Governor Rockefeller’s last-ditch effort to wrest his party’s nomination away from Richard Nixon. I jumped at the chance and headed for Florida.
The Republican Convention was my first inside look at big-time politics, and I found the week unreal and unsettling. The Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach was the first real hotel I had ever stayed in, since my family favored either sleeping in the car on the way to Lake Winola or staying in small roadside motels. Its size, opulence and service were a surprise. It was there that I placed my first-ever room service order. I can still see the giant fresh peach that came wrapped in a napkin on a plate when I asked for peaches with cereal one morning. I had a rollaway bed shoehorned into a room with four other women, but I don’t think any of us slept much. We staffed the Rockefeller for President suite, taking phone calls and delivering messages to and from Rockefeller’s political emissaries and delegates. Late one night, a Rockefeller campaign staffer asked everybody in the office if we wanted to meet Frank Sinatra and got back the predictably enthusiastic screams of delight at the prospect. I went with the group to a penthouse to shake hands with Sinatra, who courteously feigned interest in meeting us. I took the elevator down with John Wayne, who appeared under the weather and complained all the way down about the lousy food upstairs.
Although I enjoyed all my new experiences, from room service to celebrities, I knew Rockefeller would not be nominated. The nomination of Richard Nixon cemented the ascendance of a conservative over a moderate ideology within the Republican Party, a dominance that has only grown more pronounced over the years as the party has continued its move to the right and moderates have dwindled in numbers and influence. I sometimes think that I didn’t leave the Republican Party as much as it left me.
I came home to Park Ridge after the Republican Convention with no plans for the remaining weeks of summer except to visit with family and friends and get ready for my senior year. My family was on the annual pilgrimage to Lake Winola so I had the house to myself, which was just as well since I’m sure I would have spent hours arguing with my father over Nixon and the Vietnam War. My dad really liked Nixon and believed he would make an excellent President. About Vietnam, he was ambivalent. His questions about the wisdom of U.S. involvement in the war were usually trumped by his disgust with the longhaired hippies who protested it.
My close friend Betsy Johnson had just returned from a year of study in Franco’s Spain.
Although much had changed since our high school days―the neat flips and sweater sets we used to wear had been displaced by lanky hair and frayed blue jeans―one constant remained: I could always count on Betsy’s friendship and shared interest in politics. Neither of us had planned to go into Chicago while the Democratic Convention was in town.
But when massive protests broke out downtown, we knew it was an opportunity to witness history. Betsy called and said, “We’ve got to see this for ourselves,” and I agreed.
Just like the time we had gone downtown to check voting lists in junior high school, we knew there was no way our parents would let us go if they knew what we were planning.
My mother was in Pennsylvania, and Betsy’s mom, Roslyn, thought of going downtown as a visit to Marshall Field’s to shop and Stouffer’s for lunch, wearing white gloves and a dress. So Betsy told her mother, “Hillary and I are going to the movies.”
She picked me up in the family station wagon, and off we went to Grant Park, the epicenter of the demonstrations. It was the last night of the convention, and all hell broke loose in Grant Park. You could smell the tear gas before you saw the lines of police. In the crowd behind us, someone screamed profanities and threw a rock, which just missed us. Betsy and I scrambled to get away as the
The Republican Convention was my first inside look at big-time politics, and I found the week unreal and unsettling. The Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach was the first real hotel I had ever stayed in, since my family favored either sleeping in the car on the way to Lake Winola or staying in small roadside motels. Its size, opulence and service were a surprise. It was there that I placed my first-ever room service order. I can still see the giant fresh peach that came wrapped in a napkin on a plate when I asked for peaches with cereal one morning. I had a rollaway bed shoehorned into a room with four other women, but I don’t think any of us slept much. We staffed the Rockefeller for President suite, taking phone calls and delivering messages to and from Rockefeller’s political emissaries and delegates. Late one night, a Rockefeller campaign staffer asked everybody in the office if we wanted to meet Frank Sinatra and got back the predictably enthusiastic screams of delight at the prospect. I went with the group to a penthouse to shake hands with Sinatra, who courteously feigned interest in meeting us. I took the elevator down with John Wayne, who appeared under the weather and complained all the way down about the lousy food upstairs.
Although I enjoyed all my new experiences, from room service to celebrities, I knew Rockefeller would not be nominated. The nomination of Richard Nixon cemented the ascendance of a conservative over a moderate ideology within the Republican Party, a dominance that has only grown more pronounced over the years as the party has continued its move to the right and moderates have dwindled in numbers and influence. I sometimes think that I didn’t leave the Republican Party as much as it left me.
I came home to Park Ridge after the Republican Convention with no plans for the remaining weeks of summer except to visit with family and friends and get ready for my senior year. My family was on the annual pilgrimage to Lake Winola so I had the house to myself, which was just as well since I’m sure I would have spent hours arguing with my father over Nixon and the Vietnam War. My dad really liked Nixon and believed he would make an excellent President. About Vietnam, he was ambivalent. His questions about the wisdom of U.S. involvement in the war were usually trumped by his disgust with the longhaired hippies who protested it.
My close friend Betsy Johnson had just returned from a year of study in Franco’s Spain.
Although much had changed since our high school days―the neat flips and sweater sets we used to wear had been displaced by lanky hair and frayed blue jeans―one constant remained: I could always count on Betsy’s friendship and shared interest in politics. Neither of us had planned to go into Chicago while the Democratic Convention was in town.
But when massive protests broke out downtown, we knew it was an opportunity to witness history. Betsy called and said, “We’ve got to see this for ourselves,” and I agreed.
Just like the time we had gone downtown to check voting lists in junior high school, we knew there was no way our parents would let us go if they knew what we were planning.
My mother was in Pennsylvania, and Betsy’s mom, Roslyn, thought of going downtown as a visit to Marshall Field’s to shop and Stouffer’s for lunch, wearing white gloves and a dress. So Betsy told her mother, “Hillary and I are going to the movies.”
She picked me up in the family station wagon, and off we went to Grant Park, the epicenter of the demonstrations. It was the last night of the convention, and all hell broke loose in Grant Park. You could smell the tear gas before you saw the lines of police. In the crowd behind us, someone screamed profanities and threw a rock, which just missed us. Betsy and I scrambled to get away as the
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