The Crusaders

Dr. Francis E. Townsend's 13-year-old vision of pie-in-the-sky was back again, as plain as mother's lemon meringue. Last week, 5,000 "senior citizens" stormed Washington for the first postwar national convention of the Townsend clubs of America. Without glasses, any one of them could see the vision of pensions for all citizens over 60. The trick was to make the 80th Congress see it too.

The Townsendites met in Washington's 5,000-seat Uline Arena. The meeting got off with a whoop when two exuberant ladies saw California's placid, lantern-jawed Dr. Townsend, the 80-year-old founder, entering the jammed hall. They jumped up and began to chant:

Michigan, Michigan, Townsend clubs galore,

Timber, copper, iron ore,

Salt, sugar, fruits to can,

There is no state like Mich-i-gan!"

Their voices were drowned out by cheers. Tiny, 60-year-old Mrs. Ella Flickinger, of East Cleveland, rose, fixed her eye on Dr. Townsend and a stage full of tentatively sympathetic Congressmen, and yelled: "Yeh man!"

"We Can Hear You." The audience got out handkerchiefs when Convention Manager Dr. Norman Pendleton, of San Francisco, told about Christmas Eves without Santa Claus, but it brightened up again when California Delegate Mamie Stark sang:

We've come a long way to Washington, D.C.

And we feel we have the key,

Open the door, Truman,

Open the door and let us in. . . .

"We know you're in there," concluded Mrs. Stark firmly, "because we can hear you playing the piano."

Before the first meeting ended Idaho's tent-show Senator Glen Taylor had yodeled and played his guitar, and Congressman Homer Angell of Oregon had urged the elders "not to despair or grow weary." But Dr. Townsend said not a word. He sat on the platform, twiddling his thumbs.

Next day the delegates, in red, white & blue Townsend hats and Townsend ribbons, scattered to see the city. They called on their Congressmen and visited with one another. Rollie Walters, 97-year-old Civil War veteran, who wore his uniform, bore tomahawk scars, and once worked in a false-tooth factory, hauled out his lower plate to show the folks. "Made these myself," he said.

"The Terrible Tread." Saturday was the big day, the time for Dr. Townsend to point into the future. The delegates assembled again in Uline Arena to listen to him.

People had accused the Townsendites of attacking property rights, banks and big business, said the Doctor. He explained that The Plan only called for a better distribution of the good things of U.S. life. All that was necessary was to levy a 3% tax on the nation's gross income, divide the revenue among old folks, make them spend it within 30 days, and stand aside for prosperity's rush.

"I admit that this is intended to be a rabble-rousing speech," concluded Dr. Townsend, wanly. "Let them brand us as they will, we are marching . . . with the terrible tread of the meek . . . [to] the full dignity of man!"

Over the roar that followed the Doctor's speech sounded Mrs. Flickinger's indomitable cry: "Yeh man!"

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