I don't suppose the last meeting of the Lincoln County Prohibition Party will make the headlines anywhere, but it is a sad chapter in American history; almost like having part of your family die. Prohibition was once the watchword in town during the early 1900s as the great debate about the banning of alcoholic beverages swept across the United States. Prohibition was made law of the land, but never managed to succeed in stopping something that was almost as old as humanity itself. Those were the days of Al Capone, the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and countless other petty thugs and unsolved murders. Eventually, Prohibition was repealed and the Prohibition Party began to fade from public view.
Lincoln County held out longer than most. Ministers preached from the pulpits about the evils of demon rum, and the coming of days of fire and brimstone upon the land as punishment for the sins of a drunken nation. The older generation by and large passionately believed in the rightness of their mission, but Budweiser came to the town bars and no divine judgment came down on the citizens of Lincoln County. The townspeople gradually drank more and voted for the Prohibition Party even less. Those who believed in the old message still trotted it out every election: America was becoming a land of people who lived for vice and avoided responsibility. The good in life was harder to find in a world shaped by sex, drugs, rock music, nuclear weapons, Darwin's theories, and despair. Fighting against that wasn't popular, and got one branded as out-of-touch, old-fashioned, and moralistic—but it didn't stop the battle from being fought on every election day. I know, for I was one of the soldiers in the battle.
I was in high school when I joined the Party. I saw my peers getting drunk, rowdy, and very ill the next morning and calling the experience "fun." Some of them got raped or pregnant and didn't remember how. A few of them got behind the wheel of their cars and killed themselves or others in traffic accidents caused by drunken driving. I thought it was horrible that something that dangerous was acceptable as a method of leisure, so with all the impetuousness of the youth I criticized, I became a Prohibitionist. I didn't take everything they said seriously. Prohibition could never be brought back—it had been tried and failed miserably. I knew that to be true, and I suspect most of the other Party members did too. We were fighting a rear guard action for the good old days. We were trying to remind the human race that there was something more important than having a good time—public order, public safety, and a return to the family values of old.
As the years passed, Prohibition ran fewer and fewer candidates for office every year. I attended a lot of funerals of our old warriors in those days, and as the older members died off, there were no new members to replace them and fewer wealthy donors to keep the party coffers full. We pressed on as best we could, even after the national Prohibition Party faded away. As far as anyone knew, our cell was the Prohibition Party of the United States. Our headquarters was an old two-story building in a dying part of Lincoln City. The offices on the first floor had been empty for years, and the 'for rent' sign on the front had faded so much that it could barely be read. The second floor was our meeting hall. The floor was largely empty now. The metal folding chairs that once provided seating for the party members and the public at the open meetings we held never were used any more, and sat on carts along one wall. A lectern sat in one corner rather forlornly, awaiting speeches that never came. The American flag hung on the wall behind the podium, and along the walls were paintings of our heros: Carrie Nation, President and Mrs. Hayes, Congressman Volstead....they were long dead and forgotten now: trivia questions on Jeopardy, and nothing more. Though the rest of the building was dusty and dirty, those pictures were kept in immaculate condition, thanks to the efforts of one Adelaide Brubaker. Every day for sixty-eight years, she'd come to work, opened the building, and dusted those portraits. We held monthly business meetings on the first Tuesday of every month, and without fail, she'd be the first one there.
This particular Tuesday was no different. Mrs. Brubaker was first to arrive, I was second, and the others gradually followed along. There was Reverend Sloane of the First (and only) Baptist Church in Lincoln City; Oliver McCreedy, the mousy and bespectacled party treasurer; spinster recording secretary Miss Ann Willets, complete with beehive hairdo; and Walter Ascott Powell III, who was our party chairman. Last to arrive was old Miles Smith, who claimed to have voted for every Prohibition candidate run in the county since 1909. He showed up for all the meetings out of habit, even though he had grown so deaf, he couldn't hear what was said. This was the executive board--and some said the entire party as well. Reverend Sloane gave the invocation, as he always did, and the meeting began with Walter slamming the gavel down on the table. Miss Willets read the previous minutes, and Walter ordered the treasurer's report be read.
Oliver stood and shuffled his papers nervously. "We have no money in the bank," he said dejectedly. "The last vailable funds went to pay the power, gas, and rent bills." A few nervous moans could be heard, and Oliver slouched down in his chair again.
"Publicity director's report, Reverend," Walter ordered.
"We sold the printing press to pay the bills," the Reverend said without emotion. "God will provide a new one in his own time."
"Yes, He will," Walter agreed. "Old business?"
Adelaide spoke up. "I believe it was mentioned at the last meeting that Stanley Finchbite was very ill. He died Saturday, and I believe we should send the family a sympathy card on behalf of the party. Stanley was an integral part of this organization since the Anti-Saloon league days."
"I quite agree. Miss Willets?"
"I'll see to it at once."
"New business?" Walter paused for a moment. "Hearing none, I motion we..."
Something in me snapped. "Hold it, Walter. Do you realize what we've been given this morning? We have no money in the bank. We have no printing press. When the bills come due next month, what do we sell next? The building is all we have left."
"If worst comes to worst," said Oliver, "we could always sell the building and move into the church with Reverend Sloane." The group nodded its assent, except for Miles Smith, who stared into space at God only knew what.
"What about publicity, Reverend? No press, no handbills. No press, no stationery."
"God will provide."
"When, Reverend?" I heard myself ask. "I've been listening to you all say that the day when people would realize what was happening would be coming soon. Judgment has come, but it has come to us, not the drunks. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
"Have faith," Adelaide reproached me, shaking her head sadly at the sight of doubt in a true believer.
"Look around us," I said. "We are the Prohibition Party of the United States—the seven of us. We belong to an institution that time has passed by, playing silly games as if we still mattered or anyone were listening. There is no money to pay out and no revenue coming in. What is there to do any more?"
"What we've always done, son," Adelaide reminded me. "We have been warning America for over a century of the evils of liquor and excess. Our mission is not completed, and we cannot stop now."
"It is principle," Miss Willets said. "We know the truth and we have to save who we can and who will listen. It is our responsibility, and we cannot do anything less."
"Throwing in the towel won't help," Walter said. "As long as we live, we must fight on."
"Just as Noah of old," Sloane chimed in.
"I think we've heard enough. This meeting is adjourned." Walter banged his gavel and we all went our own separate ways.
I resigned the party the next day. Ten days later, we got together to bury Miles Smith, who passed on to his eternal reward and left the party his life savings. After the funeral expenses were paid and his accounts were settled, that savings amounted to nothing. Oliver had a stroke and was no longer able to get out of the house. Miss Willets had to leave town to care for an ill relative in Topeka. I never saw her again. Sloane's church board didn't like the idea of merging the church and the party, and he quit the pulpit in disgust. Last I heard, he was fishing in Montana someplace. The building was sold, and Adelaide took the portraits home with her. The loss of her daily routine caused her health to fail, and she died later that year. I got married to a beautiful woman who loves a glass of champagne now and then, and as much as I hate to admit it, I've joined her in a toast a few times myself. Neither of us have been hit by falling brimstone or grown horns and a tail, I am happy to report. That left Walter Ascott Powell III, age 91, as the sole active member of the oldest third party in the United States, or so he liked to brag. I liked the man, despite our differences, and often visited him to discuss politics and current events. Every now and then I ask him if he thought the party's ideas were still alive. He always answered the same way. "Yes! People can still reason. They'll come around someday. We just have to keep reminding them, and one day they will wake up from the lies they tell themselves." I have to agree with him every time he says that, although he can never understand why I have to stifle a laugh when I do it.
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