WAS IT THAT LONG AGO?

George Wallace as governor tried 50 years ago June 11 to block the doors of the University of Alabama to two black students. Because of National Guard troops, they were admitted to classes. That night, President John Kennedy hailed what had happened, and the drive for civil rights for African Americans was well underway.

Less than a year later, I was sent by the Milwaukee Journal to write about Wallace and his candidacy for president.

Editors of the newspaper in Huntsville, where I started my trek to Montgomery, warned that I should be aware that state police know I was in the state and driving a rental car. That seemed a little far-fetched, but later on . . .

Not all my memories are sharp, and I don’t have my stories written then at hand now. But some are quite clear, one being my interview with former governor “Big Jim” Folsom. (In his Christmas message of 1949, Gov. Folsom said, “As long as the Negroes are held down by deprivation and lack of opportunity, the other poor people will be held down also alongside them.”) Big Jim, whose son also became Alabama governor, wouldn’t permit me to take notes of our interview. But when I got to the car afterward, I immediately began writing what I could recall. One quote was actually verbatim: “George (Wallace) won’t go to funerals, ‘cause he can’t be the corpse.” His drawl was filled with sardonic disapproval of his fellow Democrat. My editor cut that quote.

There were a few other stops to pick up background. One was an evening at the Hartselle home of novelist and freelance journalist William Bradford Huie, who covered the civil rights in the south.

Upon arriving in the capitol in Montgomery, I found the governor’s office locked. A state trooper opened the door, and greeted me by name. That triggered the warning given in Huntsville. I don’t remember having made an appointment.

Ushered into the governor’s spacious office, I was directed to a long bench along a paneled wall. From there I watched Wallace as he signed what seemed to be state contracts handed him by an attractive aide.

“Do we know this guy?” Wallace asked repeatedly before signing. Graft? Who knows? There was no way of getting a source.

Leaving Montgomery I drove to the capitol, stopping at the curb long enough to try to catch a glance of the Confederate battle flag, said to fly below the Stars and Stripes. But, to my everlasting regret, I couldn’t see it and I was late for my flight to Atlanta.

Starting my series as I sat in a fortuitous but un-bought first-class seat, I wanted to write about that banner high above the statehouse. Instead, the piece began something like: George Wallace, wrapping himself in the Confederate flag, has begun a quest for the White House.

Much to my chagrin, Wallace kept bringing up my name in speeches as he campaigned in Wisconsin’s presidential primary that spring. He thought I had treated him fairly in my three-part series.