It worked. It really worked.
They were an unlikely pair: one the son of a saloonkeeper, the other the son of a minister.
One rejoiced at the end of the workday because now he could read whatever he wanted, not what he had to read. The other rejoiced because it meant gathering with friends over cold beer and chicken wings, and an irreverent, laughter-laced review of that workday.
One learned his politics just listening while sitting atop a stack of beer cases in one of democracy’s greatest forums, the neighborhood bar – in this case his father’s neighborhood bar. The other was a church mouse while his father navigated the sometimes-dicey terrain of a progressive minister presiding over a conservative church.
One attended the University of Michigan, the other Wayne State University.
Despite differences, they had much in common. Both loved family. Nothing was more important. Both shared a deep and abiding love for the state of Michigan, were proud that they had forged careers in public service to their state, loved that they had a positive impact on the lives of its citizenry. And both loved the institution that was – and still is – the Michigan House of Representatives, “The People’s House.”
And when the events of 1992 brought their paths together, Paul Hillegonds, a west Michigan Republican, and Curtis Hertel, a Detroit Democrat, would forge a memorable page in the state’s political history.
Paul Hillegonds
For some years around the Michigan Capitol, I was not close to Paul Hillegonds. I knew him, even admired him, but we were not warm friends. But as time went on, we worked on many civic and health care issues together and did, in fact, become close friends.
He grew up the son of a minister in a middle-class home in Holland, Mich., a town known for its Tulip Festival that annually attracts visitors from around the world, a town steeped in rich Dutch heritage.
Paul’s father, a proud World War II veteran, loved history and politics. Paul recalls being dragged from the basement while practicing with his rock band to watch Winston Churchill’s funeral on television. Nevertheless, he did absorb his father’s interest in history and politics.
Given that his father was a progressive pastor of a conservative church, young Paul was afforded an ongoing tutorial on the sometimes intense and ruthless political in-fighting of church politics. His father also served as chaplin at nearby Hope College. Hope mirrored other college campuses of the 1960s; rife with opposition to the Vietnam War and a student body that embraced the then embryonic Civil Rights Movement. But in nearly all-white Holland, the Civil Rights Movement was a distant problem.
His time at the University of Michigan (U-M) heavily influenced his future career in politics. He acquired a deep concern for social justice, and civil rights in particular. He marched with his friends, carried signs, but quickly concluded carrying a sign was not enough – the system had to be engaged to make a difference.
Military conscription, the dreaded draft, was a major issue of the day. Paul wrote a 50-page paper on why young men applied for Conscientious Objector (CO) status, and seriously contemplated doing so himself. He sought the wisdom of his father, the World War II veteran, who left the decision to Paul but pointed out that as a CO he would be marked for life and his ability to make a difference diminished.
Following graduation from U-M, armed with a degree in political science, Paul accepted an internship in Washington with Michigan Congressman Marvin Esch, a Republican from Ann Arbor. He loved the halls of the U.S. Capitol; Congress was where he wanted to be. This was where you could make a difference.
Following the internship, Paul was accepted to the vaunted U-M Law School, no small feat. He was also offered a position on the staff of U.S. Rep. Philip Ruppe, a middle-of-the-road Republican from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Ruppe enjoyed the deserved reputation of a legislator willing to step across the aisle and work with lawmakers from both parties. That philosophy, Paul observed, translated into accomplishment. The lure of making a difference had cast its spell; no matter how esteemed, the juris doctorate from U-M was put on hold.
In 1978, while working in Washington, Paul received a call from an old friend, Jim Dressel. A seat in the Michigan House representing his hometown of Holland had opened up; Dressel strongly urged Paul to come home and run. He did, and he won.
The tools Paul acquired in Washington were deployed in Lansing. Although in the minority, he earned a reputation for being able to work with both parties.
In 1987, after winning his sixth term in the House, his Republican colleagues tapped him to be their leader.
Curtis Hertel
Curtis Hertel hailed from strong political lineage. The youngest of three brothers in a politically oriented family, political campaigns coursed through his formative years. His older brothers served in a variety of offices in Lansing and Washington.
No rendering of Curtis Hertel’s life, personal and professional, is complete without mention of family patriarch Jack Hertel and Kaufmann’s Café, the neighborhood bar he owned on Detroit’s east side.
Kaufmann’s was far more than the typical corner bar; it anchored the entire neighborhood. The bar’s success mirrored the lifestyles of its patrons. Situated in a heavily Catholic, working-class area, profits dipped during lent when many gave up drinking. Losses were recouped, though, during the rest of the year when Kaufmann’s served as a venue for watching Detroit sporting events, primarily the Lions, Tigers, and Red Wings. Whenever a television set with a bigger screen came out, Jack Hertel bought it; state-of-the-art viewing of sports events was critical to his business.
