Just when you thought it was safe to go back to your mailbox--- they are here again! It is campaign literature time once more. I came very close to changing my name to Current Resident during the blizzard of campaign literature in the primaries. After all, Current Resident received more mail than I did! The slick, pretty cards with photos of the candidates, their families, and endorsement quotes will again fill our mailboxes to overflowing. Campaigning in years gone by was different--very different. Here are three examples: I was in high school when my younger brother convinced our father to buy a horse. On most farms, the horse would enjoy a field with real fences. Not so on the Peck pasture. My father never owned a claw hammer, only a ballpeen model. We did have the old reliable crowbar. Picture this---I would stretch a strand of barbed wire to a post or tree, and Dad would drive a staple over the wire, and off we would go to the next post.
As we were working on the inside of the barbed wire, a car stopped on the edge of a road, and a neatly dresses man got out and walked to the outside of the fence, and the man shook hands with Dad and handed him a business card that had the candidates name, office sought, and political party. (This was the normal way of campaigning back then---no signs, no ads, and no mailouts.) Dad took a look at the card and handed it back and said, “Mister, we are on different sides of the fence in more ways than one.”
While teaching American Defense Policy at the University of Kentucky, I heard the state’s Adjunct General, an Army two-star general, tell this story.
An Army colonel retired and promised his wife that upon retirement; they would return to her home area---near Hazard, KY. The retired colonel liked the area but quickly became bored. The local newspaper had filing dates for county political offices. Partly as a whim, partly from his wife’s encouragement, but mostly, from his need to utilize his leadership skills to accomplish a mission, he decided to run for an office.
He thought the assistant county roads commissioner would be a good place to start; the county had few roads---maybe he could help improve the roads. He filed, had a press conference where no one showed, and had a rally with free ham sandwiches where one came. Fortunately, it was his party’s local president.
The colonel expressed his frustration and received the following rather odd campaign advice. “You are an outsider, and folks around here don’t cotton to foreigners. In addition, that East coast accent does not help. Part of the mountain culture that folks brag about is who helps others the most. You might want to put a gas can in your car and run out of gas high upon our mountain roads.”
The newcomer won by a landslide. When asked by a reporter how he pulled off the upset, he replied, “I guess I ran out of gas about a dozen times on our mountain roads.”
I heard this one from a fellow Air Force officer who actually grew up in the Appalachian Mountains.
His story started with the same political newcomer campaign advice. He was told that each Saturday the men of the area would sit on a low concrete wall around the courthouse while their wives shopped. Just ask, “How’s your Pap?” (mountain word for ‘father’).
The first one greeted was a farmer. ”How’s your Pap?” The reply was, “Pap died last year.” Condolences given and without realizing it, he worked all around the courthouse back to the first man again, “How’s your Pap?” The reply was, “Pap’s still dead.”
