In the small town where I grew up there was never much dispute around our neighborhood, and around most of the community about how good-looking my dad was. Whenever I spent time with my friends, I was always a little intimidated by the questions their mothers would ask about my dad. It seemed strange to me at the time how they never wanted to know things about my mom.

“What’s your dad’s middle name?” This was one of the more common questions.

“My dad’s middle name is Vernon. George Vernon Justis.”

It was confusing to see grownups blush, and many of my friend’s moms did flush red when they repeated my dad’s name.

“Geroge Vernon Justis; well…I think he looks just like Bill Holden!”

 

In my brief career as a neighborhood trouble–maker, I heard that name quite a few times. It always sounded to me like it ought to be a kid’s name,……well….like one of my renegade friends. It came to point where I made a game of asking:

“Who’s that?”

“William Holden silly. You know,……the movie, Picnic?”

“Nope!”

“Oh,…….you know Bill Holden is a bum, and he seduce……..ulp!



They usually stopped somewhere in mid-sentence after they told me he was a bum. I wondered why so many moms were telling me my dad looked like a bum.

---

There was always a sneaky shadow of mild indifference that followed kids of the neighborhood. When grownups spoke, the content of their speeches were always wasted on us. We were comfortable in our roles as the short, id-ish repositories of rebellious glands, in soiled jeans and torn “T” shirts. If it came to adults shaking our hands, and exchanging names, we suffered no quilt about handing the giant person a limp fish-hand and forgetting their name at the second their last molecule of displaced air had bumped our dirty ears. We did not care. There was nothing equal in importance to our evil designs. With our distractions holding our attention so well, I could never remember the name, William Holden.

The unusual interrogations of several mothers were intimidating enough that I never mentioned it to Mom. This lasted for some time until we were looking at some snapshots one afternoon.

We liked to share ideas about what the people in the pictures were saying to each other. We looked at a group of old ladies, who we both recognized from our church. Mom snickered; then she did her best old lady imitation.

“Oh Thelma, I really need to let one rip!”

I felt an uncontrollable giggle coming,…..before my emotions took control, I held up another photo of the same group of ladies.

“Oh no!......girls! run for your lives!!!.....”



My mother had the kind of quick intellect that chose her humor with instant, surgical care. When we were awarded her laughter, we knew she would keep the rewards coming by building on the joke with a sweet, controlled hysteria. We laughed for an eternity in kid-time, only having to make hints of a funny face to send out more volleys.

When the noise died away, she paused and held up a photo of dad from the late 40’s.

“He’s so handsome, like a movie star.”

“That’s what those ladies keep saying!” I blurted it out, without thinking I would have to explain something.

“What are you talking about sweetie?” Mom was using her stiletto-soft-stare.

“Well, these ladies keep telling me Dad Looks like……some...guy.”

“Who?”

“Uh……I don’t know.”


The blunt, indifferent face of an otherwise cool and engaged mom always caused alarm. She flushed. I held my breath. When her head cocked to one side, I heard her make a long sigh.

“Well,…..the ladies you are talking about…..they must be Randy, and Bob’s mothers………..they’re right about my Dadyo.”

I thought for a moment, feeling a tiny stab of anger.

“Mom, I’ll beat up that guy if he comes here….they said he’s a bum.”

“Sweetheart, you will not….and he’s probably not a bum……whoever he is, he’s probably a great actor.”

“I guess I ain’t never seen that guy.” I showed a rare glimmer of understanding about my miss-placed loathing.

Mom searched the picture pile for a moment, and then picked up a large photograph.


“Um-hum,………..Sweetie…..See this?”

I saw she had placed a sheet of white paper over the center of a larger photograph, as if she were directing my attention to the edges.

“Here is your Sister, in the upper right.....see?!!....... she’s trying to catch our neighbor girl, Kay Lynn!”

“And here,……who is this? She pointed to the other edge.




I saw a little kid who looked a lot like my baby pictures.

Mom grabbed my wrist. “That’s you!!”

