On a recent Saturday evening, you could have moved among the clusters of guests at a cocktail party in an elegant, high-rise apartment on North Lake Shore Drive and overheard the following conversation:
“You’re much younger than I thought you’d be,” said Meryl Goldfarb, a well-dressed woman.
“I’m 156 years old,” replied a tall man with blond hair and a bushy mustache and goatee, who was wearing a magnificently tailored military uniform with a red silk kerchief around his neck. “I’ll celebrate my 157th birthday in another month.”
“May I ask how old you were when you died?” she inquired.
“I was 36 1/2,” the man said.
“Amazing,” she said.
“Look into my eyes,” said the man. “Look into my soul. Am I not George Armstrong Custer?”
“Yes, I think you probably are,” Goldfarb said. “I really think you probably are.”
Amazing indeed.
This was not the latest in pickup lines or a potential scoop for the Weekly World News.
This was a scene from a new experiment in entertaining at home, perhaps even the beginning of a . . . social trend.
Probably not.
Yet let the record show that at a private soiree thrown for friends by Martin and Iris Gradman, the traditional cocktail party, for at least one brief, diverting moment, received an unusual serving of history to go along with the white wine, beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables and mushroom tarts.
The guests of honor were the famous Army general, who fought for the Union in the Civil War and afterward–as we all know–headed a cavalry unit during the westward expansion, and his wife, Libby, as portrayed by Steve and Sandy Alexander, a married couple from Chelsea, Mich.
In the spirit of the occasion, Martin Gradman, a senior vice president at Northern Trust Bank, wore an enlisted man’s cavalry uniform from the 1870s, and Iris Gradman, who’s active in a number of charities, was attired in a red silk gown and matching wide-brim hat from the same period.
“I feel like Scarlett O’Hara,” Iris said. “I hadn’t intended to dress like this, but when I talked to Gen. Custer on the phone, he said, `I hope you’ll be in costume.’ So I followed orders.”
By inviting the Custers, the Gradmans hoped to showcase a particular era of our country’s heritage and simultaneously pump some life–past life?–into a rather stale format, which asks us to mingle and swap pleasantries for two hours with people we know well, barely or not at all–while on our feet for the entire time.
Speaking of standing until the party’s over, it was inevitable that somebody was going to bring up you-know-what with Yellowhair, which is what the Plains Indians called Custer.
The general (because of a postwar budget cutback, his official rank at the end was actually lieutenant colonel) was gracious when the question about the Battle of the Little Bighorn was raised. He’s used to it.
“It’s understandable that people want to know what happened,” he said. “Probably more than any other person in history, I am criticized for one single day, the last day of my life.
“But look at my military record during the Civil War. I was a general at 23. They called me the boy general. And when I was commander of the 3rd Cavalry Division, we captured more battle flags, more Confederate prisoners, more cannon than any other unit during the war.”
The inquiring guest said he didn’t really know much at all about Custer or, for that matter, about the Civil War or the military campaign in the West, which turned out to be a common reaction among guests.
In fact, if you can cite three facts about Custer other than a few surface details about that bad day in Montana in 1876, you can now quit reading this article. Otherwise, you must continue.
As did Custer/Alexander: “The ramifications go all the way back to Washington. We were given inaccurate information concerning the number of Indians that had left the reservation. The maps provided for the campaign were inaccurate, obsolete, out of date. The Sioux and Cheyennes were armed with Spencer and Winchester repeating rifles while we had single-shot Springfield carbines. . .”
Gossip with Gandhi?
The Gradmans’ effort to elevate the social intercourse at their cocktail party from the predictable and sometimes banal to a more enlightening level seems an insightful concept for we harried, hard-working folks who complain about little free time but profess a thirst for self-improvement.
This way, we could eat, drink, gossip and learn something substantial on the side.
Think of the next-day phone reports: “Guess who I met at the Whitakers last evening? Mohandas K. Gandhi! Fascinating man. Much more complicated than that movie made him.”
