Dick Carlson is a special guest on The Paul Leslie Hour!
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The Paul Leslie Hour has released manifold interviews through the years. We’ve welcomed authors, musicians, actors, presidential candidates, and a myriad of other interesting people. Today we hit a milestone.
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As we’ve built this mountain of stories, our guest today has earned his place at the top of the heap. He’s been an orphan, an adoptee, a journalist, a lobbyist, a diplomat, the director of Voice Of America, a husband, a single father, a grandfather, a family man, a patriot, and a mentor. Our guest bears good fruit with an illustrious life and believes in judging a person based on how far he goes. He’s the father of Buckley and Tucker Carlson. Our 1,000th guest is quite a man.
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The Official Dick Carlson Transcript
Introduction: Moving to Florida
Let me start off by saying that I am no longer in Chevy Chase, Maryland, where I lived for a long time. I moved to Florida around Christmas time and I’m presently in a little house on Gasparilla Island. I’m on the beach, actually. I’m about 75 yards from the beach looking out my front window.
Well, that’s a lovely place to be. I am currently a little farther from the coast, but I’m off the coast of Carolina, and it’s a great honor to have you with us. This is our 1,000th interview, and you’re a man who has worn many hats – journalist, diplomat, lobbyist, magazine writer, correspondent on television and radio.
It’s important to note that you’re a father, a novelist. Now, get this, folks. Some of the titles he’s written, they range from Snatching Hillary To Why Dogs Can Talk on Christmas Eve. This is a man with some stories to tell. It’s a great honor to have you with us.
Well, thank you, Paul. It’s very complimentary. I sound like more of an interesting person than I really am. So that’s always a nice thing, Thanks for having me.
It’s a pleasure. So should I call you Mr. Carlson or Richard Carlson, or how would you like to be addressed?
Call me Dick. It would be just great. Okay.
“I grew up in an entirely different time in America.”
All right. Well, Dick, what has surprised you most about your life?
That’s a good question. I’m not heavily into reflection. I’m sure that I’m a type, and this type doesn’t usually do a lot of introspective looks at himself.
But I’ve thought about it lately. I turned 83 not long ago, on February 10th. So I was born in 1941 and grew up in an entirely different time in America.
America and looking at my life as best I’m capable – the surprises are many. One of the major surprises is that I have lived so long, much longer than I would have anticipated, and I’m pretty happy about that.
And I’ve had a chance to do a lot of things I initially thought would have been interesting to do, and they proved to be so.
You may or may not know this. You probably do know it – I was a merchant seaman for a while. I was an ordinary seaman on a freighter. The Washington Bear was the name of the ship. And it was a great experience.
I was a UPI reporter at the time that I joined the Seamen’s Union. I did it because I could. I just happened to be sitting next to the Seamen’s Union of the Pacific. His name was Morris Weisberger, and he was a longtime left-wing agitator and Seamen’s Union person. And I was sitting in a luncheon next to him, and he and I got into a dispute of sorts. I basically had said to him that I was under the impression that you couldn’t get into his union without paying a bribe.
Becoming a seaman
So that was basically greatly disappointing to me, I said. And I infuriated him. He then called me at UPI a couple of days later and said if I wanted to be an ordinary seaman on a ship, there was one leaving on Friday night from Pier 45 in San Francisco. And that I have a position in the Union as an ordinary seaman, I could go join them if I would like.
He challenged me by saying that. It was on a Wednesday. And I gave notice at UPI; I worked in the San Francisco Bureau then. I had not been there very long.
Then I went and bought some old clothes, and went down and climbed the ladder to the ship.
At about 20 of 12, and it ended up sailing with them, Washington Bear and maybe 20 crew members, Captain Bozeman’s mate. There were six ordinary seamen. I was one of them.
“Ordinaries” is what they refer to them as. And I was a Union member, temporarily at least, thanks to Mr. Weisberger. I didn’t realize when I did this that I would have the animus of the other union members, but I did. I just was too stupid to realize it, so I didn’t worry about it because I didn’t know they hated me as much as they did. They thought I was some smart-alecky college boy who had used political leverage to get into the union.
By the time I realized that I was intensely disliked, they had moved over to my side and were friendly to me. That was after we’d been at sea for a little while.
