A look at my father through another reporter's eyes...

Grace Under Fire: Merriman Smith and JFK's Assassination

By William R. Levesque, Times Staff Writer

Here's what it took to break the news of the Kennedy assassination quickly and correctly, to get the news out in minutes to last for the ages.

A friend once joked that I owed my reporting career to Lee Harvey Oswald. But I'd rather think I owe it to Merriman Smith.

I was in middle school when I first became fascinated with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I'd spend hours devouring books like William Manchester's The Death of a President or Jim Bishop's The Day Kennedy Was Shot the way other kids read the comics.
 
What drew me to the story of that tragic event 46 years ago today had less to do with the macabre spectacle by the grassy knoll than it did with a fascination for the news business.


The books were my introduction to Smith.

Smith, who died in 1970, was the swarthy, pugnacious White House correspondent for United Press International, the senior reporter on the beat when Kennedy's motorcade left Love Field for the 45-minute ride through the cheering throngs of Dallas.

As reporters today increasingly work at breakneck speed to get the news on the Web before any of a thousand faceless competitors, Smith's excellence that day is worth remembering.

Former UPI journalist Patrick J. Sloyan wrote in 1997, "The day Kennedy was killed required perception, accuracy, speed and judgment that Smith displayed while relishing the fire of competition. Smith did not merely beat (Associated Press reporter) Jack Bell, the opposition. That day in Dallas, Merriman Smith burned the Associated Press to the waterline."

Smith sat in a special phone company radio car a few hundred feet behind JFK's midnight blue limousine in the Dallas motorcade. The wire reporters were suppose to rotate the seat beside the bulky phone, but it was Smith's habit to take it every time - just in case.

Smith sometimes took target practice at the gun range used by Secret Service agents, so when shots rang out, he immediately identified the sharp reports as gunfire.

Smith saw the confusion and panic in the crowd as the presidential car sped off.

Still, it's difficult for someone who isn't a reporter to understand the danger of Smith's next calculated risk. He hadn't seen the impact of the bullets. He couldn't know JFK was wounded. But Smith picked up the radio phone and called in a bulletin to UPI.

If he got it wrong, it might end his career.

DALLAS. NOV. 22 (UPI) - THREE SHOTS WERE FIRED AT PRESIDENT KENNEDY'S MOTORCADE IN DOWNTOWN DALLAS.

It wasn't recklessness but a sharp instinct that led Smith to call in those words. In newsrooms around the nation, five bells at the UPI ticker announced momentous news. It was the first word of the shooting to the world.

Just four minutes had passed since the final shot.

Smith, pretending that the UPI operator could not hear him, asked that his words be read back to him. He knew every second he kept the phone away from the AP reporter extended his scoop. The AP's Jack Bell tried to pull the phone away, punching Smith's back.

When the car stopped at Parkland Hospital, Smith threw the phone to Bell. At that moment, the line went dead.

Smith ran to the presidential limousine and looked down at the carnage inside. Jacqueline Kennedy held her husband's shattered head on her lap. Smith asked Secret Service agent Clint Hill about JFK's condition.
"He's dead, Smitty."

Smith ran into the hospital for a phone. Within 11 minutes of the assassination, he had dictated a coherent 500-word dispatch whose accuracy withstood the test of time.

"The wire service war of seconds had grown to minutes, and the AP was falling farther and farther behind," Manchester wrote in The Death of a President.

Realizing the news was now with Lyndon Johnson, and not with the dead president, Smith bummed a ride to Air Force One from a cop and raced to the airport. He made it in time to witness LBJ's swearing in.

The AP reporter was still at Parkland.

I fell in love with the story of Smith's work and the idea that a journalist could have a front-row seat to history. The work was exciting, important, worthy. Smith won a Pulitzer Prize.

Thus infected, I became a journalist. I joined UPI myself in 1987, perhaps trying to recreate that boyhood fascination with the Big Story. Of course, I would never cover anything as big as JFK's death.
But I didn't need to. Like thousands of other reporters covering nothing more riveting than school boards or local police or the courts, I found a calling.

The news business is now pummeled by lost profits, layoffs and reduced salaries. Like many, I struggle to remain upbeat about a future in journalism.

I often think of Smith in these hard times. He reminds me about why I'm still enthralled by the limitless possibilities of the next day's newspaper, by the notion that a routine day can be transformed in an instant.
And there is comfort knowing it will be a reporter who brings clarity to chaos.

William R. Levesque, born four months before JFK's assassination, can be reached at levesque@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3432.
Parts of this commentary are based on Patrick J. Sloyan's May 1997 story in the American Journalism Review, which can be viewed at
http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/albertme.htm.

My father's account of JFK's Death

From the UPI Archives -- Merriman Smith received the 1964 Pulitzer Prize for National Reporting for his coverage of the Nov. 22, 1963, assassination of President John F. Kennedy.
-
WASHINGTON, Nov. 23, 1963 (UPI) - It was a balmy, sunny noon as we motored through downtown Dallas behind President Kennedy. The procession cleared the center of the business district and turned into a handsome highway that wound through what appeared to be a park.

I was riding in the so-called White House press "pool" car, a telephone company vehicle equipped with a mobile radio-telephone. I was in the front seat between a driver from the telephone company and Malcolm Kilduff, acting White House press secretary for the president's Texas tour. Three other pool reporters were wedged in the back seat.

Suddenly we heard three loud, almost painfully loud cracks. The first sounded as if it might have been a large firecracker. But the second and third blasts were unmistakable. Gunfire.

The president's car, possibly as much as 150 or 200 yards ahead, seemed to falter briefly. We saw a flurry of activity in the Secret Service follow-up car behind the chief executive's bubble-top limousine.

Next in line was the car bearing Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson. Behind that, another follow-up car bearing agents assigned to the vice president's protection. We were behind that car.

Our car stood still for probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like a lifetime. One sees history explode before one's eyes and for even the most trained observer, there is a limit to what one can comprehend.
I looked ahead at the president's car but could not see him or his companion, Gov. John B. Connally of Texas. Both men had been riding on the right side of the bubble-top limousine from Washington. I thought I saw a flash of pink which would have been Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy.

Everybody in our car began shouting at the driver to pull up closer to the president's car. But at this moment, we saw the big bubble-top and a motorcycle escort roar away at high speed.

