His colleagues and friends will write many tributes of my father’s accomplishments, and I will treasure them all.  He was a great man and loved by so many, our hearts are broken.   At the same time we are somehow filled with strength knowing we have such a light to guide us. Dad always knew where to go and how to get there, literally and figuratively.  

 

I want to share what he taught me, his youngest daughter, not as a political leader, but as a person.  His lessons were indelible, and simply revolved around living a good life, one filled with purpose.  He rose early, worked hard, exercised daily, read constantly, treated others fairly, and loved his home and family.  He surrounded himself with talented people and has countless spectacular accomplishments, but most of all he was filled with joy.

 

As kids we were often included in every day political activity.  Whether it was driving to a Lincoln Day dinner or small town parade in the furthest corners of the state, he wanted our company.  It was on those drives I learned the struggles of a dedicated elected official as he worked on difficult issues.  I heard of the terrible impact gambling can have, so never have.  I watched him fight for the farmers and small timber towns of his state against huge national environmental groups, knowing full well those well-funded groups would have the power to defeat him in the next election.  But no one else was fighting for those little towns and businesses, and it was the right thing to do.  He always did the right thing, even if the price was painful.  I lived in Washington, DC for six months while working on the hill, and watched him tackle legislation that often had compelling arguments and enormous ramifications on both sides.  We would run together every morning and I remember asking him—how do you take a side?  His answer was profound, and reflected his political courage: “I was not elected to vote ‘present.’”

 

Dad never held a grudge.  He knew nothing gets done when ego is a motivator, so was always able to compromise to accomplish good.  To that end, he worked with friends and enemies alike, and sometimes people did rotten things for the wrong reasons.  He was always able to move on and work with them again the next day, which I found remarkable, and often hard to understand.  He once told me—“I don’t spend any time worrying about that which I cannot control.”  He simply led by example, day in and day out, and held no animosity in his heart.  As a child I literally never heard him speak a bad word about another person. 

 

He was so smart and so honest everyone came to him for advice, because we all knew if he said it, it was true.  (I’m glad there is Google now, because dad isn’t here to ask.)  There was no fudging of the facts with him, and I know his political staff loved him for it.  He always told them—this statement carries the great merit of being true.  They never had to cover his tracks, they knew exactly what he would say and why, because his beliefs were so strong.

 

In this same vein, he was completely authentic.  His sincerity was so formidable he was incapable of giving false praise.  This trait is virtually non-existent these days, but let me tell you, there is no greater motivator.  We all worked hard for him, and if we did well enough to earn his recognition, we knew it was deserved.  It made us all so happy to make him happy.

 

Dad was frugal, and taught us to be frugal.  As AG the state allowed him the use of a car of his choice.  We always hoped he would choose a sports car or Cadillac, but no.  He drove a Dodge Dart for all those years.  When he went into private practice and was comfortable financially, I remember mom secretly hoping he would buy her a new car.  She drove a ten year old Ford Taurus wagon and talked about how she’d like a Volvo.  For her birthday that year he had her Taurus painted green.  I’m not sure if he was astute enough to realize the enormity of his mistake or if one of us had to tell him, but he bought her a new car the next year.  A Ford Fusion.

 

Each year he would take us to Hawaii.  In December, to stay in military housing with three little kids.  While we loved the time spent with family, finally one year after surviving a hurricane and torrential rain and a beach with treacherous surf with toddlers we said—no more.  Thanks, but we didn’t want to go to Hawaii with you anymore.  So he decided he would move the trip to February and rent a house.  Those memories we cherished.  I visited Europe once, and my uncle picked me up at the airport in Boston.  He called my dad to ask if he could bring the little car or would I have a bunch of stuff since I’d been in Europe for a month.  No, dad said, she’s too cheap, she won’t have bought anything.  I was mortified, because he was right.

 

How many people do you know who don’t care about money in the slightest?  He didn’t.  Fancy cars, fancy clothes, lavish trips—none of these were even on his radar.  All of our vacations as children were trips to the National Association of Attorneys General conferences.  I don’t ever remember taking a vacation that didn’t revolve around his work—i.e; that was free.  His “image,” or what others thought of him, was not part of his thought process, and that is another trait that made for a happy life.  He was always completely satisfied with what he had, material items were unimportant to him.  What he valued was being productive, family and friends, and making a difference in other people’s lives.

 

Dad did not care in the slightest about being popular or “cool,” and always said exactly what he was thinking.  Many of his political opponents and those in the media despised that characteristic.  (My son recently found an exchange he had with Frank Zappa in a Senate Hearing.  Classic Slade—he had zero tolerance for “fluff.”)  I remember coming home from a dog show one weekend and he asked how we had done.  I said we had done well, won Winners Dog and Best of Breed both days.  He said—“Wow.  Your friends must hate you.”  It was a little shocking but I had to laugh, nothing like getting right to the point.

