Worse Than I Thought: A Mother In History

The literature on the JFK assassination is rife with dishonest books that endorse, defend, and/or excuse the findings of the Warren Commission. Nothing new about that: it’s been true since publication of the Warren Report in 1964, and has carried on through a long line of apologist nonsense.

One Commissioner and several WC attorneys cashed in on their experiences by writing books on the topic. A host of pseudo-serious WC advocates have also contributed, profitably, to this worthless tripe. At the time of the assassination’s fiftieth anniversary in 2013, pioneering critic Vince Salandria called it all a mountain of trash: propaganda meant to bury the obvious.

Jean Stafford’s A Mother in History (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1966) was an early entry into this disgraceful body of work. I have written about it before. What more could I possibly have to say? Do I have an unhealthy preoccupation with this slender book – ostensibly an unbiased profile of the mother of the alleged presidential assassin?

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The source material for A Mother in History is in the Jean Stafford archive at the University of Colorado (CU) in Boulder, part of the Norlin Library’s Rare and Distinctive Collections. By chance, it’s about fifteen minutes from my home.

Stafford grew up in Boulder, which is presumably why she left her papers to CU. Since she mostly wrote fiction, this source material makes up only a small part of the archive. It includes typescripts, notes, and an interview transcript, all of which reside in one small box. But the real prize, and what I was most interested in when I went there in July 2022, isn’t kept in the box: tape recordings of Stafford’s May 1965 interviews with Marguerite Oswald. CU has the recordings, but they are stored elsewhere. To hear them required arrangements beyond the initial appointment I had to make to visit.

But eventually I heard them. Today the recordings consist of six undated .mp3 files. A CU archivist told me that the original reel-to-reel tapes were transferred to audio cassette in the 1970s. They were digitized sometime in the 1980s, or perhaps a little later.

Appearing in book form in 1966, A Mother In History is in three sections, simply identified as I, II, and III. (There’s also an Epilogue and appendices.) Later editions feature a breathless jacket blurb touting Stafford’s “three incredible days” with Marguerite Oswald. That, and other indicators, clearly imply each of those three book sections correspond to one day of conversation between the author and her subject.

There may have been three days of interviews, incredible or otherwise, but I am highly skeptical of the implied chronology. An exchange on the book’s p. 36, as that purported first day neared its end, fuels this skepticism. Here Stafford writes that she asked Mrs. Oswald if it would be okay to bring a tape recorder the next day. Marguerite agreed. Stafford does not say so explicitly, but the clear message is that the first day was not tape recorded.

The CU .mp3 audio tells a different story. For starters, Stafford fails to say, anywhere in the recordings, the day, date, or subject of her interviews. Interviewers often do; it could even be considered a best practice. It creates a record, and helps keep things in order.

The audio itself may be undated, but .mp3 files do have sequential filenames. Based on these filenames, the first is stafford-interview-with-mrs.-oswald_-part-1-a.mp3. This particular audio begins with Stafford asking, “Tell me about your early life, Mrs. Oswald. You were born in New Orleans, weren’t you?” The transcript begins the same way. It’s an amiable first question, a likely starting point, and I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest this was, in fact, the very first of the interviews: that is, the first day, which Stafford implied was not recorded.

But I digress.

I had initially grown curious about a quote in the first section of the book – the section that readers are led to believe was from an unrecorded first day. Lee Harvey Oswald, Marguerite said, “spoke Russian, he wrote Russian, and he read Russian. Why? Because my boy was being trained as an agent, that’s why.”

In Stafford’s book there was no follow-up question. This baffled me. Even an amateur journalist, like Stafford, should have had enough sense to learn more about this explosive statement. I hoped the audio would clarify things. Instead, it revealed that Marguerite Oswald didn’t say what Stafford quoted her as saying. It is a manufactured quote.

It’s a little complicated, so bear with me. Most of the words in that quote were, in fact, spoken by Marguerite Oswald. They were tape recorded; I have heard the audio. But it’s a false quote, because Stafford pieced together several phrases – some of them separated by as many as three minutes. Placing it all within quotation marks implies it is verbatim – but it is not, and is thus a deception.

