[Congressional Record Volume 150, Number 54 (Monday, April 26, 2004)]
[Senate]
[Pages S4344-S4345]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                        TRIBUTE TO MARY McGRORY

  Mr. DASCHLE. Madam President, today is the funeral of another 
American. This American fought for 50 years, in her own inimitable way, 
to defend the ideals of our democracy.
  Mary McGrory was the most elegant political writer I have ever known, 
and one of the bravest. She loved many things in life: a well-told 
tale, a good joke, good books, good dogs, orphans, lazy August days in 
Italy, time with her family in Boston, and almost everything about her 
Irish-American heritage. Most of all, Mary McGrory loved politics and 
newspapering. I sometimes thought she had newspaper ink in her veins. 
She never tired of asking questions, chasing stories or writing truth.
  I can't count the number of times that I have held press briefings in 
the hallway just off this floor, surrounded by two or three dozen 
reporters, all jostling for position. And there, among them, was Mary, 
reporter's notebook in hand. She was 40, 50 years older than some of 
the other reporters, but there she was, in the thick of it. She didn't 
need to be there. She could have asked a colleague to pose her question 
for her and relay the answer to her. But that was not the way of Mary 
McGrory. She had an extraordinary eye for the telling detail. She 
wanted to see and hear things herself, and form her own judgments. 
President Nixon put her on his enemies list, but many of us adored her.
  In the last year, a stroke robbed Mary of her legendary ability to 
find just the right word. But she remained a passionate observer of 
politics and of life. Many of us hoped that she might regain her 
mastery of words and resume writing. If anyone could conquer the 
ravages of a stroke, Mary seemed like a likely candidate. But Mary will 
live through her words. She was an American treasure.
  Many times this past year, I have missed Mary's wise voice. I am sure 
I will miss her often in the future, too. These are hard times for our 
Nation. We could use Mary's insight, her passionate commitment to peace 
and her fierce belief in democracy. Fortunately, Mary has left us more 
than a half-century of extraordinary work--work for which she won a 
Pulitzer Prize and the respect of untold millions. There is more than 
enough beauty, wit and wisdom in her words to last a lifetime.
  I am honored to have known Mary McGrory. My thoughts and prayers are 
with her family and her many, many friends. We have lost a legend.
  Mary's cousin, Brian McGrory, is a columnist for the Boston Globe. 
Last November, he wrote a column for the Washington Post about what he 
called ``the amazing journey that is Mary McGrory's life'' and ``one of 
the most important, colorful and enduring newspaper careers that the 
American public has had the pleasure to experience.'' The headline on 
the column was ``The Best I'll Ever Know.''
  I ask unanimous consent that his column be printed in the Record.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

               [From the Washington Post, Nov. 11, 2003]

                        The Best I'll Ever Know

                           (By Brian McGrory)

       Today, I ask your indulgence. I'm about to commit the 
     boorish act of bragging about a relative, and I'm hoping 
     you'll understand why.
       Mary McGrory is my cousin. Merely typing those words fills 
     me with pride. For the unknowing, she's a Post columnist, a 
     lion of the left, winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
       Born in Roslindale and educated in Boston, she has written 
     about the world's most significant events for nearly 50 
     years. People still quote her words from the Kennedy 
     assassinations. She landed prominently on President Nixon's 
     enemies list. The elder George Bush once lamented in his 
     private journal, ``She has destroyed me over and over 
     again.''
       I raise these points because in the amazing journey that is 
     Mary McGrory's life, this has been a bittersweet week. 
     Wednesday in New York she received the John Chancellor Award 
     for Excellence in Journalism, but a sad reality came clear 
     amid the laudatory words and the applause.
       Mary fell ill in March, and eight months later she has yet 
     to fully recover. Barring a breakthrough, she has probably 
     written the last of her syndicated columns, ending one of the 
     most important, colorful and enduring newspaper careers that 
     the American public has had the pleasure to experience.
       While most Washington pundits closet themselves with their 
     own profound thoughts, interrupted only by lunch at the Palm 
     with the secretary of Something, Mary employs old-fashioned 
     tools: a sensible pair of shoes, a Bic and a notebook. She 
     haunts congressional hearings. She sits with the unwashed in 
     the back of the White House briefing room.
       And after finding her perpetually lost keys and remembering 
     where she parked, she rushes back to The Post to create 
     elegantly understated prose, on point and on deadline.
       Times have changed in the news business, but Mary never 
     has. Technology baffles her, and I'm not talking about Palm 
     Pilots and Blackberries. I mean the answering machine and the 
     computer. I've received countless voice mails from her that 
     proceed: ``Hello?'' Pause. ``Cousin?'' Pause. ``Click.'' In a 
     rant against Toshiba, she once wrote, ``I came along in an 
     era when the transmission of one's copy did not require an 
     advanced degree from MIT,'' adding of the old days, ``all I 
     had to carry was my portable typewriter, and I never really 
     carried that.''
       Indeed, from the very beginning, she mastered the role of 
     the helpless naif. On her many campaign trips, if her 
     colleagues aren't carrying her jumble of bags, then the 
     candidate probably is. No one is exempt; to her, I'm more 
     porter than reporter.
       But that's just part of the deal. The reward is an 
     invitation to Sunday supper. Members of Congress from both 
     parties, diplomats, newshounds and activists gather regularly 
     to dine on her lasagna and sing Irish songs. Newcomers are 
     first sent to work in her garden; George Stephanopoulos might 
     still be fertilizing her impatiens but for Bill Clinton's 
     victory in 1992.
       Her one true love was the Washington Star--``just a 
     wonderful, kind, welcoming, funny place, full of eccentrics 
     and desperate people,'' she once told an interviewer. Star 
     editor Newby Noyes plucked her from the anonymity of the book 
     section in 1954 to cover the Army-McCarthy hearings with the 
     advice, ``Write it like a letter to your favorite aunt.''
       When the Star closed in 1981, she went to the more formal 
     newsroom of The Post, where she liked to remind people of the 
     fun they didn't have. Still, its staff and owners have poured 
     out their hearts to her since she fell ill, with a generosity 
     like a throwback to another time.
       Hers is a world of soft irony. She checks into elaborate 
     spas in Italy every year, but while there always gains a few 
     pounds. She was audited during the Nixon administration and 
     got a refund. At a stiff Washington party, she once whispered 
     to me, ``Always approach the shrimp bowl like you own it.''
       Blood aside, in my chosen field, she's the best I'll ever 
     know, and that's the joy and the sadness of it all.


[[Page S4345]]


  Mr. DASCHLE. I yield the floor and suggest the absence of a quorum.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The clerk will call the roll.
  The legislative clerk proceeded to call the roll.
  Mr. ALEXANDER. Madam President, I ask unanimous consent the order for 
the quorum call be rescinded.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. Without objection, it is so ordered.

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