Vignettes of Politics

The Wolf Marks the Tundra

By: Brian Duff

Most of us long for serenity at the end of the road. Miguel de Cervantes, in the dedication of his last published work, writing as he noted ‘… with a foot already in the stirrup,’ suggests that he had attained that peace. Three days later, before it was published, he died.[1] He had lived a frustrating life in many ways, but it has been said that writing can assuage the soul.

The episodes described in this work have never before been offered. At that time I was thirty seven years of age, which is the midpoint of my life as I write. They tell of small steps on roads which I have traveled; steps to which I hope to add more stories than I can ever complete. I can not think of a place to begin better than here at this time.

I have been blessed to have had a robust life with many challenges, adventures, opportunities, enemies and friends. My friends and family often urge me to tell the stories of my life; my enemies often live in fear that I may.

I have visited, talked and tarried in all one hundred and two counties in Illinois, all fifty wards in Chicago and all twenty townships in Cook County. This has given to me a deep sense of the needs and wants of democracy. I have traveled all States, Commonwealths and territories of the nation (save Guam and the Marshall Islands) tasting the varied interests in the regions of our republic. I have chosen a few simple campaign stops in rural counties of downstate Illinois to characterize in minimalist pattern the breadth and presence of those denizens whom we seldom visualize as we count the votes in our urban precincts.

My father cautioned me never to go into politics, “It will break your heart like it did my mother’s.” In the year 1900, Julia Mae Duff (née Harrington) was the first Irish Catholic woman to be elected to the Boston School Board, and she paid the price. Yet my Dad had tutored me unremittingly of history and of the necessity of decent government. Consequently, I have been drawn to volunteer many times for people and causes that I hold to be worthy. Eventually, as a moth attracted to light, I came too close to the candle.

Late in 1967, I became privy to a volatile secret that the only potential Republican candidate for the office of Secretary of State of Illinois, had become mired in serious personal troubles, and that he had lost most of his strongest support for the Primary election. The Democrat incumbent was not the kind of man who I believed should hold any office of trust. His name was Paul Powell who, many of you will recall, was reported by the press when he died to have left five hundred thousand dollars in cash in shoe-boxes in the closet of his Springfield hotel room. [There is much more to the story than was told, but that will wait until another day.]

In September of 1967, I announced my candidacy. In very short order the names on my Finance Committee letterhead included many of the wealthiest men in Illinois. Both of the principal Republican Primary candidates for Governor had promised that they would not take sides in my campaign and I promised that I would not interfere in theirs. Every newspaper in Illinois which endorsed candidates in my race endorsed me except for the home town newspaper of my opponent. The Chicago Daily News and The Chicago SunTimes each endorsed me in editorials, both in February to establish my credibility, and again in June to show they meant it. This was unprecedented in any campaign as far as I know. In September I resigned from my employment. The election was to be held on June 11, 1968.

On information and belief, salient evidence of my opponent’s difficulty was burned in the fireplace of a Springfield law firm for significant consideration. He was resurrected. One of the gubernatorial candidates found it convenient to break his pledge to me. Shortly, the other candidate presumed that I had colluded with his opponent and felt that he was also free from his commitment. The fat was in the fire.

I began to feel then the strong winds of power, and the task became to keep my hand on the helm and navigate the shoals. Not everybody was able to keep his word. My valiant, volunteer crew struggled along with me for months to ‘stay the course’. I continued to keep my commitment to reach every county in Illinois. Fortune put on a dark grey storm slicker.

The organization of my Finance Committee became mordant for unpleasant but realistic reasons. Most of the Blue Ribbon committee metamorphosed into variegated ribbons and backed out in well-mannered ways. Several months later my wife Florence and I took a night off during the campaign and went to see the play Man from La Mancha. After the show I asked Florence, “What did you think of the play?” She replied, “I felt like I was watching you all night!”

Among my wonderful group of volunteers, Jackie my neighbor and loyal scheduler, kept me on the move from Cairo to the Wisconsin state line for nine months. Florence was wonderful. She guarded the gates of the castle and we persevered. The vignettes on which I touch occurred in the late winter of 1968. At that period I was traveling in down-state Illinois, much of the time on sorties centered from Springfield.

Virginia, Illinois, county seat of Cass County, is about 30 minutes from Springfield on Route 125, a bucolic trip through quiet villages such as Pleasant Plains, Philadelphia and rudimentary campgrounds. I had been invited to a luncheon hosted by the Women’s Republican Club of Cass County. It was held at a new, timber building on a promontory with a large meeting room surrounded by spacious windows overlooking a pastoral view. The ladies, very few younger than myself, were dressed in their Sunday best and courteous as well as curious.

Because of proximity to the State Capital, the membership included a generous sampling of savvy servants of the State. Almost to a woman they were most gracious and pleasant to me. The majority was aware of my cause, although they knew very little about me, and enthusiasm did not run high. I was sized up quickly as being an interesting young man, of undetermined potential, broaching borders of the orders of power and the practiced wizardry of politics.

The very proper treatment by the principal male person of signification present, (I believe that he was at the time the County States Attorney), suggested to me that I had very little probability of gain in his back yard. His grooming was as impeccable as his ambition was peccable. I must say in fairness that his judgment, assiduities and ingratiating manner have been successful and he has been considered by many to be highly regarded. Undaunted, and with my head held high, I mounted Rosinante, my aging Oldsmobile, and proudly cantered toward the windmills on the horizon, with all six cylinders humming.

The next goal was Beardstown, (locally pronounced ‘Bardstown’) on the western reaches of the county. I headed into this small town for two reasons. The first was that I had not yet made an appearance there. Part of that one would be to visit the local newspaper and pay a duty call to make my presence known and to get favorable notice.