Sailing between ports “during an interesting time in the world”
We went from San Francisco to L.A. and to the port in Los Angeles and then headed for Asia. So we were at sea for a couple of weeks. By then, I inadvertently moved the crew to my side and mostly by teaching them how to play backgammon. They were big gamblers, and you’d think they would have known how to play backgammon, but they didn’t. I had a backgammon set with me and was the only one on board the ship. And I, one at a time, gave lessons on playing backgammon and using it as a gambling game, which was a very good gambling game.
By the time we arrived in Japan, they couldn’t wait to get off the ship and buy their own backgammon board. I was friendly with them and made the rest of my trip a happy one.
We were over there for six or seven months and sailing between ports, some assigned, some not, and during an interesting time in the world. That was my initial recruitment to merchant seamanism. It was successful, and I was happy doing it.
“I spent the rest of my life telling stories.”
Very interesting. So we can add that to the list of all those titles. So tell us, Dick, with all those different things – writer, merchant, seaman, diplomat – is there a role you felt most suited to?
Well, that’s interesting. In a general sense, I felt qualified to be a storyteller. And I think I was a pretty good one, actually. I did it as a merchant seaman and I did it as a UPI reporter. And I did it later in various journalistic roles, some of which were compelling and some of which were not. But I liked it very much.
And I spent the rest of my life, in effect, telling stories of one kind or another.
I worked at the Voice of America and I became the director of the Voice of America, which was a very influential Cold War organization. I did that for a number of years and I ran Radio Martí into Cuba as well. Well, I ran it in the sense that I had overall responsibility for it and took it seriously and was interested in it.
The same with the Voice of America. I had 4,000 employees, most of them in a building on Independence Avenue in Washington. Then we even spread around the world in various posts of one kind or another.
We had an effect on society in a lot of places in a positive way because we broadcast principally in native languages to people who had no other source of information other than their government, which in this case was the Soviet regime or its allies.
So, consequently, they didn’t get any straight news at all, and the Voice of America supplied it to them in their native language. It was a worthwhile thing to do, and I was a very happy person doing it.
“They adopted me from an orphanage in Boston.”
Well, I’m pleased that’s a label you like because the tagline for our show is “Helping people tell their stories.” But most stories are best from the beginning. So, Dick Carlson, what are your earliest memories?
I turned 83 not too long ago and I’m old enough that I have a lot of reasons to think about my life. And I have done more introspection than I had done previously. It was a good thing.
My earliest memories are being with my parents, the Carlsons, who, in fact, had adopted me. I wasn’t aware of that then.
When I was adopted, I was almost three, about two months short of three. They adopted me from an orphanage in Boston called The Home for Little Wanderers. It’s a great name for an orphanage, I have to say – and it still exists, too, by the way.
My father, Mr. Carlson, was one of three managers of a tannery. It was the largest tannery in the United States then, in Norwood, Massachusetts. The company was called Winslow Bros. & Smith, and it prepared hides as leather products for manufacturers of shoes and handbags and things like that.
I was adopted by him and his wife, Ruth, who was a registered nurse. Middle-class family. They lived in a small town of about 16,000 people then called Norwood, Massachusetts. It’s about a dozen miles south of Boston.
I lived with them, and I went to work with my father every Saturday. The tannery stopped work a long time ago, but the buildings are still there. And I would go and ride around on top of a cart laden with hides, as my father did work in his office.
“He died of a heart attack at age 45.”
He turned my responsibility for me over to one of the workers there, Mr. Fagus, who used to drive me, in effect, in a wagon. And I learned a lot at this time. I was busy every Saturday in the sense of being an observer at the Winslow Bros & Smith’s Tannery.
Unfortunately, that tannery closed, after a lengthy and violent strike, in 1949. I was then eight years old. My father was out of work. The tannery never reopened. And it’s still there today, as a matter of fact. And all the buildings are there.
My father then went off to New Hampshire and ran a small tannery there for some affiliated owners of the Winslow Bros. & Smith Tannery. He stayed there for, I don’t know, six months, something like that. My mother and I would drive up and visit him.
I had no brothers and sisters. I was an only child, albeit an adopted child, who was not aware of that adoption part until some years later. But my father ran his tannery up in New Hampshire on a lake until he didn’t. I think they closed that one, too. He then moved with my mother.
