Thunder & Rainbow

"I've been getting up this early every day for the past year--it's standard practice," said a cheery Adlai Stevenson into the microphones at Chicago's Midway Airport. The time was 8:15 a.m. At his side, Estes Kefauver chimed in: "I don't usually get up this early." But, added Estes, "I'm going to do so to accommodate my wonderful running mate."

With that exchange the Democratic nominees took off on an exhausting 5,032-mile air tour to confer with party leaders from 34 states at five regional meetings. Democratic planners thus hoped to get a head start on Republicans by coordinating the national campaign with state and local candidates, exchanging coattails ta the mutual advantage of all. It was the first team operation by the vastly different running mates--different in background, upbringing, character and viewpoint. But Stevenson and Kefauver were clearly determined to get along and forget old antipathies--and they could joke about their past rivalry. At one dinner party Estes drawled: "One thing about Democratic rivals--they can kiss and make up." Cracked Stevenson: "I'll make up, but I'm damned if I'll kiss you." (Said a Washington correspondent: "At last Adlai's got a straight man.")

"Have We Done Enough?" Aboard the plane. Stevenson donned horn-rimmed glasses and busily worked over speech drafts while Estes sucked at a cigar, still in its wrapper, then put on his black eyeshade and slippers, threw his long legs across an arm rest and slept.

At airport stops Stevenson for a time would pump hands as enthusiastically as Kefauver, pose for pictures with politicians and small children ("Well, I think this young man has lost his teeth"). But at Santa Fe, N.Mex., while Estes was still shaking hands, Stevenson finally turned to an aide and asked, "Have we done enough?" They decided they had, and, after tearing Estes away with some difficulty, they entered a canary-yellow Cadillac to ride into Santa Fe for a public appearance on the Plaza and a La Fonda Hotel political conference with Democrats from seven states. Twenty-four hours and 1,107 miles later, the pattern was repeated: at Vancouver, Wash., where the conference with party leaders was delayed for 30 minutes while Estes shook hands.

Emplaning in Portland, Ore. that night, Stevenson and Kefauver sat together, sipped on a bourbon and soda each, grabbed bits and snatches of sleep before arriving at Sioux City, Iowa's Sheraton-Warrior Hotel at 3 a.m. Just before the plane landed, a reporter asked Stevenson how he could smile after such a man-killing day. Said he: "You know, at just about the same hour as this, someone asked me why I ever went into politics. I said it was because I was drafted."

In the Tom Tom Room. Although Sioux City was farm--and therefore Kefauver--territory (see below), it was there that Estes suffered a minor embarrassment. He and Stevenson appeared in the Sheraton-Warrior's Tom Tom Room with two stony-faced Indians named Lame Deer and White Horse. They gave Adlai a gaudily colored Indian war bonnet, gravely announced that he had been made an honorary chief of the South Dakota Sioux, and would henceforth bear the name Charging Thunder. Said Adlai: "I am honored to be called this. I am told that Charging Thunder makes the grass grow and waters the animals." Estes, given only a pipe, was hurt at not being made a chief. Said he: "I'm going to speak to them about it." He stalked away before they finally came up with a name for him: Good Rainbow.

Stevenson declined to pose for photographers wearing his war bonnet, but he was delighted with it. He wore it that night while pacing his hotel room in consultation with aides. Unfortunately, its trailing tail caught in an electric fan. Stevenson took the accident good-naturedly, and, although the results were momentarily spectacular, no permanent damage was suffered either by war bonnet or wearer.

"I've Seen Every Place." From Sioux City the nominees flew on to Knoxville, in Kefauver's home state, where Democratic leaders from ten Southern states gathered with welcome pledges of support. But Stevenson could hardly conceal a wince at Governor Frank Clement's introduction. Cried Clement, pointing to Stevenson: "He is Mr. Integrity in my book, who will take that integrity down Pennsylvania Avenue when the Democrats shake, rattle and roll to the White House lawn."

On the plane going back to Chicago, where the long trip ended with still another closed political conference (the press was barred from all the tour's formal meetings), Adlai Stevenson chatted with a friend. He felt that the trip was a huge political success, had revealed real enthusiasm for the Democratic cause. "Kefauver and I," said he "have traveled this country more and know it better than any other candidates in American history, as far as I know. Eisenhower doesn't really know the country. He was out of it, or else he was at Army posts, insulated and isolated. Truman didn't really know it. He went back to Missouri. He made occasional speeches in various places, but he didn't really know it . . ."

But it had been a tiring trip. "I find that now I get no special kick, no anticipation about going anywhere in the U.S.," said Stevenson. "I've seen every place." Actually, Adlai Stevenson was speaking out of his weariness. The campaign was yet young, and, whether or not with a special kick, he--and Estes Kefauver --would see a lot more of the U.S.

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