"I mark the last days of Hubert Humphrey as the high point of bipartisan decency in my career. Hubert Humphrey died a senator, and in his last months in the Capitol, cancer was wasting him. We all watched it happen. His hair was gone; he was emaciated. He was too diminished to take part in real debate, but he’d show up to vote. He loved the Senate. "The Senate is a place filled with goodwill and good intentions," Humphrey once said, "and if the road to hell is paved with them, then it’s a pretty good detour." In his last days it was like he didn’t want to leave the chamber. He’d stay on the floor late into the night, and he and his friend Senator Barry Goldwater would talk about things they’d accomplished together and separately in the Senate. Politically, the two men could not have been further apart. Humphrey had been the vice presidential candidate in 1964 when Goldwater ran as the Republican presidential nominee. And the Boss’s convention speech that year was a shot across the bow of Gold-waterism. He’d listed the many programs that moderate Republicans in the Senate had voted for, following each with "but not Senator Barry Goldwater." They’d unexpectedly run into each other in an airport on the campaign trail a few weeks later and stopped for a friendly greeting. As they parted, somebody overheard Goldwater say, "Well, keep punching, Hubert." By the end of 1977, it became increasingly clear that the Boss would not be around much longer. And on the Senate floor one day, Barry Goldwater walked across the aisle and enveloped Hubert Humphrey. Goldwater was so big and Humphrey so frail that Humphrey almost disappeared. The two men stood for a long moment, locked in a hug, and I could see that both men were crying. They made no effort to hide it."