They were more than words-to-the-wise, they were bedrock, as clearly established, as integral to the way of life, it seemed, as were the very landmarks of the community, its schools, church steeples, and courthouse. Not everyone lived up to them, of course, but to Harry it seemed everyone ought to try.
The Square was the center of the world if the town was the limit of your experience and at age fourteen, while still in high school, Harry went to work on the Square at J. H. Clinton’s drugstore. It was his first paying job.
Clinton’s drugstore stood at the northeast corner of the Square. Proprietor Clinton lived upstairs. Harry’s job was to come in each weekday morning at 6:30 to open up the place, sweep the sidewalk, mop the floor, wipe the counters, and do as much overall dusting and cleaning as possible before seven o’clock when Mr. Clinton came down and it was time for Harry to leave for school. More than half a century later, he could remember it all in detail:
There must have been a thousand bottles to dust and yards and yards of patent-medicine cases and shelves to clean. At least it seemed that way, because I never finished the bottles and shelves by schooltime and had to start the next morning where I’d left off the day before. By the time I got around them all, it was time to start over.
Two large glass vases in the front windows had to be cleaned and dusted, as well as a surrounding display of patent medicines. The windows were to be washed once a week, the prescription cases dusted “very, very carefully.” Saturdays and Sundays the boy worked from four in the afternoon until ten at night by the courthouse clock, when Mr. Clinton would lock up and Harry would head off in the dark, the lights in other shop windows along the Square going out one by one. Hurrying, he could make it home in twelve minutes.
J. H. Clinton advertised “Cigars, Smokers Supplies & Tobaccos, Perfumes, Toilet Articles, Soaps & Stationery, Prescriptions Carefully Compounded Day or Night.” But the store accommodated the town in yet another way, as Harry soon discovered, and it was this apparently that awakened him for the first time to the hypocrisies of certain prominent citizens known for their moral rectitude, the “high hats,” as he called them.
In a little closet under the prescription case, which faced the front and shut off the view of the back end of the store, was an assortment of whiskey bottles. Early in the morning, sometimes before Mr. Clinton arrived, the good church members and Anti-Saloon Leaguers would come in for their early morning drink behind the prescription case at ten cents an ounce. They would wipe their mouths, peep through the observation hole in front of the case, and depart. This procedure gave a fourteen-year-old boy quite a viewpoint on the public front of leading citizens and “amen-corner-praying” churchmen.
He would set the bottle on the counter and wait. “They’d put their dimes on the counter, and I’d leave all those dimes there until Mr. Clinton came in, and he’d put them in the cash register.” It was because these customers were such “counterfeits” that he hated having any part in the transaction. Far better, he thought, were the “tough old birds” around town who bought a proper drink in a real saloon whenever they wished, regardless of appearances.
The drugstore was one of several shops and stores fashioned out of what had once been the old Noland House, the frontier hotel and saloon where the body of Harry’s infamous uncle, Jim Crow Chiles, had been laid out after the shooting, a point of history Harry surely knew all about but never spoke of. The store was at the corner of Maple and Main, which with Lexington and Liberty, framed the Square. A jewelry store, a bookshop, two groceries, the Hotel Metropolitan, H. W. Rummel’s harness and saddle shop, a dry goods store, and the Courthouse Exchange Saloon were in the same block on Maple. Elsewhere around the Square, all facing the courthouse, were three more drugstores, two more saloons, A. J. Bundschu’s Department Store (“Once a patron, always a patron”), two barbershops, a tobacco shop, a shoe store, a theater, an opera house, a hardware store, a bakery, and an ice cream parlor. Three banks—the First National, the Bank of Independence, and the old, brick Chrisman-Sawyer—stood prominently at three different corners, while upstairs over several of the stores were various law and dental offices and Miss Dunlap’s dancing classes. A lumberyard, the Western Union offices, a barbershop for blacks, two livery stables, a feed store, the post office, the town jail, and the Airline railroad station were just off the Square, which meant that most of life’s necessities were all extremely handy, including the Ott-Mitchell Undertaking Parlor, which stood catty-cornered to J. H. Clinton’s drugstore.
