by Jimmy Carter
On Election Day I was rushing from one polling place to another when I called in to Rosalynn and she informed me that a cousin of hers had reported a serious problem in Georgetown, the county seat of Quitman County, one of the smallest in Georgia. We asked John Pope, a friend of ours, to go to the courthouse to represent me. When he arrived he was dismayed to see the local political boss, Joe Hurst, ostentatiously helping my opponent. He was requiring all voters to mark their ballots on a table in front of him and telling them to vote for Homer Moore. The ballots were then dropped through a large hole in a pasteboard box, and John watched Hurst reach into the box several times, remove some ballots, and discard them.
My senate campaign poster, 1962.
I called the newspaper in Columbus, the largest city in Southwest Georgia, and told their political reporter what was happening. His name was Luke Teasley, and he had interviewed me after I became a candidate. I drove to Georgetown. Hurst did not seem disturbed that he was being observed, even when I demanded that he cease his illegal tampering with the election. He responded only that this was his county, he was chairman of the Quitman County Democratic Party, and this was the way elections were always conducted. As the candidate, I was free to talk to his friend the sheriff if I had a legal complaint to register. After Hurst discounted my complaints, Teasley arrived in Georgetown, and his attitude was primarily amusement that “Old Joe” was still up to his normal tricks. John Pope stayed there and recorded what was happening during the day, and I left to visit the other counties.
I was ahead by 75 votes when the returns were received from the other six counties, but in Quitman County the vote was 360 to 136 for my opponent, although only 333 people had voted. Homer Moore was declared to be elected by the news media. The state Democratic Convention was meeting in Macon that same week, and I went there to register my complaint, which was ignored. Even some of my closest friends thought I was just a sore loser and advised me to drop the issue and decide if I wanted to run in two years. I heard my mother say to my sister, “Jimmy is so naïve, so naïve.” If I had understood the strange election laws, I may have withdrawn, but I was angry. I had envisioned the recent Supreme Court rulings to be opening a new era in Georgia, based on the value of individual votes instead of votes by county, and perhaps involving a new group of legislators who could ease the way toward racial conciliation.
I went to the law office of Warren Fortson, the county attorney, and he and I examined the statutes relating to contested elections. They were almost exclusively devoted to a mathematical recount of ballots and not to fraud. In such a rare case, the appeal should be made within five days to the county Democratic Committee, of which Joe Hurst was chairman and had handpicked all the members. Our only recourse was to present the necessary appeal and then file for a recount, which would be conducted by a regional trial judge. We had a meeting in the home of my first cousin Hugh Carter, and he suggested we call his older brother, Don, who had been city editor of The Atlanta Journal. The newspaper soon assigned a skeptical reporter, John Pennington, to the story, and he came by to see me and then went to Georgetown, where he had a highly publicized confrontation with Joe Hurst. A series of vivid front-page articles swept the state.
Pennington learned that 117 voters had allegedly lined up in exact alphabetical order to cast their ballots. Many were dead, in prison, or living in distant places. Cartoons in the Journal showed graveyard voting precincts with caskets open while their inhabitants exercised their rights as citizens. We found many Quitman County residents willing to confront Hurst, and we worked day and night to accumulate a stack of sworn affidavits confirming our case. The county courthouse was packed when we appeared before the Democratic Executive Committee, but the first order of business was a motion made by my opponent’s attorney that the charges be rejected, and Hurst and his committee voted unanimously to agree with the motion. No evidence was accepted. This left us with the possibility of a simple recount of ballots that were cast, and a conservative judge, Carl Crow, was designated to preside.
Since Fortson was known to be my personal friend and was quite liberal on the racial issue, he decided not to represent me at this hearing. Instead, he introduced me to Charles Kirbo, originally from South Georgia but now practicing in the large Atlanta firm of King & Spalding, and he agreed to take my case. All we knew in advance was that a total of 496 votes had been reported (360–136) but only 333 people had cast a ballot when the polls closed. Even Joe Hurst had stated that there were no absentee ballots. Those who had conducted the election all stated that no voters had been influenced during the day, everything had been done properly, and all the ballots, stubs, and voters’ lists were in the box. The big question was Where was the box and what was in it?
