In television they’re called “docudramas,” at the movie house they’re “epics,” at the bookshop they’re “historical potboilers.” Who can resist them?
“General Washington, sir, we have been marching for weeks. The men are exhausted. Can’t we establish winter quarters in that town ahead?”
George Washington looks at the town. It is all wrong. He knows it is all wrong because he does not know its name. Its name, in fact, is Parsippany, New Jersey, though Washington does not know that. “Colonel Travers,” he says, “I know not yonder town.”
“It is Parsippany, New Jersey, sir.”
George Washington looks at Colonel Travers with disgust, knowing Travers must be ad-libbing lines, for towns such as Parsippany, New Jersey, are never mentioned in docudramas, epics or potboilers. “Parsippany, New Jersey, Colonel Travers,” he says, “will never become a historic old tourist attraction in the centuries to come.”
Colonel Travers stares at Washington in awe. “Someday, General,” he says, “generations to come will call you the father of our tourist attractions. How far must we search before we rest?”
“We march, Colonel, until we come to a place called—VALLEY FORGE!”
The army of the Israelites is gazing at a distant city. “Hath yonder city a name, O Joshua?”
“That, Sergeant, is a place called—JERICHO!”
Behind his desk in the Oval Office, Franklin Delano Roosevelt glances up from dispatches. “Well, bless my soul,” he says to a man entering, “if it isn’t Harry Hopkins, the most controversial figure in the New Deal!”
“I hear there is bad news, Chief.”
“True, my controversial but close friend. The Japanese have bombed a place.”
“What place, Chief?”
“A place called—PEARL HARBOR!”
Colonel Travers has sought an audience with General Washington. “The men are suffering miserably here at Valley Forge, General.”
“Sit down, Colonel, sit down. Do you ever dream?”
“Yes, General. I dreamed just last night that I was approaching a small town in England with William the Conqueror and I asked, ‘What is the name of that town, William?’ and he replied, ‘If you must know, it’s Wimbledon, but if you had any dramatic sense you wouldn’t ask me the name of any town until you know very well I can reply: “That is a place called—HASTINGS!
“Perhaps you are in the wrong line of work, Travers,” General Washington says. “Perhaps you should have gone into mapmaking instead of docudrama.”
Joshua stands brooding in the ruins of Jericho. “Why dost thou brood, O Joshua, at the moment of the great tumbling down of the walls?” asks a sergeant.
“I fear, Sergeant, that our victory this day does not yet assure a future of peace for—THE TROUBLED MIDDLE EAST.”
Eleanor Roosevelt is helping Franklin pack his suitcase. “So,” she says, “you are going to a place called—YALTA!”
Franklin nods.
“Why?” asks Eleanor.
“To meet a man called—STALIN!”
Joshua wakens by his campfire. “I have just had a dream most passing strange, Sergeant. It was of a man of the distant future wearing a wig who will bring a great nation into existence.”
“I, too, have had this strange dream, O Joshua. Was it of a man called—GEORGE WASHINGTON?”
“It was he,” says Joshua, “and it did seem that all the people rose up and hailed him as the father of our tourist attractions and it was in a far place, a place called—AMERICA!”
“General Washington,” asks Colonel Travers, “what is that town ahead?”
“Scaggsville, Maryland, if you must know, and hereafter I’ll thank you not to ask me that question again until we come to a certain place in southeastern Virginia.”
“Do you mean a place called—”
“That’s my line,” says Washington. “A place called—YORK-TOWN!”
“Do you ever dream of the future, General? Of a strangely dressed man called—ROOSEVELT?”
“My dream, Colonel, is of a great country, a place called—THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA—a place where fourscore and seven years from now we will be called—OUR FOREFATHERS!”
Colonel Travers does not ask, “How can we be our forefathers?” He is afraid of being expelled from the Screen Actors Guild and the Authors League.