Primary Indifference in New Hampshire

Farmington, New Hampshire is neither Manchester nor Concord, and politicians won't be storming through every half-hour the way they will in the coming days before the February 26 primary. A joke among reporters in Concord is that in 1976 when a reporter asked a local resident what he thought of Jimmy Carter, the man responded, "I don't know. I've only met him three times."

The politicans don't come to Farmington, for the town is neither wealthy nor large. There is none of the primary fever--no heightened anticipation of the outcome in Farmington that I have seen in other parts of the state. When those few who do consider the primary important gather to talk politics, they speculate on the process as though they were spectators at a horse race, caring only to see who wins.

For Farmington, the only acknowledgement of the primary was Chip Carter's visit to the town last October. The president's son's visit to the shoemills and the town bar are still major topics of conversation. The bar young Carter visited is the only liquor-licensed establishment in the area, owned by Vasilios, a fortyish Greek emigre and town sage. "He shook people's hands and he came and drank with us. I will vote for Carter," Vasilios says as he sips his Michelob. His mother-in-law Pauline, a beautiful vibrant blonde woman, nods in agreement. Their bar is also a restaurant, cafe and nightclub--an area of the floor has been cleared for dancing and occasional couples parade their togetherness to a Kenny Rogers tune that was not meant for slow dancing. Pauline, the bartender, worked in the town's shoemills for thirty years. "I think Carter is handling things well. It took him a while, but it would take someone just as long to learn, and besides, who else is there?" she says to me.

"I think Carter has done the best one man can. It's too big a job. The last president that was great was Roosevelt," she adds. She explains that Roosevelt brought the country out of the Depression and won the war. No single man can make that kind of difference anymore, she tells me. Pauline's fellow townspeople echo the sentiment again and again. The apathy in Farmington stems not from the belief that a single vote would not change things, but that the winner could not make a difference.

"They're all meat," a man from Brookfield says. "It's just the difference between sirloin and chuck," he adds, laughing. He explains that he won't give me his name because I have done nothing to prove that he can trust me. The man is in his late thirties. He tells me that he used to live in Massachusets and that he voted for Kennedy in 1960. "That's JACK Kennedy, mind you," as he pounds the table with his bottle of Michelob for emphasis. He turns to watch Vasilios and Pauline close up the bar and says softly, "Jack could have made a difference."

The next morning three girls, as plump as dumplings, walk into Vasilios's bar, which at this time of day is called a cafe or restaurant. They are teenaged sisters who are as round as their grandfather, Paul Blouin, the county chairman of the Democratic Party. Paul Blouin knows every Democrat in Farmington, no small feat since nearly 7700 in the town's 8000 population belong to the party. Paul practices politics over the counter and the phone, persuading people to register and vote. Most of Paul's hassles come from getting people to register, especially the youth.

His granddaughters sit at a separate table, talking with Pauline about school and boyfriends; Paul Blouin is an old boy politico.

"None of the kids are into politics, they don't really care," Brenda, the oldest, says.

"You're for Bush," the middle one and the roundest one says.

"I am not, I said maybe I was for Bush. Politics is just boring," she says as she shows me a diamond engagement ring and tells me of her November wedding to the man she has been engaged to since she was 15.

Paul shakes his head, a political addict who cannot understand why the rest of the town is not as hooked as he is. Vasilios is among the few in Farmington who make an effort to understand what a candidate represents. Reagan is popular because his ideology is "good old American," the Greek says, with more than a twinkle in his eye. In Farmington, Reagan stands for "the continued stand of the U.S. as an aggressive power and the halt of Communism."

In Vasilios's judgment, Carter is a good person, and besides, one can't forget that his son Chip drank under this very roof just last October. A young barmaid serves the sage another Michelob and adds, "Carter's a good solid religious man. He's a peanut farmer." As the barmaid Alicia stands in attendance listening, Vasilios turns to Kennedy. "He's not what his brothers were; he's a jerk. He got kicked out of school, he plays with women, and then there's Chappaquiddick," Vasilios says dismissingly. Alicia nods. "He's been a fuck-up all his life," she says, returning to the bar.

If a Chappaquiddick-like incident had happened to one of the leading residents of Farmington, he would have to have lived with the talk and the judgments for the rest of his life. Gossip and scandal create people's pasts in Farmington, and were Kennedy to run 20 years from now, he would not be able to escape the talk. The judgment of Kennedy is brutal. After 17 years in the United States Senate, he is judged by the nostalgic opinions of what his brothers were and could have been and the failure to control what Farmington believes men should be able to control--their families and their personal lives.

"If he couldn't get a girl across a bridge, how can we expect him to run the country," Ed Lynch, the former assistant fire chief, says with an air of finality. Ed and his wife Ellie sit and drink with the man from Brookfield who laughs at my questions. "You just don't understand. These people are living so close to the line--they don't even realize that they have been living in poverty for generations. Politics doesn't help or matter. There are people starving in Farmington. They eat dog food. The shifts at the car factory have been reduced from three to two. Some say they may go down to one. We need a war to start the economy," the Brookfield man explains.

Ed interrupts: "The problem with the economy," he says, "is that when these girls get pregnant, or when anybody needs money, they can just go on welfare and get food stamps. These people should be working," he says loudly so they whole bar could listen. He points to his wife. "We're American. My clothes are American, and same with my beer. To hell with all the foreign stuff."

Ellie nods in agreement and says she never buys pistachios anymore because they come from Iran. Ellie recently watched Lyndon Larouche, an ultra-conservative Democratic candidate on television, and she says he made a lot of sense--"a lot more sense than the other candidates," and she wishes he would run for mayor.

With Ellie's mention of Iran, talk switches to the draft and the possibility of war. Everyone agrees with the large bulky woman, a former professiona1l golfer, who sits at the bar and says loudly, "It's about time Carter did something, he should have done something a long time ago."

"Of course I'd go," says Shermie, 20-year-old who works in his father's package store in town. A chinless 19-year-old, clutching the arm of her middle-aged boyfriend who had both legs blown off in Korea, says, "I'd just get pregnant." The boyfriend looks at her coolly and nods to his wooden legs. "I would if I could," he says.

The residents of Farmington support the draft and they would fight in a war, but they don't like to talk about it.

Conversation drifts to marriages and the cost of heating oil. Above the bar, on a color television screen, John Anderson talks with reporters in Washington about his campaign strategy for New Hampshire. I interrupt two men arguing about last night's poker game to ask what they think of John Anderson.

"Who is John Anderson?" one asks me as he sips his draft and the primary seems very far away indeed.