Unhorsed and Unmasked
The children love it. They don't know that the Ranger himself isn't writing to them. But the Ranger knows. Even that is denied him. The injunction of secrecy extends even that far. With the exception of a pantomimist who plays in silhouette behind a screen, the man who plays the Ranger has been reduced to the minimum of entertainment--pure voice, a voice that differs from all other radio voices in that it does not take on substance when the program is over. He is a walking shadow, a zombie.
It is time now that the disembodiment be revealed, that the voice became a man again. His name is Earle W. Graser (pronounced Grah-zer), and ------- the rest of this passage should be placarded FOR ADULTS ONLY! Here are the sad facts; glance at them and forget them.
Graser is Canadian-born, thirty years old and married. ("Save your thanks, Miss! I must be off. Come, Tonto!")
He, too, has never been west of Michigan. ("Here in the Rockies a man can breathe!")
Far from capturing and christening a fiery stallion, he got his own name from a horse--a horse that pulled a grocery wagon. Earle had always wanted a nickname, but never had one. The horse's name was Barney, so Earle suggested that his father call him Barney, too. It stuck. But he doesn't ride and he has shot a pistol only once in his life. ("Ah, you would, would you?" --Bang! bang!-- "Away, Silver!")
His eyes are mild, not piercing; his face is chubby, not lean; moreover,
He's of stature somewhat low--
Your hero always should be tall, you know.
("Don't look at me like that, Ranger! Ouch, my wrist! I--I'll confess, I did it!")
Swimming and badminton are his sports, gardening his recreation. He has two ambitions: to play Hamlet and to own a farm in Connecticut. Half ashamed, he adds, "That's an awful thing to say, isn't it? I ought to want to live in Wyoming."
It is an awful thing, unless you realize for every hour Graser spends as the Lone Ranger, he spends thirty-six as a perfectly normal, pleasant, intelligent American citizen. His family moved from Kitchener, Ontario, to Detroit and his father became naturalized. Earle went to high school in Detroit, then to Wayne University, where he took an A.B. in oratory, drama, and interpretive reading. At present he has ten hours' credit on an M.A. in speech, and, to boot, has studied law for two years--not expecting to practice, just for his own satisfaction.
During high school he worked in drugstores and groceries until he discovered he had a natural bass voice. Singing solos with a local pit orchestra paid for his lessons, but ruined his voice. He strained his upper register and had to give up singing entirely.
His first professional appearance was in the summer of 1928. At eighteen dollars a week, he got a job ushering at the Michigan Theater, doubling as the announcer of the next organ selection, and tripling as an Alpine shepherd boy in the stage show that went with--of all things--the William Tell overture, the Ranger's theme music.
"it was quite an act," he says, "I had to poke six dirty sheep along a ramp in a 'thunderstorm.' The storm was a chromium lightning bolt sliding down a guy wire, and two stagehands firing shotguns into a barrel."
Looking back on his past, this is the episode he regrets most. He is afraid that the first Western cattleman who learns he once herded sheep wil oil up his guns and head for Detroit.
In the summer of 1931, he joined a tent show and played two-night stands through Michigan. The Haunted House one night, Your Uncle Dudley the next. A year later he became a bit player in WXYZ's stock company. It was April 16, 1933, that his buoyant tones first rode the airwaves.
There have been 3000-odd Ranger performances since that day, and Graser hasn't missed a single one. His two understudies are beginning to believe it would take one of his own silver bullets to lay him low. He doesn't see the script until five hours before he goes on, but he learns his lines so easily that one rehearsal is usually enough. His only stumbling block is the word "probably"; for some reason, he can never give it a full quality; Striker finally had to blacklist it.
It is a credit to Graser's expertness that this is the only quirk, the only titbit, that his associates have garnered about him. He himself can add two more. The day after he had made a particularly impassioned plea to the Lone Ranger Safety Club, he was arrested for driving down Grand River Avenue at thirty-eight miles an hour. And once he and his wife were listening to Horace Heidt's orchestra at a night club when Heidt offered a prize for the person who could shout "Hi-Yo, Silver!" most nearly like the Ranger. Graser tried out, but didn't even get honorable mention.
One of these days, to be sure, the Ranger will have to Lope into the Sunset, Cross the Great Divide and Ride the Big Range. When that happens, Graser would like to stay on in radio, but he thinks he would like to teach elocution and drama at a small Eastern college, such as Bennington. Failing that, he'd like to back on the stage--not in a love-interest role, but one like Grandpa's, in You Can't Take it With You.
Today his $150 a week lets him and his wife live comfortably in a Detroit suburb. The features of their bungalow are a cocker spaniel named Schlecker, and half a dozen miniature white horses which fans have sent him. These horses, with some cakes and cookies and maple sugar, are the only presents he has ever received.
Few of his neighbors know his occupation. He is aware that they consider him somewhat stand-offish, but policy forbids his exposing himself to discovery. His friends are mostly the studio crowd. John Todd, a veteran character actor who plays Tonto, is a special friend. After the last performance, Tonto and the Ranger frequently ride home together--drive home together--for a cigar and a nip and a hand of cards. Todd is the only person associated with the program who knows the West at first hand. He went through once with a Klaw & Erlanger road show.
This article originally appeared in The Saturday Evening Post on October 14, 1939.
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