Do You Remember....

 By Marilyn Moore

From the National Day of Remembrance for U.S. Indian Boarding Schools

Gimikwenden ina

Aanin ezhinikaazoyan

Aandi wenjibaayan

Gimikwenden ina

Gimikwenden ina

Nindedeyag nimaamaayag

Nimiseyag nisayeyah

These words, from a song in Corey Payette’s Children of God, are written in the Ojibwe language.  The Ojibwe are part of the Anishinaabeg group of Indigenous peoples, the second largest in North America, still found today in Canada and the area around the Great Lakes in the US.  The words translated into English…

Do you remember

What you are called?

Where you are from?

Do you remember?

Do you remember

Our fathers and mothers,

Our sisters and brothers?

You might have wondered as you read the English words if they reflected the experiences of Ojibwe children, taken from their parents and placed in government boarding schools in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  If you did, you were correct.  

A reminder of that horrible time in our nation’s history, and in Canadian history, too, when deliberate and intentional efforts were made to extinguish Indigenous history, language, religion, food, tradition, clothing, culture…indeed, extinguishing Indigenous peoples altogether.  The diabolical means?  Start with the children….  Separate children from their parents, from their extended families, from their villages, from all that’s familiar, and enroll them in residential boarding schools. Forbid them to use the name that had been given to them at birth, to speak the language they know, to eat the food that is familiar, to wear the clothing that is theirs, to practice traditions and religious practices they’ve known all their lives, to even mention their parents or family members, or the land and people they were forced to leave.  Then give them an “American” name, force them to become child laborers, teaching them the barest minimum level of literacy, along with basic skills which would be useful in an agricultural/manufacturing economy.  And require them to practice Christianity.  The stated policy goal was to remove the Indian from the child…that bold, that daring, that disrespectful, some would say that evil.

The children learned not to speak where they could be heard by those who were in charge about their families, their land, their names, their beliefs.  They also suffered, physically, emotionally, socially.  There were deaths, by accident, illness, and suicide.  Some remembered…some of what they were not supposed to remember.  But they were children, and details disappear from memory after a while.  Eventually, language and culture and custom and tradition mostly disappeared.  Except…while the details may have disappeared from children’s memories, the sense that something important, something essential, something at the very core of their being, lingered.  They did remember that something else had been a part of their lives, and was still a part of who they were.  

It's a long, sorry story, an embarrassing and cruel part of our nation’s history.  Today we would say, “That’s not who we are….” But we were…. This was not just a northern US/Canadian story, it was a Nebraska story, too.  One of those Indian Boarding Schools was in Genoa, Nebraska.  It operated from 1884 to 1934, housing more than 4000 students over those fifty years…4000 children, wondering in their souls if they remembered.  And wondering if their mothers and fathers, and sisters and brothers, remembered them….

There are many ways of remembering.  There are stories, and tales, and pictures, and poetry, and artifacts, and music.  Somehow, in some way, the elders kept these alive, though keeping the language alive has been hard.  There are other ways.  Indigenous women sewed seeds of plants and grain into the hems of their skirts when they sensed the village where they lived would soon be forced to move, either by warfare or yet another treaty.  They would be able to take something of their homeland with them, perhaps to be able to grow the plants in a new place.  (I have recently read that women captured in Africa, bound for slavery, did the same, weaving seeds into their hair, so they could carry something of home with them.  Women are amazing, aren’t we….) Aliyah American Horse, Nebraska’s Youth Poet Laureate, wrote a poem for National Day of Remembrance for US Indian Boarding Schools about the significance of hair in Indian culture; hair is a carrier of story and history and identity. When officials at the Indian Boarding Schools, or school officials in Nebraska today, cut the hair of Indigenous students, they are cutting that child’s identity.   

Remembering who we are, what we are called, where we are from, our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, is important to our identity as individuals and as members of a community.  Trying to blot out that memory, to suppress it, in the name of unity, or superiority, or ethnocentrism, is harmful.  It’s hurtful.  It’s antithetical to the belief that every person is a person of value and worth, a bedrock value in our nation’s founding documents.  

