Most of what can be said about the man who was, at the time of his death, the oldest living United States senator has already been written in celebration of his 100th birthday last March. One can read about James L. Buckley’s education, military service, corporate work, family life, and distinguished performance in all three branches of the federal government. On this occasion, instead of applauding his résumé, some personal anecdotes may be in order.
In politics, reticence is seldom an asset. When I belatedly joined his Senate office, I was told about first-time candidate Buckley’s approach to rounding up votes at some factory gates somewhere in the Empire State. He declined to ask individuals to vote for him because, I was informed, “You can’t put people on the spot like that.” Memorably, this tactfulness did not inhibit him from becoming the first Republican senator to call for the resignation of Richard Nixon. Duty trumps delicacy.
Even in the 1970s, as the old stereotyped, gray, rumpled senators were being phased out, the advent of coiffed and polished pretty-boy senators was at hand. In this context, Buckley was like those Russian Old Believers who refused to shave their beards. A young staffer, dispatched to the Buckley home in posh Spring Valley to snag a replacement tie for one that had suffered some office mishap, reported that all of the available neckwear was more or less the same.
One could only wonder what Buckley’s colleagues thought of him, to the extent that they ever thought of one another. They had to respect his integrity – imagine voting present on a piece of legislation because it would affect the postal rates for a family-related magazine – his intelligence, his careful and erudite use of words, his willingness to act in conscience even at a political cost, notably with regard to abortion. At the same time, the Senate is a survivors’ club, where even admiration does not translate into association. Alabama Dixiecrat Jim Allen, master of the Senate rules, filibusterer extraordinary, gave Buckley a photograph with an inscription along these lines: To the man I want at my side when Armageddon comes. I was impressed until Buckley quipped, “But he voted against my bill.” I don’t recall which bill.
In the aftermath of the Supreme Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade, Buckley’s Human Life Amendment became the rallying point for the diverse constituencies within the pro-life cause. It is important to remember that Senate support for the amendment was bipartisan. It is perhaps more important to recall that opposition by the pro-aborts was also bipartisan, with virtually the entire GOP leadership and many other Republicans strongly opposed. They were backed by media assurances that the issue was settled and everyone could just move on. That, of course, did not happen for several reasons, foremost among them the shining standard of that Human Life Amendment which, a few years later, would be engraved, so to speak, in the Republican Party platform.
Speaking of platforms: Many years after Buckley retired from federal service, we were discussing the latest Republican platform, with which I had been involved. He was surprised that I took it so seriously – as in fact millions of voters do, with regard to one plank or another. He had a hard time imaging national officeholders feeling bound by, intimidated by, or even informed by the quadrennial charter of their party. I could understand his skepticism since, back in his own electoral heyday, that was not the case. Some candidates adapted to the new reality of platform-based campaigns. Others, like Bob Dole, asked whether he had read the GOP platform during his presidential run of 1996, might respond, in the Kansan’s words, “Hell, no. Nobody reads the damn things.” During our own discussion. Buckley seemed to come around to more or less agree with me. I was fully aware that he was just humoring me out of kindness. I still appreciate the graciousness of his response.
In 1975, the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was up for yet another reauthorization. It would pass overwhelmingly, with no attention given to the constitutional scruples that eventually undergirded the Supreme Court’s 2013 decision in Shelby County v. Holder. I had no reason to discuss this matter with the senator, who knew more about the Constitution, the law, and his political standing in New York than I did. As in most matters coming before the Senate, he needed no tutoring from the likes of me. But while we were discussing some speech, he informed me he would vote for the reauthorization, but not for the reason everyone would assume. In other words, not for his political survival in a liberal state. Rather, he remembered all too well the condition of the black South Carolinians he knew during his youthful stays at the family home in the Palmetto State. It was their future, their rights, he was thinking about. I have no idea why he told me that – or whether he ever told anyone else. But he wanted me to know this was a matter of principle. I don’t think I had anything to say. Of course he was acting from principle, then and always, but not making a big deal about it. I never called him Jim, much less Jimbo. Even over dinner with him, his wife Anne, and my own wife and Anne, he was still senator. Which tells you about how I felt about him.
Here’s something else I knew about him, taken from John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem “Abraham Davenport,” about an early legislator from Buckley’s home state of Connecticut. During a meeting of the local solons, a sudden daytime darkening created fear that “the Lord’s Great Day” was at hand. Amidst the chaos, Davenport said he would remain at his work to meet the Lord. So they brought in the candles. Whittier concludes:
And there he stands in memory to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.
Over 25 years, Bill Gribbin staffed Senator Buckley and other conservative leaders in the House, Senate, and White House.