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Authors: Terry Fallis
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with canasta for supremacy. Her next stop was the large activity room where half the residents were shuffling through a line-dancing lesson. The singer’s voice blasting from the stereo sounded inhumanly low. Darth Vader swinging a lariat sprang to mind though I wish it hadn’t. I soon realized the instructor had slowed the CD down to one-third speed so her geriatric dancers could actually complete the steps in time with the song. After a final stop in the third-floor TV lounge where the old and the rested watched “The Young and the Restless,” Muriel reappeared with the 100 signatures required to complete the nomination. We had liftoff.
She then gave me a thorough briefing on the state of the association’s election war chest. In other words, she handed me a tired and tattered bankbook, showing a balance of $157.23. Excellent. That wouldn’t even cover photocopying and file folders, let alone rent and telephone. I knew that filling the Liberal coffers in this community would not be easy. In fact, in Cumberland, we had a better chance of sighting Bigfoot than finding Liberal money. With no funds, the McLintock campaign would be built on creativity, ingenuity, and parsimony – befitting, I suppose, a Scottishcandidate. An idea for a low-cost campaign headquarters emerged from the fog in my head.
While getting around was difficult, Muriel did have time on her hands. I still had my cell phone from the Leader’s office and had negotiated some extra time before I had to return it. It would be our official, campaign-office phone number. I handed it to Muriel. She agreed to carry the campaign phone at least until we secured our headquarters. We agreed to meet the following evening – along with any volunteers I could muster – for our first campaign meeting. I hoped to have reached a decision on our campaign office by then.
As I stood up to leave, I noticed a young and attractive woman making her way through the room, exchanging hellos with the women and laughing with the men as she parried their advances. I could see why her arrival caused a stir. She had very short, sandy hair, framing a face blessed with symmetry, lovely green eyes, and a memorable mouth. For some reason, I’d always had a weakness for women with short hair. I really hoped it wasn’t because my late mother had always worn her hair short (paging Dr. Freud). Anyway, as I followed her runner’s body and her dancer’s gait, it was clear she was accustomed to the attention and not bothered in the least. She wore those new low-rider jeans, a man’s white, button-down, oxford-cloth shirt – untucked – sandals, and funky sunglasses, resting just above her forehead. I pegged her at about 28 years old. She sported no eyebrow rings, no tongue stud, and no tattoos, at least that I could see. She stopped in front of us, cradling a cribbage board in the crook of her arm.
“Hey, Grandma, sorry I’m late. I got hung up after class.”
“Hello, Lindsay, dear. Whenever you arrive is the right time for me,” Muriel answered. “I’d like you to meet Professor Daniel Addison. He’s just started in the English department at U of O. He’s also the Liberal campaign manager for Cumberland-Prescott. Daniel, this is my granddaughter, Lindsay Dewar,” Muriel concluded with a sweep of her hand.
“Hello, Lindsay. Very pleased to meet any relative of Muriel’s.”
“Hi, Daniel, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Lindsay said with a grin.
I looked at Muriel for signs of a conspiracy but could detect none.
“Don’t look at me; I’ve never mentioned your name,” Muriel replied with her hands raised in surrender.
Lindsay jumped in. “Jasper over there just told me all about your double-twisting gainer on the sidewalk yesterday,” she ribbed. The old man, still in his peach safari suit, bowed slightly when I looked over. I wondered who within the Cumberland town limits had not yet had a laugh at my expense. “You sure made a splash with this crowd,”
She then gave me a thorough briefing on the state of the association’s election war chest. In other words, she handed me a tired and tattered bankbook, showing a balance of $157.23. Excellent. That wouldn’t even cover photocopying and file folders, let alone rent and telephone. I knew that filling the Liberal coffers in this community would not be easy. In fact, in Cumberland, we had a better chance of sighting Bigfoot than finding Liberal money. With no funds, the McLintock campaign would be built on creativity, ingenuity, and parsimony – befitting, I suppose, a Scottishcandidate. An idea for a low-cost campaign headquarters emerged from the fog in my head.
While getting around was difficult, Muriel did have time on her hands. I still had my cell phone from the Leader’s office and had negotiated some extra time before I had to return it. It would be our official, campaign-office phone number. I handed it to Muriel. She agreed to carry the campaign phone at least until we secured our headquarters. We agreed to meet the following evening – along with any volunteers I could muster – for our first campaign meeting. I hoped to have reached a decision on our campaign office by then.
As I stood up to leave, I noticed a young and attractive woman making her way through the room, exchanging hellos with the women and laughing with the men as she parried their advances. I could see why her arrival caused a stir. She had very short, sandy hair, framing a face blessed with symmetry, lovely green eyes, and a memorable mouth. For some reason, I’d always had a weakness for women with short hair. I really hoped it wasn’t because my late mother had always worn her hair short (paging Dr. Freud). Anyway, as I followed her runner’s body and her dancer’s gait, it was clear she was accustomed to the attention and not bothered in the least. She wore those new low-rider jeans, a man’s white, button-down, oxford-cloth shirt – untucked – sandals, and funky sunglasses, resting just above her forehead. I pegged her at about 28 years old. She sported no eyebrow rings, no tongue stud, and no tattoos, at least that I could see. She stopped in front of us, cradling a cribbage board in the crook of her arm.
“Hey, Grandma, sorry I’m late. I got hung up after class.”
“Hello, Lindsay, dear. Whenever you arrive is the right time for me,” Muriel answered. “I’d like you to meet Professor Daniel Addison. He’s just started in the English department at U of O. He’s also the Liberal campaign manager for Cumberland-Prescott. Daniel, this is my granddaughter, Lindsay Dewar,” Muriel concluded with a sweep of her hand.
“Hello, Lindsay. Very pleased to meet any relative of Muriel’s.”
“Hi, Daniel, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Lindsay said with a grin.
I looked at Muriel for signs of a conspiracy but could detect none.
“Don’t look at me; I’ve never mentioned your name,” Muriel replied with her hands raised in surrender.
Lindsay jumped in. “Jasper over there just told me all about your double-twisting gainer on the sidewalk yesterday,” she ribbed. The old man, still in his peach safari suit, bowed slightly when I looked over. I wondered who within the Cumberland town limits had not yet had a laugh at my expense. “You sure made a splash with this crowd,”
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