While the Indian Boarding Schools have closed, though the effects are still reverberating through Indigenous peoples today, there is a modern-day effort to suppress remembering.  This is on a larger scale, an effort to not tell, to overlook, to forget, the chapters in American history that are uncomfortable.  Like enslavement.  Like the Indian Boarding Schools.  Like the Tulsa race massacre.  Like the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII, more than half of whom were American citizens.  Like the Jim Crow laws for nearly a century following the Civil War.  In the eyes and minds of some of our political leaders, anything that might make students uncomfortable should not be included in school curriculum, nor in school libraries.  Once again, start with the children, and see if we can erase these ugly parts of our history.  

It won’t work, of course.  There are many sources of information, way beyond textbooks and library books, and anything that is “forbidden” is all the more interesting to learners of any age.  So these chapters won’t disappear from our national story.  But the efforts to make them unseen and unheard and unremembered are damaging to our national psyche.  Trauma that has been suppressed, whether in an individual or a nation, has a way of emerging later with great power, great disruption, and often tragic results, unless it’s confronted, remembered, and dealt with in such a way that the person, or the nation, emerges healthy and whole.  

I don’t know how we as a nation, or we as individuals, ever compensate Indigenous families for the great harm that was caused by the Indian Boarding Schools, or how we compensate Black Americans for the harm that was caused by enslavement, or how we compensate other groups of people that were intentionally and deliberately harmed.  In 1988, Congress provided reparation payments to Japanese families that had been incarcerated during WWII.  Proposals have been made for reparations to Black Americans for four centuries of discriminatory laws, statutes, and actions…but they have not been enacted.  One has only to look at quality of life indicators, like life span, education level, health, income, home ownership, for Indigenous people compared to others in this nation to conclude that whatever treaties may have been signed, whatever governmental support services may have been put in place, have not begun to repair the damage that was inflicted on the first people of this land.

I don’t know what it will take to repair the harm.  I do believe that it starts by remembering….

(A personal note.  I learned this song as a member of a choir invited to sing at a service on the National Day of Remembrance for US Indian Boarding Schools.  It was a powerful experience to learn the language, to learn the meaning of the words, to feel the beat of the drum that accompanies the song. It is beyond my comprehension how much more powerful, like a thousand times more so, it must be for Indigenous people to sing this…it is their story.)

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A simple plainsong, floating into autumn

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Scrambling into my kayak on this balmy September afternoon, the craft inevitably endeavors to reel over with a precarious teeter. I pause for a moment to find my balance, then push off from a shore of russet grasses and weary sunflowers. Scooching the boat through the shallows, I paddle unevenly for a few strokes, drifting away from solid ground.

Eventually I straighten out and find my tempo, a consistent dunk and splash, dunk and splash. Breathe in, breathe out.  The kayak glides over the still, sparkling lake, out of sight, out of reach.  

I promised myself one more warm boat ride before the chill settled this year. And on this gorgeous day, clouds are high and proud, reflecting off the surface of the water as if I’m paddling through the sky. 

Carried on a whisper of a breeze, dry yellow leaves sail atop the lake and brush against my boat.  Forest green lily pads drift everywhere, but the water lilies have long since faded.  Here and there, the tips of tree branches have been dipped into autumn’s paint bucket.

Curious herons linger nearby. Young ducks and geese – now gangly, overgrown adolescents – come crazy close to my kayak, right along with newly arriving migratory intruders of various stripes and persuasions.

Fall is now upon us, the season of plainsong.

Dawn comes later, dusk comes earlier, bringing an inescapable sense of time passing – a mist of drowsy, sweet melancholy and meditation. 

A kayak seems to melt seamlessly into the golden landscape of fall, somehow perfectly suited to the season.  Unsteady for some, the seat of a kayak is where I find my place of equilibrium in this wobbly world. 

Once upon a time I loved speed boats.  My daughter has one now and she calls it, “BOB,” named after my dad who loved fast cars and fast boats.  I can close my eyes and still feel the rough texture of ski rope in my hands as my dad’s boat pulled me along the face of the water, skimming back and forth over the wake.

When my daughter bought her speedster a couple years back, I managed to haul myself up on water skis and feel that power once again. Yep, ski boats roar and rev through the summer with a hearty, raucous blast. 

But these days, thank you, I’ll take fall and a kayak, stunning and still, spinning a spell for searching souls.

