Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, April 19, 1991 TAG: 9104190093
SECTION: NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL PAGE: A1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: LOIS ROMANO THE WASHINGTON POST
DATELINE: WASHINGTON LENGTH: Long
There is no one left on the Hill like him: "When I first got here 37 years ago, I was number 435 out of 435," says Congressman William Natcher. "I looked around the House floor and thought, `None of you are ever going to die and none of you are ever going to retire.' Now, here I sit."
Where the gentleman from Kentucky sits is fourth from the top in the House of Representatives - in terms of both age and seniority. At 81, he is one of the most powerful members of Congress as evidenced by the $200 billion purse he controls as chairman of the labor, health and human services and education subcommittee of the House Appropriations Committee.
He is a throwback to a time when seniority meant something, when a campaign could be paid for with a Texaco credit card, and roll calls weren't parliamentary weapons used to keep members in Washington.
That this Democratic representative has, for nearly four decades, made a total of 16,883 votes and quorum calls, paid for every campaign out of his own pocket and rarely uses more than a third of the congressional allowance provided to hire staff, is no small feat. He is the lone member of Congress who can boast as much.
"When I talk to new members,I say to them maybe it's better in the beginning to miss one vote that isn't so important," says the member who has missed not a one. "I say to them I don't advise you to do this. When you've been here as long as I have and never missed a day or a vote, it's right around your neck."
He is a sweet and courtly man, who although revered by his congressional colleagues commands little attention off the Hill. "He fits the part of the congressman from the tip of his polished black shoes to the top of his white hair," says Vic Fazio, D-Calif., a member of the Appropriations Committee.
"The ultimate Southern politician," adds Dennis Eckart, D-Ohio. "I assure you he knows every member's name."
The worst that is said about the man amounts to this: He is stubbornly practical about getting his massive appropriations bill - a prime target for wild-card funding amendments - through the Congress and past the White House. No horse trader, he. This singlemindedness, it is said, makes him rather inflexible when it comes to earmarking new or controversial monies, such as abortion funding. And predictably, he manifests his time-earned eccentricities.
Hearings start at 10 a.m. sharp, adjourn at noon and restart at 2 p.m. No exceptions. "And when you're interested in a particular project," advises one staffer, "you better not leave to go to the bathroom - he stops for no one. That old man will sit there during a [bill-drafting session]in 100-degree weather in his three-piece navy suit till 8 o'clock at night without moving. And you better stay real close to him or you'll lose whatever it is you want."
He has never cared to deal with the media, not during his campaigns, or his years as the controversial chairman of the District of Columbia appropriations subcommittee, or through recent time when he has been sought out for friendly stories. He agreed to chat for this piece, but when the interview was abruptly interrupted by - what else - a roll call, Natcher refused to speak to the reporter again. "I believe we're finished," he said crisply when approached after a hearing.
Nonetheless,for an enlightening 15 minutes he shared his philosophy and thoughts about the job he loves. There is something so poignant, even sad, about how this man defines his life, his loves, his losses, his universe, through his perfect voting record.
He says he had not realized he was voting at 100 percent until 1958, five years into his tenure, when a clerk phoned him to inform him. "Ever since then, I made up my mind I'd see where I could take it," he says.
He takes no chances with his vote. He enters the electronic voting card he carries in his wallet not once, as required, but five or six times at different stations on the House floor. "Then I ask the floor clerk to check to make sure it took," he says. "I sat there one day and watched one of my colleagues vote - and we sat and waited for the light to go on [next to his name on the board] and it never did."
He says he has had "a thousand narrow escapes" but will only speak of one.
When his wife of 53 years passed away in January, he says, he simply accepted the fact that he would miss his first roll-call vote. "I just said to myself, `Well, this is it,' " he says with resignation. "I just made up my mind to the fact . . . "
There was the Monday he needed to fly his "beloved Virginia" to her final resting place in Kentucky. There was the day of viewing at the funeral parlor. And finally, there was the burial itself, scheduled for a Thursday that the House was in session. "I would have missed five votes that day," he recalls with precision.
But, he says, the days seemed to break his way and the services were delayed because the six grandchildren could not make it to Kentucky in time. "But I had some help," he says, pointing skyward. "I guess it was just meant for me not to miss a vote."
A staff of "five ladies" - his words - helps him in his work. "I don't have any need for an administrative assistant, a press secretary or a legislative aide," he says flatly. "We get it all done. I don't need to pay any 18 people."
What he does get done with such a low overhead is impressive. As financial puppeteer for some of the most popular and sensitive social programs around - Job Corps, student aid, Social Security administration, biomedical research - he is on the minds of many special interests. Labor groups and universities parade before him, abortion advocates wince at his name, members beg him for pennies.
He listens to all, changes his mind for virtually none.
The job has enormous potential for power brokering. That he doesn't take a dime of campaign money, of course, greatly diminishes the input of lobbying groups who would so like to sway him. "They all come to see me and I hear them out nice," he says. "But this is the best system. My wife - she didn't like the way they did things up here, but she believed you could be in politics and do it right."
He still runs his own re-election campaign, driving himself from event to event. He says his last campaign cost him a little more than $6,000.
The question is posed: Is he planning to cast his last vote any time soon?
"Oh no, no," he says, quite astonished by the question. "No plans. No plans at all."
And then, the bell tolls once again for Bill Natcher.
by CNB