 

He was a man with literally no prejudice and raised us the same way.  He judged you solely on your merits, and his office was filled with women and minorities simply because they had earned a spot.  While he admired smart people, his intelligence was so extraordinary that none of us could compete, although he did inspire everyone around him to be constantly learning and growing.  What he valued was hard work.  He always taught us if you are dedicated to learning all you possibly can and work really hard, you can be the best at anything.  And again, these were not false words from him, he meant it and he lived it.  No one is surprised to see his staff go on to be some of the brightest lights in our communities.  They worked hard because they loved him and wanted to do everything in their power to please him.  I did, too.

 

He never broke rules.  As a kid, we had to be driven a few miles to the barn to ride and care for our horses.  Everyone took the same route, through a neighborhood and the junior high school.  Not dad, he took the long route.  One day I said, why don’t you cut through the junior high?  “Because,” he said, “it’s not a thoroughfare.”  

 

As honest as he was, he was not beyond a little bargaining when it came to family outings.  When I was 11, he wanted to spend the summer riding our bikes from Olympia to Boston to see his family.  Yeah, right, just what I wanted to do.  But he said if we went on the trip he would allow us to buy our own horses.  To a horse crazy kid, this was an inarguable bargaining chip.  Mind you he did not say—come on the bike trip and I will buy you a horse.  No, what he said was save your paper route money and after the bike trip I will allow you to buy your own horse, care for it yourself and pay for its board.  So I spent that year saving my paper route money, and after riding our bikes for 3,300 miles and 47 days, he gave me permission to spend my $300 I’d saved to buy my first horse.  My life was complete.  He helped me with the paper route, but not every day, I could do it myself every day.  But on Sundays he would get up at 5:00 AM with me and drive, because those papers were too heavy to carry on my bicycle.

 

Actually, he is responsible for my love of horses in more ways than one.  He always loved interesting people and brought us wherever he went.  One such person was Stu Bledsoe, a legislator with a ranch in Ellensburg, and when I was three years old, the devoted city father took his kids to see the country.  Stu threw me up in front of him on the saddle, where I promptly spent the rest of the day.  I fell off, got dirty and hurt and embarrassed, but it was the best day of my life and dad approved.  He always encouraged our passions, and to this day I know who I am because of him.  I am a horse person, and while raised by city-living parents, they encouraged us to follow our dreams.  

 

The entire Gorton clan are dog lovers.  Dad’s sister ran an animal shelter out of her home.  Dad loved our dogs, and when we got our first golden retriever, he bought the Richard Walters books and trained him from seven weeks old.  He would go to the baseball diamonds at the local school and teach him hand signals.  Later, when I had begun showing dogs, he and mom came to every dog show, even training their golden in obedience and earning a CD title.  

 

There were downsides to being the daughter of a brilliant debater.  I’ll never forget getting in really big trouble once as a teenager.  He was out of town so I had a day or two to make my argument as to why what I did was justified.  I thought of all my relevant points and was quite confident he would see my side.  When he got home we went for a walk.  By the time we reached the end of our block I had made my case and he had thoroughly shredded it, spelled out my punishment and was back to cheerful banter for the rest of the walk.  I was dumbfounded but not surprised.  There was no defeating dad in any argument.  He was always, without question, the smartest person in the room.

 

After his historically close loss in 2000, our hearts were broken.  The US Senate was his dream job, and he did it as well as anyone possibly could, but was rejected by liberal Washington voters.  As the months rolled by it became clear he had an important next chapter—being a grandfather.  He was so good at it I secretly became glad he was home.  My kids loved him and he was a huge part of their every day life.

 

Not once in my life have I played the “Senator’s daughter” card.  The scowl on his face that would have elicited would be unbearable.  Anyone who knows him knows exactly what I am talking about, and also knows he was unimpressed with those who tooted their own horn.  Thankfully, I believe he raised me with enough confidence and grace that I never needed that card, I have made my own way, and know he approves.  

 

When it was all said and done, what he brought to life was what he got out of life—happiness.  We were raised to believe we should go to school to get an education, but make a living doing what we loved.  That being happy brought a far greater wealth than money ever could.  I know there are literally hundreds of his former staffers out there in the world today who carry his teachings in their hearts, and are happy people, doing something they love.  And of all the legacies he has left, for me, that is the greatest.  Thank you, dad, for giving me a happy life.  For that you may rest in peace, your legacy is priceless.