Stumping

The decorated bus maneuvered over the macadam road at a sedate speed, timing its arrival in the rural town where the young candidate for President would make his pitch to the waiting townsfolk.

"Now, Carleton, here are the speech amendments you asked for," the candidate's secretary presented several pages of notes then sat back awaiting approval.

"This line, 'Build it and they will come', that's from some movie, isn't it? And what are they supposed to build?"

"If you don't get a positive reaction from it, just chuckle and say, 'To coin a phrase' and chuckle some more. It's the impression we're after."

"Arrival in eight minutes, folks, let's get ready." The bus driver intoned with authority.

"I still know what they are supposed to build!" Carlton's hands began to tremble.

"Confidence in your election, Carlton. Why do you think we are out here?"

"But I haven't been elected and shouldn't I be the one to build confidence?"

"You are. Show them that you are united with their vision for the country; that you are a dove, not a hawk."

"We're here, folks. Showtime!" The driver opened the doors for the candidate and his entourage and they stepped out to the sporadic applause of a dozen or so farm clad greeters.

'WELCOME TO DIGBY' read the hand-painted, cardboard sign and a Ma Kettle type scurried forward, organizing them into a column past the spread of soup and milk on the sawhorse supported planks.

Carlton groaned positioning his secretary as armor from the calloused hands extended in welcome.

"My God," he muttered. "They built it and we came . . ."

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