The Senate Campaign

 

 

Note*  Unfortunately there are no pictures with this blog since all of our family photos of us growing up have somehow managed to disappear.  My apologies.  There were some good ones.  Hopefully they will appear someday buried under an avalance of boxes.

 

 

The 1960 Ford station wagon slowly wound its way around Rapides parish. It was fall and the leaves were changing. The heat of summer had finally burned itself out and the cool front from the north left an excitement in the air. I was a teenager and sitting alone next to my father. We were politicking. I was thrilled to have his sole attention. Only I didn’t. His attention was on politics. He was running for the state senate and I, being his eldest son, was delegated the honor of accompanying him. I wished we would talk but he wanted quiet so he could gather his thoughts for the next small town political stop. It didn’t matter, I found it hard to talk with him anyway. Besides, I was the one chosen to be with him, not my older sister who was the apple of his eye, nor my younger brother, his usual sidekick and Jane was only 7. I was the one alone with him. Me. Today, I was the favored child.

The car was light gray. It had a blue stripe down the middle of each side and in bold red letters outlined in black were the words: “Vote Cecil Blair, #56, State Senate.” “A man of the country people” was printed below in royal blue. We had the horse trailer following behind. The letters “Camellia Shetland Pony Farm” were plainly written with the image of a beautiful sorral Shetland pony painted on its side. It reminded me of the gaudy gypsy wagons of the past. On top of the station wagon were two rather large loud speakers. On the seat between us was a collection of 78 records and a turntable balanced with books. My job was to make sure the records continued playing while holding the microphone and keeping the player steady so the record didn’t skip. It was also my responsibility to hold the microphone next to the record player perched precariously on the seat between us. I was barefoot in the car, so I held the microphone with my toes, a menuver in which I was adept. Some times we would play The Yellow Rose of Texas. The Mitch Miller version. I never understood why daddy loved that song so much. He wasn't Texan and he certainly wasn't running for office in Texas. Today, I carefully placed the record on the turntable, choosing Blueberry Hill by Fats Domino, daddy's favorite,most of the time. The words, I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill woke up the critters in the woods as we wound our way down country roads.

The song echoed off the pine trees surrounding the roadway as we slowly drove through the woods of Rapides Parish. People ran out of their houses waving at us. I guess if you had an image of me on the front seat using my toes to balance the equipment while placing little white horse stickers on the political cards (a sign he was the “white horse” candidate) then you would definitely think the circus had come to town. Occasionally Daddy would take the microphone and ask people to meet us at a certain familiar spot in the community to hear “Cecil Blair, the country man’s candidate.” Some got in their cars and caravaned behind us. We became a parade. This stardom could go to my head, I thought.

All day I would alternate holding the microphone and balancing the record player between my toes while placing stickers on the cards, until the appointed time arrived for the town meeting to meet the candidate. I did not like these town meetings, partly because I had to put my cowboy boots back on – never mind that the children we saw were barefoot – and partly because my job was to take care of the mean-spirited kids while the grown-ups talked politics. I didn't feel like the favored son at those times.

Our Shetland pony, Hambone, was with us on this trip. While daddy shook hands and hugged babies, I took the pony out of the trailer, gave him some water, untied the two wheel cart, put his bridle on and hitched him up while children lined up squabbling as to who would be first. Then with my cowboy hat firmly in place and a straw in my mouth – I guess that made me look country - I would ride no more than two at a time around the grounds listening to them threaten me with the loss of their parent’s vote if I didn’t ride them longer. It was during those times that I realized Iwas invited only to take care of the music and children and to make him appealing to the voters. I was the token politicians good and obedient son out to show the world what a wonderful senator he would become. It was a rude awakening to discover that I was not the shining star of this political circus, I was only the opening act. But, you know, it didn’t matter. I was the one with him. Not my sisters nor my brother. Me. I was the favored one.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.