In addition, a friendly political editor of a major Chicago newspaper who was covering my maiden campaign, had discovered that a high level executive in the Office of the Secretary of State was providing, to selected insurance companies, the names of drivers required to buy expensive ‘Assigned Risk’ insurance because of their driving records. The ‘whistle blower’, a patronage worker, revealed that the names were delivered by herself, covertly and regularly, in an envelope from the State Capital building.

The Chicago reporter needed verification from an additional credible source. He gave me the address and telephone number of his source and asked me to follow-up, assuring me that her name was Miss Hogg and that she was willing to talk. He gave me her first name as well, but it was not as memorable.

It may have been the grey sky and the chill in the air, but my impression coming off the highway was that this was an unexciting little town. It had a bank, a small hotel and a newspaper. The first thing I did was to find an out-door telephone booth. It was late in the day, so I called Miss Hogg, whom I had never met. I identified myself and she said I could talk with her, although her reluctance was evident. That was doubly clear when I went over to her home.

The woman was dressed simply in a large well-washed pair of jeans and an ample cotton print shirt. She admitted having said what was told to me, but said it was a mistake and wouldn’t say whose. She was didn’t want to talk about it. She had a young child and no other provider than herself. She was a good, well meaning soul whose ire had cooled. I felt certain that she had been intimidated. Work with good benefits was scarce in Beardstown and easy to lose in politics. I left politely and disappointed. Out at home plate.

I walked back to the car and drove over to register at the hotel desk. My room was clean and spacious in worn out fashion. It was on the second floor just above the only noticeable entrance of the hotel. On the corner of the main intersection, the window provided a bird’s-eye view of the contained traffic of this gentle and quiet nook of Illinois. The town went to sleep under my watchful eye. I slept well after a forgettable meal

Late the next morning, after a cordial farm-country breakfast of coffee, bacon and eggs, I put my bag in the car and walked over to the newspaper office. It consisted of two small rooms; one of which adequately accommodated the reporter and me. He was a young man, wearing jeans and a light green cardigan over a work shirt with an open collar and no tie.

I had a feeling that he was also the editor, and may have been chief cook and bottle-washer as well. He was friendly, but quickly and briefly adopted the mask and manner of the detached and skeptical reporter. It was too much for him to hold, however, as we began to enjoy our exchange of Illinois politics and myths. We chatted over coffee for more than an hour. The next day on the front page the newspaper a two-inch, banner headline shouted:

DUFF VISITS BEARDSTOWN

It was followed by a folksy and complimentary interview. There is now a copy of yesteryear’s paper buried somewhere in my disorderly archives. It was a welcome lift to my spirit.

I walked back down the street to the hotel and checked in by telephone with Jackie to see if she had any current news, messages, mail or calls. I called Florence to check on the home fires and give her a rundown of my day. Before I left, I picked up a Springfield newspaper.

I left Beardstown after having dinner of delicious fried catfish, alone, at a restaurant that sat on the edge of the east bank of the Illinois River, a few miles below the mouth of the Sangamon and a few more miles south of where the Spoon river had merged less auspiciously. For many years the restaurant had the reputation of serving the best catfish and corn-on-the-cob in all of Illinois. Feeling pretty good and getting back on the road, I could not say that I had ever tasted any better. All of the food on the plate was native to the county.

That evening I headed out toward Brussels, a town with maybe thirty homes and a small warren for a hotel that pre-dated the War Between the States. Roy Lessig, the Republican County Chairman of Calhoun County was a farmer who, I was told, had lost his leg serving in World War II. There was a total of about four hundred Republican votes in his county. In a primary election there are more in a large high-rise apartment building in Chicago.

Even if he has been told to expect opposition there, a candidate dare not overlook any County Chairman, or County. The word would go out that Duff didn’t even bother, so the hell with him. Amongst the unimpressed, the message would be passed either that he was too lazy, too dumb or too proud. Rejection was the currency of power. Courtesy was the exchange rate for admission.

I turned to the bridge that crosses the river going west and headed out of town, a minor victory under my arm, but without packaging the goal of my visit with Miss Hogg. Some miles in front of me darkness was rolling over the hills and smothering the grey, damp day with night. The steady sound and sweep of my windshield wipers measured the temper of my mood, a wordless metronome of purpose. Over my head a soft peppering of rain on the roof and a gentle wind chanted whispered rhythm of insistent presence of nature’s night spirits.

I moved over the wide valley of fertile bottom land, carved and silted over centuries by the Illinois River. It must have been good soil and fish to settle generations of continental tribes. Indeed, it still has to this day. The road followed the river and made ninety degree turns as it traced along the township survey lines which defined, in rods and leagues, the acreage of farm lots.

As night blanketed the sky, the rich black dirt was brushed grey by a slight quilt of snow fallen some days before. Intermittent headlights of approaching cars moved like fireflies in the distance of the leveled valley and let me feel secure, since there was no other illumination save an occasional barnyard light in the curtilage of a remote farmhouse. The rain was not freezing. The big plows had done their work so the road was safe and open.

Maintenance and the application of state and county funds for the townships was a carefully nurtured responsibility for many reasons, including patronage and contracts. These roads patterned veins of commerce and sustenance on the plains. Jobs to do and keep. Trucks to come and go. Furrows to plow and seeds to plant. Corn to harvest and load to markets.

It was a good time to ponder the venture into this harvesting effort of my own. I turned on the radio to soothing nocturnes of Chopin and quietly mused as I watched the roadside signs come, and glow, and pass by in the night. I reached easy curves moving under the car as the contours of the hills of the west end of the valley rose comfortably closer. I was wrapped in darkness and the night was mine.

Calhoun County is unique in the topography of the central plains states, mostly because it doesn’t fit, but partly because it fits so well. It nestles alone between the rivers above the juncture of the Illinois and the Mississippi just a few miles North by Northwest of St. Louis, where the Missouri joins in confluence, and the waters roll to meet the Ohio below Cairo. From there a great artery of life pours to the Louisiana Delta at the Gulf of Mexico. I remembered crossing the Mississippi in Louisiana over a great long bridge in a 1935 Ford before my fifth birthday.