You could pick and choose from any age: “He was full of himself, but that’s a Roman emperor for you. However, Wanda and I loved Mrs. Caesar. A wonderful lady. So pure.”
The more obscure the better: “His name was Cotton Mather. Frankly, I wasn’t sure who he was. He’s very smart, but uptight and rather preachy.”
For anyone who contemplates playing the part of a historical figure or engaging the services of someone who does, Steve Alexander’s Custer should set the standard.
Alexander, 38, who works on a survey crew for Consumers Power Co. in southeastern Michigan, is a Custer admirer steeped in Custer lore, having assembled–and read–more than 1,000 books and articles about his hero.
Before giving a 15-minute briefing in the Gradmans’ living room for their 60 guests about Custer’s mission in the West, Alexander talked to a reporter about his double life.
“My great-grandfather homesteaded in Montana at the turn of the century, and I remember when I was 3 years old, getting out an Old West magazine of his and opening it up to a painting of `Custer’s Last Stand.’ That became my favorite book, like other youngsters might read `Three Little Pigs.’ “
In 1986, he and a pal followed the trail that Custer took 110 years earlier from Ft. Lincoln in Bismarck, N.D., to Montana, camping out, eating beef jerky, beans and hardtack, as the soldiers did.
When they reached Hardin, Mont., near the battle site at the Little Bighorn River, they found that the sponsors of the annual June re-enactment were looking for someone to play Custer. Alexander, wearing buckskins and showing off his knowledge of Custer, won the role.
It was at this year’s pageant that Gradman, who served as one of Custer’s troopers, met Alexander and got the idea of bringing him to Chicago.
It’s easy to see why. “I’m 5-11, 145 to 150 pounds, which was Custer’s exact height and weight,” Alexander said. “I even have the same hat size. The only difference is his foot size was 9 1/2B, and mine is 9 1/2D.”
Winning over the audience
But his selection as Custer was based as much on his expertise and devotion. “I’m not a `look-alike,’ ” he declared. “I prefer the term `living historian.’ “
He is Custer at Civil War and Western re-enactments, school programs, TV shows and special occasions, often appearing solely for expenses. “I do this for the love of history and my respect for Custer.”
He insists on maintaining character.
“People will ask, `Why didn’t Custer have Gatling (machine) guns with him?’ And I’ll say, `I didn’t have them because my scout said they would be ineffective. The Indians were not going to stand still while we tried to man-haul our Gatlings into position.’
“And when people ask why Custer split his forces, I’ll answer, `Because I was using a battle plan that I had used effectively in 1868 during the Ouachita campaign.’
“By the third question, people will be asking, `Where are you buried?’ They begin to have a mindset where they think they’re conversing with Gen. Custer.”
That’s the goal. “When people come to a re-enactment or a party like this one to see Custer, they don’t care about Steve Alexander or what he does in his off-time. They care about Custer.”
A few more facts: Custer was born in Ohio, grew up in Michigan. His mother wanted him to be a Methodist minister. He graduated from the U.S. Military Academy in 1861, last academically in the 34-member class.
“There was a method to my madness,” he explained. “Top students were appointed to the Corps of Engineers. The middle rank got the artillery and infantry. Those at the bottom went to the cavalry, and there was a saying: `Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?’ “
Fortunately, no one made an impertinent comment.
Alexander’s wife, Sandy, who wore an exquisite emerald gown, is equally dedicated to her role as Mrs. Custer. When a guest asked if she was enjoying the hors d’oeuvres, she took special note of the roasted vegetables.
“In all the years we’ve been on the frontier, we have yet to see vegetables,” she said.
Really?
“Yes, sir. There’s no way to have a garden. We’ve tried, but the grasshoppers take over, so it’s been quite disappointing. But we had fruit this last month.”
Fruit?
“Somebody brought us a whole quart of strawberries from St. Paul. Fourteen of us shared them, sir. Fourteen!”
“Oh, how terrible!” Iris Gradman said when she heard. “Tell her she must take some food home.”
Those interested in the Alexanders’ services may call 313-433-3489.
