Ghosts of New Hampshire past

Forget what your mother told you -- almost no one grows up to be president

by Margaret Doris

MANCHESTER, NEW HAMPSHIRE -- "I come from Arizona," is the way John McCain begins the story. And he begins it often: in musty gymnasiums, in dank VFW halls, in the back of his campaign bus. "Arizona, the home of Barry Goldwater, who ran for president. Of Morris Udall, who ran for president. Of Bruce Babbitt, who ran for president."

Pause for effect.

"Arizona is the only state where mothers don't tell their children that they can grow up to be president."

McCain says the story keeps him humble. What it really does is keep him hustling. Nineteen sixty-four. Senator Barry Goldwater. Second place in New Hampshire, 22.3 percent of the vote. Shake another hundred hands. Nineteen seventy-six. Representative Morris Udall. Second place in New Hampshire, 23 percent of the vote. Hold another dozen town meetings. Nineteen ninety-six. Governor Bruce Babbitt. Sixth place, 5644 votes. Somebody, quick, find me a baby to kiss!

IT'S HARD to remember while the circus is in town that the real story is not all the clowns who manage to get on the ballot here. Instead, it's all those children who managed to grow up with every reasonable hope that they could be president, who thought power and prestige and accomplishments ought to count for something, and who instead find themselves in New Hampshire, where the content of a candidate's character is measured by front-page stories in which waitresses rate the size of the tips they leave. Where elected officials who have no problem getting the president to take their phone calls can't get a state representative from Hooksett on the line. Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Washington anymore.

Almost anybody can run for president in New Hampshire. All you have to do is pay the $1000 filing fee, and if you can prove you can't afford it, the state will waive that requirement too. Which means the New Hampshire primary is a pretty big tent. It's managed to include Caroline B. Killeen, a/k/a the Hemp Lady, a former nun who lived in a homeless shelter and vowed to "Killeen Up America" by legalizing marijuana. (Nineteen ninety-two: 96 votes. Nineteen ninety-six: 393 votes.) It's included Billie Joe "God Is My Campaign Manager" Clegg, who's run as both a Republican and a Democrat, promising: "Clegg will not pull your leg." (Nineteen seventy-six: 174 votes. Nineteen ninety-two: 110 votes. Nineteen ninety-six: 118 votes.) It's included folks who are neither entertaining nor particularly qualified beyond the fact that they meet the Constitution's requirements regarding age and place of birth. (Pat Robertson: 1988, fifth place, 14,775 votes. Steve Forbes: 1996, fourth place, 25,505 votes.) And it includes, when you think about it, a truly staggering number of people whose mothers knew they could grow up to be president: people with sterling résumés, who were raised to be winners, who've had everything they touch turn to gold, and who, when they come to New Hampshire, find that even second place becomes a distant dream. Sometimes they have trouble outdrawing the Hemp Lady.

Orrin Hatch's cheerful little headquarters on Concord's Pleasant Street is dark now, its window boxes filled with snow. And Hatch himself has gone back to Washington, to the reassuringly familiar corridors of power, where people know his name and where his name gets him a good table. And where, when the phone rings, it might just be the president on the other end of the line.

Hatch himself is still trying to figure out why he is never going to be the president on the other end of the line. It should have been a snap. Elected five times to the Senate, he'd never run a losing race. Sure, he got into this one late. But in 1976, he'd made up his mind on the last day possible for filing. Then he was just an attorney. Now he was chair of the powerful Senate Judiciary Committee. A staunch conservative with impeccable morals, he'd also pushed for bipartisan support for family and medical leave, WIC, and care for infants with AIDS. He is what they call, in the Washington newspapers, a "respected" senator.

THERE ARE New Hampshire success stories, of course. Times when the voters have recognized talent and merit and voted accordingly. It's possible to fool yourself for quite a while that you are going to be one of those stories -- after all, there is always somebody willing to shake your hand, always some camera you can manage to work your way in front of. But then come the averted eyes, as if you've become some kind of walking train wreck. Even worse are the blank stares. How many more times can you force yourself onto a debate platform where Alan Keyes is taken more seriously than you are? How many times can you force yourself into a state where Alan Keyes is going to get more votes than you are?