When the cardboard container was finally found (under the bed of Joe Hurst’s daughter) and placed on the table, it was seen that the flaps were unsealed and that no documents were there—only a pile of ballots. More than 100 were rolled up together on top and encircled by a rubber band. In a lengthy statement, speaking slowly and with long pauses, Kirbo described what had been revealed and compared the situation to an account of a chicken thief who dragged a broom behind him to conceal his tracks from the sheriff. With no ballot stubs or voters’ lists, Hurst had left no way to determine how many ballots should be in the box. The opposing attorneys decided not to respond, and Judge Crow adjourned the session without comment, except that he would announce his decision the next Friday, November 2, in Albany. The Columbus newspaper reported on page 13 that “Jerry Carter from Plains, who lost to Homer Moore,” would lose a recount petition.
On Friday, Judge Crow described the disparity in votes cast in Georgetown, stated that there had been no voting booths and no secret ballot, and that there was no way to determine the result of the election. All the Georgetown ballots were nullified, and the three small county precincts had voted 43 for Moore and 33 for me. This made the district total 2,811 to 2,746, in my favor. If implemented, his decision meant that I was the nominee of the Democratic Party, with no Republican opposition! We all pledged to drink only Old Crow whiskey in the future.
The state Party and secretary of state ruled that my name should be on the general election ballot the following Tuesday, but Homer Moore appealed to our local superior court judge, Tom Marshall, and he ruled late Monday night that names should be stricken from all the ballots and that the election be decided solely by new votes to be cast throughout the district the following day—beginning in about six hours. I hadn’t been to bed for several days and had lost eleven pounds, but I continued to campaign during Election Day as much as possible. Two county ordinaries did not remove all names as directed, and in most counties the result was similar to the first one. In Quitman County, however, the voters felt for the first time in many years that they were free from oppression, and there were 448 to 23 votes in my favor. The overall tally in the district was 3,013 to 2,182.
Homer decided to appeal directly to the members of the Georgia Senate, whose presiding officer was Lieutenant Governor Peter Zack Geer, a close friend of Homer and Joe Hurst who had always carried Quitman County by ten-to-one margins. There was another contested election in Savannah, Georgia, and the lieutenant governor refused to discuss either one before the legislature convened. We knew that he had absolute control over the senate and would be assigning the newly elected members to committees and other posts. In effect, Peter Zack would decide between Homer and me. The issue was still very much in doubt.
I notified my fellow school board members that I would resign as chairman if elected, and would concentrate on educational matters as a senator. After sleeping for a full day, I began studying the senate rules and procedures and other issues of importance in the district. I went to Atlanta in late November to meet the lieutenant governor, and Peter Zack received me politely. He said he couldn’t discuss any possible contest, noted that I was about the last one to come to see him, and asked for my committee preference. Homer Moore had already made
his requests. I said my only preference was the education committee, and he was surprised that I didn’t ask for rules, appropriations, judiciary, or industry and trade. He said there should be no problem. The top positions were filled, but if I liked to write, he might make me secretary. I accepted and started to leave, then asked if there was a subcommittee on the university system. There was not, and I asked if one could be formed. He called the upcoming committee chairman, who had no objection to my being head of the new subcommittee on higher education—if I should be a senator.
It is the custom in Georgia to have a wild hog supper the night before the legislature convenes, and Rosalynn and I went to the affair in the old Biltmore Hotel in Atlanta. As we approached Peter Zack’s suite, we met Homer Moore and his attorneys leaving, with broad smiles on their faces. We hoped that the lieutenant governor had just told a joke. The next day we were nervous and discouraged when the senate was called to order, but I was sworn in without question. I was also on the agriculture committee and, after a few weeks, on appropriations. I worked hard, read all the bills, and enjoyed the few weeks each year when we were in session. I wrote a book later called Turning Point to describe this entire event, which was my introduction to politics. I had learned a lot in just a few weeks.
