(Wherein our friend and pal Bradley comes to defend his own person against the band of maurading legalists who seem liable at any time to roll over one man's civil liberties. )
"Ladies and Gentleman, I'd like to thank you all for being here tonight," said a well-dressed man at the podium, before the gathered assemblage wherein I was a small part. "I'm honored," he continued, "to have the opportunity to introduce our featured guest, though I should add he hardly needs an introduction. Unless you've been living in a hole for the past year, you already know all about him."
So said the well-dressed man to the room of lookers-on, a room filled with cloth and people and well-done flank steak, a grand room offering taxonomies of baldness, skin care, jewelry, timepieces, and necktie stripage. Had you been there you would have seen Bradley Grizzle take the limelit stage, all smiles and aw shucks and thanks folks but I'm just another fella. He was a magnet for attention. A lot of people owed him their livelyhood.
I knew him when he stood on the steps of the capitol building, tucked under the left-most archway holding his O-so-humble sign for probably just the second time. That is, I think I can remember something like a peripheral glimpse from
The sea's harsh mistress
way back then, faint but real to me. Only it was a bit later that I first heard mention of Grizzle. From Alice Carruthers, the secretary to the delegation from Big Lake, when she came in the door one day post-usual exercise orbit, rounds taken once a day with arms swinging wildly at her sides -- while I'm saying it, I've never seen anyone with as much upper-body movement as Alice. Like a pendulum. When she'd come at you on the mall, cornering around the Civil Rights Memorial Monument, the sight of those arms careening in all directions while her legs remained dead set straight ahead, it frightened! My great Aunt Doddy when she saw it exclaimed "Oh my!" loudly enough to turn heads. On a typical dry day Alice Carruthers navigated World War One, World War Two, the Civil Rights memorial, the Women's suffrage memorial, the statues to Governors Nimbus and Fitzpatrick and the Wright Brothers. It was all as expected, until one day she came back to the office telling of a strange man standing under the archway for the second day in a row, bearing a hand-painted sign which cried out "Equal Rights for Bradley Grizzle Now!"
Capitol workers aside, Grizzle's first brush with fame occured during the post-shooting memorial ceremony, when the TV cameras from across the nation were gathered on those very same steps to commemerate the coming together of the state's Amish community. The shooting itself was the worst since the Shaker massacre of 1894, and I was personally touched when the Governor attended, taking time away from his meetings (some strange coincidence had him axing funds for the Special Committee for Amish Relations). He stood out in the crowd, flanked by his handlers, who made sure he looked sincere, somber, sad. Half the gathering was local Amish improverished, who had probably buggied all day just to attend, and the other half
Nomad is an island
were lawyers who popped up with ears perked by folksinging. It was a good crowd.
Grizzle wound up on TV that night, as a backdrop for live feed from the scenes. He was behind the podium where famed Amish civic leader Wally McMasters gave yet another stirring oration. From there, the legacy of Grizzle grew with each passing day, each passing political report. For every protest that came to the capitol steps, Bradley was there, holding his sign and fitting right in. For every family that came by for a tour of the world's second largest memorial marble dome (after Saint Peter's in Rome), they'd stop and be sure to chat with Bradley, in as much as anyone every really chatted with Bradley. Sure, he seemed approachable, kind, honest, stout -- in fact, that was the secret to his appeal -- but getting him to chat was like pulling teeth from a one-eyed dog.
"How do you do?" would elicit a smile. "Nice day" or something like it got you a smile and a nod. "Why are you here" equalled a shrug, but if you kept at him, asked again, he might shrug and say, "Oh, well, you know," as if you knew. Somehow the empathy in his eyes was enough, and though I knew a lot of politicians who could talk the ears off a cornstalk, I never knew anyone who could last more than a minute with Bradley.
But after he wound up on the news again, this time a feature story about Bradley setting the record for consecutive days holding a sign, people started showing up. It was all Forrest Gump after that. Crowds gathered on weekends to stand with Grizzle, some of them would start chanting "Equal Rights Now!" or "Grizzle Power."
It wasn't every day, of course. Some days it would rain, and some days Bradley would be standing there alone, like he always had. But most days, somebody would be there by his side, holding a sign of their own, marching back and forth, or what have you. And then sometimes it would get big. Word would get around, "there's a big Grizzle rally," and people would come from all over to join in. The radio stations would report on it, and the whole thing would snowball. Like a snowball in the hands of an adolescent boy, rolling down a hill on a wet winter day.
