Of all the conversations and interviews I had with Paul Wellstone, perhaps the best was–sad irony of ironies–on a plane. It began one morning in late April of 1997, and I had just been dispatched by US News & World Report to the North Dakota-Minnesota border, where the Red River of the North had catastrophically flooded, all but engulfing the cities of Grand Forks and East Grand Forks. I was running through the Minneapolis airport, struggling to make my connecting flight–a somewhat challenging endeavor, as I was lugging four duffle bags laden with bottles of booze for the staffers of the beleaguered Grand Forks Herald–and as I staggered toward the gate, someone lifted a bag off a shoulder. “Look like you could use a hand,” I heard a voice behind me say.
Stressed and bleary-eyed, I offered my thanks, unable to turn around, as we were part of a tightly packed group tumbling down the jetway. The liquor bottles clinked audibly in the bags, and I heard the voice behind me ask, with a hint of mischief, if I was going to Grand Forks to try to corner the black market on booze. As we got to our seats and stowed the bags overhead, I introduced myself, explained that I was a reporter and that the night before, a friend from Knight-Ridder who’d been seconded to the Herald called with a whisky request for the staff–not only had the poor ink-stained, waterlogged wretches been flooded out of three offices in as many hours but they were now victims of an emergency management order that had closed all the bars and liquor stores. “Newspapermen not allowed to drink?” the voice asked, humorous but truly indignant. “Anything I can do to help prevent that tragedy, I’m happy to do.”
I turned around to a short–even shorter than me–unassuming but cheerful looking man. “I’m Paul Wellstone,” he said. “Glad a fellow Progressive contributor was here to help me,” I responded, and he lit up. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You did that really good piece on Burma last year, right? That US News thing threw me. It’s great to meet you!”
What unfolded over the next hour was one of the best–and most genuine–conversations I’ve ever had. In over a decade of journalism, I’m not sure I’ve spent time with someone who had such a unique blend of passion, compassion, erudition and honesty. He truly personified the Happy Warrior.
As I look back, I define that talk more in terms of what we didn’t talk about–our conversation was all over the map, from our respective childhoods in northern Virginia to adoption of our respective Midwestern states as home; to healthcare to the absurdity of the drug war and Star Wars; to the history of Prairie Populism to the future of the left in America; to the conservatives in the Senate he disagreed with but genuinely liked and respected, and those he didn’t. I walked off the plane inspired–a feeling I rarely get from any politician. He had the same rare effect on me–and a few hundred people–in 2000, when I was covering the death throes of the largely uninspiring Bill Bradley campaign. Before the rally in Brook Park, Ohio, a guy in the crowd pointed to Wellstone and asked a friend, “Who’s that little guy?” A few minutes later, after a rousing call to arms from the little guy that had everyone fired up, the same guy said, “Screw Bradley, let’s run Wellstone!”