I suppose every reporter who ever covered the State Capitol or a political campaign has his or her favorite Edwin Edwards story. In that regard, I know I’m not unique, but I happen to have had two interactions with the man that impressed me deeply. And there’re two other stories that, while I was in no way involved, remain among my favorites.
Gov. Edwards died this morning at 93 and like him or not, there will not be another quite like him in Louisiana politics. He was not, as some might like to paint him, a throwback to the Huey Long era. He was his own man who built his own legacy – good, bad, or indifferent – without any help from the Kingfish.
My experience with the man goes all the way back to the mid-1970s when I was a snot-nosed reporter for the Baton Rouge State-Times. (Some say little has change in my personality over the ensuing half-century, but that’s another story.)
Jim Hughes, then-managing editor of the State-Times, approached my desk one morning to say he’d received a call that things were amiss at Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond, where school president Clea Parker was said to be stealing the university blind through a combination of chicanery and mismanagement. He asked me to drive over and snoop around.
I did, spending the better part of a week on the campus talking to various officials and examining financial records. I even interviewed Parker, who broke down and wept during our interview at the idea that he would be accused of wrongdoing. If Parker was guilty of anything, I concluded, it of being too trusting of those in his inner circle.
I reported back to Hughes that I could find nothing that warranted a story and he said not to worry about it anymore.
A couple of weeks later, I visited family in Ruston for Christmas and dropped by the offices of the local newspaper, The Daily Leader, where I had begun my journalistic odyssey back in 1966 (I would work for the paper on four separate occasions during my career). I mentioned to publisher Tom Kelly, who had first hired me off the street as an advertising account rep, the dead-end I’d encountered at SLU.
He suddenly snapped his fingers and said, “My brother-in-law teaches there and he recently told me that a fellow professor (who Kelly named, but I won’t after so many years because, frankly, it would serve no purpose) had stopped at his table in the student center and announced that he was going to be the next president of Southeastern. He said Gov. Edwards had promised him the job.”
Now I had a hook on which to hang my story – provided I could get confirmation from Edwards, whom I’d never met.
When I returned to work on Monday, I naively walked over to the Capitol, rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and announced I wanted to see the governor (keep in mind, I was not a Capitol beat reporter, nor had I called for an appointment).
The receptionist replied, “Certainly. Have a seat and I’ll let the governor know you’re here.” (Years later, it would literally prove impossible to get Bobby Jindal to even return a call, much less acknowledge your presence). I waited all of five or six minutes before being ushered into the governor’s office. I sat down in front of his desk which was unoccupied. I sat alone in the room for just a minute or two before I became aware of someone walking behind me, coming up on my right side. I looked up to see Edwards stride past holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He stepped up into the seat of his chair and sat on top of the backrest, a most unconventional position for the chief executive for the State of Louisiana, or any other state, to say the least. “May I help you?” he asked.
“Governor, did you promise the presidency of Southeastern to _________?” I blurted. So much for subtlety.
The man never blinked nor did he hesitate. “What I promised _______ was that if the presidency became vacant, I would recommend him for the position and since I appoint all the members of the Board of Trustees (of State Colleges and Universities), my recommendation would carry a certain amount of weight. Does that answer your question?”
Boom! I had my story straight from the horse’s mouth.
That afternoon, after the paper came out with my story splashed across the front page, I got a call from the furious professor. He was screaming at me, denying the content of the story. I waited until he finished and then said as calmly as I could, “Sir, if you have a problem with the facts of the story, please take it up with the governor. He was my source.”
I never heard another word about it.
Another time, when I was editor of the Daily Leader (on my fourth tour there) I had occasion to call Edwards about a story I was working on. He was not in and I left a message for him to return my call. An hour or so later, the phone rang and a voice on the other end said, “This is Edwin Edwards. You wanted to talk to me?” No secretary calling to tell me to hold for the governor. Just EWE his own bad self returning his own calls. Years later, he told me that was his policy with the press. “I figure they’re busy and want to talk directly to me and I found I got much better treatment if I didn’t make them talk to an intermediary first,” he explained.
Now for those other two stories.
In 1971, when Edwards ran for governor the first time, his chief opponent was State Sen. (later US Sen.) J. Bennett Johnston of Shreveport. As usual in Louisiana’s gubernatorial campaigns, there are about a dozen or so minor candidates. One of those was a guy named Warren J. “Puggy” Moity of New Iberia. Moity was a colorful character who added a dash of spice to any campaign he was involved in and ’71 was no different (he would receive 0.76% of the vote in that election).
