I n July, I went to work in Washington for Project Pursestrings, a citizens lobby for the McGovern-Hatfield amendment1, which called for a cutoff of funding for the Vietnam War by the end of 1971. We had no chance to pass it, but the campaign to do so provided a vehicle to mobilize and highlight growing bipartisan opposition2 to the war.
I got a room for the summer at the home of Dick and Helen Dudman, who lived in a great old two-story house with a big front porch in northwest Washington. Dick was a distinguished3 journalist. He and Helen both opposed the war and supported the young people who were trying to stop it. They were wonderful to me. One morning they invited me down to breakfast on the front porch with their friend and neighbor Senator Gene5 McCarthy. He was serving his last year in the Senate, having announced back in 1968 that he wouldnt run again. That morning he was in an open, expansive mood, offering a precise analysis of current events and expressing some nostalgia6 at leaving the Senate. I liked McCarthy more than I expected to, especially after he loaned me a pair of shoes to wear to the black-tie Womens Press Dinner, which I think the Dudmans got me invited to. President Nixon came and shook a lot of hands, though not mine. I was seated at a table with Clark Clifford, who had come to Washington from Missouri with President Truman and had served as a close advisor8 and then as defense9 secretary to President Johnson in his last year in office. On Vietnam, Clifford noted11 dryly, Its really one of the most awful places in the world to be involved. The dinner was a heady experience for me, especially since I kept my feet on the ground in Gene McCarthys shoes.
Shortly after I started at Pursestrings, I took a long weekend off and drove to Springfield, Massachusetts, for the wedding of my Georgetown roommate Marine13 Lieutenant14 Kit15 Ashby.
On the way back to Washington, I stopped in Cape16 Cod17 to visit Tommy Caplan and Jim Moore, who had also been at Kits18 wedding. At night, we went to see Carolyn Yeldell, who was singing on the Cape with a group of young entertainers for the summer. We had a great time, but I stayed too long. When I got back on the road, I was dead tired. Before I even made it out of Massachusetts on the interstate highway, a car pulled out of a rest stop right in front of me. The driver didnt see me, and I didnt see him until it was too late. I swerved19 to miss him, but I hit the left rear of his car hard. The man and woman in the other car seemed to be dazed but unhurt. I wasnt hurt either, but the little Volkswagen bug20 Jeff Dwire had given me to drive for the summer was badly mangled21. When the police came, I had a big problem. I had misplaced my drivers license23 on the move home from England and couldnt prove I was a valid24 driver. There were no computerized records of such things back then, so I couldnt be validated25 until the morning. The officer said hed have to put me in jail. By the time we got there it was about 5 a.m. They stripped me of my belongings27 and took my belt so that I couldnt strangle myself, gave me a cup of coffee, and put me in a cell with a hard metal bed, a blanket, a smelly stopped-up toilet, and a light that stayed on. After a couple of hours of semi-sleep, I called Tommy Caplan for help. He and Jim Moore went to court with me and posted my bond. The judge was friendly but reprimanded me about not having my license. It worked: after my night in jail, I was never without my license again.
Two weeks after my trip to Massachusetts, I was back in New England to spend a week in Connecticut working for Joe Duffey in the Democratic primary election for the U.S. Senate. Duffey was running as the peace candidate, aided primarily by the people who had made a good showing for Gene McCarthy two years earlier. The incumbent29 senator, Democrat28 Tom Dodd, was a longtime fixture30 in Connecticut politics. He had prosecuted31 Nazis32 at the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal and had a good progressive record, but he had two problems. First, he had been censured33 by the Senate for the personal use of funds that had been raised for him in his official capacity. Second, he had supported President Johnson on Vietnam, and Democratic primary voters were much more likely to be anti-war. Dodd was hurt and angered by the Senate censure34 and not ready to give up his seat without a fight. Rather than face a hostile electorate35 in the Democratic primary, he filed as an Independent to run in the November general election. Joe Duffey was an ethics36 professor at Hartford Seminary Foundation and president of the liberal Americans for Democratic Action. Though he was a coal miners son from West Virginia, his strongest supporters were prosperous, well-educated, anti-war liberals who lived in the suburbs, and young people drawn37 to his record on civil rights and peace. His campaign co-chairman was Paul Newman, who worked hard in the campaign. His finance committee included the photographer Margaret Bourke-White, artist Alexander Calder, New Yorker cartoonist Dana Fradon, and an extraordinary array of writers and historians, including Francine du Plessix Gray, John Hersey, Arthur Miller38, Vance Packard, William Shirer, William Styron, Barbara Tuchman, and Thornton Wilder. Their names looked pretty impressive on the campaign stationery39, but they werent likely to impress many voters among blue-collar ethnics40.
Between July 29 and August 5, I was asked to organize two towns in the Fifth Congressional District, Bethel and Trumbull. Both were full of old white wooden houses with big front porches and long histories that were chronicled in the local registers. In Bethel, we put in phones the first day and organized a telephone canvass43, to be followed by personal deliveries of literature to all the undecided voters. The office was kept open long hours by dedicated45 volunteers, and I was pretty sure Duffey would get his maximum possible vote there. Trumbull didnt have a fully46 operational headquarters; the volunteers were phoning some voters and seeing others. I urged them to keep an office open from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Monday through Saturday, and to follow the Bethel canvassing47 procedure, which would guarantee two contacts with all persuadable voters. I also reviewed the operations in two other towns that were less well organized and urged the state headquarters to at least make sure they had complete voter lists and the capacity to do the phone canvass.
I liked the work and met a lot of people who would be important in my life, including John Podesta, who served superbly in the White House as staff secretary, deputy chief of staff, and chief of staff, and Susan Thomases, who, when I was in New York, let me sleep on the couch in the Park Avenue apartment where she still lives, and who became one of Hillarys and my closest friends and advisors48.
When Joe Duffey won the primary, I was asked to coordinate49 the Third Congressional District for the general election. The biggest city in the district was New Haven50, where Id be going to law school, and the district included Milford, where I would be living. Doing the job meant that Id miss a lot of classes until the election was over in early November, but I thought I could make it with borrowed notes and hard study at the end of term.
I loved New Haven with its cauldron of old-fashioned ethnic41 politics and student activists51. East Haven, next door, was overwhelmingly Italian, while nearby Orange was mostly Irish. The towns farther away from New Haven tended to be wealthier, with the ethnic lines more blurred52. The two towns at the eastern end of the district, Guilford and Madison, were especially old and beautiful. I spent a lot of time driving to the other towns in the district, making sure our people had a good campaign plan in place, and the support and materials they needed from the central headquarters. Since my Volkswagen had been ruined in the wreck53 in Massachusetts, I was driving a rust-colored Opel station wagon54, which was better suited to delivering campaign materials anyway. I put a lot of miles on that old station wagon.
When my campaign work permitted, I attended classes in constitutional law, contracts, procedure, and torts. The most interesting class by far was Constitutional Law, taught by Robert Bork, who was later put on the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, and in 1987 was nominated for the Supreme55 Court by President Reagan. Bork was extremely conservative in his legal philosophy, aggressive in pushing his point of view, but fair to students who disagreed. In my one memorable56 exchange with him, I pointed57 out that his argument on the question at issue was circular. He replied, Of course it is. All the best arguments are.
