[Congressional Record Volume 144, Number 41 (Thursday, April 2, 1998)]
[Senate]
[Pages S3111-S3113]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                 ELOQUENT TRIBUTES TO ``GOOSE'' McADAMS

  Mr. KENNEDY. Mr. President, earlier this year, Michael E. McAdams, a 
respected consultant and friend to many of us here in Washington, D.C., 
passed away.
  Mr. McAdams--affectionately known as ``Goose'' by his many friends 
and associates--was a passionate, intelligent, effective advisor and 
consultant. During his extraordinary career, he worked closely with me, 
with our colleagues Senator Dodd, Senator Biden, and Senator Pell as 
well as with Speaker Tip O'Neill and many others, and we admired and 
respected him very much.
  In addition, Goose worked abroad with the National Democratic 
Institute. To citizens of South Africa, Botswana, Czechoslovakia, and 
many other countries, he brought his vast knowledge of the institutions 
of democracy, and his fervent belief that democracy is the best hope 
for freedom and political stability.
  At his funeral, the eulogies by Senator Dodd and by Goose's friend 
Joseph Hassett recalled Goose's extraordinary life in very moving 
terms. I ask unanimous consent that these eloquent tributes be printed 
in the Record.
  There being no objection, the tributes were ordered printed in the 
Record as follows:

                          Michael Egan McAdams

                  September 5, 1944--February 25, 1998

                     ``Final Words For My Friend''

                        (By Christopher J. Dodd)

       Hope, Steve and Simon, Wootie and Peter--this is for you.
       Walt Whitman said ``Logic and sermons never convince.'' The 
     same could be said of eulogies.
       There's no way to say good-bye to your best friend.
       A friend made at any time of life is a treasure. But a 
     friend made in youth and kept for life is the rarest, most 
     wonderful gift. Michael and I shared that gift for nearly our 
     entire lives.
       So, little did I suspect that cold January morning, waiting 
     for the Georgetown Prep School bus at the corner of Wisconsin 
     and Q Streets, that the goofy looking, gangly, string bean of 
     a 14 year old--with arms and legs flailing like a windmill, 
     loping down the street, would become my closest pal over the 
     next 40 years.
       I was about to meet my new classmate, Michael Egan McAdams, 
     ever after to be known as Goose--the Goose, Gooser, the Goo, 
     and many other variations of the name.
       People often asked how Goose obtained his nickname. Like 
     any good story, there are competing versions. Jay Hickey has 
     his. I have mine. And since I'm the one up here speaking, 
     I'll give you what will from now on be considered the 
     official version.
       I gave him the name.
       As a schoolboy, he had long legs and a long neck. He also 
     loved basketball, and had a special fondness for a Harlem 
     Globetrotter named Goose Tatum.
       Anyway, the name stuck with him for life and he never 
     complained.
       And when you think about it, why should he have complained?
       The goose is a noble creature. The goose is loyal for life.
       The goose flies in a flock to protect his fellow travelers.
       And when not in flight, the goose rests in gaggles, where 
     he builds large comfortable nests with his companions.
       The goose is neither a duck, nor a swan. It is something 
     separate, with its own classification. That was our Goose, 
     too. He was special. And we felt special when he stretched 
     his long arms to welcome us into his company.
       There's an old saying from around the time of the Civil 
     War: ``The goose hangs high.'' It means that all is 
     wonderful, and it refers to the fact that geese fly higher in 
     good weather.
       With our Goose, we, too, flew high. His enthusiasm for life 
     was infectious. He shared with us his love of politics, 
     language and friends. He loved the bright uncluttered light 
     of the Eastern Shore. With him, life always offered a fresh 
     idea, a good story, a laugh to share.
       Over the next four decades of our friendship, much of 
     Goose's physical appearance changed for the better, thank 
     God.
       The clothes he wore that January day years ago, however, 
     remained virtually unchanged over the years. Shirt tail 
     hanging out--shoes that defied description and pants whose 
     cuffs were not only never introduced to his socks, but did 
     not even come close to meeting them.
       But the ``piece de resistance'', the trademark, the symbol, 
