Kentucky: The City Slickers

Kentucky was deep in what it likes best: a feudist political campaign.

Last week, at Mount Sterling, which used to be called Little Mountain Town, the hillmen gathered for the traditional “Court Day”—marking the opening of the fall term of the county court. Many were unshaven. Their faces were criss crossed with the wounds of weather. They wore battered hats, carried pistols in their pockets. They sold their tin cans filled with rich sorghum molasses, swapped shotguns, powder horns and hunting dogs, bought snake oil, ax handles and buckets of yams. Into their midst walked the Democratic candidate for the U.S. Senate, a man with the alliterative name of Wilson Watkins Wyatt. “I’m Wilson Wyatt,” he said, as he handshook his way through the hillmen. “I’m Wilson Wyatt . . .I’m Wilson Wyatt … I’m Wilson Wyatt . . .” He climbed a rickety ladder to a platform on top of a shack, grabbed a microphone and told a story about a coon dog that ran into a barbed wire fence and got cut up. A vet put the dog back together, but got the head at the wrong end. “Now,” shouted Wyatt, “that dog is like my opponent. He can bark at both ends and run in both directions at the same time.” The crowd loved it: this was Democratic country.

At McKee, a tiny town in the Wilderness Trail country, Republican Senator Thruston Morton got out of a borrowed yellow Cadillac, mingled with tobacco-chewing men in bib overalls. It was beastly hot, and sweat dripped from Morton’s face. He was gracious, but seemed much more reserved than Wyatt. The group moved inside the dilapidated courthouse. A trial was in session, but the judge ordered a recess so that Morton could speak. He was introduced by a local orator: “We’re a workin’ people, we’re a God-fearin’ people, we’re a peace-lovin’ people. And when we get home today, we’re goin’ to walk for Morton, we’re goin’ to talk for Morton, we’re goin’ to vote for Morton.” Thruston Morton spread wide his arms, and his deep voice rang through the courtroom. “It wasn’t necessary for President Kennedy to come twice to Kentucky to explain that I’m a Republican,” he cried. “Everyone in Kentucky knows I’m a Republican.” The crowd loved it: this was Republican country, which went 90% for Nixon in 1960.

Rival Schools. In their campaigns, both Wyatt and Morton have mined about as many votes as they can from Kentucky’s most populous areas, particularly Louisville. Now they are hitting the hills and the back trails in last, desperate efforts to win the supporters who might make the difference in a dead-even race. Both do pretty well, even though both are Louisville city slickers.

Morton is a seventh-generation Kentuckian whose family grew wealthy in the flour-mill business. He served in the Navy for 51 months during World War II, was elected to Congress three times, served under Ike as Assistant Secretary of State for Congressional Relations, beat Democrat Earle Clements for the Senate in 1956. He was Eisenhower’s choice for Republican National Committee chairman to succeed New York’s Len Hall, held the job for three years.

Wyatt is a high-strung, garrulous fellow who graduated with top honors from Louisville’s Jefferson School of Law, at 35 became the youngest mayor in Louisville history, worked as Harry Truman’s Federal Housing Administrator, helped found the red-hot liberal Americans for Democratic Action, and served as Adlai Stevenson’s presidential campaign manager in 1952. He is now Kentucky’s lieutenant governor.

Between the two there are no holds barred. To Morton, the issue is simple. “I am convinced,” says Morton, “that the people of Kentucky share my views on how best to meet the Communist threat. I am sure they will not send to the Senate a man whose election would give aid and comfort to his old A.D.A. friends who represent the policy of soft talk and concessions.” Morton aligns Wyatt with “Leftwing Democrats” who want to “admit Red China to the U.N., do away with F.B.I. investigations and loyalty requirements for federal employees.” A vote for Wyatt, says he, “is a vote of approval for those men who gave the President the advice to call off the air cover at the Bay of Pigs.”

Liberal Wyatt goes all the way with J.F.K., claims that Morton has a record of “neglect and opposition—opposition to better salaries for teachers, better prices for farmers, decent medical care for all our senior citizens.” And Wyatt is promising roads, reservoirs, river projects, federal aid to colleges, claims that Morton so badly needs Democratic votes to win that he avoids advertising himself as a Republican.

“Old Ankleblankets.” Working to Wyatt’s advantage is a 2-to-1 statewide Democratic registration lead, plus the support of Kentucky’s two biggest newspapers, the Louisville Courier-Journal and the Louisville Times. Working against him is the longtime enmity of former Governor “Happy” Chandler, who, in charging that Wyatt used to wear spats, likes to call him “Old Ankleblankets.” Fellow Democrat Chandler, who plans to run again for Governor next year, remains a Kentucky power, and he has not lifted a hand to help Wyatt.

On Morton’s side is his record as an attractive, hard-working Senator who has made a national name for himself. And soon to start actively campaigning on his behalf is the man who is by all odds Kentucky’s most popular politician—Republican Senator John Sherman Cooper. Both Wyatt and President Kennedy—in his forays into Kentucky—have been careful to praise Cooper while denouncing Morton.

As the campaign enters its final days, the outcome is anyone’s guess—and that, too, is just the way the voters of Kentucky like it.