Brussels was on a bluff above the west side of the Illinois where a ferry, a few miles north of Marquette Park, served travelers except in winter when the river was frozen over. I knew that I had to find the narrow bridge about twenty miles up-river near Hardin. It was the only door open to the village that night. After moving briefly over Schuyler and Pike counties, I found that I had to re-cross the river to traverse Greene and Brown Counties. I took State Route 100 south along the east side of the river for about an hour. The time was growing late; there was no more traffic on the road.

A lacy veil of heavy flakes tumbled now in front of my headlights. I dimmed them to reduce reflection. As I approached the narrow trestle I could see no traffic and the open steel-beam structure overhead gave some relief from the glare. The rickety floor was instantly dark, and scarcely wide enough for two passing cars.

Out of the dark, surging like an angry bull, an old black pick-up truck with no lights veered from nowhere onto the apron of the bridge, as fast as it could manage the move, careening down the center of the path. A rush of adrenaline must have saved my life. I pulled over to the right and escaped disaster by inches. Quite shaken, I followed the exit to the left as the reckless truck roared on into the night. For a moment the world felt hostile.

I found myself on an undulating blacktop road moving over a landscape with rolling hills covered with snow that continued to fall, but more gently. On my right, shadowy rows of bare trees were silhouetted against the ground now covered deep and white. Farmhouses were sparse and bundled in winter; I felt alone in an unfamiliar world.

The contours and shadows of the terrain suggested that tomorrow the return trip would please the eye. I stayed alert for any signs of life, with an occasional glance at my gas needle. It would be a little more than half an hour further to drive, with neither visible windmills nor Sancho Panza beside me, and Miss Hogg was no dream of Dulcinea.

None too soon for me, I spotted a cluster of homes down the road. I slowed, and took in the whole scene with lifted spirit. The little town in front of me was as pretty right then as a winter etching on a Christmas Greeting card. The road widened at what served as an intersection with County Road 1 niggling south, and a rutted black-top farm road coming in from the right. One hundred or so yards to the left there was an almost empty, wide welcoming space that could serve as a parking row for about fifteen cars and pickup trucks.

Just as I turned, a small house caught my eye. I had a thought that it could be the home of Roy Lessig. It was snuggled in snow and light smoke rose slowly from the sole chimney. The warm orange of pulled window shades and the suggestion of the palest of blue siding purred domesticity. Momentarily I felt that it would be a comfort in this little world to be invited in to talk with a local minion about my quest, and to enlist his better feelings to join what was to me an earnest commitment to improving the government of Illinois. It was late.

I moved the car up against a plow-packed four foot wall of snow that fronted the parking area. It was clearly there to accommodate visitors of the old Wittmond Inn which dominated the center of town with aged centennial significance, if not with grace. It was white but needed paint and had a shabby, shingled roof partly bare of snow melted by escaping heat. Nothing made it attractive but its character and its remnant niche in history.

The space where I parked was less than thirty yards in front of the big brooding building. A bright farm light hung over from a telephone pole near the corner of what passed for the Square. I got out of my car and started across. There was not a soul to be seen. A skinny old hound ambled down from the wide wooden porch of the inn and ventured into the street to check me out. She didn’t find me interesting and wandered by without another glance, but turned and watched as I made my way up three steps to the unlit entrance, and an uninviting big brown door.

When I pushed the well-worn bell button a loud clang echoed from the dark impenetrable interior. I waited. I rang again and waited. Nobody responded. Somewhat disheartened, I knew that I [BD1] had not made a reservation, nor had I considered that 9:30 or so would be too late to arrive at this minor wayside inn. If Jackie had called ahead, they must have given up on my late arrival.

The brindle hound made her way back up to the door and without taking note of me, laid down, placed her chin on the Welcome mat and closed her eyes. The whole street almost seemed to yawn in boredom. I glanced around. There in a window adjacent to the inn at the end of the veranda a dull yellow, neon sign suggested the possibility of Jack Daniels or one of his sipping whiskey, country brethren. I gave it a shot and went over to look in. There, save for my scrawny friend back on the doormat, was the first sign of life.

Immediately inside on the left was a cash register and counter space. Beyond that was a long mahogany bar wiped shiny clean as the butt of a marine’s rifle. There were enough bar stools to accommodate just about every adult male within walking distance, and room enough for a few ladies, but the stools were empty.

I pulled open the storm door to grab the brass handle and push open the heavy inner door that had a cheap cut-glass window. My eye was caught immediately by a large roundtable at the far end of the narrow room. It was covered with a green felt cloth; there was a stud poker game being dealt. I noted ashtray smoke rising and a few bottles of beer strategically placed close at hand. There were five playing, sprawling un-patterned on wooden chairs with three kibitzing over their shoulders. None of the eight were young, and all but one were well fed. Before the door was all the way opened, every head immediately turned to see a solitary stranger on a snowy night in their isolated town

One of the onlookers broke away and walked toward me with a pace of comfortable authority. Approaching from the backside of the bar, he came to the cash register and small counter. A man heavier, my height and about thirty years my senior called as he rolled toward me, “We’re closed, young fella.”

“Thank you,” I rejoined, “Can you tell me where I could find Roy Lessig?”

“Well shure. Roy lives right over there on th’other side a th’road next to th’farm road, but he’s probably in bed by now’n he ain’t too well. Wha’dya need?”

“Oh, I just want to talk with him, but thanks again.” I wondered if the inn was open, but he anticipated me, “Had dinner yet?” “No, I hoped to see Roy first but I was delayed.” I sort of lied, but it was a long time since that catfish and I was tired and hungry. “Roy’s the Republican County Chairman”, he hesitated-- “Are you in politics?” “Well, yes, sort of--”

With that, he turned to the poker table, where the locals had not really stopped paying attention to us. The game had become somewhat desultory. After all, a stranger stepping into their retreat at night in the middle of winter was a darn sight more interesting than the rest of a long game, and the dregs of a few beers. A little louder than I would have hoped, this porter of the castle quickly called to the back of the room, “Bar’s closed fellas. Time to call it a night.” Turning back to me he said more quietly, with evident pleasure, “We ain’t had a chance to talk politics in a long time.”