We screamed at our driver, "Get going, get going." We careened around the Johnson car and its escort and set out down the highway, barely able to keep in sight of the president's car and the accompanying Secret Service follow-up car.

They vanished around a curve. When we cleared the same curve we could see where we were heading -- Parkland Hospital, a large brick structure to the left of the arterial highway. We skidded around a sharp left turn and spilled out of the pool car as it entered the hospital driveway.

I ran to the side of the bubble-top.

The president was face down on the back seat. Mrs. Kennedy made a cradle of her arms around the president's head and bent over him as if she were whispering to him.

Gov. Connally was on his back on the floor of the car, his head and shoulders resting in the arms of his wife, Nellie, who kept shaking her head and shaking with dry sobs. Blood oozed from the front of the governor's suit. I could not see the president's wound. But I could see blood spattered around the interior of the rear seat and a dark stain spreading down the right side of the president's dark gray suit.

From the telephone car, I had radioed the Dallas bureau of UPI that three shots had been fired at the Kennedy motorcade. Seeing the bloody scene in the rear of the car at the hospital entrance, I knew I had to get to a telephone immediately.

Clint Hill, the Secret Service agent in charge of the detail assigned to Mrs. Kennedy, was leaning over into the rear of the car.

"How badly was he hit, Clint?" I asked.

"He's dead," Hill replied curtly.

I have no further clear memory of the scene in the driveway. I recall a babble of anxious voices, tense voices -- "Where in hill are the stretchers. ... Get a doctor out here ... He's on the way ... Come on, easy there." And from somewhere, nervous sobbing.

I raced down a short stretch of sidewalk into a hospital corridor. The first thing I spotted was a small clerical office, more of a booth than an office. Inside, a bespectacled man stood shuffling what appeared to be hospital forms. At a wicket much like a bank teller's cage, I spotted a telephone.

"How do I get outside?" I gasped. "The president has been hurt and this is an emergency call."

"Dial nine," he said, shoving the phone toward me.

It took two tries before I successfully dialed the Dallas UPI number. Quickly, I dictated a bulletin saying the president had been seriously, perhaps fatally, injured by an assassin's bullets while driving through the streets of Dallas.

Litters bearing the president and the governor rolled by me as I dictated, but my back was to the hallway and I didn't see them until they were at the entrance of the emergency room about 75 or 100 feet away.
I knew they had passed, however, from the horrified expression that suddenly spread over the face of the man behind the wicket.

As I stood in the drab buff hallway leading into the emergency ward trying to reconstruct the shooting for the UPI man on the other end of the telephone and still keep track of what was happening outside the door of the emergency room, I watched a swift and confused panorama sweep before me.

Kilduff of the White House press staff raced up and down the hall. Police captains barked at each other, "Clear this area." Two priests hurried in behind a Secret Service agent, their narrow purple stoles rolled up tightly in their hands. A police lieutenant ran down the hall with a large carton of blood for transfusions. A doctor came in and said he was responding to a call for "all neurosurgeons."

The priests came out and said the president had received the last sacrament of the Catholic Church. They said he was still alive, but not conscious. Members of the Kennedy staff began arriving. They had been behind us in the motorcade, but hopelessly bogged for a time in confused traffic.

Telephones were at a premium in the hospital and I clung to mine for dear life. I was afraid to stray from the wicket lest I lose contact with the outside world.

My decision was made for me, however, when Kilduff and Wayne Hawks of the White House staff ran by me, shouting that Kilduff would make a statement shortly in the so-called nurses room a floor above and at the far end of the hospital.

I threw down the phone and sped after them. We reached the floor of the conference room and there were loud cries of "Quiet!" Fighting to keep his emotions under control, Kilduff said "President John Fitzgerald Kennedy died at approximately 1 o'clock."

I raced into a nearby office. The telephone switchboard at the hospital was hopelessly jammed. I spotted Virginia Payette, wife of UPI's Southwestern division manager and a veteran reporter in her own right. I told her to try getting through on pay telephones on the floor above.

Frustrated by the inability to get through the hospital switchboard, I appealed to a nurse. She led me through a maze of corridors and back stairways to another floor and a lone pay booth. I got the Dallas office. Virginia had gotten through before me.

Whereupon I ran back through the hospital to the conference room. There Jiggs Fauver of the White House transportation staff grabbed me and said Kilduff wanted a pool of three men immediately to fly back to Washington on Air Force One, the presidential aircraft.

"He wants you downstairs, and he wants you right now," Fauver said.

Down the stairs I ran and into the driveway, only to discover Kilduff had just pulled out in our telephone car.
Charles Roberts of Newsweek magazine, Sid Davis of Westinghouse Broadcasting and I implored a police officer to take us to the airport in his squad car. The Secret Service had requested that no sirens be used in the vicinity of the airport, but the Dallas officer did a masterful job of getting us through some of the worst traffic I've ever seen.

As we piled out of the car on the edge of the runway about 200 yards from the presidential aircraft, Kilduff spotted us and motioned for us to hurry. We trotted to him and he said the plane could take two pool men to Washington; that Johnson was about to take the oath of office aboard the plane and would take off immediately thereafter.

I saw a bank of telephone booths beside the runway and asked if I had time to advise my news service. He said, "But for God's sake, hurry."

Then began another telephone nightmare. The Dallas office rang busy. I tried calling Washington. All circuits were busy. Then I called the New York bureau of UPI and told them about the impending installation of a new president aboard the airplane.

Kilduff came out of the plane and motioned wildly toward my booth. I slammed down the phone and jogged across the runway. A detective stopped me and said, "You dropped your pocket comb."

Aboard Air Force One on which I had made so many trips as a press association reporter covering President Kennedy, all of the shades of the larger main cabin were drawn and the interior was hot and dimly lighted.
Kilduff propelled us to the president's suite two-thirds of the way back in the plane. The room is used normally as a combination conference and sitting room and could accommodate eight to 10 people seated.
I wedged inside the compartment and began counting. There were 27 people in this compartment. Johnson stood in the center with his wife, Lady Bird. U.S. District Judge Sarah T. Hughes, 67, a kindly faced woman, stood with a small black Bible in her hands, waiting to give the oath.

