A LIFE FULL OF DAYS
A MEMOIR
by
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The somewhat cluttered one room apartment was only about nine by fifteen, with a small entrance hall, a bathroom, a Pullman kitchen with a counter, and a sizable fenced-in garden, shared by a similar apartment next door. There were two single beds, head to head along one wall, that served as a couch. A bureau, a leather sling chair, and a long, narrow coffee table completed the furnishings. On one wall was a large oil painting named "Boys In Boxes," and over the beds were hanging two small Sargent etchings, in oversized black frames. I had never seen pictures framed like this, and I assumed that in New York City artistic circles this was the unusual and dramatic way they did things. In fact, I had never seen a leather sling chair before, or a Pullman kitchen for that matter. The clutter was kind of interesting clutter, with decorative boxes, peculiar shaped ashtrays, and many throw pillows of all sizes and shapes. And there were lots of books, piled here and there, with a few plants occupying what little space remained. And there was a dog named Tiffy. This was to be my home for the next year and a half. It was Arnie Walton's first floor apartment, a block from the East River and around the corner from the United Nations, in a four story building next to a Catholic church and across the street from a school playground. This particular block of East 47th Street was practically a boulevard, with a row of trees dividing the lanes. It was soon to be named United Nations Plaza, as it should have been years before. For some reason, this small, four story apartment building had a bright red front door, and sat kind of snuggled between much larger structures, almost gasping for air as it sheltered an assortment of New York City theatrical types, like Arnie, who were very contented with the low rents, in a high rent neighborhood. I hated the apartment, and I hated Arnie. I hated Amy, and I hated myself. I hated the world, and wanted to die. And I cried and cried every time I thought of Tony and Harry. Did I deserve to be deserted by my wife and children? The answer was yes. Had the time come for me to just plain make up my mind which path I was to follow? Amy had made up my mind for me, and rightly so, when she ordered me out of our house in Lawrenceville. Was it time to stop kidding myself and recognize that I was a homosexual? The answer was definitely yes. And so, towards the end of September in 1958, ten years after my marriage to Amy, I was about to be single again, and very unhappy about it, even though the answers to all my questions were yes. I never wanted to see Amy, or my children, or my family and friends ever again. I wanted to disappear, and start all over. Except for my burgeoning career at CBS. Thank God there was that one bit of continuity left in my life. But when I was listening to Tommy Edwards sing his number one hit song, "the future's looking dim, but it's all in the game," I was resting my head on the shoulder of someone who wanted and needed me, excess baggage and all. Arnie assured me there was a bright future and, as far as he could see, the game was going to be an exciting one for both of us together. And he would be patient while I slowly got rid of all my hostility, even when it was directed at him. I knew, somehow, that this was where I wanted to be. I had found the right place. So I put away my things, washed my face, and began to settle into a new relationship of enduring strength, one that has transcended all the idle gossip and raised eyebrows from my old friends on the Philadelphia Main Line and the masses of people who find an alternative lifestyle unacceptable. What a forty years it has been--and still counting! How many plain old married couples can say that they've been together that long? Too few, I'm sorry to say, and those who have didn't have to live with society's albatross hanging around their neck, trying to wrench them apart. It was a lot easier for them. I should know. I've experienced both.
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About the Book
These were the most exciting times in television history. This personal narrative - fascinating, difficult, ironic and funny - tells of an ordinary life filled with extraordinary moments. Emmy Award-winning CBS News producer Chalmers (Chum) Dale, examined and documented the human condition in over 300 shows. His work took him around the world, introducing him to many of the most distinguished citizens and celebrities of our time, from Martin Luther King Jr. to Bob Hope.
This compelling memoir, written in an approachable, conversational style, also tells of Chum's lonely struggle in leading a double life: A search for a true sexual identity during adolescence, WW2 military service, a short teaching career, and a ten year marriage with two children. His existence begins to make sense when he meets his significant other of forty-two years and starts piecing his life together. Through these enduring experiences, Chum's story also explores the compassion and understanding he brought to his assignments at CBS - shows that "made a difference" for millions of viewers.
"LIFE CAN ONLY BE UNDERSTOOD
BACKWARDS:
BUT IT MUST BE LIVED
FORWARDS"
Soren Kierkegaard
About the Author
Born in 1925, Chalmers Dale grew up in Haverford, Pennsylvania. After serving in the US Navy for two years in the Pacific Theater during World War II, he taught and coached athletics at The Montgomery Country Day School in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania from 1946 to 1950, attending the University of Pennsylvania at night. From 1951 to 1991, he was employed at CBS Television in New York City, starting in the shipping room, and becoming, ten years later, a producer/director/writer of Cultural and Religious programs in the News Division. He produced more than 300 drama, art and music, and documentary programs, world wide, exploring the state of the human condition and the role of religion in people's lives. He has received two Emmy Awards and numerous citations. He retired in 1991 and devotes much of his time to environmental concerns, particularly involving the Hudson River, on whose shores he resides.