"This Happy Evening"

Waiting in Topeka for the Presidential nomination was just like waiting in your office for a field crew to bring in an oil well. Alf Landon, as an experienced oilman and politician, felt pretty sure the nomination was there. He knew his field boss, John Hamilton, was a crackerjack and would make no mistakes. Whether it proved to be just an average political well or a magnificent gusher did not matter an awful lot. Main thing was to get into pay sand and bring it into actual production. Until that was done, Alf Landon knew it was unlucky as well as unwise to do much talking.

Without being rude to streams of visitors and newshawks, he stuck as closely as possible to the routine of the Governor of Kansas -- walking ten blocks to the State House after early breakfast every day, clearing up regular desk work, going to the dentist, making a solemn little speech to University of Kansas seniors (where the Chancellor slipped and introduced "the Governor of Indiana"), getting out to the Hunt Club for a ride on Si, his chestnut gelding. Capitol employes wanted to install a radio to listen to the Cleveland doings but Alf Landon told them: "We've got too much work to do."

John Hamilton's reports by telephone got better and better. Like an oil drill going down, the column of Landon delegates continued steadily up. To the 388 lined up by Monday were added most of New York's 90. Then 50 of Pennsylvania's 75. That clinched it--unless the rig should go haywire before the actual balloting. Alf Landon permitted himself to josh Harry Woodring, his Democratic predecessor as Governor, now Assistant Secretary of War, who had bet against Landon's luck. "Well, Harry," he said, "I'll invite you to dinner at the White House to compensate you for it."

Thursday dragged itself out interminably. Alf Landon stayed home, now glued to the long-distance telephone, now out in the back yard playing with the two youngest children, Nancy Jo, 3, and Jack, 2, for the cameramen. Grandmother Cobb took the children to her house for the night, came back to listen in her son-in-law's study while the platform was being read.

When the words of Alf Landon's dramatic platform telegram to the convention boomed out from three loudspeakers on the porch, the crowd that had gathered outside set up their first victory cheer. Then John Hamilton's smashing speech of nomination began, followed by the roaring demonstration.

Before the seconding speeches were over, Alf Landon snapped off his radio, went alone to a room off the study. Through a half-open window, people outside could see him pacing nervously back & forth, hands behind his back, head down.

When the nomination flash came, Topeka drowned out the radio. On the green State House dome, 32 floodlights flashed; whistles, bells and bombs went off and 15,000 Kansans marched on the Executive Mansion.

Alf Landon walked out on the porch, his arm around Mrs. Landon's waist. For five minutes the crowd would not let him talk. When they quieted down, Nominee Landon stepped into a circle of microphones and in high-pitched, quavering tones, began a stumbling, halting, repetitious little speech. "Your good wishes and goodwill touch Mrs. Landon and myself very deeply. . . ." Once his voice broke completely. Once he raised a finger to brush away tears behind his rimless spectacles. Finally he got through: "We shall always cherish the memory of this happy evening together."

The crowd yelled for Mrs. Landon. Her husband pushed her up to the microphones. "I leave the talking to the Governor, but I wish you all . . ." she began, then she too choked up. "I can't talk!" cried she and rushed back to the support of Alf Landon's arm.

Next morning she had her first, and perhaps last, press conference. Would she take an active part in the campaign? "Not if I have anything to say about it. It's not my place."

Did she intend to write about her daily life?

"Oh no!" replied the wife of the Republican candidate.

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