This story appeared in DeltaStyle magazine, February 2003:
My mama, Yankee woman though she was, did her best to raise me right. “In polite conversation,” she admonished, “there are four topics you should never mention–money, sex, politics, and religion.” To the best of my recollection, however, I don’t think I have attended a gathering in the last thirty years in which at least 75% of those topics weren’t covered in great detail. I don’t, as you may know, have much acquaintance with money. To be perfectly honest, I’m really not much of an expert on #2, either, nor are many of my closer friends, but that has never kept us from doing a fair amount of talking about the subject.
So, for all you gentle readers who were expecting a column about naked rich people, I am afraid you may be disappointed. Although DeltaStyle articles are, indeed, covered by the term “polite conversation,” I intend to throw convention to the wind and discuss politics, from the point of view of a true insider.
I suppose that you can learn a lot about a person by knowing what kind of candidates he tends to support. I began to analyze my past voting patterns, and I’ll be damned if I can make much sense out of it. My first presidential election was in 1972, and listed below are the levers I pulled every four years since I was twenty-one:
1972: George McGovern (if Charles Manson had been the only guy running against Nixon, I’d have been one of Charlie’s boys.)
1976: Gerald Ford (I got to shake his hand in Saint Charles Parish, on the campaign trail. He called me “son.”)
1980: Jimmy Carter (When he appeared on television in that “Mr. Rogers” sweater and asked us to turn our thermostats down, I sat in the dark and froze for three years.)
1984: Probably Reagan (The 1980s are not one of my more memorable decades.)
1988: Who was running? Bush and Mondale, I think. I probably voted for L.D. Knox. The excitement was almost too much for me.
1992: Bill Clinton & Al Gore (I can’t believe I just admitted that.)
1996: Against Bill Clinton 2000: Against Al Gore (This one was a real tossup. My level of political excitement reached a fantastic low that year. I almost voted against Little Bush. Or for Ralph Nader.)
Is that a screwy list or what? Now that you have a thorough understanding of the inner workings of my political mind, I want you to put down this magazine, and make a list of your three All-Time Favorite Presidents, in order. No peeking.
Okay. Got your list? Here’s mine:
#3. This one was hard. Probably William Henry Harrison. He died after only thirty-one days in office, so he didn’t have time to screw up very much.
#2. Thomas Jefferson. This guy did it all. Wrote the Declaration of Independence, founded a university, dabbled in science and arts, made innovations in agriculture, sent Lewis and Clark off on their adventure, bought Louisiana. The list goes on and on. I’m not getting into the Sally Hemings thing.
#1. Bet you didn’t get this one. Jimmy Carter. I am just wild about Jimmy Carter. I wish I had voted for him. You can stop laughing now.
Jimmy Carter, to my way of thinking, was exactly what a president should be–a caring and competent man who truly seemed to care about what he was doing, and to hell with the consequences. This type of attitude does, however, not necessarily translate into being a very effective leader. If, however, I am given the choice between an honorable, yet ineffective, chief executive, and a sleazy president who gets more things done, I’m just dumb enough to choose the first guy.
Jimmy and I, as you may not know, go back a long way together. Back in the late 70s, before I quit running around the country at taxpayer expense, I attended a national municipal convention in Saint Louis. The president was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at the opening session, so I got up at 5:30, went down to the ballroom, and hung around the door, hoping to be first in line. Sure enough, when the banquet hall was opened at 8:00, I was first through the portal, and found myself in the center section, about seven rows back from the podium.
After his speech, of which I remember little, except that he seemed to be in favor of a number of favorable things, and opposed to a number of unfavorable ones, I had a strange, almost uncontrollable urge. That urge, in retrospect, could possibly have gotten me shot, I suppose.
As he left the dais, he walked toward the left of the stage, shaking hands with the dignitaries on the platform. He then descended to the floor of the arena, and began walking back toward the right, greeting lesser officials who were seated at ground level. As he did so, I stepped out into the aisle, strode briskly to the front of the applauding crowd, keeping my hands in front of me and visible at all times, squeezed my arm between two bodyguards, and shook the Presidential Paw. Our lengthy conversation, as I recall, follows, verbatim:
“Good luck, Mr. President!” “Thank you, son.”