But for size and impressiveness, nothing approached the courthouse, rising from its shaded lawn at the center of the Square. The simple, dignified little building of old with its fanlight over the door had long since disappeared, swallowed up by a great red-brick renovation in the high-Victorian mode with a mansard-roofed clocktower five stories tall. The courthouse was the focal point of Independence—the clocktower could be seen for miles jutting above the trees—and the courthouse, of course, was Democratic, for though Republicans were not unknown in Independence, the town remained solidly Democratic. People were born and raised Democrats as they were born and raised Baptists or Catholics. It was not something you questioned. As one said, “You were a Democrat come hell or high water. Or you were a Republican.”
In the warm months, on wooden benches in the dappled light of the courthouse lawn, the town loafers and “philosophers” congregated. Courthouse politicians, tradesmen, out-of-town salesmen, store clerks and bank presidents, mothers in long skirts shopping with their daughters—a good part of the town—passed up and down the sidewalks, stopping frequently to “visit.” The dark green Kansas City streetcar arrived and departed, making its cautious turn at Liberty and Lexington with bell clanging and a screech of wheels. In full summer, farm wagons laden with fresh produce lined the curbstones. Some summers, to keep the dust down, the town water wagon had to circle the Square several times daily.
To go up to the Square each morning to a regular job was for a boy to be very like a man. It was to be known, to be spoken to, and spoken well of if one were a brisk, cheerful, dependable boy like Harry Truman—and however disillusioned he may have been by some of the clientele at the drugstore, he was clearly enjoying himself and probably would have stayed on had his father not intervened. His first week’s wages of three silver dollars were, in memory, “the biggest thing that ever happened to me.” He bought a present for his mother and tried to give what money was left to his father, who said kindly that he should keep it for himself.
After three months, John Truman told the boy he had done enough. Better that he concentrate on his studies.
IV
He grew dutifully, conspicuously studious, spending long afternoons in the town library, watched over by a white plaster bust of Ben Franklin. Housed in two rooms adjacent to the high school, the library contained perhaps two thousand volumes. Harry and Charlie Ross vowed to read all of them, encyclopedias included, and both later claimed to have succeeded. Harry liked Mark Twain and Franklin’s Autobiography. He read Sir Walter Scott because Scott was Bessie Wallace’s favorite author. The fact that the town librarian, Carrie Wallace, was a cousin to Bessie may also have influenced the boy’s show of scholarly dedication.
“I don’t know anybody in the world that ever read as much or as constantly as he did,” remembered Ethel Noland. “He was what you call a ‘book worm.’ ”
History became a passion, as he worked his way through a shelf of standard works on ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome. “He had a real feeling for history,” Ethel said, “that it wasn’t something in a book, that it was part of life—a section of life or a former time, that it was of interest because it had to do with people.” He himself later said it was “true facts” that he wanted. “Reading history, to me, was far more than a romantic adventure. It was solid instruction and wise teaching which I somehow felt that I wanted and needed.” He decided, he said, that men make history, otherwise there would be no history. History did not make the man, he was
quite certain.
His list of heroes advanced. To Andrew Jackson, Hannibal, and Robert E. Lee were added Cincinnatus, Scipio, Cyrus the Great, and Gustavus Adolphus, the seventeenth-century Swedish king. No Jeffersons or Lincolns or Leonardos were part of his pantheon as yet. Whatever it was that made other boys of turn-of-the-century America venerate Andrew Carnegie or Thomas Edison, he had none of it. The Great Men by his lights were still the great generals.
Few boys in town ever went to high school. The great majority went to work. High school, like piano lessons, was primarily for girls. In Harry’s class, largest yet at the new high school, there were thirty girls and just eleven boys.
