Chapter 65

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Aug. 11, 1938

I ran into Pritchard today. He was at the soda fountain when I came into the pharmacy to fill Mrs. Bailey's prescription for heart medicine. It was towards the end of his shift and he was cleaning up. If you accept that he's a know-it-all who can't help lecturing on every detail of any subject he knows anything about, he isn't bad company.

It's a pleasure to be around a boy who isn't like those knuckleheaded Sawyers. They think it's the funniest thing in town that I want to be a doctor. Pritchard thinks it's a great idea and cheers me on. It still steams me up to think of Frank Sawyer asking me where my stethoscope was and then pulling on my collar and trying to look down my dress. I'm not the least bit sorry for the goose egg I gave him when I slugged him over the head with my math book.

Pritchard admitted that he's still dizzy for Rebecca. I told him that Rebecca wasn't the only girl in town. I give him credit for not countering that Hub isn't the only boy in town. Instead, he admitted that Grace had already said the same thing to him that I had just said about Rebecca. Then she had casually dropped a mention that the End of Summer Dance was coming up in three weeks into a discussion of upcoming New Bedford events.

I had to admit that she was smooth. She didn't actually say that there was bound to be some nice girl who would love to go with him, much less mention me. Of course, she had been carefully building us up to each other all summer without ever saying in so many words that we were right for each other. The last time she did it, I asked her if men were really worth all the worry and aggravation that comes with them.

"Sometimes, I wonder," she answered with an amused smile which suddenly softened as if she had just thought of a wonderful secret, "but then there are other times."

From "Fishing Tournament in Decline" Northbridge Herald Aug. 10, 1938

Leading citizens of New Bedford have expressed great hopes of restoring the struggling Silverdome Fishing Tournament and Royal Dominion Bank Picnic to its former levels of prestige. The event has suffered from lower attendance since the beginning of the Depression. It was canceled for 1936 due to a polio epidemic. New Bedford Mayor Max Sutton ordered the closure upon learning that three people had contracted the disease after visiting Bas Lake. This was a painful blow to the hopes of its supporters.

Last year's Silverdome Fishing Tournament and Royal Dominion Picnic attracted controversy after funds were raised there for the benefit of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion. Thoughtful persons understand that these so called "heroic volunteers" are actually lawless renegades fighting for the Communist-run Spanish Republic in violation of the Foreign Enlistment Act. Our own public-spirited leading citizen Kenneth Baird expressed hope that his efforts as a speaker at this year's Royal Dominion Bank Picnic would add a more civic-minded note.

Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry Aug. 13, 1938

… I knew in advance that today was going to be eventful. I just had no idea how eventful. … The first surprise of the day was that Rev. Grange was suffering from a mild case of laryngitis. As a result, his wife Carrie had to give his speech urging generous donations to the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion Rehabilitation Fund for him. She did a terrific job. No stumbling or nervousness at all. Afterwards, Mrs. Cramp and I looked at each other with the same idea in mind, although not with the same degree of enthusiasm. She admitted that Carrie Grange was compelling, but that for the position of CRNB announcer she was hoping for someone a little less …

"Liberal," I queried. "Pearl Disher would fill the bill." Mrs. Cramp winced. "The choice is yours. Mediocre announcing or the social gospel?"

"You know I have no choice. Pearl Disher is impossible. No responsible station manager would put someone with no talent and an obnoxious personality on the air just because that person is a conservative. New Bedford doesn't need its own Fr. Coughlin."

I wondered if Mrs. Cramp would feel the same way if there were any chance of Pearl Disher becoming as popular as Fr. Coughlin. Thinking of him and his followers, I shook my head. "I can't understand why anyone would need comfort and reassurance so much that they would blindly believe whatever some public figure they don't even know tells them even if he is a priest."

Mrs. Cramp responded with a puzzled shrug. "People live by faith."

I couldn't help thinking aloud. "Faith can be a good thing. It can support you through hard times and it can inspire you to be kind to others. Unfortunately, it can also make you trusting when you ought to be skeptical."

