[Yeah, Bob, I think it was Wasn't That a Time?]

Bob (Deckman) Nelson and I have talked some about this, and I knew he'd been hassled a bit by the FBI. But I didn't know until I read his post above, that he, too, had been approached and offered the traditional thirty pieces of silver.

During most of 1955 and 1956, I was away from Seattle. I was in Denver undergoing physical therapy. I'd had polio when I was two years old, and I was trying to improve my health and strength and, as much as possible, alleviate some of polio's aftereffects. With little to do in my spare time, I practiced the guitar and learned songs diligently and sang frequently around the hospital. I developed a lot as a performer during this time, because other than physical therapy, I had little else to do. I also considered various ways the Pacific Northwest Folklore Society could be resurrected after its ignominious demise in 1954 (described above) or a new but similar organization formed—one that was dedicated strictly to researching and collecting folk material in the Pacific Northwest and sponsoring concerts by local and national performers (as had been our original intention) while avoiding if at all possible any political implications or entanglements. I wasn't sure that the spirit of the times would ever allow that to happen, but I wanted to at least consider the possibility.

I corresponded with several people in Seattle about what I thought we should try to do, and shortly after I returned to Seattle, there was an open meeting, complete with songfest, called together by one of the people I'd been writing to. I knew several people who came to the meeting, but there was also a whole bunch of people I had never met before. The group had grown while I was gone. We sang a lot, and discussed the formation of a new organization. Other than talking about it, nothing was actually done that evening. We planned to get together later and do some serious organizing.

Another clip from the "memoir" :—

      About a week later, I received a telephone call from a man who said that he wanted to drop by my house for a chat. He said he would explain what it was about when he got there.
      My mother greeted him at the door and left the two of us in the living room. Late fortyish, medium height, and slightly stocky, he was neatly dressed in a dark gray suit. He introduced himself and we sat down. He showed me his identification card.
      Federal Bureau of Investigation.
      "What can I do for you?" I said, feeling a bit odd.
      He was very low-pressure and soothing in his manner, quite conversational, and not at all threatening. As if we had casually bumped into each other at a social function and were just getting acquainted, he asked about my background, my interests, what my father did for a living, where I had gone to high school, what I had studied at the university, and what my interests and plans were. He nodded slowly as I answered. I had the feeling that I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know.
      In fact, he knew all about the gathering at Bill Lamont's.
      He asked about some of the people who had come to the gathering. He mentioned some names. I was truthfully able to say that I didn't really know if they were there or not. I had been introduced to at least two dozen people, and I simply didn't remember most of their names.
      He got up and thanked me for talking with him. He said that he would appreciate it if I would not mention his visit to anyone. Then he said he would like to call on me again in a few days. He would telephone first.
      The next time he came, he asked about some people I knew fairly well. He wanted to know what I knew about their political beliefs. I told him, again truthfully, that in many cases, I simply didn't know. We had seldom talked politics. Some of them complained about the government, as any intelligent, alert, and concerned person must. That, after all, was what conventions and elections were all about. But, to my knowledge, I really didn't know anyone who wanted to overthrow the government by force and violence. A few days later we talked yet again.
      Apparently he had checked me out and found me okay. Or at least sufficiently innocuous.
      He asked if I ever watched a television show entitled "I Led Three Lives." It was, presumably, dramatizations of true stories about a man who posed as a Communist, but reported to the F. B. I. I had heard of the show, but had never watched it.
      My connection, he said, however tenuous, with some of the people I had met at the gathering had put me in a good position to become acquainted with certain people and attend certain meetings. If I were willing, I would be performing a very worthwhile service for my government. And, he said, for any information I could gather that would be of value to him, there would be compensation. That could assist me with my music lessons and school tuition. Everything, of course, would have to be highly confidential, both for his purposes and for my own well-being.
      When what he was asking me to do finally sank in, I felt something close to cold chills. I thought about it for several minutes. Then, I told him that I didn't think so. I'm sorry . . . but. . . .
      He nodded.
      "That's all right," he said, "but think it over for a few days. I'll call on you again."
      A few days later he returned, accompanied by another, younger man, also wearing a dark gray suit. I told them that I had thought about it long and hard, but my conclusion was the same. It was a realm into which I really didn't care to delve, and I didn't think I would be very good at it. What I really wanted to do was to get on with my singing career and avoid anything even remotely political.
      They didn't put any pressure on me. They said they understood. We shook hands, they thanked me for my time, and went on their way.

Next time I get together with Bob, just out of curiosity, I'd like to compare physical descriptions of the fellows we talked to. I'll bet it was the same person. Even after forty-five years, I still remember the man's name.

Back then I knew a few people who said they were communists, but I doubt that they were card-carrying members of the party. Most of them hung out at the Blue Moon Tavern and plotted revolution until either the beer money ran out or they slid under the table. None of them were folk singers and none were really capable of walking more the ten steps without stumbling over their own feet. They hardly constituted a threat to the government. Was I afraid of them? Should anybody be? God, no!

I decided that I would not get involved in any organizing. Even though The Powers that Be seemed to regard me as a sufficiently "loyal American" to make that kind of request of me, at the very least they had their eye on me, and all I could do by getting involved in a new folk music society would be to jeopardize it. Yet, if I didn't accede to their request, somebody else might! For a long time after my conversations with the man in the dark gray suit, I eyed with suspicion any new person who showed up on the folk music scene. I was pretty sure of my friends, but . . . well, you just never know, do you?

I decided somewhere along the line that government-induced paranoia was no way to live. I decided that I would trust my friends. I decided to consider any new person I met a potential friend unless they proved otherwise. I decided that I didn't give a diddly-squat what a person's political opinions were; they had a right to believe whatever they wanted to believe. I might argue with them, but that was between them and me, and not the business of any bloody bureaucrat or politician.

What did I learn from all this? Quite a lot. But one thing for sure: I learned to trust my government.

About that —>||<— far!!

Don Firth