Among the charges he threw out with reckless abandon during the campaign was his claim that Edwards was gay.
A few days after Moity made his outlandish claim, the candidates were scheduled to debate at the old Capitol House Hotel (formerly known as the Heidelberg Hotel where Huey Long liked to hang out in the day). When Edwards walked into the lobby, one of the first people he saw was Moity. He never broke stride as he walked up to Moity and planted a wet one on his cheek.
The other story involved former Gov. Jimmie Davis, who lived in retirement behind the governor’s mansion, across the lake from the State Capitol. Davis regaled in telling the story of how he was outside working one day, “knocking down dirt-dobber nests and spider webs when I saw Gov. Edwards walking straight toward the lake. I realized that he was going to try and walk across the water on his way to the Capitol. I stopped and watched in horror and sure enough, about halfway across, he sank like a rock. There wasn’t anything I could do but walk out there, pull him up out of the water and carry him the rest of the way.”
Rest in peace, Governor.
Thank you for telling these stories Tom. I was on the campaign trail in 2014 with the governor a lot when he was running for the 6th CD seat. He could have ignored me but he didn’t. He always spoke with me and even took the time to introduce me to folks. By the end of the campaign we would walk in to events together and I was privileged to witness him work at close range. Amazing man, great sense of humor, and relentless in his efforts. Having a someone like him act as a mentor in action for someone like me who had never been in politics before was a great opportunity.
Great stories, Tom. A common friend of ours, the late Dr. F. Jay Taylor, president of Louisiana Tech had a very similar policy with media. When I was editor of the Leader I needed to ask Taylor a question on deadline for that afternoon’s paper. Tech media guru (another common friend) Wiley Hilburn reached Taylor at the Capitol where he was seeking approval on a Tech project. I got my return call within 10 minutes. Taylor knew of our deadlines and needs and later told me he learned that from Edwards. What current politicians could learn from the past courtesies.
My dad was a fervent supported of EWE. I remember that Gov Edwards was the only politician he ever campaigned for. I still have numerous pictures of EWE with us, and various other family members during numerous campaign Jambalaya sales, and even though we were certainly not a family of political moguls, the good Governor visited us at our small home numerous times. There hasn’t been another governor that I think would ever do something like that. After retiring from the military, I ran into him at the local Sams Club here in town a few years ago, and although I’m certain that he couldn’t possibly recognize me after nearly 30 years, he greeted me like an old friend.
God bless him and my sympathies to the family. He certainly earned his place as a Louisiana Legend.
The thing that always impressed me about EWE was his innate charisma. He drew attention like a magnet. I saw this many times when he would, for example, enter legislative committee rooms. He would stand in the back, at least momentarily, and all eyes in the crowded room would be drawn to him – You had the perception that a subtle spotlight shined on him, separating him from the crowd.
I last saw him at Raymond Laborde’s funeral, five and a half years ago. Same thing. He sat in an inconspicuous position in a middle of the sanctuary pew, but your eyes were drawn to him and he looked you directly in the eye as you passed him. He delivered a very entertaining and upbeat eulogy.
He was truly gifted and his was a presence like none other I have ever witnessed.
Welcome laughs. One notable man among many notable natives of the Pelican State.
Waaay back when I was an editor/ reporter for a Baton Rouge weekly, I called Gov. Edwards’ office to speak with him about a story. His office said he would return the call, as he always did. That night, my then-husband and I were having a few people over for dinner. In the days before portable cell phones, the home phone rang and my husband answered as I was up to my elbows in food prep. Spouse said loudly, “Hey, there’s some a**hole claiming to be Gov. Edwards on the phone for you.” I shushed him and took the call on the bedroom extension. I said Hello, Governor, thanks for calling back.” The governor replied very pleasantly, “Glad to talk with you. Please tell whoever answered the phone that I AM Edwin Edwards, the a**hole in question.” Spouse, listening in on the kitchen extension, was speechless and embarrassed when I returned to the kitchen. I told him the governor ALWAYS returned calls timely to journalists. Some time later we attended a social event where the governor was present and I introduced Spouse to him. The governor was too gracious to reference that unfortunate phone call, but both of them remembered it. It was in their eyes – one of them amused and the other very uncomfortable.