. He must have felt deeply to risk discipline for speaking his mind. Yet she could not ignore the child they’d prayed to conceive. Wil and his father would have to accept the little of herself she had to spare, until Penny grew old enough to care for herself. How long would they wait? That drought of attention could last forever.

       By 8:30, the sky had turned to ink. Rain continued to thrum against the roof. Retrieving the baby from her playpen, Georgia shooed a protesting Wil upstairs, reminding him to change into his jammies and brush his teeth. With the baby down for the night, her time had finally arrived. Switching on the television, she settled on the couch and tried to watch Fear Strikes Out, a movie Marsh would have liked about center fielder Jimmy Piersall. But at 9:30 the lights vanished with a snap. Suddenly blind, she groped toward the telephone. It was out, too. Now there was no way to call Marsh, even if she knew where to find him. And he had taken the car.

       From the street, shouts competed with the swish of tires, then a shudder as something heavy struck the bridge, rattling the house as if the earth had broken in two. The room squeezed her heart. Inhaling through her mouth, she told herself she was responsible for the children and had to think of their welfare. Marsh said that, if the town declared an emergency, the fire chief would blow the siren, and someone would come to their rescue. She could wait for the siren, but not in this stifling dark.

       Groping through a drawer in the kitchen, she found a small flashlight, thumbed the button and, checking that Skippy was safe, traced a path upstairs. Awakened by a noise in the street, Wil emerged from his room draped in sleep. Cradling Penny—the baby fussed but didn’t cry, the cereal settling for once—Georgia led him downstairs, where she rummaged through another drawer to find their good tapers and a box of matches. Placing the candles on the table, she opened the screen door and peered into the dark. She didn’t need a light to hear the rush of water across their yard. The town’s storm sewers were designed to handle a hard rain. Their home was not.

       Wil noticed it first. Lifting a hand to stay his questions, she listened to the tinny sound of water trickling into the house. Opening the door to the basement, she played the flashlight over a small lake, the surface foaming like root beer. The seasonal items they’d stored bumped against the bottom of the steps—boxes of clothing, Christmas decorations, a pair of lawn chairs Marsh had promised to fix. Within the time it took to identify each object, the water rose to the second step, then the third. In minutes, it would reach the kitchen, sweeping them and their possessions through the front door.

       The playpen sat a good nine inches above the living room floor. She set Penny inside and turned to her son.

       “You’re a big boy now. I need you to help Mommy move some things upstairs.”

       Slipping into her boots, assuring herself that Wil had buckled his, she tottered down the basement stairs, hanging onto the railing, calling for Wil to be careful. The water had risen so rapidly, she had to duck to see under the rafters. Playing the light over the walls, she watched as water gushed between the stones, flooding the furnace and coalbin and inching dangerously close to the fuse box. They’d used the last of their spares, and there was no way, once the power came back, she was going to wade through that water and use a penny to complete the circuit.

       Urging Wil up the stairs, she closed the door and leaned her head against it. Even with the curtains open, the windows appeared blank, the streetlamps dead. The flashlight cast a narrow cone in one direction only. There was no place to set it and see clearly enough to climb the stairs to the bedrooms. Georgia would have to hold the light and the furniture, and her hands were already slick with sweat. She and Wil were able to lift the lamps, books, and ottoman onto the dining room table. The rugs they lugged upstairs and piled into the bathtub. There would be a mess to clean before she could bathe Penny, but it was the best they could do.

       Where was Marsh, and was he all right? And where were the firemen he was supposed to send? Wil’s bedtime prayer rang in her head. Now I lay me down to sleep.

       The radio had died. Rain thrummed against the roof, the sound clotting her ears. She considered leaving, but where could they go on foot? Besides, there was a house between them and the creek and a concrete retaining wall lining one side of the bank. The town must have thought it would hold the water or they wouldn’t have built it.

       Thunder rolled over the house, rattling the windows, shaking the floor. Wil took her hand. Penny issued a startled cry. Lifting her from the playpen, Georgia moved to heat water for a bottle before she realized the appliances were as dead as the lights. Dumb, she thought and dutifully pushed a nipple through its plastic ring, mixed the formula with tepid water from the tap, and let it sit.

       If I should die before I ’wake.

       The fire sirens came on with the whoosh of a gas burner, the sound oscillating between panic and fear. It cut through her chest. The creek would ignore the warning. Georgia pictured it as a mythic creature rising on stout legs, beating its chest, thundering its demands. She, too, would not be moved. They would ride out the storm until help arrived.