The compartment became hotter and hotter. Johnson was worried that some of the Kennedy staff might not be able to get inside. He urged people to press forward, but a Signal Corps photographer, Capt. Cecil Stoughton, standing in the corner on a chair, said if Johnson moved any closer, it would be virtually impossible to make a truly historic photograph.

It developed that Johnson was waiting for Mrs. Kennedy, who was composing herself in a small bedroom in the rear of the plane. She appeared alone, dressed in the same pink and wool suit she had worn in the morning when she appeared so happy shaking hands with airport crowds at the side of her husband.
She was white-faced but dry-eyed. Friendly hands stretched toward her as she stumbled slightly. Johnson took both of her hands in his and motioned her to his left side. Lady Bird stood on his right, a fixed half-smile showing the tension.

Johnson nodded to Judge Hughes, an old friend of his family and a Kennedy appointee.
"Hold up your right hand and repeat after me," the woman jurist said to Johnson.
Outside a jet could be heard droning into a landing.

Judge Hughes held out the Bible and Johnson covered it with his large left hand. His right arm went slowly into the air and the jurist began to intone the Constitutional oath. "I do solemnly swear I will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States ... ."

The brief ceremony ended when Johnson in a deep, firm voice, repeated after the judge, "... and so help me God."

Johnson first turned to his wife, hugged her about the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. Then he turned to Kennedy's widow, put his left arm around her and kissed her cheek.

As others in the group -- some Texas Democratic House members, members of the Johnson and Kennedy staffs -- moved toward the new president, he seemed to back away from any expression of felicitation.
The two-minute ceremony concluded at 3:38 p.m. EST and seconds later, the president said firmly, "Now, let's get airborne."

Col. James Swindal, pilot of the plane, a big gleaming silver and blue fan-jet, cut on the starboard engines immediately. Several persons, including Sid Davis of Westinghouse, left the plane at that time. The White House had room for only two pool reporters on the return flight and these posts were filled by Roberts and me, although at the moment we could find no empty seats.

At 3:47 p.m. EST, the wheels of Air Force One cleared the runway. Swindal roared the big ship up to an unusually high cruising altitude of 41,000 feet where at 625 miles an hour, ground speed, the jet hurtled toward Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington.

When the president's plane reached operating altitude, Mrs. Kennedy left her bedchamber and walked to the rear compartment of the plane. This was the so-called family living room, a private area where she and Kennedy, family and friends had spent many happy airborne hours chatting and dining together.

Kennedy's casket had been placed in this compartment, carried aboard by a group of Secret Service agents.
Mrs. Kennedy went into the rear lounge and took a chair beside the coffin. There she remained throughout the flight. Her vigil was shared at times by four staff members close to the slain chief executive -- David Powers, his buddy and personal assistant; Kenneth P. O'Donnell, appointments secretary and key political adviser; Lawrence O'Brien, chief Kennedy liaison man with Congress, and Brig. Gen. Godfrey McHugh, Kennedy's Air Force aide.

Kennedy's military aide, Maj. Gen. Chester V. Clifton, was busy most of the trip in the forward areas of the plane, sending messages and making arrangements for arrival ceremonies and movement of the body to Bethesda Naval Hospital.

As the flight progressed, Johnson walked back into the main compartment. My portable typewriter was lost somewhere around the hospital and I was writing on an over-sized electric typewriter which Kennedy's personal assistant, Mrs. Evelyn Lincoln, had used to type his speech texts.

Johnson came up to the table where Roberts and I were trying to record the history we had just witnessed.
"I'm going to make a short statement in a few minutes and give you copies of it," he said. "Then when I get on the ground, I'll do it over again."

It was the first public utterance of the new chief executive, brief and moving: --
"This is a sad time for all people. We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed. For me it is a deep personal tragedy. I know the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear. I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help -- and God's."

When the plane was about 45 minutes from Washington, the new president got on a special radio-telephone and placed a call to Mrs. Rose Kennedy, the last president's mother.

"I wish to God there was something I could do," he told her. "I just wanted you to know that."

Then Mrs. Johnson wanted to talk to the elder Mrs. Kennedy.

"We feel like the heart has been cut out of us," Mrs. Johnson said. She broke down for a moment and began to sob. Recovering in a few seconds, she added, "Our love and our prayers are with you."

Thirty minutes out of Washington, Johnson put in a call to Nellie Connally, wife of the seriously wounded Texas governor.

The new president said to the governor's wife:  "We are praying for you, darling, and I know that everything is going to be all right, isn't it? Give him a hug and a kiss for me."

It was dark when Air Force One began to skim over the lights of the Washington area, lining up for a landing at Andrews Air Force Base. The plane touched down at 5:59 p.m. EST.

I thanked the stewards for rigging up the typewriter for me, pulled on my raincoat and started down the forward ramp. Roberts and I stood under a wing and watched the casket being lowered from the rear of the plane and borne by a complement of armed forces body bearers into a waiting hearse. We watched Mrs. Kennedy and the president's brother, Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, climb into the hearse beside the coffin.

The new president repeated his first public statement for broadcast and newsreel microphones, shook hands with some of the government and diplomatic leaders who turned out to meet the plane, and headed for his helicopter.

Roberts and I were given seats on another 'copter bound for the White House lawn. In the compartment next to ours in one of the large chairs beside a window sat Theodore C. Sorensen, one of Kennedy's closest associates with the title of special counsel to the president. He had not gone to Texas with his chief but had come to the air base for his return.

Sorensen sat wilted in the large chair, crying softly. The dignity of his deep grief seemed to sum up all of the tragedy and sadness of the previous six hours.

As our helicopter circled in the balmy darkness for a landing on the White House south lawn, it seemed incredible that only six hours before, John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been a vibrant, smiling, waving and active man.

The Final Dance

Touch, touch, touch. Tickle, tickle, tickle. I think about you as a random thought. I see you in pictures that pass by my mind, in my book of memories that haven't faded away through age or time. I'm waiting to have enough strength. I put almost everything and anything in the way of facing you head on. Why is it that I just can't conquer you?

It's a mere memory and moments in time long gone. I haven't head a nightmare in such a long time. I suppose I may be thinking that all of the scattered thoughts and moments may surface into my dream world. But I don't yet sense that this is what stops me. It's more of a complete unwillingness to even look in your direction.