     by which we could all spot Goose in a crowd for the rest of 
     our lives, was the sport jacket.
       The mangiest piece of apparel I had ever seen. Yellowish/
     brown in color--with holes and fuzz balls all over--lapels an 
     \1/8\ of an inch wide and a hem that hung just above his 
     skinny butt.
       While I am confident Goose must have bought several of 
     these sport coats over the years, I'm not absolutely certain 
     that the one he was wearing the day we met is different than 
     the one he insisted on being buried in today.
       Now, to the unacquainted, Goose must have appeared just a 
     sloppy guy. But to those gathered here today to say good-bye 
     to our friend, it says far less about Goose's wardrobe than 
     it does about the wonderful person wearing that coat.
       On his list of priorities, Goose has always placed himself 
     last. Throughout the years that I knew him, Goose was always 
     doing for others--helping plan events, talking to friends' 
     children, or just listening to our streams of woe.
       I cannot recall a single instance when Goose was not 
     available to his friends. I can't recall a single major event 
     in my own life over these past 40 years when my pal Goose was 
     not at my side.
       And while we had a very special relationship, I know that 
     many of you gathered here today had a similar connection with 
     Goose.
       During those intense four days earlier this week at the 
     Arlington Hospital, I found myself getting angry with Goose's 
     selfishness, for not taking better care of himself. I got 
     angry at myself and others for selfishly asking too much of 
     Goose over the years.
       And then, despite my very deep and unconsolable grief at 
     the loss of my friend, I realized that Goose--the 14 year old 
     boy I met so long ago, and the man I said I loved and good-
     bye to 5 minutes before he died--loved people, loved his 
     friends, loved being involved in the lives of the people he 
     cared so much about. So rather than spend time analyzing 
     Goose's life, let us just accept the fact that more or less, 
     Goose lived life the way he wanted to, and we, whom he called 
     friends for however long or short a time--were given a 
     glorious gift from God.
       Now I am not going to take you on a maudlin 40 year journey 
     of our friendship. Some of the best times Goose and I had 
     together, I am going to enjoy remembering all by myself.
       Goose's interests were not restricted. In fact, one of the 
     most appealing qualities was his curiosity, but throughout 
     the years of our friendship, three things have remained 
     constant: His love of politics, his love of words and his 
     devotion and loyalty to his friends.
       Bear with me while I share a few memories. Throughout his 
     life, Goose was a Yellow-dog Democrat.
       From the time he entered the hospital, Goose would drift in 
     and out of sleep.
       On the occasions when he was awake, politics was on his 
     mind. ``Why did you vote for that Ronald Reagan Airport?'' he 
     asked. ``I heard your latest polls were up, have you checked 
     the cross-tabs?'' And when I suggested that I should bow out 
     of giving the eulogy at Senator Abe Ribicoff's funeral in New 
     York, he waved at me with something less than all five 
     fingers and gave me the sign to get up to New York and do my 
     job. Always the campaign manager!
       Goose's family were Adlai Stevenson Democrats and he loved 
     being around politics. In January 1961, we hiked to President 
     Kennedy's Gala in the snow and watched the Inaugural Parade 
     together all the next day.
       It was at Georgetown Prep that I painfully learned how not 
     only interested Goose was in politics, but also, how adept he 
     was at the game. My good friends Jay Hickey, Paul Bergson and 
     I ran against each other for the office of Vice President of 
     the Yard.
       For whatever reason, probably because I characteristically 
     got into the race late, Goose had signed on as Jay's campaign 
     manager.
       And even though Goose designed posters for me which read, 
     ``In Dodd We Trust,'' ``Holy Dodd We Praise Thy Name,'' and 
     ``All Glory to Dodd''--which for obvious reasons the good 
     Jesuits would not allow up--Jay won the race.
       I did not know what the future would hold for me in those 
     days, but I made a promise to myself that I would never enter 
     another political contest without Goose at my side. And that 
     is where he has been for a quarter of a century.

