Wrapped in the Flag (38 page)

These tax hikes were necessitated by the huge deficits run up in Reagan’s first years, deficits from the economic policy dubbed “Reaganomics.” Sara Diamond described Reagan’s plan as supply-side economics with a new twist—“a benefit for the rich is a benefit for all.”
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“Reaganomics” worked so well that the wealthiest folks prospered mightily. For the rest of America, though, the economy sputtered, government revenue plummeted, and unemployment spiked.

My father complained loudly and often about the bad economy, blaming the government for creating inflation and reducing the value of the dollar. This downturn was sharp enough that my husband took a salary cut. I guessed that my father did too.

The John Birch Society was hit hard by the economic pinch when donors who’d previously provided generous support shut their wallets. In April of 1982, Welch penned an urgent appeal to Birchers for $5 million to shore up
the empty coffers and provide resources to fund new growth. He concluded his appeal for money with an ominous warning. “Your editor feels a solemn duty to tell you that unless there soon is a very marked change in the total course that our Government has been following since 1932, we have in my opinion only from five to about ten years more before we shall be living as enslaved serfs under the rule of Communist Commissars.”
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In December, the society admitted that there had been a steady decline in membership, resulting in a precipitous drop in bulletins mailed—twelve thousand fewer per month—according to numbers reported to the postal service.
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In the middle of 1982, Robert Welch retired with the title chairman emeritus. My father called it “being kicked upstairs.” The council named a new president, Dr. Larry P. McDonald.

McDonald sported the middle name Patton (he was the cousin of the famous World War II general), along with the title of congressman in front of his name and MD after it. It surprised me that McDonald was a Democrat—from Georgia—and that he had accepted the Birch position while still serving in Congress.
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In September of 1983, only six months after McDonald took the Birch helm, the congressman boarded Korean Air flight 007, bound for Seoul. He was part of a congressional delegation commemorating the thirtieth anniversary of the U.S.-Korea mutual-defense treaty. Without warning, the plane disappeared from radar over the island of Sakhalin, a Soviet military base. It took seventeen hours to confirm that the flight had strayed over Soviet territory and been blasted out of the sky by a Russian missile. All 269 persons aboard were presumed dead.
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McDonald’s wife, Kathryn, declared that her husband had been the victim of “an act of deliberate assassination” and insisted that it was no accident that “the leading anti-Communist in the American Government had been shot down.”
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At McDonald’s funeral, an emotional Jerry Falwell delivered the eulogy, comparing McDonald to the biblical Samson, “a victim, a prisoner of a society moving to the left. But he never moved with it.”
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My parents agreed wholeheartedly with Jerry Falwell, and my father often said, “Larry was a martyr for the cause.” And my mother would point out, “The Commies killed him because he knew too much, just like Joe McCarthy.”

Alan Stang, who had been McDonald’s chief of staff and was a longtime Birch associate, insisted, as had McDonald’s wife, that McDonald had been singled
out for capture because he was “the most dangerous enemy the Communists had.”
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Building on Stang’s supposition, the Far Right constructed a new theory of Larry McDonald’s fate: Instead of being shot down, the plane had actually survived the missile hit and landed safely on Sakhalin, the Soviet island north of Japan. McDonald had been taken prisoner by the Communists and subjected to continuous torture and abuse.
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That belief persists; even today the JBS continues to push for a federal investigation into the “real” circumstances of McDonald’s death.

The sudden death of the young Birch Society president created a leadership vacuum. I wasn’t privy to the behind-the-scenes machinations, but I could see the stress and the worry on my father’s face as the National Council tried to figure out the next step. When Robert Welch died, at age eighty-six, a year after McDonald’s death, Dad became more and more paranoid and hostile. “The Commies are on the move,” he said. “This is the endgame.”

The JBS tried to stabilize the organization with the appointment of Birch staffer A. Clifford Barker to the presidency. Just a few years later, Barker was removed and the presidency passed to another Birch staffer, Charles Amour. All of this commotion at the top of the organization had very severe consequences, consequences that eventually did become public. A
Chicago Tribune
article in 1986 pointed out that the society had a $9 million deficit and faced an increasingly hostile internal battle on the question of “how much to criticize President Reagan.”
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The internal clashes impacted everyone in the organization and led to the resignations of a number of prominent members, including Robert Welch’s widow, who’d been a loyal, behind-the-scenes Bircher since 1958.

