The Political Machine in the Corn Fields

I keep it on the inside, but I have to laugh when I hear people wax nostalgic about the good old days of civility in American politics. I have my grandmother to thank for my less rosy view of our political history.

My grandmother was born and raised among the cornfields in southwestern Indiana. She was from a town so small, it was a place of almost no consequence or distinction. All that is left now are the fields, a few crumbling buildings, and a graveyard about a quarter-full with my relatives.

I was last in this tiny town in 2004 for my grandmother’s funeral. It was a rainy fall day and felt dreary, but this place always felt a little like that regardless of the weather. The town and surrounding area had the atmosphere of an outdoor haunted house and I had a hard time imagining living here. I had ancestors who were born and died in this tiny town. Maybe the claustrophobia I felt while there was what they felt too — and why they started to scheme to be a part of something greater.

I don’t recall all the details and I have no one I can ask about it now, but my understanding was my great-grandfather did a favor for someone who was connected to the great Democratic Party machine of area. Once he had the connection, he received the benefits that being a friend to the right people could bring — even to the detriment of less-fortunate (or less ambitious) family members.

I never knew about that last part until I was standing around the graveyard after the service and the caretaker for the cemetery approached me. It turned out he was a cousin of some degree and shared some memories of my grandmother. He stretched his arm out to the headstones and said, “There’s not many of us left, but all of these in this section are our people.”

“She probably wouldn’t like me telling you this, but she’s not here to stop me now is she?” He gave me a big smile. “Your great grandfather and my grandfather had a big falling out. You probably don’t know about it?” I shook my head no. “Yeah, figures. Well, through his political activities he managed to get a contract job running an asphalt paving team during the worst of the Depression. Hot work, hard work, but it was a job when those weren’t easy to come by here.”

He sighed and looked around. “Well, my grandfather was out of work and he thought his cousin could help him out with a job. And do you know that son of gun said he couldn’t do anything for us because we were Republicans? Can you imagine? He said he’d lose his job too. I reckon that’s hard for you to believe.”

It was and it wasn’t. I didn’t know my great grandfather at all and found it hard to believe that you’d let politics get in the way of helping family, but I knew his daughter and she took being a Democrat very seriously.

Looking around, it was hard to believe there was anything that high stakes to protect. But for whatever reason, this place had some political importance — I always assumed there was something illegal involved (I imagine there was plenty of trafficking that ran through the area between the stills of Kentucky and the thirsty souls of Indianapolis and Chicago). I was told of at least one Presidential pheasant-hunting trip that took place on land nearby during a particularly close nomination race.

So, my grandmother grew up taking part in the rallies, parades, and general small-town electioneering with a very cynical eye on what it took to get power and what you do once you have it. She would have made an excellent politician herself, but given the time having a woman run for anything was a non-starter. The good old days and all that.

She never complained about her inability to run for office, but even years after the fact I could sense her frustration with my grandfather’s limited political ambition. At her urging he eventually served on a town council and received a postmaster appointment (one of the age’s jewels of civil service often given for political favors), but she had her sights set higher for the family.

Since her daughter could not be the chosen one, I was to be the chance to reach the next level. She filled me with the stories of the great leaders and educated me in the machinations of political intrigue. She told me of her valuable connections to people in DC who could help me follow a path to office: military school, service academy, a short stint in the Army or Navy, and then on politics.

If you know me, you know that was not to be.

Though she never said it, I know it had to be a disappointment once she concluded that I was too painfully shy to be a viable politician and too idealistic to be part of the backroom. She couldn’t understand why I was unwilling to play along, but she eventually accepted that her plans were not going to be realized.

Regardless of her lingering regrets, until her last days we enjoyed our discussions about politics and the players du jour.

And after we left her in the ground, I looked around in admiration that from this place — by whatever means — the people of these fields connected to power brokers and became important resources for Congressmen, Secretaries, and Presidents.

Not the good old days, but I’m thankful for the more realistic perspective on American power dynamics that history has given me.