August 1, 1968
by Janine Stephenson
August is finally here. Everyone is excited to get to convention, including Becca and I.
Chicago is dreadfully hot in the summer. No one thinks that the Midwest can get so hot, but believe me, the heat waves are deadly. I remember one summer when a number of elderly people died. When I was seven, Grandma Pat had heat stroke, and that was north, in Wisconsin. I know that some places in the country are far worse than the Midwest, like the desert for instance. But the city of Chicago is a simmering pit in August, which is what my Father always says.
Becca is particularly excited to go to the convention. She says that we are finally getting the reward for all of our hard work. I have to agree. We didn’t join the campaign to go to the convention. In fact, we didn’t even think that far ahead. But our time here in Washington has been so lonely and boring and awful that I would consider going to the convention a just reward for our time spent in this terrible place.
We still don’t have word yet as to what we are doing next, though maybe we will help set up the main office at the Chicago Hilton. That would be nice. Maybe we’ll even get to stay in the Chicago Hilton. But with the room shortages and telephone strikes, that might not be an option. Which is fine because while going to the convention is a fantastic opportunity, staying at a hotel might be too far out.
I can’t get my suitcase packed fast enough.
