Inaugurals I have known (and been arrested at)

      The first presidential inaugural I ever attended (and covered as a reporter) was Richard M. Nixon’s first, in January 1969. 

      The coldest inaugural I ever covered was Ronald Reagan’s second, in 1985. (The inaugural parade had to be held at an indoor arena near Washington since the wind-chill during that time in January was minus 25!) 

      The most litigious inaugural I ever covered was Nixon’s second, in 1973. (I was arrested and later was branded by the FBI as “potentially dangerous” for simply doing my job covering the parade.) 

      The most embarrassing inaugural I ever covered was Jimmy Carter’s, in January 1977.  (I’ll explain in a minute). 

      Until Donald Trump shat all over it, the peaceful transition of executive power in America, symbolized by the celebratory, even giddy, inauguration of a newly-elected president, was one of the shining jewels of the American experience. God willing, it will become that again, when Trump, set to be inaugurated one more time on Monday, exits the stage for good.

       Done right, an inauguration and its attendant parade, involves representatives from every state and territory—marching bands, guys on horseback, even floats. This is America, right?  

      I’m not that old to have covered it (I was seven), but I do remember seeing photos of a newly sworn-in President Eisenhower in the reviewing stand being lassoed by a famous rodeo cowboy on horseback in 1953 as the crowd roared its approval. (I’m not making this up—you can Google it.)

       Compare this with Trump’s first inaugural in 2017. “Greatest inaugural crowd ever,” he lied, as the photos showed huge seas of lawn in front of him at the Capitol, and rows of near-empty grandstands along the presidential parade route. 

      Inaugural life was less fraught years ago, but always pretty damn cold. Still, Reagan’s second inaugural, in 1985 was special.

Worse even than the pre-inaugural blizzard that severely tested organizers during John F. Kennedy’s 1961 event, Reagan’s weather not only included snow but dangerous cold. Wind chills of minus 25 degrees meant that no one could even stand outside for any length of time, much less march for blocks, play music—or deliver an inaugural address. 

      Though no one made a big deal of it then, Reagan was pushing 74 at the time. Certainly no one wanted a repeat of the debacle of William Henry Harrison in 1841. Wanting to appear vigorous and manly to his supporters, Harrison rode on horseback to his outdoor ceremony coatless in bone-chilling wind and rain and delivered an interminable, two-hour speech.  

      Within a few days he fell ill and died having served only one month in office—the shortest presidency in American history. He was 68. 

      Reagan’s inaugural parade was moved indoors—a first—to the Capital Centre, a sports arena in Landover, Md. I was there, and, aside from being ever-so-grateful to be indoors, I thought it a charming—if miniature—version of inaugurals I had covered. As bands marched around the arena, it reminded me of being a kid at the circus in Madison Square Garden.  

      Less charming was my arrest in 1973 during Richard Nixon’s second inaugural and the FBI’s finding some months later that I was “potentially dangerous” for my association with groups “engaged in activities whose views were inimical to the U. S.” 

      “WTF?!” as we say in the Bronx. 

      Short version: I was arrested by DC cop B.J. Beasley (I assume the B.J. was for Billy Joe, but that’s just me) for disorderly conduct and breaking a police line when he and his colleagues tried to keep me and two other reporters festooned with press credentials from walking in the street keeping up with Nixon’s limousine as it was being pelted with fruit and vegetables during the ride from the Capitol back to the White House and the start of the inaugural parade. (Remember, by that time, lots of people hated Nixon, not just for the Cambodia incursion, but also for the Watergate scandal that by then already was starting to fester.)

       Lots of shouting, waving of credentials in the cops’ faces, and they finally parted to let us through. But not before, in my haste, I brushed perhaps a little too hard by Billy Joe, knocking his hat off. Next I know, I was tackled and heading to jail in a paddy wagon.

      The charges ultimately were dropped, with apology, from the DC Corporation Counsel—I even shook hands with officer Beasley.   

     Just for the hell of it, five years later in ‘78, I filed a Freedom of Information Act request for any files the feds had one me—and that’s when I saw the words “potentially dangerous” contained in the very last box on a cover memo sent by the FBI to the Secret Service, along with my heavily redacted files. Later, I was assured by a Secret Service spokesman that that last box was a catch-all when the FBI came up empty and wanted to cover its ass.

“But there must have been some mention in all that stuff that you were a reporter, right?” the spokesman added. Not that I could see, I said.

       I didn’t hear anything else until three years later, before the 1981 inauguration, Reagan’s first, and a couple of years after I had written about this fiasco for my paper, the New York Daily News: “How I Became a US Threat.” 

       The phone call was from the Secret Service. The very businesslike agent said that they’d “noticed” that I had been arrested during a previous inaugural and “wanted to know if there was going to be any problem this time.”

       “Do you know who I am?” I said (the first time I ever said that to anyone.)  The agent couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.

       So why was I embarrassed by Jimmy Carter’s inauguration in 1977?

       Even back then I had established a pretty good reputation as a colorful writer—in fact, a very good reputation. I thought no one could beat me head-to-head on a story. And in writing about Carter’s inauguration, I pulled out all the stops, writing what we used to call a “rolling thunder” lede paragraph describing all the pageantry and hoopla, and how, as his limousine neared the White House after his swearing-in, Jimmy emerged from the big bulletproof car with wife Rosalynn and strode the last several blocks hand-in-hand, waving to an ecstatic crowd.

       But Jim Naughton of the Times—whom I saw as my main competition and whom I liked and respected—had no use for rolling thunder that day.

       “The President walked home,” was his lede.

       He beat me fair and square.