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here last night. He s inside right now.
She turns, her hair in a tight, fussy bun.  And you, of all people,
get to meet Jimmy Carter!
Secret Service tall, muscular guys everywhere and giving
this crowd a real lookover.
Kids, parents, they re all chattering away; they want Jimmy
Carter to finish his Presidential eggs and bacon; they can t keep
their eyes off that front door, the microphone booms and TV
cameramen, left and right. Everyone knows that that s the door.
 Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press. The guy
speaking with the Southern accent, the short blond hair, he glances
our way and I realize it s Jody Powell, the President s press
secretary who s always on TV, except, of course, here, no TV
studio, just tall trees overhead and crows cawing away.
 Pliny, I ve been looking all over for you. Mrs. Reyes I
haven t been able to find her pulls on my arm.  Hurry up, we re
supposed to be over there.
We squeeze past the front gate unbelievable, I m leaving the
crowd, even Sophie, because Mrs. Reyes has this ID.
Sudden cheers and the front door opens.
Jimmy Carter is shorter than I thought. Oh, five-seven, five-
eight, but an upright posture from the military. Got on a dark suit
and tie; he s probably meeting the locals down at City Hall for
lunch; though for us, a cardigan and chinos would have been fine.
He s at the microphone and my neck feels prickly in back. Less
than twenty feet away it s us he s talking about: the turnaround,
people moving back to the inner city, learning lessons for
elsewhere.
It s a quick speech and Jody Powell steps up and says with the
tight scheduling, questions must wait until the noontime briefing
downtown.
The President comes this way with Powell. Some woman stops
him, talks with him. Now, he s right here, grinning recognition like
he knows who we are.
 Mr. President, Mrs. Reyes says,  I d like to introduce several
of the Irvington Neighborhood Association s real doers. We all
mumble,  Pleased to meet you. She says a little about me.
 So you re a real spark plug for good work, getting all those
trees planted, the President says. The clear gray eyes pay attention
to no one but me. I know I must say something. The President is
waiting. The minicams are rolling. My mouth wants to say words,
but the more I try, the blanker my mind seems.
I smile so he knows I heard him. He flashes the toothsome smile
and before it fades, I blurt out,  Mostly maple, yes, that s what we
planted, we planted mostly maple.
I can t believe what I said. Like some green eyeshade
accountant, I start an inventory for the President of the United
States about what we stuck in the ground?
But remarkably, it s exactly right saying this.  Maples, oh, fine
choice, Carter says.  They re a high-quality, strong tree. And
they ll last long after  the dimple between his eyebrows moves
  we ve all gone to our Maker.
 I keep a watch on my trees, sir. I am aware he s from the
South, where the ma am s and sir s are habit.  I m retired, eighty-
one this year, so I have time to do what good I can. Otherwise, I
suppose I d just be living longer to grow wronger.
The President grins and puts his hand to my shoulder.  Eighty-
one? You don t know how heartened it makes me feel that people
like you are volunteering to beautify your neighborhood.
 Oh, it s nothing.
 Your teamwork is just fine, I ll be telling my mother, Miss
Lillian, about the cooperative spirit out here in Oregon the next
time I see her.
I want to warn Jimmy about that hostage thing coming up, but
it s too late. Smiling eyes, toothy grin, all his attention s with
Connie Brennemann next to me; she got the Neighborhood Watch
program going. I d just spoil the occasion. And who else
understands this Iran thing?
He sidesteps away, greeting others, then there s a limousine
from somewhere, and Jimmy leaves. The sirens of the four
motorcycle escorts say it s over.
 Habitat for Humanity, negotiating peace accords. The voice is
still speaking, though much more softly.
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