by Mike Rowe
“Good morning, my Rosebud,” he wrote. “ ‘Little John’ has been making constant and earnest inquiries for his bunkey for a very long time, and this morning, he seems more persistent than ever. I, too, yearn to be in the saddle behind you, holding on for dear life! And yes—I know just where I’d kiss a certain someone, if I was with her tonight.”
Two weeks later, his letter arrived in Monroe, Michigan. A butler delivered it to the boudoir. There Elizabeth devoured his words in much the same way he had devoured hers. Hungrily. Greedily. Then—after multiple readings—she reached for her pen and paper and got busy crafting another flurry of phrases carefully concocted to help her husband… release the tension… during their long periods of separation. In other words, George and Elizabeth were sexting, Victorian style.
Sorry to be indelicate, but there’s really no polite way to put it. Their letters were the nineteenth-century equivalent of naked selfies, packed with double entendres that would have made Anthony Weiner blush. There were references to “long, extended gallops” and “riding under the crupper.” In one letter, Elizabeth alluded to the possibility of “breaking in a new filly” for their “mutual pleasure” and discussed the pros and cons of being “ridden hard and put away wet.”
True, George was a famous equestrian—but no one would have mistaken the topic in question. And of course, no one did. Because George wasn’t just a horny husband, he was a careless husband. At a time when a man’s reputation and a woman’s virtue were still fragile, important things, George failed to protect both.
One day, Elizabeth’s letters were stolen. They appeared in the pages of the Richmond Gazette. Before long, the entire country was reading all about “Little John,” the pleasures of riding “Tomboy,” and that “soft place upon someone’s carpet,” in need of a gentle touch.
One can only imagine how Elizabeth must have felt, seeing her words in print. Yet she survived the scandal. Over time, people forgot all about it. Likewise, they lost sight of her husband’s other shortcomings. They forgot about his impetuous nature. They forgot about his need to always be the center of attention. They forgot about those things because, once again, Elizabeth put pen to paper, extolling the virtues of her husband in a series of wildly popular books about his life on the frontier and his exploits on the battlefield. By the time she died, at the advanced age of ninety, she had single-handedly transformed George’s reputation—not from that of a careless husband who’d famously embarrassed his wife, but from that of a famous commander who’d carelessly killed his own men.
In the movie, George dies with his boots on, fighting heroically right up to the bitter end. In real life, no one knows. His body was found three days after the smoke cleared—naked, blackened, bloated, and covered with flies. Some said a finger had been cut off and taken as a souvenir. Others said his eardrums had been pierced with a sewing needle: punishment for his “failure to listen.” Some said that he appeared to be smiling (as the dead often do), while one claimed an arrow had been (forgive me) forced into his rectum, pushed through his intestines and into his “Little John,” leaving his corpse in a state of perpetual readiness, even as it putrefied under the blue Montana sky.
Sorry to be indelicate, but there’s really no polite way to put it. Some of George’s men were skinned alive. Others were dismembered and rearranged on the ground. President Ulysses S. Grant called the entire debacle “an abominable, totally unnecessary slaughter caused by the stupidity and rashness of a vain, corkheaded fool.” But despite all that, the soldier who marched his men into the valley of death is remembered today as an enduring hero of the American West—thanks to a devoted wife who never stopped grieving, never stopped writing, and never stopped believing her horny husband was some kind of hero, in spite of his unforgivable arrogance on the banks of a river called Little Bighorn.
Not exactly a happy ending for the impatient Boy General but a far better legacy than he deserved, thanks to the blushing bride he left behind—a best-selling author named… Elizabeth Custer.
* * *
I thought about Custer not long ago, at a watering hole called Grumpy’s, after narrating another few episodes of How the Universe Works for my friends at the Science Channel. I’ve learned many interesting things narrating that series, starting with the undeniable fact that I’m going to die in the grip of a cold, indifferent cosmos. The only uncertainty seems to revolve around the exact method of my inevitable demise. What will it be? A supermassive black hole? The collision of two neutron stars? A supernova? A comet? An asteroid? Gamma rays?
