OND DU LAC, Wis. - It would be a fleeting moment in a marathon campaign. It would be the biggest thing to hit Fond du Lac in years.
By Friday, everyone knew, from Marge Auger of Eric's Pastry Shoppe (where there's a whole apple in every dumpling), to the car hops at Gilles Frozen Custard (''Please Put Lights On For Service'').
Vice President Al Gore was coming to town.
The circus would roll into Fond du Lac on Monday, the day before Halloween.
This town of 40,000, at the southern tip of Lake Winnebago, a town thick with trees, churches, and sports bars, has seen its share of presidential timber through the decades. Gerald Ford in 1976. George H.W. Bush in 1992. Everyone seems to remember just where they were when those two sitting presidents came through.
Democratic hopefuls have been harder to come by. Fond du Lac is GOP country, after all, just 20 miles from Ripon, where the Republican Party was founded. It is a conservative factory town, a place where Democrats' lawn signs get stolen from outside their modest homes, where liberal voters are cagey about their allegiances, and where the party machinery could use some serious grease.
Ordinarily, it would be a waste of time for a Democrat to come here. But nothing is ordinary this year. In this cliffhanger of a presidential race, oft-neglected Wisconsin has become a jewel in the electoral crown, a state where neither candidate has managed a consistent lead, where neither can afford to write off a single vote.
Democrat or Republican, locals know a historic moment when they see one.
On Monday, an endless caravan of buses would pull up outside Lowell P. Goodrich High School at dusk, and a deafening cheer would rise into the chilly air as Gore and his 200-reporter entourage came into view. Thousands of residents would wait hours for a glimpse of the candidate. Gore himself would say, ''I will remember this trip to Fond du Lac for the rest of my life,'' and spend a long time on stage, soaking up the unanticipated outpouring of love. Afterward, his campaign would declare the visit a smashing success and call it a sure sign that Gore is headed for victory in Wisconsin.
But before then, there was much to be done. Such spontaneous outpourings of emotion don't just happen on their own.
Friday, Oct. 27: Crowd-building 101.
''It's not just fun, it's your future.''
The advertisements have been all over the radio, and they're working. When Jean Dreifuerst, a shy, short-haired, long-suffering party volunteer, opens the door to the local Democratic headquarters at 9 a.m., Mary Cross and a few other devotees are waiting for her.
''You're gonna be busy today,'' Cross says.
''Yeah,'' says Dreifuerst. ''It'll be a nuthouse.''
''You got to buy the buttons?'' asks Cross's mother.
''It's a contribution, mother,'' says Mary Cross.
''I got a whole box of buttons at home,'' her mother says.
''Yeah. For Kennedy.''
Dreifuerst, 50, is overwhelmed. She answers the phone, signs people up for tickets, sells triangular ''Cheeseheads for Gore'' buttons, and tells countless hopeful Democrats she's sorry but they've run out of Gore lawn signs, having gone through all 250 of them yesterday. Of course, it doesn't help that somebody in town keeps pulling them up, but she's hoping the campaign will drop off a fresh supply soon.
The Gore campaign has pretty much taken over the office, until now the war room for a slew of local Democratic candidates, including Lewis Rosser, who is running for state Assembly.
''We're definitely hoping for some runover'' from Gore's visit, says Rosser, 38, with flecks of gray in his dark hair. ''It energizes the base. It is a disruption. The presidential candidate comes in, I had to pick up my stuff and move back to my house, but it's a pleasure to be hosting him.''
Pulling the event together will require days of frenetic activity by scores of people. A half-dozen Gore staffers arrived Thursday to draw a crowd for the visit and prepare the school. Every Democratic official in the area has been dispatched to call everyone he knows and urge people to attend. Automated phone calls to residents have begun, too. Five hundred dollars' worth of glittery pompoms and inflatable blue plastic fingers are on order.
This is not just about one event and a few seconds on the evening news. If the organizers do a good job of building and energizing a Democratic network before Gore arrives, getting out the vote will be a whole lot easier on Nov. 7. Today, the tempo is good. A steady stream of locals comes in for tickets, including the most coveted kind: Republicans for Gore.
''I haven't voted a Democratic ticket since 1960,'' said Charles Eyers, who has lived in Fond du Lac for 30 years. ''I hope nobody gets struck by lightning in there.''
On Friday, the office gives away more than a thousand tickets. The Labor Hall down the street hands them out, too. The school gym's capacity is just 2,500. Overselling is good. Even one empty chair would be a disaster.
Saturday, Oct. 28: What vice presidential visit?
The air is not heavy with anticipation.
Get beyond the party headquarters, or principal Mary Frances Merwin's office at Goodrich High School, and you would be hard-pressed to see many signs around Fond du Lac of the coming big event. No bunting flaps from houses. No welcome signs fill windows. Nobody but the most devoted Democrats seems really excited that the vice president is coming to town.