I can only speculate on Stafford’s motives. That false quote does not support, as Stafford professes to, the lone gunman thesis. But given the magnitude of surrounding events, I cannot believe creating it was innocent. I think Stafford floated the idea of Oswald-as-agent – not a common view at the time – to characterize Marguerite Oswald as paranoid, and out of her mind.

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There are other false and manufactured quotes in A Mother In History. Once I discovered that first one it put me on high alert, and sure enough, I found others. I have not counted them all and don’t intend to; it would be a huge undertaking. But the more I studied the source material, the more dishonesty I found.

On page 23 of A Mother In History is the following statement, attributed to Marguerite:

Lee purely loved animals! With his very first pay he bought a bird and a cage, and I have a picture of it. He bought this bird with a cage that had a planter for ivy, and he took care of that bird and he made the ivy grow. Now, you see, there could be many nice things written about this boy. But, oh, no, no, this boy is supposed to be the assassin of the President of the United States, so he has to be a louse. Sometimes I am very sad.

This is a rather inconsequential matter, but the quote is still false. Marguerite Oswald didn’t really say it. Here is what she did say, in answer to Stafford’s question, “Did he ever have any pets?"

Oh yes, Lee had a dog, and with his first pay he bought a bird and a cage – I have pictures of it, with ivy in it and all the food for the bird. Yes. He had a collie shepherd dog that I had gotten for him when it was a little [bitty] puppy. And he had it all those years until we went to New York. And that dog had puppies. He gave one to his school teacher. She wrote a nice article for the newspaper saying Lee loving animals and giving her a pet.

True, the published quote roughly parallels what she really said. But it is still false. “Lee purely loved animals” does not appear in any of the audio. There is no mention of dogs in the published quote, let alone puppies, or giving one to a school teacher.

Nor did Marguerite say, apropos of nothing, “Sometimes I am very sad.” In fact, elsewhere in the recorded interviews, she said quite the opposite: “I’m not unhappy, Jean. You can see I’m not.”

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The example about animals and pets is minor, compared to a false quote on pages 12-13 of A Mother In History. This one is presented as dialogue between interviewer and interviewee, and Jean Stafford goes in for the kill. It is intended, I am convinced, to make Marguerite Oswald appear nuts – to use a non-clinical term.

Marguerite spoke first:

“And as we all know, President Kennedy was a dying man. So I say it is possible that my son was chosen to shoot him in a mercy killing for the security of the country. And if this is true, it was a fine thing to do and my son is a hero.”

“I had not heard that President Kennedy was dying,” I said, staggered by this cluster of fictions stated as irrefutable fact. Some mercy killing! The methods used in this instance must surely be unique in the annals of euthanasia.

This exchange is not found anywhere in the interview audio or the transcript. Marguerite does not make the statement, and Jean Stafford does not make that stunned reply.

There is, however, something similar to this in the interviews. Unfortunately, the digitized version of the tape recording at CU ends partway through the quote. Did the original tape end there, too? No, because the corresponding transcript, which I have found to be consistently accurate, continues for several more pages. It is convoluted, but this is what Marguerite Oswald really said.

That President Kennedy was killed by – a mercy killing – by some of his own men that thought it was the thing to do and this is not impossible and since I blame the secret service from what I saw and what I thought it could have been that my son and the secret service were all involved in a mercy killing.

A minute or so before her “mercy killing" remark, Marguerite did say “a dying President,” but “As we all know” is an invention. She says JFK was dying because he had Addison’s disease, which he did. She also called it a kidney disorder, which it is not. Addison’s can be life-threatening, but Stafford correctly points out that it is a manageable adrenal condition. And Kennedy managed his.

