Our most famous journalist built a legacy of values.

In recent months the government has been accused of placing propagandists in the chairs of journalists and issuing reports as objective, when they were actually part of partisan politics. Moreover, the parade of programs posing as news, with special angles, promotional self-interests, and downright political stances, makes one question the existence of journalistic objectivity and integrity.

In an effort to make things right, the Federal Communications Commission has recently called on television to clearly disclose the origin of video news releases (VNR) used in their programs. Also, a proposed bill in the U.S. Senate would require that “VNR’s produced, distributed or otherwise paid for by the federal government clearly identify the federal government as the source of such material.”

Many local newscasts run stories astutely packaged by public relations firms or special interests vying to get their products or ideas before the public. The news story on the features of that new auto, the menus of that new fast food chain, the achievements of that new medical center’s experiments, or the virtues of a political stance are not really dug up by news journalists, but by PR practitioners. Now politics have entered this game.

Journalists have always been wary of pre-packaged news stories, traditionally in the form of news releases. Yet tradition seems to be changing. What’s more, the current parade of media pundits and talk show hosts has given the public a negative perspective on the press. Is there a higher journalistic standard than this current cacophony?

It’s an issue that warrants some recollection of the journalistic values forged by Edward R. Murrow ’30.

The McCarthy Issue-1954

It was March 8, 1954, in one of the meeting rooms of CBS. Edward R. Murrow and producer Fred Friendly had been working on a documentary about Joseph McCarthy, the junior U.S. senator from Wisconsin who had taken upon himself the investigation of communists in government. McCarthy had made allegations of treachery and spying, disloyalty and subversion, eventually suggesting that even President Dwight Eisenhower might be soft on communism. Many government workers, mostly innocent bureaucrats, had their careers, if not lives, ruined by McCarthy’s allegations.

Most of the press were shy about countering McCarthy for fear of having their own reputations attacked. But now McCarthy’s demagoguery was to be challenged on network television by Murrow on his program See It Now.

The production team was somber as it considered the impact of the program. Friendly spoke: “We’re going up against McCarthy, and we have to be sure we don’t have an Achilles heel as a way for McCarthy to get back at us. Any weakness in any of us would be used against Ed. If any of you might be that vulnerable part, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Some spoke of friends or ex-spouses who had once associated with communists. But then Murrow concluded, “The terror is right here in this room. We go tomorrow night.”

Reputations were at stake. Being branded a communist sympathizer could be the professional undoing of a journalist. Murrow knew he could lose his reputation as a trusted voice on radio and television.

On one occasion film producer Samuel Goldwyn, Jr. told Murrow that it took courage to stand up to McCarthy. “Let’s face it,” Ed said, “McCarthy can’t hurt me except economically. I was born with an outside toilet, and I can go out the same way.”

Courage and integrity

Not long after the Murrow family moved from Ed’s birthplace of Polecat Creek, North Carolina, to the Skagit Valley of Washington, he was threatened by an older boy who tried to scare him with a BB gun. The seven-year-old Ed, then known as Egbert, taunted his tormentor to “go ahead and shoot.” The boy obliged, hitting him between the eyes, giving him a scar that he carried for life.

When Murrow was 14, he began working summers in the logging camps near his home in Blanchard. His job seemed simple enough, riding a steam-powered donkey engine and blowing its whistle as a signal to the timber workers for the next step in the cutting process. But there were hidden dangers. Logs could break loose from the flat cars, or the brakes would wear out, sending the cars off the tracks on the curves. Yet Murrow seemed to live on the excitement of such dangers.

It was about this time, amid the rough-cut loggers with whom he worked, that he changed his name from Egbert to Ed, a more comfortable fit, he thought, for the kind of person he saw himself to be.

At Edison High School, he was persuaded to join the debate team. Even though he sweated profusely from nervousness, his teacher, Ruth Lawson, taught him how to overcome his fear of public speaking. Soon, he learned to speak with conviction, earning himself “best debater” in a state competition. Yet even after he had reached professional levels in radio and television, he continued to sweat.

