If it’s true the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, then where does the journey of a thousand signatures begin?
For me, it started in late September at a house on in Joliet. I rapped my knuckles on the door, then spoke with a nice woman who listened patiently while I told her I was going to run for Will County judge in the February Democratic primary. When she graciously scribbled her name on my petition, my journey’s first step was behind me.
Mason Ave.
Over the following month, I walked throughout my district collecting a thousand signatures from local voters.
As you can probably imagine, the thought of accosting that many people at their front doors was extremely intimidating. In fact, every time I stepped out of my car to walk a neighborhood, I had to take a deep breath to work up the nerve to do it. I mean, if you based your view of society on what you see on TV every day, you’d think there’s a nutcase lurking behind every door.
But the real world isn’t nearly as dire a place. I found myself continually shaking my head at the kindness and generosity of almost every person I encountered. In fact, the entire exercise gave me renewed faith in human nature and in my community.
That being said, though, it probably won’t surprise you to learn the journey to a thousand front doors led to some humorous observations.
Take that first moment of introduction. I’ve never run for office, so I quickly learned a simple reality of face-to-face encounters with voters. You can forget any deep talk about platforms and policies. When you show up uninvited at somebody’s door, they’re only interested in hearing five magic words: “Hi, I’m not selling anything.”
I met many residents who happened to be working inside their open garages. At one house, I spotted a guy standing behind some boxes stacked in a back corner. As I strolled up the driveway, I launched into my spiel for several seconds without getting a hint of response. That’s not surprising considering I soon realized I’d been conversing for a half-minute with a life-sized cardboard cutout of professional golfer Fred Couples. I might have gotten his signature, too. Unfortunately, cardboard people are only allowed to vote in Chicago.
I noticed approximately 8 percent of men have absolutely no problem answering their doors without wearing a shirt. Now I don’t know if this reveals something about the Joliet area, or whether it’s more of a commentary about men in general. In order to draw a valid conclusion, perhaps I should call on residents in Naperville to see whether its men answer their doors sans shirts—or at least whether their butlers do. I must say, though, I had some really interesting conversations with several of the shirtless guys, proving you can’t judge a book by its cover—or lack of one.
One of the challenges of petition-circulating was identifying which homes were occupied by registered voters. Surprisingly, an American flag on display wasn’t always a rock-solid clue. After weeks of walking, I came up with a much better indicator. If the house had a concrete goose on the porch, there was a 95 percent chance the resident was registered. The odds were even greater if the goose was wearing clothing.
For all you lovers of “A Christmas Story,” you’ll be interested to learn several Joliet area residents have apparently won “major awards” recently. These homeowners were proudly displaying fishnet stocking leg lamps in their front windows.
Last, but not least, there are the dogs. Oh, lordy, there are a lot of dogs out there. About 20 minutes into my first day of walking, I changed my goal from “getting a thousand signatures,” to “getting a thousand signatures without getting bit.” I didn’t make it, by the way. But I got Cujo’s owner’s signature, so I let it slide.
So now, the signatures are all in the book—signed, sealed and delivered to Springfield. If you’re eager to see how my race turns out, keep your shirt on, will ya? We’ll find out in February.
Tim Placher can be reached at timplacher@yahoo.com
Copyright 2007 Tim Placher
