that the latest arrival is hailed as he who makes the minyan.
As he left us Minehart said, “Of course, if the Democrats had been ahead in the popular vote, I’d have expected Bob Jordan to persuade his Republicans to make a deal with us. And I feel convinced the deal would have been made.” I judged that what he was saying was that regardless of party there would have been enough electors of deep-seated conviction, of adherence to historical principles, to prevent the leaders of either major party from making a deal that would have been morally offensive. And it did not matter whetherthe electors were Republicans or Democrats. There would have been rebellion.
These somber thoughts were shattered by the booming of the most extraordinary voice in Pennsylvania politics. It was of piercing force, echoing throughout the whole area of the capitol where we stood. It was deep like a man’s voice, but also penetrating like a woman’s. We all turned, for it was familiar, and there, standing feebly with the aid of a cane, was a little old woman ninety-four years old, in a neat blue dress, with all her own teeth, and a raffish grin on her face.
“When we carried this state in 1936,” the amazing voice boomed, “our party hadn’t been in power for over fifty years and we didn’t have one damned Democrat who knew a thing about procedures. Hell, we were like a bunch of country yokels.”
It was Emma Guffey Miller, the grand old lady of our party and sister to the late Senator Joe Guffey. For years the two parties in Pennsylvania had grand women as their leaders, Mrs. Worthington Scranton for the Republicans and Mrs. Miller for the Democrats. The son of the first became governor of the state; the second watched her brother become the dominant senator. Mrs. Scranton had great wealth behind her, and she spent it well; Mrs. Miller had that incredible voice and the grandeur that comes of sheer persistence.
I first met her brother in the days when he was being elected as a Democrat from a state where his party did not particularly flourish. He therefore had to engage in a certain amount of showmanship, and this he did with aplomb. I remember one meeting in Quakertown, where some threehundred of us were waiting to hear him, and he had arranged for four young men in blue suits to appear at fifteen-minute intervals, all looking alike, all breathless with excitement as they rushed into the hall.
At nine that night the first young man in blue shouted, “Senator Guffey has just left Philadelphia!”
At nine-fifteen the second man cried breathlessly, “The Senator has just left Lansdale.”
At nine-thirty the third man told us, “The Senator was seen in Sellersville.”
And at nine forty-five the last young man gathered the other three about him and they all rushed into the room, bellowing, “Here he is now, Senator Guffey!”
Mrs. Miller was to be my vice-president and I thought I had better coach her as to what was involved, but she pushed me away grandly and announced, “Good God, young man! I was a member of this College back when Gifford Pinchot was governor. And I was a member three other times and I would have been three more times but the damned Republicans carried the state.”
She looked extremely frail, so I asked her if when she presided over the election of the Vice-President of the United States, she would prefer a chair, and she bellowed, “Hell no. You stand me on that rostrum and I’ll take care of things.”
When I met with the other delegates I found that they had been the subject of a spirited mail campaign conducted by the so-called Commission on Election Reform, which sought to highlight the absurdities of a system whereby electors were free to vote for candidates whose names had not even appearedon the ballot. The commission, about which I could find nothing when I tried to call its headquarters in Seattle, Washington, was urging us to select as our next Vice-President a Seattle lawyer named Roderick
As he left us Minehart said, “Of course, if the Democrats had been ahead in the popular vote, I’d have expected Bob Jordan to persuade his Republicans to make a deal with us. And I feel convinced the deal would have been made.” I judged that what he was saying was that regardless of party there would have been enough electors of deep-seated conviction, of adherence to historical principles, to prevent the leaders of either major party from making a deal that would have been morally offensive. And it did not matter whetherthe electors were Republicans or Democrats. There would have been rebellion.
These somber thoughts were shattered by the booming of the most extraordinary voice in Pennsylvania politics. It was of piercing force, echoing throughout the whole area of the capitol where we stood. It was deep like a man’s voice, but also penetrating like a woman’s. We all turned, for it was familiar, and there, standing feebly with the aid of a cane, was a little old woman ninety-four years old, in a neat blue dress, with all her own teeth, and a raffish grin on her face.
“When we carried this state in 1936,” the amazing voice boomed, “our party hadn’t been in power for over fifty years and we didn’t have one damned Democrat who knew a thing about procedures. Hell, we were like a bunch of country yokels.”
It was Emma Guffey Miller, the grand old lady of our party and sister to the late Senator Joe Guffey. For years the two parties in Pennsylvania had grand women as their leaders, Mrs. Worthington Scranton for the Republicans and Mrs. Miller for the Democrats. The son of the first became governor of the state; the second watched her brother become the dominant senator. Mrs. Scranton had great wealth behind her, and she spent it well; Mrs. Miller had that incredible voice and the grandeur that comes of sheer persistence.
I first met her brother in the days when he was being elected as a Democrat from a state where his party did not particularly flourish. He therefore had to engage in a certain amount of showmanship, and this he did with aplomb. I remember one meeting in Quakertown, where some threehundred of us were waiting to hear him, and he had arranged for four young men in blue suits to appear at fifteen-minute intervals, all looking alike, all breathless with excitement as they rushed into the hall.
At nine that night the first young man in blue shouted, “Senator Guffey has just left Philadelphia!”
At nine-fifteen the second man cried breathlessly, “The Senator has just left Lansdale.”
At nine-thirty the third man told us, “The Senator was seen in Sellersville.”
And at nine forty-five the last young man gathered the other three about him and they all rushed into the room, bellowing, “Here he is now, Senator Guffey!”
Mrs. Miller was to be my vice-president and I thought I had better coach her as to what was involved, but she pushed me away grandly and announced, “Good God, young man! I was a member of this College back when Gifford Pinchot was governor. And I was a member three other times and I would have been three more times but the damned Republicans carried the state.”
She looked extremely frail, so I asked her if when she presided over the election of the Vice-President of the United States, she would prefer a chair, and she bellowed, “Hell no. You stand me on that rostrum and I’ll take care of things.”
When I met with the other delegates I found that they had been the subject of a spirited mail campaign conducted by the so-called Commission on Election Reform, which sought to highlight the absurdities of a system whereby electors were free to vote for candidates whose names had not even appearedon the ballot. The commission, about which I could find nothing when I tried to call its headquarters in Seattle, Washington, was urging us to select as our next Vice-President a Seattle lawyer named Roderick
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