After the primary election, I did my best to bring the supporters of the other candidates into the Duffey campaign, but it was tough. Id go into the heavily ethnic blue-collar areas and make my best pitch, but I could tell I was hitting a lot of stone walls. Too many white ethnic Democrats58 thought Joe Duffey, whom Vice59 President Agnew had called a Marxist revisionist, was too radical60, too identified with dope-smoking anti-war hippies. Many of the ethnic Democrats were turning against the war, too, but they still didnt feel comfortable in the company of those who had been against it before they were. The campaign to win them over was complicated by the fact that Senator Dodd was running as an Independent, so the disgruntled Democrats had someplace else to go. Joe Duffey ran a fine campaign, pouring his heart and mind into it and inspiring young people all across the country, but he was defeated by the Republican candidate, Congressman61 Lowell Weicker, a maverick62 who later left the Republican Party and served as governor of Connecticut as an Independent. Weicker got just under 42 percent of the vote, enough to beat Duffey handily. Duffey got less than 34 percent, with Senator Dodd garnering63 almost 25 percent. We got killed in ethnic towns like East Haven and West Haven.
I dont know if Duffey would have won if Dodd hadnt run, but I was sure the Democratic Party was headed for minority status unless we could get back the kind of folks who voted for Dodd. After the election I talked about it for hours with Anne Wexler, who had done a superb job as campaign manager. She was a great politician and related well to all kinds of people, but in 1970 most voters werent buying the message or the messengers. Anne became a great friend and advisor to me over the years. After she and Joe Duffey got married, I stayed in touch with them. When I was in the White House, I appointed him to run the United States Information Agency, which oversaw65 the Voice of America, where he took Americas message to a world more receptive to him than the Connecticut electorate had been in 1970. I thought of it as Joes last campaign, and he won it.
The brightest spot in November 1970 was the election of a young Democratic governor, Dale Bumpers66, in Arkansas. He handily defeated former governor Faubus in the primary and won the general election over Governor Rockefeller in a landslide67. Bumpers was an ex-marine and a great trial lawyer. He was funny as all get-out and could talk an owl68 out of a tree. And he was a genuine progressive who had led his small hometown of Charleston, in conservative western Arkansas, to peacefully integrate its schools, in stark69 contrast to the turmoil70 in Little Rock. Two years later he was reelected by a large margin71, and two years after that he became one of our U.S. senators. Bumpers proved that the power of leadership to lift and unite people in a common cause could overcome the Souths old politics of division. Thats what I wanted to do. I didnt mind backing candidates who were almost certain to lose when we were fighting for civil rights or against the war. But sooner or later, you have to win if you want to change things. I went to Yale Law School to learn more about policy. And in case my political aspirations72 didnt work out, I wanted a profession from which I could never be forced to retire.
After the election, I settled into law school life, cramming73 for exams, getting to know some of the other students, and enjoying my house and my three housemates. Doug Eakeley, my fellow Rhodes scholar at Univ, found a great old house on Long Island Sound in Milford. It had four bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen, and a large screened-in porch that opened right onto the beach. The beach was perfect for cookouts, and when the tide was out, we had enough room for touch-football games. The only drawback to the place was that it was a summer house, with no insulation74 against the whipping winter winds. But we were young and got used to it. I still vividly75 remember spending one cold winter day after the election sitting on the porch with a blanket wrapped around me reading William Faulkners The Sound and the Fury.
My other housemates at 889 East Broadway were Don Pogue and Bill Coleman. Don was more left wing than the rest of us, but he looked more blue collar. He was built like a concrete block and was strong as an ox. He drove a motorcycle to law school, where he engaged all comers in endless political debate. Luckily for us, he was also a good cook and was usually on good behavior, thanks to his equally intense but more nuanced English girlfriend, Susan Bucknell. Bill was one of the growing number of black students at Yale. His father was a liberal Republican lawyerthey still existed back thenwho had clerked for Justice Felix Frankfurter on the Supreme Court and had served as secretary of transportation under President Ford7. On the surface, Bill was the most laid-back of our group.
Besides my roommates, I knew only a few other students when I got back to Yale after the Duffey campaign, including my Boys Nation friend from Louisiana Fred Kammer, and Bob Reich. Because he was the secretary of our Rhodes class, Bob kept up with everyone and was a continuing source of information and humorous misinformation on what our old crowd was up to.
Bob was living in a house near campus with three other students, one of whom, Nancy Bekavac, became a special friend of mine. She was a passionate77 liberal whose anti-war convictions had been confirmed the previous summer when she worked in Vietnam as a journalist. She wrote beautiful poems, powerful letters, and great class notes, which she let me use when I showed up for class two months late.
Through Bill Coleman, I got to meet a number of the black students. I was interested in how they came to Yale, and what they planned to do with what, back then, was still an unusual opportunity for African-Americans. Besides Bill, I became friends with Eric Clay from Detroit, whom I later appointed to the U.S. court of appeals; Nancy Gist42, a Wellesley classmate of Hillarys who served in the Justice Department when I was President; Lila Coleburn, who gave up law to become a psychotherapist; Rufus Cormier, a big, quiet man whod starred at guard on the Southern Methodist University football team; and Lani Guinier, whom I tried to appoint assistant attorney general for civil rights, a sad story the details of which Ill relate later. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas was a classmate too, but I never got to know him.
Near the end of the term, we heard that Frank Aller had decided44 to return to America. He moved back to the Boston area and went home to Spokane to face the draft music. He was arrested, arraigned78, then released pending76 trial. Frank had decided that whatever impact hed had by resisting had been achieved, and he didnt want to spend the rest of his life out of America, looking forward to a cold, bitter middle age in some Canadian or British university, forever defined by Vietnam. One night in December, Bob Reich said it seemed foolish for Frank to risk jail when there was so much he could do out of the country. My diary notes my reply: A man is more than the sum of all the things he can do. Franks decision was about who he was, not what he could do. I thought it was the right one. Not long after he got back, Frank had a psychiatric exam in which the doctor found him depressed79 and unfit for military service. He took his draft physical and, like Strobe, was declared 1-Y, draftable only in a national emergency.
On Christmas Day, I was back home in Hot Springs, a long way from Helsinki Bay, where Id walked on the ice the previous Christmas. Instead, I walked the grounds of my old elementary school, counted my blessings80, and marked the changes in my life. Several of my close friends were getting married. I wished them well and wondered whether I would ever do so.
I was thinking a lot about the past and my roots. On New Years Day, I finished C. Vann Woodwards The Burden of Southern History, in which he noted southerners peculiar81 historical consciousness, what Eudora Welty called the sense of place. Arkansas was my place. Unlike Thomas Wolfe, whose cascading82 prose I so admired, I knew I could go home again. Indeed, I had to. But first, I had to finish law school.
I got to spend my second term at Yale as a proper law student with the heaviest class load of my stay there. My Business Law professor was John Baker83, Yale Laws first black faculty84 member. He was very good to me, gave me some research work to supplement my meager85 income, and invited me to his house for dinner. John and his wife had gone to Fisk University, a black school in Nashville, Tennessee, in the early sixties, when the civil rights movement was in full flower. He told me fascinating stories about the fear they lived with and the joy he and his classmates found in the work of the movement.
