It's a madcap way to pick a president

Ours is the crowning era foretold in prophecy: Born of Time, a great new cycle of centuries begins. Justice returns to earth, the Golden Age returns, and its first-born comes down from heaven above.

— Virgil (70-19 B.C.)

For the first time in years, I miss no longer reporting from the Democratic and Republican national conventions. The Charleston papers sent me to eight of these quadrennial gatherings of political bigwigs in the 1976-88 period. Being younger and less cynical then, I found them to be both entertaining and sobering. (No, perhaps "sobering" is not the right word.)

R.L. Schreadley

I particularly liked watching would-be party leaders of the future swimming in close formation with political greats of the day, like pilot fish with sharks, hoping to snatch some leftover shreds of the sharks' breakfast, some scraps of political advantage.

There is little real drama associated with political conventions these days. The Obama/Hillary show next week in Denver may keep conventioneers and television audiences awake longer than usual.

Dream-Will-Never-Die Clintonites still pray some miracle will leap frog Hillary into the nomination, some last minute disclosure, some scandal from Obama's past, some John Edwards-like revelation, the sort of things that circulate constantly on the Internet.

If she can only get by the first ballot, maybe there will be a sufficient number of defections from the Obama camp to put her over the top.

Fat chance.

Not for many years has a major party nominee for Leader of the Free World faced serious opposition at the convention. The last real nail-biter occurred in 1976 in Kansas City, when Ronald Reagan came within a whisker of wresting the Republican nomination from President Gerald Ford. I can still hear the chants that rocked Kemper Arena then: Ray-gun! Ray-gun! Ray-gun! I can still see the tears streaming down the faces of true believers when Reagan lost.

That was the year a peanut farmer from Georgia accepted the Democratic Party's nomination in New York's Madison Square Garden. That was the first convention my old boss at the Charleston Evening Post, Tom Waring, sent me to cover.

"A visitor from outer space listening to the speeches Monday," I wrote, "would draw a strange picture of our country. Most Americans, he would gather, are poor, underprivileged, under-compensated and probably underweight (a final conclusion belied by the girth of many of those in attendance). And all this because of the under-concern and perversity of creatures called Republicans."

The most dramatic moment at the Garden that year was Jimmy Carter's entrance through the crowded convention floor, flashing his famous, many-toothed smile all the way to the podium, where he stood and acknowledged the heartfelt cheers of the delegates and a goodly number of other thousands present. When the cheering stopped, he gave the famous line he had used in many, many meetings across the country in the run-up to that night: "My name is Jimmy Carter, and I'm running for president."

From there, you might say, it was all downhill.

At the 1984 Republican convention in Dallas, outside the hall a group called "Ladies Against Women" passed out leaflets advertising a fashion show held later on the sidewalk outside conservative icon Phyllis Schlafly's hotel.

"Tasteful ladies will model appropriate fashions for the Reagan Years including pink chiffon, pearls, white gloves, and darling picket signs reading 'Ban the Poor' and 'Nancy for Queen,'" the leaflet read.

A "pep rally" was also scheduled to drum up support for such issues as "civil rights for sperms (billions are murdered daily!); the gender gap (repeal the Ladies Vote: It's suffering and not suffrage that keeps us on our pedestals); silent prayer in public transit vehicles; the budget; the Equal Restrooms Amendment; and a voluntary Adopt-a-Missile program."

It's not all fun and games at the conventions, of course. In 1988, in Atlanta, the Democratic Party delivered the nomination to Michael Dukakis. "These are some of the convention memories I will carry back with me to Charleston," I wrote.

"The convention floor chant, 'Duke! Duke! Duke!' and the shield-and-stick brigade's strangely echoing 'Move! Move! Move!' as it forced militant, leftist demonstrators away from street barricades outside the convention hall.

"The cries, 'Keep Hope Alive! Keep Hope Alive!' and the sight of tear-stained faces after Jesse Jackson's speech on Tuesday night.

"Convention Chairman Jim Wright trying to give the hook to Arkansas Gov. Bill Clinton, whose 19-page speech nominating Michael Dukakis for president was putting the convention and a national television audience to sleep. A furiously flashing red light on the podium that warns speakers their time is up clearly had no effect on the long-winded Clinton. Neither did Wright who, grim-lipped, finally gave up in disgust.

"The roar of approval and applause (the only real one he got) which greeted Clinton when he said, 'In conclusion ... .' "

And now, for my own "In conclusion." Delegates and reporters covering this year's national conventions have great and memorable moments to look forward to. In many ways, anointing those chosen to be standard bearers in November's election is still the greatest show on earth. Great, but all in all, quite crazy.

R.L. Schreadley is a former Post and Courier executive editor.