by Greg Sandora
“Jack, what if you’re not elected and we don’t do it?”
“Well, imagine continuing down the path we’re on. It only gets worse, we send our treasure away to buy oil and cheap junk overseas and squander our children’s future.”
“Jack, thanks for explaining this to me. I know what you’re really about now and I’m quite taken by you.”
I said, "I feel very close to you, too.”
“Jack, you said in our interview - you would be debating in Boston two weeks from tonight. It hadn’t crossed my mind to tell this before, but I am one of the moderators for the event. The league of Women Voters and NIM has sponsored three debates, and they’ve asked me to do them all. Jack…”
“I hadn’t felt this way before, but I’m telling you now, you’re right about this country, I want you to do well.”
“That’s off the record,” I joked.
“Way off,” Lexi clutched tight to me as we walked back up the walkway to the stairs then onto the porch. I flicked the light on. Lexi reached into her bag and gave me her personal cell number.
“If you ever want to talk, please call me, Jack.”
The next time I called her number was after the interview aired on the national news. Aired in pieces over several evenings; we were pleased with the editing.
Bud thought our own staff couldn’t have scripted it better. Lexi concentrated on the needs of the country, the problems of sending American jobs overseas, and the squandering of U.S. wealth on foreign oil, to the detriment of National Security.
She narrated over a backdrop of our home, beautifully decorated for Christmas. The two of us seated in chairs angled towards each other in front of the beautiful fireplace, lit with fire. We enjoyed three evenings of prime time news segments without a single negative. She was a lovely new friend. I called Lexi’s cell and left a message to thank her and to let her know I’d see her in Boston.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was the first Friday of the New Year and the entire staff was busy preparing for the upcoming debate scheduled for Sunday night. Our campaign headquarters main room was configured, the best we could, to mimic the setting of the debate. The long conference table was the podium, set up at one end of the pit usually housing the staff desks. The mock candidates stood behind it facing a small desk at the other end of the room. Sandy played the role of moderator all week, asking questions handed to her by staffers.
I was standing directly in the center of the long table. Bud was next to me playing the role of Anne Griffin, the two Term Governor of Texas. The Governor was leading the pack as the front-runner in Iowa. We picked Bud to play her because they shared a short stocky stature and while hidden well behind an affable exterior, both were capable of playing dirty.
Anne had very thin salt and pepper hair, mostly salt. She wore it curled with permanent, which didn’t do much to hide the fact. She had a very prominent double sack for a chin and wore too much red lipstick. Her booming voice trumpeted her goals for the country, which she counted off in speeches - we all knew them by rote: immigration reform with enhanced enforcement of the border, free college education for anyone who wanted it, and lessened regulation on gulf oil drilling.
Her message of keeping illegal immigrants out had an almost fanatical zeal with a public weary of the illusion jobs were being lost to some evil monster sneaking over the border by night. Her rhetoric was resonating with a public who believed keeping illegal immigrants out would save more jobs for America.
Her free college idea was popular with voters brought up to think college was an essential component of success, though I had never met a billionaire with a degree. The cost of education had been rising at twice the national average eclipsed only by health care costs, which were rising faster.
I agreed with Anne’s message - education would help create a more enlightened workforce, but not that employers would come running. Only reduced production costs would bring large-scale production back. Americans were already some of the best-educated people in the world. The Gulf Oil drilling was for the money, we knew where that came from.
Bill was acting the role of the Senator from Maine, Dr. Tim Green, an acquaintance turned casual friend of mine I’d worked with in the Congress.
Dr. Tim had a young boyish face and receding hairline, making his forehead look higher than normal. He wore prominent black framed glasses, was very soft-spoken, and his strong New England dialect belied his intelligence. The truth is, he had a vast knowledge of the environment. He’d completed his undergrad work in pulp and paper technology and after working a while with S. D. Warren, Paper Company in Westbrook Maine, decided to go back to school. Graduating from Oxford with a Doctorate in Economics, he had written his thesis on the Soviet Economy.
His main campaign theme was global warming. He claimed that by 2100, One hundred million people living in low-lying areas would be underwater, including all of Florida and many Island Nations as well.
Dr. Tim would easily have won the Presidency if it were based on an IQ test. Too bad for him we have to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Bill was picked to play him because they both chose their words carefully. To date he’d gained little traction with the voters.
Tip was acting out the role of Reverend Terry Williams, a Tennessee preacher and perennial contestant in the Democratic Primaries. The reverend was a media hound who sought publicity, interjecting himself into any scandal he could find. He was a holdover from the civil rights movement and traded in controversy. The reverend was loud of speech, abrasive and very quick to start an argument. It was out of character but Tip asked to be the reverend.
Lisa played the last of our cast - the well-known Bobby Dennis, a two-term congressman from New York. An actor turned politician, Bobby D was 59, had name recognition and was running on a uniform tax plan. His goal was to close loopholes and abolish the IRS. He planned to charge individuals 15% across the board. Corporations would pay 25%.
