Those Watergate Blues: Presidential Party Crashing

By Greg Guma

Impeachment. It’s the word of the year, maybe the decade. But for some of us it’s not the first time. Twenty years ago, Bill Clinton was impeached — but not removed from office — for oval office intern sex. For Democrats, it was relatively easy to condemn the sex and lying under oath, yet reject the idea that it warranted conviction. Afterward, the biggest impact was the subtle damage it did to Al Gore’s 2000 presidential campaign. 

Twenty five years before that, Richard Nixon resigned and waved goodbye. But he wasn’t impeached. He was merely threatened. Nixon had been caught running a private gang of political thugs. He had weaponized agencies and obstructed Congress until the evidence became overwhelming. Trump has already made that look trivial.

But I’m thinking past impeachment. Believe of not, Trump won’t be president forever. And although his departure will certainly be great TV, after that there will be smarmy claims that the system had worked after all, and that now things will return to normal. Doubtful, very doubtful. After Nixon was gone, and especially after his hand-picked successor Gerald Ford pardoned him, a deep disillusionment set in. Unfortunately, we’re headed there again. 

In 1974, while attending graduate school at the University of Vermont, after watching the Watergate hearings for months, only to have Nixon and Ford sidestep accountability and undermine justice, I was in a funk. Then I heard that Ford would be visiting Vermont. Here’s what happened, sort of.... on the night I went presidential party crashing.

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October 7, 1974. Burlington, Vermont

The Republicans ate roast beef. That was one of the facts I wanted to verify. Along with another vital piece of information: President Gerald Ford wore mismatched socks. According to rumors, each morning he picked them out himself.

George and Gerry

When I finally did find out Ford was sitting just above me, tucked behind the dais in Patrick Gymnasium. He had flown to northern New England to honor retiring U.S. Senator George Aiken, past dean of the Congress. Ford ate his beef and vegetables in silent tribute.

I was crumpled with my camera beneath his table, only inches from his blue and green socks. Awed. Or was I dreaming? Anyway, about midway through the meal I pulled on Ford’s leg. He passed me a potato and continued to chat with Aiken and the other Republicans. I tugged again and he leaned down, ostensibly to retie his shoelace.

“Is Chile really your Watergate?” I asked.

“You’re lucky I’m a friend of the free press,” he replied. “Hey, you want some sour cream?”

A few hours earlier, I had watched Secret Service men search reporters at the Vermont National Guard base at the airport. The concrete walkway near the planes had become a frisking ground by 6 p.m., an hour before the arrival of Air Force One. As a local photographer reassembled his lenses, the blond agent who had done the frisk leaned over him, checking each film canister. The SS man looked like an Ivy leaguer who had just joined the mob.

Flashing a press card I edged past them. The card was four years out of date. Then a rock-hard voice froze me in place: “PLEASE. MOVE. BEHIND. THAT. FENCE.”

The face connected to the icy warning looked like tooled leather left out in a snowstorm. I smiled, shrugged, and began to focus my Pentax on the whole team of government studs.

Leather Face noticed and immediately turned friendly. As much as he wanted to help out, he said, he simply could not let me through without the special white pass that I might obtain at the gym. At the gym, however, I discovered that only ten Vermont and ten national press people would be allowed to actually see the president. And all of them had been cleared by the SS a week earlier. Of course, a $50 contribution for dinner and speeches provided automatic clearance. It was the good old days.

After dinner, Aiken rambled on for about 2,000 stuffed contributors. The meal had been prepared by university food service. Yum. Aiken opined that this was the largest group of Americans who had ever eaten apple pie together. A veritable patriot’s Woodstock.

Personally, I was hungry and unmoved, still brooding over my rejection from the press pool. Yet I had managed to slip into the gym shielded within a bunch of tipsy Burlington politicians singing “Hail to the Chief” as we passed the check point. Before dinner I had ducked underneath the dais and crawled to the front of the hall.

When a pair of legs invaded my hideout I peeked up to see. Wings of karma, I thought, the President! The man otherwise known to the demonstrators outside as Nixon’s revenge. A light tug at his cuff let him know I was there. He leaned down and asked, “Is that you, Kennerly?” I held up my camera but admitted that I was not actually his personal photographer. But no threat intended, I explained. My paper, Metesky’s Monthly, was looking for a softer, personal angle.

Betty Ford at Bennington College

Ford was sympathetic. During the appetizer we talked about his wife, who had an old relationship with Vermont. Years ago she had spent a summer with a dance troupe at Bennington College. Betty had arabesqued across the lawn with Martha Graham, picking up some wild ideas along the way. Ford was happy to share. But he declined to comment on the specific nature of the wild ideas one picks up at arts schools.

While he ate more pie I reviewed my encounter with the SS men. Pretty tight on the reins for a man of the people, I complained to the president. “Whatever happened to openness and candor?”

Ford beckoned me with an index finger just below the line of the table cloth. I edged forward and he silently smeared the remains of his pie into my face with a smile. “Pass interception,” he said.