Two days after the Iowa caucuses, Hatch pulled out of the race. (His announcement was delayed for a day by a massive snowstorm, which Hatch -- unable to give up completely on the intoxicating promise of a New Hampshire upset -- was tempted to interpret as a sign from God that he should push on. "No, Orrin," his wife replied. "The Iowa caucuses were the sign from God.") Hatch went back to Washington and choked out an endorsement for a wet-behind-the-ears governor from Texas because the party powers that be said, Look, Orrin, we gotta win. Hatch, who now really knows it isn't about ability, integrity, or qualifications, said what the heck and endorsed George W. And then he went home to ponder whether he even wanted to bother running for re-election to the Senate.

Hatch will recover, of course. They all do, some more gracefully than others. Senator Bob Kerrey (1992, third place, 18,584 votes) was positively gleeful last week, bounding around the state stirring up enthusiasm for his former colleague Bill Bradley. Eight years ago he was positively miserable as his handlers decided that the best way to show the stability of the one-legged, Congressional Medal of Honor-winning former Navy SEAL was to have him make a campaign spot standing in street shoes in the middle of an ice-hockey rink.

Senator John Glenn (1984, third place, 12,088 votes) had an easier time persuading NASA to send an elderly ex-astronaut into space than he had getting New Hampshire voters to support him. After copping only 12.9 percent of the vote, Senator Howard Baker (1980, third place, 18,943 votes) went from "What did the president know and when did he know it?", in the Watergate hearings, to helping figure out what the president knew and whether he could remember it, as Reagan's chief-of-staff.

Some get mad, and some eventually learn to get even. Tom Harkin (1992, fourth place, 17,063 votes), the moving force behind the Americans with Disabilities Act, watched on primary day as a severely disabled young man -- proudly wearing a Tsongas button -- navigated the decidedly not-handicapped-accessible entrance to the polling place. In 1996, once again unable to define and defend himself adequately, Harkin nearly lost his Senate seat to Republican congressman Jim Ross Lightfoot. Two years later, he decided to stomp Lightfoot's gubernatorial bid -- in the process electing, almost incidentally, Tom Vilsack, Iowa's first Democratic governor in 30 years. It's almost enough to make a man take a second swing at New Hampshire.

Some do, of course. In three tries, Bob Dole (1980, eighth place, 597 votes; 1988, second place, 44,797 votes; 1996, second place, 54,738 votes) never managed to win here, but he did capture the nomination. Ronald Reagan (1968, ninth place, 326 votes; 1976, second place, 53,569 votes; 1980, first place, 72,983 votes; 1984, first place, 65,033 votes) doggedly worked his way to the top.

Sometimes old horses respond to the fire bell, gamely struggling through the New England snows while party officials wonder how the hell to get them back in the barn. Both former Democratic standard-bearer George McGovern (1972, second place, 33,007 votes; 1984, eighth place, 406 votes) and Senator Gene McCarthy (1968, second place, 23,269 votes; 1992, 11th place, 212 votes), who took the wheels off the Johnson train in 1968, have inexplicably tried to make New Hampshire comebacks. They made the mistake of thinking they were serious candidates because of what they'd done in the past; the party knew they needed to be treated like serious candidates only because of what they'd done in the past. They participated in the debates, spoke at the Rotary luncheons and to high-school civics classes. But you could almost hear the thinking: hey, you know, it would solve an awful lot of problems if the old guy took a header off the platform. Nothing too serious: an ankle maybe, or a hip.

AND THAT is the problem with New Hampshire: knowing when it's your time, knowing when your time is up. Understanding that the yardstick is somehow different here, that your worth won't be taken by a standard measure. Knowing that on Election Day, you're going to be standing outside the polls, rendered totally impotent by residency requirements, unable for the first time in your life to cast a vote for yourself. Coming to grips with the fact that, no matter what your momma told you, in America almost nobody grows up to be president.

s Margaret Doris is a freelance writer. She has written about presidential politics since 1980.