candidate. In its cramped alcoves, volunteers busily addressed envelopes and worked the phones under the watchful eye of Nish Suvarnakar.
Suvarnakar radiated an utter devotion to Obama. As the regional field organizer for Culpeper and Rappahannock counties, he cared about little else except getting his man elected. He had no time for small talk, and no interest in the fineries. When I blundered into the suite, haphazardly as usual, he grilled me long and hard about my purpose before he answered a single question.
Tall and imposing, with a controlled fierceness about him, Suvarnakar had earned a degree in comparative literature from the University of Pittsburgh in 2001. Heâd dabbled in acting there, and you could see traces of it in his manner. He fixed his audienceâme, that isâwith his gaze and never wavered from his message. As an organizer, he was especially effective with African Americans and the young.
Obamaâs troops had stolen a march on McCainâs, he explained. The campaign had opened their office two months before the Republicans caught on and responded in kind. Probably theyâd been resting on their laurels, I thought, since Bush had romped through Culpeper County in 2004 with 64 percent of the vote.
Though Suvarnakar worried about the chances of a perceived âblack manâ in the South, he sensed a restlessness in town. Independents and some GOP stalwarts seemed ready to distance themselves from the Bush administration and its policies. They felt terribly let down, he believed, and disinclined to waste another chance. There was a bit of play in the system, a glimmer of hope for those who shared Suvarnakarâs convictions.
In the interest of fairness, I knocked on the Republicansâ door, too, but it was still locked at noon, so I walked over to North East Street to see Eppa Rixeyâs stately white house, now divided into apartments. A curbside display pictured his Big League Chewing Gum card and his âLife Time Free Pass to National League Games,â an honor bestowed by Commissioner Ford Frick.
Unlike most ballplayers of his era, Rixey was a blue blood with a masterâs degree from the University of Virginia. He began his career with the Phillies fresh from college and later moved to the Reds, racking up 266 career winsâa record for southpaws until Warren Spahn broke it in 1959. Respected for his dry wit and gentlemanly qualities, Rixey greeted his election to the Hall with typical modesty.
âI guess they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel,â he quipped, perhaps thinking about the 251 games heâd lost, and passed quietly away that same year.
BELMONT FARM DISTILLERY lay behind a cornfield off Cedar Run Road on the outskirts of Culpeper. Chuck Miller and a hired hand were toasting chunks of apple wood over an open fire when I pulled up, while sparks and ashes sailed around them and Willie Nelson sang âBubbles in My Beerâ on the radio.
Millerâs straw cowboy hat, punched through with holes, looked as if the dog had made a meal of it. He didnât seem to mind, though. The hat might even have been a favorite of his, rescued from oblivion the way some men hang on to a faded flannel shirt or ravelly sweater for the comfort it gives. He cultivated an air of eccentricity.
A lanky former airline pilot, Miller played the country boy to the hilt. He liked to tell how his bootlegger granddad never once got caught by the law, only by the IRS. The revenuers forced him to sell eleven of his housesâthatâs right, elevenâto pay his bill for back taxes. Good old granddad had whispered his secret recipe for moonshine in his grandsonâs ear, Miller swore, and one almost believed him.
He and his wife, Jeanette, bought their 189-acre farm in 1975. It had always been a grain and livestock operation, and they dealt in grain, hay, horses, and cattle at first, too. Now corn is their major crop, enough to make 150 cases of
Suvarnakar radiated an utter devotion to Obama. As the regional field organizer for Culpeper and Rappahannock counties, he cared about little else except getting his man elected. He had no time for small talk, and no interest in the fineries. When I blundered into the suite, haphazardly as usual, he grilled me long and hard about my purpose before he answered a single question.
Tall and imposing, with a controlled fierceness about him, Suvarnakar had earned a degree in comparative literature from the University of Pittsburgh in 2001. Heâd dabbled in acting there, and you could see traces of it in his manner. He fixed his audienceâme, that isâwith his gaze and never wavered from his message. As an organizer, he was especially effective with African Americans and the young.
Obamaâs troops had stolen a march on McCainâs, he explained. The campaign had opened their office two months before the Republicans caught on and responded in kind. Probably theyâd been resting on their laurels, I thought, since Bush had romped through Culpeper County in 2004 with 64 percent of the vote.
Though Suvarnakar worried about the chances of a perceived âblack manâ in the South, he sensed a restlessness in town. Independents and some GOP stalwarts seemed ready to distance themselves from the Bush administration and its policies. They felt terribly let down, he believed, and disinclined to waste another chance. There was a bit of play in the system, a glimmer of hope for those who shared Suvarnakarâs convictions.
In the interest of fairness, I knocked on the Republicansâ door, too, but it was still locked at noon, so I walked over to North East Street to see Eppa Rixeyâs stately white house, now divided into apartments. A curbside display pictured his Big League Chewing Gum card and his âLife Time Free Pass to National League Games,â an honor bestowed by Commissioner Ford Frick.
Unlike most ballplayers of his era, Rixey was a blue blood with a masterâs degree from the University of Virginia. He began his career with the Phillies fresh from college and later moved to the Reds, racking up 266 career winsâa record for southpaws until Warren Spahn broke it in 1959. Respected for his dry wit and gentlemanly qualities, Rixey greeted his election to the Hall with typical modesty.
âI guess they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel,â he quipped, perhaps thinking about the 251 games heâd lost, and passed quietly away that same year.
BELMONT FARM DISTILLERY lay behind a cornfield off Cedar Run Road on the outskirts of Culpeper. Chuck Miller and a hired hand were toasting chunks of apple wood over an open fire when I pulled up, while sparks and ashes sailed around them and Willie Nelson sang âBubbles in My Beerâ on the radio.
Millerâs straw cowboy hat, punched through with holes, looked as if the dog had made a meal of it. He didnât seem to mind, though. The hat might even have been a favorite of his, rescued from oblivion the way some men hang on to a faded flannel shirt or ravelly sweater for the comfort it gives. He cultivated an air of eccentricity.
A lanky former airline pilot, Miller played the country boy to the hilt. He liked to tell how his bootlegger granddad never once got caught by the law, only by the IRS. The revenuers forced him to sell eleven of his housesâthatâs right, elevenâto pay his bill for back taxes. Good old granddad had whispered his secret recipe for moonshine in his grandsonâs ear, Miller swore, and one almost believed him.
He and his wife, Jeanette, bought their 189-acre farm in 1975. It had always been a grain and livestock operation, and they dealt in grain, hay, horses, and cattle at first, too. Now corn is their major crop, enough to make 150 cases of
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