Son!!! Are you starting to see a pattern here? How many presidents have called you son? Very damn few, I’ll bet.
Jimmy and I went our separate ways for onescore and one years. He ran the country, built houses for Habitat for Humanity, founded the Carter Center, and raced around the globe, doing Good Things. I, for the most part, raced around Morehouse Parish, and drank beer.
Then, in 1998, our family began to plan an excursion to Charleston for a week at the beach. In laying out the itinerary, I realized that our route would pass fairly close to Mr. Carter’s hometown of Plains, Georgia. Calling on my vast store of useless information, I remembered that the president often taught a Sunday School class at a Baptist church just outside of Plains. I also remembered the name of the church. I called directory assistance, and was soon talking to some guy at the church, probably the pastor (it’s not a very big church). “Yes, the president will be teaching his class on June 7, and you are certainly welcome to attend. I suggest you arrive early.”
The morning of June 7, 1998, found our entire crew entering the sanctuary of the Maranatha Baptist Church, nestled into a field outside Plains, Georgia. Several tour buses, one filled with some sort of Amish entourage from up north, were pulling into the parking lot. We hurried inside, and found seats on the third row. I sat in the penultimate seat on the row, as the last place was clearly marked, “Reserved for Secret Service.”
This is really cool. The president walked in, sauntered to the front of the small sanctuary. One of the Secret Service guys looked around, sauntered over to sit next to me. Mr. Carter greeted everybody, and began his lesson to the packed house. Packed, in this case, probably meant about 250 folks. I still remember the lesson. I Peter, Chapter 2. Or maybe it was II Peter, Chapter 1. One of the Amish guys tried to haggle with him a little over some point of doctrine, but the president managed to placate him pretty quickly, without hurting his own future standing with the Amish vote, if there is such a thing.
After the lesson, he invited everyone to stay for the regular church service. He announced that he did not think it was appropriate to sign autographs at church, but that he and Mrs. Carter would happily remain available after the service and would gladly pose for pictures with any of the worshippers who desired. I desired. Very much so.
During the break between Sunday school and church, I milled about. I made the kids save our seats for us, even though they were squirming actively, and inquiring about toilet facilities. In one of the pews on the left side, completely unsurrounded by Secret Service agents, sat Millard Fuller and his wife. The Fullers, from nearby Americus, are old friends of the Carters, and are the founders of Habitat for Humanity. Although Mr. Fuller had not been introduced to the congregation, I recognized him, and strolled up, just like I had good sense, as they say. Although I have never participated in a Habitat project, I do have some limited experience with housebuilding mission trips in Mexico.
Millard Fuller is a very tall, very congenial guy. I introduced myself, and asked him if he had any plans to expand Habitat for Humanity to Tahiti, Pago Pago, or any of the lovelier tropical islands. I then informed him that I would be available to direct the Habitat operations in any of those locales, should my services be required. I remember his answer well. “Thanks, George, but I’m saving those jobs for myself.”
George!!! How many founders of international charitable and/or relief organizations have called you George? Very damn few, I’ll bet.
After the service, Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter stood in the sweltering Georgia heat, while we admirers lined up in an orderly row. When my turn came, I asked the family to wait while I went first, alone. I introduced myself to the couple, then turned to face my wife, who was aiming the disposable camera. Mr. and Mrs. Carter held hands. Mrs. Carter put her arm through mine. He smiled. She smiled. I grinned.
Since that time, Jimmy Carter has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. It’s about time. I got a mass-mailed solicitation from Atlanta last week, seeking donations for the Carter Center, established at Emory University to continue to support the same type of projects that the president championed while he was in the White House. I don’t respond to mass-mailed solicitations. I sent the Carter Center twenty-five bucks. Twenty-five bucks is a big deal for me.
Every couple of months, I get a newsletter from Habitat for Humanity. I still go to Mexico every year and build a house, except on those years when my wife is having a baby during the housebuilding week.
Jimmy Carter will be 79 years old on October 1 of this year. How time flies!! I wish we had more like him. I wish I had voted for him. Competence and honor should be celebrated. I hope you have a happy birthday, Mr. President.
Maybe I’ll write about religion next. Hope my mama will forgive me.