Stephanie, Days of Turmoil and Victory, Daughters of Courage #3
By Donna Fletcher Crow
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One
“Vote for Hamilton. Eliot Hamilton for state representative. Would you like a balloon?”
Stephanie handed a string to a three-foot tall, cap-pistol-packing cowboy, then smiled as the child strode across the park beside his mother, a red “Hamilton for the House” balloon bouncing above his head.
Stephanie smoothed her bouffant blonde hair and tugged at her Western-fringed, green miniskirt. Then she brightened her smile and approached the next set of strollers in Lakeview Park. Over in the rodeo grounds, the crowds were gathering for the third night of the Snake River Stampede, “The Wildest, Fastest Show on Earth,” one of the five largest rodeos in the world, right here in Nampa, Idaho.
“Vote for Hamilton. Would you like a—” She stopped short and laughed. “Oh, hi, Grace. I didn’t recognize you. Are these your grandchildren?”
Grace Sperlin Paterson was her mother’s oldest and dearest friend. “Yes, Todd and Tessa. They’ve come down from McCall just to go to the Stampede with Grandma.”
The children, whom Stephanie guessed to be about six and seven, murmured shy acknowledgments and held out their wrists for Stephanie to tie on balloon strings while Grace continued. “Of course we’ll be voting for your father. Seems he’s been interested in politics ever since I knew him, and he’s done so much for Canyon County—supporting education and fighting liquor by the drink.”
“Thank you, Grace. Would you like a button?”
Grace took the red plastic button with “Hamilton” written across it in white letters. Although in her mid-fifties, she had kept the attractive figure Stephanie had seen in her mother’s yearbook from Kuna High School. And, although now more gray than blonde, Grace still wore her hair in a swirl of waves in defiance of the sleek, backcombed styles everyone else wore. “Is your mother around?”
“Yes, she’s somewhere with Daddy, shaking hands with the constituents.”
“How’s she holding up?”
“Loves it. I think Mother’s more a natural politician than Daddy.” She could have added, Mother is perfect in this role as she is in everything else. What did you expect? But it wouldn’t do to let it be known that the Hamilton family had a case of the much talked-about generation gap. “Oh, here Mother comes now with Jennifer—Alex’s daughter.”
The years of peace and growing prosperity of the fifties, after Eliot returned from serving his country in the Judge Advocate General Corps and earned his law degree, had given Elizabeth Hamilton the opportunity to develop into the elegant woman her tall, broad-shouldered form and thick black hair had always promised. Although her hair was gray at the temples, its sleek, Jackie Kennedy style emphasized her large, dark eyes. In her simple yellow linen shift she looked exceedingly young.
The old friends exchanged greetings, and Elizabeth introduced her seven-year-old niece to Grace’s grandchildren. “Since I don’t have any grandchildren, it’s nice that my sister had her daughter so late in life.”
Before Stephanie could take offense at the remark she felt was directed at her, the children ran toward the street shouting. “Oh, goody, here it comes! The parade! Hooray, hooray!”
The adults rushed forward to keep the children on the sidewalk, and the parade—billed as the longest rodeo parade in the world—passed before them on some of the world’s finest horseflesh.
Todd and Tessa bounced up and down, waving their balloons at the flag-bearers and the queen and her court that headed the parade.
But Jennifer stood in open-mouthed awe. She didn’t even blink until the raven-haired girl in a bright blue suit with red roses embroidered on it turned her prancing chestnut horse into the stadium.
“Oh.” Jennifer sighed. “Someday I’m going to be Queen of the Snake River Stampede.”
The saddle clubs were passing now, units of fifty to a hundred riders with perfectly matched, perfectly polished equipment, riding in precise formation.
Grace turned to the child who was still gazing after the departing princesses. “I was almost queen once.” Grace’s startling news brought Jennifer’s head around with a snap. “Of course, it wasn’t the Snake River Stampede then. It was the Nampa Harvest Festival—but this is what it’s grown into. I was the princess from Kuna.”
“Did you ride a horse?”
