Fitting Up for the Primaries

IN the heat of summer 1971, the New Hampshire snows of winter 1972 seem far off to most Americans. But not to the dozen or so men who would like to be President of the United States. With eight months to go before the primary sweepstakes open, hopefuls of both parties already are jockeying for position in the race to the White House.

During what should have been a routine Senate hearing on agriculture last week, Senator Hubert Humphrey found himself in the painful position of listening to George Wallace promise a rerun of 1968. While Humphrey stared grimly on, Wallace gave his most public declaration so far of his plans, noting that 1968 Democratic and American Independent Party candidates might "see each other again in 1972." Eugene McCarthy, the man who unhinged the Democratic Party in 1968, has made it clear to friends that he is ready to try again in '72, and a formal announcement is expected from him early this fall. Lines between Washington and New York hummed with rumors that Mayor John Lindsay would soon bolt the Republican Party, of which he is only a nominal member, and make a run for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Proliferation. The week ended with a challenge to President Nixon from within his own party. After months of publicly weighing the decision, Representative Pete McCloskey announced his candidacy for the Republican nomination. McCloskey will take his opposition to Administration Viet Nam policy into the primaries, as McCarthy did three years ago, in hopes of unseating the President.

As the candidates proliferate, so do the primaries. Legislatures from Alaska to Florida have voted to get their states into the primary business. Next year, presidential contenders will have at least 22 and possibly 24 state primaries to choose from in mapping campaign strategy v. 14 presidential primaries in 1968.

Icy Alaska. This sudden burgeoning has resulted in a status scramble that has brought boosters out of the bushes in state after state. New Hampshire, traditionally the country's opening primary state, is having a hard time staying No. 1. First the Alaska legislature passed a bill authorizing a primary on the last Tuesday in February. This upstaged New Hampshire's second Tuesday in March, and the New Hampshire legislature telegrammed its displeasure to Alaska Governor William Egan. Winter in New Hampshire is one thing, but winter in Alaska quite another, as even Governor Egan admitted. In vetoing the primary bill, Egan fretted over the state's image: "Millions of Americans still think of our great state as being a land of perpetual ice and snow. Should this bill become law and Alaska be visited by snow blizzards on that February election day, an already erroneous and detrimental image would become even more firmly entrenched."

While the "icebox primary" was being vetoed, a state less bashful about its climate was planning a primary of its own. The Florida legislature enacted a primary bill, and much of the debate centered on a chamber of commerce theme. The contrast, Florida pols contended, between candidates sloshing through the snow in New Hampshire and shirtsleeve campaigning in Florida would be certain to help the sunshine state's tourism. Florida sought to add insult to injury by scheduling its vote for the same day as New Hampshire's.

Beleaguered New Hampshire officials tried a telegram protest again, but to no avail. So they moved their primary up a week. New Hampshire's irritation is rooted in more than tradition. National publicity and the huge sums spent by candidates can be economic adrenaline to a state. During the 1968 primary, candidates spent $10 million in New Hampshire.

Too-High Cost. The increase in the number of primaries is both good and bad. A primary means a more democratic election of delegates to party conventions, and thus strips the professional politicians and their backroom supporters of some power. Half the country's eligible voters now live in states that hold primaries, and, in theory, at least, both parties' final candidates should represent the popular choice.

The trouble is that too many candidates coming out of too many primaries can lead to a convention vote that no one can win, once more throwing the nomination back to the will of the bosses and pros. An increase in the number of primaries also increases the already too-high cost of campaigning. The estimated cost of the 1968 primaries and conventions for both parties was $45 million, a figure that will be far exceeded next year. Eugene McCarthy spent $11 million in a campaign that was centered on the primaries. Robert Kennedy entered seven primaries in an eleven-week whirlwind campaign at an estimated cost of $9 million. Richard Nixon managed to shake his loser image on the primary trail, but not before it cost his supporters between $10 million and $12 million.

National Democratic Chairman Lawrence O'Brien will meet this week with Democratic contenders in hopes of reaching a gentlemen's agreement to hold down primary costs. Senator Edmund Muskie, currently the front runner, has come out in favor of a spending ceiling, but candidates not as well known as the Democrats' former vice-presidential nominee are unlikely to accede.

Head-On Races. Despite the plethora of primaries to choose from in '72, a handful of contests remain most important. New Hampshire is particularly crucial to Muskie, who must win convincingly in his own backyard. Each candidate will need to carry one of the Midwestern states; Wisconsin is likely to be the major target. The Oregon primary is a key litmus. But most important is California; the winner there will carry the biggest delegate slate into the convention.

Muskie knows that, as a front runner, he must shoulder the burden of proof. Says one aide: "There's not a primary he ought not go into. We're going to set up as if we're going into all of them, and then in January we'll decide the priorities and make up our minds which ones we'll concentrate on."

Those priorities will be largely determined by the inroads made by other candidates. Senator Birch Bayh is counting on a good showing in Florida, where he has been laying groundwork for months, and in California. Coupled with a native-son sweep in Indiana, wins in Florida and California might get him a chance at the nomination. George McGovern, the only announced Democrat, must cut deeply into Muskie's New Hampshire vote if he is to stay alive as a candidate; after that, he hopes for a win in Wisconsin to go along with a home-state victory in South Dakota.

Licking Chops. Other would-be candidates look to other contests. Senator Henry Jackson could do well in Southern primaries. Wilbur Mills could carry his home state, Arkansas, by a decisive margin. Senators Harold Hughes and Fred Harris wait with dwindling patience in the wings. Humphrey has not yet decided whether to enter the primaries; he bypassed that route in 1968 and still won the nomination. Says Humphrey: "I'm not salivating, but I'm occasionally licking my chops." Senator Edward Kennedy appears unlikely to enter the primaries; his backers hope for a deadlocked convention that will turn to him.

McCloskey, the lone Republican opposing President Nixon, is not faced with the puzzling choices of his Democratic counterparts. He will run in every primary for which he can raise support. Tiny (pop. 3,882) Randolph, Vermont, holds a presidential primary at a town meeting in early March. A McCloskey man observes: "You can shake every hand in Randolph in an hour and a half." McCloskey plans a campaign trip to Randolph later this month.

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