Man of the century

Today would have been the 100^th birthday of one of the most remarkable people I ever met. Irv Cheney just missed the milestone, dying in October 2024 at the age of 98.

He was already 91 when we met in early 2018. By then, I had been researching the civil rights movement in St. Augustine, Florida, for several years. I had become convinced that what happened in the nation’s oldest city in 1963 and 1964 was a vitally important and shockingly under-told part of American history. No less an authority than Martin Luther King, Jr., had called it “a great moral drama.”

At the heart of that drama was an extraordinary cast of little-known characters—Black and white, young and old, gay and straight—who put their lives on the line for a cause much bigger than themselves.

In that context, I had known about Irv Cheney for quite a while. He was the pastor whose heroic actions on a particularly dark night of the soul in September 1963 set in motion so much of the St. Augustine saga. (Of course, he wouldn’t call them heroic, and he’d probably rail against my characterization.)

What he did that night is not a subject of dispute. After all, he documented that evening in startling detail just hours later, typing out five single-spaced pages under the heading “A Gathering of the Klan.” That account would be quoted in many well-regarded history books. It would be verified by numerous people who were there on that harrowing September evening.

It was so long ago when he typed those pages with his heart hammering. The Beatles hadn’t even arrived in the U.S. President Kennedy was still alive. I was 2 years old.

By the time I plunged into the story, more than a half-century later, we were well into the digital era. Certainly, I thought, there had to be a paper trail—at least an electronic one. But beyond that five-page contemporaneous account, I couldn’t find anything that quoted Irv Cheney. Why had he acted? Was he afraid? What had that episode come to mean in his life?

Surely, that event had to be compelling to journalists at the time. Without doubt, some of the great and dogged historians that later chronicled the civil rights drama—a couple of whom had won the Pulitzer Prize—had tried to contact Cheney.

But there was nothing.

In February 2018, when I was in St. Augustine doing some research, I received an email from the city’s No. 1 historian, David Nolan: a sleuth for the truth if ever there were one. David, who had already emerged as an incredibly generous supporter of my work, told me that he had thought Cheney had died back in 1999, but that he had just uncovered some information that suggested otherwise. In a family genealogy book, he had found potential contact information for a 91-year-old man by that name in Roswell, Georgia, as well as some information about his three daughters, Jeannie, June, and Joy.

Was that possibly true?

I decided to reach out to the eldest daughter, Jeannie. I crafted a detailed message about who I was, why I had become so fascinated with St. Augustine, how much I had come to admire her father. I said that if she were up for it, I would love to talk.

Shortly afterward, when I was back in Massachusetts, Jeannie called. She said she was grateful for my message and that, yes, she would be happy to have a conversation about her dad.

“But,” she added, pausing for just a moment, “would you rather talk to him yourself?”

The next night, February 27, I told my wife that I was going upstairs to make a call. I expected it would take about 20 minutes.

When I emerged, almost an hour and a half later, I was…what’s the best word? Gobsmacked.

So many things stood out:

· The voice. Filled with a lilting energy of a much younger person. A deep southern bass drawl, almost musical.

· The mind. Witty. Expansive. Brilliant in the most unpretentious way.

· The humility. He was far from a perfect man, he said, with no false modesty,

providing vivid examples to support the point. As for his actions at the Klan rally, there was nothing remotely heroic, he insisted. It was just the right thing to do…end of story. And yes, he had been approached numerous times over the years to talk about it publicly, and the answer was always, “No, thank you.” (Turns out, even his three daughters—9-11 at the time of the Klan rally—only learned about his actions years later…and not from him.)

· The memory. Just staggering. He had no idea what I knew that night, but one detail after another after another checked out. (One of his sisters had dubbed him “The Elephant.”)

· The sense of humor. Witty to the nth degree. Mischievous. His cackling laughter, his capacity for delight: it was all at such a high level.

The next night we talked again for well over an hour.

The next night, the same.

A few weeks later, I flew down to Atlanta to visit for a few days. We were so different. Different generations. Different cultures. Different religious backgrounds.

We hit it off famously. We talked at length about history, about race, about religion, about politics, about journalism, about memory, about dogs, about love, about mortality, about our common delight in growing morning glories. (“I’ll show you mine,” he said, cackling with glee already, “if you show me yours.”)

I had caught him at the right time, he said. He liked my approach. He was willing to take a chance if I were willing to listen.

We talked for six and a half years. Through a half-dozen visits to Georgia. Through many lengthy phone calls. Through over 200 emails that he sent me, many of them multiple pages tapped out on his iPad. Through a stroke that almost took his life before a miraculous rebound. Through the death of both of my parents. Through the death of his wife.

He taught me a ton. He moved me to laughter again and again; he moved me to tears more than once. He gave me the original copy of “A Gathering of the Klan.” It is one of my most prized possessions.

I so wanted to return the favor. It was my fervent hope that he would still be around when my book came out.

That didn’t quite happen. But today, on his 100^th birthday, I am releasing the first episode of “THREE BY FIFTEEN: A Civil Rights Podcast.” It’s about Irv. You can hear his extraordinary lilting voice right here: https://creators.spotify.com/pod/profile/three-by-fifteen/

The second episode will drop a month from today, September 15: a day of huge significance in Irv’s life. (And no, it wasn’t the Klan rally.)

Two months from today, October 15, the final episode will drop.

So will the book, Original City, Original Sin: King, the Klan, and the Fight for Civil Rights in St. Augustine, Florida. You can read more about it here: www.civilwriter.com.

I wish you could be here for this, Irv. I miss you. Happy birthday!