''Maybe 'cause I don't vote, it doesn't affect me,'' says Heather Schry, a junior at Goodrich who will be playing in the school band on Monday.
Schry works as a car hop at Gilles Frozen Custard, a pale-blue drive-in where burger-and-shake-laden trays are still clipped to car windows by pink-cheeked high-schoolers. Few of her customers can muster much enthusiasm, either.
Even Schry's fellow band members act nonplussed by Monday's big event. There is no buzz about it at today's football game against Oconomowoc High (which, by the way, Goodrich blows out, 42-7).
The afternoon's festivities are not completely devoid of politics, however. Gore staffers and members of the Secret Service are here. (Director of Bands Bill Manka has the band play ''Secret Agent Man'' in their honor.)
And after the Fondy Cardinals open up a lead too big to catch, an unlikely debate erupts in the drum section.
''Communism was set up to stop people from being alienated from each other!'' yells Dave Schmitz, a senior in plaid.
''But a truly communist society cannot exist in a capitalist internationalist world!'' protests one of his fellow drummers.
''It's never gonna happen!'' says another, as a crowd gathers, backs to the game.
''Yes it will! Have faith, my friend,'' Schmitz says.
Merwin has faith that her students' jaded reaction to Gore's visit is a facade, that they will muster just as much enthusiasm for him on Monday as they do debating the merits of communism today.
''This is a big, big deal,'' she says. ''Anybody who acts blase about this is kidding you.''
Schmitz, when cornered, concedes it's true. Sort of.
''Yeah, I guess. I dunno, the vice president coming to Fond du Lac. That doesn't happen all the time,'' he says.
The most fervent Gore fan in Fond du Lac this Saturday turns out to be Bill Clinton.
At a Halloween party at Bases Loaded, the biggest bar in town, there is an Energizer Bunny, a couple of cereal killers, and a Britney Spears. But not a Bush or Gore mask in sight.
There is, however, Chris Freund, whose Clinton costume consists of a too-tight jacket inscribed with the words ''I did not have sex with that woman,'' an untucked shirt, a lipstick-covered Clinton mask, and two fists permanently clenched, thumbs on the outside, just like the commander-in-chief.
''I'm pretty excited about him coming,'' says Freund, 25, who works the overnight shift at the Mercury Marine factory, one of the town's biggest employers. ''As vice president, I know his qualities. He's a man for us, not for the corporations. ... Bush, I don't believe a goddamn thing he says.''
Sunday, Oct. 29: Guns and signs
Today is all about the signs.
With one day to go, and still no Gore lawn signs for Fond du Lac's Democrats to take home, Bill Abitz, officer of the county party, has taken matters into his own hands. He has driven all the way to Madison to get 750 blue Gore signs, and now members of his family are stapling them together and sliding them onto metal stakes, one by one.
Abitz knows such work can be thankless.
''When this is over,'' he says, as his workers click-click behind him, ''everybody's gonna take credit for everything.''
At the Goodrich High gym, workers clamber over scaffolding as 50 students paint signs welcoming Gore and his wife, Tipper. All have been called in because they're reliable volunteers, not because of their politics.
A home economics teacher has baked special cookies for the occasion, ringed in red icing, with ''Gore'' written in baby blue. Campaign organizers have trucked in gallons of soda and snacks to keep the artists happy, and pizza is on the way. There's a list of suggestions for the signs: ''Welcome Al and Tipper,'' ''Wisconsin (heart) Al and Tipper,'' and the like.
The students have their own ideas, too, writing ''Al, will you marry me?'' and ''I didn't vote for his daddy either'' and ''Al is A-Gore-able.''
The only obvious Bush fan in the room is senior Joe Dilling, a lanky basketball player.
''I don't like this too much,'' he says. ''I thought I was going to set up the stage and stuff. I just don't agree with many of his stances.''
Dilling and his family don't like that Gore exaggerated during the debates. It makes him angry that people keep saying Bush is stupid, when he graduated from Yale and Harvard.
But what really gets him going is gun control. And he's not the only one.
Deer season has just started here, and just about everybody around here takes it pretty seriously. The National Rifle Association has been advertising heavily in this and other Great Lakes states, running infomercials exhorting gun owners to join the NRA, and to register to vote. The ads don't endorse Bush, but make it clear that Gore threatens gun owners' rights.
Gore, in truth, has proposed licensing handgun owners and limiting gun purchases to one a month, and he favors trigger locks. So far, he has tried hard not to offend sport-shooting enthusiasts.
But the subtleties of Gore's position haven't gotten through. Guns are a big issue in Fond du Lac, maybe not as big as Social Security, but bigger than education, for example, because the schools here are solid. And bigger than the economy. Times are pretty good here. Main Street doesn't throb like it once did, but there aren't any vacant storefronts, and there are help-wanted signs in many windows.
Since they arrived in Fond du Lac, Gore campaign staff members have been bombarded by local supporters' pleas to have the candidate allay hunters' concerns.