The body language at the table was acquiescent. Chairs scraped back, and the players, all save one, rose up and grabbed their jackets before filing out. Each passed us with a soft, ritual ‘G’ nite’. It was natural for the oldtimer to think that I would stay at the inn. It appeared that there was no place else in town and the wide dining room door was open just across from the bar.

One of the locals had hung back, and he came over to stand with us. “What woodja like t’eat?” he asked while putting on an apron that looked most natural and wellworn. For a moment I thought he could be a member of the family but I figured that, if he was, he would have been introduced that way.

The proprietor, innkeeper, host broke in with pride, “We’ve got plenty of any thing y’want, and it’s all fed, growed and cooked right here on the property. We make our own sausages.” Bob, in the apron, piped in with satisfaction, “We got our own pigs’n chickns’n aigs n’all the fresh veg’tables y’want.” “Well,” I ventured in my most neighborly way, “Whatever’s easy.” “Comin’ rightup, young fella.” He responded, disappearing to the back rooms, and who knows where.

“My name’s Carl Wittmond.” Putting out a hefty hand, with a hearty smile, the innkeeper added warmly, “Let’s go on in and set down.” Tension rolled off my back as I sat at the table while he pulled up a chair next to me. Soon Carl and I were going through the preliminaries: “Soon’s I heard your name I knew you was in politics. You’re Republican ain’tcha? What is it you’re runnin’ for again. Ain’t you runnin’ against old Charlie Carpentier’s son. I don’t care for what I been hearin’bout him, but I did like his daddy, even though I’m an ol’ time, deep-fried suthe’n democrat. Where you from? Up north ain’tcha? ‘Round Chicago, right?”

Bob, a lanky six-footer, broad bony shoulders, weighing in at about one hundred and seventy pounds, hurried into the room with a large tray precariously laden with serving forks and spoons, and steaming hot food in bowls and platters. Unceremoniously but effectively, all the appropriate elements of our repast found the way to most of the right places on the red and white checked table cloth.

Turning a wooden chair with one hand, he placed it with the back to the table edge. He plopped himself down astride the chair across from me. With his long arms stretched out over the table he leaned forward as if he was about to enjoy himself. Putting the ball in play, in an open way he started the fun without delay, “Got any insurince stock?”

“A little--,” I parried, lamely. After all, I did have some Life policies in a mutual, and had spent some years in Casualty and Reinsurance. There was nothing to worry about. I knew that he wanted to let me know that they were privy to the political posture of insurance business in Illinois. At the time it was somewhat less corrupt than it had been, not too long before. It had been a mother lode to insiders and they, apparently, had the keys to the kingdom.

“We got LOTS!!” he smiled proudly, and maybe just a little smugly, while he waited for me to get into the water with him. “It’s a good time for that.” I ventured, “This chicken is great.” With that Carl jumped in and said, “Bob, why don’cha get Brian a brandy for a nightcap.”

We got into a long conversation about as useful in content as cracker barrel parleys, but just as comfortable. Carl did not think that Chairman Lessig would be up and about on an early winter morning, so I settled in to make an impression on these two, small village town criers. After I had finished a meal as bountiful as a country cornucopia including homemade sausages, pork chops, vegetables, apple pie, muffins, house preserves and the kitchen sink. Carl was still telling yarns about his dear old friend Sam Rayburn and Sam’s younger friend Lyndon Johnson whom he did not know as well.

Carl had Bob take a photo of me standing with him for the local newspaper, run by Carl, that was used for publicity and goodwill for the inn. It was, in fact, placed in the next edition. Although my winter visit was certainly unusual, many tourists came during the summer when the ferry was operating. Before showing me to my room he took me, God knows why, into his personal treasure trove. Behind a strong, locked door he kept thousands of antique, unusual, comic or ceremonial unopened bottles and flasks of the finest whiskeys, bourbons and brandies. He also showed me cases of beautiful, unused rifles struck as favors for a long-ago ceremonial occasion. The rifles, he informed me, were obtained for him by Speaker Rayburn.

The bedroom was an antebellum classic with a four-poster, double bed covered with the thickest and deepest goose down quilt I ever hope to see. There was an old potbelly stove-pipe in the room, nicely banked hardwood logs on embers to burn slowly and last the night. The occasional gentle snaps and pops of the fire lulled me to sleep quickly. Amber, flickering firelight on the wooden walls was subtly soporific and soothing.

First light sneaked between the curtains to start a cold sunny morning, and the smell of the kitchen teased me down to a hearty breakfast with my two new friends. The bill for bed and breakfast was quite small. Perhaps it was a gift. The sun was up on a cloudless day. I left with a light heart.

Only after I started working on this saga did I learn that Carl Wittmond did not share with me, not only that he was a powerful and wealthy man in Calhoun County, but at the time that he was so pleasant, curious and disarming, he was also a Democrat State Legislator. I have been told very recently that the crates of ceremonial rifles are now, and have been since his death, sitting in a locked vault.

The road north was lighted by a cloudless azure sky. Rolling hills reflecting the bright morning sun in the East were glistening with the boon of pure white snow from the night. Random pointillism of nature was reflecting icy flakes in isolated patches of barely blue. Skeletal apple trees followed in ranks of martial orchards standing at parade rest, one after another. I learned that Calhoun County was in fact called ‘the apple orchard of Illinois’. The sky was filled with a greater variety of busy, colorful birds than I had ever seen in one morning. It was a glorious winter day.

Pike County was my next port of call. The County Chairman, George Wilson, was a hog farmer in the town of Bayless. He lived in a large white farm house on the crest of a rolling hill with his brother and his sister-in-law. Theirs had been a family business for many years.

