Saying farewell to an echo

In the third grade I had a friend with a metal Daniel Boone lunch box. I had a Davy Crockett lunch box.

Our conversations over tuna sandwiches and Ho Ho’s were intense. It was never resolved whether Boone or Crockett was the better shot. In the midst of one such discussion another friend pointed out Boone and Crockett were one and the same — Fess Parker. Last Thursday, Fess Parker died. I found myself feeling somewhat conflicted as I felt a sense of loss, but I cannot clearly state the hollowness was for Parker the actor as much as Crockett and the other heroes he had portrayed. I had encountered this feeling before at a Ron Howard movie.

Howard recently made a film about the Alamo. He had Tommie Lee Jones as “David” (not Davy) Crockett. In the first part of the movie I found myself at first resisting Jones. I started to warm to Jones as Crockett. Then Howard pulled a brilliant stunt and had me when he had Jones standing on the wall of the Alamo at twilight playing a violin in an eerie duet with the band of the Mexican army, apparently playing the Deguello (no quarter). It was a romantic and stirring illustration of American defiance in the face of certain death.

At that point I had slipped away from the role of critical movie viewer and I was wanting to somehow alter the all too certain outcome. Then Howard’s ending jolted me back into a different reality. In Howard’s version, David Crockett survives the battle to be bayoneted on his knees, still defiant, but nevertheless a far cry from the Fess Parker image of going down swinging Old Betsy. It bothered me. What Howard had done was not necessarily without purpose or reason. There is, in fact, ambiguity about how it all ended. However, I found myself siding with Walt Disney and Fess Parker over Ron Howard and Tommie Lee Jones as though someone here had tampered with something sacred.

That I should have passionate feelings at all about the Alamo is a tribute to the magic of this country. The real Davy Crockett died in 1836. I had no ancestors in North America in 1836. Even so, I spent no small portion of my childhood pondering and reading about early American heroes who my ancestors knew nothing about. In fact, in 1836 my ancestors were essentially serfs living in eastern and northern Europe under kings who had little regard for commoners like Boone and Crockett, or my ancestors for that matter.

That perhaps in part explains why I feel strongly about their stories. They lived in and loved a country that provided great opportunity, but at great cost. Technically, an American hero in 1836 should not really be a part of my heritage. Yet I, like millions of similarly situated Americans, embrace them. After spending a lot of time in grade school running through the woods in a coonskin cap and wondering if a 3-year-old really could kill a bear I felt an ownership interest in Crockett and Boone.

In The New York Times obituary for Fess Parker on Friday it was noted, “Years later, Mr. Parker said Vietnam veterans told him that watching his Crockett deal with fear when they were young had influenced their conduct in battle.” The obituary said nothing more on that score, but it didn’t need to. Any number of people have attempted to pick away at Walt Disney’s feel-good history. At one point, Arthur Schlesinger Jr. described the real Crockett as “the picturesque if somewhat phony frontiersman.” I would hope Mr. Schlesinger (who will not be remembered in 175 years) has the opportunity to express those sentiments to Mr. Crockett directly if he went to the same place. No one buys Arthur Schlesinger metal lunch boxes.

The real Daniel Boone and the real Davy Crockett were remarkable men. Walt Disney and Ron Howard have both done a great service to this republic to perpetuate the memories of heroes. Fess Parker may have been just an actor, but he inspired a generation in a positive manner, and for that alone he merits praise. As another actor, who also happened to be a great president, said in his second inaugural address in 1984: “History is a ribbon, always unfurling; history is a journey. And as we continue our journey, we think of those who traveled before us … we hear again the echoes of our past … the men of the Alamo call out encouragement to each other … and the song echoes out forever and fills the unknowing air.”

Rest in peace Fess Parker, you made it echo loud.

Talis Colberg is Mat-Su Borough mayor.