At Washington State College, Murrow took a speech course from a teacher who turned out to be an important mentor, Ida Lou Anderson. (See sidebar.) There, he learned not just technique, but also ideas. Anderson’s favorite philosopher/rhetorician was the Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius. It is perhaps from him that Murrow absorbed the ideals embodied in such pronouncements as “You will find rest from vain fancies if you perform every act in life as though it were your last,” or “A wrongdoer is often a man who has left something undone, not always one who has done something.”

Somehow, Ed had learned not to freeze up with fear or become passive, but to find courage within himself. Courage exhibited itself again when he found himself covering World War II in Europe from London. Once, he reported from the rooftops there while bombs were falling nearby, for the first time bringing the sounds of a war to his American listeners.

Later, he persuaded the military to let him describe the war from the air by flying in a bombing run over Berlin. Murrow not only survived the experience, but gave a running account of the flak exploding around him, the searchlights that found his plane, the evasive dives the pilot made to avoid being hit, and the bombs as they were released from the aircraft. Other journalists admitted they would not have undertaken such a foolhardy mission, but Murrow seemed exhilarated by such challenges. That courage would reveal itself again, 10 years later, when he confronted Senator Joseph McCarthy.

Even later in Murrow’s career, he spoke to the Radio-Television News Directors Association. After mentioning that what he was about to say was probably foolhardy, he spoke of how television “insulates us from the realities of the world in which we live.” Although he was known by many to be fearless, he said he was “seized by an abiding fear regarding what these two instruments [radio and TV] are doing to our society, our culture and our heritage.” Then his well-known lines: television “can teach, it can illuminate, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wires and lights in a box.” Some saw this as heresy. Murrow made many colleagues angry, including the executives at CBS. But he felt he owed a duty to his conscience.

Murrow was known for his work ethic as well as his courage. As vice president of CBS News, he never considered himself an executive who let others do the work. He had come from hard-working stock. His father, Roscoe, was a farmer in North Carolina and a railroad worker in Washington. From age four, Ed had learned to draw water from the well, feed the chickens, weed the garden, and slop the pigs. His mama taught, “If you can’t pay for it, you can’t afford it.” When he turned 12, Murrow was hired by neighboring farmers to drive a line horse. A Murrow did not turn down work for pleasure. Ed later recalled, “I can’t remember a time in my life w
hen I didn’t work.”

Perhaps what makes Murrow most memorable was his command of the language and his gift for effective communication. Perhaps these came from his hearing the Bible read aloud to him when he was young. Mama Ethel read with theatrical flair and made the Bible stories come alive. “The world lost a great actress,” said her other son, Dewey, “when my mother didn’t go on stage.” From his mama, Ed learned the old locutions that survived in his family since the Revolution: “ere” for “before,” “commence” for “begin,” “forth and back,” “t’was”-and profound inversions like “this I believe.”

Murrow combined the dramatic flair learned from his mother and Ida Lou Anderson with his courage and diligence as he wrote journalistic history by bringing World War II into the living rooms of America, laying his career on the line to battle a grandstanding demagogue, and then doing his idealistic utmost to maintain integrity in an industry that was largely his creation.

Compensation for a difficult life

Ida Lou Anderson called
Murrow her “masterpiece.”

Edward R. Murrow was looking for a
future when he came to
Washington State College-sophistication, an education, and a way
out of a hardscrabble life. He found it all in Ida Lou Anderson
’24.

That frail, tiny woman, just eight years his senior, was an
admired speech instructor who carried both a cane and a magnificent
voice. Beneath that, she was Murrow’s guide, his critic, his moral
compass.

According to one Murrow biographer, he called her his
“other
woman.” She called him her “masterpiece.”

Together they built a
fine, unusual, and durable relationship
that guided Murrow to success and buoyed Anderson through her
physical tribulations.

Like Murrow, Ida Lou Anderson was born in
the South and then
moved to the Northwest as a child. At the age of eight, on a return
trip to Tennessee, she fell ill with infantile paralysis, a disease
that today is known as polio. Her legs curled up and her spine
developed a pronounced double curvature, badly twisting her torso.
Her family feared for her life.

Her sister, Bessie Rose Plaskett,
described Anderson’s childhood
years as torturous, with casts, braces, crutches, and massage, all
to tempt young Ida Lou’s weakened muscles back to health.

