Election Days of Old. Mom Makes the Big Goof

The Days of Election Decency

I have been looking forward to quiet time in this, another chaotic election cycle. I was hoping, against all odds I suppose that we might gather up some thoughtfulness and sensibility in such a tumultuous season, one that has insinuated, rather imposed, itself on us for the past ten years. As I remember, it was not so unsettling those years ago.

In 1952, when I was twelve, I first learned about a presidential election. I knew the candidates were Dwight Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson. I knew the Republicans had an elephant for a logo, and the Democrats a donkey. I had an “I like Ike” button. Otherwise, elections meant little except for the bonuses of relishing a day out of school and traipsing about the polling sites collecting buttons.

I listened to my bedside radio late into the evening that year, and it was clear that General Eisenhower was winning by a wide margin. I did not give the results much thought. I liked him.

Dad loved local politics, and he was so proud when a politician recognized him. A “Hi, Peter” from an elected official got my father’s buttons popping off his chest. The epitome was when John Pastore became Governor of Rhode Island. My father knew him from the old neighborhood, first name basis. “I grew up with the Governor, you know,” was an oft-heard phrase.

Well, the story has its twist thanks to Mom.

Mom and Dad ventured to New York City on a rare trip. And by chance, so too was Governor John O. Pastore there. They met and my father was thrilled.

“Hi, Peter,” says The Governor. Came the popping buttons thing again.

“Hello, Governor. How nice to meet you here. Anna, you know The Governor.”

My mother, as she was wont to do, with not just a thin veil, but with no veil whatsoever, blurted, “Yes. Well, hello. Oh, Governor, are you from Rhode Island?”

Honeymoon, Empire State Building, NYC

I don’t know what my Dad did at the moment. I envisioned buttons somehow returning from space to find their way back to his shirt as his chest caved. Suffice it to say that he told the story, grim-faced, for years.

Dad loved national politics also. I understood he voted for Adlai Stevenson because of the kitchen conversations I overheard between him and my mother. When he heard the results of that election, he was disappointed, not because his man lost, but because he lost by so much. There was no resentment, just acceptance. Dad said, “Ike was a great general, he is a good man, and I think he will be a good President.” That was it. He did not dwell on it; no one seemed to. He, as did everyone, accepted the loss with dignity. No rancor, no riots, life went on. The loser was gracious. The winner, The President, was a gentleman.

The day after, at school, I told my friends my Dad was disappointed because his man, Stevenson, did not win. They chimed in with the same about their parents; a neighborhood of Democrats. Sure, perhaps we were too young for a meaningful discussion, but that was the end of it. And I heard nothing more among the adults. Acceptance. No quarreling, no bitterness,  no name calling, no red/blue colors. It all seemed good, neutral, and fair (to me). Honor and decency were the rules of the day. Off we went to pitch cards.

These are difficult days in our country. There is no better time than now to abide by the principles of honesty and integrity. We need frankness, sincerity, and openness by leaders to allay our fears. To adhere to those principles is obligatory for those in positions of leadership, be they government or not.

What would my Dad say about the bitterness of the election process, one lacking the décor and decency of past years? He might say something like, “Don’t worry too much, Ed. I have confidence in the people. This country has been through a lot before and survived. It will survive again.”

I wish he were here, pouring his innate wisdom that we will survive and continue to prosper. Setting examples. There is decency inherent in this country. Democracy will continue on its upward path. The future will be exciting.

But . . . would that we could return, just a little bit, to that election of 1952. Would that I could just go around collecting buttons, maybe even the ones that might be popping off Dad’s shirt.