Lebder remembered as a great politician
Regardless of party or whether they are liberal or conservative, politicians at the top of their game have at least one thing in common: they are masters at the art of remembering people’s names.
Years ago, I made the acquaintance of a Parkersburg, W.Va., lawyer by the name of Bill Richardson, who told me an amazing story.
First, you need some background. Richardson, a Presbyterian, signed up to help John F. Kennedy, a Catholic, in overwhelmingly Protestant West Virginia in the spring of 1960, during that state’s crucial primary election.
Late in the campaign, Richardson arranged a parade for Kennedy through the streets of Parkersburg. It rained some. Richardson asked Kennedy if he wanted the high school band to continue to play. “I want that band right behind me,” Kennedy ordered.
That was in May 1960. Invited to Washington for Kennedy’s inaugural in January 1961, Richardson didn’t have an opportunity to speak with the new commander-in-chief.
Nearly two-and-a-half years later, in the fall of 1962, Richardson found himself in Pittsburgh. It was a Friday, the day before what was then the annual Pitt-WVU football game, which Richardson always attended.
President Kennedy was in Pittsburgh as well. He was campaigning on behalf of Democratic candidates for Congress in western Pennsylvania.
The president’s motorcade pulled in front of the downtown William Penn Hotel after a busy day of speeches and glad-handing.
Standing in the back of his limousine, Kennedy spied a familiar face off to the side of the crowded hotel entrance.
Remember, Kennedy hadn’t seen Richardson for quite some time.
“Bill Richardson, what are you doing here?” the president said loud enough to be heard over the din.
“I came to see you, Mr. President,” Richardson shouted back. It was a white lie. The Parkersburg attorney had no idea until he got to Pittsburgh that Kennedy was going to be in town.
Still, Richardson was proud, and astounded.
The fact that Kennedy was able pluck his name from a crowded field of personalities and events was mind boggling. In the 30-odd months since they last spoke, Kennedy, as president of the United States, must have met hundreds, if not thousands, of people. People like Khrushchev, Nehru, de Gaulle, and Diem. He had been dealing with Berlin, Cuba, Vietnam, the civil rights movement, and the economy.
Despite everything, he recalled not only Richardson’s likeness, but his name — first and last. And he did so instantaneously.
I had a similar thing happen to me. Rick Santorum hadn’t seen, or probably even thought about me, for four years or so when he picked me out of a crowd at the Greensburg Country Club during a speech. I was off to the side scribbling in a reporter’s notebook; still, in all, it was pretty amazing. I was impressed.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been. Arlen Specter could do the same along with Bob Casey, junior and senior, and Ed Rendell. On the other hand, there was Lynn Swann, a great football player and a lousy politician. (He ran for governor, remember.) By the looks he gave out, Swann couldn’t remember his own name, let alone yours.
All this is by way of discussing Fred Lebder, former county commissioner who died last Saturday at the age of 94.
Lebder was a great politician — not great like Kennedy, but great in his own way. He could make or break political careers. I know for a fact that he ushered my friend Ron Nehls into office, then ushered him out when Ron proved insufficiently enthusiastic about being a county commissioner.
It was a great loss when Lebder lost a gerrymandered race for a seat in Congress to Washington County’s Austin Murphy. I can’t help but feel he would have made a great congressman; his instincts were those of an insider. He would have been wheeling and dealing to his heart’s content, all to the benefit of his constituents.
For years, Lebder practically owned the Fayette County Democratic Party.
I suspect one of the reasons was that he remembered names. I bet there wasn’t a committee man or woman over a stretch of five or six decades he didn’t know, and by knowing, I mean he knew not just their names, but the names of their spouses and children, their likes, their wants, their fears; even their dreams, if these were confided to him.
Fred Lebder had excellent recall. How do I know? Personal experience. Probably the last time I saw Lebder was in the early fall of 2008 (I think it was fall; if he were alive, Lebder could probably say for sure.) The place was Mount Pleasant. The occasion was a campaign appearance by a former governor and senator from Nebraska, Bob Kerrey, stumping on behalf of Barack Obama.
It was well before 2008 that Lebder had last laid eyes on me. I approached him with a question or two about the campaign. Before I could say anything, Lebder greeted me. “Hello, Dick, How have you been?”
As the saying goes, you could have knocked me over with a wet noodle. Fred Lebder had no reason to remember my name, except he did: it was part of his politician’s DNA; it’s what he did.
With Lebder laid to rest, there will be plenty of time to measure his contributions, along with his demerits, his failings. Was he altogether too secretive? Did he hoard power too long and too dearly? Did he lack imagination when it came to addressing some of the county’s seemingly intractable problems and challenges. Yes, yes, and yes.
No one could serve as long as Lebder without collecting enemies; his detractors were legion. But so were the people who admired and respected him.
And do you know what? I bet he knew them all -enemies as well as friends — by name.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown and is the author of two books — “Grand Salute: Stories of the World War II Generation” and “Our People.” He can be reached at grandsalutebook@gmail.com.