I changed the subject back to Carrie Grange. She really is a good speaker. I mentioned as casually as I could that it's too bad that CRNB doesn't have a transcription disc recorder. Her speech really ought to be preserved for the ages.

Mrs. Cramp groaned at what is no doubt an old familiar melody to her. Then she wearily answered with the old familiar counterpoint. Transcription disc recorders are expensive. Maybe in a year or two when CRNB is more profitable. She added that she never ceases to be amazed at my ability to work an appeal for a transcription disc recorder into any conversation.

I countered that I only do so because CRNB should have one like every other radio station of its size. The new ones are actually very economical. You can get more than three or four plays out of modern transcription discs.

Mrs. Cramp raised her hand. She knew where I was going. Licensing CRNB programming to a syndication outfit might be a good idea if Max were still writing mystery serials, but he isn't. The reminder that Max isn't doing any writing at all these days and hasn't for months was more disheartening than Mrs. Cramp's refusal. He has an astonishing storytelling talent, but, as principal, teacher, and mayor, he just doesn't have the time to cultivate it.

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Aug. 13, 1938

It was a beautiful summer's day until Kenneth Baird showed up. He was about as welcome as a thunderstorm and just as full of wind. It was bad enough when he blustered that, "other than a few exceptional men of boldness and vision, the true Canadian patriot serves his country mostly by the strength of his sinews and not by the penetration of his mind."

You could tell by his smug tone that he considered himself one of the "exceptional men." It was all I could do not to vomit listening to his baloney about what a great guy Hitler was. According to him, "the Fuhrer is a farsighted man of the future working to build a new world where capital and labor are in harmony with each other and disorderly and subversive elements are kept in line by a strong hand."

The crowd grumbled and muttered angrily. Grace, Mrs. Bailey, and I were obviously not the only people in New Bedford who understood exactly what kind of harmony Baird wanted. Hitler isn't well liked in this town, even by most people who don't consider Europe's troubles any of Canada's business.

The mood got uglier after a couple of snide remarks about how Canadians and Americans who went to Spain to defend the Republic were either naïve fools or troublemaking lowlifes. Will Lane stood up and shouted at him. "Franco and Hitler made the trouble, and we knew exactly why we were there-to stop them. Speaking of trouble, where were you and your father in the last war?"

"Profiteering on Tory war contracts," somebody shouted.

Others started booing Baird and one or two used words that Mrs. Bailey would have washed my mouth out with soap for saying. Baird just stood there shocked and frightened. That was when Grace walked quickly to the podium and snatched the microphone from its holder. She called for the crowd's attention and for calm which soon came.

When it was obvious that the calm would hold, she continued. "You know I hate fascism and everything it stands for more than anyone else in this town. My husband is fighting fascists on the battlefield at the risk of his life at this very moment. One of the reasons he's fighting them is because they want to deny freedom of speech to anyone but themselves. We're Canadians. We're better than that. We believe that freedom of speech is a right for everyone, even for people with whom we disagree and whose opinions we find offensive. As a fellow Canadian, I urge you to live up to that belief. Please, allow Mr. Baird to finish his speech without interruption no matter how much what he says may anger or disgust you. I know that I can trust all of you to show the same respect for his rights that you would want him to show for yours if your positions were reversed."

The crowd settled down as people to my left and right respectfully nodded their heads and murmured agreement. In the end, they let Mr. Baird go on with his speech although the mood stayed chilly. He got no applause at all when he finished. You'd think he would have been discouraged, but, before he left the podium, he scanned his audience still looking like the cat that had just swallowed a whole flock of canaries and followed them with half a dozen bowls of cream for dessert.

I couldn't help wondering why. At the same time, I was still stunned by Grace's appeal to her neighbors. This wasn't the warm, friendly chat all of New Bedford knew from Grace's CRNB broadcasts. It was something more serious, something I had seen a little of when she spoke at rallies for aid to Spanish orphanages and wounded veterans. She held the audience's attention there too, but she had never been so urgent or compelling before. If she had called on us to follow her to war, I would have been the first to ask where to go to enlist.

In Two Weeks: Bad blood. Freedom and authority. A terrible garden.