Existentialism in Granite

The Search

Up I-93, on the road to New Hampshire, a road well-traveled. I-93, the artery that runs through the Granite State, the presidential hopeful's lifeblood, the road that gave McGovern and McCarthy a chance. Live Free and travel I-93, or ....

The leaves are frazzled and fraying now, the hues of mid-fall gone. But a trace of the brilliance remains, enough to stir the stomach. New Hampshire retains its quaint mystique, the facade that the media and the politicos penetrate in February of every leap year. Something intangible, but pervasive, emanates from this state of towns carved from foothills. It draws the curious observer, and so eight months after the primary, the search begins anew.

The Politics of Everydayness

The frenetic fervor that engulfed New Hampshire in February has dissipated. By all accounts, the state is solid Ronald Reagan country. His organizers walk around with smug smiles: "We've got this state easily," they say, invariably lowering their voices as if bellowing out the foregone conclusion would be in bad taste, or worse, bring bad luck. The Reagan people work from nine-to-five, the kind of hours their favorite kept up when he was governor of California. The Republican's campaign headquarters are spacious, and, for the most part, empty. No more envelopes left to stuff, no more door-to-door canvassing and lit dropping--and so the volunteers stay home. One pot of coffee adequately hypes those who appear each morning and leave in time for dinner. It is the campaign as business: not the corporation's most lucrative or difficult deal, but every deal counts. Now going through the motions, Reagan's New Hampshire effort has slipped into the politics of everydayness. It is just a matter of waiting, they are confident, before Walter Cronkite declares, "As expected, the state of New Hampshire has given its three electoral votes to Ronald Reagan."

In the deepest sense, President Carter's campaign workers do not offer a contrast. In similarly hollow offices, only a courageous few continue the struggle, betraying the same self righteous air as their Republican counterparts. In similarly hollow offices, only a courageous few continue the struggle, betraying the same selfrighteous air as their Republican counterparts. In their hearts, they too know they are right. Ronald Reagan seems no fiercer an enemy than Ted Kennedy, whom Carter comfortably defeated here. A little jaded, Carter's workers take comfort in his recent upsurge in the national polls, and go through the motions, driven by the impossible dream of a New Hampshire upset. But their efforts are tinged with despair. They hope to see Walter Cronkite lift his eyebrows and declare, "In a tighter race than expected, Ronald Reagan barely held on to New Hampshire's three electoral votes."

The Political Bureau

Reagan's southern New Hampshire headquarters are housed in a downtown Manchester church. An American flag drapes the entrance. A reporter walks in and asks how things are going, what the atmosphere is like.

Jim Berry, director of organization, gray suit and gray hair, declines comment. "If you're from the press, you'll have to go see Joe Zellner. He's our press man. The rules say you have to get any public statement from him." He directs his associate director, Doris Genest, to give directions. She delegates the responsibility to Gordon Hensley, a young staffer transferred from Washington, where he used to "do work with the Republican National Committee."

The reporter persists. Won't anyone just chat about the mood of the campaign? The room falls silent.

Hensley escorts the reporter outside and says, "Don't worry about Berry. He's just a bureaucrat." Hensley talks for a few minutes, and adds, "Look, if you have any problems, come back and see me. I'll be interviewed. I'll be here until six or seven." Hensley evokes the image of a 25-year-old 45-year-old.

Upon returning at 4:45, the reporter is told that Hensley has left for the day. And that Ronald Reagan wants to trim the bureaucracy.

The Georgian

A photograph of former President Richard M. Nixon adorns the wall in front of which Zellner, Reagan's state media director, sits. "I'm from Georgia and my whole family was Depression Democrat. In those days, no one in the South voted Republican. Now, no one in my family is a Democrat. And just wait for the 1980 census to redistribute the electoral votes. Carter forestalled the trend in the South, but the balance of power in this country is shifting. The political spectrum has moved. And Reagan has straddled the center."