Kayaks were invented at least 4,000 years ago by the Inuit and Aleut people of Arctic North America who created a design that differs from a canoe.  A kayak has a lighter hull, covered deck and shallow base, resulting in a boat that proves more agile and nimble, as well as ensuring icy water doesn’t enter the boat.  

I learned how to kayak during COVID when there were few other lessons to learn.  I had tried canoes but struggled with the bulk and frankly the necessity of paddling in sync with someone else. I have always been more of a solo gal, so going out in a kayak better matches my spirit.

It was love at first float, an intimate ride, sitting atop the water separated only by one slim layer of fiberglass.  

After I took those initial kayak lessons, I first dipped my toes into the water with an inflatable – but soon wanted something more substantial.  Next, I toted an array of kayaks around sports stores, walking laps to see which one I could carry – finally brought one home and named her Scuttle from The Little Mermaid – bought an ancient Ford pickup truck to haul her.

In the past few years, I’ve kayaked in torrential rains and through windswept currents – in spring, under the glowworm-lit caves of New Zealand and in summer, alongside whales in Canada. 

And as autumn arrives at Nebraska’s lakes and rivers – firesides, crisp apples and a simple quiet quite different than any other time of year – the stillness practically calls out for my kayak. 

Sure, each June I will salute summer’s sun-baked glow and riotous splash.  

But I’ve come to terms with the reality that I’ll never be a “California girl.” I’m a child of autumn who belongs in the arms of a kayak, rowing softly into the sweet surrender of chillier waves.

So, on this very first day of autumn, my wish is this: May you all find your own place of peace, somewhere out there.

As for me, I’ll be pushing out from shore into the hushed, gilded tapestry of this most precious of seasons, paddling unmoored with the rhythm of an open heart.

Lost in the Mayhem

 A Few of Those Things We’re Missing ... 

Remember the original Herbal Essence shampoo, the one that smelled like Mother Nature? You can’t find it anymore. It’s been replaced with what seems like dozens of other types and smells and additives. 

Remember Ding Dongs wrapped in foil? Long gone. When This American Life podcasts were more slice-of-life stories and less politics and investigative news? Do you remember when you could tell a Chevy from a Ford from a Volkswagen and car colors weren’t mostly gray and black and white? 

Yeah, we do, too. 

We know the world is constantly changing and the products and media and foods we consume are following suit. But we can’t help missing some of those things we loved that got lost in the change ups. 

Here’s a few of those things we think the mayhem took. Let us know what you are missing.

Cursing Villainous Attempts to Kill Off Manual Transmissions
by Mary Kay Roth

My sweaty hands are slipping off the steering wheel in one of my most vivid teenage memories, understandable to anyone who has ever learned how to drive a stick shift.  Stopped at a red traffic light on the incline at 27^th and Van Dorn, I panic as my dad sits in the passenger seat attempting to guide me through a smooth launch.

We fail.

Stomping on the accelerator, I peel out – the car lurches forward – and I paint a loud line of burnt rubber while quietly pledging a plague on manual transmissions.   

It is a pledge I will heartily renounce.

 After all, anyone can drive a dull automatic. Give me a stick shift and a five-speed any day. Give me that gloriously perfect rhythm of clutch – and pedal to the medal. 

Alas and alack, several months ago someone totaled my beloved Honda Fit and when I went looking for another manual transmission – like every car I’ve owned – dealerships laughed. 

Apparently, the manual is not immortal. When I was learning to drive, stick shifts accounted for more than half of car sales – today they tally up to a scant 2 percent. Car makers, those scoundrels, I curse them all. They’re trying to kill off the very best way to drive an automobile.  

Miracle of miracles, thanks to an intrepid Subaru dealer – I did eventually find a 2019 manual Impreza with five-speed transmission, 2.0-liter four-cylinder engine, 152 horsepower.

Hail the mighty stick shift, you’re not dead yet. Get out of my way, folks, I’m still laying rubber. 

Missing this Scent 
by JoAnne Young 

Scents have a remarkable effect on our emotions, moods and memories. For some of us, the scent of lavender or citrus or flowers soothes our moods or energizes, and puts us on a good path for the rest of our day or night. 

I used to love to step into the shower and spot that bottle of Black Currant Vanilla Body Wash. It would
without a doubt heighten my mood, calm and comfort me at the same time. The vanilla had a smoky/musky aroma, and the fruity, woody scent of black currant emboldened it. The warm shower mist would send the fragrance throughout the bathroom and down the hall, making the entire house smell wonderful. 