Is this my Achilles heal?

I am glad of the items in life that take up my time. Whether work or family, it filters through my thinking and absorbs any trace of you in my current todays. Can I handle writing you all down? Am I ready to face the bewitching hour? Every time I think of you, I am instantly around 14 years-old.

I'm angry at you. I wear this on my face. Not a moment in your presence denies the emotion that wells to the surface spewing over succinctly when there is no one else around. You dismiss me as nothing. You make me ill. I wish you had never been created. And how awful is that since you are a child of God.

In His eyes you are His beloved. To me, you are a thug and a punk and a human who uses his instruments of strength and location to conquer others. You are a vile creature. I so want to call you out before the world and announce your real intentions. I want the world to flog you with contempt and glares of indignation. Please stand still long enough so society can swat you down like a fly. It brings a wry smile to my lips just thinking of this.

I will have my time with you. Whether in my thoughts, in my words I pen, you will not escape your actions. And, in truth you will face your accuser. You and I will have one final sparring match before the blow to wipe you from existence. And I shall dine, satisfied and full, without you as part of any future, present or past. It will be a glorious day of satisfaction.

Daddy, Daddy! When Will You Be Home?

I look for you each day but never seem to find where you are.
I miss you so much, Daddy.

The days drag on and the nights are so scary.
I miss you so much, Daddy.

Why did you have to go away,
Past the moon and the stars.

Way up, up so high?
I wonder why I can't see you, Daddy.

I can't find your Superman arms for a hug
And can't feel your night-night kisses to keep me so snug.

I miss you so much, Daddy.

When Will You Be Home?

Author's note:
I never knew my father. I only knew of him. He inspired me to get involved in news, both radio and TV news, to be specific. As my father was a famous national journalist, working to cover the current President of the United States, and always spending hours upon hours at The White House, just in case a breaking story happened, I knew his life took a lot out of him. Though the photo shows my father giving me kisses after a bath and before heading to bed, I don't remember that moment or any moment with him. But it's all that I have. It's all that I will ever have.

I Want I'M TIRED To Die!

Photo by Hélène Desplechin

Not a moment transpires that gives me a breath of salvation from angst and despair!

I am tired of wishing my life away and tired of all of the tears. I'm sick of wondering why things are and wanting someone to make things better. Why do I have to succumb to such daggers of anguish that tear at my soul and leave me without any possibility of experiencing a moment of peace of love or anything of substance that might seem to supply food to my soul?

It never ends. I get just so far and then - STOP! I am knocked down and pummeled by society's neglect of its own, leaving those without protection to wither and die inside.

It's sick isn't it? How is such complacency possible? How is this allowed? Can no one think it possible to move toward someone in despair? But then again, the truth is how could I ever allow such truth to be recognized? This life is not for the weak. The weak are eaten by the strong.

Such sick and twisted behavior is not only tolerated but encouraged by America's dream to have everything. I am not even alive anymore! If I scream and yell it makes no change. No one cares! No one cares at all! I can't stand the way we talk to each other and the way I have to be silent!

Like a pet waiting to be put down, here is the time passing away. I loathe and despise yesterday and can't seem to find my today. It's stuck somewhere in the middle of possibility and hope and lost forever from my dreams.

I can't handle something that others find so easy to weave in their lives. Bouquets are all around others. I am amongst the thorns. And still no one comes to help me find my way out from the pricks that let crimson fall to the ground.

I want "I'm tired" to die! It's over! You're hated. You're no longer wanted. Now, how does it feel? Does it make your heart bleed?

The bile in my throat is all made for you. It's raining down to swell and surface and cause you every discomfort and despicable ache there is to imagine. And I have imagined often of ending your life.

I have fantasized about your demise. You have taken the beauty in air and blinded the sky. And if I could, I would cause you to die a thousand times always, if there could be a way. I would make you suffer the tortures of eternity, all in one day.

You won't seem to leave me or tell me goodbye. So it's up to me to strip you of the pleasure to sense your ability to conquer all who breathe you in without knowing. You will never know peace as long as I live. Why should you have a thread of joy when you dehydrate my soul from its opportunity to soar.

There will come a day when thought takes you hostage. I will laugh through bittersweet water flooding my face. It's time for "I'm Tired" to die! Step up and claim your prize of sanity all gone. You'll get nothing from me or from my life again.

You're dead to me always. And though you may try to seep back under my skin, I won't give you the privilege of knowing that you will win anything from me but the sweat, blood and tears you have impregnated me with year after year.

You're dead, scraped and burned and cast away high! I hand you your death certificate to hold the truth of your demise!

It's time to get back to writing...

It's been some time since I have really even opened the file of my book. I just know that there is going to be a good bit of emotional pain to get through. I thought I could get it done the last time I spent a day writing. But it seems I got through a great deal and then stopped just as the 'fun would have started. Of all the amazing and strange and unbelievable things to somehow put to paper or in a file, it's just too much. I keep avoiding this. I have avoided this for so very long. I have dealt with this, or actually tried to in the methods that many suggest and recommend. But nothing has put it all to rest. I have heard that writing it all down, expressing it all and getting through it in words can be of great use. I just keep putting it off. I find myself doing almost anything else.

The boys are keeping me busy as well. How did they get to be boys or even young men rather than little babies? My 13 year-old actually asked if he could go see a love movie with me. It was one of those 'date movies.' And here he was interested in this? Good grief? I wasn't expecting that quite yet!!

The truth will set you free...at least that's what I am counting on.

 

 'A Christimas Book for Gillean,' by  Merriman Smith

When writing this book, well, all I can tell you is that my short stories come by way of memories cut by shards of glass. One minute life is happening as normal and the next a flood of memories or one single incident walks in front of me from the past as if it were literally happening all over again.

I do spend time writing about specific events that include visiting the White House, shaking hands with a U.S. President and growing up with no family for most of my life. I suppose in my instance, writing my story is not an easy task. And being asked time and time again why I would write such a book sharing a good deal of unimaginable events, extraordinary circumstances involving well-known political and military officials, my answer continues to remain the same.

One's voice should not be taken away from someone so young. Just one example; a child should not have to worry that the money left to her by her father can be taken away without someone representing the child's best interests reviews the situation. But it did. A man of legal age should not be 'tucking a young teen into bed' every night by sitting on the bed she is in for an hour or more 'touching her.' But a man did. But what is so very sad is that a child could be selected as a 'gift' to help a troubled family.

