Greeting Mr. Nixon

It was sometime in the autumn of 1960. I don't recall the date, but it had to have been late September or some time in October.

The Proviso Township High School majorettes had been rehearsing much more than usual as soon as classes resumed at the end of summer vacation. At a time when public schools were well-funded and well-run, the majorettes performed with the marching band at all football games. We also led the band in all local parades and special civic functions.

There was an unusual opportunity for us that year, though. Richard Milhouse Nixon, the Republican candidate for President in the 1960 election would grace our little town with a campaign stop, and we were invited to greet him at the podium.

Being a normal teenaged sophomore in high school, it would be fair to say that what I knew about politics was about on a par with how much I knew about a balance sheet. Not a damned thing. But like most clueless young people, I took my cues from my family when it came to, well, almost everything -- White Sox or Cubs, Bears or nobody, Catholic or Protestant, and Kennedy or Nixon.

With all the enthusiasm of a well-informed campaign worker, I assumed the appropriate anti-Nixon posture (deep in my heart it was because he was rather homely and JFK was so cute.) There were equally clueless girls on the squad whose parents supported Nixon, so they too voiced very strong and very baseless opinions in the locker room.

My parents informed me that it was my duty as a member of a team to go out there and perform my heart out, no matter which candidate was speaking. I was representing the mighty, mighty Proviso Pirates, not Nixon.

So I practiced and pranced. I repeated the twirling routine until I was able to perform it six times in succession, from beginning to end, without dropping the baton. That was particularly important because I was required to do a very high, spinning toss in a solo.

The big day arrived. I had had plenty of practice and plenty of time to be helped to understand the significance of a Presidential candidate visit to little old Maywood, Illinois. When I finally buckled on my feathery plumed majorette hat my hands trembled in anticipation.

It rained that day. Let me just say that precipitation of any kind creates challenges for baton twirlers that we hadn't practiced for. The crowd was unphased by the weather and greeted the candidate with loud and raucous cheers. The band played flawlessly as my sister twirlers strutted and spun.

In order to toss a baton as high as I intended, it was necessary to grasp it near the end of the shaft with the smaller rubber tip. The weight and size of the bigger tip on the other end then propels the baton upward. I did my turn, passed the baton behind my back, grabbed the small end and let 'er rip.

I raised my stunned eyes from the solitary, shaftless rubber tip still sitting in my rain-slicked hand just in time to see Mr. Nixon take a quick, and I must say, nimble step backward as the flying missile landed with a clang. At his feet.