My Brush With Tricky Dicky

In 1973 I was a Boy Scout Honor Guard at Richard M. Nixon’s Inaugural Parade. "Tricky Dicky" was his not-so-flattering nickname. Every Inauguration I have a memory of in Washington, D.C. is a frigid cold ceremony befitting penguins, and Mr. Nixon's was no exception.

The inaugural parade was fun until the shaggy headed Vietnam War protesters yelled obscenities at us. I guess it was the uniform on thirteen-year-old kids. I also recall seeing the armed figures poised on the high rooftops of government office buildings.

Before long, the President approached on the parade route. Heart in my throat, I squeezed in between the sharp elbows for a better look. I was startled, then crestfallen. Gray and haggard, flashing his signature Victory signs and a lopsided smile from the passing open-air limo, Nixon appeared, to borrow my Aunt Isabel’s expression, like death eating a cracker.

The honor guard detail stayed in a warm government building, maybe a 30-second’s march from the Presidential Review Stand around the block. Our detail was to be relieved every few minutes so that every Boy Scout had their shot at brief shot at glory. A junior officer led a new foursome to the review stand and guided the old one back. The rest of us watched it the parade on a portable black-and-white TV.

Across the room, the Brigadier General in charge of us sat perched on a metal desk, his trenchcoat unbuttoned. His conversation offered a spirited defense for continuing to wage war in Southwest Asia. I wasn't so convinced. By the parade’s end, more than half of the Boy Scouts, myself included, hadn’t made it to Nixon's review stand.

Disappointed, I felt sorrier for the junior officer sitting in front of the TV and crying. Had the stress of that cold afternoon worn him down to an emotional wreck?

Ed Lynskey
twitter: @edlynskey
Author of Lake Charles