But Stafford can’t let this go without having some fun, falsely quoting Marguerite calling it Atkinson’s disease. In the audio, there is no doubt: Marguerite says Addison’s. It is rendered as Atkinson’s in the transcript. Maybe Stafford didn’t remember what Mrs. Oswald actually said, and later on trusted the error of the unknown stenographer. While accurate overall, the transcript does, in fact, garble certain words here and there; in places it reminds me of the sometimes-strange voicemail transcripts my Smartphone makes. The ethical thing would have been double-checking Marguerite’s presumed mistake, before putting it to print.

But the point is that Marguerite Oswald did not say her son was chosen to shoot a terminally ill JFK in a mercy killing. Jean Stafford created that illusion.

According to biographer David Roberts (Jean Stafford: A Biography, 1988) Jean Stafford later “held parties at which she played the Oswald tapes for her friends.” Roberts cites Stafford’s “fascination” with Marguerite Oswald’s voice.

It sounds more like arrogance to me. One imagines a bunch of cocktail-quaffing intelligentsia howling with laughter over Marguerite’s unschooled chatter. But maybe not. Maybe Stafford just wanted to give some of her pals a front-row seat to history. Whatever: the image this conjures is, to me, thoroughly repulsive.

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The Stafford-Oswald interviews took place in May 1965. This is approximately ten months after Marguerite met with Harold Feldman and Vince Salandria, after which Feldman wrote “The Unsinkable Marguerite Oswald,” published in September 1964 (available online).

If Jean Stafford had done her homework, she might have answered a question she puzzled over in her book’s Appendix III. How, she wondered, was an undereducated Marguerite Oswald able to paraphrase an obscure quote from Sigmund Freud? “Without persecution," she told Stafford, “there would not be a persecution complex.”

In his article Harold Feldman (at left, in photo), a lay psychologist, said that the media consistently portrayed Marguerite Oswald “as a self-centered, domineering, paranoiac showoff with frequent delusions of persecution. It reminds me of Freud’s remark that there would be no such thing as a persecution complex if there were not real persecution.”

Feldman, whose writing often appeared in psychoanalytic journals, wrote about Marguerite with a deference and sympathy Jean Stafford failed to summon. He observed:

She has devoted every day since November 22, 1963, to uncovering what she believes and millions believe is a real conspiracy in which her youngest son was the fall guy. As a result, she is held up to scorn as a bitter old woman who sees snares and plots everywhere.

And he added: “… if Ibsen is right and the strongest is the one who stands alone for integrity and honor, then Marguerite Oswald is the strongest woman in America.”

Marguerite Oswald was an ordinary woman thrust, quite against her will, into extraordinary circumstances. In spite of tremendous obstacles, she defended her son against the Warren Commission and the mainstream media. She had few allies. Even family members, she told Jean Stafford, distanced themselves from her. “I’m alone in my fight, with no help.”

Marguerite Oswald may have struck Stafford as eccentric, but who doesn’t have personality quirks? Jean Stafford exploited Marguerite’s to the hilt, and did so ruthlessly, in exchange for money. I could cite more examples of the dishonesty in A Mother In History, but life is too short.

Stafford shuffled the truth like a deck of cards, manufacturing quotes and manipulating chronology, all to create the false impression – the lie – that her subject was divorced from reality. Suffice it to say A Mother In History is even worse than I imagined when I visited the Jean Stafford archive at CU.

But it’s been more than fifty years since publication, so the damage is done.

A Nurse from Dallas

Last week I underwent minor surgery to correct a deviated septum. As I write this, I’ve just had the hollow, conical splints that were jammed up each nostril removed; they kept my nose in shape, quite literally, for the first five days of convalescence.

After the procedure they wheeled me into the recovery room, where I gradually began to emerge from sedation. One of the nurses began chattering away at me. I got the sense she wanted to gauge my alertness; to calculate, maybe, how long before I could be discharged.

In any case, she said at one point that she was from Dallas.

“Oh yeah?” I replied, muddy-minded.

“So is another nurse on this ward.”

“Oh.”

“In fact, I used to work at Parkland Hospital.”

“No kidding,” I said through a fog.

