“Ya look worried, George.” It was Doctor Ivor Gustafson, the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare.
“Oh, Hi Ivy! I was just going over these literacy figures you prepared for me. Or should I say il-literacy. Appalling!” snorted the President.
“Nothing new,” offered the Secretary.
“I know, but I’d never seen them in black and white before. Why can’t these kids read? Come along to the office. I’d like to discuss this thing.” George took the big Swede by the elbow and led him through the door into the Oval Office.
“Why? questioned George Potter again.
“Lots of reasons. Pressures from peers and environment. Lack of interest, too much TV. Poor teachers, the wrong books--it’s a long list,” answered the Secretary of Education. The two men settled themselves in the comfortable chairs at the end of the oval room, opposite the President’s desk. The President poured them both cups of coffee from the silver service on the table. The President glanced again at the papers in his hand and then set them down beside him as he tuned to the portly, graying blond man who sat opposite him.
“Ivy--this is as serious as it is important. We’ve got to something about it--and quickly. The children of this nation must be at least taught the basic three Rs.”
“Funny you should mention that, George,” returned the Secretary. “I had dinner with Selma Atkinson, the director of PBS the other night. It was just after your fireside chat on solar energy. She said, and I quote: ‘It’s too bad George Potter isn’t teaching school. He’s so lucid, so interesting and so damned cute, you just can’t resist his arguments. He could sell fur coats to
orangutans.””
“She said that?” beamed the President.
”That’s what she said,” grinned the Secretary. “She went on at length about what a great teacher you’d make. Used to be a grammar school teacher herself.”
“Aw--that’s a riot, isn’t it?” laughed the President.
“Wait a minute!” interrupted the Secretary as the flash of an idea seemed to brighten his face. He looked hard at the President, a funny smirk on his face. Then his expression changes as he apparently dismissed the idea.
“Naw--you’d never go for it,” he said.
“Come on Ivy. Spit it out. I’m willing to do anything to get these kids educated. What we decide could affect the whole future of this country.
“But this is the craziest idea of my career,” Ivor Gustafson paused for a moment as the President eyed him expectantly.
Finally the Secretary of Education spoke. “What if...? What if you taught the nation?!”
The President exploded with mirth, “Awwwheee heee awe ha ha hee hee! Awww, you’re kidding.”
“Well, I thought I was at first, but you see--the fact is, the people will do about anything you ask of them, and that includes the kids. I know they might not like to hear or admit it, but it’s the unvarnished truth.” The Secretary got up and stood looking down at the President.
“Now, come on, Ivy. You exaggerate,” blushed the President modestly.
“Don’t you know nearly every man woman and child in this country hang on your every word and follow you like a swarm of lemmings? Whenever you ask them to do something--they jump to it.”
“Oh...come on now...” The President blushed a brighter red.
“It’s true.” The secretary gestured toward the President as if introducing him to some unseen audience.
“There he sits folks, probably the most popular man in the history of the world. George, if I had what you have, I’d have an ego that was insurmountable. But there he sits folks--good ol’ George Potter, or should I say young George Potter...Youngest President of these United States of America, as modest, down-to-earth and comfortable as an old shoe with a bright new shine!”
“Are you finished?!” laughed the President. “One more accolade and I’ll throw up.”
“What I’m getting at,” continued the Secretary as he sat down again, “...is if, once a week you could give a little TV class on--you know, readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmatic, I know those kids would listen to you and it might just inspire them to really apply themselves to their studies. I think that’s what they really need--inspiration.”
“Gosh, you think it would work?” asked the President, hesitantly. “It’s a pretty harebrained idea. Ah, no offense Ivy. I guess it could though. This administration was founded on some pretty harebrained ideas.”
“Some damned smart hare-braining, Mr. President. I’m sure it’ll work.”
“Well, look. why do it only once a week? Couldn’t we cover more ground faster, if we gave a class every day?”
“That’d be pretty tough with your schedule...”
“Oh, I dunno. If you really think we could make a go of it, we could build our own TV studio right here in the White House basement. I don’t bowl. We could turn Eisenhower’s bowling alley into a studio.”
“Yeah!” smile the Secretary as he saw the possibilities of the President’s plan.
“I think you’re idea is a sound one, Ivy. but, I’ll need a lot of expert help. The major problem in some of the minority communities is a real lack in the quality of education. If they are going to move ahead at a steady pace, they are going to have to be educated as well or better than us honkies.”
“We honkies, Mr. President,” corrected the Secretary of Education with a smile.
“That’s right. Look Ivy, I have to keep my speech colorful and colloquial or the folks won’t listen to me. But you’re right, If I’m going to teach school, I’ll have to be correct, too.”
The President got up and began to pace the room as he spoke. “I really think we should bring some other people in to help us with this project.”
Puzzled, the Secretary leaned forward to pour himself another cup of coffee and asked,
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, part of the problem in education, as I understand it, has been some minorities can’t relate to the white teachers and the textbooks designed for white kids. I think we ought the integrate the damned thing. You know, make the program multiracial.”