I drove up the lengthy dirt driveway and climbed half-dozen sturdy steps to a wide and deep roofed porch. A huge brass bell hung from the front of the porch roof. I hesitated to ring it because I believed, from my own childhood memories, that it was probably there to call in anybody who was wanted from the far reaches of the farm. Mrs. Wilson swung the big door wide, with a quizzical note in her voice, “What is it?”

“My name is Brian Duff. Is Mr. Wilson at home?”

“No. What is it you want?” I had learned that Bible salesmen and other travelers would sometimes go calling out to country homes with their wares.

“I’d like to talk to him about my campaign for Secretary of State.”

“Oh”, she said, “That’s his brother George. He’s down at the faarin’ house”, she pointed. This was the first time had I heard ‘farrowing’ properly pronounced colloquially. News to me.

I trudged down forty yards toward two large farm buildings. Next to the bigger one was a heavy man in overalls with a rake on the ground beside him and a large shovel in his hands. He was hard at work shoveling an enormous pile of manure, and did not look up when I walked up and said, “Good morning, George. I’m Brian Duff. Can I talk to you about my campaign?” The beautiful morning was heady with the stink of pigs and manure.

He never turned his head when he retorted with my own oral miscue, “You can talk to me all you want as long as you don’t interrupt my chores.” “Thanks,” I said, “I don’t want to be a bother, but I did say I would be coming by.” “Fair enough,” he answered, putting down his shovel. “Let’s go on up to the faarin’ house.” He straightened up and looked at me, but didn’t put out his hand. That was either thoughtful, or learned.

We walked up to the other building. It was neither big as a barn nor small as a chicken house, but smelled better than either. This was the nursery where the sows dropped their litters. After birthing they stayed in a pen that was kept clean at a comfortable temperature. George went straight to work as we continued to get to know each other. It was obvious to him as I stood in the first pen wearing my city suit, shirt, shoes and tie, that I had not anticipated the hog farm.

We were getting along fine and I was quite pleased, when George looked up and asked, “Ever held a pig?” and with that he reached down and grabbed a piglet in one big hand by the hind legs. Just as quickly, he said, “Here ya’ go.” and dropped the little one in my reflexive extended arms. I stood there totally nonplussed, and blurted, “He’s cute. And light as a feather!”

He replied, quite satisfied, “Wal’ she won’t be fer long.” We chatted for a while longer until he took pity on me and let her down to hurry to her siblings at the teats of the languid sow. Undoubtedly the little pig was happier than I. George and I chatted all the way up to my ‘wagon’. He shook my hand, wished me good luck and smiled, “You’re a lot friendlier than the other fella.” I drove out from the big house feeling loaded for bear. My next stop was at Quincy on the Mississippi.

I was barreling up Illinois Route 106, immersed in the beauty of the rolling roads across wide open fields, covered by snow and the world, from horizon to horizon, under the cloudless cold blue sky. My appointments were with the Herald Whig, the powerful Quincy newspaper, and two television stations, WKUA and WGEM. As I passed several large farms I noticed an aroma, not totally unexpected, and saw a large billboard announcing that I was in the self-described ‘Pike County, Hog Capital of the World’. For several miles I cruised through the open country, impressed with the significance of the thriving production of pork, but I didn’t notice any pigs on the farmland.

It was I!! I stunk! How in h-- ? How did I--? But I only had one suit coat. It was that little piglet! Oh, WOW!

Within an hour I was to be interviewed in the office of Mr. T. C. Oakley, the most distinguished Illinois Managing Editor within a hundred miles, and next at two television interviews, -- well at least the cameras couldn’t smell me. I opened all the windows of the car; it was no damned stallion now. I pulled off the highway as the cold air rushed in the windows. The passenger seat was promptly dressed with my suit coat.

In no more than a minute, in my parka, I pulled back onto the highway unwilling to take a deep breath. I turned on the radio news and started thinking about the City of Quincy. With population under forty thousand people at the time, it was the only sizable market for fifty miles in every direction. That explained the importance of the media and the fine municipal facilities for such a remote small city. It is on the river, and Hannibal, Missouri, a tourist attraction, is a few miles downstream, the home town of Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer, Becky Thatcher, ‘Huckleberry’ Finn and their friend, Jim.

When I arrived in town it was lunch time so I drove down to see the Mississippi at close hand, to find a clean restaurant and to pick up a copy of the morning Herald Whig. This was in order to do my homework on the news of Illinois, but especially on Quincy as well as Mr. Oakley’s newspaper. Mr. Oakley would want to know if I supported his dream to get an interstate highway connected to Peoria. I would be happy to say that my experiences in covering the entire state had convinced me that something must be done to alleviate the problems and that I certainly intended to speak to Senator Percy about it. Yes Sir. I would do that.

After lunch and a brief chat with a few of the locals in the restaurant, I drove back up the hill to the front sidewalk of the newspaper. When I stepped out of the car into the crisp fresh air and slight breeze, my concern about my meeting with the piglet faded. I was ushered into the unexpected, modest executive office of Mr. C. T. Oakley. He chortled a little when I explained my fragrant presence. It helped to break the ice. We talked very seriously of the political circumstances of Illinois and the desperate condition of the office of the Secretary of State. He was quite favorable to my goals, and his paper took the same attitude. Another merit badge.

It was a few blocks up the street to the television stations and the interviews went well. Both studios were staffed by younger men, all of whom enjoyed the blithely told story of my embarrassment. Their laughter was more appreciative of my encounter with the essence of Pike County. In each place it led to jovial repartée and effective sharing of facts and opinions. They each commented that they got good tape with their cameras.