 

The kid, perched next to an older gentleman who was obviously serving melons to rowdy children, was staring at something out of view. He seemed to be just at the point of leaning out to gaze around the aproned stranger. Mom lifted up the piece of paper and I could see the whole image.

“You don’t remember sweetheart, but you were in a movie, a Hollywood movie…..when you were two years old! My little movie star! You and Sis…..my movie stars!”


I saw an incredible scene of children grabbing for melon slices. With the action of the players I could almost hear wailing and shrieking with small hands and arms extended to gather their fill of joy.

        ^{Columbia Pictures}


And in the center stood a Tanned, Bronze God, a gifted player controlling the action, with a mastered expression igniting power, fondness and good will. He was obviously the one for whom the picture was taken. It looked to me like he meant business, and no one else in that frenzied space meant it like he did.

“Who is he mom?”

“That’s William Holden,……..but he likes to be called Bill.”

“Mom!......That’s……..that’s…….

“I know.”

We marveled at the whimsical sensations of that cool moment…….

 

 

 

 

---

 

In junior high school, I had an American History teacher whose dynamic oratory I remembered well. We discussed World War II, the English, and the Nazis in some detail. My teacher tried to explain Hitler’s plan for engineering a “Master Race.”

“You people have to understand. Hitler wanted men in his society who were…..well,……….you all know Gary’s dad, George Justis. He’s tall, well proportioned, good looking. That type of man was Hitler’s ideal. A man that looked like a Greek God,……..well,…….. like William Holden!”

There is a blunt, percussive power in having your parent’s physical attributes verbally displayed in front of your peers. I felt a little like my mind had been burgled and some of my beliefs kicked around a little. I felt this in spite of agreeing with my teacher; at least to the extent that Dad looked like a movie star…… sometimes.
It was also damned embarrassing.

My teacher’s best student bumped me in the hall after class. I expected a dose of taunting.

“Hey man, your dad is cool. He’s a country guy. Holden is a slicker. Anyway, Pappy said your dad don’t like the war. I vote for your dad!”


As the years rolled by, adult issues caused the glamour of youth to fade, and my ideas were in constant conflict with Dad’s. I had never imagined him as any kind of activist, or God forbid: Liberal. He had voted for George Wallace in the 60’s. He surprised both my brother and me when he sat us down one day and told us:

“You boys,…..I want you both to stay in college. I don’t believe in this war. It ain’t right. I served in my time, but this is different.”

For that moment, all the indignation of my difficult hippie-laden youth and trail of conflicts with Dad dissipated. I had never felt so much pride and affection for him, I realized at that moment that during the times when he had made so many ill conceived, but magnificent objections to my lifestyle, he was trying simply to enfold me in his solid space, and lock me safely inside.



Years later I found another snapshot from those few days in Halsted, Kansas.
It was a wonderful full portrait of Bill Holden taken by my mom. He’s throwing a ball, and the photo captures him as he finishes the throw. We didn’t know whom he was throwing to, but I really liked the idea of Bill Holden playing catch with my dad.

 

When I held up the photo of Dad next to the photo of Bill Holden, I thought to myself,

“Yeah, maybe they’re about even.”

 

Then I thought a little longer about the contrast between the two men, I remembered my dad’s political epiphany about Vietnam years earlier. It wouldn’t have been fair to speculate on William Holden’s politics. I know he was a republican, like my dad was, but I can never know what Holden said to his kids.

I knew however, that when dad talked to us about his feelings on the war, it was because he found the needless suffering associated with it to be repugnant, especially the suffering of children. There was sadness in understanding the fullness of his heart, which was slightly torn when he saw the horrors in all the press photos. Near the end of Dad’s life, he talked about how frightened he was that the Iraq war would be similar to Vietnam. We both agreed it was an ill-conceived adventure. “I know you’ll be ok though Gare. That’s what I care about.”




When my attention fell back on the photos, I looked closer, and it felt as if a great truck rolled by, making a small earthquake below my feet… I looked even closer.

“No,…….Dad’s got it all over Bill Holden……..yeah……he does……..….by a country mile.”