Renowned for their bratwurst sandwiches, a secret family recipe, Kaufmann’s also put out a hamburger that was known far and wide, and a bowl of chili that begged for a cold Altes or Schlitz on tap. All were welcome at Kaufmann’s, and all were treated the same.
Kaufmann’s had its celebrities, but not from the world of entertainment; Jack Hertel didn’t serve drinks with umbrellas. Elected officials were nothing more than part of the landscape. Real celebrities like Tony Kochivar, chief groundskeeper at Briggs Stadium where the Lions and the Tigers held forth during their respective seasons, was a regular.
Only beer and wine could legally be served on Sundays. More often than not, though, Jack knew everyone in the bar. If he didn’t, and a trusted regular could vouch for a stranger, a stronger drink could be had. That’s how it was when a judge bought a cop a drink while watching the Lions on Sunday afternoons at Kaufmann’s.
According to eldest son John, you were known by your profession as in, “Here comes Andy the beer-man, or Bob the bread-man.”
The glue that held it together – laborer-office worker; white collar-blue collar; union-management; judge-jury – was sports. There might be a debate on who you would rather have on the mound for game seven, Hal Newhouser or Bob Feller, but the guys who were arguing actually saw Newhouser and Feller pitch. According to Kaufmann’s historians, no sports-related issue was argued with more intensity than the 1960 trade between the Tigers and Indians that sent Harvey Kuenn to Cleveland for Rocky Colavito.
When he wasn’t sweeping the floor or emptying ashtrays, Curtis could be found sitting atop a stack of beer cases, just listening, absorbing the talk. Sports, he learned, served as a respite from the daily grind of working, putting food on the table, paying for braces, saving for a college education.
They talked politics at Kaufmann’s, too, and young Curtis was a sponge. While the 14th Congressional District officially met at their headquarters on Harper Avenue, most agree the real decisions were made at Kaufmann’s. Every day was a seminar on politics.
Years later Curtis spoke fondly of his time at Kaufmann’s, and the respect he learned for people, specifically working people. Some of the patrons smelled after a hard day of physical labor. He never forgot that smell, especially when it mingled with the cold beer that greeted it at Kaufmann’s. That affinity for the worker would hover over his entire political career.
All three of Jack Hertel’s sons — John, Dennis, and Curtis — followed a path to public service. Countless political campaigns were conceived, structured, and conducted out of Kaufman’s; nearly 20 state legislative races involving the Hertel family alone. Dennis served three terms in the Michigan House of Representatives and six terms in the U.S. Congress. John made his mark in the Michigan Senate and county politics, heading up both the Macomb and Wayne County Commissions respectively. Curtis was fond of saying, “Nothing like running a campaign out of a popular neighborhood bar.”
After the three boys had moved on, Jack Hertel sold the bar, returned to college, earned a degree in political science, and spent his final years as a teacher in the Detroit Public Schools Community District. Armed with his academic credentials, coupled with the streetwise politics garnered from his years at Kaufmanns, one can only imagine the political wisdom, practical and theoretical, that was dispensed in his classroom.
Curtis learned early that Kaufmann’s was a microcosm of the electorate, and that all politics were very much local. Kaufmanns was a daily tutorial on current events, politics, and the fortunes of Detroit’s athletic teams. And young Curtis was an attentive student.
My involvement with the Hertel family began when John Hertel spoke to my high school student body while running for the Michigan Senate. I was enthralled and captivated by both the political arena and John Hertel. I immediately volunteered to work on his campaign. I loved the thrill of politics and volunteered to work on other Hertel campaigns as well. I accepted state Sen. John Hertel’s offer to join his staff in Lansing. I burned the candle at both ends and also attended Wayne State University. After earning my degree, I worked for The Michigan Catholic.
Meanwhile, Dennis ran successfully for the Michigan House in 1974, defeating Lucian Nedzi. He served four terms in the Michigan House before running for Congress. He was replaced in the Michigan House by younger brother Curtis.
While working in state Sen. John Hertel’s office, I acquired valuable insights into the legislative process, insights that would prove critical years later while working for Curtis.
Curtis’s first attempt at public office was running for the Detroit City Council. The campaign was respectable and close, but unsuccessful. It would be the only race for a political office he ever lost. It was during the run for City Council that Curtis and I became close. Our families were also close, celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and other family events together.
My political education was broadened considerably when I went to work for Attorney General Frank J. Kelley as his press secretary. I was learning from the best, an Irish politician who easily could have been transported from the streets of Boston or the pages of Edwin O’Connor’s The Last Hurrah. Mr. Kelley would have a lasting effect on my life.
Curtis was first elected to the Michigan House in 1980. Soon it became clear that Lansing was a good fit for Curtis. He quickly discerned that the journey to influence and power was closely tied to becoming an authority in an area of widespread interest. He developed an expertise in transportation, and within a few years was named chairman of the powerful House Transportation Committee. From his post on the Transportation Committee and armed with great political insight and an infectious sense of humor, he soon became one of the more popular members of the House.
