Part of the Plot 1963

Is this the autobiography of a participant in the assassination plot of 1963? The life it describes is the strange, rather isolated existence of a person who never "fit-in' at any point of his life. Although he readily and incisively comments on actions and the personalities he observed, he really is not open about himself.

He moves from a privileged, sheltered childhood through a raw adventurous adolescence, always motivated by being able to exercise control over the people and events around him. From the excitement of the oil boom and early Hollywood to the Spanish Civil War he apparently had a finger in many pies of the 20th century. He sees everything from an oblique perspective of his very own. He seems to be consistent when he expresses a huge range of unique opinions and ideas. He makes observations on people's motivations, on how they reconcile their actions with their ethics, on proper areas for government to manage, and on personal and national philosophies.

The life that brings him to, and carries him beyond, an arched window in Dallas is related with a wealth of detail. Everything is here but those little details that would make it really possible to prove any of his statements with documents.

In mid November 1988, the transcriber was asked to visit a valued friend to discuss an urgent matter of deep concern. The matter was satisfactorily settled and my friend's mind was put to rest. In the period of relief that followed my friend said no amount of money could ever repay me for the peace of mind now felt.

To change the subject, we talked of the approaching 25th anniversary of events in Dallas, Texas. Suddenly, stopping in the middle of a sentence, I followed my friend to the cellar workshop. From among the tools and craft materials, a small, slightly rounded suitcase covered in striped, brown glazed paper was pulled from the very back of a shelf under the workbench, and put in my hands.

"It's yours now. Maybe you can do something with it. It might be valuable."

By the handful we took out torn sheets of arithmetic paper with neat small writing, photographs of all sizes (about 120), and old postcards and laid them on the bench. Some of the torn pages had browned around the edges, and were fairly brittle, but the printing was clear and legible. There were two tintypes. Some of the photographs were yellowed, some were trimmed, only a few had writing or identification, and none of the postcards had been mailed. Everything was put into a grocery bag for me to take home, except the battered little suitcase, which I never saw again.

My friend tied my use of the material to the matter we had previously discussed, and I gave my word on this added thing, too.

The obligation has been completed. Since then I have sorted and matched pages, which at last came out even, transcribed them, and finally, discarded them, as I had promised. The photos and post cards are still unsorted. Making an exact transcription was not difficult. The writing was small and legible although some spellings, names and places were unfamiliar or puzzling. The research I did on the Web for some unfamiliar words gave only limited information and wasn't very helpful. Perhaps more knowledgeable people can determine whether this Memoir is true.