I took Constitutional Law with Charles Reich, who was as liberal as Bob Bork was conservative, and the author of one of the seminal86 countercultural books about the 1960s, The Greening of America. My Criminal Law professor, Steve Duke, was a witty87, acerbic88 man and a fine teacher with whom I later did a seminar on white-collar crime. I really enjoyed Political and Civil Rights, taught by Tom Emerson, a dapper little man who had been in FDRs administration and whose textbook we used. I also took Professor William Leon McBrides National Law and Philosophy, did some legal services work, and got a part-time job. For a few months, I drove to Hartford four times a week to help Dick Suisman, a Democratic businessman Id met in the Duffey campaign, with his work on the city council. Dick knew I needed the work, and I think I was some help to him.
In late February, I flew to California for a few days to be with Frank Aller, Strobe Talbott, and Strobes girlfriend, Brooke Shearer89. We met in Los Angeles at the home of Brookes extraordinarily90 welcoming and generous parents, Marva and Lloyd Shearer, who, for many years, wrote Americas most widely read celebrity91 gossip column, Walter Scotts Personality Parade. Then in March I went up to Boston, where Frank was living and looking for work as a journalist, to see him and Strobe again. We walked in the woods behind Franks house and along the New Hampshire coast nearby. Frank seemed glad to be home, but still sad. Even though he had escaped the draft and prison, he seemed caught in the throes of a depression, like that which Turgenev said only the very young know and which has no apparent reason. I thought hed get over it.
The spring lifted my spirits as it always did. The political news was a mixed bag. The Supreme Court unanimously upheld busing to achieve racial balance. The Chinese accepted an American invitation to reciprocate92 the visit of the American Ping-Pong team to China by sending their team to the United States. And the war protests continued. Senator McGovern came to New Haven on May 16, plainly with the intention of running for President in 1972. I liked him and thought he had a chance to win, because of his heroic record as a bomber93 pilot in World War II, his leadership of the Food for Peace program in the Kennedy administration, and the new rules for delegate selection for the next Democratic convention. McGovern was heading a commission to write them, for the purpose of ensuring a more diverse convention in terms of age, race, and gender94. The new rules, plus the weight of anti-war liberals in the primaries, virtually assured that the old political bosses would have less influence and the party activists more in the 1972 nominating process. Rick Stearns had been working for the commission, and I was sure hed be tough and smart enough to devise a system favorable to McGovern.
While law school and politics were going well, my personal life was a mess. I had broken up with a young woman who went home to marry her old boyfriend, then had a painful parting with a law student I liked very much but couldnt commit to. I was just about reconciled to being alone and was determined95 not to get involved with anyone for a while. Then one day, when I was sitting at the back of Professor Emersons class in Political and Civil Rights, I spotted96 a woman I hadnt seen before. Apparently97 she attended even less frequently than I did. She had thick dark blond hair and wore eyeglasses and no makeup98, but she conveyed a sense of strength and self-possession I had rarely seen in anyone, man or woman. After class I followed her out, intending to introduce myself. When I got a couple of feet from her, I reached out my hand to touch her shoulder, then immediately pulled it back. It was almost a physical reaction. Somehow I knew that this wasnt another tap on the shoulder, that I might be starting something I couldnt stop.
I saw the girl several times around school over the next few days, but didnt approach her. Then one night I was standing100 at one end of the long, narrow Yale Law Library talking to another student, Jeff Gleckel, about joining the Yale Law Journal. Jeff urged me to do it, saying it would assure me a good clerkship with a federal judge or a job with one of the blue-chip law firms. He made a good case, but I just wasnt interested; I was going home to Arkansas, and in the meantime preferred politics to the law review. After a while I suddenly stopped paying attention to his earnest entreaty101 because I saw the girl again, standing at the other end of the room. For once, she was staring back at me. After a while she closed her book, walked the length of the library, looked me in the eye, and said, If youre going to keep staring at me and Im going to keep staring back, we ought to at least know each others names. Mines Hillary Rodham. Whats yours? Hillary, of course, remembers all this, but in slightly different words. I was impressed and so stunned102 I couldnt say anything for a few seconds. Finally I blurted103 my name out. We exchanged a few words, and she left. I dont know what poor Jeff Gleckel thought was going on, but he never talked to me about the law review again.
A couple of days later, I was coming down the steps to the ground floor of the law school when I saw Hillary again. She was wearing a bright flowered skirt that nearly touched the floor. I was determined to spend some time with her. She said she was going to register for next terms classes, so I said Id go, too. We stood in line and talked. I thought I was doing pretty well until we got to the front of the line. The registrar104 looked up at me and said, Bill, what are you doing back here? You registered this morning. I turned beet105 red, and Hillary laughed that big laugh of hers. My cover was blown, so I asked her to take a walk with me to the Yale Art Gallery to see the Mark Rothko exhibit. I was so eager and nervous that I forgot the university workforce106 was on strike and the museum was closed. Luckily, there was a guard on duty. I pleaded my case and offered to clean up the branches and other litter in the museums garden if hed let me in.
The guard took a look at us, figured it out, and let us in. We had the whole exhibit to ourselves. It was wonderful, and Ive liked Rothko ever since. When we were done, we went out to the garden, and I picked up the sticks. I suppose I was being a scab for the first and only time in my life, but the union didnt have a picket108 line outside the museum and, besides, politics was the last thing on my mind. After I paid my cleaning-up dues, Hillary and I stayed in the garden for another hour or so. There was a large, beautiful Henry Moore sculpture of a seated woman. Hillary sat in the womans lap, and I sat beside her talking. Before long, I leaned over and put my head on her shoulder. It was our first date.
We spent the next several days together, just hanging around, talking about everything under the sun. The next weekend Hillary went up to Vermont on a long-planned visit to the man she had been dating. I was anxious about it. I didnt want to lose her. When she got home late Sunday night I called her. She was sick as a dog, so I brought her some chicken soup and orange juice. From then on we were inseparable. She spent a lot of time at our house on the beach and quickly won over Doug, Don, and Bill.
She didnt do so well with my mother when she came to visit a few weeks later, partly because she tried to cut her own hair just before Mother arrived. It was a minor64 fiasco; she looked more like a punk rocker than someone who had just walked out of Jeff Dwires beauty salon109. With no makeup, a work shirt and jeans, and bare feet coated with tar10 from walking on the beach at Milford, she might as well have been a space alien. The fact that I was obviously serious about her gave Mother heartburn. In her book, Mother called Hillary a growth experience. It was a girl with no makeup, Coke-bottle glasses, and brown hair with no apparent style versus110 a woman with hot-pink lipstick111, painted-on eyebrows112, and a silver stripe in her hair. I got a kick out of watching them try to figure each other out. Over time they did, as Mother came to care less about Hillarys appearance and Hillary came to care more about it. Underneath113 their different styles, they were both smart, tough, resilient, passionate women. When they got together, I didnt stand a chance.