       The sound of rain intensified. It seemed to buckle the walls. Holding Penny and the flashlight, she instructed Wil to jam towels under the back door. That would keep some of the water at bay. The basement posed the real threat. The old stone walls could collapse. Before sealing the cellar, she ventured a last look. Clasping the light to the baby’s back, Georgia aimed at the door. With her free hand, she reached for the knob and hesitated, her fingers suspended in the beam, her body sensing the weight of something trapped beneath the stairs, the pressure on a dam ready to burst. As if watching herself, she grasped the handle and cracked the door.

       Even as she stumbled back, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

The back of our house after the Flood of ’55

A Not-So-Distant Warning

Posted on by under 1950s, Advertising, Books, Cold War, Commerce, Communism, Culture, e-books, fallout, Fiction, flood, history, missile race, Novel, space, spies, Television

August 18, 1955 is a day that will live in infamy for people of the Northeast. That was the day the Flood of ’55 ravaged our small town. Back-to-back hurricanes Connie and Diane turned peaceful creeks into raging torrents, sweeping aside towns from Pennsylvania to Connecticut and killing hundreds, seemingly in the blink of an eye.

As a child, I don’t remember much of that time, but years later, as a journalist investigating the events of that terrible night, I was stunned by the hardship and heroism of those who survived. With the benefit of hindsight, I decided to explore their stories through a series of novels.

The first book in the trilogy, Distant Early Warning, introduces us to the Andersen family as they struggle to recover from the devastating flood. The novel, and the ones to follow—Cold Fire and Good People—portray the dreams and fears of a family, town, and country as they navigate the promise and perils of Cold War America. Distant Early Warning doesn’t only refer to the DEW Line, the system of Arctic radar stations designed to detect incoming Soviet bombers. The title serves as a metaphor for the internal system that warns us of impending danger, warnings we often ignore.

Russia, rockets, race, and repression—issues the Andersens tried to resolve in the ’50 that revisit us today. As does their struggle for mercy and hope.

Theirs is a journey from darkness to light. Follow it here. Or start with that terrible night of August 18 in this excerpt from Chapter 4.

The Iron Bridge that before the Flood of ’55 connected the boroughs of Stroudsburg and East Stroudsburg, Pa.