[[Page S3112]]

       Today, my friend Jay Hickey works for the Horse Council and 
     I'm entering my 24th year in Congress. I rest my case.
       Over the years, Goose has also worked for Senator Kennedy, 
     Senator Pell, Senator Biden, Speaker O'Neill, and numerous 
     other candidates, both at home and abroad.
       He was particularly proud of the work he did abroad with 
     the National Democratic Institute teaching the fundamentals 
     of democracy to people in such far flung places as South 
     Africa, Botswana and Czechoslovakia.
       One of my favorite Goose campaign stories was how, 
     unbeknownst to Goose, his candidate for president in a 
     foreign country had been found guilty of assassination in his 
     younger years.
       Goose designed the campaign and then convinced the 
     electorate that while the charge was true, it had merely been 
     a college prank!
       For a person who was so enamored of language, Goose had the 
     most atrocious penmanship of anyone I know.
       Like his attire, Goose's handwriting is the same today as 
     it was when I was copying his homework in the bus on the way 
     to Prep. Goose was extremely bright and handled his 
     schoolwork with apparent ease. Not surprisingly, his 
     strengths were languages--Latin, Greek, and English.
       Goose could roar through a crossword puzzle.
       His love of words and language was also clear in his almost 
     unquenchable appetite for books.
       I have never known a better-read person or a person who was 
     more able to retain what he had just devoured. And his taste 
     in literature was completely eclectic--history, biography, 
     novels, science fiction, poetry. Goose adored books.
       How prophetic that his last book was a re-reading of Moby 
     Dick, which he couldn't stop talking about.
       But to really understand Goose's love affair with words, 
     you only had to bring up the subject of music. From my 
     earliest recollection of Goose, he took such pleasure from 
     songs.
       Now, I love Goose, but despite my deep affection for him 
     and despite what he thought, any song he sang came out 
     sounding the same--``Greenback dollar''.
       I can still see him standing on the hall landing on Manning 
     Place--guitar in hand, convinced he was one audition away 
     from joining the Kingston Trio. Then it was the Everley 
     Brothers, Simon and Garfunkel, and countless other groups 
     whose names I never understood, let alone their music.
       I don't have the slightest idea who wrote or sang the song, 
     ``The House of the Rising Sun.'' But for a period of several 
     years, it seems, the only memory I have of Goose is him 
     singing that damn song.
       Music was the only interest we did not share in common. But 
     it made little or no difference to my pal Goose. Only a few 
     weeks ago, he put on some music videos and insisted I watch 
     them.
       It always impressed me that Goose was open to new sounds. A 
     few years ago, he wanted me to hear ``The Cure''. I thought 
     he was involved in some kind of holistic healing!
       For Goose, the most significant voice was Bob Dylan's. He 
     deeply believed that Dylan was one of the most important 
     poets of this century.
       Goose loved Bob Dylan. Maybe because Dylan was the only 
     singer whose voice was worse than his.
       Goose must have told me a thousand times how meaningful it 
     was for him to have been in Newport during the 1965 Folk 
     Festival, when Dylan went electric. For Goose, it was a 
     moment of historic importance, like the moon landing or the 
     end of World War II.
       How incredibly ironic that on the day we lose Goose, Bob 
     Dylan finally receives the long overdue recognition at the 
     Grammy's.
       Two thoughts passed through my head:
       (1) How sorry I was Goose wasn't with us to hear this news; 
     and
       (2) That old fox, Goose, didn't waste any time up there 
     pulling a few strings for people he cared about. I bet Bob 
     Dylan would be surprised to know he had an angel named Goose.
       In Goose, Dylan would have found a person who truly was 
     ``Forever Young''--who fulfilled that song's hope of a 
     ``heart always . . . joyful'' and a ``song always . . . 
     sung.'' Goose possessed a freshness, an honesty, a sense of 
     mirth and wonder that grow rare with age.
       It was Goose's devotion and loyalty to his friends that I 
     will miss the most. Once he was on your side, he was 
     immovable, and what pride and pleasure he took in his 
     friends' success, and how incredibly comforting his silent 
     presence could be when the news was not good.
       Over the past days, as we have reminisced about our 
     memories of Goose, one point was repeated over and over and 
     over again:
       Goose had the ability to forge strong bonds of friendship 
     with not only a wide range of people intellectually and 
     professionally, but also with people from completely 
     different generations, oftentimes within the same family.
       Understand what I am saying. I do not just mean being 
     friendly to someone's children or their parents. I mean 
     forming long, serious friendships with these people, separate 
     and distinct from each other.
       A mere glance around this church reflects what I am saying.
       The reason Goose did this so easily was because he treated 
     everyone alike.
       He didn't talk down to children, or try to ingratiate 
     himself with someone's parents. He answered questions 
     honestly--and most importantly, he listened. Goose had an 
     easy and natural way with his male friends--and he had long 
     lasting and trusting relationships with women.
       A friend of mine who did not know Goose that well told me a 
     story that explains why. One summer afternoon, she and a 
     group of women friends were sitting by his pool on the 
     Eastern Shore. This woman said to him: ``You must be in 
     heaven surrounded by beautiful women.'' ``No,''
       Goose said, ``surrounded by smart women.'' Goose's fondness 
     for kids is well known. There are many young people here 
     today who have come long distances because they wanted to say 
     goodbye themselves.
       I always loved the story of one young lady who is here 
     today. When she was about 10 years old she decided the 
     godfather she had been given at birth was not performing very 
     well. On her own, she went to Goose and asked him if he would 
     take on the job.
       The night Goose arrived at the hospital, a dear friend to 
     Goose suggested a book be kept of all the calls and visitors. 
     When asked why, she said so Goose will know that he has 
     friends.
       Well Goose, we never kept the book and we lost you too 
     quickly. But we know that you know this church is filled with 
     your friends. Therefore, in the words of another great 
     Irishman, you can say:

     Think when man's glory
     Most begins and ends
     And say, my glory is
     I had such friends.

       The last thing I want to tell you is how strong Goose was 
     at the end. When given the news that there was no hope, he 
     was furious. Then anger became resolve and very quickly he 
     set his house in order. Goose's friends Tom Bryant and Jackie 
     were at his side early Wednesday morning.
       Goose left us with great strength and dignity.

