Bad Signs, W.

From my desk, I can look across the Delaware River and track the changing season by the colors in the northeastern Pennsylvania forest. The leaves are turning over there, ready to fall.

So are the president's poll numbers in the Keystone State.

I live in New York state – Kerry country to be sure – but from my vantage point on the state's western edge, I have a ringside seat on the battleground state – and the political advertising wars – of Pennsylvania. During the last few months, quiet afternoons have occasionally been disturbed by the rotors of pairs of helicopters, cruising westward, carrying what I surmise are the president's men, or campaigning Democrats, into this crucial turf.

This is the snowy fringe of the Bible belt. Guns and God are talismans against fear and abortion, if not against the coming long, grim winter. Public schools close on the first day of deer season. Billboards advertising "Abortion stops a beating heart" tower above the trees.

We don't agree on everything, but we share the same gas stations, Wal-Mart and diners, and I think I know a little about how my neighbors feel as November draws nigh. Northeastern Pennsylvania is supposed to be Bush country. If he can't find common ground with people here, W. is doomed.

On the ground, literally, things are looking good for the president across the river. Bush/Cheney lawn signs are as numerous as pumpkins and fake spider-webs on the farmhouse lawns. Inside cozy, winterized homes, TVs have been flickering for months with incessant Bush propaganda. Through the end of September, the Bush campaign pumped 16,000 television spots costing $15 million into Pennsylvania, nearly as much as the combined Bush television buys in Michigan and Missouri. The campaign only spent more in two other states, Florida and Ohio. Bush advertising proliferates on rural Pennsylvania's roads too. At any time of year, billboards abound. These eyesores routinely provoke conservationists to litigate, but otherwise remain as much a part of the landscape as the ubiquitous Burma shave ads half a century ago. Right now the Bush signs are so numerous – I counted more than a half-dozen in a five mile stretch outside Honesdale, on the state's eastern edge – that the touring driver might believe Pennsylvania belongs to Bush. Other travelers report they sprout in similar profusion from the rocky slopes and forests for at least another hundred miles south, deep into the Lehigh Valley.

Their catchy one-liners, simple and to the point, are calculated to touch the flinty, faithful soul.

"Flip-Flops or Boots?" asks one.

"Remember: It's Your Money."

"One Nation Under God."

On a cadet blue background, bright as the October sky, a single sentence shares space with the "Bush/Cheney" icon – names silhouetted in a red, white and blue shooting star – or laser-guided bomb, depending on your point of view.

Passing piles of them in the local Sunoco (gas still hovering around two bucks a gallon there and rising, thank you very much) the casual observer might get the impression that the president was winning, nay, had already won, at least in Pennsylvania.

Only the dedicated news consumer, turning to the jump page and scanning down to the fine-printed headlines below the fold, finds the AP story reporting Bush is seven points behind Kerry in Pennsylvania.

Bad sign, W.

Fact is that even here, in the northeastern part of the state, Kerry lawn signs are out, the Democratic Party offices in Honesdale are attracting crowds, and in the parking lot at Wal-Mart, you can see cars bearing bumper stickers that say "Regime Change Begins at Home."

Could it be that an appreciable, if small number of previously solid Bushites in northeastern Pennsylvania are losing their zeal?