I was shocked recently when I realized that I
have been carrying around a false memory for years.
Psychologists say it is fairly common. Do you remember the Lone
Ranger? The spine-tingling trumpet of Rossini's William Tell
Overture? The baritone voice of Brace Beemer saying "from out of
the past come the thundering hoof beats of the great horse
Silver!. The Lone Ranger Rides again!" The radio version began
in 1933. The first cinematic version was the 15-part 1938
serial. I never missed a single episode. My sweaty little hand
gripping a dime and my bare feet stinging from running over
asphalt and gravel, so as not to be late.
There were five Texas Rangers. They wore
full-face masks (though the lower part was more of a
veil) unlike the silly eyes-only mask of TV's Clayton Moore,
which wouldn't have hidden the identity of anyone. I only
remember two of the actors who played the rangers: George
Montgomery and Bruce Bennett (who also once played Tarzan and
co-starred in several John Wayne movies, a very versatile
actor).
In the movie cliff-hangers when one
ranger was killed his mask was removed and his identity
revealed. In the 15th chapter I remember the Lone Ranger turned
out to be George Montgomery. Only it wasn't. My memory, though
vivid, is wrong. He was Lee Powell, an obscure actor who was
killed in World War Two at the age of 36. The Lone Ranger was
his only significant role. Powell's Tonto looked a bit like the
Indian on the buffalo nickel but he was played by Chief
Thundercloud. Real name Victor Daniels who wasn't an Indian.
Clayton Moore's TV Tonto was Jay
Silverheels, who was actually born on a reservation. My
implanted memory of George Montgomery (nee George Lentz) as the
Lone Ranger is understandable. He was at least one of the
Rangers, had a long and successful movie career, was a talented
furniture designer, architect, sculptor, and long-time husband
of Dinah Shore, before she shacked up with Burt Reynolds.
My memory is still good. I can quote
Shakespeare from memory: "We are such stuff as dreams are made
of and our little lives is rounded with a sleep." "tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time." 'and all our yesterdays
have lighted fools the way to dusty death...out, out brief
candle, life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts
and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more, .it
is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying
nothing." Reminds me of citing before Stella Nelson.
