“I need to call Stan,” I told my kids as I dropped them off. It was Sunday, which was always a good day to reach Stan Evans. When he needed me, he usually called on Sunday evenings. And when Stan wanted to talk, he kept calling until he got you. He was conservative all right—so much so that modern technologies like voicemail and (most of all) email were not options.
No, Stan preferred old stuff, especially Cold War documents on yellowed, wrinkled paper, listing names of so-called “progressives” who, Stan slowly confirmed year after year, were often not merry liberals but closet communists doing the dirty work of Moscow. And yet through it all—the documents and double-dealing and deceit—Stan always maintained his renowned humor. “Happiness is finding a declassified list of closet communists,” he once told me with a laugh.
Now, it was February 8 (which I know from my phone log), and I needed to call Stan.