Sandy asked the question, “Senator Canon, you have been doubling up on your ads in New Hampshire playing a provocative anti-wealthy message. Your poll numbers are steadily rising. Was your strategy to skip Iowa and concentrate your efforts in New Hampshire, while the other candidates were busy elsewhere?”
“Our ads simply reflect the truth. We decided the only way we could fix America’s problems is to…”
Before I could answer, a staffer handed Sandy a note.
She interrupted, “Jack, Kathy needs you to call her.”
From her tone, I knew something must have happened. I thought Oh no… my dad, he had been feeling very poorly lately.
Mom had called earlier in the week to talk about an incident that happened in the main stairway of the house. Dad had an accident and didn’t want any help getting himself cleaned up. His Alzheimer’s caused him to be verbally abusive and he’d been complaining to Mom while rolling his wheelchair over to the stairs. He cannot climb them anymore so he started up the stairs seated. The pain in his knees only allowed him to ascend one-step at a time in a reverse type of crawl.
Mom had been pleading with him to let her help. Dad was very agitated and lashed his arm at her causing her leg to slip painfully through the railing. The scene continued for an hour and a half before his nurse, Elsa was scheduled to arrive.
Elsa finally arrived at the front door and rang the bell. Mom called out to her to come quickly, she used her key and pushed open the door. Seeing the scene, she forgot to shut the door and the chill from the December air rushed into the center hall stairway with her.
“Mr. Ted, please try to calm down,” Elsa was standing on the step directly in front of him, at the same time reaching to pull Mom’s arm to help her right herself.
Dad kicked Elsa hard in the stomach - she lost her balance and fell back missing a grab for the railing, tripping down four steps to the floor. She was bruised and pretty shook, but wasn’t seriously hurt.
Mom freed herself and left Dad on the stairs, tending to Elsa, she called the resc
ue. When the paramedics arrived, both women stubbornly refused to go get checked at the hospital. Meanwhile, Dad was still on the stairs very agitated, muttering about the lack of respect in his own house. Mom called Roger to come over to help.
Kathy answers the phone, “Jack I have been trying to get a hold of you!”
“I’m sorry, we had our cell phones off practicing for the debate on Sunday. What’s going on, is it Dad?”
“No, Jack, it’s your mother; she’s had a stroke and is in the hospital. Your dad is with Roger.”
“How bad is it; do they know?”
“I spoke with the doctor; he said the stroke was severe. They’ll know more in 24-hours.”
“Kathy I’ll call and have the plane ready. Can you meet me at Reagan in an hour, Honey?”
“Sure, I’ll throw a bag together for you and the girls and meet you there.”
Thankfully, the girls were on school vacation and would be able to join us. Mom must have been at the end of her rope trying to take care of Dad and keep her promise he would never have to leave the ranch and live in a home.
“Everyone, my mom has suffered a stroke and I’m going to Kentucky to be with her. Sandy can you call and have the jet ready, tell them it’s an emergency. We’ve gotta go.”
“I’m calling now, Jack.”
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door, “Bud, I’ll call you from the plane.”
“Okay, Jack.”
The office was suddenly so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I focused my eyes straight ahead. I hadn’t noticed - our elevator door was Nickel colored with a thick black T across the front top to bottom. I headed straight for it without looking back; I pushed the button several times as if that would bring the car faster.
The office was just a 15-minute ride from Reagan depending on traffic. I figured I’d go to the hanger, wait on the plane and call the doctor. I didn’t want to wait even five more minutes in the office. Everything seemed like a distraction now. On the way to the airport, I tried to clear the clutter from my mind…
My thoughts turned to my amazing mother, a caring soul who always wanted to help. She had a special sensitivity toward others. I learned true compassion through her eyes. Now Mom, she didn’t mind spoiling us a little. Even finding the time and patience to explain things my dad would consider required only a yes or no. I was fortunate to grow up witnessing her gentle kindness first hand. Her encouragement has taken me a long way in life.
When I was young, my mother was inspired to volunteer our family to go on a missionary trip to Africa. Our church organized a group to help build a school at an orphanage.
Every night at the supper table, we talked about the trip and what we planned to do once we got there. What I remember most are the children’s smiles on the film shown every Sunday. It felt good to be one of the families preparing for the trip. People patted my dad on the back, shook my hand and told us we were doing something wonderful.
My dad was a tough-minded businessman who had owned a canning factory. He made a fortune selling rations to the military then sold the business. When I was young, my dad bought a large ranch, where he took up horseracing.
I marked each day off the calendar as we counted down for our trip.
We were too excited to sleep and awoke early the day of our mission. After a quick breakfast, we jumped into the car preloaded with our luggage and headed for the airport. We spent most of the day flying. My parents were tossing and turning trying to fall asleep, but I was exhilarated staring out at a sea of clouds.
When our Delta Yellow Bird arrived in Johannesburg, my parents were exhausted. Looking out I saw an old beat up bus that pulled up beside us. I felt pressure as the cabin door opened and heard movement below my feet. Our baggage was offloaded from the cargo bins and workers were setting it alongside a stairway rolled up to the cabin door.