And in a stiflingly hot Goodrich gym, Gore will try to do just that, calling claims that he wants to take hunters' guns away ''nonsense.''
''We are not going to bother any hunters and sportsmen, and you can rest assured of that,'' he will shout, to loud cheers.
That won't mollify Dilling. He will vote for the first time this year, still convinced that Gore wants to put an end to hunting in Fond du Lac.
But he doesn't want to be a bad sport, sign-wise. So the senior paints noncommittal signs like ''Welcome to Fond du Lac'' and ''VOTE.'' At one point, Dilling starts to write in blue, ''He invented the internet,'' but a teacher shoots him a look and he paints over it, sheepishly.
Monday, Oct. 30: G-day
In a Goodrich High vocabulary lesson today, a teacher used the word ''marvel'' in a sentence for her students.
''It's a marvel he's coming to Fond du Lac,'' she said.
By 2:30, a crowd of several hundred students, including the band, has gathered in front of the school beneath toilet paper-draped trees (a homecoming tradition), to greet the vice president. Others are in the gym, waiting to hear Gore speak.
Gore's visit might be a lesson on the democratic process, but free speech is being left out of today's instruction. One of the tuba players has affixed a small blue Bush/Cheney sticker to his instrument. A retired teacher in a tall Uncle Sam hat covered in Gore buttons zeroes in on him, telling him, in no uncertain terms, to remove it. But there are other, more subtle, pockets of resistance, stickers affixed to T-shirts, easily hidden by saxophones.
For a while, the band keeps everyone entertained. The teachers union has also laid out free Mountain Dew and De-Lish-Us brand potato chips to keep the crowd at a healthy size.
At 3:30, the students are free to go. Gore should be here by now. How long can they wait? Some leave to catch buses. At 3:39, the band plays ''Secret Agent Man'' for the second time. The crowd gets restless. Which way will he come in? How long will they have to wait?
At 4:03, a helicopter thwack-thwacks overhead, sending a charge through the crowd. Is it him? No. Just a TV crew. At 4:08, police cars and motorbikes take off down Linden Road and everybody is sure it'll be any second now. They are energized by the Fondy fight song: ''U-Ra-Ra-Fond-du-Lac!''
At 4:18, there's still no sign of Gore. Dusk and boredom descend. Two cheerleaders pass the time by comparing the size of their behinds. A teacher tells them to change the subject. At 4:24, principal Merwin says Gore will be five to 10 minutes. This turns out not to be true.
Several hundred of the disappointed come over from the gym. The fire marshal has closed the doors. Though they had tickets, their only chance to see Gore now is out here, and after the speech, if they want to wait.
''There are some frustrated families here,'' says Mary Ring, one of the displaced who had been waiting for entry into the hall since 2:30 p.m. ''Especialy in Fond du Lac. We're the lowly of the lowlies here. Fond du Lac is usually forgotten. I had all of my signs ripped out of my front yard already.''
At 4:29, staff members hand out signs that say ''Tipper Rocks,'' and ''Gore Country.'' At 4:35 the tuba player who was told to remove his Bush/Cheney sticker reappears, this time with a huge ''Gore Country'' placard affixed to his instrument.
At 4:37, with the temperature edging down into the 30s, four students take off their shirts to reveal the letters G-O-R-E drawn in marker on their stomachs. They do this sort of thing all the time at football games. They will make it into the local paper tomorrow.
At last, at 4:49, the motorbikes thunder by, 12 buses choke the street, and the crowd is suddenly pumped, surging toward the barricades, straining to get a glimpse, their impatience falling away. The students slap the hands of everyone who walks by, school officials, Gore aides, even the press. A forest of cameras and boom mikes follows Tipper Gore, Hadassah Lieberman, then Senator Joseph I. Lieberman, Gore's running mate, up the path to the school.
In an instant, the nonchalance is gone. Tomorrow, the students will hold a mock election and Bush will win, with 397 votes to Gore's 319. But this isn't about politics any more; it's about being in the moment.
''I love you, Mr. Lieberman!'' yells one of the girls in the band, and Lieberman gives her a hug, to the dismay of his security men.
When Gore gets off his bus at 5 p.m., a huge cheer erupts. The band, preparing for this moment for days, doesn't play. Everyone wants to see him, to try shaking his hand. He inches along the path to the school entrance, slowly working the line.
When he finally gets near the band, the girl who got the Lieberman hug asks Gore for one, and for a minute the vice president is engulfed by suddenly adoring students. In an hour, he will be feted by a similarly adoring crowd of more than 2,500. They will roar with laughter at his every joke. They will boo with glee at every criticism of Bush. They will stand transfixed in a confetti shower and grab at green and gold streamers shot from air cannons.
Gore has disappeared into the school now, but the girl who got the hugs is still overcome. She is clinging to her friends, dizzy with joy, and they are jumping, jumping, jumping.
