By Bill Turque
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, March 8, 2007
It is 8:30 a.m. on the last Saturday in February, and Gerry Connolly has finally taken down his Christmas tree.
The late date for this domestic chore says more about the nature of Connolly's Saturdays than it does about his passion for the holidays. The Democratic chairman of the Fairfax County Board of Supervisors, who is expected to announce his candidacy for re-election on the eve of St. Patrick's Day, is a personal appearance machine, attending, by his own estimate, about 500 events around the county each year.
Each is an opportunity to shake hands, tout the board's achievements and call out anyone who isn't doing right by Fairfax. That usually means Republican members of the General Assembly.
His Saturday schedules are especially swollen with commitments. So, while his wife Catherine M. Smith ("Smitty," to family and friends) vacuums up pine needles, Connolly is off on another 12-hour-plus odyssey through some of the 400 square miles of communities he represents.
9:10 a.m., South Run Park, Springfield. Groundbreaking for installation of two synthetic turf fields. A small band of extremely cold park officials and youth sports supporters wait, along with nine shovels stuck into a ceremonial pile of dirt. Connolly has a thick portfolio of gently self-deprecating and, he insists, true stories that he uses to open his speeches. In this one, opponents tore down nearly all of his campaign signs during the 2003 election, except those showing him running as a team with school board candidate Ilryong Moon.
"Moon Connolly," read the remaining yard signs.
10:40 a.m., Riverbend Park Nature Center, Great Falls.
Annual board of directors retreat for the Northern Virginia Conservation Trust. An enormous stuffed bobcat gazes from overhead as Connolly opens a talk about the importance of buying land for parks by telling another gently self-deprecating story. Years ago, when he was Providence District supervisor, a woman called him at 6 a.m. to report a deer in her driveway.
"Did you call animal control?" Connolly recalls asking groggily.
"Oh, no," she said. "I wouldn't want to bother them so early in the morning."
11:55 a.m., Poplar Tree Park, Chantilly. Another synthetic turf groundbreaking. Connolly's lower back, which he wrenched a few days earlier, is throbbing, and he grimaces as he climbs out of his car. Many of the same park officials and athletic field boosters are waiting, looking colder. Connolly repeats the "Moon Connolly" story. The same people laugh. County Parks Authority Board Chairman Harold L. Strickland hails Connolly as "the daddy of synthetic turf fields."
12:40 p.m., lunch, Red Robin, Fair Lakes Shopping Center. No event, just lunch. Joined by Chief of Staff Dominic Bonaiuto, Connolly reflects on his 10 years as a staff aide for the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Describing the difference between working in local and federal government, he recalls feeling a sense of accomplishment after laboring for days on the wording of a "Sense of the Senate" resolution. By contrast, Fairfax taxpayers are not interested in "Sense of the Board" resolutions on potholes.
"They expect us to actually do something," he says.
2:10 p.m., home, Mantua. Break to change from windbreaker and khakis into suit.
2:40 p.m., Powhatan Nursing Home, Falls Church. Appears with Pets on Wheels, an organization that brings animals into nursing homes because of their therapeutic value. Connolly's itinerary says: "They want you to say a few words, such as how happy you are to be there, love pets, etc." He talks about his two cats, dog and parrot.
4:40 p.m., home of Sharon and Seth Clark, Fairfax Station. Campaign kickoff for Mike McClanahan, a Democrat running for the Springfield board seat held by Republican Elaine N. McConnell. Gently self-deprecating story No. 3: Connolly says he received 900 phone calls in 48 hours after the blizzard of 1996 from residents complaining that the streets were not plowed. To one he said, "Would it make you feel better to know that my street hasn't been plowed?"
"Now I know you're ineffective." Click.
McClanahan, a businessman and civic activist making his first run for office, gives a short, earnest pitch for support. Before Connolly leaves, he gives the novice a mini-tutorial. "Talk about the future," he says, making a broad sweeping motion with his arms. "Campaigns are about the future."
6 p.m., Hyatt Regency, Reston. Greater Reston Arts Center's annual Champagne Art Auction. Connolly is running unaccountably ahead of schedule, and the Regency Ballroom is virtually empty. His back, quieted for a few hours by ibuprofen, is starting to bark again. A little bit at loose ends with no one to talk to, he wanders the silent auction room. He has donated lunch with himself at the Government Center. "Enjoy an informative and exciting lunch chat with Gerry Connolly," says the card, not far from an item offering the winning bidder "High End Diva Doggie Footwear." The place begins to fill before he leaves. Someone bids $250 for lunch.
7:30 p.m., Ernst Community Cultural Center, Northern Virginia Community College, Annandale. Annual Jazz and Tap Festival for young dancers. Connolly touts the importance of arts, tells gently self-deprecating story No. 4. After giving what he thought was a rousing talk to his daughter Caitlin's fourth-grade class several years ago, he saw one little girl with a scowl. "I thought it was boring," she told Connolly. Caitlin reassured him: "Dad, don't listen to her. She just repeats what everybody else says."
8:50 p.m., Waterford, Fair Oaks. Centreville Volunteer Fire Department's annual Awards Banquet. Connolly arrives at the tail end of the evening and keeps his remarks on the importance of volunteer fire departments short. He swaps gentle self-deprecation for one of his Irish jokes that is suitable for public occasions: Murphy, who is at the mall and can't find a parking spot, tells God he'll stop drinking if he can find one. "He looks up, and suddenly, on his left, a space opens up. Murphy says, 'Never mind, I just found one.' "
10 p.m., home. Connolly strides past his Christmas tree, which lies at the curb, its collection date uncertain. He has yet to look at his Sunday schedule.
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