Dropping Names

Last Thursday, on a beautiful tree-lined street in South Tampa, gracious hosts opened their home to political activists, generous benefactors, and concerned citizens, hoping to raise money for Jim Davis.



A lively and entertaining party ensued.

Upon entrance and after the obligatory campaign contribution, I wandered through a maze of hardwood floors and expensive, imported, barely-used furniture to the back yard. There, suits and bronzed beauties mingled, filling the evening air with competing fragrances and lofty talk about improving education. Such talk inevitably leads to “UF rules, FSU drools”, but whatever. Those Gator grads, they can’t help themselves.

I felt at home among Tampa’s elite – even though we have little in common. I can’t even pretend to understand stock options or the current crisis with “the country club.” Still, they were friendly and encouraged me to talk about teaching, writing, and the changes we must demand from our government leaders. Speaking of leaders, I bumped into Senator Nelson on my way to the bar. “Hi there, pardon me,” I said. Wine to be had and all.

Some regular folks showed up. Tommy and his lovely wife joined the fun, finally giving in to my weekly invitations. I also talked to a Pinellas County teacher and a woman from Boston who still hopes John Kerry will become President one day. I talked to everyone, but mostly stayed glued to Reggie’s side. He's Jim's right-hand man and has a smile that lights up even the grumpiest campaigner.



Reggie always has a funny story and insight into current events. I like him. He doesn’t mind that I giggle and hang on his every word.

Jim arrived with Peggy and Sam Gibbons and talked about his hope for a better Florida. Afterwards Jim worked the crowd and took requests for action with a sincere nod and expert listening skills honed after years of public service. He hears everyone and forgoes valuable sleeping time to research and get to the bottom of every important issue. That’s his job, after all. Public service at its best.



As the night wore on, an open bar loosened lips and inhibitions. Tommy and Wifey left to get some food and I made the loud observation that, “These types of events never have anything more substantial than difficult-to-pronounce finger food because, in South Tampa, women aren’t allowed to gain a pound past what they weighed at eighteen. The next time we have one of these in Pasco County, I’ll call you. You like barbecue, right?”

I met a few Republicans as well. They love to out themselves as some kind of proof that a conservative isn’t always closed off to progressive candidates. One such gentleman with a flawless smile and Armani suit insisted we continue our discussion over dinner. A pretty boy who votes Republican? That’s my best friend’s man, not mine. However, I enjoyed hearing his thoughts about how to stop off-shore oil drilling (he doesn’t want to see oil rigs from his bedroom window).

“Would you like to see the view from my bedroom window?”

Oh sure! I took his card and promised to call because after a glass of wine – why not? He liked my legs after all. Where's the harm?

Wait. We were talking about Jim Davis. Right.

The man of the hour and I connected toward the end of the evening. His first question is always, “How are the boys?” Like my mom.

"Doing fine," I said.

“I know you don’t want to be in Tampa, with your husband in Colorado, but I’m glad you’re here.”

I smiled and squeezed Reggie’s biceps once more before saying goodbye and heading home. Eight more days to go.