January 2011

It was an early spring evening in 1907. Theodore Roosevelt and Edward B. Clark, the Washington correspondent for the Chicago Evening Post , were sitting in front of a log fire in the White House talking casually of their shared enthusiasm for the campfire and the outdoors. T.R. had a high regard for Clark, his frequent hiking companion, because he was “a good fellow” and had written a monograph on the prothonotary warbler.

“Oh, Sam, what happened?”

“Nothing serious, Miss Sally—Luke just picked up a little bit of lead.”

“Oh no!”

“Now Miss Sally, don’t you fret. It’s just a little ol’ hole in his shoulder. He’ll be up and about in no time a-tall.”

Sure enough, in two or three days good old Luke is up and raring to resume his defense of sweet Miss Sally, the Bar-X spread, and the honor of the old, wild West. And Luke’s adventure and miraculous recovery, with slight alterations, occur over and over on the pages of western fiction and on the imaginative screens of Hollywood and television.

But what really happened to those gunshot heroes and villains in that tempestuous period of loose laws and fast gunplay? The reality was quite gruesomely different.

Ideas change. A thigh thought massive in 1970 was another era’s ideal, and the pinups presented here never failed to draw admiring looks from gentlemen of the 1890’s, along with a chuckle or two at the presumption of these career-minded girls.

Before women smoked, the Buchner Tobacco Company promoted its Morning Glory cigarettes by slipping one such “Morning Glory Maiden” card into each package. The maids numbered fifty-one in all, together composing an awesome though imaginary picture of female accomplishment in sport and the professions.

Women of the ‘go’s knew their place, and few presumed to professions more daring than nursing or teaching. In that era locker room and boardroom were bastions of male supremacy—untainted by perfume or the ring of soprano voices.

Dr. Benjamin Rush believed the hand of God must have been involved in the noble work. John Adams, writing from Grosvenor Square, London, called it the greatest single effort of national deliberation, and perhaps the greatest exertion of human understanding, the world had ever seen. A great many people, however, held a contrary view, and in the fall of 1787 their opposition made it seem likely that the proposed Constitution of the United States would not be forwarded to the states by the Continental Congress, or, if forwarded, would not be ratified by the American people.

“I see,” said Mr. Hennessy, “we’re goin’ to sind th’ navy to th’ Passyfic.”

“I can’t tell,” said Mr. Dooley. ”… Th’ Cabinet is divided, th’ Sicrcty iv th’ Navy is divided, th’ Prisidint is divided an’ th’ press is divided. Wan great iditor, I’r’m his post iv danger in Paris, has ordhered th’ navy to report at San Francisco at four eight next Thursday. Another great iditor livin’ in Germany has warned it that it will do so at its peril. Nawthin’ is so fine as to see a great modhern journalist unbend fr’m his mighty task iv selectin’ fr’m a bunch iv phottygrafts th’ prettiest cook iv Klatbush. …

“But, annyhow, what difl’rence does it make whether th’ navy goes to th’ Passyfic or not? If it goes at all, it won’t be to make war. They’ve dumped all th’ fourteen inch shells into th’ sea. Th’ ammunition hoists ar-re filled with American beauty roses an’ orchids. Th’ guns arc loaded with confetty. Th’ officers dhrink nawthin’ sthronger thin vanilla an’ sthrawherry mixed. … F’r th’ Hague peace conference has abolished war, Hinnissy. VeVe seen th’ last war yc’ll iver see, me boy.

As spring moved northward over Europe in 1970, a familiar scene was enacted in Vienna, a city where diplomacy is as much a part of the civic tradition as steelmaking in Pittsburgh. In April, Soviet and American officials exchanged greetings, drank champagne, smiled at news cameras, and then settled down to the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, known to headline writers as SALT . So, with the opening of the 1970’s mankind’s long dream of disarmament once more cast its spell. It is a compelling vision. But a glance at the past suggests, even to those not inclined to be cynical, that the hopes of beating even a few surplus spears into pruning hooks will remain, as often before, unfulfilled.

Everyone knows a little about the rise and fall of DDT—how it was once hailed as a great boon to mankind; how useful it was in field and garden, house and yard; and how at last to our dismay it was unmasked as a killer, the chemical Al Capone, a threat to our environment and possibly our very existence. Everyone knows that the federal and state governments are acting to end the DDT menace, saving us, if narrowly, from disaster. We can breathe easy again. . . . Or can we?

The history of DDT is well worth pondering, for its fatal implications extend to the whole of our civilization. The central character of the story is, of course, the chemical compound itself. But there are also two human protagonists—a chemist in Switzerland and a marine biologist in the United States—and our story begins in 1936, a year of crucial career decision for each of them.