Ottawa Citizen: Andrew Cohen’s tribute to Keith Davey

It is one of those ironies that they should bury Keith Davey on a wintry day falling neatly between the 50th anniversary of the inauguration of John F. Kennedy and the fifth anniversary of the election of Stephen Harper.

Of Jack Kennedy, a then-rising Davey knew much. He admired JFK, the tough, stylish patrician who ran America’s first modern campaign in 1960. Brandishing a well-thumbed copy of Theodore White’s The Making of the President, Keith Davey studied that seminal election and adapted many of its innovations.

Of Stephen Harper, an ailing Davey knew little. Still, he would have marvelled at how Harper has survived minority government longer than Lester Pearson, whom Davey came to Ottawa to elect a generation ago.
Davey was the foremost political strategist of his time. He was a consummate electioneer who understood what it takes to win and hold power in an increasingly urban, diverse democracy.

As Thomas Axworthy said brilliantly at his funeral the other day, while others were the architects of the Just Society, Davey was ‘the general contractor.’ He learned early on the new mechanics of politics — the use of polls, the training of candidates, the power of television, the possibilities of computers.

Despite missteps, Davey was a reason the Liberals would govern Canada (all but for the nine-month Tory interregnum) from 1963 to 1984. They called him The Rainmaker.

He did this with a prodigious recall of polls and precincts, an understanding of retail politics, and a gift for organization. This didn’t make him an intellectual. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he once told a leading financier. ‘And what I do I don’t like. So let’s agree to disagree and have a nice lunch.’

He had bedrock beliefs: a strong central government, an egalitarian society, an honourable place for Quebec in Canada and an effective place for Canada in the world. He loved Canada; the Maple Leaf was draped over his coffin.

Yet to talk about Keith Davey as a partisan does not explain the man. It doesn’t say why a thousand mourners gathered to remember someone who disappeared a decade ago, when he descended into a prison called Alzheimer’s.

To those who knew him, he was agent of anecdote, consumer of newspapers, enthusiast of sports, conveyor of gossip, lover of people. With Keith, conversation flowed like a river with endless tributaries on the play of the Toronto Blue Jays, the legacy of the Yankees, the failings of the media, the prospects for the Democrats.

In his unalloyed optimism, Keith Davey was Hubert Humphrey. He disliked rudeness or fakery. He found joy in public life. He loved the Senate, his altar and his oxygen.

If Central Casting were to create a Senator, it would be Keith Davey. The silver hair, the winning smile, the distinctive stoop, the easy manner. The chalk pinstriped, double-breasted black suits, the ubiquitous  handkerchief, the polka-dot tie, the impeccable shirt.

“You look sharp,” he’d say, though never as sharp as he.

Keith had real views, but he had friends of every prejudice; he never held my fondness for the Montreal Canadiens against me, for example. He would laugh uproariously — oh, that laugh and broad, bearish smile — whenever we’d discuss a prominent fellow Liberal who was (and is) a tiresome windbag.

Occasionally, Keith would share an intimate detail of his past and shrug: ‘What did I know, a WASP from North Toronto?’

Actually, a lot. He was shrewd and smart, which is why he sustained two influential prime ministers. At root, he was loyal.

He knew the meaning of loyalty, and it was returned to him from his friends, whom he always helped, and his wife, the elegant Dorothy, and his devoted children.

In the 1990s, we lunched regularly. He favoured the all-day breakfast. ‘So, what are they saying at The Globe?’ he’d ask, mining the natural symbiosis between journalists and politicians.

Rarely does one see a person of such affection, self-effacement, and contentment in life.

“I breakfast at the Park Plaza and I lunch at The Senator,” he mused. ‘My friends are Bobby Baun, Red Kelly, Norm Atkins. I buy my suits at Harry Rosen. I have season’s tickets to the Blue Jays. I go to Tanglewood and Stratford. I have great children. And I’m married to the most wonderful woman in the world.’

In the spring of 1996, Keith turned 70. At a dinner in his honour he announced that he would leave the Senate five years early. Keith knew his mind was going. It was the beginning of his long recessional.

His friends would ignore the mental lapses, the double-booking of appointments, the circular conversations. He knew. ‘I am not the person I was,’ he declared one day. When I tried to dissuade him, he was firm, even sharp.

“You don’t understand. I’m losing my memory.”

And so he did. But Keith Davey never lost his humanity. Rain he made. Sunshine he gave.

Andrew Cohen is a professor of journalism and international affairs at Carleton University. E-mail: andrewzcohen@yahoo.ca