By mid-May, I wanted to be with Hillary all the time. As a result, I met several of her friends, including Susan Graber, a Wellesley classmate of hers whom I later appointed to a federal judgeship in Oregon; Carolyn Ellis, a bright, funny Lebanese woman from Mississippi who could out-southern me and is now chancellor114 of the University of Mississippi; and Neil Steinman, the brightest man I met at Yale, who raised the first funds for me in Pennsylvania in 1992.
I learned about Hillarys childhood in Park Ridge115, Illinois; her four years at Wellesley, where she switched her politics from Republican to Democrat because of civil rights and the war; her post-graduation trip to Alaska, where she slimed fish for a living; and her interest in legal services for poor people and in childrens issues. I also heard about her famous commencement speech at Wellesley in which she articulated our generations contradictory117 feelings of alienation118 from the political system and determination to make America better. The speech got a lot of national publicity119 and was her first brush with fame beyond the boundaries of her immediate99 environment. What I liked about her politics was that, like me, she was both idealistic and practical. She wanted to change things, and she knew that doing so required persistent120 effort. She was as tired as I was of our side getting beat and treating defeat as evidence of moral virtue121 and superiority. Hillary was a formidable presence in law school, a big fish in our small but highly competitive pond. I was more of a floating presence, drifting in and out.
A lot of the students we both knew talked about Hillary as if they were a little intimidated122 by her. Not me. I just wanted to be with her. But time was running out on us. Hillary had accepted a summer job at Treuhaft, Walker, and Burnstein, a law firm in Oakland, California, and I had been asked to take a job as coordinator123 of the southern states for Senator McGovern. Until I met Hillary, I was really looking forward to it. I was going to be based in Miami, and the job required traveling throughout the South putting state campaigns together. I knew Id be good at it, and though I didnt think McGovern could do very well in the general election in the South, I believed he could win a fair number of convention delegates during the primary season. Regardless, Id have the political experience of a lifetime. It was a rare opportunity for a twenty-five-year-old, one I got from a combination of my friendship with Rick Stearns, who had an important post in the campaign, and affirmative action: they had to have at least one southerner in a responsible position!
The problem was, I no longer wanted to do it. I knew if I went to Florida, Hillary and I might be lost to each other. Though I found the prospect124 of the campaign exciting, I feared, as I wrote in my diary, that it would simply be a way of formalizing my aloneness, letting me deal with people in a good cause but at arms length. With Hillary there was no arms length. She was in my face from the start, and, before I knew it, in my heart.
I screwed up my courage and asked Hillary if I could spend the summer with her in California. She was incredulous at first, because she knew how much I loved politics and how deeply I felt about the war. I told her Id have the rest of my life for my work and my ambition, but I loved her and wanted to see if it could work out for us. She took a deep breath and agreed to let me take her to California. We had been together only about a month.
We stopped briefly125 in Park Ridge to meet her family. Her mother, Dorothy, was a lovely, attractive woman, whom I got along with from the start, but I was as alien to Hillarys father as Hillary was to Mother. Hugh Rodham was a gruff, tough-talking Republican who, to say the least, was suspicious of me. But the more we talked, the more I liked him. I resolved to keep at it until he came around. Soon we drove on to Berkeley, California, near her job in Oakland, where she would be staying in a small house owned by her mothers half sister, Adeline. After a day or two I drove back across the country to Washington, to tell Rick Stearns and Gary Hart, Senator McGoverns campaign manager, that I couldnt go to Florida after all. Gary thought I had lost my mind to pass up such an opportunity. I suppose Rich did, too. To them, I suppose I did look like a fool, but your life is shaped by the opportunities you turn down as well as by those you seize.
I did feel bad about leaving the campaign, and I offered to go to Connecticut for a couple of weeks to set up an organization there. As soon as I had signed up people in every congressional district, I headed back to California, this time by the southern route so that I could stop at home.
I enjoyed the drive west, including a visit in the Grand Canyon126. I got there in the late afternoon and crawled out on a rock jutting127 over the canyons128 edge to watch the sun go down. It was amazing the way the rocks, compressed into distinct layers over millions of years, changed colors as the canyon darkened from the bottom up.
After I left the canyon, I had a blistering129 drive across Death Valley, Americas hottest spot, then turned north to my summer with Hillary. When I walked into her house in Berkeley, she greeted me with a peach piemy favoritethat shed baked herself. It was good, and it didnt last long. During the day, when she was at work, I walked all over the city, read books in the parks and coffee shops, and explored San Francisco. At night wed12 go to movies or local restaurants or just stay in and talk. On July 24, we drove down to Stanford to hear Joan Baez sing in the open amphitheater. So that all her fans could see her, she charged only $2.50 for admission, a striking contrast to the high ticket prices of todays big concerts. Baez sang her old hits and, for one of the first times in public, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.
When the summer ended, Hillary and I were nowhere near finished with our conversation, so we decided to live together back in New Haven, a move that doubtless caused both our families concern. We found an apartment on the ground floor of an old house at 21 Edgewood Avenue, near the law school.
The front door of our apartment opened into a tiny living room, behind which was a smaller dining-room area and an even smaller bedroom. Behind the bedroom were an old kitchen and a bathroom so small the toilet seat sometimes scraped against the bathtub. The house was so old that the floors sank from the walls to the middle at an angle so pronounced I had to put little wooden blocks under the inside legs of our small dining table. But the price was right for penurious131 law students: seventy-five dollars a month. The nicest thing about the place was the fireplace in the living room. I still remember sitting in front of the fire on a cold winter day as Hillary and I read Vincent Cronins biography of Napoleon together.
We were too happy and too poor to be anything but proud of our new home. We enjoyed having friends over for meals. Among our favorite guests were Rufus and Yvonne Cormier. They were both children of African-American ministers in Beaumont, Texas, who grew up in the same neighborhood and had gone together for years before they married. While Rufus studied law, Yvonne was getting her Ph.D. in biochemistry. Eventually she became a doctor and he became the first black partner of the big Houston law firm Baker and Botts. One night at dinner, Rufus, who was one of the best students in our class, was bemoaning132 the long hours he spent studying. You know, he said in his slow drawl, life is organized backwards133. You spend the best years studying, then working. When you retire at sixty-five, youre too old to enjoy it. People should retire between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five, then work like hell till they die. Of course, it didnt work out that way. Were all closing in on sixty-five and still at it.
I really got into my third semester of law school, with courses in Corporate134 Finance, Criminal Procedure, Taxation135, Estates, and a seminar in Corporate Social Responsibility. The seminar was taught by Burke Marshall, a legendary136 figure for his work as assistant attorney general for civil rights under Robert Kennedy, and Jan Deutsch, reputed to be the only person, up to that time, to make the Honors grade in all his classes at Yale Law. Marshall was small and wiry, with bright dancing eyes. He barely spoke137 above a whisper, but there was steel in his voice, and in his spine138. Deutsch had an unusual, clipped, stream-of-consciousness speaking style, which moved rapidly from one unfinished sentence to another. This was apparently the result of a severe head injury incurred139 when he was hit by a car and flew a long distance in the air before coming down hard on concrete. He was unconscious for several weeks and woke up with a metal plate in his head. But he was brilliant. I figured out his speaking style and was able to translate him to classmates who couldnt unpack140 his words. Jan Deutsch was also the only man Id ever met who ate all of an apple, including the core. He said all the good minerals were there. He was smarter than I was, so I tried it. Once in a while I still do, with fond memories of Professor Deutsch.
