Chapter 30: Babe, the Fundraiser

J.P. Winslow had strongly advised Norman to appoint a fundraiser to solicit contributions from the local community. Norman had floated a few test balloons among his fellow Rotarians, but everyone was “busy.” The job devolved to the only one who couldn’t say “No.”

Babe didn’t really mind that much. J.P. was right this time: someone had to do it. The Squires family, unlike the Clintons, certainly couldn’t afford to loan its campaign millions of dollars. Besides, Babe had a long-held yearning to become more involved in her community. This position would force her to do just that.

Their 50,000-population upstate town was like thousands of others spread across the U.S.A. It had clearly seen better days. Its fortunes had probably peaked in the Gilded Age at the turn of the 19th century when railroads and reliable timepieces started drawing energy and people away from such middling places. Middle remained the operative word right up until today. The middle-class towns were populated by middle-aged people with middle-shelf interests, intent on leading middle-of-the road lives. The people, Babe and Norman liked it that way.

Young upstaters had stopped staying home when railroads had arrived, whisking them quickly to the big cities for employment and bringing them home for the gustatory enjoyment of the holidays. While knowing the correct time was certainly important for anyone riding the rails and relying on timetables, its real worth lay in the financial markets. The improved timepieces provided many of these emigres with their employment in the cities. More precise time led to the establishment of first regional, then national and more recently, international markets. With the price of everything fluctuating, pinpointing how much it was worth at an exact time everywhere was essential for determining its value and creating a market for it to be sold.

At the start of the Gilded Age, the clock on the old upstate Lehigh Valley railroad terminal, now the town’s bus station, could have been hours early or late. Who knew? Who cared? By the end of the Age, trains and markets made sure a lot of people did.

Few individuals of note, except Norman V. Squires, of course, still lived upstate. Even if they made their fortunes upstate, like Norman Squires Sr, they soon all gravitated towards the places of power downstate. It was as if the state had been tilted: taxes, power and important people all rolled downhill. A few tax dollars filtered back in the form of highway improvements and such, a few important people purchased weekend lakeside retreats, the governor and a few legislators came to town once in a while, usually around re-election time.

Babe liked to quip, “It’s appropriate to say our local bourgeoisie is as bereft of burghers as a Taco Bell.”

She added with tongue still in cheek, “That’s thinking outside the bun.”

A flustered Norman demanded to know what she meant by those remarks, thinking they had something to do with his auto dealership or role as a Rotarian or something. He wasn’t sure.

The town’s payroll was based primarily on school and local government salaries. Two universities, a trio of grammar schools and a consolidated high school provided steady income for the credentialed elite. Barron’s magazine estimated that almost 8% of the local people had PhDs, the highest ratio in the nation. Building and health inspectors, a police force and all the guards out at the county jail added to the town’s economic base. It was said the town had a higher ratio of restaurants to people than even the downstate megalopolis.

Much industry, however, had drifted away as the locus of power in the country had moved out West where better weather, subsidized water and a more modern housing base were attractive pheromones for budding industrialists. Even the once local telephone and power companies had fled the scene, migrating to nondescript 1-800 phone numbers and generic internet addresses near some international airport where company executives could make a faster getaway to their weekend hideaways.

Much of the retail business that remained — the supermarkets, fast food drive-thrus, drug stores, home improvement centers and gas stations — were mostly mere cogs in some corporate structure where decisions were made in the distant centers of power. At these stores, everyone below the level of manager was hired at the minimum wage. Should they ever stick around long enough to qualify for a raise, they were summarily dismissed before they could turn into disaffected workers. A multitude of motley milkers and the like out of local farms and recent graduates out of local high schools were eager to assume their jobs.

That was the reality Save-Our-Boat’s Fundraiser-in-Chief Babe had to deal with. She felt a little lost, but not for long.

As Pastor Benadiks Barons liked to say on Sunday, quoting Winston Churchill: “A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”

Fundraiser Babe advanced that notion several steps. “First of all, remember the internet is interactive. Just as it could distance the phone and power companies from the local scene, it could also be used to contact these bodies as if they aren’t far away;” she explained.

“The secret is to treat them as if they care about the local community, then act surprised if they ever demonstrate they don’t.”

Babe knew guilt was a wonderful incentive to get someone to contribute a little cash to a cause. As a long-time Lutheran, she was not above taking pot shots at the rival Catholic Church, “whose corporate office are in Rome, Italy,” she liked to remind everybody.

“From early childhood, the Catholic Church pounds guilt into their children’s heads with countless demands for confessions and Old Testament tales of an avenging God. Not even hundreds of millions of dollars paid out to violated boys and girls dissuades Catholics later in life from dropping their money into Sunday’s collection bucket.

“Guilt is that strong a motivator,” Babe said.

Returning to the topic of local retailers, Babe said, “Since their corporate headquarters are far away, their bosses aren’t aware of the politics of the local cause. All they have to go on is your characterization of the situation. A little creative writing in this regard and, voila!, the war against the Swallows becomes a motherhood/apple pie issue as worthy of their patronage as the Cub Scouts or the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Telethon.

“Just remember, if the pitch seems right, all the distant corporate people need is a good word from the non-minimum-wage manager at the local store.”

Babe made sure she visited these managers and explained her cause, leaving behind discount coupons for their next visit to Norman’s dealership or several other local establishments, all run by Rotarians, of course. These coupons seemed to do the trick. No one liked to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially one with as wonderful a whinny as Babe’s.

In short order, Babe methodically worked her way through the town’s business base, securing lots of donations for Save Our Boats. All that remained was the biggest prize of all, the Ernst Stavros Foundation. She reserved that for last.