“Also in the good-news department this morning, yesterday I got a nice letter from my daughter-in-law, Lois, who tells me that Bobby has just been promoted to the new position of vice president in charge of operations of Fowler Poultry Enterprises, and for a boy who flunked the sixth grade and could not spell monkey, much less millipede, believe me, that is quite a feat!”
The Governors Convention
IN 1966 BETTY RAYE was relieved to learn that there was another wife running for a governorship. Lurleen Wallace of Alabama had announced her candidacy. Betty Raye did not know anything about her but she prayed she would win so she would not have to be the lone woman governor in the United States anymore. It was not fun.
Early the next year, when Governor Betty Raye Sparks of Missouri received her invitation to the National Governors Convention in Washington, she said, “I’m not going to go up there with all those real governors, Hamm. I’d make a fool of myself.”
“No, you won’t honey, I’ll be right there with you all the time.” He patted her arm. “All you have to do is smile and be pleasant. I’ll tell you how to vote on things.” Cecil, who was looking forward to another week of shopping for the trip, said, batting his big eyes, “If you don’t go, darling, it will look bad for the state.”
Hamm arrived at the governors conference bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. This was his first trip to Washington as the husband of a governor and the press was particularly interested in him. Hamm played it up for all it was worth. Betty Raye, the only woman governor there, thought she would have physically mashed herself into a wall if she could. She was miserably unhappy but he showed up at all the governors’ wives’ events—teas, ladies’ luncheons, fashion shows—and charmed every woman there. He even won first prize at one of the many raffles, an original Mr. John picture hat, and delighted the women by wearing it for the rest of the luncheon. Hamm’s nature was naturally outgoing and spontaneous and if asked a question he would usually tell you exactly what he thought. To the reporters who had what they viewed as the dull job of covering all the governors’ wives, Hamm was a welcome and a refreshing change. Political spouses in general were notorious for not saying anything more than “You’ll have to ask my husband about that” or “I don’t know, I leave all that up to my husband.” Not Hamm.
And he didn’t see the danger ahead. In his home state, this candor had been an asset. Here on a national level, it was a potential disaster waiting to happen and reporters began to circle around him, hoping to get a quote for a good story.
Vietnam was on everyone’s mind and it was a dangerous and tricky issue for any politician. Hamm had been warned by Wendell to keep his mouth shut, but at a wives’ cocktail party, a nice-looking woman sidled up to him and, after complimenting him on his tie, asked, “What do you think about all these antiwar protesters that are popping up everywhere?”
Hamm did not have to stop and think. “They’re a bunch of idiots. What they ought to be protesting is the government who’s sitting on their butts and letting those little bastards get the best of us. . . . We have to either fish or cut bait. . . .”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Stop playing patty-foot with those Vietcong and get it over with. There’s a damn elephant standing in the living room and everybody’s tippy-toeing around it.”
The woman played dumb, as if she had no idea what he meant. “I’m not sure I follow you. What elephant?”
Hamm said, “The bomb, honey. We’ve got it; they don’t. What’s the point of having it if we don’t use it? Truman had the right idea.” He pointed out the window of the hotel at a group of protesters across the street. “All those little tweety hearts and dove types ought to shut up and let us stop the damn thing before it gets any worse; then we can bring our boys home and sling all those little turncoats out of the country and get on with it.”
Afterward, he was sorry he had used curse words in front of the lady but that was how he felt and it was too late to take it back. Too late to realize that the lady was covering the event for the Washington Times. By the time they got back to Missouri the story had been carried all over the country and Newsweek had a drawing of him reaching in a bucket and throwing hippies like bait across the ocean. One editorial cartoon had his picture with a mushroom cloud rising from his head; another depicted him as a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, with Betty Raye trying to hold him back on a leash.
Even though Hamm had said what a lot of veterans thought, he took a lot of heat nationally and got into trouble in his own state for sounding like such a hothead. He lay low for a while.
A few weeks later, Rodney came in his office chuckling. “You made the big time, boy. I just got a call from Berkeley University out in California and they want you to come out and give them a speech.”
Hamm looked up. “Really? When?”
Rodney dismissed it. “Don’t worry, I told them you were unavailable.”
“Why?”
“Why? I’m not going to let you go out there in the middle of that hotbed of loonies.”
Wendell agreed. “Naw, you don’t want to go there. It’s too dangerous. Hell, there ain’t nobody more violent than those peaceniks. They’d tear you apart if they could get near you.”
Hamm said, “Now wait, let’s think about this for a minute. That’s a big famous university out there. It could mean more national press, couldn’t it? It might make me look good to go and talk to them. Like I’m willing to see the other side of this thing . . . and if they’re willing to listen to my side a little, I might even make a few points.”
“No, you won’t,” said Wendell. “All they want to do is drag you out in front and shout you down. They won’t listen to a damn thing you say.”
Hamm knew they might be right but even so he was secretly flattered that he had been asked. Anything to do with a university or college intrigued him. Everybody, including Vita, told him it was a bad idea. In the end, he could not resist the challenge.