Harry was good in Latin, “very good” in math, poor in spelling, and greatly influenced by his teachers who were all women except for “Professor” W. L. C. Palmer, the principal, who taught science, the one subject Harry didn’t care for. The women were spinsters, as required by the school system. (When his Latin teacher, Ardelia Hardin—she with the Pickett’s Charge grandfather—became the wife of Professor Palmer, she had to give up teaching.) Known by everybody, they comprised a kind of town institution unto themselves, as upholders of standards. They were “the salt of the earth,” Harry would say. “They gave us our high ideals, and they hardly ever received more than forty dollars a month.” They taught the old rooted values—loyalty, love of home, unquestioning patriotism—no less than Latin, history, or Shakespeare. She could never enter the classroom, said Miss Tillie Brown, without hearing the admonition to “put off thy shoes from thy feet, for the spot on which thou standest is holy ground.” And while some may have snickered at her manner, none doubted her sincerity.
The influence of his teachers on his life, Harry later said, was second only to that of his mother, and when crediting a Tillie Brown or a Margaret Phelps for all they had done for him, he did so with the assumption that everybody of his generation had a Tillie Brown or Margaret Phelps in their background and could therefore understand how he felt.
The panorama of history, as taught by Margaret Phelps, began with Adam and Eve. Tall, slender, her upswept hair always in place, she was an exacting person and somewhat frightening to most of her pupils until they got to know her. Harry liked her best of all his teachers and it was in history that he did best. There was no more important field of study, Margaret Phelps affirmed in a memorable statement of faith: “It cultivates every faculty of the mind, enlarges sympathies, liberalizes thought and feeling, furnishes and approves the highest standards of character.”
Tillie Brown, Matilda D. Brown, the English teacher, was hardly less impressive—“a genius at making us appreciate good literature”—and two of Harry’s composition books done under her guidance would survive, one from 1899, the other dated 1900-1901, his senior year. His focus was on people and moral ideals. He responded strongly to the stamp of patriotism on an author or a character. He abhorred sham. Courage counted above all, to judge by what he wrote. At times, when writing of the corrupting influences of money and of what he called “the passions,” the boy seemed wise beyond his years. How much of what he wrote was his own, how much the outlook of Tillie Brown is impossible to know, but as one who, by his own account, knew how to please a teacher, he may well have been giving her as much Brown as Truman in his value judgments.
Of James Fenimore Cooper he wrote in 1899:
The name Cooper suggests to me stories of Indians, the sea and the Revolution, in which we go through a great many adventures and narrow escapes. It also makes me think of a man who upheld his country and who would not step out of his way because it was hard or because he had to meet a quarrel. He was a man who would not let another “run over him.” He would support an argument to the last.
“Cooper’s books,” he also observed, “are interesting and famous but his sentences are too long.”
Under the heading “Courage,” he wrote in a strong, clear, straightaway hand, “The virtue I call courage is not in always facing the foe but in taking care of those at home…. A true heart, a strong mind and a great deal of courage and I think a man will get through the world.” In an essay on The Merchant of Venice, in the composition book from senior year, writing on Antonio, he said that though ideal men were few, his ideal man “should in the first place be brave; then he should fear his God…he must not be cold, haughty, or hypocritical; but he must have a warm heart and love someone (a woman is preferable).”
Shylock interested him primarily because Shylock was a strong man. Shylock’s failing was that he let his passions rule him. “When a man loses control of his passions he is gone,” wrote sixteen-year-old Harry Truman. Further along, he had this to say about Bassanio:
This world is made up of all sorts of conditions of men, from the best one could wish to the basest one could imagine. There are men who love money who will do anything for money, who will sell their souls for money. Then there are men who love money for the good that is in it, who like to use it to make others happy. There are men who love everything worldly, love wine women and a good time; then there are those who are so religious they have no time to think of anyone or anything. These men are extremists who run the thing into the ground. I like a man who has enough worldly wisdom to take care of himself; but I like him to have time to love both his God and those around him.
But it was the boy’s “steadfastness” that most impressed his teachers, said Ardelia Hardin. When called on to speak in class, he would stand clear of his desk and square his shoulders before saying a word.
What his grades were remains unknown, since the school’s records were later destroyed in a fire.
