Back in 2004, my son and daughter-in-law traveled from Oregon to Iowa in the dead of winter to campaign at the caucuses for Howard Dean. It turned out to be a disappointing experience, since Dean lost badly and then tried to regale his supporters with what was interpreted — it being Martin Luther King's birthday — as the beaten candidate's "I Have a Scream" speech.
John Tenniel's illustration of the Dodo in "A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale". An illustration from Alice in Wonderland. Public domain License. Credit: John Tenniel (28 février 1820 – 25 février 1914)
But that was different. Those idealistic young out-of-town campaign workers descended on the scene, but never really became a part of it. Instead of being wooed by the candidates and their entourages, they were largely ignored. The Iowan voters didn't much appreciate them, either, resenting the idea of outsiders coming in to tell them how to vote. Anyway, the caucus is a strange political ritual that involves a lot more than just dropping a ballot into a box.
So my means of getting in on the fawning Hawkeye action would seem to be reduced to establishing residency, however temporary, in Iowa. I'm told the process takes about six months, so I'd better get cracking. Spending the requisite travel and rent money to become a legitimate Iowa voter would be far less costly than, say, a trip around the world. And since this pipedream has been on my to-do list for a while, perhaps it's time. After all, the aggregate of candidates running this time around is larger than it's been in a long, long time. Every vote will count.
I do not begrudge those who consider my plan sheer nonsense, since individual choice is one's democratic right. If, on the other hand, there are those of you out there who think you'd like to join me, we could do the adventure more economically by sharing digs and other expenses.
Think about it. Picture yourself shaking hands with Hillary, Bernie, Martin, Jeb, Chris, Scott, Marco, Rand, Dr. Ben, The Donald, and all the other celebratory hopefuls. Can't you almost smell the slow-burning spare ribs and taste the tangy apple cider on a frosty Iowa evening? But more to the point: it's not my stomach but my political soul that makes me envy Hawkeyes. That's why I'm hankering to be in their number when the wannabes come marching in.
©2015 Doris O'Brien for SeniorWomen.com
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