They flew out to San Francisco the day before his appearance, with Rodney, Wendell, and Seymour grumbling all the way. They checked into a hotel and Hamm did not sleep much that night. He had worked long and hard on his speech and had made an effort to be especially careful about his grammar and his accent. He wanted to be up to the task of speaking in such a distinguished place of higher learning. This was the first time in years he had been nervous before a speech. He asked Rodney four times if his suit was all right and changed his tie twice. They were picked up at nine and driven over the bridge to the campus, and as expected a lot of the students were out and waiting for him. As they drove past the crowd toward the back entrance of the auditorium, the students and others started yelling and banging on the car. For some reason, this did not faze Hamm. He was now calm and collected. But the others suddenly started to get jumpy. Seymour, his bodyguard, had insisted that Hamm wear a safety vest that morning and when he got a look at the protesters he was glad he had. “Damn,” he said, “I fought Japs that weren’t as mad as this bunch.”
Seymour reached in his pocket and felt for his blackjack. “If we get out of here alive we’ll be lucky.”
The messages being waved in front of them varied from sign to sign. VIETNAM IS A RACIST WAR; HIROSHIMA HAMM; GO BACK TO THE BOONDOCKS, WARMONGER; WHITE TRASH, GO HOME; HEE-HAW HAMM; EAT DIRT, YOU STUPID REDNECK. But Hamm just smiled and waved at the crowd as if they were happy to see him, which infuriated them further. When they finally got inside the hall, the president of the university, a dry, colorless man with dandruff, greeted him coldly and when Hamm put out his hand, the man went out of his way not to shake it, afraid someone might take his picture. Once they got onstage, his charm-free introduction consisted of five words: “Ladies and gentlemen, Hamm Sparks.”
From the start things did not look good. The mere mention of his name caused the audience to roar with disapproval. The president went down and sat in the front row with the other professors as Hamm walked to the podium with his speech in hand. “Thank you for
that gracious introduction, Mr. President,” he said, smiling, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “I am honored and privileged to have been invited to speak at your university today. I want you to know that nobody supports and admires education more than myself. I also bring all of you greetings from the people of the great state of Missouri.” Suddenly, amid a growing chorus of catcalls and boos, six or seven tomatoes were thrown and one splattered by his foot.
Hamm glanced down at the front row, fully expecting the president to stand up and put a halt to this, but he did nothing; nor did any of the other professors who sat there, many with a slight smirk on their faces. It was at that moment he realized he was up there on his own. Hamm stood motionless for a moment while the melee continued and watched as the group of protesters from outside came into the hall and marched around chanting and waving their signs in what was obviously a well-planned demonstration against him.
They’d never had any intention of hearing his speech. He felt like a fool. Vita and the boys had been right. Rodney was in the wings and motioned him to come off the stage. He could have turned around and walked out but he did not. Instead, he got mad and he dug in his heels. Even though he knew no one could hear him above the chanting and foot stomping, he said:
“You may insult me but, by God, you are not going to insult the ex-governor of Missouri and I’ll be damned if you’re going to shout me down. You people asked me here for a speech and you’re going to get one. I read all your little signs and you can call me a country bumpkin, a redneck hillbilly all you want. But at least at home we have manners enough not to invite somebody somewhere and then treat them like a dog. Right now I’m proud to be a redneck but I’m no bigot. When I say I’m for everybody in this country, I mean everybody, even all you hippies out there. I feel sorry for you because you don’t know better.” He looked down at the front row. “I’m for everybody except for these pea-headed, lily-livered college professors you got sitting down there who have been brainwashing you against your own country. Filling you full of subversive ideas . . . egging you on to burn your draft cards and letting you wear the American flag on your behinds.” He pointed at the faculty. “No wonder you teach kids; if you tried to push all that anti-American propaganda on grown men you’d get the living tar kicked out of you. I have a message for you. If you don’t like it here, I’ve got me a whole bunch of boys down at the VFW and over at the American Legion just itching to help you move to Russia. Those Russkies won’t put up with your whining and bellyaching for one second. I believe in freedom and individual rights as well as the next man but nobody has the right to live here and do nothing but run us down.”
Then he addressed the protesters, who were still marching and chanting at the top of their voices, “Hell no, we won’t go,” and “Hey hey, how many boys did you kill today?”
“All you people are just delighting the Communists, and when you spit on one soldier or one policeman, you spit on this nation. You’re nothing but a bunch of scared little momma’s boys who let the others do the fighting for them. A lot of them poor black boys you are so worried about—their mommas and daddies don’t have the money to send them off dodging the draft. You’re the bigots. And if the Communists ever do get over here, these same little pantywaist professors are going to look around for somebody to protect them and there ain’t gonna be nobody here; you’ll all be up in Canada.
