A political campaign is like that, with an important exception. A movie proceeds at a constant twenty-four frames per second, while a political campaign starts there, but then runs faster, and faster, and faster... until it stops.
What begins as a slowly unfolding narrative becomes a series of strobe like impressions; flashes that seem discontinuous and random until tied together by retrospect.
This became vivid last Saturday while driving with Ben to canvass in Draper. We passed a landmark reminding us both of a parade we'd walked in during the summer.
"Remember?" Ben asked, in a reference not requiring further explanation.
"Yes," I said.
He remarked wistfully, "We thought we were busy then..."
"Indeed," I thought, knowing this sense of acceleration affected Ben far more than it did me.
Arriving at our afternoon project it seemed daunting. Houses of increasing size and luxury zig zagged up a hill that featured a spectacular view of the valley.
To me it seemed like a Republican mountain daring us to climb our way to the top. Wordlessly we hopped out with brochures and address lists. I walked on one side of the street and Ben the other.
After several zigs our last zag led to the top of the mountain. It deserved to be the capstone of our afternoon's effort. One man accepted our brochure with this reassurance, "I always vote Democratic."
A few homes had McAdams signs telling us a visit would be nice, but unproductive. Moving past one such home a woman propelled herself out the front door. She identified herself as an ardent supporter grateful to receive a handshake.
The last house had large Obama signs in every second story window. Across the street was an open garage where an older man stood tinkering at his work bench. He wore a blue baseball cap festooned with eagles, gold braid and a large American flag.
Ben was occupied so I thought I'd take the initiative. I walked inside carrying a brochure. He accepted with a specious expression, tilting his head back to take full advantage of bifocals.
His eyes immediately riveted on a speck the size of a housefly. That speck was printed between the words "County" and "Mayor" in the shape of a tiny donkey.
"Democrat, huh?" he said with obvious distaste.
"Yes sir," I said, "but Ben's a problem solver who works across party lines to get things done."
His head tilted forward again, having just read all he intended to read. "Son," he said, meaning me, a man over sixty, "You're in the wrong neighborhood."
"Wrong? How could your neighborhood be wrong?"
He regarded me with the condescension of someone forced to state the obvious to someone intentionally obtuse. "You won't find a single Democrat on this street," he said flatly, "Not one..."
"Well, maybe not," I thought. "But there are people here who find more to look at on that brochure than a tiny donkey."
No comments:
Post a Comment