Marvin Chirelstein taught me both Corporate Finance and Taxation. I was lousy in Taxation. The tax code was riddled141 with too many artificial distinctions I couldnt care less about; they seemed to me to provide more opportunities for tax lawyers to reduce their clients obligation to help pay Americas way than to advance worthy142 social goals. Once, instead of paying attention to the class, I read Gabriel Garca Mrquezs One Hundred Years of Solitude143. At the end of the hour, Professor Chirelstein asked me what was so much more interesting than his lecture. I held up the book and told him it was the greatest novel written in any language since William Faulkner died. I still think so.
I redeemed144 myself in Corporate Finance when I aced22 the final exam. When Professor Chirelstein asked me how I could be so good at Corporate Finance and so bad at Taxation, I told him it was because corporate finance was like politics: within a given set of rules, it was a constant struggle for power, with all parties trying to avoid getting shafted145 but eager to shaft146.
In addition to my classwork I had two jobs. Even with a scholarship and two different student loans, I needed the money. I worked a few hours a week for Ben Moss147, a local lawyer, doing legal research and running errands. The research got old after a while, but the errands were interesting. One day I had to deliver some papers to an address in an inner-city high-rise. As I was climbing the stairs to the third or fourth floor, I passed a man in the stairwell with a glazed148 look in his eyes and a hypodermic needle and syringe hanging from his arm. He had just shot himself full of heroin149. I delivered the papers and got out of there as quickly as I could.
My other job was less hazardous150 but more interesting. I taught criminal law to undergraduates in a law-enforcement program at the University of New Haven. My position was funded under the Federal Law Enforcement Assistance program, which had just started under Nixon. The classes were designed to produce more professional law officers who could make arrests, searches, and seizures151 in a constitutional manner. I often had to prepare my lectures late in the evening before the day I delivered them. To stay awake, I did a lot of my work at the Elm Street Diner, about a block away from our house. It was open all night, had great coffee and fruit pie, and was full of characters from New Havens152 night life. Tony, a Greek immigrant whose uncle owned the place, ran the diner at night. He gave me endless free refills of coffee as I toiled153 away.
The street outside the diner was the border dividing the territory of two groups of streetwalking prostitutes. From time to time the police took them away, but they were always quickly back at work. The streetwalkers often came into the diner to get coffee and warm up. When they found out I was in law school, several would plop down in my booth in search of free legal advice. I did my best, but none took the best advice: get another job. One night, a tall black transvestite sat down across from me and said his social club wanted to raffle154 off a television to make money; he wanted to know if the raffle would run afoul of the law against gambling155. I later learned what he was really worried about was that the television was stolen. It had been donated to the club by a friend who ran a fencing operation, buying stolen goods and reselling them at a discount. Anyway, I told him that other groups held raffles156 all the time and it was highly unlikely that the club would be prosecuted. In return for my wise counsel, he gave me the only fee I ever received for legal advice in the Elm Street Diner, a raffle ticket. I didnt win the television, but I felt well paid just at having the ticket with the name of the social club on it in bold print: The Black Uniques.
On September 14, as Hillary and I were walking into the Blue Bell Caf, someone came up to me and said it was urgent that I call Strobe Talbott. He and Brooke were visiting his parents in Cleveland. My stomach was in knots as I fed change into the pay phone outside the caf. Brooke answered the phone and told me Frank Aller had killed himself. He had just been offered a job to work in the Saigon bureau of the Los Angeles Times, had accepted it, and had gone home to Spokane, apparently in good spirits, to get his clothes together and prepare for the move to Vietnam. I think he wanted to see and write about the war he opposed. Perhaps he wanted to put himself in harms way to prove he wasnt a coward. Just when things were working out on the surface of his life, whatever was going on inside compelled him to end it.
His friends were stunned, but we probably shouldnt have been. Six weeks earlier, I had noted in my diary that Frank was really in the dumps again, having to that point failed to find a newspaper job in Vietnam or China. I said he had fallen finally, physically157 and emotionally, to the strains, contractions158, pains of the last few years, which he has endured, mostly alone. Franks close, rational friends assumed that getting his external life back on track would calm his inner turmoil. But as I learned on that awful day, depression crowds out rationality with a vengeance159. Its a disease that, when far advanced, is beyond the reasoned reach of spouses160, children, lovers, and friends. I dont think I ever really understood it until I read my friend Bill Styrons brave account of his own battle with depression and suicidal thoughts, Darkness Visible: A Memoir161 of Madness. When Frank killed himself, I felt both grief and angerat him for doing it, and at myself for not seeing it coming and pushing him to get professional help. I wish I had known then what I know now, though maybe it wouldnt have made any difference.
After Franks death, I lost my usual optimism and my interest in courses, politics, and people. I dont know what I would have done without Hillary. When we first got together, she had a brief bout26 with self-doubt, but she was always so strong in public I dont think even her closest friends knew it. The fact that she opened herself to me only strengthened and validated my feelings for her. Now I needed her. And she came through, reminding me that what I was learning, doing, and thinking mattered.
In the spring term, I was bored in all my classes but Evidence, taught by Geoffrey Hazard. The rules for what is and isnt admissible in a fair trial and the process of making an honest and reasoned argument on the facts available were fascinating to me and left a lasting162 impression. I always tried to argue the evidence in politics as well as law.
Evidence counted a lot in my major law school activity that term, the annual Barristers Union trial competition. On March 28, Hillary and I competed in the semifinals, from which four students plus two alternates would be chosen to participate in a full-blown trial to be written by a third-year student. We did well and both made the cut.
For the next month we prepared for the Prize Trial, State v. Porter. Porter was a policeman accused of beating a long-haired kid to death. On April 29, Hillary and I prosecuted Mr. Porter, with help from our alternate, Bob Alsdorf. The defense lawyers were Mike Conway and Tony Rood, with Doug Eakeley as their alternate. The judge was former Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas. He took his role seriously and played it to the hilt, issuing ruling after ruling on both sides and objections, all the while evaluating the four of us to decide who would win the prize. If my performance in the semifinals was the best public speaking of my law school career, my effort in the Prize Trial was the worst. I had an off day and didnt deserve to win. Hillary, on the other hand, was very good. So was Mike Conway, who gave an effective, emotional closing argument. Fortas gave Conway the prize. At the time I thought Hillary didnt get it in part because the dour-faced Fortas disapproved163 of her highly unprosecutorial outfit164. She wore a blue suede165 jacket, brightand I mean brightorange suede flared166 pants, and a blue, orange, and white blouse. Hillary became a fine trial lawyer, but she never wore those orange pants to court again.
Apart from the Prize Trial, I poured my competitive instincts into the McGovern campaign. Early in the year, I cleaned out my bank account to open a headquarters near the campus. I had enough money, about $200, to pay a months rent and put in a telephone. In three weeks, we had eight hundred volunteers and enough small contributions to reimburse167 me and keep the place open.