After a meeting in the afternoon with ‘Hap’ Northern, Adams County Chairman, a tall man with black hair, fair skin and a strong voice, he invited me to go to dinner with him and with all of the Precinct Committeemen of the county at the Spring Lake Country Club, a good distance out of town. Enroute he let me know that he approved of my campaign and wanted to help, unexpected benefit to me;

He made it a point to tell me that at The Old Soldiers and Sailors Home, which we drove past, was the only such facility still open in Illinois and the folks in Adams County felt proud of it. It had been there for many years, but it was having financial trouble and, because he was Administrator of it, he wanted to get help from the State. I allowed as how I understood that.

We came up to a large lodge in the woods north of Quincy and went in to join an on-going, most congenial party. It was an attractive men’s club, at the time, with trophies and pictures on the walls. ‘Hap’ showed me around and introduced me with complimentary words indicating his strong approval of my efforts. They were serving barbequed chicken, and before dinner most were having a beer or two. The conversations were jovial in groups of a few, and one on one. It was a positive and agreeable evening.

When I returned to my car, Springfield was less than two hours away. I could get there in time to get a good night’s sleep in the old Hotel Lincoln, a favorite of camping politicians, lobbyists and electoral ‘wannabes’. When I arrived, I registered, unpacked in my room, and went down to dinner. In the dining room I waved to a few, met and shook some hands. Politicians call it “making the room”.

The next day I visited the Capitol building Press room. Afterwards I dropped in at the office of ‘Vic’ Smith, Chairman of the Republican State Central Committee, who said he was neutral but who was known to be hostile to my opponent whom he knew well. ‘Vic’ owned and edited the newspaper in Robinson, the county seat of Crawford County. He was a friend of ‘Skinny’ Taylor, who owned and operated a trucking company in Decatur. ‘Skinny’ was the County Chairman of Macon County and very influential President of the Association of Illinois County Chairmen. I felt that he would be one of my strong supporters. I was wrong.

I had lunch at the State House Inn, schmoozed with some local supporters to get up to date, and had coffee with former Governor Stratton who was running a reminiscent, final campaign for Governor. He wanted me to win, and often gave me friendly and good advice. He knew far more about state government than the major candidates.

The day had been long. ‘Doc’ Fonner wasn’t home when I called his comfortable country home in a town of about two hundred folks. ‘Doc’ was the long tenured Chairman of Piatt County with varied special skills in politics gained by experience. Included in his portfolio were many years of success at finding unique ways of gaining entrance, for his chosen friends, to sacra sanctora of varied venues of quadrennial Republican National Conventions. Skinny had told me that ‘Doc’ had never failed.

I had been the beneficiary of his singular prowess in 1964, at the Cow Palace in San Francisco and in 1968 at Miami, Florida, There are other yarns to be told about those days, perhaps down the road. Doc had become a good friend and supporter, so it would be just an “I was in the neighborhood” kind of stop.

When I left Springfield in mid-afternoon, the temperature was in the mid-thirties and the sky was ominous. I chose a slightly longer route with better highways. Route 29 took me through Taylorville to Pana, both in Christian County, where it met Route 51 that bisected Illinois. I then headed south for fifty miles of fast, fairly flat and open road across farmland, with plenty of snow fences appropriately placed, to Vandalia, the second capitol of Illinois. Thence another hour or so, East by Northeast, on Route 40 through Effingham, Greenup (pronounced ‘gren’p’), and into Clark County through Casey to Martinsville, a community of about one thousand people, where Lowell Bennett, the Republican County Chairman, lived.

About halfway down the eastern border of Illinois, the level terrain is topped with deep deposits of rich, black soil, a residual gift from retreating great glaciers of eons past. Most of the counties are buttoned on the road maps by small towns or crossroad stores that stock available varieties of necessaries such as tools, machines, gasoline, beer and seed. They shelve the needs and wants that can’t be grown even in the remarkable furrows, nor kept like grain and livestock in spacious barns and corrals. Without a doubt the variety of the very old County Courthouses are noteworthy in their architecture, singularity, history and ubiquity.

Some counties have livestock auction barns, which often on a slow day tickle the curiosity of local gentry, itinerant profiteers, fans of cockfights or dogfights in the pits on the dirt floors behind closed doors. These arenas are not common although interesting to the rare urban outsider, like myself, who might stop by after a lunch visit in the vicinity. Martinsville, my next stop, was more than two hundred miles from home. I had arranged to visit with Lowell at his home. We had last met, during the Percy for Governor campaign, a little less than four years before, in Dwight, Illinois at The Log Cabin on Route 66.

On this campaign, Rosinante, a light blue Oldsmobile Rocket 88, was clocking tens of thousands of miles, and I was logging many hours on the roads and highways. I felt like a Circuit rider of the Illinois courts in the nineteenth century. If I had to ride as Abraham Lincoln had in these same areas, I felt that this car would be my favorite and most reliable horse. Shortly thereafter that feeling was to be reinforced again.

Route 40 angles East by Northeast from St. Louis to Clark County and the Indiana state line. It was a two lane highway, now paralleled by I-70. The snow was getting ahead of the plows, so the road needed more attention than I was giving it. In the dusk the countryside had turned to a landscape hue, a beautiful scene of palest blue and gray with the few homes in the distance beginning to turn on a lamp or two. It was exquisite. There was still enough light and I was less than twenty minutes from Martinsville but with no lights along the highway, so I figured I should shake a leg.

Right about then I felt the car sliding, slowly sideways to the right side of the road. It didn’t bother me a much at the moment; I had learned to drive on New England snowy hills. The car had rear wheel drive, of course, so I turned the wheel slightly to the right as I took my foot off the pedal. I slowed, but soon was helpless as I slipped over the edge of the highway almost sideways, leaving only the left front tire on the road. With little help from me, the car stopped dead.

When I found that I couldn’t get back on the asphalt, I stopped maneuvering in order to assess my mess. The situation was getting progressively worse as the tires had spun small trenches in the snow. There was no help to be seen. Not a car, nor a house, not a barn, nor shovel or bucket of sand within a mile. No way to let Lowell Bennett know of the fix I was in. It was getting cold, the darkness had set in.

