"You, who are on the road, must have a code that you can live by ..." — Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
I write a lot about my dad and this is so for a reason. Not because we agreed on every issue ... we certainly didn't. As he aged, he grew more conservative; as I aged, more radical.
What of my dad I held onto was all the good stuff. What integrity was all about ... how your principles, hard-won, would never be sold out. How to be gentle when called for and how to be hard as steel when the occasion demanded it — such as in the face of injustice to others.
And this is the topic of this week’s column. Mingling parts of my own journey with those of two remarkable men whose own revered fathers left a powerful imprint on how a real man stands up against inequality and viciousness.
I’d like to begin by sharing a few of my father’s words ... words that colored the next 70 years of my life.
At 6, my place was the carpet next to dad's big arm chair. We could be found there most Saturdays watching college football.
As this morning game was broadcast from the East Coast, we had no local dog in the fight. I looked up at his strong face.
"So, who are we rootin’ for?”
"The team in the black jerseys."
I wanted to know why.
Dad gently laid his calloused palm on my shoulder.
“They are the underdog and, Skip, we always root for the underdog.”
Thus was shaped much of my worldview and my loathing of bullies and the hypocritical rich with their shoes planted on the throats of those less fortunate.
Years passed and, with them, the friendship of many who felt the same outrage at the demonization of the poor. Within the ranks of those fighting injustice are two local men and it is their stories and their fathers’ stories I would like to share. Like my own dad, theirs were giants and the course of their sons’ lives were reminders of noble legacies.
I first met Cass Davis before KRFP began broadcasting. We were both early board members and working to get Radio Free Moscow on the air.
Cass grew up in Panhandle mining towns. His dad, Blackie, worked at Bunker Hill, drilling and blasting for silver and lead. Conditions were brutal and dangerous as the 91 men who died at the nearby Sunshine fire discovered.
As bad as conditions were in the tunnels, Blackie could see the results on his children of the heavy metal poisoning of the water and soil they drank and played in. To this day, Cass suffers lasting effects of learning disabilities and other serious health problems.
In 1960, miners at Bunker Hill went on strike and remained off work for 220 days. As a union organizer, Blackie was targeted by company goons and fought many a battle with his fists.
From his father, Cass learned the difference between the mine owners, their scabs and men who broke their backs to afford the owners' lives of luxury. Blackie also taught the young lad how to fight and Cass Davis won local acclaim as a boxer.
My old friend has lived by his father’s example ... with a twist. It makes sense that someone whose body was contaminated with toxic metals would choose his battlegrounds as preserving wilderness and defending the environment. He fought with Earth Firsters to save pristine Cove-Mallard from the timber industry. Years later, it was Davis again who had himself arrested in Moscow by blocking megaload convoys from delivering tar sands drilling equipment over Lolo Pass.
It was Cass, again, six years ago as our board meeting was breaking up, who asked me, "How old are you, Steve?"
"Seventy."
"Have you ever been arrested for something you believed in?”
He had me there. It wasn't long before Katherine and I found ourselves attending his workshops on civil disobedience.
When I think of Cass, several things come to mind. He honors his father’s teachings about inequality and savage corporate greed. He is steadfast and fearless. And, happy warrior that he is, his face always wears a smile — even as he's being arrested.
Then there is Nick Lovrich, a professor of political science. We first met when I was finishing up my program at WSU. His focus was on public policy, mine on theory, and we seldom crossed paths. Almost 50 years later, serendipity provided a chance to know him better.
In many ways, he reminds me of Cass. There are superficial differences but they don't count for much. Lovrich has spent his life working within the system to improve the lives of everyday folks. Cass is a treehugger. Nick turned 80, Cass is 60. Nick is on a first-name basis with movers and shakers. Cass supplements his meager disability checks with housesitting dogs.
Yet both men paid tribute to their fathers and have carried forth that fighting spirit whether testifying before a congressional committee or chained to an ancient red fir.
Nick’s dad was also a union organizer with the International Longshore and Warehousemen’s Union. This was Harry Bridges’ outfit -- hard-left, hard-fighting. The mafia controlled the East Coast docks ... Bridges and men like Nick’s dad kept the mob out.
Nick was a smart kid and got accepted to Stanford ... not because of family wealth but because he played a mean second base and leadoff batter.
Before he left for his freshman year, his father left him a piece of advice:
“Son, where you’re headed to school you’re going to be surrounded by a whole lot of rich kids. Don’t ever forget where you came from.”
And so, like Cass and myself, Nick lives out his father’s legacy. And, like Cass, he always goes into battle with a smile on his face.
McGehee, a lifelong activist, settled here in 1973 and lives in Palouse with his wife, Katherine. His work life has varied from bartender to university instructor to wrecking yard owner.