“That’s the one where JFK died.”

“That’s true.” It also closed a few months ago, and will be demolished.

“I guess because of that, I’ve always been interested in that case. I read almost everything about it I can.”

“No kidding?” I muttered.

“No kidding!”

So I told her that it was an interest of mine, too; that in fact, I’d written a book about it. Ordinarily I would have kept this to myself, but I was still floating on anesthesia. She seemed genuinely interested. Hard to tell, because I was so out of it from the drugs.

She wanted to know the title, and said she wanted to read it. I told her and she wrote it down. She already had my name on a medical chart.

We talked some more. “There’s no way one guy could have got off all those shots in, what was it? – five or six seconds?” I agreed, then gave her my grand summary: which is the importance of distinguishing between conspiracy and culpability. Demonstrating conspiracy is the easy part, I slurred. The whodunnit is trickier.

Maybe this suggested I was mentally alert. A few minutes later I heard her calling my wife to say I was ready; she could come get me now. “We had a really interesting conversation about JFK!” she said. Le spouse has heard it all before.

As we drove home the aftereffects of the anesthesia got to me and, aggravated by motion, I puked. Caught it all in a plastic bag, on hand just in case. Got home, felt better, took some pain meds, and drifted in and out of consciousness during Thursday Night Football. The Broncos lost to Indianapolis.

Recovery continues.

Material Transfer Agreement

After twenty-something years, Praise From a Future Generation: The Assassination of John F. Kennedy and the First Generation Critics of the Warren Report is nearly out of my life.

Finally. I’m tempted to add that word to the first sentence. But that may sound a bit mocking, or scornful.

Yet the publisher has paid me off and officially declared the book out of print. The last surviving critic, Vincent J. Salandria (pictured), who some have also called the first critic, died in the summer of 2020.

Now, it all belongs to the ages.

During the book’s research and writing phase I amassed quite a bit of physical data. The project was completed years ago, but – much to the consternation of my wife – this data has sat and sat and sat, and taken up space, in what used to be my office but is now her office.

My ace in the hole was Baylor University in Waco, TX. Or so I thought. Some years back a curator of Baylor’s Penn Jones collection told me he’d be happy to take this stuff off my hands when the time came. But I waited too long; this fellow is no longer there, and Baylor is no longer accepting material like this.

But Hood College is. They’re in Frederick, Maryland. The papers of Harold Weisberg (with goose), Sylvia Meagher, and Ray Marcus are already there; I plundered them way back when. Weisberg’s vast collection has been mostly digitized and is accessible via the web. At least some of the Sylvia Meagher material is online but is far less organized. I don’t know the status of the Marcus material.

And now Hood is taking my stuff. It includes the papers of Vince Salandria, one of several foundations for my book. Long ago, when I first agreed to accept it, Vince told me his wife would otherwise burn it as soon as he was dead. Happily, it has been spared that fate.

I have sorted out the most important stuff from redundant stuff and expect to hand it off to a Hood representative sometime this spring. It consists mostly of correspondence, books, clippings, magazines, and a few oddities.

Praise From a Future Generation will never, of course, be completely out of my life – in spite of what I wrote at the top. How could it be? It will likely be a year or two before any of the materials destined for Hood are accessible to interested parties. Not that I anticipate a flood, or even a trickle, of interest. I’m just glad it won’t end up in a fire pit, or a landfill, which was my fear after Baylor and several other institutions took a pass. (My dream is for this material, and everything relating to the early Warren Report critics, to be in a central location – the Smithsonian, say. Another topic for another time.)

As I write this, most of my collection has been boxed up. Legally it may not be what is called a material transfer agreement – but I am giving, and Hood is accepting. I have signed a Deed of Gift. What remains is for the Hood curator and me to align our schedules and figure out a workable plan to meet at an undisclosed location halfway across the country, to transfer boxes from my vehicle to his.

Out Of Print

It’s the end of the road for Praise From a Future Generation.

