REMEMBERING TWO GOVERNORS

As you know, two former Connecticut governors, Republican Thomas Meskill and Democrat William O'Neill died within a month of each other. O'Neill was laid to rest just last Thursday, Nov. 29th. Newspaper stories detailed their service as governor. In this week's Connecticut Report, I'm offering a few personal remembrances, ironic or humorous items, I recall as a reporter who dealt with both governors.

In 1974, Thomas Meskill had decided not to seek another term as governor, instead eying a presidential appointment to a federal judgeship. This may have seemed a graceful exit from politics for Meskill, but history turned it into a real nail biter.

Richard Nixon was president in 1974, and Meskill's judgeship appointment went to the White House back burner, along with virtually everything else, as Nixon struggled with the Watergate scandal.

In August, Meskill's press aides grew testy over reporters questions about if and when Nixon would appoint Meskill. On the evening of August 8th, Nixon announced he would resign the presidency the following day. So while the world waited for Nixon's official exit, the State Capitol press corps sought the "local angle," Meskill's appointment.

Finally, it was learned Nixon had signed Meskill's nomination as a federal appeals court judge as one of his last acts in office.

In 1997, Connecticut Public Television (CPTV) arranged a special broadcast featuring three governors: Meskill, O'Neill, and then Gov. John Rowland. I co-hosted that TV event, taped at the Governor's Executive Residence in Hartford.

Just before tape time, I chatted with Meskill. Suddenly he said he was having serious misgivings, explaining he worried it would be unwise for him to answer questions that might compromise his objectivity as a judge. I understood his "conflict of interest" fears, but I also knew CPTV producers had labored mightily to schedule all three governors and arrange this broadcast.

I told Meskill not to worry. "If there's any question you're uncomfortable with, just say so, explain you are a judge, and we'll move on," I said. "Everyone will understand." He smiled weakly but remained concerned.

The taping went off without a hitch and Meskill was perhaps the chattiest and most engaged guest on the show. Afterwards I joked that he'd obviously gotten past his "shyness." He laughed and said: "I guess with the cameras and the reporters questions, the old juices just started flowing again!" Apparently you can take a governor out of politics, but you can't take the political instincts out of an ex-governor.

Gov. Bill O'Neill had his own misgivings about the media from the beginning of his tenure, as he was thrust into the spotlight when a dying Gov. Ella Grasso resigned from office. O'Neill always dubbed himself "a work horse, not a show horse." But he knew exactly who Bill O'Neill was, and one day in 1983, big city reporters from New York would learn about that the hard way.

On June 28, 1983 the Mianus River bridge collapse occurred on I-95 in Greenwich. Three people died. Late that afternoon, a large crowd of reporters from Connecticut and New York City gathered in a nearby room for the governor's news conference.

As O'Neill neared the podium, New York TV reporters began "live shot" lead-ins, each aggressive reporter trying to drown out their colleagues. The governor was not pleased. It had been a long and tragic day and O'Neill's patience was wearing thin.

"I will begin my remarks when it's quiet in here," O'Neill said. The upset reporters tried to goad him into action, shouting: "Go, go now, governor—go ahead, go!" O'Neill just glared. Connecticut reporters, familiar with O'Neill's "I'll do it my way" persona, smiled, probably the only smiles on that sad day. When the Big Apple "media circus" finally went silent, O'Neill delivered his remarks.

On a happier occasion, the annual State Capitol press corps Christmas party, O'Neill tried to add a touch of holiday fun. He showed up wearing a brightly-colored Christmas tie. "Watch this," he told reporters. He pressed the tie and it delivered a Christmas song from an embedded computer chip.

The governor's gambit produced the desired laughs and applause, but the joke turned around on him. He couldn't get the musical tie to stop. After pressing it several times without success, O'Neill removed the tie and put it in his pocket. A muffled Christmas carol could still be heard. Perturbed, O'Neill gave the tie to his state police escort who took it away.

O'Neill later told me that wasn't the end of the story. When he and the trooper went to their car after the party, the musical tie was still going strong, tucked away in the glove compartment. Arriving back at the governor's mansion, O'Neill tossed the tie to his wife, Nikki, who’d told him to wear it.

After hearing the governor's musical tale of woe, O'Neill told me Nikki ended the drama, getting a hammer out of the hardware drawer and smashing the tie's offending computer chip, so "peace on Earth" could once again reign.

Posted 12/03/07

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