After walking around the car and taking a look, I did not feel any better, so I pulled up my collar, buttoned my overcoat and started hiking. Then, feeling very challenged, I decided go back to try once again. Thinking that it was probably a waste of time, and unimportant to take off my cap and unbutton my coat, I got in the car and tried every move in the book. Nothing worked. I accelerated slowly, stopped, rolled back and stopped, turned the wheel this way, then that way. Gunned it and stopped again, wiped perspiration off my head and neck. Hopeless, I tried one more time, slowly, slowly. IT WORKED !

With a silent visceral cheer, my adrenalin surge diminished. I had escaped. I was unshackled. I was competent. And—I was late. Within two minutes I was incompetent again. In my transient reverie, I had passed the turn-off to Martinsville. There was no sun nor stars or road marks to guide my fading instincts. I made a careful three-point turn in the middle of the highway and headed back, using healthy and hearty Anglo-Saxon verbiage under my breath.

Entering Martinsville, it was a relief to see signs. The final turn, off the main route was downhill and sharp to the right. The Bennett home was only ten car lengths from the corner. It had a deep porch, warm interior lights and was a comfortable twenties type house. After ringing the front doorbell several times without response, I walked back to a telephone booth on the corner of the street and dialed the number once. A soft voice answered. When I asked for Lowell, his wife told me that he was out at his mother’s house on the farm.

It is about a mile back out of town from where I had just passed. The driveway was plowed and long. I stepped quickly up to the porch and the door opened almost immediately to my ring. His mother was expecting me and informed me that her son was out in the farrowing shed just a short distance from the house.

The lights were on in the little shed and the door was standing partly open. Loud hammering was the only invitation I heard, and inside a big man was on his knees in work clothes with his back to me. It was apparent from my perspective that there was a lot of body in those overalls. On the other side of the bouncing boards, also on his knees, his twelve year old son was holding one end of a wide plank. In a quiet corner of the background, a very pregnant sow was on her side, silently breathing steamy air into her chilly pen.

It was getting very cold, a little windy and still snowing. I walked out of the shadow into the wide open door, tapped firmly over the sound of the pound of the hammer, and stepped in. “Hi Lowell. I’m Brian Duff. Your wife said I’d find you out here.”

“Howdy, Brian” was his rejoinder. “This is my son, Scott. We’re tryin’ t’git this shed closed up. It’s s’posed t’get freezin’ t’night. The sow’s Scott’s 4-H project.” Her breathing was a little heavy and puffing steam in the cold; the scene spoke for itself.

I nodded with a ‘Hi’ to Scott and asked his dad, “Can I be any help?” “Yeh,” he answered, “if you cu’d hold th’other end of that two-by-four steady for me in a minute.”

While I took off my coat and laid it on a box, I said “Sure.” I grabbed the long pole and held it vertical while we fixed it to a wall of planks. We went on about Scott, the sow, my trip, and so on. Mostly we just worked, and chatted about the shed for twenty minutes or so when he looked at his boy and, getting to his feet, he offered, “That oughta do it.” He said with satisfaction, “Let’s go up to Grandma and get some hot cocoa.”

That roomy farmhouse kitchen was as toasty and friendly as you could ever find. Grandma, silver hair, and apron over a flannel dress, was in her late seventies, exuding the essence of familial love in expression, word and tone as she sat us down at her kitchen table, large enough to seat ten to twelve. In no time flat she served to each of us, hot cocoa and a muffin with home preserved jam. Introductions and explanations filled the time until Lowell pushed his chair back, noting the wall clock, declared that we had better get down to the house. His wife would not have had dinner yet. I followed his pick-up truck back to his home. All three of us hustled up to the front door and went in.

Initially, my view of the interior was obscured by the moving bulk of the big man and the boy. As they hurried into the large front room I was a bit taken aback to discover that the lady of the house, and she was that in every sense, was a small, quadriplegic woman in a wheel chair. All of her evident strength was in a telephone arranged next to her ear so that with minimal use of her right hand she could answer and talk on the telephone as she had with me.

Already impressed with this family I was, nevertheless, instantly touched by the classic Agapé of committed love demonstrated spontaneously and sincerely by these two sturdy males’ responses to the presence of this frail and almost helpless mother and wife. Unpretentious joy and gentleness filled all corners of this family home. Gwendolyn was her name. Her speech was beautiful, clear and intelligent as she responded with ease to the presence of her men and their new guest.

Lowell went to her immediately with a smile, a “Hi, Dear”, and a kiss with a gentle stroke of his big strong arm to her cheek and hair. Scott followed quickly, wearing a bright, healthy smile and a “Hi, Mom,” and a hug. That done, I became the center of attention. With barely a pause, Lowell went and came back from the kitchen with a bowl and a soup spoon. Sitting down in a chair set by her, he skillfully delivered a warm, winter soup to Gwen’s mouth at a pace that never interfered with her desire to be part of the conversation. We were in out of the cold. The warmth of this home silently abounded in every heart.

The safety of the sow was assured; Scott said good-by to me and headed upstairs to do his homework. These good folks had opened their doors to me and I have always treasured the memory. The recollection of the earlier meeting at The Log Cabin in Livingston County was steadied up in conversation, and the business of my call in Clark County was melded with the generated good feeling. Hearing Gwen’s voice and intelligence were like finding dew on early morning blossoms.

I sat in a chair close to her, while Lowell tended to a number of matters. He put a shawl about her shoulders; she offered, and he made, sandwiches for me and for himself. We sat and talked about ourselves, and families and weather and of course politics and my efforts. Gwendolyn shared with me that Scott was the joy of her life. She had contracted polio fourteen years ago and he had been born a little more than a year later. They all felt that God had graced their lives.