They sold their little house in Norwood, Mass., and they moved to Rhode Island, where he gained employment as a wool broker. That is exactly what it sounds like. Somebody who was selling skins, and some of them with wool on them, some not.
We had a little house in East Providence, Rhode Island. It was commonly known as Riverside, Rhode Island. I was there with him until he died of a heart attack at age 45 in 1954. And my mother, who hadn’t worked in years, had to go back to work and did. We sold our little house and moved into Providence, Rhode Island and worked.
“I already had some trauma in my life, so I could handle it.”
I got various jobs, which were always great for me. The death of my adopted father was somewhat of a trauma, but I already had some trauma in my life, so I could handle it. I did handle it well, and I used it to some extent in the development of my own character and my own interests.
Dick, do you feel a commonality when you’ve met somebody who was adopted?
I actually don’t particularly, but that’s a good question.
I’ve met a lot of people who were adopted, and I paid particular interest, for reasons that are apparent. But I don’t know. I made a film on this subject one time. It was about women who give up their children for adoption.
I did this after I had gone into television work, and I became friendly with Rod McKuen, who was quite famous then as an author and a guy who was seeking information about his own life and his own adoption.
I ended up making a television show with McKuen as the host and called Hello Again about people who gave up their child to adoption and then. The story of the child pursuing more information about them, and then tracking down the parents, as I did. Not a common thing in those days, and there was nobody willing to be very helpful to you on that subject.
If you were the adopted person, people felt a share of sympathy for you, but they weren’t all that keen on giving you any boost in the information gathering at all. But McKuen, who was enormously popular as a book writer and made millions of dollars at it, had only gone to the third grade.
His mother was a part-time prostitute who dragged this fatherless child with her everywhere she went. McKuen ended up writing these books that were very appealing to some people. When I met him he was looking for his father and I offered to help him in return for him playing some role in a documentary I wanted to make – and did make – for NBC a television.
I knew him quite well. He’s been dead for a long time and is not famous any longer, but he was extremely helpful to me in narrating this film that I made called Hello Again. It ran on as a documentary in effect on NBC 50 years ago, I guess it was.
So I ended up talking to a lot of people who had been adopted. People that I normally would have had anything to do with, but I was glad to. And I helped in small ways. I helped many of them, and I’m glad that I did.
Such an interesting connection. We have a good, good friend of ours, Jeff Pike, who is a huge Rod McKuen fan and he exposed a lot of our listeners to some of his recordings. Some people might know of Rod McKuen’s association with the late, great Frank Sinatra, but I’m glad I asked that question.
Well, yeah, that’s fascinating. When you say Sinatra, there was a connection.
My partner in filmmaking then, and in the early news business, was Lance Brisson, who is still alive, and who was the only child of Rosalind Russell, who was quite a famous actress in those days. I knew Mrs. Brisson really well and Lance and I worked together. So I had an opportunity to be involved in a lot of this stuff because of him.
His father was a producer named Freddie Brisson. They were very helpful and kind to me over the years too in getting started in the news business. Lance and I shot television film at night in San Francisco in the early 60s and then sold it, in some cases, under the table. That is because of union regs. We sold it to Roger Grimsby, later well-known in New York as an anchorman, and a big supporter of ours.
“We shot crime stories in San Francisco and the Bay Area.”
For two years, we shot crime stories in San Francisco and the Bay Area and then sold them, which was legal from a union perspective, to Roger Grimsby, on the basis that he didn’t order them. They were made available to him by us, and then he was allowed by union regulation to pay for them, which he did.
We made a few hundred dollars a week for a couple of years doing that, and then we built a beginning in the news business. Ultimately, we went off, Lance and I did, and we made a documentary film on hobos in America. That is, people who use the railroads to travel from one workplace to another. There were thousands of them. It’s amazing. They had then – and I think they have now – a convention every year in Britt, Iowa. where I went with Lance and a bunch of hobos in 1964 or so.
We made this film, and Hello Again, as I told you. It was narrated by Rod McKuen for free.
Normally, he would have charged a large amount of money, but he did it for nothing for us because of our work trying to locate who his father had been.
We did locate him, actually, and discovered things about his mother and things you would probably rather not know. There are a lot of secrets in the world and some of them are floating around and they’re available, but do you really want to know that your mother was a part-time prostitute?