“No, I rode in a 1930 black roadster and sang and danced at the Pix Theater.” Grace laughed. “Can you imagine?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Oh, yes. I remember it well. That was the day I realized I loved Eliot. And I was terrified he’d fall for you, you were so beautiful.”
The women reminisced while the children exclaimed over the parade, and the riders smiled and returned their waves. The parade had progressed to its individual contestant section where riders competed for ornate blue rosettes proclaiming them “Best girl under ten,” “Best boy under ten,” “Best pair women,” “Best pair men,” and on to “Best family group” and “Best comedy group,” before Elizabeth got around to asking after Grace’s brothers and their families.
“Is Fred showing any interest in that widow that’s been chasing him?”
Grace sighed with exasperation. “Dear Freddie, he’s so much like Daddy was—just wants to help everybody and be kind to everybody and take good care of his farm. But he’s never found a wife to help him like Mother did Daddy.”
“And Albert?”
“Patricia’s father retired last year, so the whole ranch is theirs. They love it. I just wish we could see them more often—Ketchum’s not that far away, but you know how it is.”
Elizabeth murmured that it seemed she seldom saw her own family.
“Oh, did I tell you Albert’s boy is in Saigon?”
Stephanie turned away. Oh, no. Here it came. Grace was a very nice lady, but nothing could be more irritating than hearing her go on about her clever, dedicated nephew.
“Carlton? The one who did so brilliantly in law school? I didn’t know he was in the army.”
“He enlisted this spring. Of course it broke Patricia’s heart to have her only son go off to Vietnam, but he’s very idealistic about doing his duty.”
Saint Carlton the dutiful, Stephanie thought. Just turning her back wasn’t enough to shut out the panegyric.
“I suppose he’ll be reasonably safe in JAG. That’s what Eliot did in World War II, wasn’t it?”
Elizabeth started to answer, but the parade ended just then, and the children were tugging impatiently to get to their seats in the stadium.
Stephanie stood shaking her head as they disappeared into the crowd funneling toward the giant green stadium. Of course, Jennifer was only seven, and terribly spoiled, having been born to Alex after her second marriage—when everyone thought she was too old to have children. Stephanie could understand her daydreaming about being a rodeo queen.
But what of those eighteen-to-twenty-two-year-olds who were actually doing it? Thirty-six of them this year from all over Idaho and western Oregon with nothing better to spend their time on than horses, queen contests, and cowboys. Didn’t they realize this was 1968? Didn’t they know that if the world was going to be made a better place their generation had to do it?
Did these young women have nothing better to do than pet their horses and wear fancy clothes? Hadn’t they read The Feminine Mystique? Didn’t they know Betty Friedan had shown women a way to greater fulfillment? What about the ideals Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King had given their lives for?
That was why Stephanie had majored in political science at Boise State. That was why she firmly refused to get serious about any of the men she knew. But first she had to get a less stifling job. Could there be anything more out of character for a member of the Now Generation than working in a bank? The trouble was, what did political science majors who didn’t want to be teachers do?
Well, they could work in political campaigns. She could start by getting her father elected to the state legislature. Even if he didn’t understand the hippie’s love movement and thought antiwar demonstrations were harmful for the country, she knew he was that great exception to the rule—someone over thirty who could be trusted.
And, to be honest, for all her sympathies with those of her generation who marched in protest, she wasn’t sure that was the best way. Protests seemed far too often to lead to violence. Just look at the terrible riots in Detroit and Watts last summer.
She could never become a hippie or a protester. Many of her friends had in the past two or three years. But she didn’t believe in dropping out or in violent protesting. She was going to work inside the system. Politics was the answer. She didn’t know how or when, but she was determined to become an office-holder. And then they’d see something—all those complacent middle-class Americans who just went along with the program—she’d show them what a dedicated woman could do to make people better. She would build new houses, playgrounds, schools…
Yes, the world needed changing—and she was going to do her share of the changing. And she was going to do it long before she was anything like her father’s fifty-eight years old. But she would start with getting him elected to the state legislature.
“Would you like a balloon?” She turned to a little boy walking a very big dog, then gave his father a leaflet explaining Eliot Hamilton’s campaign issues.