“Hell of an idea!” agreed the Secretary, enthusiastically.
Suddenly, George Potter, President of the United States, stopped his pacing and slumped down in his chair.
“Are we crazy? Can we pull it off--or will...?”
“Let’s cogitate a little on it,” replied Ivor Gustafson. ‘Hell, I know it’ll work.” All at once the Secretary was laughing. “Jesus, George--I was just thinking. If you were to sing the A,B,Cs--wouldn’t that be funny? Funny, hell! It would be sensational!”
“Okay, Ivy, if you say so. Looks like we’re back in the music business.”
“We can test it out right here in the capitol,” added the Secretary of Education.
****
George had taken to riding around Washington in a plain secret service car instead of the presidential limousine. Sometimes he wore dark glassed, depending on the weather, or even a false mustache and slouch hat, He usually rode in the front seat with only his body guard, Bill Foster driving. As long as George Potter didn’t smile, no one recognized him.
Today, however, he rode in the back with Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, Ivor Gustafson, as they compared program notes.
The car arrived at the PBS station WETA-TV without much fanfare. The press hadn’t been officially notified, but there were a few who had taken advantage of a news leak,or their kids had told them that the President was appearing on TV. Ol’ George made a brief statement, posed for pictures with station manager, John Optypack, and they went inside. The manager gushed.
“Oh, Mr. President. This is such an honor!”
“No, Mr. Optypack, is we who appreciate the use of your facilities for our little experiment.”
“Great Experiment, Mr. President!” corrected the delighted station manager. “I’m sure
we’re all ready for you. Please come this way. He bowed the President toward the studio.
The program opened with a tight shot of a guitar. Expert hands and fingers began to play a melodic intro. Then the famous, smiling face appeared in a soft oval in the center of the instrument and George Potter began to sing. The children who sat in classrooms and auditoriums across the city, heard the same warm, friendly voice that still sold millions of records each year.
“A--go AHEAD and try!
B--you’ll BEGIN to C
D--we DEPEND on it..
E--for EVERYTHING, you and I”
On he went through the alphabet--swinging along to a catchy new Potter tune.
Within days following the President’s appearance on WETA-TV, the reports were available on it’s effectiveness. George and Dr. Gustafson saw not only unequaled ratings for the local PBS station, but all the reports gave glowing evidence of the President’s teaching ability. The President and the Secretary of Education held several conferences with Selma Atkinson and other brass from the Public Broadcast system, who were overjoyed at the prospect of adding the President of the United States and former pop star to their programming.
Modifications were made to the basement bowling alley and a microwave system was established between the White House and the Public Broadcasting System. The new program, entitled Mr. Potter, was aired at various times during the day to various age groups in each coverage area across the nation and in Canada.
Popular demand dictated that a couple of nights a week they must air Mr. Potter in prime time. The adult public wanted to see what ol’ George was up to. For the first time in history, PBS pulled a larger audience than the major networks. Another hit for George Potter; and the successful program boosted the nation’s literacy rate by leaps and bounds.
THIRTY-TWO
The White House tour guide motioned for the visitors to pause while she showed them the portrait of George Washington. One of the visitors raised her hand.
“Yes?” asked the smiling guide
“Will we be seeing the President today?” the tourist asked , and the others nodded hopefully.
“Oh, I am sorry,” the guide replied, “but the President is in the Middle East working on peace negotiations.” The tour looked disappointed. “But there is a good chance you may see the First Lady and George Two. The Potters try to make all visitors welcome to their home.”
Just then a handsome, majestic, black woman passed near the group.
“Liza Cooper,” someone whispered. “It’s Liza Cooper.”
The woman smiled a dazzling smile and waved at the group as she made her way to the stairs.
“As I’m sure you know,” continued the guide, motioning them to follow.“Ms. Cooper was once George Two’s nanny. He’s almost teenage and now Liza is official keeper of the White House, among other things. She’s a big help around here!”
****
Meanwhile, in Baghdad, President George Bertram Potter had been meeting for days with the heads of state and religious leaders of the troubled muslim nations. The first days of the U.S. sponsored meeting had gone badly, and though discouraged, the President plugged away. He cajoled, pleaded, argued and even tactfully browbeat the stubborn heads of state and religion in what at times seemed a vain attempt to have them agree to the accords.
What happened on the last days or what President Potter said to them was kept very hush-hush. However, as if by a miracle, on the fifth and final day of the negotiations., the great doors to the council chamber opened, and the participants were seen laughing and hugging one another.
The president looked pleased and relieved. What he had said to them was still secret, but many assumed he had only pointed out what they already knew: That they all believed in Mohammed and Allah, and as the Koran had stated or implied:. Peaceful coexistence was the only pathway to heaven.
Perhaps the force of his personality had helped build agreements on the many issues. At least, for the moment, he had brought peace to that part of the world.
