A Teenager Goes to Washington / My Summer as a Congressional Intern–1966

By Charles C. Ledbetter

A teenager from a small, rural town on the high plains of Texas improbably gains a summer job in Washington D.C. This memoir relates the story of his coming of age in the presence of powerful people and institutions. You will enjoy the author’s stories of preparing for the job, his official duties, the memorable people he met, and his escapades at various locations in and around the Capital. This book contains frank and endearing stories of an incredible summer when the author experienced anxiety, self-doubt, exhilaration, and ultimately, joy. Experience the author’s observations as he gained ideas and concepts new to him, began to think about his role in the wider world, and struggled with his conscience over developments in civil rights and changing attitudes toward the Vietnam war. The book covers turbulent times and heartbreaking sadness, along with the thrill of a country boy enjoying new sights and entertainments as he grew into a man. The first in the series Look Out! Here Comes Summer – My Incredible College Summers relates the author’s rites of passage into adulthood, first as a congressional intern in the U.S. House of Representatives. Subsequent books in the series cover the author’s experiences as a horse wrangler at an exclusive all-girls summer camp in the Colorado Rockies, spending a summer in Alaska with a life-long friend in the rough and tumble world of the northern frontier, and in the final book, graduating college, beginning law school, being drafted into the military, and spending a hitch in the U.S. Marine Corps. Enjoy these books about growing up, seeing the world, and experiencing incredible adventures during the summers of 1966 to 1970.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles C. Ledbetter
• Release date: Jan 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005730895

Charles C. Ledbetter

Charles C. “Charlie” Ledbetter enjoyed a legal and consulting career for more than forty years. As the Trail Boss for the Ledbetter Land & Cattle Company, he is an accomplished public speaker, consultant to businesses, and author/publisher of non-fiction memoirs.Charlie pursued adventures through unique summer jobs and travels during his college years and learned lessons he applied throughout his life. The stories of those summers became the sources for this series of books, Look Out! Here Comes Summer – My Incredible College Summers. The first book in the series, A Teenager Goes to Washington – My Summer as a Congressional Intern – 1966 is available now. Other books in the series include Charlie’s experiences as the horse wrangler at an exclusive summer camp for girls in Rollinsville, Colorado; travels and adventures from traveling to Alaska with a longtime friend in a 1967 Pontiac and spending the summer in the far north; and the summer Charlie graduated college, started law school, received an induction notice for military service and served in the United States Marine Corps.Charlie is also the author of a well-received non-fiction memoir, Unexpected Conversations with Teenagers – A Spiritual Journey with Young Minds, based on this thirty-three years of teaching a senior high Sunday school class in Colorado.An avid reader and volunteer, he holds a B.A. in history from Baylor University and a Juris Doctor degree from the Sturm College of Law at the University of Denver. Charlie serves as the historian for his local church, Hope UMC, in Greenwood Village, Colorado and served eleven years on the board of directors for the United Methodist Foundation for the MountainSky Conference.Charlie is married, lives in Denver, Colorado near his two sons, enjoys attending the varied activities of his four grandchildren, and is an avid photographer. He has traveled extensively, visiting five continents and twenty-six countries worldwide.

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Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Ledbetter. All rights reserved.

Published by Ledbetter Land & Cattle Company

No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or the author.

The incidents in this book appear essentially as I remember them;

however the names and certain identifying features of some people portrayed were changed to protect their privacy.

Editor: Frances King, The Memoir Network

Cover & interior design: Sally Lunt, The Memoir Network

Photos: Charles C. Ledbetter & various credited sources

For additional information and bulk purchases, please contact the

author at charlescledbetter.com

Dedication

In loving memory of 

C.F. Winder, Neal Rose, and George H. Mahon 

for their guidance and support during my formative years. 

I recognize and acknowledge their profound influence 

on my youth, my coming of age years, and my character. 

I remain forever indebted to them for 

their free and unmerited grace.

Acknowledgements

I need to recognize the contributions of many toward this project. My wife, Sharon and good friend, James Patrick Vandello, for their patience, guidance, and early reading of my drafts; Alan and Sandy Henry, of Lubbock Texas, for their friendship and support over many years; my editor Frances King of The Memoir Network for her professional guidance and skills in polishing my writing; Sally Lunt for the professional layout and cover design; the folks at The Memoir Network for their experience and guidance in bringing this story from an idea to a book; my mother, Mary Lois Gowdy Ledbetter for preparing a scrapbook of the family visit to Washington D.C., July 1966; and for the research and information provided by the following: 

Texas Last Frontier, 1836 – 1986, published by Last Frontier History Book Commission, 1986 

20 Years in the Secret Service — My Life with Five Presidents, Rufus W. Youngblood, First Edition, 1973, Second Edition 2018, Fideli Publishing, Inc. 

