"...a bomb went off in the john"

IN THE SPRING of 1972 I spent a day with Sen. Walter Mondale (D.-Minn.) in Washington, D.C., as one of two delegates from Minnesota to the United States Senate Youth Program. Sponsored by the Hearst Foundation, the program was established in the hope that first-hand exposure to the federal government would nudge student leaders into the political profession.

A week of touring the capital's historical sites and sitting through speeches by prominent pols (including then Rep. Gerald R. Ford (R.-Mich.)) with a day following our senators around the Hill. Since Sen. Hubert H. Humphrey (D.-Minn.) was away campaigning for the presidency, both Minnesota delegates were pawned off on the senior "Gopher State" senator, "Fritz" Mondale, who took on the tour-guide task with an amiability that eased our initial disappointment at the legendary HHH's absence.

Mondale greeted us in his office and immediately led us to the Senate dining room for lunch. Mondale was chewing gum; that's not what the civics books say senators do, but it's typically Mondale--easy going, personable, possessed by an athletic warmth.

At lunch, Mondale called our waitress by her first name. His naturalness plus the arrangement of the small tables gave the room a homey kitchen atmosphere, though a portion of the back wall was missing. Sipping soup from his spoon, Mondale explained: "...a bomb went off in the john." What I took as a joke, it turned out later, was actually true.

During the 20-minute meal we talked about many different things, Mondale speaking with typical senatorial dispatch, my fellow delegate abnormally reticent out of the same nervousness that made me unusually talkative. We told him how the Mississippi delegates' high image of their senator, James O. Eastland (D.-Miss.) was dashed. Eastland had been talking on the phone behind a cloud of cigar smoke when the two arrived in his office. He motioned to them to sit down, saying "Be with you in a minute boys." And then, after hanging up the phone, an explanation: "Sorry for making you boys wait. That was the television people. They want me to go on T.V. but you know damn well all they want to talk about is niggers, the nigger problem...Well, I guess we're always gonna have a nigger problem, boys."

Without breaking the rhythm of his chewing, Mondale reacted: "That doesn't surprise me."

My fellow delegate, a parochial school graduate from Duluth, gave me several disapproving glances as we ate. Perhaps what we were discussing wasn't proper in the Senate dining hall, but Mondale seemed eager to entertain questions. In fact, anytime there was a silence he would ask us a question.

"What do you think of the men who've spoken to your group? Who's talked to you?"

We told him we had met with Justice Harry Blackmun of the Supreme Court, a Minnesotan. "Yes, he's a good man," Mondale responded.

We confided in him that Attorney General John Mitchell had seemed curt, bothered and even hostile when answering our questions. Mondale inquired further: "Was he? Yes, things are tense right now. What did he say?" Not much, we told the senator; the attorney general mostly avoided saying anything and eventually stormed off flanked by two hulking, frowning guys in gray suits.

Mondale told us that the general feeling in Washington was "very bad," that things were wrong "in a big way" and that even though he was very close to some of his colleagues, strong political factions were being formed and sides were being taken. I wasn't sure what he meant, but his sincere, assured manner dissuaded me from following up the statement--as did the nervous glance issued by the Duluth delegate, who eased off the potentially grave turn by asking Mondale who in the Senate shared most of his political views.

"Kennedy. There are only seven or eight real liberals in the Senate. Me, Kennedy, Humphrey, and a few others." McGovern? we asked. "Yeah. McGovern too. And [Sen. Mike] Gravel [D.-Alaska]. But the country is very conservative right now. Don't you think so?" Who did he think would win the Democratic nomination for president in 1972, we asked. "Senator Humphrey, I hope."

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, I saw Sen. Mondale at the convention of the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party (DFL) in Rochester, Minnesota. He was on his way to the podium to ask for an endorsement for re-election which he would receive handily. Presidential candidate Humphrey was not so lucky. In his home state he received barely 51 per cent of the delegates headed to Miami, compared with 49 per cent committed to a liberal coalition of Chisholm-Lindsay-McCarthy-McGovern. Differences over the war, amnesty, gay rights, marijuana, abortion and a dozen other issues left the DFL with an unfortunate pattern of internal rifts that would be repeated nationally.

"Senator, how are you? Do you remember me?" I asked.

He looked at my delegate badge, which carried my name.

"I remember the face, but not the name," he said.

"I want you to know that I'm working on your campaign." He answered: "Thank you. Senate Youth Program, right?" And he was gone.

The next time I saw Mondale he was standing in front of a television camera at the 1972 National Democratic Convention. McGovern had locked up the nomination, and Humphrey had his arm around "Fritz" recommending him as a future leader of national stature to Walter Cronkite and the nation. As Humphrey spoke, Mondale stood there quietly, somber and earnest.

Throughout the next four years I carefully followed Mondale's voting record and career as a senator. When he announced his decision not to seek the presidency in 1976 I was disappointed but respected his priorities. This past April, while visiting Minneapolis for a job interview, I saw him in the Leamington Hotel downtown. He was greeting florists on their way to a convention in one of the ballrooms. He was in the center of the hotel lobby, smiling, still chewing gum.

I waited my turn, then...

"Senator, you probably don't remember me but four years ago I spent a day with you as a delegate to the U.S. Senate Youth Program," I said.

"Oh, yeah, that Hearst thing. That's a good program. What're you doing now?"

"I graduate from Harvard in June."

"Good for you. Then what?"

I almost said "good question," but instead... "I'm not sure, I hope to work for Senator Frank Church's campaign."

"Yes, he's a good man."

"Unless...are you going to run for President, Senator?"

"Who me? Oh, God, oh no, oh God no!" He was slightly amused.

"There's a leadership vacuum in this country, sir." I volunteered.

"Yes, I know, isn't it terrible?"