AT TEN TO NINE, Georgia let Skippy out for a short walk, wiped the dog’s back with a dishtowel, and moved her box into the kitchen. This was Georgia’s time. Switching on the television, she settled on the couch and tried to watch Fear Strikes Out, a movie Marsh would have liked about center fielder Jimmy Piersall. But at 9:30 the lights vanished with a snap. Suddenly blind, she groped toward the telephone. It was out, too. Now there was no way to call Marsh, even if she knew where to find him. And he had taken the car.
       From the street, shouts competed with the swish of tires, then a shudder as something heavy struck the bridge, rattling the house as if the earth had broken in two. The room squeezed her heart. Inhaling through her mouth, she told herself she was responsible for the children and had to think of their welfare. Marsh said that, if the town declared an emergency, the fire chief would blow the siren, and someone would come to their rescue. She could wait for the siren, but not in this stifling dark.
       Groping through a drawer in the kitchen, she found a small flashlight, thumbed the button and, checking that Skippy was safe in her makeshift bed, traced a path upstairs. Awakened by a noise in the street, Wil emerged from his room, still dressed in his life vest and rocket pack, ready to battle whoever he imagined had attacked the house. Cradling Penny—the baby fussed but didn’t cry, the cereal settling for once—Georgia led him downstairs, where she rummaged through another drawer to find their good tapers and a box of matches. Placing the candles on the table, she opened the screen door and peered into the dark. She didn’t need a light to sense the rush of water across their yard. The town’s storm sewers were designed to handle a hard rain. Their home was not.
       Wil noticed it first. Lifting a hand to stay his questions, she listened to the tinny sound of water trickling into the house. Opening the door to the basement, she played the flashlight over a small lake, the surface foaming like root beer. The seasonal items they’d stored bumped against the bottom of the steps—boxes of clothing, Christmas decorations, a pair of lawn chairs Marsh had promised to fix. Within the time it took to identify each object, the water rose to the second step, then the third. In minutes, it would reach the kitchen, sweeping them and their possessions through the front door.
       The playpen sat a good nine inches above the living room floor. She set Penny inside and turned to her son.
       “You’re a big boy now. I need you to help Mommy move some things upstairs.”
       Slipping into her boots, assuring herself that Wil had buckled his, she tottered down the basement stairs, hanging onto the railing, calling for Wil to be careful. The water had risen so rapidly, she had to duck to see under the rafters. Playing the light over the walls, she watched as water gushed between the stones, flooding the furnace and coal bin and inching dangerously close to the fuse box. They’d used the last of their spares, and there was no way, once the power came back, she was going to wade through that water and use a penny to complete the circuit.
       Urging Wil up the stairs, she closed the door and leaned her head against it. Even with the curtains open, the windows appeared blank, the streetlamps dead. The flashlight cast a narrow cone in one direction only. There was no place to set it and see clearly enough to climb the stairs to the bedrooms. Georgia would have to hold the light and the furniture, and her hands were already slick with sweat. She and Wil were able to lift the lamps, books, and ottoman onto the dining room table. The rugs they lugged upstairs and piled into the bathtub. There would be a mess to clean before she could bathe Penny, but it was the best they could do.
       Wil hovered at her side, jittering as if he had to go to the bathroom. “Can we bring Phil upstairs?”
       Marsh had spoken to Wil about how, as people grew older, they said goodbye to their imaginary friends, but now was not the time for a sermon. Besides, the Philco had cost nearly five hundred dollars, more than a tenth of what Marsh earned at the paper, and Georgia wasn’t about to lose it. She and Wil tried to drag the television up the narrow stairwell but couldn’t shove it past the first few steps. They left it on the landing and made their way to the kitchen.
       Where was Marsh, and was he all right? And where were the firemen he was supposed to send? Wil’s bedtime prayer rang in her head.
       Now I lay me down to sleep.
       The radio had died. Rain thrummed against the roof, the sound clotting her ears. She considered leaving, but where could they go on foot? Besides, there was a house between them and the creek and a concrete retaining wall lining one side of the bank. The town must have thought it would hold the water or they wouldn’t have built it.
       I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
       Thunder rolled over the house, rattled the windows, shook the floor. Wil took her hand. Penny issued a startled cry. Lifting her from the playpen, Georgia moved to heat water for a bottle before she realized the appliances were as dead as the lights. Dumb, she thought and dutifully pushed a nipple through its plastic ring, mixed the formula with tepid water from the tap, and let it sit.
       If I should die before I ’wake.
       The fire sirens came on with the whoosh of a gas burner, the sound oscillating between panic and fear. It cut through her chest. The creek would ignore the warning. Georgia pictured it as a mythic creature rising on stout legs, beat its chest, thundering its demands. She, too, would not be moved. They would ride out the storm until help arrived.
       I pray the Lord my soul to take.
       The sound of rain intensified. It seemed to buckle the walls. Holding Penny and the flashlight, she instructed Wil to jam towels under the back door. That would keep some of the water at bay. The basement posed the real threat. The old stone walls could collapse. Before sealing the cellar, she ventured a last look. Clasping the light to the baby’s back, Georgia aimed at the door. With her free hand, she reached for the knob and hesitated, her fingers suspended in the beam, her body sensing the weight of something trapped below the stairs, the pressure on a dam ready to burst. As if watching herself, she grasped the handle and cracked the door.
       Even as she stumbled back, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

Second Pennsboro novel launches Aug. 18

Posted on by under 1950s, Advertising, Art, Books, Cold War, Communism, e-books, fallout, Fiction, flood, history, Novel, space, spies, surveillance, Television

The long awaited (at least by me) sequel to Distant Early Warning arrives today. Cold Fire continues the saga of the Andersen family as they struggle with the tragic aftermath of the Flood of ‘55. Georgia redoubles her fight to recover from unbearable grief. Marsh yearns for a safer home and the affection of his once-vibrant wife. And ten-year-old Wil retreats into the fantasy of TV to escape the confusing world of bullies, air-raid drills, and the girl next door.

There are new challenges, too, at home and abroad. While Sputnik has launched the space race, America’s conspicuous consumption has fueled a class war. Cold War paranoia pits neighbor against neighbor as word spreads of a spy in their midst. An explosion at the Russian couple’s farm, a near-fatal blizzard, and the death of a close friend threaten to shatter everyone’s peace.

Yet the Andersens’ greatest challenge has less to do with Communists than compassion. Each carries a secret fear—that unyielding fate is responsible for the tragedy consuming their lives. As each will discover that they alone hold the key to surviving their brave new world.