“So chant all your little chants and wave all your little signs and have all your sit-ins but one day when you grow up you’re going to be ashamed of yourselves. If you really want to help this country I suggest all you deadhead beatniks get a haircut, take a bath, and go over and pay a visit at the veterans hospital to those who fought so you could wave your little signs.” He stopped for breath. The din was continuous. “When I got here today your president informed me I was not going to be presented the usual plaque of appreciation for coming because your so-called college board doesn’t approve of me. Well, that’s fine, because I don’t approve of them. My staff did a little research and I found out that in the past few years you’ve had Fidel Castro, Nikita Khrushchev, and a member of the Black Panther Party up here and you couldn’t wait to give a plaque to all three of these guys, avowed enemies of our government who would destroy your country if they got half a chance. So if that’s who’s getting the plaques of appreciation around here, then I appreciate not getting one.”
He walked off to boos and jeers and catcalls and was rushed out to the car to find its tires slashed and orange paint poured all over it. When they finally made it off campus, riding on the hubcaps, Rodney turned around and gave the protesters the finger and laughed his head off. When Wendell asked him, “What’s so damned funny?” he said, “They’re so pig ignorant they don’t even know this car belongs to them.”
Hamm didn’t laugh. He had given a speech that no one had heard. The audience had screamed and stomped their feet and booed the whole time. But later Hamm said that was all right; he had heard what he had said, and it made him feel better.
When they got back home, the verdict was unanimous. Even he had to admit that the Hamm Sparks appeal had not worked. Still, they thought that was to be the end of it. But a student reporter, anticipating that the speaker might be shouted down, had placed a small tape recorder on the podium that Hamm did not notice. It had recorded every word he said. Later, the student played the tape and typed it up, word for inflammatory word, and printed it in the university newspaper.
Somehow, having people read what he said in black and white was not something Hamm had counted on. Hamm had assumed that no one was listening. The reporter with the love beads had assumed that printing the speech would damage Hamm even further. However, in Akron, Ohio, the reporter’s father, a World War II vet like Hamm, picked up the paper his son had wrapped his dirty clothes in when sending them home for his mother to wash. After he read the speech, the man said to himself, “Yeah, buddy.” And sent mimeographed copies to all his friends, who sent them to their friends. Instead of the article doing damage to Hamm Sparks, as the reporter had hoped, his father stopped paying his college tuition, making him suddenly eligible for the draft. Love Beads had to hitchhike all the way to Canada.
Soon, copies of Hamm’s speech were slowly but surely making the rounds of every VFW and American Legion hall. Police stations, firehouses, and union halls across the country stuck it up on their billboards and Hamm started to receive hundreds of letters of support and contributions from every state. A month later the headline in one major magazine read: HAMM VS. EGGHEADS: HAMM 10, EGGHEADS 0.
This set off a number of other articles. Soon, a spokesman from the NRA called and asked if they could name a gun after him, and when the sale of LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT bumper stickers almost doubled in a week, the printing company sent him a thank-you note with a nice donation.
People thought this sudden groundswell of support was what gave Hamm the misguided notion that he should run for president.
The day Hamm made his surprise announcement, Cecil Figgs was delighted, and went weak in the knees just thinking about all the wonderful parties and entertainments he could plan at the White House. Vita was more ambivalent. She would never stand in the way of anything he wanted, of course, but she was deeply uneasy about this decision. Politics was no longer just a bunch of men in a back room making deals. It was lethal business. People were getting killed. And Hamm already had a lot of political enemies. But for Hamm not to run would almost be the same thing as killing him.
Later that night she glanced down and beheld the sight of the de facto governor of the state and perhaps even the next president of the United States asleep at her breast and thought to herself, “God help us all.”
Hamm’s unexpected and rash decision to run for president had caught everyone off guard, but no one more so than Betty Raye. He had not discussed anything with her. As usual, she had no idea he was going to do it until he did it. And almost overnight, it seemed, Hamm was off and running, starting to campaign all over t
he country, and she was really left in the lurch. Her number one “assistant” was no longer there. Before he left he promised a panicked Betty Raye she had nothing to worry about, that nothing would really change, they could handle everything over the phone. This worked for a while but as the days went by Hamm was becoming less interested in the state and more interested in lining up his campaign; in fact, he was becoming harder and harder to get in touch with.
When Hamm was out of the state, Wendell helped her as much as possible but more and more Hamm was dragging Wendell and the rest of the staff off with him, leaving her alone for days at a time. Consequently, Betty Raye wound up trying to run the state by herself, a job she’d never wanted, did not know how to do, and had not been trained for.
For the first time since she had been elected governor, Betty Raye was forced to start reading what she was to sign and even to make decisions by herself. Terrified that she would make a mistake, she stayed up until three and four o’clock in the morning, poring through books, trying desperately to learn as fast as possible how state government worked, while trying to deal with her two children as well. Hamm would call her from time to time and give her a pep talk, tell her he knew it was hard but that he had a duty and an obligation to the people of America to speak out on their behalf. This might be all well and good for America, she thought, but in the meantime she was left holding the bag, having to make decisions without any help. But she did the best she could. And a few people may have been surprised when their bond issue passed and was signed with the advice and recommendation she had received from Alberta Peets, who had been there and knew what she was talking about. She told Betty Raye she thought an appropriation of $15 million for the restoration of the Mabel Dodge Prison for Women was a fine idea.