The meaning of it all

Forty years ago today, Richard Nixon became the first American president to resign from office, thus ending a shameful period of American history when the president of the United States betrayed his oath of office and attempted to cover up crimes committed in his name and with his approval.

During that bitter final summer of Watergate, I was a cub reporter at the Lubbock Avalanche Journal, covering night cops. I hated the beat and I hated Lubbock. Feeling trapped and isolated, I used the gripping drama of Nixon’s fall from grace as a welcome distraction.

The year before, I had watched the televised Senate Watergate hearings with college friends, drinking beer while cheering the good guys and tossing an occasional empty can at the bad guys.

Watergate was the national soap opera running in the background for most of my college career. In the summer of 1972, only a few weeks after the Watergate break-in, I was an editor on the North Texas Daily when it became the first student newspaper in the country to call for Nixon’s resignation. Most of us believed even then that Nixon had a hand in orchestrating the burglary.  As evidence mounted, we felt a delicious surge of vindication and triumph.

So as the long, hot summer of 1974 neared its end, the finale of the Nixonian saga also came into view.

On the day before his resignation, when rumors were flying that Nixon was bailing, several of us on the A-J night shift went to our favorite watering hole after work, getting to the upstairs bar of the Brookshire Inn a little after midnight.  The late Austin singer/songwriter Allen Damron was performing, and the joint was jumping.

The crowd was in a celebratory mood, and Damron played to it, never mentioning Nixon by name but crafting an upbeat set full of songs that celebrated subversive behavior and taking it to The Man. Nixon would have hated it, but we embraced it with wild abandon. The last song of the night was a rousing rendition of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land.” All of us were standing on chairs and on tables, clapping, stomping our feet and singing full-throatedly along with Damron.

 It was an amazing, spontaneous outpouring of emotion, fueled by alcohol and by the prospect for many of us that the hated Nixon – the man who had lied about his “secret” plan to end the Vietnam War, who had compiled an Enemies List that included almost every person we respected and admired, who lied about Watergate and tried to subvert an election, who held in utter contempt a generation of idealistic young people who sought to end war and extend equal rights to all, a vile, vulgar and odious villain – was headed for oblivion and perhaps, eventually, jail.

The next day, Aug. 8, Nixon did indeed announce his intention to resign in an evening speech to the nation in which he listed his accomplishments, admitted vaguely to some mistakes and steadfastly refused to admit wrongdoing. His successor, Gerald Ford, spoke for many of us when he said, “The nation’s long national nightmare is over.”

Later that night, we decided to make a return trip to the Brookshire, where Damron still was playing. If last night was wild, we wondered, what will tonight be like?

What a difference a day makes.

When we arrived, the bar was mostly empty, a few patrons sitting quietly and nursing their drinks, heads down and only half listening to Damron, whose songs fit the somber and low-key vibe. Lots of sad, moody ballads, full of shattered dreams and heartbreak. Once again, Nixon never was mentioned. But the full measure of his betrayal seemed to have settled over his countrymen like a shroud, and the good folks of Lubbock, Texas, were not exempt.

Damron, a wise and perceptive performer, understood his role that night was less to entertain and more to soothe and comfort. He ended the night with several stirring songs about country and family and keeping the faith, nothing overt but all vaguely patriotic. Then we got up and went home to contemplate the meaning of it all.