No, you probably don’t, but in this case, we discovered a lot of things that were intellectually useful anyway to people like Rod McKuen.
Lance and I had formed a basic relationship with Roger Grimsby, who was a powerful ABC News executive then, and it was all to the good.
We have a listener question. Thank you so much to Robert McCready for this. Dick, here is Robert’s question for you. What advice do you have for working class people who want to do something significant with their lives?
That’s, well, probably a little heady for me to respond to.
In a good way, whatever pomposities I have, I gave a lot of them up a long time ago. But there are a lot of very worthwhile things that can be done by people who don’t have the right connections in college and didn’t go to the right prep school and all of those kinds of things. I’m one of those people.
My adopted father died when I was 12. I took a job immediately on a truck that went two mornings in the week from our little house in Rhode Island into Providence to pick up vegetables and produce for a supermarket. I went with a truck driver and I pushed them to let me drive the truck. I’m 12 years old, but it’s a big floor shift.
Anyway, I learned how to drive a truck right away from him. Then we’d go in and have a cup of coffee. I had never had coffee in my life. We’d pick up all the vegetables and bring them back down to the store and unload it. Then he and the fellows who drove, his name was Tommy Dolan, was a student at Providence College. He would then drop me off at my house where I lived alone with my mother, and I would change my clothes and head off to catch the 8.30 school bus to school.
All of that was enormously helpful to me. It exposed me to people and events and things that I would never have seen and benefited from playing a role in seeing them.
I felt my life was rich already just by dint of being able to go in at an early time in the morning and deliver these vegetables and then head off to school.
“I drank a lot when I was 15, you know.”
I was a lousy student, too, because I was gone a lot. I skipped school a lot and was kind of a flaky character, I think, in many ways. I drank a lot when I was 15, you know. And I was very active in juvenile delinquency of a sort that seems kind of mild now, frankly, in thinking about it on my part, but nonetheless was real and at the same time maintaining some integrity.
Good social connections, which I did. And I may have been a juvenile delinquent, but I still got invited to good parties.
My closest friend then was a guy named John Drew. John’s father was a society orchestra bandleader named Ed Drew. So Mr. Drew always had John and I invited to various social events by virtue of being related to Mr. Drew.
So I got invited to coming out parties and black-tie events and I made sure the first thing I ever paid money for was a black-tie tuxedo. Then I used that to kind of improve my social scores. By doing that, I sure met a lot of interesting people, particularly women, and I’m grateful for it all .
I read Chadwick Moore’s biography entitled Tucker, and he used a word to describe you. He said that you are egalitarian. What do you think of that description of you?
I don’t even remember reading that he said that, but it’s true, really.
I’ve tried to practice a kind of fair-minded look at other people. All my life. One could say we had little choice, actually. I had no social forebears to rely on. Just traveling with a rolled-up tuxedo in my bag and going to fancy parties and talking to interesting women was part of the deal.
And I liked it a lot, I have to say. It was extremely useful to me, no matter what it was that I was doing. I was a merchant seaman, I told you, a member of the Seamen’s Union of the Pacific, for many years I only went on one long, ordinary seaman trip. It was a great experience for me and I loved it and I loved the union for it, for making it available to me.
I consider myself very fortunate and I would hope that there are others like me who grew up without social connections and grew up in some genuinely unpleasant background, which was mine in many ways.
I’ve seen the original ad in The Boston Globe and it said, a home wanted and profoundly called the Home for Little Wanderers. And that was me, actually. I was a couple months old, and I had been turned over to the Home for Little Wanderers. And I then was marked as an adoptable kid.
I was taken in by a family that had a real effect on me.
I don’t remember them at all, but I met them years later when they tracked me down. The husband was an engineer and the wife was the school teacher. They were wonderful folks and they played a great role in my life by taking me in and treating me kindly.
I have one of my dogs right here. I have a love of dogs that clearly came from the people who adopted me. They had a big dog and I grew to love that dog. And I have a good relationship with animals because of that.
“I was a single father for three or four years.”
You wrote that book, Why Dogs Can Talk on Christmas Eve. I was mourning the loss of a dog, and my dad said something to me. He said that dogs are a gift from God, and that we don’t deserve them. And I was hoping you could tell us, Dick, what is it that you love about dogs?
