Conventions

 

   On February 26, Teresa and I attended the Kittson/Roseau County DFL Convention in Greenbush. The local DFL Party (Democratic-Farmer-Labor) has been moribund for years but has revived since the re-election of Donald Trump. Present this evening were 31 delegates elected from the county precinct caucus meetings held earlier in the month. 

   This evening I was helping with registration. A striking thing about the caucus meeting and the convention was the amount of paperwork necessary. Not only did the delegates have to sign in, they had to be given six pieces of paper plus a ballot for voting for resolutions that had been forwarded from the caucus meetings.

  Another striking thing was all the candidates or their representatives who had traveled to Greenbush (pop. 682) to present their cases to us delegates. Tonight's convention would choose four delegates who would attend the district and state conventions. These four were the people who really mattered to the candidates.

   We delegates sat at tables and listened to our chairperson and to the various three minute speeches of the candidates or representatives. A delegate would hold up a red card when a candidate exceeded the three minute limit, which they all did. The candidates milled about the back of the room during the proceedings. They all knew each other. They had done this at previous conventions and they would be doing it at many more. There was coffee available. Coffee that tasted like it had been made with old stogies.

   The candidates reminded me of something or someplace and it took me a few days to remember the pub our family had visited one evening on the west coast off Ireland. I think it was in Clifden. The pub was crowded because there was music and because it was the night of the lotto drawing. Grand prize was a hundred pounds. This was in October right after 9/11, so there weren't many American tourists, though our daughter-in-law Heather chatted with four young American women at the bar.

  As the evening came to an end, I noticed a group of tall, thin young men, farmery looking, whatever that means, lined up along the back wall. As the bell for closing rang, the men moved in on the young women. The women took it well. They seemed to know the routine and gently rebuffed their suitors. The suitors must have luck on occasion otherwise what was the point of risking this humiliation.

   So it was the hungry suitors who I was subconsciously remembering as I watched the candidates. The suitors at least had Guinness to drink rather than bad coffee. Also, our son Matt won the hundred pounds, much to the chagrin of the locals.