He was the kindest man I’ve known: scholar, gentleman, Lutheran, dad, husband, boss, Chief Historian of the National Park Service (NPS). Although he had too little confidence in himself, his political instincts were spot on. If his heart lay in research and writing, he was still the perfect, practical guy to represent the business of history for the National Park Service. Blessed with much common sense, perspective, an understanding of historical context and the agency. But full of contradictions. A nervous nelly. Flustered by higher-ups. Modest, self-effacing—self-deprecating, in fact. And yet he knew his mind. And could speak it. Well-dressed but not natty. Forever on the edge of chauvinism, though never into misogyny. And aware of his foibles in the arena of feminism. According to Harry, Mrs. Pfanz, Letitia, reminded him often.
In fact, I better stop right here and tell you about the Monday when Harry came into work and admitted to being flummoxed. (Remember, we’re talking mid-70s here.) His church had just “invited” women to be ushers. All well and good, Harry said, except that they disrupted the symmetry and order that occurred when two males ushers walked up the aisle side by side to return the collection plates to the altar. What once had seemed orchestrated and smooth now involved one smaller party bobbing along on high heels next to a taller, smooth-gaited man. He knew that we would give him grief for weeks to come. If nothing else, I admired his willingness to share the perspectives that he knew he had to relinquish.
I met Dr. Harry Pfanz while I was still at Gettysburg. A Civil War historian, he came to help narrate a film that some office in NPS was crafting – maybe a training film about one of the battlefield farm houses. We talked during the down time that such filming often involves. Once back to his office, he called and encouraged me to apply for a vacant position in his Washington D. C. NPS central office. I moved into a lovely little Arlington, Virginia, apartment just as Richard Nixon was moving out of the White House—August 1974.
I was one of two staff historians, Barry Mackintosh being the other. We were lodged on the first floor of the ponderous Interior Building. Part of a grouping that included historians, archaeologists, and architectural historians. We were the conscience of NPS in the care of its historic and prehistoric resources.
We read truckloads of planning documents and environmental impact statements and prepared comments on the adequacy of their intentions regarding cultural resources. We crafted briefing documents about places being proposed as new cultural parks. We wrote Congressional testimony and public speeches for NPS big wigs. Our office taught brand-new rangers the whys and wherefores of historic preservation laws. Which entailed trips to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, and the Grand Canyon training centers. We rode in on our white horses to parks in conflict with the public or among staff on how historic resources should be treated.
In fact, the position came with astonishing opportunities. I took two familiarization trips (maybe read “junkets”) by myself. One from D.C. through a host of parks on the Eastern Seaboard, finishing up in St. Augustine, Florida. That jaunt included not just a host of Civil War and southern historical sites, but a night in a Holiday Inn honeymoon suite – the last room I could find in Savannah. My second educational venture began after I taught a class at the Grand Canyon and then visited all the NPS Southwest mission sites south to the Mexican border, cross country to Fort Bowie (an Indian Wars/Apache site in Arizona’s Chiricahua Mountains ), on across New Mexico to Fort Davis in Texas, and concluding at LBJ’s ranch. Hmmm. As I write this, I’m wondering why I ever left the job.
Single purpose trips included an outing to see Carl Sandburg’s home just as it came into the Park Service. Yosemite Valley during a fight over the significance of historic tent camps. The Adams home in Boston. NPS was also long on conferences and confabs and when those involved historic resources one or more of us flew in.
But back to Harry and the office. It dazzled with wonderful fellow feeling. We played pranks regularly on each other. Harry’s arch rival in the Civil War history business was a fellow named Ed Bearss. Ed lived in the far reaches of DC suburbs so would bring his suitcase in to the office on days he was flying out. With Harry’s cautious approval, Barry and I once “salted” his suitcase with female lingerie and perfume. Harry was known to nod off during warm afternoons. Barry and I chose such a moment to “borrow” Harry’s suit jacket and stitch the sleeves shut. And then arranged for the secretary to the deputy director for cultural programs to call Harry up just at the end of the day. Harry was left trying to jab his arms into the suit jacket required for any third floor appearance. A Scot by temperament and heritage, Barry ate exactly the same sandwich every day. Really, every day. And, to my current chagrin, I once substituted fake cheese for the real slice. Barry didn’t notice right away.
Fridays then. We answered a lot of odd incoming mail from citizens all across the country who wished and hoped for new parks, who took issue with interpretive information, who were sure that an overlooked relative had been a central figure at a historic site. We answered quickly and kindly. But—we saved some of those incoming letters in a special file for Friday afternoons. Not every Friday, but periodically, Harry would unearth the more improbable requests and encourage us to write the answers we really wanted to give.
As best I remember, there was the fellow somewhere in Florida who had built a kind-of- sort-of colonial-era fort from scratch, he told us, and thought it would be the perfect addition to NPS. No, it wasn’t on the site of an earlier fort. No, he really hadn’t researched the design. But he knew. Couldn’t we see it? Our official letter, of course, cited the criteria for historic parks and monuments. Their authenticity. Their provable historic presence. Their role in pivotal moments in the history of the Nation. Jargon, of course, to someone who lived in his own version of history.
On Fridays, with such a letter in hand, we let loose. “You, daft sir, have a make-believe resource. The National Park Service is never going to touch it with a ten foot pole. Write your Congressman as many times as you want; the answer will be the same. Even your Congressman knows better. You could, of course, approach Walt Disney.” You get the idea.
Or, more hauntingly, we carried on an extended real correspondence with a gentleman who wanted us to designate a park that would commemorate all the children lost in school bus accidents. He had a site in mind. The issue was personal for him. Our real letters had to address the fact that the Park Service rarely created such memorials. And even when such existed, the site needed to be of national significance. And how do you tell a grieving parent that?
Our Friday version was far less tongue-in-cheek than the one we crafted for a make-believe fort. There are only so many ways to say that we were sorry. But we did address the difficulties that would follow if a park were to be created. What kind of orientation film would someone craft: scenes of crashes occurring; pictures of children in body bags; stories of bus drivers with drinking habits?
Just before the end of the day, we would read each other our alternate answers. The weekend would be upon us as the Interior Building emptied. And our colleagues headed to buses and ride shares. In fact, Harry was always in a lather about meeting his carpool compatriots on time. The rules of the road meant that if he was late, they would go on without him.
I meant what I said mid-essay. Why did I leave that job! ©