I guess it’s their wonderful loyalty and their eager, loving attitudes. I have two little dogs named Lucy and Ethel who are sitting right here, one of them. They’re loving towards me. And it’s not you can do no harm love, but close to it. I mean, they’re really very accepting of life as it is. And that’s enormously appealing to a lot of people and to me, for sure.
I have two sons, Tucker and Buckley. I was a single father for three or four years. They love their animals. We had a couple of dogs, and they loved them, and they’re better people for it.
There’s no doubt in my head about that, and I am too.
If I walk up to somebody’s house and I see a dog wagging its tail, I think it says a lot.
It says the dog is happy, and it also says that I’m probably walking up on a good house.
But you mentioned a moment ago you are the father of two, Buckley and Tucker.
What would people be surprised to know about your sons?
Well, I don’t know. They’re very normal. I think their normality is actually a product of real abnormality. There was a period when I raised those boys. They came to live with me when they were about a year and a half apart.
“We had a great life, but they had no mother.”
So they were three and a half and five and at that time I was the anchorman on a CBS station in San Diego. I was the anchorman for a year before I quit and decided I would find something better to do.
They lived with me and we had a great life, but they had no mother. Their mother left and moved to Europe and never came back.
To shorten it all, they never saw her again, and I took over the role of both parents. And it wasn’t all that hard, actually. It was very rewarding for me, wildly rewarding. I’m just really so glad that I did it.
The boys and I lived in a little rented house in La Jolla Shores. It’s a great area for a rental house, but you wouldn’t want to have to buy a house because it was expensive.
Anyway, we lived there while I was on television and then when the year was up, I knew I was going to quit television and do something else and I did. I was well known in San Diego because for that period my picture was on the side of every bus and so on.
“I have a great relationship with Tucker and Buckley.”
But then I quit television and I went into the banking business. I did that because of its stability. I thought that it was something worthwhile for me to be engaged in with the children who then were little guys. And I did that for a number of years, actually. I became the senior executive of a large S&L as a savings and loan. I did that for, I don’t know, eight or ten years, and did it successfully.
I was very happy with my life, actually, and the kids were too. Then I got divorced. I had custody of the boys. And I ended up remarrying to a woman who was my neighbor, Patricia Carlson.
We were married in ‘79, and she became the boys’ mother, in effect, and was a wonderful person.
She died not too long ago. She died right before Christmas this past year. Then I moved from where we were living in Chevy Chase to a little town on Gasparilla Island in Florida, which is where I am right now.
And Patricia, I have her picture sitting on the mantel across from me, but otherwise our time together ended on her death.
But those things happen to every person, right? In my case, I was lucky to live to 83. I consider myself extremely fortunate in being around so long and having two kids.
I have a great relationship with Tucker and Buckley. They’ve been very successful in the things that they do, but mostly successful as parents. They’re really good at their jobs as father and as a husband. I’m happy about that and I think they are too.
Certainly sorry for the loss of your wife, Dick.
Well, thank you for saying that. She was a terrific person. Her name was Patricia Swanson, her maiden name was Swanson. She was a friend to a lot of people and a friend to a lot of animals as well. She was a kind-hearted woman.
So anyway, we respect her around here, don’t we, buddy? I’m talking to one of my dogs here.
“Tucker actually doesn’t care.”
Well, in just the last year, when I think about Tucker Carlson’s broadcasting and interviews, it’s been quite a time. He’s had the opportunity to interview Elon Musk, President Trump. It seems like he’s knocking the ball right out of the park. I’m curious, as a viewer, has there been a favorite broadcast or interview of Tucker’s that you can recall?
Well, that’s interesting. He did a two-hour interview with the leader of the former Soviet Union, Mr. Putin. And he went over and spent time with him and then did what was not a sympathetic interview.
The problem for Tucker and people like me who have a point of view is that they’re often attacked for that point of view.
Tucker: he’s a right winger, he’s a left winger and there’s a lot of that stuff that goes on. Tucker actually doesn’t care. He’s not a person who cares at all about it.
Tucker’s interview with Putin was very successful and illuminating in many ways as well. And he has millions of listeners, apparently, and people who look at his stuff on his network, Tucker Carlson Network.