My two personal legislative goals were to improve election procedures and to secure a four-year college in Southwest Georgia. Now, having a lot of experience on the voting issue, I worked with a small group of lawyers from the judiciary committee to draft a comprehensive reform package that incorporated effects of recent Supreme Court decisions and clarified procedures to be followed in cases of fraud. I remember that one floor amendment was proposed by a senator from Enigma (I envied his hometown’s name) that would “prohibit any citizen from casting a ballot in a primary or general election who has been dead more than three years.” A good-spirited debate included claims that wives or children could decide fairly accurately how their deceased loved one would still vote after such a brief time. The reforms were overwhelmingly approved, without the proposed amendment.
The other issue was much more important in my district, because the nearest senior college was Auburn University in Alabama, where our students had to pay out-of-state fees. The two junior colleges eligible for promotion were Georgia Southwestern in Americus (my county seat) and a larger institution in Columbus. The elected governor, Carl Sanders, had promised the people of Americus that he would support their request but had backed down under pressure from Columbus. Their supporter, Bo Callaway, was our district representative on the Board of Regents. He was wealthy, politically influential, and chairman of the committee that decided on the academic status of all colleges. I was at a great disadvantage, except that I was chairman of the subcommittee that would have to approve any funding for the university system. The governor wanted a new dental school in his hometown, and I had the proposed legislation in my pocket. Following some quiet but intense negotiations between me and the governor, he used his influence among the regents, the dental school was funded, and Georgia Southwestern became a senior college. Primarily because of this achievement, I was reelected in 1964 without opposition for another two-year term. But it left some bad feelings between me and Callaway.
Relations with Rosalynn
From our marriage in 1946 until I decided to become a candidate for the state senate, in 1962, I maintained a loving and respectful relationship with Rosalynn but followed the example of my father and other men I knew by making the primary decisions in our family. From the beginning, she was quite shy and never wanted me to leave her side at navy cocktail parties or other events when strangers might be present. I was at sea a lot during those early years, and trusted her to manage our family budget and finances and to make most of the decisions about household affairs and raising our children. At the same time, I felt that it was my exclusive responsibility to make final judgments about other, more far-reaching affairs. I cannot understand in retrospect why I didn’t at least consult her concerning decisions that affected all our family, including leaving the navy, dividing my father’s estate, and running for public office.
As I began to expand our agricultural supply business by visiting potential new customers and becoming involved in professional organizations, I needed someone to run the office while I was away, and Rosalynn offered to help me. She studied a book on accounting, and she and our boys began working at the warehouse in the afternoons. Over time she accommodated our return to Plains and proved to be an invaluable partner in managing Carter’s Warehouse, with hundreds of decisions to be made every week concerning our multiple customers and their reliability in repaying their accumulated debts as they bought seed, fertilizer, pesticides, and feed for animals. She also kept the books for our purchases and sales, and was able to ascertain which of our many enterprises were profitable or losing money and what might be done to improve their performance. I became heavily reliant on her judgment and learned to consult her routinely.
When she joined me in political campaigning—always appearing without me—she was effective in securing support from doubtful voters, and I soon realized that people were more inclined to express their beliefs or concerns to her than to me. I was surprised to discover that she liked the art of politics: analyzing issues, allocating funds, devising strategy, formulating proposals, traveling, arranging nightly accommodations on the strenuous campaign trail, initiating radio and television interviews, and even delivering speeches. In fact, she liked the entire political process more than I did.
For the first time in our marriage, we became real partners in every aspect of our lives—but still managed to give each other plenty of space to do our own things.
Congressman or Governor?
As the 1964 general election approached, there was the beginning of a political revolution in our state. Because of President Lyndon Johnson’s successful promotion of civil rights, he was very unpopular in the Deep South.
