Memories of “Uncle Don”

Don Fuqua

By Matt Fuqua

I thoroughly enjoyed the recent article written by Judge Thomas. It brought back a flood of memories of my many conversations with Don. Before getting to a few of the more humorous stories, I want to share some political ones.

One day we were talking about President Johnson. Don told me what a great politician LBJ was, emphasizing that this was not necessarily the same thing as being a great man. He described what later became known as “the Johnson Treatment.” LBJ, who stood about 6’4”, would get uncomfortably close in face-to-face meetings—crowding the other person, looming over them, and punctuating his points with a hand on the shoulder. Don said it was impossible to ignore and nearly impossible to resist.

According to Don, LBJ was just as persuasive on the telephone. He described a particular call involving a controversial bill, during which LBJ applied pressure, charm, and sheer force of personality until Don saw the issue LBJ’s way—or at least close enough for government work.

Years later, I experienced a small version of this myself at the LBJ Presidential Library in Austin. There’s a phone you can pick up, and LBJ’s voice comes on the line. Even knowing it was a recording, I could feel exactly what Don had described.

Not long ago, we talked about the painful level of partisanship in Washington today and how it poisons everything it touches. Don said that when Reagan was president, he routinely invited congressional leadership to the White House for happy hour. No politics—just conversation and good-natured camaraderie. Don said Reagan could really tell a joke.

He also talked about Tip O’Neill playing golf every Friday with the House Minority Leader. They’d fight like hell all week, then walk the fairways together on Friday. It’s hard not to think the country might be better off if more problems were solved between tee shots.

I hadn’t realized until later how early Don was elected to Congress. My first real political memory was his race against Billy Matthews. Billy was a sitting member of Congress in Gainesville; Don was the sitting member in Tallahassee. When the districts were combined, the race became inevitable—and brutal.

Don’s campaign aide, Herb Wadsworth (a political whiz kid if there ever was one), told him the key was Columbia County. Herb said whichever candidate won Columbia County would win the race, and that Don needed to open his campaign office there. Herb was right. Don won Columbia County—and after that, he never really faced serious opposition again.

I remember that campaign for a different reason.

There was a rally at a Winn-Dixie in Starke. I was riding with my grandfather, who had these big old Blues Brothers-style speakers strapped to the roof, blasting “All the Way with Fuqua” on a loop. I was about six years old.

While walking through the parking lot, I was backed over by some enormous car—something like a ’56 Chevy, sitting so high off the ground it never actually touched me. I wasn’t hurt, but it scared the hell out of everyone there, especially my family.

Years later, in the 1990s, I was in a hearing in Jackson County. The sitting judge recused himself, and they brought in a county judge from Starke.

The judge looked at me and asked, “Are you related to Don Fuqua?”

I said yes.

He said, “There was a kid who got run over at a rally in Starke years ago—was that you?”

I told him it was.

I won the case on a motion to dismiss—strictly on the merits, of course.

Another time, I was driving back from Stetson to the Panhandle for the weekend when I got pulled over in Chiefland on Highway 27, right by the big lumber mill. I was driving an El Camino Super Sport that my dad had handed down to me.

Back then, you got out of the car and met the trooper at the back bumper. He looked at the car and said, “Super Sport, huh?” Then he noticed the Fuqua for Congress sticker and asked if I was related.

I told him Don was my uncle.

He proceeded to tell me a story about picking Don and a young kid up at the local airport and driving them to a seafood festival.

Same kid. That was me.

Don had taken me to the Florida–Auburn game, where we sat in the President’s box. We lost 63–14—the battle of Reaves and Alvarez versus Sullivan and Beasley—but it didn’t matter to me. We flew there in a Cessna. It was my first airplane ride, and I remember every bit of it. That same trooper showed me how he clocked speeders—and even let me ride in the front seat.

That goodwill didn’t last forever. In 1983, he told me to “tell Don hello”—and that I could pay the ticket at the courthouse.