Anyway, he’s a good guy, too. He’s a good father and an excellent person, as is Buckley.
It’s always good to hear. Dick, has there been a person who has made an especially significant impact or influence in your life that comes to your mind?
Well, yes, there are a couple. One of them was a lawyer named Jake Ehrlich. Jake is from another generation entirely. He’s been dead for many years, but he was an intellectually powerful attorney in San Francisco in the 50s and 60s and became a close friend of mine.
I was thinking of becoming a lawyer then, so I met with Jake in his office.
He was a criminal defense lawyer. lawyer and I met with him every Saturday morning for an hour or two. He’d convey the latest in his life of intrigue. He was enormously helpful to me intellectually and actually was helpful in my not becoming a trial lawyer thinking that I could do more interesting work as a reporter.
And there was another person who influenced me in that regard. It was a woman named Catherine Mackin, who I had a romantic interest in going way back. She was the first woman television correspondent that I ever knew of.
She died many years ago, early, but she was a remarkable person and played a real role in my life, for which I’m grateful now.
How do you define what it is to be an American?
Ah, that’s a good question. Probably one I should have thought about before, but I didn’t.
But I think, you know, I know how I feel about it.
Egalitarianism is a real part of that. It’s a genuine part of that. Look, to be an American. You have to not make bad judgments about other people without knowing a lot about them.
I think that’s something that Americans do, and I like that.
“I had received it from Frank Sinatra.”
Dick, there’s been a song that’s been going around and around in my head the last couple of weeks. And I think it’s a song with a lot of truth. I’m talking about That’s Life, the song Frank Sinatra made famous. I’m curious, Dick, what is the best way to handle hard times, do you think?
I certainly had a little history of relatively hard times. And I met them head on when my adopted father died when I was 12 years old, in 1954. I didn’t think I had any intellectual choices. I immediately got a job and two mornings a week I loaded produce and food on the truck.
I got a lot out of that. I learned a lot out of it. It was an excellent experience for me.
I didn’t know Sinatra well. Well, I have a granddaughter, one of Tucker Carlson’s children, the oldest child. Her name is Lily, and I had a silver cigarette box, sterling, quite big, actually.
And it says on it, engraved on it, it says Frank and Mia, and then a date. It’s for cigarettes. People don’t use cigarette boxes anymore.
But I had received it from Frank Sinatra. I and other people – I wasn’t the only person who received it. I got it because of the minor role that I played in his getting together with Mia Farrow. He married Mia Farrow back in the early 60s.
They were married for a while and I played a role in that inadvertently and because of my friendship with Lance Brisson and with Mr. Brisson’s father. But anyway, I gave that silver cigarette box to my granddaughter.
I’m not sure she recognized the interesting emergency of it at the time.
Nonetheless, she did. So that’s that.
“I feel like I’ve done something with my life.”
Dick, do you have any closing words as we bring the end of this broadcast? You could go absolutely anywhere you like for anyone who’s tuned in with us.
Well, that’s very kind. Paul, thanks for the opportunity.
I’m a very elderly guy who’s not a very good storyteller anymore, but I have to say, my life was so worthwhile for me through my children and my grandchildren. That is the important part and something I was not fully aware of back then but I’m very aware of now. I like that a lot and I feel good about it.
I feel good about my grandchildren and when I leave this orb sometime – I don’t know when, hopefully not tomorrow, but sometime in the next couple of years – I leave behind some interesting and intellectually motivated grandchildren and relatives.
I’m thankful for that, really thankful actually.
I feel like I’ve done something with my life beyond what I would have expected back in the 1940s in the little town that I lived in. It’s been a wonderful time, I must say.
Well, Dick Carlson, thank you so much for sharing these moments with me, with all of us.
Your stories have been very interesting. I’ve found you entertaining and inspiring, and I hope all the folks out there listening would agree with me. I wish you a wonderful evening, and all the best, sir.
Well, thank you, Paul. Thanks for having me on. I’m an old guy living in Florida, but my intellect is still drifting around back east somewhere.
And I’m grateful for the life that I was able to lead.
There were so many people who made it possible. And I’m grateful to them, too. But thanks for the chance to talk to your audience. And I hope you’ll give me that chance again sometime.
Oh, I would love it.
Thanks. Me, too. I’d be delighted as well.
