I don’t recall exactly what I was doing that morning thirty-seven years ago — probably at home wrangling my big hair with a curling iron and applying frosted purple eye shadow — but I remember ending up on the courthouse steps at noon, dressed in a red robe. I was in the second row of of my high school’s choir, waiting for our cue to sing “America the Beautiful.” Thousands of onlookers waved flags and welcome home banners, honoring the man who prompted all this hubbub. Jimmy Stewart, Hollywood actor and hometown hero, had returned to quaint Indiana, Pennsylvania to celebrate his 75th birthday.
From my vantage point on that day — May 21, 1983 — I could see the townspeople crowded along Philadelphia Street, our main drag, propping kids on shoulders and snapping photos with Instamatic cameras. A volunteer fireman unveiled a nine-foot bronze statue of Jimmy on the courthouse lawn, and the crowd of thousands sang “Happy Birthday.”
Taking the podium, Jimmy spoke in his iconic, stammering way. But his words were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a telephone ringing. Not a digital smartphone ringtone, but the jingling trill of a fully-wired telephone. Jimmy paused before realizing that the ring was coming from the podium itself. He stooped his lanky frame to take a peek, and there it was — a rotary phone blaring its brassy ting-a-ling from a shelf under the slanted top.
“Heh … Hello?” he stuttered, the handset held to his ear from a dangling spiral cord, “This is Jimmy Stewart.” The fascinated crowd roared with laughter.
“Can you hear me, Jimmy?” the voice of U.S. President and acting buddy, Ronald Reagan blared over the loudspeakers. “I’ve sent some of my boys to wish you a Happy Birthday,” he said. The stunned crowd fell silent, in disbelief. Not only was a huge Hollywood star standing, in the flesh, in front of our courthouse, but he was talking to the President of the United States.
Just when we all reached to pinch ourselves, believing it must be a dream, a sound like nothing we’d ever heard ripped through the atmosphere. We looked up to see a flash of massive, angular metal streaking 500 mph over Philadelphia Street, a split second ahead of the deafening blast of jet engines at close range.
Jimmy, a decorated Air Force veteran B-24 pilot, ducked instinctively before realizing it was the Thunderbirds, flying over Philadelphia Street on orders from his pal, Ronnie. Babies cried, women screamed, children clapped hands over ears. We’d never experienced this before. Fear and adrenaline pulsed in our veins until we could process what was happening.
The Thunderbirds did several loops, giving reality time to settle. This moment in our collective lives was, quite simply, awesome. We were in awe of the famous men on that telephone call, but also, of human ingenuity, of community, of God and country, and of the notion that any American, even those raised in small towns, can accomplish great things.
Jimmy finished the call with Ronnie, but the festivities continued all weekend. There was a parade, a ribbon cutting, a fire station breakfast, a film festival, a dinner dance, a boy scout event, and even a “talent show” where superstar Jimmy and his wife Gloria sat in folding metal chairs at the skating rink for two hours, graciously applauding every lousy musical act in Indiana County, including mine.
Even though our town intended to honor Jimmy Stewart, clearly, he ended up honoring us. When asked by press if he thought much about Indiana while living in Beverly Hills, Jimmy replied, “Every day. This is where I sort of made up my mind about certain things, about hard work being worth it, about community spirit, about the importance of a family, about the importance of God and the church.”
Today, as patriotism seems shrouded in turmoil, division, and hatred, I want to remember what I felt on the courthouse steps that day in 1983. I hope, perhaps with small-town naïvety, that soon, we will gather again — not in anger and protest — but in collective awe for all that is good and beautiful about the United States of America.
Lisa, I can’t tell you how happy we were to read your column and finally see a positive story about this wonderful country we live in. It brought back many happy memories of Memorial Day parades and Fourth of July celebrations in the little town in Massachusetts that I grew up in. Thank you again for such a great story.
Dear Mary, I’m so glad you read this and it brought back good memories! Miss you — let me know next time you’re back in New England 🙂
So cool! I remember that day like it was yesterday. We have several of the Gazette pictures that were taken that day.. My husband was on the fire ladder they set up to pull the sheet off of the statue. The picture shows the planes flying over. We also have the thank you letter from Jimmy that he wrote to my dad along with a People magazine cover. It was national news back then.
Hi Wendy! I didn’t realize that People Magazine, New York Times, and the Washington Post had written about that event until recently. When I read those articles, they really did capture the charming small-town vibe that we grew up with. That’s so cool that you have some memorabilia from that day!
Another small-town girl here. I love your story. Many of us wave the flag of freedom and celebrate our patriotic roots. Thanks for writing this positive memory.
I am sometimes guilty of “ignorance is bliss” but at the same time, it is important for members of the media to not forget to publish positive stories and good news. Without that, the public gets the wrong impression that Americans are angry at and embarrassed about our country. The readers who responded to this column were consistently positive and patriotic about the US, despite what you hear in the news.
Wonderful! I feel like I was there!
I love to hear that you felt like you were there because that is a challenge in writing. I’m glad I was able to paint a picture with words for you… that’s always one of my goals when describing a scene.
Your memory is always so much better than mine. I was so proud of you and Jennifer and Rochelle singing up there. But…I believe it was at the fair grounds, not the skating rink. At least that’s my memory.
Patrice, I am talking about the skating rink that was in the fairgrounds. It was an old one nestled between the grand stands entrance and the stables and Hospital Road. We would run past it when we ran our cross country course in high school! I think they use it for something else now that there is a new skating center by East Pike, but when I was a kid (before I met you in 9th grade) I would go there all the time during winter to skate. Just inside there were wooden benches, a skate rental area where you paid admission, and a small concessions where they sold scalding hot cocoa in Styrofoam cups. Then there was one entrance to the rink, but you had to have an invisible stamp to be able to enter. They had a black light, where you’d put your arm up to the light to see the the invisible stamp. I’d skate around for like two hours and then wait outside for my mom to pick me up. I remember being very scared of the kids who hung out outside. I remember narrowly avoiding a fight one afternoon. Some mean girl told me to meet her outside because she wanted to beat me up. No idea how I got out of that one, but I was terrified! But with nothing else to do in winter, I was there a couple of days every week during the winter.
You nailed it!
That day in Indiana, PA was exactly as you described it…a proud, thrilling, small town USA
patriotic event.
I may have mis-remembered the exact order of things on the courthouse grounds that day, but my memory is pretty vivid. It’s a very happy thing to remember!
This made me cry. I’v been reading your column since my son was stationed in Gulfport several years ago. I enjoy them so much.
That makes ME want to cry! So glad you read my column — thank you for commenting!