What is happening to Hubert Humphrey is unparalleled in my memory. The apocalyptic word was used by the doctors after his latest operation—he suffered from a “terminal” illness. In what seemed no time at all, he reappeared on the public scene. Scooped up from the clinic by Air Force One, he was to find the entire nation celebrating him like Lindbergh come home. A huge new federal building was named after him. The House of Representatives invited him over from the Senate to give a speech—unprecedented in congressional annals—and he came, occupying the podium used by Presidents of the United States when addressing joint sessions of Congress. He was visibly withered by his experience at the clinics, but otherwise he was unchanged. The same horizon-to-horizon smile, the twinkle in the eyes, the unabashed reference to his longtime ambition to occupy the podium ex officio. He was cheered as lustily as anyone in memory, cheered by everyone, on both sides of the aisle, notwithstanding that he has political enemies on both sides—a few on the Democratic side, everyone on the Republican side. It did not matter. There was the familiarity of the figure. His renowned good nature. The tear-drawing physical heroism. The indomitable cheerfulness.
Moreover, the tribute was for a man as partisan as ever sat in the Senate. But it didn’t—doesn’t matter. It is worth asking why. To do so requires examining the ideological and intellectual opposition to Senator Humphrey, his works and his ways, if we are to plumb the deepest of the mysteries: How is it that we feel this way about him?
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