A few days ago, as this is written, I received an unexpected letter from its publisher, Wings Press, informing me of their decision to shitcan the book once and for all. (Some choice excerpts from this letter are below.)

The letter surprised me. Aside from the e-book edition, I thought it already was out of print!

The letter included a royalty check covering the last three years. This too surprised me, although its miniscule amount did not. I didn’t think they owed me a farthing.

How miniscule was the check? Let’s just say we’re not using it to put a swimming pool in the back yard, and leave it at that. But I didn’t write the book expecting to make money. I hope that’s been obvious all along.

In any case, hard copies of the book now belong to the ages. Or something like that.

If you are reading this, you are among the tiniest of tiny minorities who are aware this book even exists (assuming you didn’t arrive here by chance). It is the story of the JFK assassination through the eyes of the “first generation”  Warren Report critics, a small group of private citizens who immediately saw the lone nut assassin story for the transparent nonsense it was, and always has been.

Wings Press still has a handful of copies, pending my nonaction that dooms them to the landfill. I have an option to buy some or all at less than market value. Pass. Let them return to the earth, from whence they came!

The e-book remains, although if it’s unchanged from the version I saw when we prepared it a few years after the hard copy, it's poorly done – more like a PDF of the book, rather than liquid text that resizes itself to the dimensions of an e-reader.

In any case, I must look at this as the final chapter (no pun intended) in the saga of writing this damned thing. It’s a little sad, of course. The finished product represents a lot of work. Research began around 2000 or so, and it was finally published in 2007 – in itself, a minor miracle. But it’s already been in the rear view mirror for a long time.

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Priscilla is Heard

The Muses Are Heard is a largely forgotten book by Truman Capote. Published in 1956, it is a nonfiction account of an American company of Porgy and Bess and its visit to the Soviet Union.

When I first read it a dozen or so years ago I was surprised by the appearance of someone associated, indirectly, with the JFK assassination. To wit: one Priscilla Johnson, later Priscilla Johnson McMillan.

Johnson was ostensibly a journalist when she interviewed Lee Harvey Oswald at Moscow’s Hotel Metropole in November 1959, some four years after the events in The Muses Are Heard. She profiled Oswald, a supposed defector, for the North American Newspaper Alliance.

Right after the assassination, claiming she “had been thinking about him ever since” their 1959 meeting, Johnson wrote another article, “Oswald in Moscow.” It supported the argument that Oswald shot JFK largely because he was a publicity seeking lone nut.

Sometimes journalists get lucky: they’re in the right place at the right time. Was this the case with Johnson and her Moscow meeting with Oswald? Elements of her tale smell funny: she worked for John F. Kennedy in the early 1950s, when Kennedy was a Massachusetts Senator, and sought employment with the CIA, without success. So the story goes.

Priscilla Johnson testified before the Warren Commission. Later she befriended Oswald’s widow Marina and began writing a book, Marina and Lee. After its publication in 1977 she became a persistent and reliable supporter of the lone nut scenario, drawing on her brief acquaintance with Lee Oswald and longer acquaintance with Marina to pose as an expert. (As this is written she is still alive at 92, according to her entry in Wikipedia.)

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And lo! She makes a cameo appearance in The Muses Are Heard. This short work, remember, describes events that took place in late 1955 – some four years before Priscilla Johnson’s encounter with Lee Harvey Oswald.

Capote accompanied an all-Black cast of Porgy and Bess to Russia, part of an entourage that included the wife of the opera’s lyricist, Ira Gershwin. The trip was newsworthy as the first performance of an American theatrical company in the Soviet Union since the Bolshevik revolution. (The New Yorker magazine picked up Capote’s tab, and serialized The Muses Are Heard before it appeared in book form.)

Capote wrote his piece in the first person – “observant, gossipy, bitchy, and always entertaining,” said biographer Gerald Clarke – inserting himself among his subjects. At one point he described how the cast, before one of their own performances, attended a ballet in Moscow.