Apparently, this meant “openness and candor,” one of Nixon’s empty pledges, had officially become “fun and games.” That said, the pie was fine.

It had already been quite a night, beginning with protesters on a dying lawn in front of the Ramada Inn. A 20-foot neon sign above us announced, WELCOME PRESIDENT DORF. An act of gentle vandalism.

Cop cars zipped back and forth on the nearby commercial strip. A circle of chilled demonstrators stamped around the grass, carrying signs, chanting to bemused motel visitors and assorted gawkers at the Red Barn. The center of this dissent was about two dozen cloaked actors led by Julian Beck, founder of the Living Theater. They had come to speak out about Chile and Vietnam and Amnesty (for draft resisters, not Nixon) and Rockefeller (the appointed Vice President) and the ghost of San Clemente.

Beck was a gangly apparition, long grey hair streaming to his shoulders. Cast members wore black and death head makeup. In a monotone chant they announced, “Ford, Ford, it’s too late, Chile was your Watergate.”

But something was missing. Call it authentic enthusiasm. Tear gas or helmet-wearing oppressors might have provided the needed jolt of adrenalin. As it was, the Living Theater created a dramatic form, but not much drama. Snake-lining beneath red dragon fabric they formed a totem pole frieze, then shouted some truisms about fascism, capitalism and other isms that ought to be abolished. Not many others present took up the chants. 

As they continued another old slogan popped into my mind. If only they had added, “Two, four, six, eight, organize and smash the state.” But that was an outdated sentiment in what looked like an era of enforced tranquility. 

The Living Theater indicted power and authoritarianism, taunting the oppressors to reveal themselves, a message they often delivered with powerful gestures. I had last seen the group in 1968 when their radical production, “Paradise Now,” toured the country. In Vermont they had stopped at Bennington College and told the college women:

                        We’re not allowed to take our clothes off.

                      We’re not allowed to smoke marijuana.

                      We’re not allowed to travel without passports.

Then they urged their audiences to violate these norms. Or at least to disrobe. Eventually it often became a demand from a growing crowd of naked people. In 1974 it was still not permitted to undress or smoke grass in public. Yet the chants no longer felt as liberating. 

The performance ended after dusk, but the picketing continued until a black limo carrying the Commander-in-Chief whizzed into the parking lot. The crowd, much larger now, surged forward to a path blocked by more cars and cops. Siphoned back to the front entrance, they regrouped and restarted their chants. But the point of the demo was becoming obscure. Why protest Ford? What did he represent, except possibly physical fitness in middle age and a warped sense of team spirit? 

As if to echo my thoughts, one of the marchers asked, “How can you hate a banana?” That sounded about right. Gerald Ford was indeed a strange political fruit, one with a tough, slippery skin that probably concealed a soft inside.

“I don’t think I’d want as much recognition as you’ve got,” joked Aiken to laughter and applause. Roasting Ford after desert the old senator sounded like a wizened Georgie Jessel, complete with one-liners and weathered Vermont anecdotes. For example, Aiken praised Ford for doing more to restore cooperation between Congress and the executive branch than any other man “in the same amount of time.” The amount — about two months.

As Aiken surrendered the podium Ford leapt to his feet. This would probably be my last chance for an exclusive interview, so I yelled, “President, sir, what I really want to know, what America is asking itself, does all this clapping hurt your hands after a while?”

Realizing that he didn’t plan to answer I grabbed Ford’s leg, which sent one shoe skittering across the gym floor. An SS man quickly jumped up from the front table and splayed himself over the threatening footwear.

“Good save,” said Ford. Then an aside, “You get used to this sort of thing after a while.”

During his speech I learned quite a lot. Here are two of the many insights: 1) When elected officials talk the warm up should be at least as long as the speech itself, and 2) To be effective a politician should establish a firm connection with the place being visited.

Ford’s connection to Vermont dated back to October 2, 1965. On that evening, after another dinner and speech, he met a Republican grandmother who had missed the event and asked about his talk.

“Oh, that was nothing,” Ford demurred.

The grandmother replied, “That’s what I heard.”

Was it true? Who cared. The self-deprecating joke launched him into ten minutes of Thank You shout outs and misty recollections. He had come to help us celebrate Aiken Day. “He cuts through the chaff,” Ford said, explaining in a phrase the connection between politics and advertising. Politicians are like cleaning liquids. “Is chaff getting you down? Spoiling your weekends? Causing unsightly demonstrations? Try Aiken.”

But Vermonters couldn’t buy anymore Aiken. He had taken himself out of circulation. Yet Ford was on the tribute train, and unfortunately some of his remarks supported the rumor that, after 30 years in Congress, Aiken was losing his mind. Oops.

Ford certainly had a way with words, praising the “breadth and depth and greatness” of Aiken. He also explained that the Vermont senator was the only man he knew who could “go into a store with one dollar for four pounds of sugar and come back with change.”

Aiken protested, “I am not a crook.”

After a while taking notes felt more like doodling than journalism.