The volunteers were important for the coming primary campaign, which I assumed wed have to wage against the Democratic organization and its powerful boss, Arthur Barbieri. Four years earlier, in 1968, the McCarthy forces had done well in the primary in New Haven, partly because the Democratic regulars had taken Vice President Humphreys victory for granted. I had no illusions that Barbieri would make that mistake again, so I decided to try to persuade him to endorse168 McGovern. To say it was a long shot is a gross understatement. When I walked into his office and introduced myself, Barbieri was cordial but business-like. He sat back in his chair with his hands folded across his chest, displaying two huge diamond rings, one big circular one with lots of stones, the other with his initials, AB, completely filled with diamonds. He smiled and told me that 1972 would not be a replay of 1968, that he had already lined up his poll workers and a number of cars to take his people to the polls. He said he had dedicated $50,000 to the effort, a huge sum in those days for a town the size of New Haven. I replied that I didnt have much money, but I did have eight hundred volunteers who would knock on the doors of every house in his stronghold, telling all the Italian mothers that Arthur Barbieri wanted to keep sending their sons to fight and die in Vietnam. You dont need that grief, I said. Why do you care who wins the nomination169? Endorse McGovern. He was a war hero in World War II. He can make peace and you can keep control of New Haven. Barbieri listened and replied, You know, kid, you aint so dumb. Ill think about it. Come back and see me in ten days. When I returned, Barbieri said, Ive been thinking about it. I think Senator McGovern is a good man and we need to get out of Vietnam. Im going to tell my guys what were going to do, and I want you to be there to make the pitch.
A few days later, I took Hillary with me to the extraordinary encounter with Barbieris party leaders at a local Italian club, the Melebus, in the basement of an old building downtown. The dcor was all red and black. It was very dark, very ethnic, very un-McGovern. When Barbieri told his guys that they were going to support McGovern so that no more boys from New Haven would die in Vietnam, there were groans170 and gasps171. Arthur, hes almost a Commie, one man blurted out. Another said, Arthur, he sounds like a fag, referring to the senators High Plains nasal twang. Barbieri never flinched172. He introduced me, told them about my eight hundred volunteers, and let me give my pitch, which was heavy on McGoverns war record and work in the Kennedy administration. By the time the evening was over, they came around.
I was ecstatic. In the entire primary process, Arthur Barbieri and Matty Troy of Queens in New York City were the only old-line Democratic bosses to endorse McGovern. Not all our troops were pleased. After the endorsement173 was announced, I got an angry late-night call from two of our stalwarts in Trumbull with whom Id worked in the Duffey campaign. They couldnt believe Id sold out the spirit of the campaign with such a nefarious174 compromise. Im sorry, I shouted into the phone, I thought our objective was to win, and I hung up. Barbieri proved to be loyal and effective. At the Democratic convention, Senator McGovern got five of our congressional districts six votes on the first ballot175. In the November vote, New Haven was the only Connecticut city that went for him. Barbieri was as good as his word. When I became President, I tracked him down. He was in ill health and had long since retired176 from politics. I invited him to the White House, and we had a good visit in the Oval Office not long before he died. Barbieri was what James Carville calls a sticker. In politics, theres nothing better.
Apparently my work in Connecticut redeemed me in the eyes of the McGovern campaign. I was asked to join the national staff and work the Democratic National Convention in Miami Beach, concentrating on the South Carolina and Arkansas delegations178.
Meanwhile, Hillary had gone to Washington to work for Marian Wright Edelman at the Washington Research Project, an advocacy group for children, which would soon be called the Childrens Defense Fund. Her job was to investigate all-white southern academies that were established in response to court-ordered public school integration179. In the North, white parents who didnt want their kids in inner-city schools could move to the suburbs. That wasnt an option in small southern townsthe suburbs were cow pastures and soybean fields. The problem was that the Nixon administration was not enforcing the law banning such schools from claiming tax-exempt status, a move that plainly encouraged southern whites to leave public schools.
I started my job for McGovern in Washington, first checking in with Lee Williams and my other friends on Senator Fulbrights staff, then going to see Congressman Wilbur Mills, the powerful chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. Mills, who was a Washington legend for his detailed180 knowledge of the tax code and his skill in running his committee, had announced that he would be Arkansas favorite son candidate at the Miami convention. Such candidacies were usually launched in the hope of preventing a states delegation177 from voting for the front-runner, although back then a favorite son occasionally thought lightning might strike and he would at least wind up on the ticket as the vice-presidential nominee181. In Millss case, his candidacy served both purposes. The Arkansas Democrats thought McGovern, who was far ahead in the delegate count, was sure to be trounced at home in the general election, and Mills doubtless thought he would be a better President. Our meeting was cordial. I told Chairman Mills that I expected the delegates to be loyal to him but that I would be working them to get their support on important procedural votes and on a second ballot if Senator McGovern needed one.
After the Mills meeting I flew to Columbia, South Carolina, to meet as many of the convention delegates there as possible. Many were sympathetic to McGovern, and I thought they would help us on crucial votes, despite the fact that their credentials182 were subject to challenge on the grounds that the delegation did not have as much racial, gender, and age diversity as the new rules written by the McGovern Commission required.
Before Miami, I also went to the Arkansas Democratic Convention in Hot Springs to court my home-state delegates. I knew that Governor Bumpers, who would chair the delegation in Miami, thought McGovern would hurt the Democrats in Arkansas, but as in South Carolina, a lot of the delegates were anti-war and pro-McGovern. I left for Miami feeling pretty good about both the delegations I was working.
At the convention in mid-July, the major candidates had their headquarters in hotels around Miami and Miami Beach, but their operations were run out of trailers outside the Convention Center. The McGovern trailer was overseen183 by Gary Hart as national campaign manager, with Frank Mankiewicz as national political director and public spokesman, and my friend Rick Stearns as the director of research and caucus185 state operations. Rick knew more about the rules than anyone else. Those of us who were working the delegations were on the floor, following instructions from the trailer. The McGovern campaign had come a long way, thanks to an array of committed volunteers, Harts leadership, Mankiewiczs handling of the press, and Stearnss strategizing. With their help, McGovern had outfought and outpolled politicians who were more established, more charismatic, or both: Hubert Humphrey; Ed Muskie; Mayor John Lindsay of New York, who had switched parties to run; Senator Henry Jackson of Washington State; and George Wallace, who was paralyzed by a would-be assassins bullet during the campaign. Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm of New York also ran, becoming the first African-American to do so.
We thought McGovern had enough votes to win on the first ballot if he could weather the challenge to the California delegation. The new McGovern rules required each state with a primary election to apportion186 its delegates as closely as possible to the percentage of votes they got. However, California still had a winner-take-all system and was asserting its right to keep it because the state legislature hadnt changed its election law by convention time. Ironically, McGovern favored the California system over his own rules because he had won the primary with 44 percent of the votes but had all of the states 271 delegates pledged to him. The anti-McGovern forces argued that McGovern was a hypocrite and that the convention should seat only 44 percent, or 120 delegates, for him, with the other 151 being pledged to the other candidates in proportion to their share of the California primary vote. The Credentials Committee of the convention was anti-McGovern and voted to uphold the California challenge, seating only 120 of his delegates, and putting his first-ballot victory in doubt.
