In the home stretch of the 2024 presidential election, both candidates are trying to reach as many swing-state voters as possible—and Gwen Walz, wife of vice presidential hopeful Tim Walz, pitched in this week with a series of events in Pennsylvania.
On Monday, the Harris campaign organized a “Commit to Vote” party at a private home in Easton—a working-class town in the notoriously unpredictable Northampton County, whose residents have voted nearly every election cycle for the candidate who ends up winning the state and the White House. Four years ago, President Joe Biden won Northampton County by roughly 1,200 votes—less than 1 percentage point—while Hillary Clinton lost it by about 5,500 votes. The Harris campaign is reportedly spending $315 million in Pennsylvania, and that money is hard at work in Northampton, where massive Harris billboard ads are scattered across highways, plastered on buildings, and stuck on street corners.
When you imagine a typical American family home, you probably picture something like John Williamson and Sue Spaziani’s house, with its front porch and shingled roof. Williamson and Spaziani are both retired teachers who also happen to be lifelong Democrats, and when I got to their house Monday afternoon, about an hour before Gwen Walz was scheduled to arrive, a massive camo-print “Harris–Walz” flag was draped across one side of the porch (a nod to the Democrats’ viral campaign merch).
Spaziani welcomed the handful of reporters who had shown up—mostly from local Pennsylvania outlets—into the couple’s cozy living room, which featured a jumble of mismatched frames on the walls and red woven rugs over the creaky, warm wood floors.
Spaziani and Williamson both wore T-shirts that read “I’m Voting for Gus’ Dad,” a reference to Walz’s 18-year-old son Gus, who went viral this summer after getting visibly emotional during his dad’s speech at the Democratic National Convention.
Guests began to arrive, carrying food with them that they added to the growing buffet table, which was loaded up with cookies, cakes, a fruit-and-veggie tray, a small charcuterie board, and woven baskets of potato chips, Triscuits, and Chex Mix. As the home began to fill up with strangers, the family dog started anxiously doing laps around the foyer.
Those in attendance were retired teachers and friends of the family, mostly white, college-educated Democrats. Some of them were invited because they’re members of Spaziani’s book club—and there was a real book-club energy as Williamson offered guests wine and people milled around the interconnected rooms of the ground floor, grabbing food and making small talk. Out the dining room window, I could see a slew of signs endorsing downballot Democrats in the neighbor’s yard.
About an hour into the party, Harris’ campaign staff said Walz would be arriving any minute and ushered the attendees into the foyer, where the staircase had been turned into a makeshift lectern. Lady Gaga’s “The Edge of Glory” began to play from a small speaker, and Walz arrived, wearing a suffragette-white blazer and a red lip, peering through a pair of glasses perched at the end of her nose. If she hadn’t been the center of attention, Walz, a former public school teacher herself, could easily have blended in with the other guests.
“I know that we have a lot of different people here, but we do have some Easton Democrats, don’t we?” Walz joked as the crowd chuckled on cue. It was obvious that this would be a receptive crowd, a group of voters who needed little convincing to vote blue in November. Yet Walz was here playing hype man and encouraging folks to canvass their friends and family to vote for her husband and Harris in a few short weeks. “I hear Trump is also in the collar counties today, peddling his same old gripes and grievances, and it’s just exhausting, isn’t it?” Walz asked, and the crowd booed loudly.
She pledged that a Harris–Walz ticket would prioritize middle-class families by implementing tax cuts, lowering health care costs, and helping families afford housing. She juxtaposed that with what voters could expect from a future Trump–Vance administration. “We cannot fathom anyone being denied a chance at parenthood. But that’s precisely what Trump will do: put fertility treatments at risk nationwide,” Walz said. “As if overturning Roe wasn’t bad enough.”
At the end of her roughly 15-minute speech, Walz held up a small cellophane bag filled with cookies. “Made in Minnesota! These are my great-grandmother’s recipe for gingersnap cookies,” Walz said. “In the Minnesota governor’s residence, whenever we have a party, I serve them warm at the very end, when they’re going out into the cold Minnesota night.”
Then, Harris’ campaign staff suddenly rushed the journalists in the room outside, announcing that the party had become closed to the press and leaving us standing around awkwardly on the sidewalk. A few minutes passed in confused silence as we watched a teenage boy approach the house, snap a picture of the giant Harris–Walz camo flag, and run off.
Luckily, a few attendees decided to leave the event, and I was able to talk to Melissa Killian, a retired 71-year-old who used to run a pediatric pulmonary function lab and who is a member of Spaziani’s book club. She had a “Harris–Walz” button pinned to the lapel of her baby-blue wool coat. “I loved it,” she said of Walz’s speech, with a big smile on her face. “It was invigorating, so nice to be here.” She told me she had no doubt she was voting for Harris and Walz, since she considers herself a lifelong Democrat. Her grandfather was even a former Democratic congressman. “I can’t believe anyone wants to tell me what to do—tell young women what to do—with their bodies,” she said. “It’s sick.”
Her daughter Emily Killian, a 43-year-old public school educator, was there as her plus-one. Emily told me she thought Walz was “lovely” and that women’s rights are a top priority for her because she has a young daughter. “I care deeply about her having freedom to make her own choices and having autonomy over her body,” she said. She recently moved to Pennsylvania from Austin, Texas, and now feels the added pressure of being a swing-state voter. “It’s been kind of intense—it feels really close, closer than I wish it felt,” Emily said. “But I’m doing what I can to make a difference, and I’ll definitely be voting for Kamala on Election Day.”
Of course, the crowd of committed Democrats at Spaziani and Williamson’s home was a safe bet for Walz. About a mile out, in downtown Easton, was a different story. I met a 26-year-old server at a local restaurant who said she was born and raised in Pennsylvania. The server, who asked me not to use her name, told me she hadn’t noticed many political ads, seeing only a few commercials on her Hulu streaming account. “Honestly, it feels like nobody is talking about the issues I care about,” she told me, which are U.S. food-quality standards and the economy. (The economy has been a major issue for both campaigns, though getting their message to voters who will make or break this race is clearly still a challenge.) The server said she also wants lawmakers to work on eliminating forever chemicals and banning food additives.
She told me that she had voted for Donald Trump in 2020. This time around, she said, she’d likely make her decision on Election Day, during the drive to the voting booth.