As Zellner--who has lived in New Hampshire for 12 years--discusses the election, W. Stephen Thayer, the campaign's executive director, blankly watches the Muppets on TV and waits for the Boston evening news.

"The campaign is more a matter of doing homework now. We know our guy can draw the votes, and it's not the same helter-skelter as it was before the primary," Zellner continues. "The entire party hierarchy is working together now. Reagan has brought about unity. In the primaries, he was not a dividing force. And Carter is so bad, people are willing to unify."

How has the campaign managed to appeal to the moderate Republicans in the state, given Reagan's image as a conservative? Zellner grows annoyed at the seemingly innocuous question, raising his voice. "Only in Harvard, Massachusetts, is Reagan not considered a moderate. Right now, he is mainstream. The primaries showed it."

Thayer, in whose law office the headquarters are located, swivels from the TV. "How do you read Massachusetts?" he asks.

The Salty Dog

Happy Hour starts at 4 p.m. at The Salty Dog pub in Manchester, but Dave Pidgeon has been there since three. Pidgeon, born in the Bronx, N.Y., sells for a living. He left work early to come to The Dog to talk about the debate last Tuesday, two days earlier. He has mulled over the same drink for an hour.

"I wouldn't be surprised to see Anderson win it all," he says. "I talked to four people today who told me they're going to vote for Anderson. It would be great to see the underdog come in. I wouldn't be surprised."

Pidgeon thinks Carter has made some mistakes, and points out a subject close to home, the South Bronx. "He should never have made that commitment, and now Reagan is railing about it. But Reagan could never do anything about it either. They should burn the place down." Pidgeon has lived in Manchester for six years, and says he is one of the few people around town who has never met a presidential candidate in person.

But he doesn't care to meet Carter. "In that debate, he reminded me of Nixon. Defensive. Nixon without getting caught."

Mike Lupour, a factory worker who has encountered several White House hopefuls, overhears. "If you ask me, Carter is scary. Here's this debate, and everyone thinks Reagan is the scary one. But Carter reminded me of Nixon. Four more years. I don't know."

A commercial comes over the television, and the bar is hushed. "...Vote Republican. For a change." Lupour turns, and says slowly, "Look. Ronald Reagan is a nice guy."

The Real War

In Concord or in Manchester, signs for Reagan and Carter are hard to find. Clearly, the focus of attention has shifted to tight and emotional local races more likely to produce a high turnout. The signs for the state campaigns abound: Gallen vs. Thompson for governor, Durkin vs. Rudman for Senate, all the way down to Francis Sheine for Governor's Council.

Although traditionally a Republican state in the presidential race, New Hampshire usually has a high "split" vote, ar the latest polls show Democratic Gov. Hugh Gallen and Democratic Sen. John Durkin holding hard-earned but firm leads in the gubernatorial and senatorial races.

Sally Apgar, 22, is Durkin's press secretary. She worked with Kennedy's campaign for most of the year, met Durkin--one of the first senators to support his Massachusetts. counterpart's presidential bid--and was taken with his pith. She sits in a cluttered corner, making phone calls and taking notes on a makeshift desk of paper boxes. The state Durkin headquarters is a flurry of activity.

"Aren't you sick of doing this?" One Durkin volunteer carps to her neighbor while folding flyers.

"It's like atrophy. It's putting me to sleep," her co-worker agrees.

A ranking organizational official reminds them, "Now, now, girls, we only have a half-dozen point lead in the polls."

Between phone calls, Apgar reflects on the campaign. Durkin is one of six liberal senators targeted by a nationwide conservative program to acquire Congressional clout. "He's definitely on the hit list; it's really hot race," Apgar says.

But, she adds, the pace pales in comparison to the frantic vote scramble before the February 24 presidential primary, which Carter won comfortably. "The final month was incredible. There was so much exposure and such a small electorate, it seemed like there were more campaign workers than voters." Now, she says, a definite "fatigue factor" has set in. "The average person on the street is so tired or hearing about the campaign. But in general, people here are a lot more aware."

