Tom's Blog on Life

On June 1, 1950, Margaret Chase Smith walked through the United States Capitol carrying a finished speech in her hand. Joseph McCarthy saw her in the hallway and immediately noticed something was different.

“Margaret, you look very serious,” he reportedly told her. “Are you going to make a speech?”

“Yes,” Smith replied. “And you will not like it.”

She was right.

Four months earlier, McCarthy had exploded into national politics by claiming that communists had infiltrated the United States government. He spoke of lists supposedly containing the names of communists working inside the State Department. The number changed repeatedly. At different moments, McCarthy cited different figures, while the sensational accusation itself received enormous attention.

America was already frightened. The Soviet Union had tested an atomic bomb. China had fallen to Mao Zedong’s Communist forces. Alger Hiss had been convicted of perjury after being accused of espionage. Within weeks, the Korean War would begin.

McCarthy understood how powerful that fear could become.

An accusation could destroy a career before the evidence was ever examined. Government employees faced loyalty investigations. People in entertainment and academia could find themselves blacklisted or professionally ruined because of alleged associations. Being accused of communist sympathies could become almost as damaging as proving them.

Margaret Chase Smith watched it happening from an unusual position.

She was a Republican.

She was also a freshman senator from Maine and the only woman serving in the Senate.

Smith had entered Congress years earlier after the death of her husband, Representative Clyde Smith, eventually winning election in her own right. In 1948, she became the first woman elected to both the U.S. House and Senate.

When McCarthy first began making his accusations, Smith did not immediately condemn him. If communists really had infiltrated sensitive government positions, she believed the allegations deserved investigation.

So she asked McCarthy to show her his evidence.

She waited.

Nothing convincing came.

The more she listened, the more disturbed she became—not simply by McCarthy, but by what was happening around him.

Senators complained privately.

They whispered in hallways.

They expressed doubts behind closed doors.

Then they entered the Senate chamber and remained silent.

Smith later described what she saw as a kind of political paralysis. McCarthy had created an environment in which challenging him carried its own danger. Anyone questioning his methods risked becoming another target.

Smith had very little institutional protection herself.

She lacked seniority.

She was a member of McCarthy’s own Republican Party.

And as the Senate’s only woman, she was already operating inside an institution overwhelmingly controlled by men.

Remaining quiet would have been considerably easier.

Instead, Smith began writing.

With help from her staff, she prepared what she called a “Declaration of Conscience.” Before delivering it, she approached other Republican senators. Six eventually joined her: Wayne Morse, George Aiken, Edward Thye, Irving Ives, Charles Tobey and Robert Hendrickson.

Others reportedly sympathized.

They would not sign.

On the morning of June 1, Smith entered the Senate chamber.

McCarthy was there.

Then Margaret Chase Smith stood.

She began without shouting and without mentioning Joseph McCarthy by name. She said she wanted to address what she called a “serious national condition”—an atmosphere of fear and frustration that threatened the country’s political institutions.

Then she turned toward what was happening inside the Senate itself.

The chamber, she argued, had been degraded into a place of “hate and character assassination.”

Everyone knew exactly whom she meant.

Smith argued that Americans were increasingly afraid to exercise some of the freedoms their political system was supposed to protect: the right to criticize, the right to disagree, the right to hold unpopular opinions and the right to challenge political leaders without automatically being accused of disloyalty.

But Smith’s most famous warning was directed at her own party.

She was a Republican criticizing a Republican at a moment when McCarthy’s attacks could potentially benefit Republicans politically.

She refused to accept that bargain.

“I don’t want to see the Republican Party ride to political victory,” she declared, using what became the speech’s most remembered phrase, on the “Four Horsemen of Calumny—Fear, Ignorance, Bigotry and Smear.”

It was an extraordinary thing for a freshman senator to say publicly.

Smith was not claiming that communist espionage was imaginary. In fact, she explicitly acknowledged the legitimate threat posed by communism.

Her argument was different.

A democracy could defend itself without abandoning the principles that made it worth defending.

McCarthy did not disappear because Margaret Chase Smith delivered one speech.

In fact, his influence continued growing afterward.

And Smith paid a political price for challenging him.

McCarthy mocked Smith and the six Republican senators who had joined her, dismissing them as “Snow White and the Six Dwarfs.” Their relationship deteriorated, and Smith found herself pushed aside in parts of Senate life while McCarthy’s national profile continued rising.

For several more years, the very behavior Smith had warned about continued.

Then the political atmosphere began changing.

McCarthy’s accusations became increasingly reckless. His televised confrontation with the Army in 1954 exposed millions of Americans directly to his methods. Republican senators who had once tolerated him became less willing to do so.

On December 2, 1954, the Senate formally condemned McCarthy.

Margaret Chase Smith voted for the resolution.

Four and a half years had passed since she had stood almost alone within her party and warned where the politics of accusation could lead.

McCarthy never regained his former influence.

He died in 1957 at forty-eight.

Smith remained in the Senate for decades.

She became an influential figure on defense and national-security issues and developed a reputation for political independence. In 1964, she entered the Republican presidential race and became the first woman to have her name placed in nomination for president at the convention of a major American political party.

She ultimately served twenty-four years in the Senate.

