On the Campaign Trail
Saturday, January 17th:
About twenty loyal volunteers operating out of Waterloo stood in the frigid weather outside of Dee's Place, a small cafe in the even smaller town of Parkersburg, Iowa. Many bounced from leg to leg to ward against the cold, while others huddled together, sometimes with near strangers. Despite the temperature, however, there was an unspoken excitement -- some unnerving specter that existed with neither warning nor explanation, and which only aided the cold in taking their breath away. They all carried large placards, many home-made, and they began to wave these over their heads long before the bus rounded the corner of IA-57 into Parkersburg.
The bus finally emerged over an hour late -- caused almost exclusively by the unexpected volume of enthusiasts that had come to hear Senator John Reid Edwards speak in Waterloo two and a half hours earlier. Expecting between two and three hundred people, the rally had generated nearly three times as many Iowans, and a campaign aide insisted that the senator would not leave Waterloo until he shook every hand proffered.
The music blaring from the campaign bus rounded the corner long before the bus itself, but neither form nor lyrics could be distinguished with the growing rumble of excitement from the crowd. Thus, before the bus itself was even in sight, the crowd had begun a heart-warming chant of "The Time is Now . . . The Time is Now . . . The Time is Now . . ."
The bus could barely fit in the tiny parking lot, but such details had long since ceased being relevant. The chanting continued as three or four aides emerged first, then the doorway to the bus was dramatically empty, as a voice over the loud-speaker announced: "Ladies and Gentleman, the next president of the United States . . ."
The chanting of the crowd faded into random screams, filling the town with cacophony as Senator Edwards came racing out of the bus and into the crowd.
He grasped my glove-encased hand second, shaking it firmly as I struggled to adjust the Edwards for President sign that I was carrying. He shook a few more hands afterward before we followed him into the diner, the cold having long-since disappeared from the evening air.
On an average night, Dee's Place probably serves about a dozen locals. Maybe twenty on weekends. The campaign predicted that fifty people would show up, but close to two hundred filled every contour of the restaurant, most of them carrying the senator's "Real Solutions for America" pamphlet -- his complete list of policy proposals, the only such booklet offered by any candidate, which includes a plan for paying for his education, health care, and economic initiatives.
The senator stood on a small step-ladder in front of an American flag. Immediately above his right shoulder hung an "Edwards for America" sign that I had created twenty-four hours earlier, and about a yard farther away stood myself.
I tried to pay attention to the speech, I really did. I'd read his policy proposals half a dozen times already, and I knew what he stood for and I knew that he was my man. I just . . . stared at him, I guess. Listened to the cheers and watched the cameras and the faces of the Iowans that had commuted into Parkersburg for the event. And I knew something. I've never felt that way before. Ever.
I've never felt that way before.
Monday, January 19th:
We listened to the initial election returns on the radio as my car sped back toward Waterloo from a one-horse town called Wellsburg, Iowa. For ninety minutes or so, I had chaired the Democratic caucus at Grundy County, Precinct Three. We had commandeered the library of Wellsburg's only school, which serviced grades K-8.
A total of eight people had shown up for the caucus, for the entire county was no doubt almost exclusively Republican, and the solitary Edwards supporter was not enough to give him viability. Despite my less-than-neutral leadership, four of the seven delegates had chosen Kerry, and the other three were for Dean. Kayla and I were thoroughly disappointed by the time we began the forty-mile trek back to campaign headquarters.
The initial radio report declared the victory for Kerry, but just as much time was devoted to Senator Edwards. Most of the pundits were declaring that the upset of the 2004 Iowa Democratic caucuses. But most of the pundits had not been knocking on doors throughout north-eastern Iowa for the past seventy-two hours. Most of the pundits had not been making phone-call after phone-call, just to talk to the voters, before retiring to the floor of a local YWCA every night. Most of the pundits had not been at Dee's Place in Parkersburg, Iowa forty-eight hours earlier.
On the way back, I told Kayla that Congressman Gephardt, for whom I have always had the utmost respect, would drop out of the race before New Hampshire. Two minutes later, Larry King Live announced that the Congressman had made plans to return to St. Louis in lieu of spending campaign money he doesn't have to continue competing in New Hampshire. And then there were four.
We could hear the uproar from campaign headquarters as soon as we entered downtown Waterloo, and our path was momentarily delayed by the stream of supporters racing back and forth between headquarters and the liquor store across the street. We parked illegally, an homage to the fact that we would soon have to drive through the night in order to make class this morning, then hugged stranger after stranger as we made our way through the crowd and toward the back of the room. My cell phone rang more than once, amounting to my own personal congratulatory calls, and I reveled in my own temporary popularity. And I reveled in the moment. In that moment.
Kayla and I arrived back in Bloomington around six this morning, sleeping less than three hours and making it to class before eleven. We both wore our stickers like badges of honor, and my stomach has been doing the same dances all day.
Edwards for America.
