Posted on 11/14/2002 11:14:11 AM PST by RGrizzle
The year was 1992. President George Bush, the elder, was failing in the polls. In a final attempt to save his re-election bid, President Bush decided to launch a whistle-stop train tour that would include my humble hometown of Gainesville, Georgia. The purpose of this tour would be to invigorate the state of Georgia with its thirteen electoral votes in support of the President.
Local Republican leaders sought volunteers to make the President’s stop a fertile one. One that would help lead a nation to the respectable candidate. They needed my help to salvage a presidency. The President needed me. Democracy itself was beckoning me to service. I would not fail my nation.
I arrived before dawn that late October morning to report for duty. My assignment, balloon detail. I was charged with seeing that the President’s stop in my beloved hometown would end with the release of an armada of red spheres that would lift the spirits of an electorate. I was up to the challenge.
To say that these blessed balloons were merely red is to perform a shameful disservice. They were not merely red. The color of these magnificent orbs if displayed within the context of an automotive showroom could only be described as Grand-Old-Party Red. They were stately indeed.
Partnered with a company of elementary students, I began my work. I labored in earnest filling each balloon with hope. I wrapped the opening end around my finger with the utmost care, cautious not to release its precious contents. However, my humanity soon began to falter.
I became keenly aware of a blister forming on my index finger. A few balloons later and the blister was such that I could no longer continue tying the balloons using that finger. However, I would not disappoint my President. I moved to the next finger. When it failed me I moved to the next. Then to the next. Then to the next. Finally, I was left with no appendage without the horrific wounds of a grand political battle. Despite my suffering I, along with my age-challenged comrades, had assembled our armada.
The weather that day was magnificently beautiful with a royal blue sky peering down upon us from on high. The agenda for the event included many nameless local politicians speaking to an anxiously awaiting crowd. After a tortured delay, my meeting with providence had finally come. President Bush arrived and spoke to the untold throngs. I cannot readily recall what was said though I was soaking in every ounce of this surreal moment.
The conclusion of the Commander In Chief’s speech signaled the launch of my armada. As the crowd cheered, the balloons rose to proclaim their triumph. Or so was the plan. The armada so carefully and painfully prepared was overwhelmed by that enormous blue sky. The fruit of my labor seemed insignificant compared to this vast blue background that draped the heavens. In disbelief I peered first at my injured hands and then anguished at the meager display above. For what had I sacrificed so much?
A few weeks later found me once again dazed as I listened the political pundits assess the election that had just been completed. I gazed in horror at the electoral map as a few lonely red states were desperately surrounded by a sea of blue representing the votes soon to be cast by the Electoral College. The pain intensified as I realized that Georgia with its 13 electoral votes was shaded a demoralizing blue. My armada filled with hope had been badly thwarted by a man from Hope. My mission had failed.
As I reflected on the events I pondered what might have been. If I had marshaled more courage and strength to fill more balloons could the presidency have been saved? Had I let my President down?
With age has come wisdom. I now see that what my President had needed wasn’t more balloons. . . . He needed more electoral votes. One hundred and two to be exact. Perhaps more political savvy when dealing with the opposition party on tax issues would have been a nice addition as well. It is now clear that I wasn’t the only person who failed to listen to the President’s message on that fateful day.
I often reflect on these events. My hands have recovered from their injuries although my heart still bears its scars. I will join the good fight of Democracy again someday. However, I hope my next assignment is simply the distribution of yard signs. Curse those wretched balloons!
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