Is it any wonder that after a long day of this stuff, I typically end up at Grumpy’s?
On that particular day, I had introduced my audience to the existence of “strangelets”—killer particles that “zombify” matter, whatever that means. I wasn’t blasé about it. As a narrator of some experience, I infused the copy with an appropriate level of certainty as I reminded my terrified viewers that no one is going to get out of this thing alive.
Then again, was I right to sound so certain?
From time to time (more times than you might imagine), the Science Channel calls me back to the booth to rerecord something I’ve read in an earlier episode—not because I’ve screwed up (which never happens), but because new information has been discovered that contradicts claims made in previous scripts. Once, I was asked to rerecord a passage that made reference to the total number of galaxies in the cosmos. I had originally announced, in a crisp, well-modulated baritone, that there were “approximately one hundred billion galaxies in the known universe.”
I remember thinking “Damn, that’s a lot of galaxies”—and again, being a narrator of some experience, I infused the copy with what I felt to be an appropriate level of certainty and gravitas.
Well, a week later, I was called back to the booth. Turns out, a new method of measuring the cosmos had led astronomers to revise the number of galaxies in the known universe from one hundred billion to two trillion. In a single week, we’d found another two thousand billion galaxies. But as I reread the new copy, I was struck by the undeniable fact that I sound no less certain when I’m right than I do when I’m wrong.
I don’t want to overstate things, but the facts are clear: millions, or billions—for all I know, trillions—of people tune in every week to hear me explain the workings of our universe. It’s hard to say, in these uncertain times. But there are no soldiers among my undoubtedly vast audience, waiting to follow me into battle. Custer had six hundred men behind him—the whole 7th Regiment—hanging on his every word. I can’t help but wonder: How certain did Custer sound, under a big, blue Montana sky, when he led his men into that valley of death?
Alas, there was no recording booth for Custer to be called back to. There were no do-overs for him and his men. Just the knife, the arrow, and the tomahawk.
Of that, at least, I am certain.
A PATIENT MAN
John was a patient man. His attraction to Peggy had been instantaneous and profound; their courtship, a whirlwind of barely suppressed passion. And now, as John stood at the altar, watching the object of his affection walk slowly toward him, his thoughts were those of a man whose patience was finally about to pay off.
As Peggy drew ever closer and the organ heralded the coming of the bride, John recalled the day he’d proposed. At first Peggy had demurred. She’d said she’d “think about it tomorrow.” But John was persistent as well as patient, and eventually she said “Yes.” How happy he had been. How relieved. He knew that the most eligible debutante in Atlanta had accepted proposals from five other men—all with more to offer than he could ever hope to match. He knew that she had broken off all those engagements. But now here they were: Peggy in her wedding gown and John in his tuxedo, standing just a few feet apart.
The ceremony was a blur. Scriptures were quoted, songs were sung, the minister spoke sacred words, and all of Atlanta’s society bore witness. Then the tricky part came. Before he got to the vows, the minister regarded the
congregation and invited anyone present who might object to the union to speak now or forever hold their peace.
John glanced out at the faces of those assembled in the crowded church and held his breath. He knew that several of Peggy’s previous suitors were in attendance. Would they object? What would he do if they did?
The moment passed. John exhaled, slowly. And when the minister asked the groom if he would “love, honor, and cherish Peggy from this day forward,” John stared into the face of his true love and said the only thing that he could say: nothing. Because the preacher was not talking to John. The preacher was talking to John’s best friend, a man named Berrien Upshaw—Red to his friends. Today, Red was the man that Peggy was marrying.
John had plenty of objections, but disinclined as he was to “forever hold his peace,” he had no intention of “speaking now.” He proceeded with his plan instead. He smiled. He handed Red the wedding band and applauded as his best friend married the love of his life.
