Rustle in the Grass Roots

Charlie Brannan was piqued. The American Farm Bureau Federation, the nation's largest and most potent farm group, had not even invited him to be a speaker at its 31st annual convention. Furthermore, the Secretary of Agriculture was pretty sure that the federation was preparing to crunch his controversial farm-support plan like so much Shredded Wheat and douse it with sour milk.

Charlie sat down and wrote a letter to big-fisted, fast-talking Allan B. Kline, wealthy Iowa hog breeder who had expected to become Tom Dewey's Secretary of Agriculture and whose position as Farm Bureau president made him leader of more than 1,400,000 of the richest, most influential U.S. farming families. It was only fair, the Secretary told Kline, that the federation let the Department of Agriculture explain its Brannan Plan before the delegates tried to pass judgment on it.

Farmer-Politician Kline chucked a juicy tomato right back at Brannan. "The implication in your letter . . . that a group of free American citizens cannot objectively discuss both sides of questions of policy unless the discussion is guided by some federal appointee can hardly be made seriously. Our members are remarkably well-informed on public-policy matters and . . . particularly well-informed with respect to your own proposal. It has been thoroughly discussed . . ."

Clanging Plowshare. Republican Kline had made no secret of his opposition to Brannan's plan, with its proposal for high prices on the farm, low prices in the grocery store, and Government subsidies to pay the difference. Kline favored instead a "sliding scale" parity program with a minimum of federal controls, based at an even lower level than the present compromise farm bill. But how did the rank & file of the prosperous, conservative Farm Bureau feel about it? Thousands of its members owed much of their current well-being to measures of the Truman Administration; thousands had voted for Harry Truman in 1948. With the Brannan Plan as bait, the Democrats were hoping to harvest the farm vote indefinitely.

The answer was quick in coming, and it was made in tones as sharp and ringing as the clang of a plowshare on granite. When Leader Kline rose up to speak, in the gilt-&-crystal ballroom of Chicago's Stevens hotel, the 3,500 listeners burst into a roaring cheer: "Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar! Everybody for the Farm Bureau stand up and holler--Yeah!" They cheered again when he lambasted Charlie Brannan's plan: "This is the road to tyranny . . . The people who are supporting this plan are either very dumb or they're simply dishonest." The whole plan would work out, cried Kline, to the disadvantage of the efficient farmer, "the guy who has tried to keep his hogs sweet and healthy and with a quirk in their tails."

Searing Temper. That was what the farmers had come to hear. Like the National Grange (whose members denounced the Brannan Plan recently), the Farm Bureau unanimously adopted a searing resolution: "Government payments are not a desirable substitute for price supports ... The ultimate effect would be nationalization of agriculture." For a tireless lobby which has never hesitated to let the taxpayer foot the bill for farmers' prosperity, the bureau added one surprising statement: "There is no good reason why the Government should pay part of the grocery bill of every citizen."

There was no mistaking the farmers' political temper. They went on to shellac the Truman Administration all along the line: the unbalanced budget, the drive to repeal Taft-Hartley, proposals for increased taxes, the compulsory health-insurance program. Then, for good measure, the delegates elected Republican Kline to another two-year term. As far away as Washington, Secretary Charlie Brannan could hear the unfriendly rustling in the grass roots, breaking up the solid farm & labor bloc he had hoped to see in 1950.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.