Dad motioned to my brother and me to start moving our gear next to the bus. He was hollering out instructions nobody could hear over all the noise. Three men from our church stood idly by having a smoke while two wiry local guys quickly climbed onto the top of the bus. A double row of rusty steel bars served as a roof rack. Dad and some guy from the orphanage started handing trunks and suitcases up to them.
My brother and I ran happily back and forth lugging bags making a pile of them, some so heavy I had to drag them across the tarmac. The ground was so hot I could feel the heat through the soles of my sneakers. Mom walked beside Roger and me slathering sunscreen on our white faces and necks, I'd never felt sun so bright it could sting my skin. Bags strapped down and tied together, we boarded the rickety green bus. It, like everything else in Africa, seemed to be a rotten throw away from America limping along on its second life. The few kids sat three to a seat while the adults sat wherever they could. Some of the men made the best of it by standing up holding onto our seats. The dark green vinyl was ripped and frayed beyond repair -- chunks of cushion torn away, completely missing in sections.
The road was hard from drought making the ride bumpy along the pothole dotted route. The men who had been smoking and my dad were doing their best to balance. I could see dry dirt and gravel through light filled holes in the floor and a long dust cloud trailing us through the cracked back window. The airport had the last pavement we would see for a while.
Dad told someone the area was much worse than he'd expected. He said it looked war-torn as we passed through the villages. I could taste dust from two jeeps kicking it up as they escorted us on the one and a half hour journey through the countryside.
We were hot and uncomfortable. It was the thirstiest I had ever been in my life. My mouth felt dry and gritty; I tried to roll my tongue over my teeth and swallow hard to clear my throat. I expected to see lions and elephants since I heard they lived there too. We saw plenty of people but no animals. Everyone was disgusted and upset by what we saw. Tin roofed shacks passing for homes and dozens of thin children running after the bus as we passed. My brother and I plugged our noses from the strange stench cast over the villages.
It was the day my dad, holding my face tight to his chest, tried to shield my eyes from the most horrible sight. A cruel soldier, killing a helpless child, with the butt end of a rifle. I managed to peek through a space between his arms left open because he didn’t want to squeeze me too tight.
Just as Dad was about to jump out of the bus the young driver held him back by the shoulders. ‘You don’t want to go doing that man.’ He warned everyone to remain on the bus or risk being thrown into prison or worse. I remember him mumbling, 'you ain't gonna change Africa my friends.’ Then he spoke up, ‘the child was going to die anyway or he wouldn’t have approached these men.'
Dad told Mom if he’d brought his rifle he would have shot them all. Desperate with fear, she pleaded with him to be quiet. Later, I overheard him speaking low to one of the organizers that he would enjoy killing people who stole food from orphans. He said the U.S. should invade this hell hole and set things right; he might have gotten his wish had there been any oil there.
Once we got to the orphanage, things weren't so bad. When the headmaster came out to greet us, Dad launched into a tirade about what we had just seen and told her we needed to call the embassy or take some kind of action. She placed her hand into his and took him aside. The rest of us strained to hear what she could possibly say to calm a man who had just witnessed great inhumanity. Her voice was quiet almost faint as she stared up into my father’s eyes, shaking her head back and forth. Holding both his hands, she gently brought him into her world and calmed him down. He looked almost relaxed when she walked him back to the rest of the group.
Her name was Becca, she was a small lady with long brown hair and weathered skin. Her late fortyish eyes looked tired, but when she looked at me, I saw something different. Her gentle soul had a sparkle and I felt an immediate love for her, the kind I felt for my mother. She embraced each one of us with a soft long hug and blessed us for coming. After everyone was introduced, she showed u
s around the small three building compound. As we walked over the dry packed earth, Becca told us her story. She had come from the United States with a middle-aged couple from her church to help for one month. When they arrived, they found the orphanage in trouble and the children were running out of food and supplies. Becca was asked to stay just long enough for the husband and wife to go back to the United States and arrange for emergency aid. She never heard from the couple again, but other missionaries came. Becca fell in love with the children and ended up devoting her young life to them. She never married and the orphans became her family.
Becca gave us the best they had and we got plenty of rice, beans, and plantains to eat. There was water to drink, but nothing cold. The kids usually got at least breakfast and lunch even though we were told there was never any meat. Each child had a small space beside a triple bunk for a few clothes. There were a couple of toys and some coloring books and crayons, but not much else. The children kept everything well organized and took great pride in their things, nothing like our rooms back home with full toy boxes jam-packed with last year’s presents.
The military confiscated part of the food shipments headed for the orphanage and any meat sent. The missionaries did their best to fund raise in Europe and the United States to make sure basic needs were met. The people outside the orphanage were starving; at least the children living inside had something. The soldiers we saw were all fat, happy, and content to leave Becca and the orphans to themselves. They allowed the visits from outsiders as long as they first picked through anything the missionaries brought with them.
Our church volunteered to build a twenty by forty-foot structure from cinder block to serve as a school for about thirty children. The local strong-arm government kept a strict limit on the number of children allowed to live at the orphanage and threatened prison and hard labor for anyone who broke the law.