John McManus, the society’s chief spokesperson, admitted to the
Chicago Tribune
that membership had dropped to several tens of thousands and not more than fifty thousand.
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When asked why the JBS was shedding members, McManus attributed the lack of growth to “a decline of morals in the country and because of the news media which has labeled society members as paranoids and lunatics.”
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Given all of this turmoil, I tried to give my dad plenty of latitude. But my efforts to avoid fighting failed; my father just couldn’t stop fussing with me, and I couldn’t stop pushing back. My husband try to help me understand what was happening: “Your dad is hurting. He’s old, and he’s lost his edge. He resents everyone who reminds him of that. He argues for the sake of arguing.”

My husband was able to separate my father’s tirades from the man himself. I wished I had the same perspective, but when my father attacked me, he always made it personal. He knew just where to hit and just how to do it.

During one absurd shouting match over the right to bear arms, my father insisted
that the Second Amendment permitted individual ownership of any weapon, even submachine guns and rocket launchers. After that, I declared my home off limits for any political conversations with my parents, forever. Of course, as often happens, I was the one who broke my own rule.

The ring interrupted my preparations. I glanced at the clock, grabbed the phone, and tucked it between my chin and shoulder. I had only a minute to chat; my parents were arriving in an hour, and I was still mixing potato salad and slicing berries.

“Father Don here,” my friend on the other end said. “I’m worried.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I heard a rumor that you’re becoming a Lutheran.”

“I didn’t become anything.” I laughed. “I’m going to Good Shepherd Lutheran once in a while, that’s all.”

“I know, but what happens when your folks hear the same stuff I heard?”

“They won’t.”

“They will,” he said. “You know how it goes in this town. Someone will say something to your mom while she’s at Karau’s or the hairdresser. Then what?”

“I have to think about this.”

“Please do,” he said. “And tell them soon. I don’t want you to be blindsided.”

Over several years, Father Don had become my friend and confidant. When the priest sex-abuse scandal engulfed the Church, Don shared my shock and disgust. I felt free to rant to him about the Pope and the bishops protecting predators because I knew he shared my anger. When I could no longer be a Catholic, I explained my reasons to him. Friend that he was, he didn’t try to change my mind.

Because I trusted him, I usually listened to his advice. But on July 4, 1990, I thought he was worrying too much about my parents finding out that I’d left the Church. I was sure I had time to plan how to tell them. “It can wait until another time,” I said to myself.

The afternoon was peaceful; no raised voices, no arguments. After dinner, while I was loading the dishwasher, my parents, my husband, and my oldest son joined me in the kitchen. The chatter stopped abruptly when my father said: “Claire, I’m asking you a question.” He grabbed my arm and pushed me back against the cabinet. Before I realized what was happening, he had raised his hand. “Did you leave the Church?” he hissed as he leaned closer toward me.

I didn’t answer.

“You are an absolute disgrace,” my father shouted. He tightened his hand into a fist and pulled it back. I knew he was going to punch, hard.

“Leave my mother alone!” my son cried as he lurched toward his grandfather. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

“This is none of your business!” my father yelled back at him.

I found my voice. “Stop! Stop now!” I shouted. “You will not hit me. Not now, not ever.”

My father pulled his arm back. For a few seconds, there was not a single sound in the room. Then I spoke. “You have to leave my house, now,” I said. “You are no longer welcome here.”

Shortly after the Independence Day uproar, my father was admitted to the hospital with a bad attack of “indigestion.” Ten days later, after a diagnosis of pancreatitis, he was released with orders to follow a strict diet and a box of syringes loaded with pain meds. As 1990 turned into 1991 and then to 1992, Dad didn’t go to the office very often; he spent most days in his recliner with a heating pad on his belly. My mother cooked him bland food, gave him his pain shots, and dispensed handfuls of prescribed medicines and over-the-counter supplements.

In the 1970s, my parents had become part of the Laetrile movement, a naturally healing approach to cancer. After reading several articles written by Birchers they knew and respected, Mother and Dad were convinced that cancer was caused by dietary deficiencies. Luckily, Mother Natured had offered the cure—Laetrile, a substance that occurred naturally in the pits of apricots.
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The FDA found no value in Laetrile and cracked down on the folks making money from selling the quack medicine.