Since this issue is Buckley-centric, it’s time to tell the tale of the time he scratched me and drew blood. Metaphorically, you say, right? Yes and no.
There’s a dish of Buckley buttons on a desk at the NR home office in New York, and I took a few when I visited for a Christmas party. The button depicts the head of WFB, wreathed by the words “I’m a Buckley Conservative.” I put one on the strap of my backpack. Over the next few months it would travel here and there, to downtown one day and distant lands the next. I never really thought about it until the day, in the London Tube, when I felt something sharp rake the back of my arm.
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