One Honest Man, George Mahon: A Story of Power, Politics and Poetry, Wanda Webb Evans, Staked Plains Press, Inc. 

A Witness to History, George H. Mahon, West Texas Congressman, Janet M. Neugebauer, Texas Tech University Press 

The Vantage Point – Perspectives of the Presidency, 1963 – 1969 Lyndon Baines Johnson, 1971, Holt, Rinehart and Winston 

American Empress, The Life and Times of Marjorie Merriweather Post, Nancy Rubin, Villard Books – Random House 

Congressional Directory, 89th Congress, 2nd Session, United States Printing Office 

Texas’ Last Frontier, A New History of Cochran County, Elvis E. Fleming and David J. Murrah, published by Cochran County Historical Commission, 2001 

The Honorable M. C. Ledbetter’s legal files and documents retained from his legal practice and in the author’s possession, 1941–1959 

Photos, letters, memorabilia, and illustrations

for this book are available on the author's website.

Please visit charlescledbetter.com to review these materials.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One…..Chief Youngblood

Chapter Two…..Rural Route

Chapter Three…..The Trinket Store

Chapter Four….. Off On An Adventure

Chapter Five…..The D.C. Job

Chapter Six …..The Tour Guide

Chapter Seven…..Meeting Notable Persons

Chapter Eight….. Growing Into Civil Rights

Chapter Nine…..New York, New York

Chapter Ten…..The Family Visits D.C.

Chapter Eleven…..Sad News From Home

Chapter Twelve…..George and the Big Wedding

Chapter Thirteen…..Baseball, Bands, and Burlesque

Chapter Fourteen…..Protests

Chapter Fifteen…..Summer’s End

Chapter Sixteen…..Speeches and Ms. Post

Chapter Seventeen…..Back at College

Epilogue

About the Author

Introduction

I never met anyone who did not respect my daddy. He spoke little, but when he spoke people listened. I remember a conversation between us from the summer of 1963. The ideas planted by that conversation changed my life, especially the summers of 1966 through 1970. 

We were sitting on rough-hewn log benches in the lobby of the Old Faithful Lodge in Yellowstone National Park, waiting for the next expected eruption of the geyser. My mother and three of my sisters had left us to our own devices while they visited the gift shop. From experience, we knew several minutes, if not an hour, awaited us. We hoped their return would come before the predicted eruption of Old Faithful. 

Would you like a coke? my daddy asked. 

Sure, I said. 

He motioned to a young man wearing an Old Faithful Lodge golf shirt and khaki slacks. The man came over directly and welcomed us to Yellowstone. Before we ordered anything, my daddy started asking questions. Where are you from? Are you in college? Do you like your job? What’s the best thing about being here? I thought the fellow might show annoyance, but he appeared pleased that someone asked about him, and not just about the park. 

We learned the waiter hailed from Terre Haute, Indiana, attended Purdue University as a sophomore, loved his job, and, other than the beautiful natural surroundings, he liked most being around many ladies his age. He said this summer job ranked at the top of all his jobs thus far. He took our order for coffee and a coke, carefully explaining that each would cost twenty-five cents. Although taken aback, my daddy did not object, although he knew that the price nearly equaled the price of a gallon of gasoline and was double the price of these same items in our hometown. 

The waiter soon returned with our drinks. Hot coffee in a mug and an ice-filled glass with Coca Cola. Daddy paid, leaving a dime for a tip, but kept talking. How did you get this job? How much do they pay? How did you travel here? When did you report and when do you go home? Are you traveling elsewhere this summer? What do your parents do in Terre Haute? Where is Terre Haute anyway?

Given the friendliness of the waiter, we learned that he had seen an ad at Purdue and applied for jobs at Yellowstone, Glacier, and Grand Canyon National Parks; he received $25 per week plus room and board; he drove a 1958 Ford Fairlane from Indiana; he had arrived June first and would stay until September fourth; he planned to see the Tetons, Devil’s Tower, and the Badlands National Monument on his journey home; his father ran the water/sewer department for the city; his mother taught school; and Terre Haute lay along the Wabash River and Interstate 70 on the western edge of Indiana. 