The Credentials Committees decisions could be overturned by a majority of the convention delegates. The McGovern forces wanted to do that with California. So did the South Carolina delegation, which was in danger of losing its votes because it had also been found in violation187 of the rules; only 25 percent of the delegation were women, rather than the required half. McGovern was nominally188 against the South Carolina position because of that underrepresentation.
What happened next was complicated and not worth going into detail about. Essentially189, Rick Stearns decided that we should lose the South Carolina vote, bind190 our opponents to a procedural rule that benefited our challenge; then we would win the California vote. It worked. The South Carolina delegation was seated, and our opponents smelled victory. But by the time they realized they had been tricked, it was too late; we picked up all 271 delegates and clinched191 the nomination. The California challenge was probably the greatest example of political jujitsu at a party convention since primary elections became the dominant192 mode of selecting delegates. As Ive said, Rick Stearns was a genius on the rules. I was elated. Now McGovern was virtually guaranteed a first-ballot victory, and the folks from South Carolina, whom I had come to like a lot, could stay.
Alas116, it was all downhill from there. McGovern entered the convention well behind but still within striking distance of President Nixon in the opinion polls, and we expected to pick up five or six points during the week, thanks to several days of intense media coverage193. Getting that kind of bounce, however, requires the kind of disciplined control of events our forces had demonstrated with the delegate challenges. For some reason, it evaporated after that. First, a gay-rights group staged a sit-in at McGoverns hotel and refused to budge194 until he met with them. When he did, the media and the Republicans portrayed195 it as a cave-in that made him look both weak and too liberal. Then, on Thursday afternoon, after he picked Senator Tom Eagleton of Missouri to be his running mate, McGovern allowed other names to be put in nomination against him during the voting that night. Six more people got in the race, complete with nominating speeches, and a long roll-call vote. Though Eagletons victory was a foregone conclusion, the other six got some votes. So did Roger Mudd of CBS News, the television character Archie Bunker, and Mao Tse-tung. It was a disaster. The useless exercise had taken all the prime-time television hours, when nearly eighteen million households were watching the convention. The intended media eventsSenator Edward Kennedys speech nominating McGovern and the nominees196 own acceptance speechwere pushed back into the wee hours of the morning. Senator Kennedy was a champ and gave a rousing speech. McGoverns was good, too. He called on America to come home . . . from deception197 in high places . . . from the waste of idle hands . . . from prejudice. . . . Come home to the affirmation that we have a dream . . . to the conviction that we can move our country forward . . . to the belief that we can seek a newer world. The problem was that McGovern began to talk at 2:48 a.m., or prime time in Samoa, as the humorist Mark Shields quipped. He had lost 80 percent of his television audience.
As if that werent enough, it soon became public that Eagleton had had treatment, including electric shock therapy, for depression. Unfortunately, back then there was still a great deal of ignorance about the nature and range of mental-health problems, as well as the fact that previous Presidents, including Lincoln and Wilson, had suffered from periodic depression. The idea that Senator Eagleton would be next in line to be President if McGovern were elected was unsettling to many people, even more so because Eagleton hadnt told McGovern about it. If McGovern had known and picked him anyway, perhaps we could have made real progress in the publics understanding of mental health, but the way it came out raised questions not only about McGoverns judgment198 but also about his competence199 as well. Our vaunted campaign operation hadnt even vetted200 Eagletons selection with Missouris Democratic governor, Warren Hearnes, who knew about the mental-health issue.
Within a week after the Miami convention, we were in even worse shape than when the Democrats had exited Chicago four years earlier, looking both too liberal and too inept201. After the Eagleton story came out, McGovern first said he stood by his running mate 1,000 percent. A few days later, under withering202, unrelenting pressure from his own supporters, he dropped him. Then it took until the second week of August to get a replacement203. Sargent Shriver, President Kennedys brother-in-law, said yes after Ted4 Kennedy, Senator Abe Ribicoff of Connecticut, Governor Reubin Askew204 of Florida, Hubert Humphrey, and Senator Ed Muskie all declined to join the ticket. I was convinced that most Americans would vote for a peace candidate who was progressive but not too liberal, and before Miami I thought we could sell McGovern. Now we were back to square one. After the convention, I went to Washington to see Hillary, so exhausted205 I slept more than twenty-four hours straight.
A few days later, I packed up to go to Texas to help coordinate the general election campaign there. I knew it was going to be tough when I flew from Washington to Arkansas to pick up a car. I sat next to a young man from Jackson, Mississippi, who asked me what I was doing. When I told him, he almost shouted, Youre the only white person Ive ever met for McGovern! Later, when I was home watching John Dean testify about the misdeeds of the Nixon White House before Senator Sam Ervins Watergate Committee, the phone rang. It was the young man whom Id met on the airplane. He said, I just called so you could say, I told you so. I never heard from him again, but I appreciated the call. It was amazing how far public opinion moved in just two years as Watergate unfolded.
In the summer of 1972, however, going to Texas was a fools errand, although it was a fascinating one. Starting with John Kennedy in 1960, Democratic presidential campaigns often assigned out-of-staters to oversee184 important state campaigns on the theory that they could bring competing factions206 together and make sure all decisions put the candidates interests, not parochial concerns, first. Whatever the theory, in practice, outsiders could inspire resentment207 on all sides, especially for a campaign as troubled as McGoverns, in an environment as fractured and contentious208 as Texas.
The campaign decided to send two of us to Texas, me and Taylor Branch, whom, as Ive said, Id first met on Marthas Vineyard in 1969. As an insurance policy, the campaign named a successful young Houston lawyer, Julius Glickman, to be the third member of our triumvirate. Since Taylor and I were both southerners and not averse209 to cooperating, I thought we might be able to make it work in Texas. We set up a headquarters on West Sixth Street in Austin, not far from the state Capitol, and shared an apartment on a hill just across the Colorado River. Taylor ran the headquarters operation and controlled the budget. We didnt have much money, so it was fortunate that he was tightfisted, and better than I was at saying no to people. I worked with the county organizations, and Julius lined up what support he could get from prominent Texans he knew, and we had a great staff of enthusiastic young people. Three of them became especially close friends of Hillarys and mine: Garry Mauro, who became Texas land commissioner210 and took a leading role in my presidential campaign; and Roy Spence and Judy Trabulsi, who founded an advertising211 agency that became the largest in America outside New York City. Garry, Roy, and Judy would support me and Hillary in all our campaigns.
The Texan who had by far the greatest impact on my career was Betsey Wright, a doctors daughter from the small West Texas town of Alpine212. She was just a couple years older than I was but much more experienced in grassroots politics, having worked for the state Democratic Party and Common Cause. She was brilliant, intense, loyal, and conscientious213 almost to a fault. And she was the only person I had ever met who was more fascinated by and consumed with politics than I was. Unlike some of our more inexperienced colleagues, she knew we were getting the daylights beaten out of us, but she worked eighteen-hour days anyway. After I was defeated for governor in 1980, Hillary asked Betsey to come to Little Rock to help organize my files for a comeback. She did, and she stayed to run my successful campaign in 1982. Later, Betsey served as chief of staff in the governors office. In 1992, she played a pivotal role in the presidential campaign, defending me and my record from the endless barrage214 of personal and political attacks with a skill and strength no one else could have mustered215 and maintained. Without Betsey Wright, I could not have become President.