Outside the gym about 500 people were hearing about other issues from a few Vietnam vets. They explained that about 200,000 people who were underground in the U.S. would not go along with the limited amnesty proposal offered by Ford. And they charged that Ford’s pardon of Nixon was a crime that violated the former president’s civil rights, not to mention just about everyone else’s sense of fair play. Third Party candidates also delivered remarks as the chilled audience bought soup at 10 cents bowl. 

Despite the weather the protest leaders were optimistic. They were building a broad people’s movement, they explained. Ford seemed to agree. But for the president this alternative political energy was a threat to the nation.

Still crouched beneath the dais my view was not typical. The demonstrators outside seemed preoccupied with strong leaders and thought these guys actually made things happen. If I had been helping with their protest platform, I would have suggested another plank: Boycott Them All. Nixon, Ford, Rockefeller, just stop talking about them. End authoritarianism — by overcoming the obsession with so-called strong men. They don’t make change. We all do.

By the time Ford got around to issues I was close to unconsciousness. Fortunately, there were only two issues on his list. He talked passionately about “public enemy number two.” This dangerous bandit was actually a movement, the increasing number of independent voters. He had grave fears about the health of the nation, and pleaded for protection of the two — not three, not one — party system. In other words, two’s company, three’s a revolution.

“The politics of America is bound up in the two party system,” Ford explained. Exactly, bound and gagged. The congregation listened solemnly to this sermon from the ultimate party man. 

His themes: stability, opportunity, and freedom. The second and third items were never mentioned again. But stability was an emotional circuit that produced enthusiastic applause every time the word was spoken. It was spoken more than 15 times.

“What exactly is it that you want for us Americans?” I whispered.

“Choice without chaos,” he said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Ford explained, “We fell into the pattern of the two party system.” And a lucky thing we did, he added, since in countries with more than two parties there is chaos, instability and lack of direction. The choice is clear, he added with civics class simplicity. Loss of freedom with one party or chaos with many. And the problem with “many” was “splinter groups” that “lack imagination.”

I couldn’t write down any more of this. My cheeks were covered with tears. Now I understood the identity of “public enemy number two.” Ford was declaring war on the spirit of independence in the name of stability and order.

Better yet, this was Ford’s kickoff address for the 1974 mid-term elections. His target was clear and, due to technical difficulties in economic and government life, it would not be the Democratic Party. No, “public enemy number two” was Vermont’s third party, Liberty Union, which was running its strongest slate of candidates yet. They weren’t contenders for election. But the party’s viewpoint was starting to turn some heads. Alternative parties were emerging elsewhere around the country, some of them already influencing policies. Ford made it clear that, in his view, these new voices were poisonous thorns in the side of freedom.

Thus, he called on stalwarts from both sides of the aisle to crush the threat of too much diversity. After all, how could a legislature function if it had more than two aisles, or more than two answers to any problem? His rallying cry: “strengthen the twin pillars of democracy.”

“What’s wrong with three pillars?” I shouted.

He kicked me away and, without missing a beat, spoke a bit more about the two “great parties,” which “are not an end but a magnificent means.” 

Then on to “public enemy number one.” If you haven’t guessed yet, it was inflation. Ford promised that it would not be tolerated. I felt safer already. He also spoke of a two-pronged attack. He would call on 1) congress and 2) the people. For what? “To accomplish success, to win the battle and to maintain a growing economy.” Politics would become a team sport, one with mandatory participation and invisible referees. Helmets would be provided for all citizens.

The next day Ford’s two prongs became a ten-point program to “whip inflation now.” From the podium he asked Vermonters to “pull together on the political fabric.” And what would that require? Sacrifice.

Not again. I could feel a howl of pain across the nation. Haven’t we suffered enough? How about some amnesty for the rest of us? Or maybe another point in the inflation plan. This one could be modeled on the Soviet method of dealing with so-called psychotic patients. Put them to sleep for a few weeks.

These days we are all troubled patients. Maybe a sleep cure would actually have some positive inflation impacts. For instance, we’d save on gas. Many people would prefer that to another dose of sacrifice and responsibility.

But Ford wasn’t listening to me anymore. Instead, he was winding up his remarks with some nostalgia about the Continental Congress. After one session, Benjamin Franklin reportedly told a spectator, “We have given you a Republic, if you can keep it.” All it took, Ford added, was sacrifice and vision.

Clutching my stomach I bit at my Pentax lens. The audience rose to cheer as I rolled out onto the floor. The nearest SS man was hovering over me a second later. Grabbing my legs he began to pull me out of view. But the cheers and standing ovation had brought tears to Ford’s eyes. Turning philosophical, he winked at me, then said, “We have given you another Republican. But will you keep him?”

“Here are my press credentials,” I protested, “my references, good intentions. And I’m registered to vote!” They dragged me out anyway. “I came for the apple pie,” I shouted hoarsely before blacking out, “but the main course has made me sick.” 

... Did it happen? Mostly. And the reason the story comes to mind is that the same kind of thing could very easily happen again.