Remembering the Forgotten Triumph of 'Granny D'

(March 11) -- Doris "Granny D" Haddock was a serial troublemaker. She died Tuesday at her home in Dublin, N.H., at the age of 100, having raised more hell in her last decade than most people do in their whole lives.

In 2000, at the age of 90, Doris walked 3,200 miles across America to raise awareness about campaign finance reform. Racked with emphysema and arthritis, she logged 10 miles a day for 13 months. Her Sisyphean trek won praise from Sen. John McCain and former President Jimmy Carter, and it galvanized popular attention on an electoral system gone awry.

She grabbed my attention four years later, when I read that a 94-year-old was crisscrossing America, registering working women to vote in swing states. I was floored by the idea that this nonagenarian was putting her life on the line to fight for her vision of democracy. I'm a documentary filmmaker, and at the time I was on the hunt for the subject of my next project. Moved by her determined, seemingly quixotic commitment to breathing life into her ideals, I jumped on a plane to meet her.

As excited as I was to meet Doris, I had some doubts. She was in her 90s -- would she have the pluck and presence to carry a film? And, more delicately: Did she really have all her marbles? But when I met her, she was bright-eyed and energetic, full of moxie and sass, and her gravelly, British-inflected voice was a filmmaker's dream. I was won over from the start.

When I began filming, Doris planned to register voters until Election Day. I imagined crafting a road trip movie through the eyes of an unlikely heroine during a pivotal election year. But true to form, Doris defied even her own expectations of herself when, back home for a short break from the road, she suddenly became New Hampshire's Democratic nominee to the U.S. Senate.

During the campaign, she spoke out vehemently against the Iraq War, at a time when virtually no Democratic candidates were doing so. She completed a 250-mile walk around New Hampshire to reach out to potential constituents, while refusing to accept any PAC or special-interest money to help fund her run. But the big moment came when she had her first-ever debate -- on live TV -- against incumbent Sen. Judd Gregg, who had stood in for John Kerry in Bush's debate training.

The days, hours and minutes leading up to the debate were the most nerve-racking I've ever experienced. Doris' schedule left her little time for debate training: On a typical day, she awoke at 4 a.m., drove with her son Jim to the starting point for that day's five-mile walk, then walked those miles waving at morning commuters. That would be followed by a few interviews, speeches, and copious hand-shaking at a couple of events. Once home, she'd study the issues of the day and finally go to bed around midnight.

When Doris did manage to squeeze in time for debate training, her performance was highly erratic. One day, she'd pack a wallop, like when her coach asked Doris about her opinion on gay marriage and Doris replied, "I'm for love. I don't think the government belongs in my bedroom. I don't want them there. Not that anything's happening there these days!" The next day, Doris might wax poetic about health care reform after being asked a question about terrorism.

Doris' longtime working-partner and close friend, Dennis Burke, who was also her campaign manager, summed up quite eloquently how all of us felt about the upcoming showdown. "The way I'd like to watch the debate tonight is with a TV tray, a little black-and-white TV, a pastrami sandwich, a beer, and a .38 revolver."

I was literally shaking by the time Doris' wrinkled face graced TV screens the evening of the debate. Doris herself was fearful, too, convinced that her throat might give out on her, or that she'd be overtaken by one of her uncontrollable coughing fits. As the debate began, I could see that Doris was careful to hide her trembling, arthritic hands behind the podium.

After a slow start, though, Doris surprised us all. When Gregg asked how she would improve upon his lauded environmental record, her eyes twinkled. "I saw a picture of you fishing recently, senator," she replied. "I hope you didn't eat that fish: the lakes and rivers of our state are now poisoned with mercury, which was certainly not the case when you entered office."

Our sighs of relief must have caused a minor earthquake in New Hampshire that night. Not only did Doris end up holding her own in the debate, but a comfortable majority of viewers declared her the victor in a poll the following day. And despite George Bush Sr.'s predictions that she would only receive 7 percent of the vote, Doris was embraced by a resounding 34 percent of voters' support on Election Day. Not bad for a last-minute, four-month run by a great-grandmother of 16 who had never dreamt of running for political office before.

Throughout Doris' campaign and the making and roll-out of my film "Run Granny Run," I felt blessed to spend time with Doris, to become her friend and to learn from her example. Independent documentary filmmaking is a highly discouraging practice, replete with funding problems, impossible rights clearances, and anxiety about securing a distributor for your film. But every time I got discouraged, all I had to do was think of Doris' debate. She will forever remind me that when you don't pay heed to what's impossible, you act as if everything is possible, and that's the path toward extraordinary change.