     So dear friends--
     Do not let your grief be equal to his worth
     For then your sorrow
     Hath no end.

                     ``Goose'' by Joseph M. Hassett

       The essence of Goose was the total intensity with which he 
     lived every minute of his life. So much of that intensity was 
     invested--not in some selfish pursuit of his own--but in the 
     sheer delight of talking with his friends--amusing them, 
     supporting them, and glorying in their triumphs.
       Goose was unnatural in our success-besotted age because he 
     was a true believer in the ancient Roman religion summed up 
     by Horace when he said ``Carpe diem quam minimum credula 
     postero'' (Seize the day, trusting as little as possible to 
     tomorrow). Trusting as little as possible to tomorrow was 
     another part of the essence of Goose. He seized the day with 
     such intensity that his life burned like a firecracker's 
     fuse. And in the spark and crackle of that shimmering fuse 
     lies the awful logic of Goose's early death: the fuse burned 
     too intensely to burn too long.
       William Butler Yeats revealed this logic in terms of the 
     difference between lives that burn slowly like damp faggots 
     and those that consume themselves in the flash of intensity. 
     Yeats could have been writing about Goose when he wrote these 
     lines about Robert Gregory:

     Some burn damp faggots, others may consume
     The entire combustible world in one small room
     As though dried straw, and if we turn about
     The bare chimney is gone black out
     Because the work has finished in that flare.

                           *   *   *   *   *

     What made us dream that he could comb grey hair?

       What made us dream that our beloved Goose could comb grey 
     hair? His life burned too brightly for that, consuming itself 
     in the lavish gifts of his genius for friendship, his 
     prodigal profusion of empathy for his friends, his delight in 
     the simple fact of their being there.
       Goose had a unique and precious ability to experience and 
     communicate the sublimity of a moment of being alive. I 
     think, for example, of the beautiful glow of pure joy 
     radiating from Goose on a Sunday afternoon's sail on Rehoboth 
     Bay: Coach at the tiller, the wind behind us, the late 
     afternoon sun angling off the water in silver glitter, and 
     Goose's exultation in this splendor of it all.
       That exultant glow was Goose's special brand of magic. It 
     was an ability to recreate the rapture the Romantics thought 
     had vanished from the world--what Shelley called the ``clear, 
     keen joyance'' of the skylark; what Wordsworth called ``the 
     hour of splendour in the grass''; what Keats heard in the 
     nightingale singing ``of summer in full-throated ease.''
       Every one of you, I know, experienced just such a moment 
     with Goose--a moment in which he made this tarnished world 
     shine; and made it shine for you--because of you, because of 
     something you did. And so, when Goose died, a spot of joy in 
     each of us died with him.
       That is why it is such a bitter pill we swallow here this 
     morning. We do have, at least, the consolation of our 
     beautiful memories of our dear, dead Goose. His kindred 
     spirits, the Romans, thought that such moments were a form of 
     immortality, that memorable characters like Goose live on in 
     the memories of their friends.

[[Page S3113]]

       No doubt many of your memories will feature Goose's voice, 
     talking the midnight through in full-throated ease. None of 
     us will forget those nocturnal plumbings of the depths of 
     life, the universe and everything. They may have taken place 
     at Channing's mistake, at your house, at your parents' house, 
     at Dolan's at Bethany, at John Sis's parents', at John and 
     Mary Sis's at Wintergreen, at Bobby Sis's in Annapolis, at 
     Julio and Jean's, at Baba Groom's on the Eastern Shore, at 
     104 West Street, at 77 Holly Road, at the Roma, Poor Roberts, 
     the Raw Bar . . . Wherever those conversations took place, 
     they are the stuff of beautiful memories. And better still, 
     is the memory of waking up the next morning and gradually 
     becoming aware that, somewhere in the depths of the house, 
     Goose was already sounding the themes of the new day. We 
     still have our memories of that happy voice.
       The Greek poet Callimachus wrote a beautiful poem about the 
     way in which the voices of conversations like those we had 
     with Goose can live on in our memory. Callimachus's poem grew 
     out of the death of his friend Heraclitus while on a journey 
     to Caria in Asia Minor. When the bitter news reached 
     Callimachus, he was filled with grief. But there was room 
     amongst the tears for the comforting memory of how the two 
     friends had talked long into the night, had, as Callimachus 
     said in his poem, ``tired the sun with talking and sent him 
     down the sky.'' Callimachus heard the voice of his friend 
     from those conversations in the sound of nightingales 
     singing, Goose-like, in full-throated ease. William Cory 
     translated Callimachus's poem into eight lines of English. I 
     leave them with you as a memento of our dear pal Goose:

     They told me Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
     They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
     I wept as I remembered how often you and I
     Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.

     And now that thou art lying my dear old Carian guest,
     A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,
     Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
     For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

                          ____________________