Jimmy who?

Richard Pascoe's nice piece evoked memories of Jimmy Carter's campaign to be president, and the early days after he was elected.

In Washington at the time, I was among around only a dozen reporters present when he announced he would seek the Democratic Party nomination. Carter was a little-known outsider among a raft of more prominent governors and senators, and was dubbed “Jimmy Who?”.

Gerald Ford beat Ronald Reagan for the Republican nomination.

After Carter's victory, Reuters had to staff the incoming president full time. Having met Carter and his senior aides, I got the first six-week stint in Georgia.

Driving 750 miles to Carter’s hometown of Plains, I realised I was in for a learning curve when I crossed into Georgia. The first song I heard on the radio was "Drop kick me, Jesus, through the goal posts of life" - -seamlessly merging the twin local passions of sport and religion.

When you drive into Plains, I wrote at the time, “Slow down or you will miss it. A little peanut farming community of 683 residents, alongside a defunct railroad with a handful of stores on a 50-yard main street."

There was nowhere to stay in Plains, so we had to bed down in a motel in nearby Americus, scene of some of the worst violence in civil unrest only a few years earlier. The motel’s bar/diner was not recommended to outsiders. But there was little choice, and I went in with a colleague one evening.

Soon afterwards a 300-pound man mountain known as “Train” because of the noise he made when he wanted another beer, came alongside, resting his bulk on my friend, and asked what we thought of black people, using a racist term.

Once or twice a week, Carter would meet us, sitting in his mother's garden. He was seen by some as unworldly. After one lengthy exposition of some worthy idea, the reporter for the Boston Globe asked: "That is all very good, Mr President, but what's the capital of Idaho?"  For several minutes, Carter foundered.
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