Sitting in the row ahead, there was one girl whose hair was neither plaited nor a sour bundle of string; she had an urchin-cut, which suited her curious, wild-faun face. She was wearing a black cardigan, and a pearl necklace. I pointed her out to Miss Ryan.

“But I know her,” Miss Ryan said excitedly. “She’s from Long Island, we went to Radcliffe together! Priscilla Johnson,” she called, and the girl, squinting near-sighted eyes, turned around. “For God’s sake, Priscilla. What are you doing here?”

“Gosh. Gee whiz, Nancy,” said the girl, rubbing back her tomboy bangs. “What are you doing here?”

Miss Ryan told her, and the girl, who said she was staying at the Astoria, explained that she had been granted a lengthy visa to live in the Soviet Union and study Russian law, a subject that had interested her since Radcliffe, where she’d also learned the Russian language.

“But, darling,” said Mrs. Gershwin, “how can anyone study Russian law? When it changes so often?”

“Gosh. Ha ha,” said Miss Johnson. “Well, that’s not the only thing I’m studying. I’m making a kind of Kinsey report. It’s great fun, gosh.”

“I should think,” said Miss Ryan. “The research.”

Gosh. Johnson added that she was writing and submitting articles to American magazines. “Priscilla,” Miss Ryan whispered to Capote, “is sort of a genius.”

She also participated in a “pub crawl” through Moscow with Capote, Miss Ryan, and several others, “indulging [Capote’s] lifelong passion for ... foul-smelling, vile places,” Gerald Clarke wrote.

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An Atlantic article about Priscilla Johnson McMillan, published at the time of the assassination’s fiftieth anniversary, called her the only person to know both JFK and Oswald – “his killer,” as the stuffy rag dutifully referred to him.

Not so fast! Capote made the same claim. In “A Day’s Work,” a story collected in Music for Chameleons, he said he was a guest at a dinner party hosted by then-Sen. JFK. He described meeting Oswald in a story/interview with, of all people, Robert “Bobby” Beausoleil, who, when Capote talked to him, sat in prison for crimes associated with Charles Manson and his murderous “family.”

“Does that make you the only one that knew both of them, Oswald and Kennedy?” a startled Beausoleil asked, after Capote’s revelation.

“No. There was an American girl, Priscilla Johnson. She worked for U.P. [sic] in Moscow. She knew Kennedy, and she met Oswald around the same time I did.”

True? Maybe. I’m not sure the chronology adds up. More to the point, Capote had an uneven relationship with truth, and for me at least, has almost no credibility anymore. I have been an admirer of his in the past, and still think his oeuvre contains some very fine work. But you need a good bullshit detector.

Capote is, or was, an inveterate liar. “He took substantial liberties for the sake of lively reading,” Gerald Clarke wrote of The Muses Are Heard. “In one case he invented a whole scene.”

Not only that, he fabricated sections of his acknowledged masterpiece, In Cold Blood. This, alas, is beyond dispute. As with any liar, once a falsehood is exposed it reflects negatively on everything you’ve ever done, said, or written.

What, then, of Priscilla Johnson McMillan? I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of the characterization in The Muses Are Heard. Am I applying a double standard? Maybe. Or maybe it’s a judgment call.

Priscilla Johnson applied to the CIA in the early 1950s, according to the Spartacus website and other sources. Her application was supposedly rejected. Yet there she is, an American in Moscow during the Cold War. Seems highly unusual to me.

Could the encounter between Johnson, Capote, and Miss [Nancy] Ryan have been just a coincidence? Or could she have taken a seat one row before Capote and her erstwhile classmate in order to be spotted, thereby enabling her to keep surreptitious tabs on these Americans? Johnson, of course, dismisses the idea out of hand: “There’s a lot of stuff like that online,” she told The Atlantic.

I don’t know what to make of this. Maybe it’s only a literary curiosity, or maybe it’s absolutely nothing. But it’s at least worth knowing about; the intelligence swamp surrounding the Kennedy case is legendary.