Who was looking after the child all this time? How could this happen? And why did no one stand in for the child to say, 'enough!' I don't want to hear of any boy or girl lose his or her voice again. Yes, it's a lofty goal. But without trying, some of the things I have mentioned here that are detailed in my chapters will again come to life in the lives of other young boys and girls if I don't speak out for those voices who so deserve to be heard. There is much to say and much to learn. I hope you will be able to walk through each chapter with me when the book is complete.

It still continues....

I am getting closer to the middle of the book now. And yet, there is so much to put down onto a page. Even when the first story is told, it's going to be difficult to fathom that an entirely new journey took place to make this so called, 'White House Life,' anything but glamorous.

I can't believe it's almost Thanksgiving. My boys are getting so big. A 13 year-old and a 9 year-old. I have heard so many times through the years that I should cherish every moment with  my boys because they will grow up so quickly. I love them so very much. But, for now, my eldest changing from a boy into a teenager has been anything but stress free. Good grief! I almost feel like a kid again thinking, 'I can't do anything right.'

Every day that goes by, I am another day closer to finishing this book. I can do it. I have to remember why I am doing it. This is not for myself as much as it is for those who feel silenced, forced to keep quiet. But that won't happen forever. They WILL get their voices back. It is their right. And it soon will be their time.

This is for the little girl in the picture who smiled because she had nothing else left to do.

Visiting My Family At Arlington National Cemetery - Part II

There are good days and bad days and 'those days.' This was going to be one of those days.

My parents were marked. I should say the place where my parents resided was marked on the map. How nice. Since my car was in a paid parking lot, I asked if I would have to pay for the time there. The woman behind the visitor's desk stared at me as if she thought I might be an idiot or just plain stupid. She advised me that I would not have to pay. I just needed to take a little piece of paper that she now handed me and present it to the parking attendant. She suggested I ask the traffic attendants what to do from there. What I wanted to suggest to her would not at all have been polite. But at least the thought of this brought some twisted comfort.

So, I took my map with a mark indicating where my parents would be found, a piece of receipt paper for the parking lot attendant and the yellow card with "No Touring" on it. The lovely lady told me to keep it visible in my front windshield while I was driving in the cemetery. The card would allow me to park along the road and visit my parents without being towed. Maybe she meant to write, "No Towing."

"Dragon lady," I muttered under my breath.

My friend put his hands on my shoulders and told me that things were going to be okay and that he was glad to learn that family members did not have to pay to visit their loved one's graves. We both got back in my car, drove to the parking attendant to hand him my receipt that allowed me to leave the lot without paying and onward we went to find out what entrance I was to take to make my way to somewhere I really didn't want to go in the first place.

To no surprise to me, I was instantly lost. There were people on both sides of the road and walking in the middle of the road as well. Some looked at me as if I had no right to take up the road. The only right that I wanted was to make it to a headstone, marked with a certain number and two people's names and leave before I threw up.

Seeing a cemetery security car, I immediately began to follow the vehicle and waited until it stopped to ask the driver for some help. After looking at the map I had been given, the woman smiled and told me not to worry. She said she would be happy to help me find my way. Thank you, God for that woman.

The security officer drove around, I followed and we ended up in a place where she pulled over and told me that I could park anywhere I needed to and asked that I just keep the yellow card visible in my front windshield. I was beginning to sweat. And it wasn't from the heat of the day.

My friend and I had an entire lot or area or whatever it was called in front of us. Somewhere, with all of these headstones in front of us, we would find my parents. Neither of us spoke a word. We simply began hunting for a number. After 20 minutes or so, I began to get frustrated, irritated and began to feel a tear trickle down my right cheek. I hated this place. I hated everyone who was walking around. I couldn't sense that people were there in reverance but more to stare at white headstones. And I couldn't find my parents. My friend assured me we would find the right headstone.

Finally, I found my brother, who had been killed in the Vietnam War. He was a helicopter pilot, who had been shot down and killed by enemy fire. But where were my parents? Was I in the wrong area altogether? What now? I fell to my knees, my eyes welling up with more tears. I knew that President Nixon had the flag at the White House fly at half mast following the death of my father. I also knew my father was granted permission to be buried with his eldest son, known as "M." But what I still didn't know was where my parents were.

I didn't want to be walking around this cemetery any more with all of these spectators witnessing my emotional breakdown. And my trip to D.C. had turned into an emotional roller coaster, far from where it was ever intended to become. My friend walked close to me, letting his hand gently touch my shoulder. He walked around the headstone. There they were. The headstone had been used for my brother and both my parents - one side for my brother and the other for my parents.

I moved to the other side of the headstone, knelt down and took my right hand to place it upon the words etched on the headstone. I don't know that it really was for any other reason but to get as close as I could to two people who should still have been alive. Neither one should have been here. All three of us should have been anywhere but here. I can't begin to capture in words, the gut-wrenching agony of my physical and mental defragmentation. I felt as if I were in limbo and unable to comprehend my feelings, emotions, even the realization that my parents were here in front of me in the only way I would ever have the ability to see, hear or know them. This was all I had. This was all that was left.

Now, I began to understand how much I ached for my parents. I also knew how I hated to feel the seams of my emotions, like 20-foot swells of ocean waves crashing again and again and again against anything in the way. I would not let myself to fall apart publicly. I asked my friend to allow me to have some time alone. Without a word, he understood and decided to walk up the hill where the Kennedys were laid to rest, to blend in with the tourists and allow me the time alone with the white marble headstone that represented my parents.

I looked at the names and read them in my mind - Merriman Smith and Gailey J. Smith. I finally let the tears fall from my eyes. he dam burst and it was a needed relief. After a few minutes, I decided to talk to them both, as if they could actually hear me. I asked for their prayers. I asked for their love and shared an odd laugh with them as we all knew the truth. The truth, as we knew it, wasn't something anyone else knew, or at least had all the pieces to yet. It was one of the reasons I was writing my book. The story would allow parents and those planning to be parents to fully comprehend the meaning and responsibility of a life both mother and father are to watch over and guide.