The following days, weeks, and months were difficult for John. He knew his true love was in the arms of another man. But John couldn’t really blame Peggy. Red was a charmer. He looked like a film star. He’d made a fortune as a Prohibition-era bootlegger, and he possessed a mercurial quality that made him irresistible to the fairer sex. John Marsh, on the other hand, was a mild-mannered public relations man who dabbled in journalism. As Peggy had told John when she broke their engagement, along with his heart, “Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect.”
Indeed.
But with respect to expectations, John knew something that Red and Peggy did not. He knew… them. He knew them better than they knew themselves or each other.
John knew that Red expected a compliant and cooperative wife. He knew that Peggy expected a tolerant and devoted husband. In time, John believed, their expectations would go unmet—and when they did, he knew that Red Upshaw would no longer give a damn about his sacred vows. He’d be more likely to give his blushing bride a whack. And Peggy would never tolerate that.
Two months went by before Red ran out of patience with the fiery woman who couldn’t help but speak her mind. When she showed him a bit too much sass, he showed her the back of his hand—and that was that. Peggy moved out, and John was waiting to pick up the pieces. Before long, he proposed again. Peggy told him she’d think about it… tomorrow.
John smiled and said he’d heard that one yesterday. Peggy smiled back, and this time she said “Yes” straightaway. They lived happily ever after.
Sadly, “ever after” would last only twenty-four years. Peggy was killed by a drunk driver when she was just forty-eight. But during her time with John, she didn’t just find true love; she found her true voice. With John’s encouragement, Peggy started to write. She wrote about love and passion, pride and prejudice, war and death, hope, and all the things in between. Some say she wrote the story of her own life.
Peggy never confirmed that. But then again, the most famous character she created was a strong-willed southern belle: a beautiful socialite named Pansy, whom every man wanted to wed. Peggy swore up and down that Pansy had nothing to do with her. But she did choose for Pansy’s husband a dashing, mercurial bootlegger—who, she swore, had nothing to do with Red. As for the character Pansy desired but could never possess—a man married to her best friend? Nope, that guy wasn’t inspired by John Marsh. Not at all.
Whatever the truth was, the publishers loved Peggy’s manuscript. They did have one change to make when it came to the 1,037-page novel, which went on to win the Pulitzer Prize and sold 30 million copies in the process. They thought the name “Pansy” was too weak for the fiery character Peggy had pulled from thin air—and John convinced Peggy that the publishers were right.
In real life, that’s exactly how it happened. A dashing bootlegger named Red Upshaw frankly didn’t give a damn—while an average Joe named John Marsh knew with certainty that tomorrow would be another day. As for Margaret Mitchell—she’d written herself as a Pansy, though her publisher knew she was really a Scarlett. And as for everything else, well, that’s… Gone with the Wind.
* * *
If you ask the other John and Peggy (my parents) how they’ve managed to stay married for well over half a century, they’ll credit an uncompromising level of honesty with each other. If you press them, though, you’ll learn that their commitment to the truth did not extend to their children. Indeed, when it came to raising three boys on a public school teacher’s salary, my parents lied like rugs.
I remember a television commercial that used to air during Baltimore Orioles home games. It was for an amusement park in Ocean City, Maryland. According to the announcer, a visit there would amount to “the time of my life.” At that particular moment, my life had amounted to about nine years. For the most part, I was satisfied with the way things were going. Then I saw the Wild Mouse.
The Wild Mouse was a giant roller coaster that threatened to leap from our black-and-white television and smash through the wall of our tiny den. It shared the Ocean City boardwalk with the Round-Up, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and other mysterious contraptions that plunged and spun this way and that. I had never seen anything like them—a parade of machines devised for no purpose other than pure enjoyment. I remember the camera zooming in on a kid about my age. He was strapped into the Wild Mouse next to a pretty girl, his excitement teetering on the verge of rapture. I was transfixed.
