The importance of words, making them matter

“I was aware of listening devices … yes, sir.”

Eight words.

That’s all it took to effectively end Richard Nixon’s presidency.

It was mid-July 1973 when an adviser to the president named Alexander Butterfield answered a direct question asked in front of a Senate subcommittee that had been empanelled to dig into what was colloquially known as “Watergate.”

But it didn’t take long for the whole sordid affair, with its dirty tricks and perjury, illegal use of funds and coercion, its outright lies and elaborate cover-up, to explode into an American crisis.

Call it the “Butterfield Bombshell.”

Sure, there were more notable names caught up in the scandal — Haldeman and Erlichman, Liddy and Hunt, Mitchell and Dean — but none of them would have ever been held accountable had not Alexander Butterfield done the most honest, decent thing he could.

He simply told the truth.

Without his eight words, it’s entirely possible the existence of the incriminating tapes — including the “Smoking Gun” — might never have come to light, and without them, Nixon could have stonewalled the entire episode and finished his term unscathed.

In an era of obfuscation and sanctioned deceit, Nixon’s downfall and shame serve as a beacon of inspiration and hope, elevating Butterfield to the ranks of Rosa Parks and that one brave man who stared down the tanks in Tiananmen Square, risking his life for his country on June 4, 1989, a date that altered the history of the world’s largest totalitarian regime for decades yet uncounted.

Let’s leave China for a moment and head over to “Casablanca.”

Cue Humphrey Bogart, please.

“Ilsa,” Bogie says during the film’s climax, “I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”

As with most classic cinema masterpieces, it stays with us forever.

When “Casablanca” was being shot, World War II was raging, making it one of the rare movies that confronted a contemporary cataclysm head-on, not knowing its outcome. Several of the most decorated Vietnam films — “Apocalypse Now,” “The Deer Hunter,” “Platoon” and “Full Metal Jacket” — were all made years after the conflict had ended and the U.S. body count had hit 58,000.

I remember the day I registered for the draft. It was a Saturday morning in 1973, a few months before my high school graduation.

Dad drove me to the neighboring town, where he pulled into the Selective Service’s lot, turned off the engine and looked at me.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” he asked.

“Thanks, but no,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

I have no idea what was going through my father’s mind as he watched me, a newly minted 18-year-old, disappear through that door, walking into the perilous unknown. The draft was still in operation, though the pace of call-ups had slowed dramatically, owing to the way the futile war had been going for many months.

I drew lucky No. 1 in the lottery, but my name was never called.

Dad had served with distinction, volunteering just after Pearl Harbor, though it took him several attempts to enlist in the Army, owing to his slender build and lack of weight, but he found his way into the 101st Airborne, a crack unit nicknamed “The Screaming Eagles,” and parachuted behind enemy lines on D-Plus Two Day.

He returned to civilian life with a Bronze Star and an honorable discharge and began his studies at Indiana University on the GI Bill, later matriculating to Kent State for his master’s degree before earning his doctorate in political science at Ohio State.

Aside from Christmas cards sent our way by his Army buddies, he hardly ever spoke about his wartime experiences, what he went through, how he survived it all. That was his nature, though. He was a modest man with a gift for making others feel important.

I sometimes wonder what Dad thought when, with Mom and my sister and brother sitting at the dinner table, he’d listen as I went on and on about Nixon and the war, the invectives and obscenities I’d fire off, like a child playing with Greenie Stick-Em Caps, a rebel without a clue. He had to have been fuming but said nothing.

He was certainly the “Strong Silent Type,” the Hollywood version of the modern American man, embodied by Gary Cooper and brought to life by Gregory Peck in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Let’s return to classic cinema for one more important lesson.

“First of all, you learn a simple truth,” Atticus Finch tells Scout, “and you’ll get along with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

That was more than eight words, but the impact is worth every one.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, whereeveryone is welcome to learn from this life.