.. a day on the campaign trail requires a keen ear, quick feet, and lots of pit stops
Lisa Wangsness, Globe Staff
Sunday, July 31, 2005
It is 6:48 a.m. The upstart is chattering earnestly as she strides
toward Jamaica Pond for her morning jog, once around the water. She stops
and picks up a plastic cup, breathing disgust. ''You need to have money
for maintenance!" she says.
It gets her talking about litter. People shouldn't. But they do, and
the city ought to clean up. A dead tree the city has neglected to haul
away sets off another exclamation. ''They don't prioritize!" she says
between pants.
It will be a steamy Saturday of campaigning for Maura Hennigan, the
53-year-old city councilor who has defined the last half of her two-decade
career by opposing Mayor Thomas M. Menino, and who is now challenging him
for his seat. She will shuttle from one end of the city to another to
engage people on the issues. She does not have much money, and most people
do not recognize her. Yet she is unflappable.
''I have a wonderful opportunity to make a difference," she says.
''It's like a tidal wave. You can't stop it when people see the need for
change, the need for fresh air. It doesn't matter how much money you
spend."
Having finished her jog, she climbs into her black Jeep Cherokee, whose
seats are piled with crumpled papers, and takes care of morning business:
Dunkin' Donuts for hazelnut iced coffee, Tedeschi for the newspaper,
Classic Cleaners for her dry cleaning.
''I don't have a spouse to do this for me," she says lightly.
Inside the cleaners, owner Michael Pavone is lamenting the traffic
problems caused by the new post office. She sympathizes. He pulls out a
$100 check for her campaign.
''Good luck, Maura."
She hugs him. ''Every little bit counts."
She drives a few minutes to her parents' house to collect her campaign
manager, Mitch Kates, who has been living there, and lets herself in. Her
parents relax in the TV room. Hennigan plays with a kitten she found on a
street nearby. Her mother has ordered her to find it a home.
Her father, once a mayoral candidate himself, finds the framed
photographs of the Hennigans with Jack Kennedy, Billy Graham, Ted Kennedy.
He cannot discuss his daughter's campaign while sitting down.
''It will be one of the greatest campaigns in the history of the city,"
he declares.
Then she is off, whizzing from a party at Franklin Park to a baseball
tournament in South Boston to a playground opening in Dorchester. At each
stop, she sails out of the car with a basket of chocolate lollipops, her
flowered skirt flapping in the breeze. ''How's everybody?" she says,
greeting people and engaging them on city issues. ''Want a chocolate?"
She draws some confused looks; she is not wearing a campaign button and
sometimes forgets to explain she is running for mayor. But a few people do
know her. At the ballgame, someone calls out: ''Hi, Maura! You have my
vote!"
In the car again, she spots something crawling on her arm.
''Where are these ants coming from?"
They are everywhere. On her basket of chocolates, the floor of the car,
the dashboard.
''Don't squish them," she says. ''That's all I need is squished
ants."
At a barbecue at the Old Colony housing project in South Boston, she
runs into a woman from Jamaica Plain.
''Maura Hennigan, running for mayor of Boston," she says. ''You didn't
lose a cat, did you?"
Many people warm to her unscripted style. The cowboy-hat-wearing
chairwoman of the Old Colony Tenants Association watches Hennigan hand out
hot dogs.
''You invite her, she shows up, she pitches in and helps," she says.
Not a single news crew has shown up all day. Now, at the East Boston
Italian Festival, Hennigan is saying that the cable TV booth wants to post
pictures of some of the day's noteworthy visitors. But then it turns out
that anyone can get a free picture of him or herself posing before a
digitally inserted Venetian canal.
At an arts festival in Hyde Park, languid notes from an exotic stringed
instrument float through the thick air as she talks about children's arts
programs with a couple of voters. The festival chairman invites the mayor,
a couple of city councilors, and the children up to sing ''Happy Birthday"
for Boston's 375th. He forgets Hennigan. Later, she is gracious when he
apologizes.
As twilight unfolds, she hits a couple of parties. Friends hosting a
barbecue in West Roxbury offer a welcome respite. A chorus of kindly
voices follow her to the car as she departs. ''Keep going! We all love
you!"
Finally, a block party in Jamaica Plain, just around the corner from
her house. Neighbors are chatting quietly in lawn chairs when she arrives.
Nobody seems to know her. She talks with almost everyone -- about
extending the school day, the challenge of grooming a yard with terraced
ledges. It is dark when she takes her leave.
''Anyone want to adopt a kitten?" she asks. No one does. ''Well, if you
need anything, I'm right up the street."
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