"Where Are the Pigs and Corn?"

Cultures clash as a mob of journalists invades Iowa

New York Daily News Reporter Bruce Drake took a detour to What Cheer, Iowa (pop. 860), to find one of those friendly, folksy, salt-of-the-earth farmers whom journalists covering the state's political caucuses last week seemed to dote on. Shortly after he pulled into town, Drake spotted a suitably rustic fellow walking out of a seed store toward a pickup truck. The farmer listened politely to the reporter's request for some colorful quotes on President Carter's Soviet grain embargo and without hesitating asked, "Can I go off the record with you?" Says Drake: "I was stunned. I was waiting for the guy to go get his press secretary."

Iowans have had plenty of opportunity to grow wise to the ways of the press this year. More than 700 out-of-state news people turned out to cover the delegate selection process. The three networks alone settled 350 staffers in Des Moines, and hotel rooms were as scarce as subways. Restaurants in the city reported two-hour waits for those unfortunates without reservations, and many thirsty scribes were shocked to find that the bars close at 10 p.m. on Sundays. Northwestern Bell assigned 50 to 60 employees to fill orders for 1,000 extra phones, and splicers rerouted 1,200 lines to provide even more circuits for the press.

The horde swarmed over frozen corn fields in search of natives, and otherwise entertained the Iowans with their big-city naivete. A television news producer in Dallas called the Des Moines Register and asked, "Where do we find the pigs and corn? And can we cab there?" One reporter asked the state Democratic committee to help him find a caucus held in a small town fire station with a potbelly stove and a Dalmatian. "We said we could get him a fire station in a small town," said Sarah Herold, the party's press liaison, "but he would have to supply the dog and the stove." State Republican Chairman Stephen Roberts recalls how a reporter for an Eastern daily looked out over an empty rural landscape and sighed, "What a terrible waste." Roberts corrected her: "That's where we grow grain." She replied: "But why don't you have something there in the winter?"

Despite the clash of cultures, many Iowans clearly enjoyed the presence of so many press celebrities. NBC's John Chancellor barely escaped from a mob of autograph seekers who cornered him at the Hotel Fort Des Moines. A secretary for CBS's Walter Cronkite fielded dozens of calls from people eager to talk with the popular anchorman. One fan claimed he was Cronkite's close friend; he had once written away for an autographed photo of the newsman. Kenneth Mueller, the mayor of Harlan (pop. 5,300), arranged to meet Adam Clymer, a national political reporter for the New York Times. Clymer showed up wearing enough plastic and paper ID cards, press passes and Secret Service credentials around his neck to gain entry to the Oval Office. Says the mayor wryly: "He looked so important, I felt I should get down on my knees and kiss his feet."

But even some of the most cynical press-plane veterans expressed surprise at how friendly they found the home folks. In Ames (pop. 44,000), a West German television documentary crew was awarded the keys to the city. In Harlan, TIME Correspondent Madeleine Nash was quietly observing a precinct caucus when somebody announced her presence to the audience, which applauded warmly. Occasional requests for off-the-record or deep-background treatment notwithstanding, most Iowans seemed to be eager interview subjects. Says David Yepsen of the Des Moines Register: "People are civil here. If someone comes up and talks to you, you talk back."

Some journalists felt they were being treated much better by the voters than by the candidates. Ronald Reagan used 150 news people on hand for a rally as unwitting bit players in a paid campaign broadcast. John Connally dragged a busload of reporters on a tightly programmed 40-hour tour of the state that left them little time to interview anyone but Connally supporters. At one stop the troupe paid a 4:30 a.m. visit to a farm in Elberon (pop. 193,000) that just happened to be populated by 40 or 50 of the candidate's fans. Says Des Moines Register Reporter Elizabeth Ballantine: "The Connally people wanted to give the impression that he was just stopping by to see these people during their normal day's activities. But Iowa farmers don't get up that early. Even the animals were asleep."

Such experiences led some journalists to wonder whether their presence was required in such abundance. "There probably is some overkill going on," says Chicago Sun-Times Reporter Jerome Watson. "But if there are going to be primaries, we're going to cover them." Says Walter Cronkite: "If the candidates weren't here organizing and campaigning, we wouldn't be here either. I think it starts with them."

The saturation coverage undoubtedly contributed to the remarkable voter turnout. "We spent so much time and effort on it that they felt they had to go to the caucuses just to shut us up," jests Jack Germond, a political columnist for the Washington Star. In addition, the benefits to local boosterism were manifest. "You've got people who think Iowa is next to Idaho or Ohio," said the Republicans' Roberts. "This helps put us on the map." Or, as CBS Correspondent Bruce Morton put it: "There is no question that in Iowa, column inches and air play are more important than delegates. The real prize is us."

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