(5 of 6)
Machine-Tooled Welcome. Truman might be plain Harry Truman at the whistle stops, but he was also a veteran machine politician who could appraise well-organized enthusiasm with a practiced eye. Chicago's Democratic machine—an oldfashioned, well-oiled affair in whose disciplined ranks a precinct captain is a failure unless he can predict his total within a couple of votes—was supposed to organize it down to the last cheer.
The object was to "create a Democratic atmosphere" and to give aid to Majority Leader Scott Lucas, who badly needed it in his campaign against Republican Everett Dirksen (Lucas, no red-hot campaigner, agreed to run again only on Truman's promise of active help). By the sort of happy chance that is possible in a machine-run city, the Democrats' sho.w coincided with a civic "Jefferson Jubilee" celebrating the 150th anniversary of Jefferson's election. A nonpartisan "host committee" was organized to raise $250,000, and Democratic wards briskly funneled contributions to it. Explained "Botchy" Connors, a cigar-smoking ward boss: "If there are any businessmen in the ward, we ask them to contribute a float or something." The U.S. Treasury helpfully ruled that contributions for "floats or something" were deductible as business expense.
The Democrats gathered 10 governors, 56 Congressmen and assorted politicos for dinners, panels and conferences, topped off by "bringing the Government to the people," a first-time-in-history meeting of the U.S. Cabinet in public (though Acheson, Johnson and Snyder were missing)—fully televised from the stage of the Civic Opera House.* Then came the big parade.
Headed by 6,750 national guardsmen and followed by 30 drum & bugle corps, herds of mechanized floats, Harry Truman rolled down Madison Street to Chicago Stadium. Each Cook County committeeman was instructed to provide 30 men holding giant-size flares. Some 25,000 balloons soared into the night ("You have to have something for the kids," explained a committeeman).
Outside the stadium, bleachers were set for the overflow crowd. As the lights beat down on the stage, Harry Truman spoke the ritualized words of political benediction over Scott Lucas ("fine work ... excellent manner in which he has measured up to that difficult task . . . entitled to gratitude of entire nation").
Town-Site. How had Harry Truman made out? He had talked to 525,000 people in 15 states which would elect twelve Senators and 147 Congressmen this fall. Whether he had helped local Democrats much was debatable (except for Lucas in Illinois and Mike Mansfield in Montana, he had done little plugging of candidates). But there was no doubt that he had done himself a lot of good. He reduces the issues, said the New York Times correspondent admiringly, "to town-size so any dirt farmer can understand them." There were no Republicans aboard to complain "Yes, but how about the deficit?" There were no Southern Democrats to point out how little he had accomplished. There had been only Harry Truman, the salesman of good intentions and the man with the common touch, wearing the aura of the presidency, doing what he did best—meeting the people. In the year 1950, there was still no one around who did it better.