* In all things we can pray for and thank God for our children (I Thes. 5:16-18, James 5:16)
Chapter Three
I Search for Happiness In the Poverty P’s
The silence was electric as the audience anticipated who the next Man and Woman-of-the-Year would be. I looked around at the elegant ballroom. Everyone who was "anyone" in town was there. The soft light from the chandeliers flickered on the diamonds, satins, and furs adorning the women in the room. I wondered how many others had spent the entire afternoon in the beauty shop having hair and nails and facials done. I was glad I'd lost that other five pounds because it made my figure-hugging formal look better. I loved this evening blue satin blouse and the long-vested skirt. "There's not another one in the room like it," I thought. "Goes with my red hair." My thoughts were interrupted by the emcee--Cliff Jeffords.
“We've announced the Man-of-the-Year. Now it's time for the opening of the envelope for the woman -- the JAYCEE Woman-of-the-Year -- Bonnie Libhart!" That was ME - I had won! I jumped up and started across the plush carpet to the candle and flower-decked head table. Everyone was clapping--but why didn't I feel excited? I'd somewhat expected the award because of hints that had been given. And then they had invited us to the Jaycee banquet, so I really wasn't surprised. I looked around at my husband. Even though I felt no elation, I thought surely HE would!
Even though I saw Tony's frozen smile at the time, it was years later before I looked back at the picture in the paper and saw the loneliness in it.
That night I hung the dress in the closet and thought, "That's it -- it's over! Next year someone else will be Woman-of-the-Year!" Oh, what a feeling of depression! I couldn't believe this melancholy feeling was my reward for all of the work I put into getting this "honor."
This was the year so many good and bad things had happened. I had become deeply preoccupied with my television show. I had reasoned flimsily that if I couldn't find happiness in my children or my husband, surely happiness could come with power, position, and prestige. I had done what Tony wanted me to do and worked only half a day now. And I didn't care which twelve hours it was!
I had sought power through my work with civic clubs, organizations, and "causes" such as the Cerebral Palsy Telethon on which I worked for several years. I was even president of the local PTA. And now I was Jaycee Woman-of-the-Year. Part of what led to these honors and activities was my position as hostess of a popular TV talk show featuring guests, fashion shows, and speeches.
My television show had begun after I'd been on radio many years. A daily morning variety show, it was the only one of its kind in the immediate viewing area. It turned out to be another dead-end avenue where I frantically sought power, position, and prestige.
This was the year I went to Europe and was on television there. A trip to the American Women in Radio and Television Convention in Washington D.C., had provided the opportunity for me to interview Senator William Fulbright, Congressman Wilbur Mills, Congressman David Pryer (who was later to become governor of Arkansas), and Mrs. Pat Nixon, First Lady at that time. I attended the opening of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. In my home county, I was elected Justice of the Peace in order for me to be on the Quorem Court. And, to reassure myself I was not neglecting our children, both Tony and I served as PTA president for the junior high school our girls attended.
I sought glory and power in any manner possible. However, on one occasion my search ended in near-tragedy, and for a short time Tony and I became closer than we'd ever been.
The news event that triggered all this was the 62nd running of the Indy 500 in 1971. Tony, also a photographer, and I were among the United Press International, Associated Press, and TV reporters and photographers from all over the world who were covering the Indy 500 from a specially constructed stand in the pit area.
Even as a youngster Tony had dreamed of going to the 500. As for my motive, it was strictly egotistical. Women had never been allowed in the pit or garage area to cover the race. So I was elated when I had received my pass after months of waiting. I thought this would really give me a measure of prestige.
What had promised to be a dream come true for both of us ended in a nightmare.
As the red Dodge pace car pulled from the track, it went out of control on the pit apron, careening in front of the grandstand, skidding through the pit area, crashing through a safety fence. It crossed a grassy area and slammed into the stands. Most of us, many with foot-long telescopic lens cameras, tape recorders, and binoculars, were dumped on top of the car.
I saw it coming--I knew it would hit. But I didn't know where to jump. There was no place to go. No escape. I remember seeing the splintered handrail of the temporary stand cascade onto the backs of John Clenn, Chris Shinkle, and speedway owner Tony Hulman. "Oh, those poor guys," I thought. "They'll really be hurt." But almost immediately, I panicked, "Is this the way I'll die?"
I remember landing on the hood of the car and either sliding or falling off, I don't remember which. A film-clip I saw later showed I turned a flip in the air. Tony hit the windshield with his head and cheek. When I got up, he was lying on the car hood, steam rising from its edges. I was afraid the car would explode. Some men pulled him to the ground.
Amidst the screaming, ambulance sirens and cries for help, and the "whop-whop" of the helicopters, I calmly gathered the broken binoculars, tote bag, camera, and tape recorder as if I were picking up after spilling my purse.
The four men who had been in the pace car were evacuated to the Methodist hospital in town, but no one seemed concerned