Sorry to say it was discontinued from Bath and Body Works’ aromatherapy products, and I miss it terribly. I found it on Amazon, but now it’s out of my price range, going from about $17 for a 6.5-ounce bottle to $124. I guess I will just continue to miss it. 

These Shoes
by Mary Reiman

These shoes. These shoes that fit my feet perfectly...and make me smile. This particular style of this particular brand that I’ve been wearing for years and years and years. How could they suddenly stop making these shoes? I need them. I purchase them every year. Actually, two pairs each year. Whatever colors are in stock. Some say there are others that will fit just as well. That’s not true. Over the years, I have tried on (and purchased) many brands, many styles, many less expensive. No, no, no there are no others that love and shelter my feet like these do.

What will I do? My favorite shoe store recommended I check online. So of course, I googled it. Alas, two pairs were still available in my size. Yes, I purchased them immediately. I now have one more year before facing the anxiety of shoe shopping.

When they are selling a great pair of shoes that make feet so happy, why discontinue them?

Saving My Face
by Marilyn Moore                         

Many years ago, probably decades ago, my dermatologist recommended I use Neutrogena Healthy

Defense, a moisturizer and sunscreen.  So I did.  It was easily and reliably available at the drugstores where I routinely shop.  It’s a solid gold name….who doesn’t recognize Neutrogena?  It was easy to use, just apply in the morning, and that’s it for the day.  And it seemed to work.  At least, it prevented sunburn, for which I’m grateful.  And then, it was gone.  No longer on the Neutrogena shelves, nor any other shelves.  Not in my usual drugstores, nor in others where I made a point to look.  In its place were some new products, with the word “retinol” in the label.  But no Healthy Defense.  So, I switched to a house brand of a similar product, a combination moisturizer and sunscreen.  It seemed to work well, also.  And now, it’s no longer available. 

Today, in my drugstore prowl, I found the next iteration, back to Neutrogena.  Its name is Collagen Bank, an SPF moisturizer sunscreen.  I don’t know that I need a bank of collagen…I don’t really know what a collagen bank is.  It promises a collagen-rich glow.  I’m just hopeful it will prevent sunburn, and if it smoothes out those fast-developing wrinkles, that’s a bonus.  Glad to have a Neutrogena product again, though there was only one container on the shelf, so I fear I may be repeating this exercise again in a few months.  

Don't Mess with My Breakfast!
by Penny Costello

I love to go out for breakfast. It's my favorite meal to have someone else cook for me. Way back in the 1970's, when I lived in Boulder, Colorado, my favorite place to go to breakfast was the International House of Pancakes. And my favorite thing to order there was Swedish Crepes. 

The menu described Swedish Crepes as "Four delicate crepes topped with sweet-tart lingonberries and lingonberry butter.” I had never heard of lingonberries before I tried them, but they delivered what for me was the perfect balance of sweet and tartness, and the dish became one of my favorite breakfast treats of all time. No need to add syrup. The combo of the lingonberry compote and lingonberry butter was the perfect balance of sweet-sour-buttery deliciousness. And the lightness of the crepe instead of a bulky buttermilk pancake never made me feel like I might need a nap after breakfast.

My favorite thing to order there was the Smokehouse Combo, which offered two smoked sausages, two eggs, hashbrowns and a short stack of pancakes. I always substituted Swedish Crepes for the short stack, and I never minded the upcharge.

Cut to the 21st century. The International House of Pancakes became IHOP, and an evolutionary force called the COVID-19 Pandemic presented a truly disruptive impact on the restaurant industry. Not all the developments were bad. As a culture that loves it when things are made easier, we have totally embraced curbside take-out service. But the service at many of our favorite restaurants has dropped off due to staffing challenges, COVID-induced shutdowns, and other economic winds that have blown through. Restaurants closed down completely, menu options were reduced in those that stayed open, and the impact is still felt today, in spite of the fact that, in many ways, we've moved beyond the pandemic mindset.

Sadly for me, among the casualties of the pandemic was the removal of Swedish Pancakes from the IHOP menu. I know, in the grand scheme of the losses we incurred, a breakfast item on a menu is not a big deal. And the longer we live, the more we all have to live with the impacts of those winds of change.