“Hey, Peggy, get a load of these ding-a-lings on the TV. I think they’re gonna puke on each other.”
My parents were sitting on the sofa behind me. “Oh, those poor children,” Mom said. “Why would anyone stand in line all day just to get vomited on?”
“Obviously, Peggy, those kids are deranged. Look at ’em.”
I searched the sea of jubilant faces for signs of idiocy or nausea.
“Isn’t it sad, John, how some children need machines to have fun?”
“It sure is, Peg. It sure is.”
Later, another commercial appeared, this one for a movie called Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It was playing at the Senator and, according to the announcer, it was “a thrilling film for the whole family… a must-see event!” I had never been to the Senator before, or any other movie theater. I was captivated.
“Tell me something, Peg. Why would anyone want to see the movie when they could read the book instead? Books are so much more interesting.”
“Well, John, as I understand it, movies are for children who can’t read very well. Isn’t that sad?”
“It sure is, Peg. It sure is.”
In 1971, we didn’t have the money for amusement parks or “must-see” events. But I never felt bad about missing such things. I was too busy feeling sorry for people who had to endure them.
“Hey, Dad, can we order a pizza tonight?”
“A what?”
We had never eaten a pizza before, much less ordered one. The concept of food delivery was completely foreign.
“Bobby Price says his mother has a pizza pie delivered right to their house every Friday night,” I said. “And Chinese food every Wednesday.”
My father sighed and spoke with a hint of sadness. “Look, son, Bobby’s mother doesn’t know how to cook. It’s not her fault they can’t have normal food.” Then, quietly, to my mother, “Peg, maybe you should call Mrs. Price and give her the recipe for your meat loaf casserole.”
“Of course, John. That poor boy deserves a home-cooked meal.”
“He sure does, Peg. He sure does.”
It was a strange sort of snobbery to develop at such an early age—this sympathy for the more fortunate—but that’s precisely what my parents engendered. With duplicity and guile, they turned envy to pity. By the time I was eleven, I felt nothing but compassion for classmates of mine who had been forced to wear the latest fashions. Sadly, they had no older cousins to provide them with a superior wardrobe of “softer, sturdier, broken-in alternatives.”
One Sunday after church, our neighbors came
by with a slideshow from their most recent family vacation—hundreds of photos from Yellowstone and Yosemite. The Brannigans stayed for hours and hours and told stories about Indians and geysers and wild bears. My brothers and I were spellbound. When they left, my dad smiled and waved as they pulled out of the driveway, but when he turned around, his expression spoke for him: “Oh, those poor bastards,” it said.
Like a Greek chorus of one, my mother dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “Gosh, John, can you imagine flying all the way across the country just to take a walk in the woods?”
“No, honey, I sure can’t. But then again, not everyone has a forest in their own backyard!”
“That’s a good point, John. A very good point.”
My parents shifted their gaze toward the large tract of woods just beyond our pasture and looked with satisfaction at the epicenter of the sensible, affordable amusements that kept my brothers and me occupied on a daily basis: a swift-running creek, a swamp of frogs and cattails, an old wooden bridge, and a maze of hidden trails that might lead anywhere.
Later, when I was less gullible (and TV commercials were more persuasive), a new parenting style would evolve: one that included phrases like “No!” and “Because I said so!” But when I entered the sixth grade, I did so with a firm understanding that movie theaters were for the illiterate, vacations for the unimaginative, and home delivery for lazy housewives who couldn’t cook. As for amusement parks, they were probably okay, if you didn’t mind waiting in line all day for the chance to vomit all over your friends.
ANOTHER TORTURED ARTIST
Back in the seventies, before the world knew him by a single name, a battered boy stared into an unforgiving mirror and considered his reflection: a split lip; a swollen jaw; a black eye. Painful, but not as painful as the words that accompanied the beating: “Look in that mirror, boy. Your lips are too fat for your mouth, your nose is too flat for your face, and your skin doesn’t match your brothers’. I’m trying to run a business here!”