For two full weeks I spent long hours glued to the TV watching the proceedings of the Republican and Democratic conventions and endless follow-up commentary by media talking heads.

My inability to resist the political hullabaloo is written in my DNA.

I come from a line of die-hard Democrats, going back to my great-uncle Morgan Hoyt who was a close friend and political associate of Franklin Roosevelt.  I was born and raised by parents of strong liberal leanings who became political activists in the hostile environment of Colorado, a traditionally conservative state where Democrats have only carried the presidential vote four times in my lifetime. 

My earliest memory of national politics was the 1956 Democratic Convention. My father attended as an alternate delegate. My mother stayed home to take care of the children, although she actually spent most of the time watching the live convention broadcasts from Chicago on our brand new television set. 

I can’t swear to it, but I have an inkling that the new fangled gadget was acquired precisely so she could tune in to follow what in those days was gavel-to-gavel coverage. 

It was summer vacation for me as a grade-school kid, and with lots of free time on my hands, I stayed busy keeping mother company. As she remained fixated on the lengthy proceedings to formulate the Democratic platform and put Adlai Stevenson at the head of the ticket, I was frequently dispatched to the kitchen to forage for snacks and liquid refreshments.

I didn’t absorb much of what happened on the convention floor. My sole interest was watching the grainy black and white transmissions on the off-chance I might catch sight of my father mingling in the multitude. 

I have no idea what critical moment must have prompted my mother to send me off on a mission of mercy. “Run downstairs and make me a martini,” she implored frantically. At age seven I had zero experience in mixology, but I took mental note of the formula she dictated.  

I returned shortly, proudly handing over the cocktail glass, garnished with a stuffed olive. She grabbed the glass, downed a deep swallow and gagged instantly. It was then I learned the vile consequences of combing three parts vermouth with one of gin. 

Mother recovered from the taste-bud shock. I dutifully scuttled downstairs to make a proper martini. The incident is burned in my memory bank as the outstanding moment of the 1956 Democratic convention. 

Though I still abhor the smell and taste of gin, I was not put off to following the vagaries of American politics. Over the years political conventions have evolved into tightly-scripted, glitz-and-glamour spectacles geared for prime-time viewing audiences. This year programming focused heavily ripping into rival candidates, outshining the exposition of lofty ideals. Mud-slinging and unsavory shenanigans likely dominate the campaign season as voters decide which candidate they least despise. 

Adlai Stevenson told us which way the wind was blowing with these words in his acceptance speech: “This idea that you can merchandise candidates for high office like breakfast cereal, that you can gather votes like box tops is, I think, the ultimate indignity to the democratic process.”