The U.S. leader had also made many promises. Ones he intended to keep. He felt one of the principle underlying problems with the Palestinians and some of the others was their jealousy of the Israeli success in turning their land into a fertile paradise. George Potter had convinced the Israeli government to send consultants to show their enemies how to bring fertility to their arid deserts.
At first there was predictable friction between the Jews and Muslims. But as they talked and listened, they began to see the light. The President also had the promise of the U.N. and his own government to subsidize the program As the various parties became more enthusiastic about the potential for food production, a question was raised: What to do with all the surplus? The President was ready for that one: Feed the world’s hungry. The U.S. had been doing just that for over a half century with airlifts and cargo ships. He advised the governments to combine their peacetime armed forces along with American Army, Navy, Marine and Air force units to create a transportation network of distribution. that would feed the third world and beyond.
In addition, Potter’s advisors would help the countries to create new industries to employ the unemployed, and bring the Middle East into the 20th century.
The idea of getting their hands on Yankee dollars appealed to some of the Afghan Taliban war mongers. Seeing the greed in their eyes, George was prompted to add a proviso: Afghanistan would receive all the help they needed, but only if they burned the opium poppy fields and convinced their farmers to grow wheat and other essential foods He hoped this would cut into the heroin, and related drug industry...drugs high on the list of drug dealers in the U.S. and elsewhere. He also implied there would be spy planes overhead to make sure they complied.
THIRTY-THREE
Spring filled the air as the small, three car caravan moved at a leisurely pace through the Maryland countryside. Far in front was a pale green sedan; at a comfortable distance to the rear came a plain sport coupe; and between them cruised a dusty, beige Ford Fairlane two door.
The driver of the Ford was the President of The United States, George Potter. He wore a golf cap and sun classes (As long as he didn’t smile, no one would recognize the Chief Executive.) Beside him sat his handsome, eleven year old son, George Two. The cars in front and in back held secret service men dressed in casual clothes. There was really no need for them. Who on earth would want to harm good ol’ George Potter? George kept them on because they all had families and needed the work.
Camp David lay a few miles behind, and minutes later, the caravan turned off the highway, down a dirt road and into the woods. They finally bumped and joggled to a stop in a small clearing.
The President hopped out first. “This is it boys,” he called out with a big grin. “Indian Creek is just below that clump of aspens. You boys do whatever you want. George Two and I are gonna try to catch dinner.”
The Chief Executive opened the trunk of the dusty Ford and he and the boy gathered up creels, reels, rods and tackle boxes and started down the trail that led to the creek. It was a beautiful day. The sun shown through the branches above them, and there were birds singing cheerfully along their path. They had to climb down the rocks that bordered the creek. Some were huge boulders and the two helped one another up and over as needed.
At last they came to a small grassy knoll that lay next the the creek. “Here we are son, just like I said. Beautiful, eh?”
“Sure is, Dad!” replied the bright-eyed boy.
The knoll was shaded by a huge oak that reached out over the slow moving stream. At this point, the waterway broadened out to form a large, quiet pool, before it narrowed to spill down a small waterfall farther on. It was an idyllic setting and the two, father and son, drank in the beauty that surrounded them, before they settled down to the business at hand. Both opened their tackle boxes and expertly prepared dry flies they’d made the
mselves. They often went fishing together. Sometimes they fished the deep sea; sometimes they went after salmon during the annual run up the Potomac: often they angled small streams such as this one. On the President’s peace missions, they had even fished in Europe and the Orient.
They decided against waders. The President hunkered down to avoid the branches overhead, and as the automatic reels sang in unison, they expertly cast their lines out from the grassy plot on which they stood. The President selected a spot down stream. George Two whipped his into an area near a big log where the stream entered the pool.
After they placed their flies, they sat down shoulder to shoulder and hitched at the lines from time to time to give the flies a lifelike action, designed,with any luck, to lure the cagiest trout. They barely spoke. Silence is essential to trout fishing. George Two looked at his father. The President was concentrating on his fishing, trying to keep his line from drifting too near a couple of snags near the end of the pool.
George Two admired his old man. I only wish I’d known him when he was a big pop star, he said to himself. Being President is Okay, but being a pop star is better. He’d been too young to remember the adulation and fame his father had enjoyed eight years earlier. Actually, the President’s music was still very much a part of the pop scene. His songs were classics and though there were many imitators, most everyone agreed there was no substitute for the real thing. George Potter’s recordings were still played on nearly every station in the world. Every once in a while, there would be a big George Potter revival and some of his million sellers would move back into the top ten. Yet, the fact remained that George Two had seen and heard only the recorded sounds and images of his father as an entertainer. They still inspired, still influenced the new generation--his generation. In the tapes and films of those concerts he could still feel some of the wonder of the George Potter legend. But, to actually be there--at a real live concert, that must have really been something!
“How’s the guitar coming, Son?” his father’s soft spoken question interrupted the boys reverie.
“Okay Dad,” whispered the boy. “In fact, my teacher is very proud of my progress.”