As a
teen, her will sparked into flame. She declared she’d had
enough of doctors and demanded release from an awful regimen of
treatments. Despite years of missed education, she cruised through
Colfax High School in three years and then enrolled at Washington
State College.

While her life in Colfax had been filled with love
and
encouragement, Anderson didn’t find such warmth in Pullman.
Instead, many of her classmates mocked her or avoided her,
frightened by her appearance. A friend, Mrs. Roy La Follette, wrote
her memories of Anderson, recalling the young woman’s heartache and
thoughts of quitting school.

But then speech professor N.E. Reed
spotted talent in the
fragile girl, and cast her in a campus play. In the pleasure of
being on stage Anderson forgot her physical ailments. She could
make her audience forget as well, recalled classmates and students.
Thanks to Reed, Anderson became a regular of the theater, playing
character roles and eventually becoming known throughout campus as
a skilled orator. She won statewide awards for public speaking and
took many more spots in local productions.

After she graduated in
1924, the speech department invited her
to stay on as an instructor. She made a stern and demanding, but
engaging, teacher, rounding out her education by taking time off to
travel the world and to further her studies.

Former student
Randall Johnson ’38 remembers Anderson perched at
the front of class in a chair with a tablet arm. She is reciting
some great passage, maybe her favorite, Marcus Aurelius, he says. A
magnetic voice emanates from her small body. “It was surprisingly
powerful, and so well articulated,” says Johnson. “I can recall
her, where there’s a thousand other people I’ve forgotten.”

She
was tough. “I can still remember how she would take some of
those 250-pound football players and sober them up the first day,”
says Johnson. “We were there to work and to improve ourselves and
to accomplish something and not waste time. For a young college
kid, those were things I needed to hear.”

Just a few years into
teaching, Anderson encountered Murrow, a
freshman who pleaded to be admitted to her upper-level courses. In
him she saw something more than just ambition. “She was content to
cause the student to do just a little better than he thought
himself capable of doing,” Murrow wrote after her death. The man
who seemed never at a loss for words had struggled to write his
favorite teacher’s memorial.

The two had an unusual relationship,
say Murrow’s biographers.
Anderson opened her home to her pupil, giving him private coaching
on the contents and delivery of his speeches. He consulted with her
on nearly all matters: classes, girlfriends, personal philosophy.
He would escort her to campus talks, performances, and even dances,
though neither danced.

Many of Anderson’s students went on to
careers in broadcasting,
but it was of Murrow that she was most proud. After he left
Pullman, she kept close watch on him and his career. Her health
tore her away from her teaching. She was in near-constant pain. She
took to wearing tinted glasses and avoided sunlight. By 1939,
Anderson could no longer stand the rigors of leading classes and
took a leave of absence. She formally resigned a year later,
retreating to live near her sister in Oregon.

From then on,
Anderson spent much of her time lying on a bed in
a darkened room and listening to the radio. On Sundays, she looked
forward to Murrow’s broadcasts from London. “No one was allowed to
speak or even move in Ida Lou’s dark room,” wrote Mrs. La Follette
of those hours.

Her body would tense as if every cell were
listening to the
broadcast, wrote several who saw her. Afterward, she would compose
a letter to Murrow, mostly filled with pride and praise, but with
some critique about delivery or word choice. Though incapacitated,
she continued to teach.

Small pieces of Anderson’s life can still
be found on campus.
The University archives hold a box containing class notes, a few
photographs, and reading lists, as well as memorials from students
and a few of her own letters. In one of those notes, Anderson
summed up her teaching philosophy to WSC president E.O. Holland
shortly before her death in 1940. “If, because of me, some of our
students are able to make a little more of their lives, always
remember that in giving to them, I found my greatest compensation
for a strange and difficult life.”

The few other clues to her
unusual life come in biographies of
Murrow. In one by Joseph E. Persico, Murrow is quoted: “She knows
me better than any person in the world. The part of me that is
decent, that wants to do something, be something, is the part she
created.”

Val Limburg joined the WSU Communication faculty in 1967 and
retired in 2002. He taught thousands of broadcasting students,
using Murrow as the touchstone example for media credibility and
ethics.