Chapter 11
Mrs. Rittenhouse had sent out word about me, the daughter of a convicted pacifist, and no school I applied to would hire me. My father was in a similar situation, though his dead ends had fueled him into action in a way he hadn’t been in years. He called on friends with like-minded ideals, some writers, some bankers, some advertisers, some accountants, and together they ironed out details for a journal that would welcome contributions from writers who wanted to share their opinions without fear of censorship. My father was lit up again with the excitement of the creative process, of drawing up budgets, calling in favors, and banging on unknown doors just as he had when he was fresh from Yale University and beginning his journalism career, just as Max Bell had banged on his door