Because New Hampshire voters are accustomed to "sitting down at the kitchen table" with presidential candidates, the "other"--non-presidential--contenders must do extensive grass roots campaigning. That suits Durkin just fine. "For the last five days, he's been up at 6 a.m. to visit factories. Hand-to-hand, door-to-door, that's the senator's style," his press secretary says.

The 44-year-old Durkin, a former state insurance commissioner, has no reason to expect anything to come easily. In 1974, when he first ran for the Senate, his election night vigil lasted nearly a year. The New Hampshire secretary of state said Durkin ended up ten votes ahead of opponent Louis C. Wyman; the Republican ballot commission gave Wyman a two-vote lead. No one really knew who won, least of all the Senate, which gave up trying to resolve the disputed election and sent the whole thing back to New Hampshire for another run-through.

Durkin easily captured the special election, and in his five years in "the club" has become one of the Senate's leading energy experts. He strongly favors the development of alternative energy sources, and sees big oil companies as a threat to the country's future. As to the controversial nuclear plant at Seabrook, Durkin favors coal conversion--to a refined brand of coal that meets Environmental Protection Agency standards. He has not shied from maverick stands, and is on the progressive cutting edge on many issues. His campaign handout says, "John Durkin is tough--he's blunt."

If Durkin is blunt, his opponent, Republican Warren Rudman, is downright ingenuous. The beneficiary of vigorous efforts by the National Conservative Political Action Committee, Rudman has watched his incumbent adversary crudely portrayed as a pro-busing, anti-prayer buffoon. One NCPAC leaflet has Durkin teaching a class of children--two of the children are white, with books on their neatly ordered desks. The two Black children are unflatteringly depicted; their desks are messy and bookless. John Durkin, the leaflet states, casts "anti-child" and "anti-parent" votes.

Other handouts are not so blatant, but they give a clear notion of what Rudman draws on for support. One taxation handout states in boldface that Durkin voted TO KILL a cut in the social security payroll tax hike, TO KILL a $30 billion tax cut, TO KILL a $7.3 billion tax cut, and TO KILL a 10-per-cent individual tax cut. "This message is brought to you by Defeat Durkin because you should have the facts when you select your next U.S. Senator," voters are informed; on a coupon, the leaflet adds, "I agree that John Durkin's two-faced record must be exposed," with room for a check mark.

For the record, Rudman supports the balanced budget and a peacetime draft ("both men and women should be subject to the draft, but women should not be assigned to combat duty"). His "position on the issues" flyer states that he "would have opposed" the Panama Canal Treaty. A former member of the New Hampshire ballot commission, he ruled against Durkin in the 1974 election dispute. Rudman leaves no paths untrod.

In contrast to Durkin's office in Manchester, Rudman's--situated a block up the street (on the other side of the road, of course)--is quiet. Volunteer Priscilla Jacobsen sits alone at a neat desk. "Mr. Rudman would make a fine senator. He was a fine state attorney general. He's definitely moderate--not right wing, not liberal. He has the right answers," she says. Having just lost her job, Jacobsen is getting involved with politics for the first time. "I'm exuberant," she says, adding that the presidential primary sparks a political consciousness that lasts until election day. "The primary generates tremendous business and ink. It gets politics into little towns. That's what keeps the interest up.

A Sense of Exceptionalism

For its paltry three electoral votes, New Hampshire exerts a disproportionate influence on the course of presidential politics. The people of the state realize their exceptional position, and carry a weighty sense of responsibility. A burden, almost, but one borne with pride. Most seem to enjoy politics for its intrinsic value, not as a means to some end but as a way of life. While many are bored with the protracted campaign, this seems linked to the current election rather than a long-term trend.

The attendant at the combined bus terminal motel in Manchester glances at the city's Union Leader, tool of conservative publisher William Loeb, which has Ronald Reagan splayed all over the front page. "Every day, the same thing," he says.

He pauses, then reconsiders. "The candidates for 1984 should be by any day now.