Posted on: Sunday, June 26, 2005

COMMENTARY
LBJ understood value of compromise

By Jack Valenti

In Washington, the cords of collegiality that used to bind the members of Congress to one another — and to the president — haven't just frayed, they've snapped. This descent into enmity is not just one party's fault. There is blame to distribute among all.

As Congress struggles through a particularly rancorous session, it is worth recalling a time when compromise had not been exiled from our government. I had the good fortune to see this firsthand when I worked for President Lyndon B. Johnson.

In 1964, the president deputized me to handle relations with the Republican leadership. It was my job to keep the Oval Office open for Gerald Ford and Charles Halleck, then the House GOP leaders, and Everett Dirksen, leader of the Senate Republicans. Even though LBJ had large majorities in both houses of Congress after the 1964 election, he never turned his back on those across the aisle.

A typical encounter with Dirksen would go something like this: The senator would call me, his majestic barrel-baritone voice rising from some vast deep. "Jack, I'd like to see the boss today," he would say.

"Of course, Senator. How about coming by around six? OK with you?"

After our conversation, Dirksen would rise in the Senate to flog the president and his policies, treating Nero and Caligula favorably in comparison to Johnson.

Later, when Dirksen arrived at the White House, I'd escort him to the family quarters on the second floor.

Johnson would be waiting. He'd greet Dirksen warmly and lead him to a green chintz sofa in front of a large window with an ample view of the Rose Garden. The president would drop himself into a large wingback chair next to the couch — he'd be so close that their knees would almost touch.

LBJ, in one of his periodic fits of dieting, would order a Fresca from the kitchen. Dirksen, who clearly had hoped for something stronger, would hide a frown and, to be courteous, order one too.

The president, with the skill of an actor, would begin: "Ev, I wouldn't treat a cut dog the way you treated me on the floor today."

Dirksen, with a mock somber expression, would answer, "Mr. President, I have a vow to be faithful to the truth, so I had no choice in what I said."

LBJ would laugh. Touché. Dirksen, pleased with his retort, would rumble up a laugh as well. They would trade stories and gossip.

Then the president would say something like: "Ev, I need three Republican votes on my civil rights bill, and you can get them."

Dirksen would frown. Without answering, he would reach into his jacket and pull out a list of nominees to just about every operational regulatory commission in Washington. He would also suggest that the president relax his opposition to a bill the Republicans found congenial to their aims.

They would ramble on, reminiscing and teasing each other. When the Frescas were finished, Dirksen would depart. There would be no summary of what they had said. Their relationship was built on something that is sorely missing today: trust.

LBJ understood that the role of the opposition was to oppose. Dirksen (and Ford and Halleck) knew that opposing didn't mean you couldn't give a little here and there.

Neither surrendered core beliefs. But they both knew that in politics, nothing lasts for long. Mandates fade. Power passes.

And majority, as sure as the seasons change, eventually becomes minority.

Jack Valenti was a special assistant to President Lyndon B. Johnson. He wrote this commentary for the New York Times.