They were raised in farm country and not wealthy. Both men traced their ancestors far back, one to a conquistador traveling our valley in 1598, the other to a young Brit who immigrated in 1635.
One served four years in the Navy during World War II, the other graduated from the Naval Academy right after the war.
Each was a partner in a loving, lifelong marriage that could be an example to all of us. (Death ended one after 63 years and will soon end the other after 76.)
They were deeply religious (one Catholic, one Southern Baptist, until the Baptists ceased letting women be pastors.) Both were gentle, courteous, and thoughtful, yet could be firm when appropriate.
As boys, both saw ethnic prejudices up close.
One was Hispanic/Anglo. When he and his wife moved out to an old house in Mesilla (not yet so fancy), visitors from his professional life said, “You can’t raise your kids in this sort of place.” He replied, “I was born in this sort of place.” The other, a white southern boy, lived in a village populated mostly by “coloreds.” His staunchly segregationist father let him befriend Black farmhands’ kids. Both grew to oppose racism passionately.
Both continued to serve the public into their 90s. When one retired from teaching, he got talked into running for our state legislature and served 20 years, known as “the Conscience of the Legislature.” For the rest of his life, he actively supported progressive ideas and inspired and mentored younger candidates. The other, after politics, won a Nobel Prize and was fostering peace and hammering nails with Habitat for Humanity for decades.
J. Paul Taylor was a beloved friend, with a great sense of humor. He repeatedly amazed me. Meeting scores of people, he not only knew everyone’s name but asked after each person’s parents, siblings, or dog. Listening to him talk about the legislature with a mutual friend who’d known him back then, I wondered if he ever forgot anything.
I never met Jimmy Carter. Wikipedia notes that “As a dark horse candidate not well known outside of Georgia, Carter won the 1976 Democratic presidential nomination.” As a young reporter in Las Cruces in 1975, I suddenly noticed all these middle-class folks from Georgia walking our streets, visiting with people. They said that soon we’d be hearing about their wonderful friend and neighbor Jimmy Carter, ‘cause he’d be running for President. They were sincere and persuasive, but no one felt real sure they were sane.
The first time candidate Taylor canvassed in Mesilla, he emerged from the first house at the same time a supporter finished a whole block. One year, a constituent’s dog bit him. Days later, someone asked if he’d confirmed with the owner that the dog had been vaccinated against rabies. He said he hadn’t, because asking would make the owner feel so terrible about the bite. He just looked over the fence every so often to make sure the dog was acting normally.
Both fought for justice early, without waiting ‘til it was fashionable. J Paul did much to lessen inequality here; and Carter’s early antiracism positions were startling in a southern politician. (Right before and right after Carter, Georgia’s governors were virulent racists.
These were special people. One died this month at 102. The other, 98, is receiving hospice care at home. Each enriched our world considerably.
– 30 --
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| J Paul Is 95! |
I previously wrote columns on J Paul June 10, 2012 ( "A Saturday Afternoon in Mesilla" ), May 11, 2014 ( “An Admirable Friend” ), September 7, 2015 ( "Where Love Abides - J Paul Taylor is 95!" ) [this was prepared as a column but events preempted it], September 3, 2017 ( "Heroes at 97 - Marthe Cohn and J Paul Taylor" ) [this one’s less about J Paul and more about Marthe Cohn], and September 2, 2018 ( "Civil Political Discourse -- an Endangered Practice" ), and mentioned him in numerous others.
He was a wonderful man, a great friend, and, obviously, someone who helped many, either privately, in personal relationships or as a teacher, or publicly, as legislator and respected and beloved elder statesman.
Reading through those five columns, and reflecting on more private times with Paul, is like leafing through a photo album. (And most, particularly the one from his 95th birthday, include many photos.)
What none of this quite says is how delightful he was to spend time with one-on-one or in a smaller group. He stayed witty, sharp, curious, and caring at ages most people won’t reach and many will be querulous, quarrelsome, or no longer home. It helps that he was beloved. (I can remember only one person in the past decade who had something negative to say about him, and, as I recall, it was a political grudge more than personal.) But he was beloved because he made himself beloved, by who he was and how he treated others. (A cherished personal memory is of his face when he spoke of my Sunday columns and added, “I get so mad when they attack you!”)
One day we took a ride to the home he grew up in. Kari and I interviewed him, while Rob and sometimes I shot video. It was an interesting visit to his past, adding a dimension to our knowledge of him.
The second of my Sunday columns on Paul includes this:
Though he would likely demur, he has at every stage of his life been an example to his community. As a young man of mixed ethnicity in an unwise world, he got on with his work; was a loving husband and father, and a caring teacher; and (without a chip on his shoulder) said what needed to be said, probably in a way uniquely capable of being heard by those who needed to hear. Later, at an age when most are preoccupied with golf or bridge, he battled politically for what he believed. At an age most of us won't even reach, he continues to stand up for what he believes is right. Quietly, with an apparent humility that only makes his words more effective.
That column was also interspersed with this a poem, for what it’s worth:
In
Mexican dress
the
children dance as they've learned.
The
village elder
has
only to smile and clap
with
delight he seems to feel.
He
has seen seasons
come
and go, fought many fights.
Now
they honor him.
His
body fails more and more,
as
they learn to control theirs.
He
waves as they pass.
He
knows all the village kids,
taught
their grandfathers.
When
a great tree dies, it leaves
a
huge hole where its roots were.
The account of his 95th birthday party, at the Farm and Ranch Heritage Museum, gives a flavor of J Paul:
J. Paul is a gentleman. He is smart, funny, and sweet-natured; but when he stands up for what he believes, he has a spine of steel. . . .
Now, as Paul speaks, the Organs are visible through the window behind him. I remember listening when he spoke briefly at an outdoor press conference of Hispanic leaders calling for support for the Monument proposal. The nearby Robledos Mountains, part of the proposed monument, were named for an ancestor of J. Paul's. Tonight a state official reads a tribute birthday letter to Paul signed by Mr. and Mrs. Obama.
. . .
Some
folks have a quality of time and culture I respect. Their generations
intertwine like vines, growing thick and strong with the decades.
They did not arrive last year from Michigan.
 |
| Mark Medoff with Hope |
Watching the genuine joy and affection with which Paul greets all these people from so many moments in his long life, I remember his reunion at that book-signing with a schoolmate who now lived in Hatch. They hadn't seen each other in years. With neither able to drive, they might not get to talk again soon – or ever. I do not see him tonight, and wonder whether they will meet again.
Paul combines love of history with openness to new ideas; Catholic faith with progressive politics; and the wisdom of age with youth-like joy.
Paul
combines love of history with openness to new ideas; Catholic faith
with progressive politics; and the wisdom of age with youth-like
joy.
Paul's
beautiful house in Mesilla is a state monument that will teach
generations of children and tourists something of what life was like
in a vanished time and place.
One
of Paul's daughters said that what mattered most in that house was
“the love that abided there.” I see it in Paul's eyes.
You’ve more than earned your rest, amigo!
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