Hertel also acquired a deserved reputation as a problem solver, for getting things done. He developed valuable contacts in the various state departments. If for some reason a colleague needed to know the history of road funding in Allegan County, Curtis knew who to call. He also mastered the legislative process – how a bill really becomes a law. If a colleague’s bill was stalled in committee, Curtis was frequently tapped to discern the problem and resolve the difficulty. If you needed a babysitter, your car repaired, Curtis knew who to call. Coupled with unlimited contacts in Wayne County, he got things done, big things and little things. The favors mounted, as did the stature of the youngest Hertel brother. With each legislative session his influence grew.
Curtis was unique when it came to people, a magnet. I took pride in the fact that I claimed a special relationship with him.
I left my employment in Attorney General Kelley’s office to accept a position as executive director of the Service Station Dealers Association. I founded “The Pump Club,” a political action committee that used its resources judiciously. We turned heads when we won a David and Goliath victory over the major oil companies.
Shared Power
For 22 years, 1970-1992, Democrats ruled the Michigan House of Representatives. The 1992 elections abruptly altered the political landscape in Lansing when,by the slimmest of margins 56-54, Republicans gained control of the House. Adding to the shock for Democrats, one of the noteworthy election casualties was Democratic Speaker of the House Lew Dodak. That left a leadership vacuum in the House Democratic caucus.
Prior to the election, with the governor’s office and state Senate both under Republican control, the Democratic House had served as the only barrier to total GOP domination of the legislative process. Now that backstop was gone.
Democrats caucused and elected Curtis as their new leader – albeit as the minority leader. Then a political bombshell was dropped on the Capitol. A recount determined figures had been transposed in tabulating the results of one Macomb County House race, which appeared to have been won by a Republican. After the recount, Democrat Dennis Olshove, who had worked on Curtis’s staff, was declared the winner by seven votes. The Michigan House of Representatives now stood deadlocked at 55 Democrats and 55 Republicans.
Now co-speaker, Curtis called and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse – his chief of staff.
Political jockeying began immediately. Democrats, still technically in control until January 1, contemplated changing the House rules to require a majority vote to affect a change in leadership. Absent that majority – and neither party would have one – Democrats would retain control. Not to be outdone, Republicans sought one Democrat they could cut out of the herd who was willing to switch parties. So intent was the search that Republican Gov. John Engler was described as “Roaming the halls of the Capitol dangling 30 pieces of silver in search of a Judas.”
Republicans thought they had their man in Vincent “Joe” Porreca, a middle-of-the-road Democrat from Trenton. Porreca frequently voted with business interests, which placed him in the company of Republicans.
The courtship was intense. Gov. Engler visited Porreca at his home. Imagine the surprise of opening the door and seeing the Governor of Michigan on your front porch.
On New Year’s Eve, House Republican Leader Paul Hillegonds, Gov. Engler’s Legislative Liaison Jeff McAlvey, Rep. Joe Porreca – and their wives – ushered in the New Year at a club in Porreca’s district. While the trio of strange bedfellows greeted 1993 in grand fashion, Joe Porreca arose New Year’s morning as a Democrat. And he remained one.
The jingle of 30 pieces of silver became a dull roar. A number of Democrats flirted with the notion of switching parties or voting to organize with the Republicans. High-stakes political poker permeated the Capitol; bluffing became an art. When the bet was raised to chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, the game ended.
Enter Dennis Muchmore. If ever there was a mainstay in the halls of the Capitol, it was Dennis Muchmore. I first met him while I was working on the Senate staff of John Hertel.
At one time, Dennis had worked for a Democratic senator, the GOP-friendly Michigan Chamber of Commerce, The Michigan United Conservation Clubs (read the political arm of the National Rifle Association in Michigan), and a lobbying firm run by a former Democratic speaker and Republican Senate minority leader. He also owned his own lobbying firm and eventually was tapped to serve as chief-of-staff to Republican Gov. Rick Snyder. Despite a resume that only Sybil could appreciate, Dennis Muchmore was universally well-liked and respected.
Curtis Hertel and Paul Hillegonds barely knew each other, and certainly were not close friends. Despite the fact that they both were seasoned veterans of the Michigan House, they had never served on the same committee. Now fate had cast them together. They were both leaders of their respective caucuses, and each caucus had 55 members, none of whom had any intention of joining the opposition.
Dennis arranged for the two leaders to meet at an out-of-the-way tavern in a nearby Lansing suburb. Satisfied as to their privacy, and confident they would not be seen, he left his guests to get acquainted.