In return for all that information, my daddy said: Thanks for the drinks. I hope you enjoy the rest of your summer and the trip home.

I felt somewhat worldly, but had never heard of Terre Haute, Indiana. My travels had included Ruidoso, NM, Corpus Christi TX, and three days in Dallas while Daddy attended the Texas Bar convention. All those trips included my family, but I did travel without family to Colorado Springs, for the 50th Anniversary Boy Scouts of America Jamboree in 1960. 

The trip to Yellowstone marked a high-water mark for family vacations. We could not afford fancy or long-term trips. By 1963 my two older sisters had married and missed that family trip. My hunch was that Daddy wanted a big vacation before another sister married or left for college, so we took off. We made several stops in several western states before Yellowstone. We would see several more before getting home. No other vacation before had included as many stops and nowhere near as many miles. As it turned out, none of our other vacations changed my future the way this one did. 

What did you think about that fellow and his job? my daddy asked without emphasis. 

Sounded like fun to me, I replied. 

My daddy went on to say he had felt burdened by responsibilities since age fifteen when he had left home to go live with an uncle. During the 1930s his family lost crops in consecutive years and struggled to feed themselves—himself and five siblings. At age fifteen, he worked in a drugstore and slept in a backroom with a shotgun. His experience had not included vacations and travel. 

I wanted to travel some, but it never worked out, he said casually, though not directly to me. Later, I was in school, working, trying to get by, and never had time or money for travels. Then when Mother and I married, we needed every dollar to support you kids.

I felt that this reminiscing was meant to tell me something, but I remained quiet. 

Maybe you could get a job like this when you are in college, he suggested. 

I noted that he did not use if in the sentence. Going to college was already settled as an expectation, not an aspiration. Maybe the summers between college years could provide opportunities. 

Finally, I told him I had never thought about it before. 

After that day, I thought about it many times. 

Soon my mother and sisters returned from the gift shop and we set off to see the great geyser, Old Faithful. 

Tales of what I did during my summer vacations constitute this series of four books. I worked as a congressional intern in Washington D.C.; served as the horse wrangler at an exclusive all-girls summer camp in the Colorado Rockies; with a high school friend drove a 1967 Pontiac to Alaska and stayed three months; and, after graduating college, entered law school, received an induction notice from Uncle Sam, got drafted, and entered the U.S. Marine Corps. 

I remain blessed that my parents had vision, loved me, supported my dreams, and encouraged me. Those blessings led to people, places, and experiences that at age sixteen never seemed possible to me. 

This introduction concludes with a quote from one of my favorite authors. Kurt Vonnegut opens Slaughterhouse Five with this sentence: All of this happened, more or less. The same is true of these adventures. I hope you enjoy these stories. 

There are two things parents should give their children: roots and wings. Roots to give them bearing and a sense of belonging, but also wings to help free them from constraints and prejudices and give them other ways to travel (or rather, to fly).

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Chapter 1

Chief Youngblood

It was July 1966. My desk sat near the back of the bullpen, a large room with four desks facing the reception area of the main office. I knew it was close to quitting time but had planned to stay until I completed addressing all the envelopes on my desk—envelopes meant to enclose form letters to constituents announcing news from the U. S. House of Representatives. The identical letters emerged from an early automatic typing machine running on a system like a player piano, but each letter still needed an addressee and address. That’s where I came in. 

The congressman surprised me when he came walking through the large double doors that opened into the office from the hallway. It was a few minutes before 5 p.m. His gait did not surprise me, as he walked purposefully everywhere he went; but his appearance just before the office closed for the day was a rare occurrence. Instead of turning left into his office, he turned toward the four of us in the work area and came directly to my desk. This meant he wanted something—perhaps a correction of something I had done wrong?—though more likely it meant asking me to do something for him. 

Charlie, would you follow me into my office? he asked. 

I stood up and followed. 

He sat down in the big chair behind his large mahogany desk and motioned for me to sit in one of the two chairs facing his desk. In the six weeks I had worked there I had come to understand that he would not correct me in front of others, but neither would he make public an invitation to accompany him to places he might not invite others from the office. 

Could you come in early tomorrow? he said, I need you to drive me somewhere.