Maybe going through this day, the parking lot, the visitor's desk employees and the hundreds of men, women and children milling around these sacred grounds without much real understanding of what was all around them was necessary, and even important, to moving forward with my story, my book, "My White House Life."

A few minutes later, I heard someone trying to get my attention.

"Miss. Miss?"

I turned around to see a large red tour bus and a man in the driver's seat motioning for me to come speak with him. I got up and walked toward the man. He asked me if I was related to the person buried where I was kneeling. I told him I was.

"Wasn't he a famous news photographer," the tour bus driver asked with a smile as if he knew something that would surprise me by his attention to detail with the many men and women buried here.

"No, Merriman Smith was Dean of the White House Press Corps.," I said. "He won a Pulitzer Prize for the written account of the death of President John F. Kennedy."

"Oh. Okay, thanks," the bus driver said eagerly with a smile, now having another bit of trivia to add to his tour bus tales.

Could I have expected anything more? It was 2010 now. My father received a Pulitzer Prize for the written account of the death of John F. Kennedy, an event that happened almost 50 years ago. And my father received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1967 from then President Lyndon Johnson. Known as 'Smitty,' my father ended each press conference with, "Thank you, Mr. President." This was even the title of one of his five books he authored. Dad had been on such TV shows as Meet The Press, Face The Nation, Reporter's Round table, Who Said That? and The Tonight Show.

No, I thought to myself, he wasn't a famous news photographer. But as we all know, life is meant for the living and not for those long departed, no matter what their contribution. At least that’s how I felt. But not remembering the past, and the people, including my father, who did some extraordinary things in his day...well, maybe these individuals should be respected and recognized every once in awhile, including this century...just for a moment.

And maybe, sharing the behind-the-scenes of a family’s journey, the unexpected and never expected, would put many things into perspective. Some knew and some didn’t of my time putting the various stories down, one chapter at a time. This was going to be another painful journey for me to complete. To many, the contents of my book wouldn’t be believed. But I knew all was true. I had lived it. I still was living it.

I saw my friend headed back my way. I touched the headstone once more. It was time to go.

Visiting My Family At Arlington National Cemetery - Part I

I knew visiting the Arlington National Cemetery would cause some emotions to surface. I hadn't even planned on visiting the place. But with a friend by my side, I wanted to be accomodating to his interests as well. After all, we were in the nation's capital. It was my home as a child. It was Merrman Smith's, my father's home, as Dean of the White House Press Corps for U.P.I. (United Press International). It was my mother's home too. But now, both my mother and father's home was the Arlington National Cemetery.

Driving up to the main entrance, I noticed the throngs of people walking toward the entrance and alongside the roads winding through the cemetery itself. It had changed since the last time I had visited, almost 30 years ago, to attend my mother's funeral. Instead of a guard house and a soldier waiting to assist you, it was more like an everyday tourist attraction.

I was ushered in, like everyone else to park my car in a paid parking lot and make my way to the "visitor's center" for more information. I was upset the moment the man directing traffic kept pointing that I turn in and park my car in a paid parking lot. Had he lost his mind? Was our country in such a state that I would have to pay to visit my parents?

I knew my friend felt my anger and it caused him stress. But I couldn't have been more upset at the thought of paying to sit beside my parent's headstone. I was steaming, sure that my face was blood red, as I briskly walked into the "visitor's center." Even the name, "visitor" made me sick. There were people everywhere. It was as if hundreds of people were at the zoo, with children of all ages and even babies in strollers by their side. People were taking pictures. Some were pointing and showing others where to look, as if there were circus elephants performing with a clown car circling around the animals. I couldn't help but feel my stomach turn.

I was letting my anger take over all rational thinking. Of course all of the people at Arlington National Cemetery were visiting a national landmark. This was where the Kennedys were buried. This was, most importantly home to the men and women who sacrificed their lives to keep America free. But at the moment, I could only see people wanting something that wasn't theirs to have.

The tour buses, filled with people looking out both sides of the bus windows made the Arlington National Cemetery seem like a Hollywood Tour of the Stars, with tourists gawking at famous people's homes rather than at so many hundreds of our national heroes' resting places. The biggest problem of all was that I felt as if I were trapped in their world of entertainment instead of awe and respect, and quite frankly, sorrow. And I didn't like it. I didn't like it one little bit.

My first words to the woman standing in front of a sign that read, 'Information,' were, "do I have to pay to visit my parents?"

"No, you don't," she told me. "Go over there (she pointed to another line, with only two people waiting) and they will help you."

I got in line and waited my turn to ask another woman a question that would probably sound odd anywhere else except the Arlington National Cemetery.

"I am here to visit my parents. Can you help me find them," I asked.

The woman showed no emotions as she asked for my father's and mother's names and dates they were buried. As I had just been trying to get a hold of my own emotions, with little to no success, the lack of emotions from the woman behind yet another counter, was not helping.

The woman took my information and began to look through her computer database to find my parents. I didn't have the exact date my mother or father were buried. So, the woman seemed less than pleased. I felt that I could remedy her issue with displeasure with a swift smack in the face. It was just a stupid, childish thought from a 43 year-old woman who was suddenly 16 again and remembering the phone call she received to find out her mother was dead. A few weeks later, that teenager would be at this same place, with the same emotions.

Back to reality.

The woman gave me a yellow 8 1/2 X 11 card with the day's date on it. It read, "No Touring." She then proceeded to give me a black and white copy of a map of the cemetery and highlighted the route to my parent's grave. Was she completely mad? Or was I? What possible knowledge would two pieces of paper do me when I was attempting to visit my parent's grave at one of the largest cemeteries in existence? I looked at her questioningly. She repeated the route once again.

"Am I supposed to walk there," I asked.

"No," she replied, a bit annoyed. "You can drive through the main entrance and follow this map to where it is marked."

I thought I had driven through the main entrance. Let's just say there were going to be no plans to include this woman on my annual Christmas letter list. (Pow! To the moon!)

The Book - One Step At A Time

When writing this book, well, all I can tell you is that my short stories come by way of memories cut by shards of glass. One minute life is happening as normal and the next a flood of memories or one single incident walks in front of me from the past as if it were literally happening all over again.