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Notes

Capote meeting JFK is in Capote, A Biography, by Gerald Clarke. Also referenced in “A Day’s Work,” collected in Music For Chameleons. This collection includes “Then It All Came Down,” with the Beausoleil conversation.

Gerald Clarke discusses Capote having invented scenes for The Muses Are Heard and In Cold Blood in his biography. Surprisingly, the bio makes no mention of Oswald. Capote inventions are also  discussed in Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, by Charles J. Shields, and Truman Capote, by George Plimpton

Vincent J. Salandria

Vincent J. Salandria died this past August at the age of ninety-two. It was my great privilege to befriend Vince after meeting him in Dallas in 1998.

Shortly after his death I was contacted by the host of “Black Op Radio,” a show out of Vancouver, and asked to be one of many participants in a tribute episode. My portion was recorded by phone on a Wednesday and the show was webcast the following evening.

To be blunt, I did not want to be involved. This was in part because I don’t do well on the air. But I felt I owed it to Vince, so I wrote up some remarks. When the host called to record our conversation I said I would simply read what I had written: “It lasts about four minutes.” After a long pause the host replied, “The last guy talked for over an hour.” Clearly he expected more. Regardless, I read the text reproduced below (trying to sound spontaneous), suffered through a Q&A that extended my participation by another ten or fifteen minutes, then wrapped it up.

The host did not ask about my book (the subject of this blog). No great loss – but I would like to say here that, for better or worse, it would not have been written without Vince Salandria. As described below, he gave me several boxes of his assassination-related correspondence that formed the initial raw material that got me started, and in time evolved into the book.

Vincent J. Salandria was one of just a handful of people who began to independently investigate the JFK assassination immediately after it happened. With his brother-in-law Harold Feldman he traveled to Dallas in the summer of 1964, where he talked to Marguerite Oswald and interviewed key witnesses like Helen Markham. That same year he wrote one of the earliest articles demonstrating what we might charitably refer to as flaws in the Warren Commission version of events.

Before I continue, Len, I have to say that I suspect Vince would not approve of any tributes to his work, like what we’re doing now. He was known for his humility, and not all that interested in getting credit for any of his research. To him it was much more important to find the truth, and put that truth before the public. Sylvia Meagher once said that while other early critics might bicker over credit for one discovery or another, Vince never concerned himself with any of that. Some of his friends even teased him about his humility, calling him “St. Vincent.” But he knew what he was about. As Christopher Sharrett once observed, Salandria “always knew he packed the gear.”

His contribution to our common cause is undeniable and immeasurable. He and Harold Feldman saw, virtually from Day One, what had really happened. Even at that early stage they both viewed it as a high-level killing, and felt the only the real question was the scope of the conspiracy.

In the 1970s Vince told Gaeton Fonzi that, and I quote, “the tyranny of power is here. Current events tell us that those who killed Kennedy can only perpetuate their power by promoting social upheaval both at home and abroad. And that will lead not to revolution but to repression...” end quote. He said that nearly fifty years ago, but we need look no further than Lafayette Square in Washington, DC this past June to see that Vince Salandria’s insight remains valid, and that there is a direct line from November 1963 to today.

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I met Vince at the 1998 COPA conference in Dallas. About a year later he asked me whether I’d be interested in taking possession of his assassination-related correspondence, much of it dating back to the 1960s.

When I hesitated, he added, “My wife will just burn it all as soon as I’m dead.”

I think he was only joking, but that ended up tipping the scales. I said yes, and wound up with what I still consider raw material of great historic significance.

I only met Vince in person that one time, but over the next dozen or more years we had countless telephone conversations and emails. He consistently impressed me – not just with his insight, but with his encouragement and generosity.

In 2013, just before the fiftieth anniversary of the Kennedy assassination, I asked him for his thoughts on the occasion. I’ll conclude my remarks to you by quoting his reply:

“The debate over the killing of President John F. Kennedy interminably rambles on. It dumps mountains of trash on the public in an effort to bury the self-evident truth of the JFK assassination coup and its cover-up. In the debate, the national security state and its puppets (the military industrial complex and the nation’s press), desperately seek to substitute for the plain historical truth of their guilt, a seemingly impenetrable mystery which is no mystery at all.”