I nodded yes, knowing full well that he knew I had nothing else to do. Besides, early for the rest of the office did not mean a farm-and-ranch early of 5:30 or 6 a.m. as it did for me; it probably meant 8 a.m., possibly even 7:30 a.m. (The office did not officially open until 8:30 a.m., but the congressman would usually arrive well before we opened.) 

Great, he said. I will meet you here at 7:30 a.m.

I returned to finish the pile of envelopes on my desk, wondering where we might go the next morning. A couple of weeks before, I had driven him to the Pentagon and waited while he conferred with military leaders about budget matters. Maybe a similar trip was on his calendar? 

During that summer I constantly worried I might not live up to the expectations established for someone in my position. At nineteen, I was the youngest intern in the office and did not come from a major town or university in the congressman’s district. My anxiety came from knowing the congressman’s exacting standards for the office and internally from worrying I might not live up to the performance of others from bigger cities or universities. The congressman led by example: he was meticulous, punctual, and always gracious. I strove to emulate his traits, and prove myself worthy of the faith others had shown by recommending me for the position. But there was always my nagging doubt about living up to expectations. 

Driving the congressman around often fell to me because I was single and lived close to the Capitol building. The two other interns that summer were married and time with family was something the congressman took seriously. He rarely asked them to stay late, come in early, or work weekends. I looked at this as an advantage: being available presented more opportunities for me to see people and places in and around Washington D.C. I did not resent any requests for extra duty. In fact, I relished them. 

Walking to my apartment that evening, I mentally calculated the time I would need to get up, get dressed, and complete the short walk to the office by 7:30 a.m. I typically rose early anyway, and the fifteen-minute walk would not require much adjustment to my usual schedule. I arranged my clean shirt, tie, and suit to speed things up in the morning, read that day’s Washington Post and turned in for the night. 

The congressman was already at his desk when I walked in the next day at 7:20 a.m. I wondered, but did not ask, how long he had been there. The two of us constituted the entire office staff at that hour, although the others would be arriving soon. 

Are you ready to go? the congressman asked. 

Yes sir.

Good. I have a ton of reading and want to read while you drive.

We walked out, locked the door behind us, and took the elevator down to the basement garage. His 1958 Pontiac station wagon, not exactly a limousine or town car, stood waiting for us in one of the closest parking spots to the elevator. This perquisite came with his seniority, along with the spacious office his team occupied on the third floor of the Rayburn House Office Building, just south of the U.S. Capitol. 

I slid behind the wheel and looked at the congressman. 

We need to head west, he said, offering basic instruction. I’ll direct you as we go.

He and I each stood about six-foot-one, though he outweighed me by twenty pounds or so. Nevertheless, the car’s mirrors and seat required no adjustment, and off we went. I don’t recall wondering about our destination. Probably the Pentagon again.

Driving in this role required particular care. Over the past six weeks, I had become familiar with the Pontiac and most of the roads in and around the Capitol, but I dreaded making any mistakes and/or damaging the car. I looked both ways, then back to the right again, before pulling out of the garage onto Independence Avenue, heading west. 

Independence Avenue runs east-west on the south side of the Washington Mall, that broad expanse of land between Capitol Hill and the Lincoln Monument. We passed the Botanic Gardens, crossed 14th Street and skirted the Washington Monument, the tall obelisk pointing skyward. At 17th Street, we turned north, went past Constitution Avenue, Independence’s twin on the north side of the mall, and then turned west on the Ellipse just south of the White House. I knew that one did not reach the Pentagon on this route. I took a right at New York Avenue at the edge of the White House grounds on the western edge of the South Lawn, the scene of the Easter egg hunts each spring. The congressman nodded toward the parking lot at the entrance to the West Wing of the White House, just across from the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. 

Good grief, I thought to myself, he’s going into the West Wing, the working quarters for the president.

I carefully parked, making sure I did not thump into the parking barriers. A tall, black, wrought iron fence separated us from the main building. A guard looked at us and nodded an acknowledgment of the congressman as we parked. I prepared to stay with the car. 

Come on. I want you to go with me, he instructed. 

I stared wide-eyed at the congressman but hurried out of the Pontiac and joined him as we stopped at the guard station. Soon we walked a few steps north into the circular driveway in front of the main entrance to the West Wing. 

A tall, stern looking marine, decked out in his dress uniform (blue tunic with red piping, lighter blue trousers with the bold red stripe down the outside seams, and a formal white cover, or hat, with black visor), stood to our right as we approached the door. His bright shiny brass buttons glistened in the sunlight. I wondered how he withstood the hot, humid summer days in his dress uniform. He opened the door and motioned us into the reception area. Inside, another marine similarly dressed motioned us toward the reception desk. The lady at the desk looked us over and smiled. 