I do spend time writing about specific events that include visiting the White House, shaking hands with a U.S. President and growing up with no family for most of my life. I suppose in my instance, writing my story is not an easy task. And being asked time and time again why I would write such a book sharing a good deal of unimaginable events, extraordinary circumstances involving well-known political and military officials, my answer continues to remain the same. One's voice should not be taken away from someone so young.

Just one example; a child should not have to worry that the money left to her by her father can be taken away without someone representing the child's best interests reviews the situation. But it did. A man of legal age should not be 'tucking a young teen into bed' every night by sitting on the bed she is in for an hour or more 'touching her.' But a man did. But what is so very sad is that a child could be selected as a 'gift' to help a troubled family.

Who was looking after the child all this time? How could this happen? And why did no one stand in for the child to say, 'enough!' I don't want to hear of any boy or girl lose his or her voice again. Yes, it's a lofty goal. But without trying, some of the things I have mentioned here that are detailed in my chapters will again come to life in the lives of other young boys and girls if I don't speak out for those voices who so deserve to be heard. There is much to say and much to learn. I hope you will be able to walk through each chapter with me when the book is complete.

The Book - Chapter Two

The reason for my book relates to my passion, communication and finding your own voice in the middle of the world whipping around you every day. It's not a 'How To' guide. But maybe it's a 'How Not To' lose your voice. You see, it's an autobiography of my life's journey.

And if you knew me well, you might realize how much there really is to tell and what I will not be able to share due to political officials, current and past.

It took me about two weeks to complete Chapter One...or so I thought. I re-read it five months ago and edited and updated details that were pertinent to the story. It took me until yesterday to have the courage to re-open my file and begin to write Chapter Two.

You see, when I mentioned that the book is more about how not to lose your voice, I ended up not having a voice in many things that happened to me in many, many ways. From the very beginning when I was born, I was considered a blessing and a gift. But in truth I was a type of gift that was supposed to restore happiness and health to my parents.

As you can imagine, that didn't happen. But what did was much worse and far from any manipulation I could have ever seen coming as a young girl, in my teens and well into my twenties and thirties.

I'll get there. I have a very wonderful woman, former Dean of the White House Press Corps., Helen Thomas who believes in me as do some really wonderful friends. The thing I fear most? I'll have to come back to that.

"Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory" - I Should Have Found My Refuge

I suppose there are many who prefer the original movie, "Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory," with Gene Wilder rather than the newer released version, starring Johnny Depp. To, me Johnny Depp's version was dark and showed the lack of love between Willy Wonka and his father and how he found happiness by escaping into the chocolate factory and never giving up on being a child.

Although  I have seen both versions, I like the original version with Gene Wilder as well. But I can't help hating the fact that the dysfunctional relationship between father and son reminded me of my dysfunctional relationship with my mother. Continuing to write a book about my childhood, my mother's strange behavior and sometimes suicidal tendencies does make Johnny Depp's version more realistic in my case but one I have no intention of watching just to torture myself.

I recently wrote about the incident with the gun. What's most painful is to put myself back into that exact moment in time and feel what I felt and think about what I was thinking, what could have happened, what I had racing in my thoughts to come up with some solution that would change the potential outcome.

Writing this book is emotionally exhausting. I see my boys and when my 13 year-old continuously disrespects me, I don't know what in the world I am to do to change the behavior. I have tried to take his expensive electronic toys and devices away but it doesn't stop him from treating me as if I don't matter.
So where does the emotional roller coaster end - or does it? I suppose life just continues with its ups and downs and we each have to decide how we choose to handle each up and each down that lands in our path.

I'm getting closer to writing about 'the man' who took advantage of a 13 year-old. In this case, it wasn't my son. It was me. And what could I do but to endure it. I had no place else to go. No one would have ever believed me. But here I am, at the place I don't want to talk about the most. I thought I would be past this part by now. It seems as though other moments and details resurface out of nowhere. So, I write these chapters down. Am I stalling? I don't know really. But soon there won't be anything else in front of me but re-living one of my most hated times in my life. I will face, in writing the story with all its details that cut like shards of glass, about the part of my life where no one came to my rescue and no one apparently saw anything and only I had to endure nightly moments that kept me from peaceful sleep for years.

Even within the last 5 years, I have had nightmares of not being able to escape. I have been back in the same home and had no way to make it to the front or back door. I was trapped. I was caged in the house. And there was no place to run or hide or escape what would take place over and over and over again. I know I am not free from the nightmares.

What I don't know is what it may take to make the fear of having other nightmares from happening. And what I still fear is getting closer to re-living those days again as I write the words down to continue to book, move forward with another chapter and pound through the hurt and my own personal hell that will make this one of the most challenging portions of my childhood to capture in words and to be willing to share with you. It's almost time. Pray for me. I will need it.

The Book: I Stole Skittles from Former General Stanley McChrystal

Watching General Stanley McChrystal over the last few years has always left me smiling. That's because of what I remember that no one else could ever know until now.

I seem to be stuck in time and am having trouble moving past chapter two of my book and into chapter three. When everything happened to General Stanley McChrystal I felt like I was swallowed into a time warp tossing me back to 1972.

After my mother lost my father it was some time before she brought someone else into her life in a romantic way. When she did, it was General McChrystal’s father who ended up being my stepfather. He had many children of his own already. I spent time knowing three of them, one which is now General McChrystal.

Of course at that time, he was attending West Point. I was allowed to visit West Point one time with my mother. I thought it was so very beautiful and clean and so big. It’s more than likely that every person and every place seemed big to someone who was 5 or 6 years old like I was at the time.

Stanley McChrystal was just a cool older person to me. He was serious when he was supposed to be. He took the military, and what being a part of the military meant very seriously. But he also was really nice. He had the best and warmest smile.

Of the three brothers that I knew and loved a bunch, ‘Stanley’ (he went by another name with his immediate family of which I leave private out of respect) was almost all the way grown up in my mind. He was at one of the coolest places I had heard of called, West Point. I was told it wasn’t easy getting in. But at the same time, when he was home, he was so gentle and kind and took life as it came his way. He didn’t ever seem to get too upset. And boy, was I the lucky one for this aspect of his personality.

You see, it was his birthday. So, I decided I would buy him something really awesome. I knew that he would love it because I loved it. I bought a huge bag of Skittles. I remember walking up and handing him his present. I can still hear the gentle way he said, ‘thank you.’ Looking back, my guess is that may not have been the best present for someone who was over 21. But as a little girl who thought there was never enough candy a person could have, it sure made sense to me.