The launch of Cold Fire coincides with the 68th anniversary of the Flood of ’55. You can find both e-book and print versions here: https://amzn.to/44NtUMC

What people are saying about the work:

“Widmer’s writing is compelling, filled with empathy for his characters and sprinkled with gentle wit.”

— Ellen Brosnahan, The Second Mrs. Ringling

“Jeff Widmer is a master at putting the reader in the setting, and his gift for dialogue is unparalleled.”

— Jo Horne, Monica’s War

“Gripping and poignant, a satisfying and enlightening read.”

— Eric Sheridan Wyatt, In Loco Parentis

“A magnificent story. This book deserves a second read. And maybe more.”

— Amy’s Bookshelf Reviews

The Magic of Bob Dorough

Posted on by under Commerce, Creativity, Music, Television

For Bob Dorough, three is a magic number. For his legion of fans, it’s Bob himself who’s magic.

Whether he was singing times tables or scat, Bob made music and learning fun for adults and children alike. He died April 23, 2018, at his home in Mount Bethel, Pennsylvania, at the age of 94.

In the late 1970s, I wrote an article about him for DownBeat that was never published. Here it is at last, the story in his words of how he created Multiplication Rock, presented as a tribute to a most remarkable man.

* * *

It can be no accident that Bob Dorough included the song “Because We’re Kids” on his album Beginning to See the Light. The piece not only sums up his attitude toward children, which led to his job as composer of the ABC-TV series “Schoolhouse Rock!” It reflects the relaxed image he projects, the open smile that reaches you even before the soothing Southern twang of his voice.

Intoning the words of Dr. Seuss, Dorough sings, “But we’ll grow up someday, and when we do I pray we just don’t grow in size and sound and just get bigger pound by pound. I’d hate to grow like some I know who push and shove us little kids [sniff] around.”

No chance of that now. Dorough has spent the past several years scoring “Schoolhouse Rock!” in which he teaches children math, grammar and civics in a respectful and entertaining way. Listeners have long associated him with jazz, from his work as an accompanist to his own 1957 classic on Bethlehem records, Devil May Care. But that challenge met, he turned to producing popular artists like Spanky and Our Gang and writing advertising jingles.

After a decade-long hiatus from the jazz world, his career has come full-circle and he’s back to doing some of his favorite things. The veteran of swing and New York City jam sessions has returned to nightclub performing (including a recent stint at Bradley’s in New York) and has released a new album—a live performance recorded in California with longtime associate and bassist Bill Takas.

The duo recorded Beginning to See the Light on their own label, Laissez-Faire, to achieve the artistic freedom they desired. The track from which the album receives its name—a Harry James, Duke Ellington composition—finds Dorough swinging on piano around Takas’s strong walking bass lines. Throughout the rest of the recording, Dorough livens the recording with his unique voice, a reedy sound that’s soft and thin as a whisper, spiced with a drawl that echoes his West Texas roots.

Born in Arkansas, Dorough fell in love with music while in high school, to the point of going back to school another year after graduation to take advantage of playing with various bands. He picked up piano by ear after discovering he could compose and hold down more jobs by playing that instrument, then headed for North Texas State at Denton to polish his skills. “It was the first college to put jazz on the curriculum,” he says. “It was just a hotbed of jazz.”

His salesman father had other ideas for his son. “I was a natural mathematician. My father said, ‘You could be an engineer ‘cause your math grades are so good.’”

But New York City beckoned. “I played in different bands and combos and mostly we jammed. We were always playing. It was a way of learning. And I also liked singing. I got into my own style of singing. I guess I pretty much formulated my own style at a fairly young age, although I had what I thought was a late start in music. I was interested in serious music, too. Composition was my major.”

Dorough’s late start may account for his affinity for children and his long life in the business. “I always endeavored to think young, act young and live young, and take care of myself. As I say, I felt I got a late start in music. I was drafted and was in the Army. All that threw me way behind schedule. I dropped out when I was 28 or so, working on a master’s degree I never got at Columbia. And I’m probably one of the few American boys who took a high school post-grad course.”

When jobs in his field ran thin, he turned to producing popular artists—Chad Mitchell, Roberta Flack, Spanky and Our Gang. He tried advertising work. That move gave him an exciting job and a whole new audience—children. “It’s like anything else. You make a contact and get a job, and if it’s good, you get another one,” he says of his introduction to “Schoolhouse Rock!” and its creator.

