Report of the County Chairman (7 page)

“It looks as if Rocky won’t make it,” I told my wife.

“That’s too bad for the nation,” she said. “He’d be a fine President.”

“It’s good for Kennedy,” I replied.

When the conventions were over my optimism waned somewhat. It seemed to me that the Democratic convention had been a rather shabby affair, with Stevenson refusing to run openly yet borrowing help from Mrs. Roosevelt; with Lyndon Johnson trying to cram into a few days the work that should have occupied him over several
months; with the disgraceful bumbling of Robert Meyner; with the lackluster keynote speech of Frank Church, which at times grew ludicrous; and most of all with the inept acceptance speech of John Kennedy.

In contrast it seemed to me that the Republicans had got off to a rousing start. President Eisenhower’s speech was one of the best I had ever heard him give; it frightened me with its visions of the old soldier stumping the nation in October; he was going to be very persuasive indeed, and I suspected that his old magic would be doubly appealing with its necessary overtones of a President Washington’s farewell. Walter Judd’s keynote speech, compared to Frank Church’s, was a masterpiece, even though its policies dated back to the 1920’s. Governor Rockefeller’s graceful acceptance of the inevitable was beguiling and gave the picture, at least, of a united party. And I think no one could deny that the acceptance speech of Vice President Nixon was stirring, forceful, and well thought out. He created a most favorable impression on me—I vaguely sensed that he wasn’t saying much, but suspected that the details would be filled in later—and when I read that Senator Kennedy had agreed to share the same platform with the Vice President in public debate I told my wife, “Kennedy’s gonna be sorry he did that! This Nixon’s a born debater. I’m afraid hell cut our man to pieces.” Judging merely from the two acceptance speeches, I had every right to be apprehensive.

My wife, now solidly in the Kennedy camp, argued, “I think Kennedy’ll be able to take care of himself.” Like all Stevensonians, she had supported her plumed warrior right down to the last six inches of the lists, and when he
fell unseated, tears came into her eyes and she did not want to talk. But unlike many of them she then vigorously supported Senator Kennedy and was responsible for gaining him many votes, for she was a tireless and a persuasive campaigner.

My native village contains two women who ought to be copyrighted by George Gallup, because by questioning them he could save a lot of money. They invariably express the average view on everything. I have known them for many years—they were good neighbors of my mother’s—and I have rarely known them to express a wrong opinion. If a new play opens in Philadelphia, they go to see it, and next morning the conversation goes something like this.

Invariably, the play flops. By some alchemy of mind, these two women isolate the irrelevant truths that illuminate
the fundamental ones. They didn’t like one automobile because the handles looked like egg cups, and that model was a dismal failure. They don’t trust a man because his dog walks sideways, as if it was afraid of being kicked, and sooner or later the man embezzles $50,000. I have never been able to figure out how they know, but they know. They have mysterious pipelines to some deep reservoir of the American spirit, and they report with accuracy the taste of the times.

In 1956 they gave me an exhibition of their political insight when they recited a series of reasons why President Eisenhower was bound to be reëlected: “He never swears in the White House, the way President Truman did. His son was in uniform in Korea, not singing on a public stage the way some people we could name did when their father was in the White House. Besides he has as his Secretary of State a fine Christian gentleman like John Foster Dulles, a real religious man and not a crooked lawyer like Dean Acheson. Mrs. Eisenhower stays home the way she should instead of gallivanting around like Mrs. Roosevelt. And he goes to church on Sunday because you can see the photographs of him on Monday morning in the papers. And he went to Korea, just as he said he would. But most of all, James, if he has served us so faithfully after having suffered a heart attack, the least we can do is vote for him again.” For these reasons they were sure he was going to be reëlected, and they even told me by what margin in the electoral college.

Although I had started out reasonably certain that John Kennedy was going to be our next President, the
two conventions had shaken me a bit, so I consulted my oracles, and what they told me gave me a positive jolt.

As I listened I became increasingly aware that I was hearing the fundamental issues upon which much of the electorate was going to base its decision and I became afraid. If Miss Omwake and Mrs. Dale spoke for America, and I was satisfied that they did, at least for large segments, this election was bound to be much closer than I had anticipated; and yet as they talked I felt that they were for the first time in many years not telling me all the truth. I charged them with this and finally they spoke of what really troubled them.