A number of Georgia’s officeholders defected from the Democratic Party and became Republicans. It would be many years before the Republican Party became dominant, but this was the beginning. One of the defectors, Bo Callaway, was the state chairman of Barry Goldwater’s presidential campaign against Johnson in 1964 and also became a Republican candidate to represent our congressional district. Both won handily. My mother was Johnson’s campaign manager in our county and took a lot of abuse. Her headquarters was in the old Windsor Hotel in Americus, and at the end of a working day her parked automobile was often covered with graffiti or her radio antenna bent or broken. My sons were roughed up at school and sometimes came home crying, but Rosalynn and I consoled them, and they continued to have Democratic stickers on their book sacks and lunch boxes.
Secretary of Agriculture Orville Freeman came to our county to campaign on Johnson’s behalf, and Mother arranged for a political rally at the local baseball field. We attended, along with about a hundred white citizens and two thousand African-Americans. Vice President Hubert Humphrey and his wife, Muriel, also made a tour through Georgia, and Mama was asked to accompany them. One of their stops was in Moultrie, where Humphrey was to speak to a joint session of civic clubs. Muriel was scheduled to meet with women for luncheon in a local hotel. Rosalynn was with them, and my sister Gloria Spann was driving. As they approached the hotel, Muriel stated that she would not attend the meeting if it was not racially integrated. With a secret wink, Mama said, “Gloria, go in the hotel and make sure everything is okay.” Gloria returned after a few minutes, gave a thumbs-up sign, and they attended the luncheon. When it was over, the black maids put their aprons back on and cleaned up the dining hall. Mama was proud of both Muriel and Gloria.
Racial attitudes were unclear in Plains, with most of our white citizens remaining silent. This changed when black activists began to enter churches with white congregations to demand participation in worship services. There was a confrontation at the Methodist church in Americus that aroused international attention when black Christians we
re refused admission and knelt in front of the church, surrounded by cameras from the major television networks. Although we had not had any altercation at our church, the eleven other deacons decided, over my objection, to establish a policy that black worshipers could not enter Plains Baptist Church. Like all important decisions of Baptist congregations, the issue had to be determined by a vote of the entire church membership. Rosalynn and I were attending a wedding of my niece north of Atlanta on Saturday, and we had to get up early and drive back to Plains before the Sunday morning service. Only about forty members normally attended a church conference, but about two hundred were present for this debate and decision. There was a vote after the chairman and I made our conflicting presentations, and 6 people, including 5 in our family, voted against the recommendation of the deacons. Fifty voted aye, and all the others abstained! That afternoon, many church members called to say that they agreed with me but didn’t want to aggravate other members of their families or alienate their customers. For my family, this demonstration of conflicting opinions was the real turning point and proved to be indicative of the general attitude in Georgia. One by one, the two hundred local school districts accepted the mandate of the U.S. Supreme Court during the years ahead, and none of our governors defied the federal government by standing in the schoolhouse door, as governors had in Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama.
As my second state senator’s term was ending, I decided to oppose Bo Callaway in his reelection campaign for Congress, despite his great advantage as a wealthy and relatively popular incumbent who had been showered with special favors by the Republican Party. Our personal differences were exacerbated by his being a Democratic defector and a graduate of West Point. I was campaigning almost full-time when, just a few weeks before the primary, Bo decided to withdraw from the congressional campaign and run for governor, leaving me with no opposition. Our Democratic gubernatorial candidate, former governor Ernest Vandiver, withdrew from the governor’s race, for health reasons, he claimed. I went to Atlanta and tried to recruit other prominent Democrats to run but was unsuccessful. I feared that the primary choice would be between Callaway and the archsegregationist Lester Maddox, who had become infamous by standing in the door of his Atlanta restaurant with a pick handle, threatening to use it on any black person who attempted to enter his establishment. He was a fiery orator and vowed that there would be no racial mixing in Georgia if he became governor.