Walking With Ben

Some colors clash with orange, Crockett red for instance, but Granato green is a pretty good match.

On Saturday morning a crowd of volunteers convened at our headquarters. It was a joint effort sponsored both by the McAdams campaign and Sam Granato's campaign for county council.

We divided up Millcreek and, two by two, set out to distribute literature. Ben and I were assigned a neighborhood near 4500 South. 

Like a single planet solar system, Ben knocked on doors while I orbited leaving literature at unoccupied homes. It was a replay of the parade season when Ben shook hands as I spun around taking photographs. 

By now we have the drill down. Yet this day was particularly emblematic of the times we've spent together. For instance...

A young mother and I arrived at a front door simultaneously. I had a stack of pumpkin orange literature in my hand, while she carried a plate of pumpkin orange cupcakes in hers. 

However, this was not all that occupied her.

She had a toddler in one arm and two other children seeking purchase on her knee caps. Hers was a mission of hospitality, while my purpose was entirely political.

As we waited at a door that never opened I explained the reason for my visit. She was patient, but my position on her list of priorities was in the triple digits.

My advantage? I had only to occupy her long enough for Ben to see our conversation. With that accomplished, Ben would take over and I could retire.

True to form, Ben arrived in short order. Suddenly the burden of her toddler became like a helium balloon, the woman's posture became erect and her careworn expression gave way to the idles of girlhood.

Ben offered, "Hello, I'm Ben McAdams..."

Before he could finish she replied, "Yes, I know. (eyelash flutter, eyelash flutter) Please tell me why you want to be my mayor."

Her emphasis on the word "my" was unmistakeable.

Within a few blocks I had gained substantially on

Ben's position. Not wanting to stretch that distance to the breaking point I waited for him to catch up. It was then I saw a matron of a certain age target Ben from a blind on her front porch. 

I should have called out, "Pull!"

Ben's solitary presence exploded into bits of clay retrieved into her front yard. I knew to expect a long wait. 

There is a class of women, mostly over the age of sixty, who, once they have sighted Ben, instantly produce a set of adoption papers.

If you are with him you watch at a remove as they try to negotiate their own maternity. Ben dodges left, and Ben dodges right, endlessly explaining why his signature can't be placed on their mother's day card.

This Saturday, as that process unfolded, I stood between two fenced-in yards while competing chihuahuas complained I was there illegally.

Eventually, I grew weary of my predicament. Grabbing my phone I impatiently texted Ben, "Have I lost you?"

He pulled out his phone and gestured as if my text announced a great emergency. When he finally caught up he said apologetically, "Thanks, I needed an excuse."

Canvassing with Ben has been a lot of fun, and nine days from now it will all be over. (Sniff, sniff) I'll miss it. Yet there have been a thousand trying moments just like these: moments when you can easily identify with David Archuletta's road manager on a tour of Utah County.