Measured by the time and effort expended, the most important activity in his life was the piano. Having progressed beyond the abilities of Miss Burrus, who taught by a numbers system, he began going twice weekly to Kansas City for lessons with Mrs. E. C. White, a gifted teacher who had studied under Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler, one of the leading American pianists of the era, and with Theodore Leschetizky, who had been a teacher of Paderewski. Harry grew extremely fond of Grace White. (He was fond of most older people, as his cousin Ethel observed. “He was brought up to be fond of them.”) She opened a new world for him and his response was to work with exceptional determination, practicing two hours a day without fail, beginning at five o’clock every morning. As a grown man he would often speak lightly of “tickling the ivories,” as if it were only something he had happened to pick up along the way. But the slender, straight-backed youth with the round eyeglasses who sat at the keyboard in the half-light of dawn every morning was in dead earnest. He thought he had the makings of a concert pianist. And apparently so did Mrs. White.
He was willing not only to do the work, but to face whatever ridicule might come. His friend Charlie Ross would remember Harry going up the street with a music roll under his arm hurrying to catch the trolley for Kansas City. “Mothers held him up as a model, so he took a lot of kidding. It required a lot of courage for a kid to take music lessons in a town like Independence.” Another friend, Henry Bundschu, said Harry was the sort of boy who “seemed to do whatever his mother told him.”
He also loved music; he genuinely adored the great classical works Mrs. White guided him through and insisted he learn. On a big Steinway in her old-fashioned house on Brooklyn Street in Kansas City she drilled him in Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words,” pieces by Weber and Grieg. He learned the new “Woodland Sketches” by the contemporary American composer Edward MacDowell. For the rest of his life he could play Paderewski’s Minuet in G and several Chopin waltzes by heart. He was moved by “sad music,” Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique and Chopin’s Funeral March. Von Weber, he thought, wrote “beautiful things”—the Rondo Brillante, the Polka Brillante. But he liked still more the Chopin waltzes and polonaises. Mozart he loved most of all and with Mrs. White’s help eventually mastered the Ninth Sonata.
He was playing serious music with utmost seriousness and going to concerts at every opportunity. Many o
f the concert greats of the day came to Kansas City. Twice when Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler performed, first at the Lyceum, later at Pepper Hall, Harry was in the audience. He heard her play Scarlatti’s Pastorale and Capriccio, and Beethoven’s Sonata, Opus 111, which a reviewer in the Kansas City Journal called her “most profoundly developed offering.” This was in 1898, the year he worked in the drugstore, when he was fourteen. Later he heard Josef Lhévinne, who was “the best on the globe,” he thought. In 1900, when Paderewski came to Kansas City on tour, Mrs. White arranged a meeting backstage with “the great man,” who treated Harry to a private demonstration of how to play his Minuet in G.
As a boy brimming with such musical aspiration, his head filled with Shakespeare and noble Romans, as one who had taken teasing in a town where appearances were vital, and where every youngster bore the constant scrutiny of innumerable aunts, uncles, teachers, shopkeepers, and neighbors, he might well have burned to rebel. He might have longed for escape, as had Willa Cather growing up in Red Cloud, Nebraska, or to strike back somehow against the kind of small-town minds and souls that Sinclair Lewis would remember from boyhood in Sauk Centre, Minnesota. But nowhere in all that Harry Truman wrote and said about his youth, or in the lengthy recollections of him by friends and family, is there even a hint of anger or hurt or frustration over his surroundings. Clearly he liked Independence, Missouri, and its people. He liked being Harry Truman.
He had thinned out, stretched out, to perhaps, 5 foot 7, which was not as tall as he would be, but above average and already several inches taller than his father. Neat, clean, cheerful, he had still the gift for getting along with almost anyone. People knew who he was and people liked him, and partly because of the music roll and the eyeglasses. He had no enemies, he held no grudges. He had done no wrong, nor anything yet to be ashamed of, so far as is known. Importantly, his father approved of him, for all their seemingly different interests. Harry was “all right,” John Truman said. “He knew Harry had ability,” Vivian remembered. “He liked the way he never had an idle moment….”
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