As I was thinking about writing about this, I did a Google search asking why IHOP discontinued Swedish Pancakes. And I found I was not alone in my disappointment and grieving tastebuds. On Reddit, someone posted "They killed my Swedish Pancakes. I'm all for change, except when it affects my favorite item."

Another person posted, "Right there with you, man. Swedish Crepes were the reason I went there instead of Denny's."

Another post read, "Why does this keep happening to the things I love?" 

I guess we all feel that pain at one time or another. Whether it's a favorite scent, shoes, face cream, or stick shifts, that pesky old saying keeps holding true. All good things must come to an end. So, I'll endeavor to adjust my attitude, and try to be more open and welcoming to that next new thing that will come along and be my new favorite breakfast surprise. On the bright side, I came across a couple of 'copycat' recipes I can try and see if I can satisfy my cravings. To borrow from another old adage, "Give a woman an IHOP Swedish Pancake, and she'll eat for a day. Teach her how to make her own Swedish Pancakes, and she'll eat for a lifetime." Yeah. Either way, bring it on! 

***

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Breaking patterns, shaking sameness

By JoAnne Young

 

Can something be welcome and unsettling at the same time? The feel of fall is a little like that for me. I am ready for changes, but know it will come in bits and chunks, like waking up to a temperature that requires pawing through the closet and drawers for long sleeves and sweatshirts, only to go back a step to short sleeves and short pants a few days later.  

 

A week ago, I was shaken from sleep with a strong eagerness for change. People were returning to their homes and their routines from faraway places they had gone in the warmth and freedom of summer. I had traveled, too, but to more familiar, comfortable places. Pleasant as could be, easy, but not bold or gutsy. 

 

I know the brain craves patterns, a sense of control of our environment. Patterns in nature and in us have repeated and repeated since as far back as we know. Those patterns can be beautiful. The star pattern runs from the oceans to the heavens. Spirals twist around nature and humans. Computer algorithms try to compete with the workings of the mind. 

 

But breaking a few patterns seems necessary sometimes. Fall couldn’t have come soon enough. The summer warmth was becoming artificial. The freedom was hinting at boredom.

 

I wanted real warmth, the kind that comes from inside, somewhere in the gut and the heart,  and radiates out. Identifying as a Five and Four on the Enneagram Type Indicator, I tend to be studious, quiet, an observer more often than a participant, sometimes a little too introspective.  I spend my time in solitary activities – reading, writing, photography. I love them, but the isolation or social distancing that comes with them can be exhausting. 

 

I don’t know where my feelings go in the summer. They simmer somewhere out there ... wanting to hide from heat, the screech of grackles and starlings, from air conditioning and having to get up at 5 in the morning to see a sunrise. By August, my tide is low and ebbing. 

 

But here we are, just a couple of weeks away from the fall equinox, when balance occurs, when days and nights, light and darkness, are about equal.  That’s a good signal for me to seek balance, too, in my own dark and light, complexity and simplicity, aloneness and camaraderie, work and play.

 

It’s time for me to emulate the balance toys I love, letting the patterns and unexpected both find a home here. 

 

The universe is already giving me a hand with that equilibrium. Two dear friends, somehow without knowing, spontaneously texted Saturday afternoon and invited me and my husband to watch the Husker game on their patio and eat homemade pizza cooked magnificently on the grill. It was exactly what I needed. God bless them and God bless Husker football and fall-ish nights on the patio listening to avid fans in the neighborhood set off booming fireworks for every Big Red score. 

 

I have lately become inspired by Joni Mitchell, herself a Four, who sought a change in her own ennui, feelings of weariness and dissatisfaction, by leaving her popular music routine, which she called her hit department, and crossing the road to find her art department. She didn’t want her music, her life, to stay in one key, one modality, so she pushed forward, she evolved. She took a leap and recorded The Hissing of Summer Lawns, a breakout album.

 

My life is not that dramatic, and neither will my autumn be. Mine will be incremental, like a change of the season that fades from hot to cool to cold to warm. I don’t plan to jerk the steering wheel to one side to the other, but gradually navigate myself out of a rut. 

 

When the sun in the fall equinox hits its balance, I hope to be on my way. Some days, as the light shrinks, I will seek some imbalance, favoring discomfort or inconsistency or the unreasonable. 