Morning, Mr. Chairman, the president is expecting you, she said cheerfully. 

She said nothing to me, and I remained silent. 

Before we could sit down in the waiting area, another man, not a marine, escorted us to a short hallway just off the lobby. I tried to stand tall and erect with no slouching. The congressman and I both stood taller than our escort and I wanted to appear confident, even as my nerves jangled like tin cans tied to a wire in the wind. I took a deep breath as we took an immediate right into a large conference room. 

A tall, thin man with a receding hairline stood inside the door to the conference room. Dressed in a blue business suit, white shirt, and classic foulard-print tie, he looked trim and fit, but not muscular. His eyes quickly gave the two of us the once- or twice-over. He did not smile, maintaining a stern, serious face. 

Morning, Mr. Chairman, he said, greeting the congressman and nodding toward me. 

Morning, Chief Youngblood, replied the congressman. I hope Mr. Ledbetter can stay with you while I see the President.

The congressman looked my way but made no introduction. I guess he thought it was obvious I was the Mr. Ledbetter he mentioned. I wondered just how he might have introduced me. 

"Driver, chauffeur, summer intern, part of my staff, a 19-year-old country boy from Morton, a tiny, dust-blown oasis on the high plains of Texas?"

Of course, came the reply. We will be in the Roosevelt Room until you finish.

With that brief exchange, we moved into the Roosevelt Room. The congressman walked straight ahead through the door at the end of the room and left us. 

The Roosevelt Room was a long rectangular space about twenty-five feet wide and thirty-five feet long with a door opening into the hallway and directly across from the Oval Office. A large table seating sixteen sat in the middle of the room, although there was additional seating at the sides and ends of the room for staff members. 

The room today occupies the original site of the president’s office dating from 1902 when workers completed the original construction. A few years later the room became part of two waiting rooms when the West Wing expansion created the Oval Office. Now it sits only a few steps from the Oval Office and often serves as a staging area for delegations preparing to meet the president. 

When Franklin Roosevelt expanded the space, he added a skylight to the windowless room. He called it the Fish Room and displayed an aquarium and fishing mementos. President John Kennedy mounted a large sailfish he had caught in Mexico, but staff removed it when Lyndon Johnson became president. Appropriate for the room’s name, the walls were adorned with Theodore Roosevelt’s 1906 Nobel Peace Prize—the first Nobel Prize won by an American—and a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt. 

Another painting hung on the end wall next to the door opening to the Oval Office. It caught my attention. It was the original Frederic Remington 1902 painting, The Cowboy, showing a horse and rider skidding down a rock-strewn, sandy hill, full of action and drama. I walked over and spent several minutes admiring the painting. Remington depicted the rider leaning back, heels dug into his stirrups, right arm flung rearward to adjust his balance, with a surprised look on his face. Three of the horse’s hooves were airborne and dust flew from the ground the hooves had just left. The horse and rider seemed suspended in air, perhaps expecting a fall or at least a tilted slide into the hillside. 

I looked carefully at the author’s signature in the lower right-hand corner. It was an original, not a copy. I later learned that President Johnson had requested it and it was on loan from the Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth, Texas. 

Indicating a pitcher of ice water and glasses in the center of the table, my escort told me I could sit or stand and help myself to a drink if I wanted. I thanked him and continued to stand and look at the room. He stood between me and the door at the end of the room the congressman had passed through, but said no more. The room fascinated me, and I continued to wander around the desk looking at the flags and decorations. The silence continued for several minutes, but I felt no urge to engage my companion in small talk, and he offered no more conversation. 

Wow, how exciting, I thought. I stood in the seat of executive power of our government, the West Wing of the White House, within a few feet of the most powerful man on earth, the President of the United States. Would I see the president? Would the congressman introduce me when he finished the meeting? Would I shake hands with the president?

Before long, the congressman emerged from behind the same door he had disappeared through, but he was alone. No president. 

Thank you, Chief. We will be going now, he said to the man accompanying me. 

Good to see you again, Mr. Chairman, the man responded. 

We walked back the way we had entered, into the hallway and then the reception area. The congressman nodded to the lady behind the desk but said nothing. As we approached the double doors of the entrance, I noticed the marine on the inside push a small button attached to the wall behind him. He made no move to open the door