But one morning in 1950 remained inseparable from her name.

Think about her position when she stood up.

She was not a powerful committee chairman.

She was not protected by decades of seniority.

She was a freshman senator.

The only woman among ninety-six senators.

And she was publicly confronting a man from her own party whom many far more powerful politicians were frightened to challenge.

Her speech did not immediately destroy McCarthy.

That is what makes the moment more interesting.

She spoke before it was politically safe.

Before public opinion had decisively turned.

Before everyone else could look backward and say they had always known what was happening.

In a quiet studio in Ohio, a cartoonist finished inking two friends on a sled and set his pen down for the last time.

Bill Watterson was thirty-seven.

He had a boy named Calvin and a stuffed tiger named Hobbes, and for ten years he had drawn them nearly every day.

The strip began on November 18 that year. It appeared in thirty-five newspapers. A modest start.

It did not stay modest.

Within a decade it ran in more than 2,400 newspapers around the world. Readers cut it out and taped it to refrigerators. Parents read it before their children woke. Whole households argued over who got the comics section first.

Calvin was six. Loud, stubborn, wildly imaginative. Hobbes was patient, dry, and only a tiger when the two of them were alone.

For ten years those two got into everything. A cardboard box became a time machine, then a duplicator, then a transmogrifier. A red wagon became a philosophy seminar hurtling downhill. There was Susie Derkins next door, Miss Wormwood at school, a babysitter named Rosalyn, and snowmen built in poses no parent wanted to explain. All of it out of one man’s head.

Watterson could have drawn them forever.

The offers came, and they were large. Studios wanted animation. Companies wanted the toys — a real Hobbes on every shelf, in every child’s arms. Publishers saw a fortune with no end to it.

He said no to all of it.

Not once. Every time.

He had watched bootleg decals turn Calvin into a crude joke on the back of pickup trucks — versions he never drew and never approved. He had seen what happens when a character becomes a product first and a story second.

He would not sell them.

In a 1990 commencement speech, he explained it plainly: licensing would have made his purpose selling things instead of saying things. He wanted to say things.

Saying yes would have been simple.

Instead he fought. For years he pushed his own syndicate for room — a larger Sunday space he could compose freely, and distance from the commercial machine around every popular strip. He won a Sunday format most cartoonists never got. He also wore himself down doing it, and twice stepped away entirely — a nine-month break, then a seven-month one — just to breathe.

Then, on his own terms, he stopped.

November 9, 1995. He sent newspaper editors a short letter. He would be ending Calvin and Hobbes at the close of the year. Not a recent decision, he wrote, and not an easy one. His interests had shifted. He had done what the small daily panels would let him do.

He gave them about seven weeks’ notice.

The strip itself said no goodbye. No farewell speech inside the panels, no tearful last page. On December 31, 1995, Calvin and Hobbes simply climbed onto their sled at the top of a snow-covered hill, looked out at a world of fresh white, and Calvin said, “It’s a magical world, Hobbes, ol’ buddy… Let’s go exploring!”

Then they were gone.

There was a symmetry to it. In the very first strip, back in 1985, Calvin catches Hobbes in a trap and their friendship begins. In the last, the two of them are loose in open snow, free, heading off together. The story closed the way it opened — on the two of them, alone, about to go somewhere new.

Here is what most people miss: Watterson did not quit because he ran dry, and he did not quit out of anger. He quit to protect the thing while it was still whole. He understood something the rest of the industry did not — that the surest way to keep something alive is to stop it before it starts to fade. Every long-running strip he had watched coast into tired repetition was a warning. He refused to become one.

Think about that number again.

More than 2,400 newspapers. Two thousand four hundred editors who wanted more, and readers behind every one of them. He closed the door on all of them, at the exact moment the door was widest open.

And then he vanished.

He stayed in Ohio, where he had grown up. He gave almost no interviews. He painted for himself and let the work stand alone.

For a while he mailed autographed copies of his books to random readers, hoping to surprise a few of them. He stopped when he learned the signed copies were turning up at auction for high sums. Even his kindness could be resold. So he gave less of himself away, not more.

Because he stepped back, something quiet happened.

Calvin and Hobbes never grew old. It never became a franchise stretched for one more sequel. The strip a child opens today is the same one readers held in 1985 — the same wit, the same snowball fights, the same six-year-old who never had to turn seven.

The books never left print. Tens of millions of copies have sold in the years since — to people who first met the boy and his tiger in a newspaper, and to children who have never held a newspaper at all.

Years later, asked if he regretted stopping at the peak, Watterson said it is always better to leave the party early. He never regretted it.

There is a lesson sitting in that, and it is not a comfortable one.

The world asks for more. More output, more product, more years in the light. It calls stopping a failure.

Watterson called it care. Protecting a thing, he decided, could matter more than growing it. Saying no could be the truest thing you ever did for something you loved.

If you have ever loved something enough to stop before you wore it out — a garden, a business, a role you were good at, a good night you knew to leave early — you already know what Watterson carried up that hill.

The final strip is still in print. The snow on it is still fresh. The sled still waits at the top, and two friends are still about to go over the edge into whatever comes next.

“Definiteness of purpose is the starting point of all achievement.”
W. Clement Stone – Author (1902 – 2002)