David McCall, president of the McCaffrey and McCall advertising agency in New York, faced a problem that Dorough was soon to solve with twelve songs later released as Multiplication Rock. “His idea was to set the multiplication tables to music. He got it from his own child, who couldn’t memorize the tables but he could sing along with Jimi Hendrix and the Beatles and memorize all the words. So my partner, Ben Tucker, claimed I was the man to do the job.

“Apparently they’d tried other New York City composers and they had gotten a kind of result they weren’t looking for, sort of a simplistic writing-down-to-the-children insipid approach. So I went to see them about it and that was it. Even though they were in the advertising business, they seemed prepared to develop this idea, which was nothing new, actually. It was a little bit new in that he [McCall] wanted the multiplication tables set to rock music. Everything was rock music in that year.”

Dorough calls the assignment “a rare opportunity, one of the most exciting commissions I’ve ever had, a chance to communicate with the younger generation. I didn’t know if it would be on record; I didn’t dream it would be on TV.

“I sort of laid back a couple of months. I didn’t want to go popping out obvious rhythmical tunes. So I just studied my math books. It’s strange. I’m a collector of mathematics books. I’m a mail-order freak. I’d see Fun with Games and Numbers and Mathematics for the Millions, well I would order the book. Maybe I wouldn’t even read it. When I got this assignment, I just came home and started cracking all these books. I was prepared for the job.”

He also received some help from his daughter, Aralee. “My daughter was just entering the grades where they studied math. It gave me a chance to try some things on her.”

While the outcome was supposed to be rock, Dorough found he had created a gentler sound. “Some of my friends said, ‘That’s not rock, that’s jazz. You snuck it in on them.’ I don’t know. It’s neither rock nor jazz.”

The advertising agency originally tried to market Multiplication Rock as a record and a book, but the agency’s animation department worked up a better deal for another client, ABC-TV. To date, the network has produced 25 3-minute films. Dorough makes several a year and works as the show’s musical producer and arranger.

Until now, Dorough has concentrated on writing and recording for some of the legends of jazz. His 1957 release, Devil May Care, featured himself and Miles Davis. The trumpeter later invited Dorough to compose and sing a number for The Sorcerer. Mel Torme and others have recorded Dorough’s “Comin’ Home Baby,” and the Fifth Dimension covered his “Winds of Heaven.”

Now he takes life easy on his 3-acre farm in the foothills of Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains, playing piano and flute duets with his daughter, lounging in flannel shirt and wool socks in his sparsely furnished home, an easy hour from the studios in New York. “I sort of fell in love with this part of the country. This reminds me a little of my boyhood in Arkansas. It’s similar terrain. Matter of fact, my grandfather used to be this far from the river there,” he says, pointing to the Delaware River.

As for the future, Dorough is enthused about the rerelease of Devil May Care, out of print until it was reissued as Yardbird Suite. His plans include performing, finishing the TV series, composing and working on a grander scale with an orchestra. He will continue to compose along traditional lines, even though he embraces jazz-rock fusion

“I think it was inevitable jazz and rock would gravitate toward each other.” The musicians in both camps, he says, were using improvisation. “I think music is just coming together. It’s like the whole culture has been fused by communications. I myself was always in love with exotic music of all kinds. I liked Indian music from India and I liked African music. And naturally I liked some classical music, too, what you would call modern classical or modern contemporary.

“Culturally, I can see this fantastic blooming of all elements and styles. I’m definitely all ears.”

Jeff Widmer is the author of the CW McCoy and the Brinker series of crime novels.

Bob Dorough entertaining children in March of 1979 (photo courtesy of Donna S. Fisher; used with permission)

In search of the real McCoy

Posted on by under Books, e-books, Fiction, Film, mystery, Novel, suspense, Television, thriller

UK blogger Natalie Rowe, who gave Peak Season four stars, thinks Mila Kunis should play CW McCoy . . . if Candace and her crew ever make it to the big screen.

Natalie writes, “The thing that is most memorable to me about CW is her quick wit. To me, there is no other person that could give CW this unique sarcasm like Mila Kunis can in her roles. She can play the bad-ass independent lady but also add in a little sass and seductiveness.”

Sassy and seductive. . . . Is that how you see the young former detective who faces down kidnappers, assassins and tourists on a daily basis? And here I was thinking Scarlett Johansson on a motorcycle. Or Six Feet Under’s Rachel Anne Griffiths, or is that over the top?

Who do you think should play CW? Leave your comments here.