At the moment, partisan issues seem like a middle ager’s high school trophies sitting on a distant shelf.
I met the late senator from the great state of Massachusetts, brother of JFK and RFK, the good shepherd of healthcare and many other populist issues, who could not have been more perfectly formed than if sent by central casting, on the shuttle from Washington to Boston. He was an indefatigable legislator and as he slumped in the aisle seat and dropped what can only be charitably described as a week’s worth of reading material between us, I realized where his heart was at all times: in the legislative chamber and at his work desk among his ever present papers.
But
at first, I did not look up, so did not know, that this was Senator Kennedy doing all the shuffling and paper rustling. His seat was adjacent to a charming, attractive woman whom he spent a good deal of time whispering to and generally making the kind of banter one associates with special people in our lives. It turned out to be his wife, Victoria Reggie Kennedy.
It was the flight attendant moving down the rows offering drinks that finally caused me to look up and recognize. I had not acknowledged him up to that time and really did not want to intrude, but when she held out the beverages, I lowered the middle tray between us, and asked was this all right. He smiled broadly as only a Kennedy can, and offered a warm grasping handshake, and introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Ted Kennedy.”
I was not entirely sure whether to say anything (“yes, I know”) or try to say something clever or appeal to his political interests. Instead in a fit of eloquence, I said, “I’m Jeff Cunningham.” To which he asked, “Are you from Boston?” I said that I was from the North Shore and he said he had sailed not far from my home when he was a teenager. The folks behind us started to listen and he turned around and introduced himself, and then Vicki; his effect was so magnetic his charm entirely contagious, I thought the plane would break into a rendition of “ich bin ein Democrat.”
All the time, he was smiling, gregarious, happy, gesturing, talking at full volume, eyes twinkling. This was his métier: People, stories, banter. It did not get any better. The woman behind us said that she raised chickens – in the suburbs. For reasons we cannot know with certainty, this tickled the Senator’s fancy and he marveled, “You raise chickens?” She again said “yes.” “Why?” and of course, like out of a Woody Allen movie, she loved the eggs. He turned to his wife and said, “Vicki, she raises chickens.” Vicki, in turn, gave him a look like, “We are so not going there,” knowing that he had a tendency to do just the thing she feared most.
He and I began talking business, he brought up the subject, asking me what I do. I said that I was an investor, and at the time, in a negotiation with Wainwright Bank. He said he went to Milton with one of the Wainwright sons. He then gave me that smile that said, “I would much rather chat. But I have to get through some homework.” He put on his reading spectacles, went back to his papers, spoke in whispers to his wife about political comings and goings and she, giving knowing glances and supportive sounds, and he, steadfast in his work, an air of patrician energy and vitality.
We landed shortly after, and he again offered a hearty shake and that smile which simply beckoned good fellowship. He gathered his reams of paper, and made off waving and hollering warm goodbyes. It was then that I understood. Ted Kennedy was the late great Senator from the state of Massachusetts.