I returned home deeply perturbed, and the more I talked with my neighbors, the more determined they became never to vote for a Catholic. Some were German Lutherans, and their historic animosity toward the Catholic Church was understandable. But many were ordinary Protestants with no special animus toward any other religion, yet the specter of a cardinal dominating White House policy was to them positively terrifying. With many of my neighbors I could not even argue. If I spoke of religion they changed the subject, and as the campaign edged toward the starting gun I began to realize that in my early assumption that only the crackpots on the fringes would be affected by the religious issue, I was wrong. Religion was going to be a major issue. This meant that all my assumptions about the election had to be revised, so I retired to my small room and asked myself, “All wishful thinking aside, how does the campaign look now?”

I reasoned, “If the religious issue is as grave as it now seems, the Republicans have a good chance to win. They have an awful lot in their favor. There’s peace of a kind. There’s prosperity within limits. They’re the incumbents, and that helps a lot. They have almost all the newspapers
and magazines on their side, and they have a commanding military hero as their leader. If President Eisenhower decides to campaign with full vigor, he’ll carry a lot of states, and he seems to be ready for the fight.” Things didn’t look too good, for in addition to all the above assets, the Republicans had put together an appealing ticket whose second man, Ambassador Lodge, was being heralded by all the newspapers as much stronger than our Lyndon Johnson. Sitting alone with the cold facts I reasoned further, “It looks to me as if they’ll be able to hold the Negro votes that went for Eisenhower. The Jews certainly don’t like Kennedy. And even Jimmy Hoffa’s union is out to beat us, although that might prove to be an asset. What’s worse, Nixon got off to a rousing start by hot-footing it out to Hawaii. That was a real smart move, and our side hasn’t even started yet.”

Summing everything up, I told myself brutally, “The Republicans ought to win. Every major indicator says so, and if Eisenhower and Rockefeller pitch in, their victory is in the bag. Because I know that Nixon will put on a terrific campaign.” I sat back with the facts before me and came to this conclusion: “Nixon’ll win about 53 percent of the popular vote and about 380 electoral votes.” As I now look back at the election, I still think he should have done both.

On the other hand, I was emotionally committed to a Kennedy victory, and at the pit of my stomach—not my brain—I had intimations that some kind of irrational, last-minute miracle would enable us to win. What it might be I could not even guess; but if I was a firm devotee of Murphy’s Law I was also a partisan of Mr. Micawber’s
completely contradictory theory that something good usually turns up. I felt this was particularly true in politics, and on this theory I based my irrational hopes. In the meantime I would work as never before.

The night after I formulated these rather gloomy assessments of the situation, I attended a dinner party, the last purely social affair I would participate in for a long time, and after we had dined, the guests were handed sheets of paper bearing the names of ten states whose votes would be critical in the election. We were required to predict how each state would go, and also what electoral vote the winning candidate would get. Of the ten people present, eight were sure that Nixon would win 300 to 350 electoral votes, and all were sure that he would carry most of the critical states.

My wife judged that Kennedy would win with 300 electoral votes, and she guessed right on almost all the states. I, facing my first public test in the campaign, thought: “This parlor game is not related to fact. This is an act of propaganda. Tonight I commit myself to John Kennedy.” Boldly I predicted that he would carry nine of the ten focal states—I gave him California, Ohio, Indiana … everything but Florida—and for my electoral total I splashed down the figures, “410.”

“You don’t mean you think the Democrats will win 410 electoral votes?” asked my host in astonishment.

“I do!” I snapped. “You don’t seem to realize it, but John Kennedy is going to win this election. The popular vote will be close but the electoral vote will be a landslide.”

I made these remarks so forcefully that in time I came
to believe them. During the campaign, I repeated them a hundred times, in Connecticut, in New York, in Idaho, in Utah and in Indiana. I insisted that Kennedy was going to win handsomely in the electoral college, and the very force of my belief rallied people to my cause. I found assistance where before it did not exist, and to no one during the long campaign did I betray doubt regarding my announced position, to no one, that is, except one night as I was speeding across Pennsylvania accompanied by one of the most incisive young men I had ever encountered. With me rode Robert Kennedy, campaign manager for the senator, and he asked, “All fooling aside, how’s it going?”