Well, as I said, Stan is a gentle soul. But as it turns out, I had a sweet tooth back then. I’m talking about that king-sized sweet tooth that seems to pull you like a magnet to anything sugary sweet. So, it wasn’t too long after I gave Stan his bag of Skittles that my sweet tooth pulled me into his room and right to the bag of Skittles.

Yep. You guessed it. I ate every last one. I felt guilty. I knew he was going to find out. I knew he was going to want to eat some Skittles and when he searched for the bag of candy in his room, he wouldn’t find anything. I had to do it. I knew it had to be done. I had to tell ‘Stan’ that I ate his birthday present.

Slowly I walked up to him and got his attention. I don’t think I could look him in the eye. I might have been staring at his chin. But I did tell him that I ate the candy. And you know what that soon-to-be General Stanley McChrystal did? He laughed. He laughed a big laugh and looked down at me and into my pitiful eyes and said, ‘it’s okay.’

Sometimes you mess up. Sometimes you say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing. But it’s how you handle it. And it’s also how people treat you that can make all the difference. That was one day I sure was glad that General (then Cadet) Stanley McChrystal was my step-brother. On that day, he was the best step-brother in the whole world!

The Book - And The Beat Goes On...

I am starting to get in a groove, I think regarding writing this book. With all that gets typed into a file, I still am no closer to finding the truth. How much does one truly have to dig up in one's memory, in papers, old documents and such just to get to the heart of the matter of my life? What a crazy situation this has all turned out to be. As much as I open myself up to the details of where my life began, why I was brought into this world and how I came to be where I am to be, there are still so many unanswered questions. I guess it just boils down to politics. So much has been burned and destroyed. So much is hidden. There may be one place to try. But it could be a legal battle. While I'm still alive and my heart continues to beat, I'm hopeful the peace will come from finding all the pieces.

The Book: Removing the dust from hidden engravings

If you have young children, you may spend some portion of your Saturdays getting chores done as a family. As my 13-year-old son was dusting my bureau, he came across a hand-held mirror of mine that I received as a child. My son thought the design was really fascinating because it was so detailed. He read along the side that the design was 'hand decorated.' And in an instant, time seemed to shift back more than 30 years ago as I listened to my mother share the story once again about how I had received my own sterling silver pattern that included this hand-held mirror.

When I was little my mother told me of her grand life as a child. Her father adored her and built her a single lane bowling alley at their Michigan mansion. And when she was with her parents visiting their Palm Springs home, child star, Shirley Temple was her neighbor. She also told me that her mother and father took her to select her own silver pattern as a young girl. And that's why, my mother said, she and my father took me as a little toddler to select my own silver pattern to be engraved with my initials. I always loved the next part of the story. The way I remember my mother telling it, she and my father took me to the appropriate store and the two of them were talking to the shop owner when I walked up to my mother with something in my hands.

"Well, what do we have here, Gillean?" I had selected flowers. I found something with lots and lots of flowers. And thus my silver pattern was selected, even though in my mother's mind she was pretty sure I happened to like the flowers from the pattern. Mother mother would always smile at the end of the story.

To this day, I still like the pattern. I have a mirror, comb, napkin ring holder and other items. Now, seeing my eldest with the mirror in his hands, I asked to see it, noticing some markings, barely visible as the sterling silver so desperately needed to be polished. I knew my son was watching my face as tears began to fill my eyes. The tears were tears of unexpected compassion. All these years, I had looked in that mirror and never knew of the personal message engraved around it.

To Gillean with love and kisses from Mother
June 6, 1973

 Photo from "A Christmas Book for Gillean 1969," by Merriman Smith.

Had my mother truly loved me all this time but not been able to verbalize it? At the same time, a bit of reality set in as I looked at the date again. My father died in 1970. My mother and father would not have been together when this moment was said to have taken place. There was much my mother said to me as I was growing up that turned out to be far from the truth.

Was it her illness that caused my mother to make up something that she believed to be true but wasn't? Back then was it still so hard for my mother to think that my father was not beside her that she simply imagined that my father was with her everywhere she went? I'm not sure. As Mother died in the spring of 1983, the truth of that time will have to be left unanswered but engraved forever with love and kisses.

The Book - Deciding on a Dedication

It’s probably fair to say that most everyone wants to feel loved. I think a good portion of my own life, feeling loved has been on my ‘to do’ list. And sure enough, I got there and can’t describe how much I love my two sons.

Writing this book about so many extraordinary events that have taken place in my life, both good and horrific continues to be a struggle with every word that I add. I am already beginning to learn how challenging this is going to be to offer such blunt truths for you and anyone else to read about how many times I feel someone stole my voice.

You need to understand that writing a book just to shock people is not at all my intent and/or purpose. I also have no interest in pointing fingers at certain people who, in some instances I think should have spent time in jail because of what they did. But I can say writing this book is something that I must do. And thanks to an amazingly talented writer and editor, two chapters are complete.

For those who have been blessed with loving parents and a decent life, you may find much of what you read disturbing and maybe even impossible to comprehend. For now, let me share with you who I dedicate this book to specifically.

Dedication
To children who feel like they have no voice or dare not speak out for fear of abandonment, I am here to speak for us all. God is a just God. And judgment day is coming soon and swift for anyone who harms you physically, emotionally or mentally. Hold on. You are not to blame for the horrific actions others have done or do to you that hurt your body or mind in any way. And you are not alone. You are never alone! You too will find your way out of the darkness because you are worth it and you are loved.

The Book - "My White House Life"

I am not quite sure how things reached the point of me writing a book.

But when the First Lady of Journalism, Helen Thomas reads your first chapter and says, ‘You should do this. It’s well-written,’ you pick yourself off the floor after getting over the initial shock and great honor Helen bestows on you and re-read what you wrote in chapter one. You keep scanning for the ‘well-written’ parts and wonder if you can continue chapter after chapter until it’s all done. Meanwhile, you continually look for connections in the publishing industry as well as considering finding an agent! If you know one, don’t hold back from letting me hear from you.

Follow along, if you like as I wander through the writing process of my first book. Current working title is, ‘”My White House Life.” The working title has now changed seven times and counting.