Ill Will: The Sixth Floor Museum

I got a flier in the mail from The Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas the other day, alerting me to an event scheduled for the end of this month. The event is called “Conflicting Conclusions,” and the museum web site has more info. I’m not going to link to it.

That flier bills the event as “a riveting conversation between two key figures from” the Warren Commission and the House Select Committee on Assassination, the two main government-led probes into the assassination of JFK, which reached the titular, opposing conclusions.

It’s a crock of shit, of course.

I bear no ill will toward the Sixth Floor Museum. Or I bear a lot of ill will. I can’t seem to remember which.  

Oh yeah – it’s ill will, mostly; great gobs of it. Heaps of scorn. Total distrust.

Am I an ingrate? It is true I was once an invited speaker there, after the book that is the subject of this blog appeared. There I am, at left, in all my understated glory, blathering away.

But it is also true that the conspiracy that killed JFK succeeded, to the extent that it did, due to the promotion of confusion and mystery – aided and abetted by media sluts, and by institutions like The Sixth Floor Museum.

Shortly before the above photo was taken, some museum people sat me down with a big stack of my books and had me sign them all. You can’t return them once I ink ’em up, I cautioned. No probleemo, someone replied. Sign.

So I did. Supposedly Praise From a Future Generation is, or was, the sole pro-conspiracy (pardon the phrase) title in the museum bookstore. This little factoid, I think, made some people a little suspicious of me. Fuck ’em. I don’t know whether the museum still carries the book; probably not.

(Since I have never written it elsewhere, I’ll take a moment to note that among my Sixth Floor listeners was none other than Bob Jackson, who took the famous photo of Oswald being gutshot. Don’t know why he was there; he seemed totally underwhelmed.)

In any case, the Sixth Floor continues to promote confusion and mystery, and The Big Lie. I will never forget or overlook that simple fact.

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The late Gary Mack, erstwhile Sixth Floor Museum curator, once scolded me via email for a rather bland commentary I wrote about the museum, and posted to the Internet. I made that post in the late 1990s, about five years after writing it. The comments were copied out of an otherwise forgettable essay I wrote about visiting Dallas for the first time in 1993. 

And now, reminded of it all these years later, I will share here the remarks that irked Gary Mack. What the hell!

From “Impressions: The Sixth Floor Museum, circa 1993”

For someone who has no doubt there was a conspiracy to murder JFK, there is a lot to dislike about The Sixth Floor museum, where I went the day after the bus tour.

For starters, there is the fact that such a place is housed in the Book Depository, the cradle of the great lie. There is also the fact it is listed in the Dallas section of the AAA Tour Book for Texas, under the heading “What To See.” This gives The Sixth Floor the stamp of officialdom; the tour book states casually that it is “the site from which the shots that killed President Kennedy ... were fired.”

The once-cavernous sixth floor is now partitioned, and crammed with exhibits recreating the Kennedy Administration years, as well as the assassination. Like rats in a maze, visitors move from exhibit to exhibit, getting the official story. Many carry Walkman-style tape players, rented for an extra two bucks, which provide a canned narration of events.

It is difficult to view The Sixth Floor as anything other than a monument to the Warren Commission. The few references that are made to the idea of conspiracy – and admittedly, there are several – amount to little more than lip service to the notion; the scales remain heavily weighted against Lee Harvey Oswald.

There are no museum officials on hand to answer questions at The Sixth Floor. Visitors are not allowed to take photographs. Virtually nothing remains as it was on November 22 1963; even the so-called “sniper’s nest” in the building’s southeast corner window has been reconstructed.

Security is strangely tight at this museum, like security at an airport. All bags are either checked at the door or run through an X-ray machine. Visitors must step through a metal detector before entering. It is the sort of security one would associate with a live president – not a museum for a dead one.

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Photos by Marshall Kelin