The time is Now. And I've never felt like this before.
About twenty loyal volunteers operating out of Waterloo stood in the frigid weather outside of Dee's Place, a small cafe in the even smaller town of Parkersburg, Iowa. Many bounced from leg to leg to ward against the cold, while others huddled together, sometimes with near strangers. Despite the temperature, however, there was an unspoken excitement -- some unnerving specter that existed with neither warning nor explanation, and which only aided the cold in taking their breath away. They all carried large placards, many home-made, and they began to wave these over their heads long before the bus rounded the corner of IA-57 into Parkersburg.
The bus finally emerged over an hour late -- caused almost exclusively by the unexpected volume of enthusiasts that had come to hear Senator John Reid Edwards speak in Waterloo two and a half hours earlier. Expecting between two and three hundred people, the rally had generated nearly three times as many Iowans, and a campaign aide insisted that the senator would not leave Waterloo until he shook every hand proffered.
The music blaring from the campaign bus rounded the corner long before the bus itself, but neither form nor lyrics could be distinguished with the growing rumble of excitement from the crowd. Thus, before the bus itself was even in sight, the crowd had begun a heart-warming chant of "The Time is Now . . . The Time is Now . . . The Time is Now . . ."
The bus could barely fit in the tiny parking lot, but such details had long since ceased being relevant. The chanting continued as three or four aides emerged first, then the doorway to the bus was dramatically empty, as a voice over the loud-speaker announced: "Ladies and Gentleman, the next president of the United States . . ."
The chanting of the crowd faded into random screams, filling the town with cacophony as Senator Edwards came racing out of the bus and into the crowd.
He grasped my glove-encased hand second, shaking it firmly as I struggled to adjust the Edwards for President sign that I was carrying. He shook a few more hands afterward before we followed him into the diner, the cold having long-since disappeared from the evening air.
On an average night, Dee's Place probably serves about a dozen locals. Maybe twenty on weekends. The campaign predicted that fifty people would show up, but close to two hundred filled every contour of the restaurant, most of them carrying the senator's "Real Solutions for America" pamphlet -- his complete list of policy proposals, the only such booklet offered by any candidate, which includes a plan for paying for his education, health care, and economic initiatives.
The senator stood on a small step-ladder in front of an American flag. Immediately above his right shoulder hung an "Edwards for America" sign that I had created twenty-four hours earlier, and about a yard farther away stood myself.
I tried to pay attention to the speech, I really did. I'd read his policy proposals half a dozen times already, and I knew what he stood for and I knew that he was my man. I just . . . stared at him, I guess. Listened to the cheers and watched the cameras and the faces of the Iowans that had commuted into Parkersburg for the event. And I knew something. I've never felt that way before. Ever.
I've never felt that way before.
Monday, January 19th:
We listened to the initial election returns on the radio as my car sped back toward Waterloo from a one-horse town called Wellsburg, Iowa. For ninety minutes or so, I had chaired the Democratic caucus at Grundy County, Precinct Three. We had commandeered the library of Wellsburg's only school, which serviced grades K-8.
A total of eight people had shown up for the caucus, for the entire county was no doubt almost exclusively Republican, and the solitary Edwards supporter was not enough to give him viability. Despite my less-than-neutral leadership, four of the seven delegates had chosen Kerry, and the other three were for Dean. Kayla and I were thoroughly disappointed by the time we began the forty-mile trek back to campaign headquarters.
The initial radio report declared the victory for Kerry, but just as much time was devoted to Senator Edwards. Most of the pundits were declaring that the upset of the 2004 Iowa Democratic caucuses. But most of the pundits had not been knocking on doors throughout north-eastern Iowa for the past seventy-two hours. Most of the pundits had not been making phone-call after phone-call, just to talk to the voters, before retiring to the floor of a local YWCA every night. Most of the pundits had not been at Dee's Place in Parkersburg, Iowa forty-eight hours earlier.
On the way back, I told Kayla that Congressman Gephardt, for whom I have always had the utmost respect, would drop out of the race before New Hampshire. Two minutes later, Larry King Live announced that the Congressman had made plans to return to St. Louis in lieu of spending campaign money he doesn't have to continue competing in New Hampshire. And then there were four.
We could hear the uproar from campaign headquarters as soon as we entered downtown Waterloo, and our path was momentarily delayed by the stream of supporters racing back and forth between headquarters and the liquor store across the street. We parked illegally, an homage to the fact that we would soon have to drive through the night in order to make class this morning, then hugged stranger after stranger as we made our way through the crowd and toward the back of the room. My cell phone rang more than once, amounting to my own personal congratulatory calls, and I reveled in my own temporary popularity. And I reveled in the moment. In that moment.
Kayla and I arrived back in Bloomington around six this morning, sleeping less than three hours and making it to class before eleven. We both wore our stickers like badges of honor, and my stomach has been doing the same dances all day.
Edwards for America.
The time is Now. And I've never felt like this before.