 

Talk to three strangers a day for a week (or more). 

Let a spider crawl up my arm. 

Sleep until 10 a.m. (Yikes) 

Not judge the man at the lake running in a thong. (He must have had his reasons.)

 

Maybe I’ll start with those letters I’ve been procrastinating writing for the past couple of years. Wouldn't it be lovely to make some sort of little magic happen every day. 

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Don't you wonder...or the moral of the story...

By Mary Reiman

Don't you wonder...

About where they keep all those cones in the winter? It must be a very large storage unit. You know, those orange and white cones that seemed to be around every corner this summer. Maybe there were road repairs only on streets I drove this summer. I greatly appreciate the work, but those cones kept multiplying throughout the summer, like the little tribbles on Star Trek.  There were a lot of cones, even after they removed the ones that had been run over. If only those cones could talk, what stories they would tell.

About the red spray paint sprayed on the streets, especially downtown. I searched for information about what that means. Have not yet found the answer. New curbs? New electrical lines or cables going under the street? Or simply a reason to put out more orange and white cones?

About labels. I’ve never been too concerned about labels. It doesn't matter that I'm  not wearing the latest fashion. I simply want clothing that's soft and comfortable. The same with cars. Get me wherever I want to go…and home again...in comfort.

So imagine my surprise, when I suddenly realized I had been labeled. I had read Hillbilly Elegy, so I knew Mr. Vance as an author, but I doubt he ever read my blog so he doesn’t know me, and yet he feels the need to give me a label. 

Yes, I am a childless cat lady. Well, I was. In reality, I was more of a childless dog lady, although my original pet was Tommy, the gray farm cat we dressed up and put in the baby buggy and pushed around the front yard. She was amazingly compliant.

I don’t have children, but I sure do have family. My loving biological family and my fabulous friends' family. Those in Lincoln, as well as those far away, sustain me. How lucky I am.

Needless to say, I never thought I would be labeled as someone ‘without a direct stake in our country’ because I do not have children. I pay taxes, vote, support our community, and reside in a state that has a relatively high inheritance tax for those who are not married and do not have children. Financial planners say we should definitely not be single and die in Nebraska. The state will take too much of our money that could be left to causes of our choice. (Yes, that's exactly how they say it). But this is my home and I don't want to move. I often wonder if our state officials consider this as one reason why people are leaving our state?

About today. It is Labor Day and we honor and thank all laborers of the world. Those who are paid for their hard work, and those who volunteer their time and energy to provide services to us all. 

This could lead me to two topics I really wanted to write/rant about this week. 

Not the announcement of the placement of someone new to the Nebraska Library Commission board, but the removal of one of the current board commissioners. A good woman, a knowledgeable woman unanimously elected chair of the commission board earlier this year whose name is no longer on the list of board members. If you followed the report in the newspaper, you know the story. 

I will not be writing more about this right now because a few months ago when I was critical of our state politics, my blog was removed from Facebook. I’m still not sure what the trigger words were that led to the disappearance of that blog, never to be seen again. But I will keep researching how and why some Facebook posts vanish. Be assured, I will come back to both of these topics at a later date.

About the label I would rather have: Cousin...or in this case, maybe second cousin twice removed?

I was visiting a cousin this week, and she informed me that Tim Walz’ mother’s maiden name was Reiman. Who knew? 

When my grandpa moved to northwest Iowa, his brother moved to northeast Nebraska. Both brothers had several sons. And those sons had several children. In Butte, one of those children was Tim Walz’s mother. And in Milford, one of those children was me.

Yes, it was a large family. My great grandparents had many children, and those children had many children. When I was in elementary school, grandpa’s brother would often come to visit. We called him Uncle because that’s what dad called him. In reality, he was my great uncle. I don’t remember any of his family coming with him. We did not take vacations, never went to Nebraska, so I never met them. I don’t remember even looking up Butte on the map. We just knew that’s where grandpa's brothers lived.  Those who study genealogy could probably easily determine if we are second cousins twice removed, but that’s what I believe when looking at the family tree. (If you know for sure, please let me know!)

So the moral of the story is…you just never know! And yes, it is a small world. And yes, I hope no one feels I have offended anyone on Facebook causing this blog to disappear. And yes, it’s sort of fun to say I'm related to a vice presidential candidate.