Lowell Bennett was a man who had firm beliefs. Before I left he told me that I had his support. Gwen, clearly a caring person, was concerned about where I was going for the next stop. It was still snowing and the predictions were dire. The hour was late and the roads out there were dark and dangerous. They suggested that I stay with them, and fortune proved them to be correct but, because of my commitments, I felt that I could not. They gave me good and clear advice on those roads which they thought were safest.

Lowell put up a thermos of coffee and a snack for the road. Gwen told me, as I left, that I would be in her prayers. I headed out looking for Illinois Route 1 to take south to Wabash County. As you can imagine, I have never forgotten that beautiful family. The folks are gone now and, three score and seven years later, Scott, I’m told, is still breeding thoroughbred sows.

When I came to the stop sign, about four miles away, I turned to the right toward Mt. Carmel on the west side of the Wabash River heading down to the Ohio. Most of Route 1 was a straight line south for two dozen miles through Robinson, in Crawford County and twenty more through Lawrenceville, in Lawrence County, and another ten to Mt. Carmel. You can call Robinson a rural town if you choose to do so, but as I drove through that night I recalled that it was a gem.

The oil and gas wells were pumping away in the fields bobbing like strange silhouettes of prehistoric birds. In summer the crops were lush and green with seven-foot, tasseled corn rows. The newspaper was high quality, the country club was impressive and on fair days the greens were responsive to a good putt. The schools were new and Heath Candy Bars produced jobs and sweet cash flow for the community.

Mt. Carmel, county seat of Wabash County, was another story. I arrived sometime after eleven. The town was almost unlighted and motionless. The snow had stopped coming down and it lay on the vacant streets and sidewalks. Except for a tired Main Street and a park of many leafless trees, there was a dull emptiness. It was, perhaps, the hour.

There was no room at the inn. In fact I didn’t find a tent or even an open door. With minor trepidation, I cruised to a sole light in the park and cautiously examined the possible types of exposure before I put on as much comfortable clothing as I could. Then I lay down across the backseat to sleep. It wasn’t freezing, but it sure wasn’t cozy.

I woke up with the morning light. My view of the pale and clouded winter sky was filigreed by the veil of thin black branches at the highest levels of the tall trees. Before I knew I was hungry, I knew that I needed to shave prior to meeting Robert Henneberger, Chairman of the Wabash County Republican Central Committee, and a successful attorney. The county had never seemed, on the basis of what I knew, to be a fruitful area to harvest votes. Perhaps a certain amount of fatigue had leaked into the bucket of my enthusiasm.

I found a coffee shop that had a washroom where I could shave, wash up and change my shirt. I bought a local newspaper and claimed an empty booth for breakfast, reading and a few memos. At noon Bob met me as agreed at a nice main street restaurant. We had a complete conversation on the issues and the politics of my campaign. He gave me the rundown on Wabash County during a wide ranging discussion on the major issues of the day. We asked about each other and talked about ourselves. It didn’t take long to discover that the unenthusiastic opinions garnered from others about Bob were substantially incorrect.

He was, as advertised, pretty conservative in his general attitudes but intelligent and frank in his comments. It was a healthy exchange and seemed as if there would be a good chance for me to get help from ‘Little Egypt’. It is a phrase used to take in the southernmost part of Illinois that starts at the foothills of the Ozarks, down to Cairo which is further south than the entire state of West Virginia, and four hundred miles from the Wisconsin State line.

I was late getting started to the home town of Candy Hill, Chairman of Hardin County. Candy had a general store in Cave in Rock, Illinois, on the Ohio River. The cave is where slaves, escaping through Kentucky, were given safe harbor in the Underground Railway during the 19th Century. I went right on through White County where I already had help. Then through Gallatin County, ‘The Popcorn Capital of the World’ where my good, little friend ‘Cowboy’ Jackson lived, and raised corn in addition to serving as County Chairman. I passed by Shawneetown, the home town of attorney Joe Hale, Chairman of the Republican State Central Committee and ‘Cowboy’s’ strong ally. Shawneetown was the first State Capitol of Illinois and was the base of Peabody Coal Company.

Arriving at Cave in Rock in the gloaming, I saw only one store on the single noticeable street, and ventured into that store. There were no smiles and no expressions except stares. Nobody spoke. “Is this Candy Hill’s store?” I glanced around. “Whadda ya want?” came a brusque reply from someone. “He’s gone home”, came from another. “Where does he live?” from me. “Back where ya cum frum.” from the first voice. “Back up the hill.” from a third. “The biggest house you see.” said the second voice, punctuated by grunts from the chorus. “Thanks.” said I, as I left and mounted Rosinante in retreat.

I saw no big homes for a mile and then took a chance when I noticed a solid brick ranch house that might qualify as ‘bigger’. It was placed high above the road. I turned up the steep driveway and pulled up right in front of the house. It was no surprise when I heard barking from inside by what I took to be very large dogs. There was no response when I rang the doorbell, except for more angry barking. Perhaps I had underestimated the size of the dogs. I rang a second time and waited.

When the door finally opened and I saw a very short and rotund man about twenty years older than myself. He was backed up by a Great Dane and a German Shepherd. I said quickly,“ Hi. Candy. I’m Brian Duff.” Just as quickly, he retorted angrily, “I know who you are.” “May I come in and talk with you?” “NO!!” and the door slammed shut, while the dogs seemed to celebrate their victory.

Whipped for the day, I got back in the car. It was after six. The sky was pitch black and the gas gauge read empty. The next stop was Metropolis, the County seat of Massac County. I drove through the unlighted Shawnee National Forest for miles, around blind curves and over steep hills looking for a gas station or a telephone.

There had been many difficult engagements in the years before and after those which you have heard, and I cannot but anticipate that there could be more on different fields. To conclude, let me quote briefly some thoughts of Albert Camus who wrote, “The struggle to reach the top is itself enough to fulfill the heart of man. One must believe that Sisyphus is happy.”[2] Two years later he wrote, “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” [3]