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A Thrilling Day from Yesteryear

Family pictures show me with my elbows on a high chair tray and my eyes riveted to a TV screen circa 1951-52. Shortly after I climbed down and was able to make sense of choices between the four networks, Westerns became my reason to wait for the big tube to "heat up." Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, and Roy Rogers, all holdovers from the "oaters" that my dad watched in the movie theatre, now had a home on a small, black and white waterless fishbowl in our living room. These ten-gallon hat protagonists were all good guys who elevated red, white and blue values, but another seemed different, aloof from the overt presence more evident in their fictitious environments. He was a loner, a masked rider of the plains who stood for the same things they did but in a covert, mysterious way.

Cue music: Rossini’s "William Tell Overture."

A few years later a grammar school lad and the rest of his elementary chums gathered on the lawn outside the school for the first time in six years. The anticipation ran high, first because of the uniqueness of the event. And once rumor leaked out that we were to see HIM, the greatest hero we had ever known, small fry hearts began to pitter-patter in wild anticipation.

In the 1950s, celebrities adorned the covers of tri-fold dime and quarter savers. The intention was for the kids to fill the little pockets and then turn them in for an immature but, eventually, a genuine $25 U.S. Savings Bond.

I only remember bringing my coins and one day seeing, to me at the time, the greatest symbol of all that was good in America.

It was on that day that the Treasury Department envoy of the year, The Lone Ranger, came to Schumacher Elementary School in Akron, Ohio and stupefied hundreds of eager Cheerios eaters.

Cecil B. DeMille could not have staged a more impressive entrance. Although the Great Horse Silver did not deliver the masked man up the sidewalk that separated both halves of the student body, a long, black limousine brought him literally to our feet. He strode majestically to the podium as the strains of "The William Tell Overture" accented his arrival. I remember our hero apologizing for not bringing Silver or Tonto, but we forgave him. He said that they were back in California working. Besides, most of us had never seen a limo before, so that part of the experience was pretty cool.

Clayton Moore — I don’t know if we were supposed to know his real name or not — told us all that he was in our midst, come down from Olympus no doubt, to encourage us to be good Americans and invest in our country. He could have instructed the group to turn to their sides and eat the grass next to them, and they would have. Just the voice alone, the voice we had heard for years, commanded us to his every whim. And we knew that he would never ask us to do anything that violated the Ranger’s code of decency.

As the minutes wore on, we examined the living hero before us. He wore powder blue — what was that color? He soothed our question about his attire by explaining that light blue filmed as white for the black and white televisions, which most of us had. However, the show was frequently filmed in color, when it became evident that the old Andrea, Fada, or Muntz would be eventually replaced with RCA color sets.

And then the dazzling began. After warning us about the proper use of guns, he pulled out both of those silver plated beauties. We knew that he would not use them unnecessarily, and if so, he would only shoot the gun out of his adversary’s hand. No merciless killing by our Lone Ranger.

Once the weapons were out, The Man spun them and flipped them and caught them like a juggler before replacing them in his holster. Little hands applauded with glee. Then he turned on his heel and returned to the limo. The experience was over, albeit too short. However, it might have been the best fifteen minutes I spent in my youth.

As I look back four decades later and wonder why a guy in a mask so mesmerized an audience, I see more that is lost today than was present then. We were led to the TV screen that offered exactly what our parents and grandparents believed in and fought for: guys in white hats always getting the guys in black hats.

Clayton Moore, John Hart, Earle Graser, Brace Beemer, and others played the mysterious masked man at different times and for different generations. Whether on the radio, on television, or in the movies, each actor continued the tradition of right over might, clean living, and fair play.

I guess I just really miss those thrilling days of yesteryear, when those values pervaded the media.

WXYZ, a real Detroit station, needed a ratings boost in 1932, because it was losing four thousand dollars a week as an independent station. A hero was desired to help the station, and doing so would save the credibility of its owner, George W. Trendle.

On January 30, 1933, in the heart of the Great Depression, The Lone Ranger first rode into the homes of listeners who appreciated his wholesome demeanor. It is completely appropriate that The Lone Ranger actually saved the radio station from sinking, just as he saved the downtrodden from the oppression dished out by the likes of evil Butch Cavendish and his gang.

For the next quarter of a century original weekly or daily shows spoke to the hearts of buckaroos from coast to coast. Reruns and even inferior incarnations of the Ranger continued years later. Only one version of the masked man’s story completely upset the faithful.

In 1981, seemingly intelligent filmmakers attempted to resurrect the Western hero. However, The Legend of the Lone Ranger materialized as a flop at the box office. Moreover, it disappointed many fathers and grandfathers who wanted to take the next generation to witness their childhood hero at work.

What did not work with this version was the "new and improved" Ranger.

For example, in the opening scene a bloody massacre played out before the viewers’ eyes, defaming the normally non-violent portrayals of the past. Secondly, the actor did not sport the deep, somewhat nasal vocal delivery of his predecessors. I even heard that his voice was dubbed, and poorly.

Finally, in one of the worst marketing blunders of filmmaking, the company engaged in a lawsuit to prohibit Clayton Moore from wearing the mask in public. His character was sold to the new film producer and the retired actor’s heart was broken.

The new owners could have made friends and sold more tickets by giving him a supporting role in the film, perhaps as the old timer that he often portrayed on his own series. They thought they knew best.

The man who continued to popularize the masked man in the 1950s and beyond did not shy away from such an injustice, even in real life.

Moore had to sue for the right to appear in public as The Lone Ranger. While the courts sorted out what was to be done, "our Ranger" continued to visit with his admirers but wearing masked shaped sunglasses instead.

It was at this juncture that I met The Lone Ranger when he appeared in Chicago. At age thirty-one, I was still in awe of the masked man.

Eventually, he won the right to wear his mask. And until his dying day in December of 1999, he remained The Lone Ranger. Some called him hokey, and others believed he was too obsessed with refusing to go out in public without his mask. However, those of us who appreciate his work on television and in two feature films, as well as those who preceded him, realize that he did something grossly lacking in the entertainment industry today.

He practiced what his character preached. He knew that a hero visible to youngsters had an obligation to set good standards.

The show usually ended with "Who was that masked man?" Those in the "early Western United States" often did not recognize him, but we always did, and to him we say thank you, kemo sabe.

"Hi, Yo Silver, away!"