The son of the preacher and the son of the saloonkeeper discovered they had much in common. Paul remembers the meeting well. “We didn’t talk politics or leadership,” he recalls. “We talked about our families, our love of Michigan and our love of the House as an institution.”
Upon their return to the Capitol, they swatted aside the strident partisan cries of their respective parties, and the influential interests that supported their parties. Risking a political firing squad from their own caucuses, they talked. Unlike the clamor outside the room that housed their discussion, civility reigned inside. Hovering over their candid dialogue was, “We need to do what is best for the integrity of the legislative process, for the people of Michigan.” Hokey? – perhaps, but an accurate characterization of their deliberations.
Both leaders had to contend with those who resided at the far reaches of the political spectrums, a formidable task. The far right and the far left wanted no part of compromise; stalemate for the ideologues was preferable to cooperation.
In the first of many agreements, the two leaders pledged to not take advantage of each other due to unforeseen circumstances. The pledge was more than a cosmetic gesture. It was put to the test early.
All 110 members of the House had to be in their seats for the leadership vote. A severe winter storm was forecast for the day of that vote. Many Republicans hailed from out-state; the storm could depress Republican attendance. A revered Democrat, Joe Young, Sr., was terminally ill. His presence for the vote was tenuous at best.
The pledge held, fueling hope the shared power thing might actually work.
Buoyed by the success of the pledge, Curtis and Paul, along with their top aides – Bob Ortwein, Suzanne Miller Allen and myself – set about the difficult task of crafting rules that would govern the daily conduct of the House. As the dialogue continued the political and personal bond between Curtis and Paul grew; their trust deepened. While the product of the discussions was simple in theory, once implemented it proved to be nothing short of genius.
They decided the speakership gavel would rotate on a monthly basis between the parties. When the gavel was held by one party, the committee chairs would be controlled by the opposite party. On its face it was a prescription for stalemate. When implemented it proved to be the very foundation of cooperation. House members from both parties responded favorably. Without coaxing from leadership, committee co-chairs began to jointly determine what bills would be considered by the panel.
But what if a bill deserving of consideration by the full House was stalled in committee by a partisan impasse? The problem was addressed by granting each of the co-speakers 12 wildcard options – dubbed “silver bullets” – that would discharge a deadlocked bill from committee to the floor for consideration.
Despite warnings from naysayers, candid political discourse did not suffer. Personal political philosophy was not checked at the door. Intense debate was alive and well, both in committees and on the floor. However, that debate was driven by issues not tunnel-visioned partisanship.
It worked. Some aspects were smoother – there were some frayed feelings, and of necessity rules were modified on the run – but it worked.
It worked because two outstanding public servants decided to place the people of Michigan and the state ahead of partisanship and the checkbooks of interest groups.
It worked because two legislative leaders exercised leadership. They summoned the best in their House colleagues, the sense of public service that originally drew them to the political arena.
It worked because it was a delicate arrangement on paper, wholly dependent on a fragile belief that freed of partisanship and demanding special interests, people will do the right thing. They did the right thing and did it with class time and time again.
While Curtis and Paul deservedly stood in the limelight during those two years, they provided ample room for many to stand with them. Spurred by the leadership in both parties, countless others were responsible for the success of the shared power agreement as much for what they didn’t do as what they did.
Legislators sheathed their sharpened political rhetoric and stepped across the aisle to forge compromises that enabled enactment of needed legislation.
Make no mistake, staff can be as rabid as legislators in their partisan beliefs. I worked closely with Bob Ortwein and Suzanne Miller Allen. Staff often worked long into the night with their counterparts from the opposite party to mold the critical details that implemented handshake agreements.
The media took notice, cast aside their often-acerbic pens and recorded legislative accomplishments. When legislators returned to their districts and reported to their constituents they did so with a pocketful of well-publicized, bi-partisan achievements.
In 1994, following the two-year shared-power arrangement, Republicans gained control of the House. That meant Paul Hillegonds was the sole speaker.
In 1996, Democrats regained control of the Michigan House. Curtis Hertel assumed the post of sole speaker of the House.
I wrote a well-received book, Sharing The Balance of Power. Such was the impact of those two monumental years, that I still get queries on the book.
Curtis died suddenly on Easter Sunday 2016. Paul Hillegonds went on to work for a major health care association. He gave a sterling eulogy at Curtis’s funeral. When asked if he would ever entertain running for office again, Paul responded, “Not unless we had a shared power agreement.”
The Shared Power story received national acclaim.
The story needs to be told again and again. As the political process – national, state, and local – continues on a path of going negative, now, more than ever, it begs for those who feel the merit of an idea should prevail, not from whence that idea came; it begs for those who subordinate invective to reasoned political discourse; it begs for those who feel integrity is not a moveable feast subject to the partisan needs of the moment.
I am proud of the role I played in the shared power agreement. And I am proud to have worked closely with my friend Curtis Hertel.