After I had been in Texas a few weeks, Hillary joined me and the campaign, having been hired by Anne Wexler to do voter registration216 for the Democratic Party. She got on well with the rest of the staff, and brightened even my toughest days.
The Texas campaign got off to a rocky start, mostly because of the Eagleton disaster, but also because a lot of the local Democrats didnt want to be identified with McGovern. Senator Lloyd Bentsen, who had defeated the fiery217 liberal Senator Ralph Yarborough two years earlier, declined to be the campaign chairman. The gubernatorial nominee, Dolph Briscoe, a South Texas rancher who years later became a friend and supporter of mine, didnt even want to appear in public with our candidate. Former governor John Connally, who had been riding in the car with President Kennedy when he was killed nine years earlier and had been a close ally of President Johnson, was leading a group called Democrats for Nixon.
Still, Texas was too big to write off, and Humphrey had carried it four years earlier, though by only 38,000 votes. Finally, two elected state officials agreed to co-chair the campaign, Agriculture Commissioner John White and Land Commissioner Bob Armstrong. White, an old-fashioned Texas Democrat, knew we couldnt win but wanted the Democratic ticket to make the best showing possible in Texas. John later became chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Bob Armstrong was an ardent218 environmentalist who loved to play guitar and hang out with us at Scholtzs Beer Garden, the local bowling219 alley130, or the Armadillo Music Hall, where he took Hillary and me to see Jerry Jeff Walker and Willie Nelson.
I thought things were looking up in late August when Senator McGovern and Sargent Shriver were slated220 to come to Texas to see President Johnson. Shriver was a likable man with a buoyant personality who brought energy and gravitas to the ticket. He had been a founder221 of the Legal Services Corporation, which provides legal assistance to the poor, President Kennedys first director of the Peace Corps222, and President Johnsons first director of the War on Poverty.
McGovern and Shrivers meeting with President Johnson went reasonably well but delivered few political benefits because Johnson insisted there be no press and because he already had issued a lukewarm endorsement of McGovern to a local newspaper a few days before they met. The main thing I got out of it was an autographed picture of the President, which he had signed when Taylor had gone out to the LBJ Ranch107 a few days before the meeting to finalize223 the arrangements. Probably because we were procivil rights southerners, Taylor and I liked Johnson more than most of our McGovern co-workers did.
After the meeting, McGovern went back to his hotel suite in Austin to meet with some of his main
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opposition
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distinguished
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gene
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nostalgia
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advisor
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defense
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lieutenant
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kit
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cape
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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validated
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| v.证实( validate的过去式和过去分词 )；确证；使生效；使有法律效力 | |
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26
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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27
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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28
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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29
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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30
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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31
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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32
Nazis
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| n.（德国的）纳粹党员( Nazi的名词复数 )；纳粹主义 | |
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33
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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34
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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35
electorate
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| n.全体选民；选区 | |
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36
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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37
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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38
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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39
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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40
ethnics
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| n.伦理学，人种学 | |
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41
ethnic
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| adj.人种的，种族的，异教徒的 | |
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42
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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43
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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44
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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45
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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48
advisors
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| n.顾问，劝告者( advisor的名词复数 )；（指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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49
coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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50
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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51
activists
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| n.（政治活动的）积极分子，活动家( activist的名词复数 ) | |
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52
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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53
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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54
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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55
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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56
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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57
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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58
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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59
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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60
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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61
Congressman
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| n.（美）国会议员 | |
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62
maverick
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| adj.特立独行的；不遵守传统的；n.持异议者，自行其是者 | |
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63
garnering
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的现在分词 ) | |
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64
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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65
oversaw
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| v.监督，监视( oversee的过去式 ) | |
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66
bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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67
landslide
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| n.(竞选中)压倒多数的选票；一面倒的胜利 | |
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68
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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69
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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70
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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71
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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72
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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73
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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74
insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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75
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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76
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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77
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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78
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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79
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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80
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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81
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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82
cascading
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| 流注( cascade的现在分词 )； 大量落下； 大量垂悬； 梯流 | |
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83
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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84
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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85
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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86
seminal
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| adj.影响深远的；种子的 | |
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87
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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88
acerbic
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| adj.酸的，刻薄的 | |
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89
shearer
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| n.剪羊毛的人；剪切机 | |
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90
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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91
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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92
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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93
bomber
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| n.轰炸机，投弹手，投掷炸弹者 | |
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94
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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95
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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96
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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97
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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98
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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99
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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100
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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101
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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102
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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105
beet
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| n.甜菜；甜菜根 | |
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106
workforce
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| n.劳动大军，劳动力 | |
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107
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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108
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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109
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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110
versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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111
lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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112
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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113
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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114
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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115
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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116
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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117
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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118
alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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119
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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120
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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121
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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122
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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123
coordinator
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| n.协调人 | |
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124
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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125
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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126
canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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127
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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128
canyons
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| n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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129
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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130
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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131
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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132
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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133
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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134
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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135
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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136
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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137
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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138
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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139
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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140
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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141
riddled
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|
| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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142
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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143
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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144
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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145
shafted
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| 有箭杆的，有柄的，有羽轴的 | |
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146
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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147
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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148
glazed
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|
| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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149
heroin
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| n.海洛因 | |
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150
hazardous
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|
| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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151
seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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152
havens
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| n.港口，安全地方( haven的名词复数 )v.港口，安全地方( haven的第三人称单数 ) | |
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153
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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154
raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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155
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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156
raffles
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| n.抽彩售物( raffle的名词复数 )v.以抽彩方式售（物）( raffle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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158
contractions
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| n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 )；缩减；缩略词；（分娩时）子宫收缩 | |
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159
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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160
spouses
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| n.配偶，夫或妻( spouse的名词复数 ) | |
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161
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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162
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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163
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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165
suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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166
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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167
reimburse
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| v.补偿，付还 | |
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168
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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169
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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170
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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171
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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172
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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174
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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175
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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176
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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177
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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178
delegations
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| n.代表团( delegation的名词复数 )；委托，委派 | |
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179
integration
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| n.一体化，联合，结合 | |
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180
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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181
nominee
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| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
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182
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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183
overseen
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| v.监督，监视( oversee的过去分词 ) | |
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184
oversee
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| vt.监督，管理 | |
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185
caucus
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| n.秘密会议；干部会议；v.（参加）干部开会议 | |
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186
apportion
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| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
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187
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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188
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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189
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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190
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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191
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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192
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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193
coverage
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| n.报导，保险范围，保险额，范围，覆盖 | |
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194
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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195
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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196
nominees
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| n.被提名者，被任命者( nominee的名词复数 ) | |
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197
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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198
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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199
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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200
vetted
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| v.审查（某人过去的记录、资格等）( vet的过去式和过去分词 )；调查；检查；诊疗 | |
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201
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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202
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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203
replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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204
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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205
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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206
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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207
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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208
contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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209
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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210
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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211
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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212
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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213
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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214
barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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215
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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216
registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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217
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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218
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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219
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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220
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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222
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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223
finalize
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| v.落实，定下来 | |
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