Evolution of a political wife

The time between late afternoon and evening every Sunday is a transitional period. Carefree weekends surrender to the anticipation and preparation of the week ahead. You know the feeling. You’re not ready to let go of the weekend but are trying to make peace with the impending structure of the next five days.

That was our mindset that late afternoon, January 1999. The phone in our kitchen was ringing. One of us answered, while the other distracted our 16-month-old daughter, Jordan, who was busy practicing her newfound walking skills.

“What’s up?” said the voice on the other end. “Mind if I stop by?” It was our friend Lars Hafner. Rick and Lars met at Boca Ciega High School, and as a result of the co-mingling of friends that often occurs when two become one, Lars was now my friend, too.

Lars wanted to discuss something with us, and he wanted to do it in person. Our homes were just five blocks apart, which meant he was on our doorstep ringing our doorbell in minutes.

Our casual Sunday evening gave way to a conference that commenced at our tiny tile-top kitchen table. I don’t recall whether we were drinking a Cabernet or Chardonnay, but I clearly remember the conversation.

Rick and Lars had been high school buddies. One would later play college basketball and be inducted into Boca Ciega High School’s Hall of Fame. The other was told by the basketball coach that if he ever attempted to try out for a position on the team again, he’d kill him. Rick’s 5’9” frame, which boasted a now-enviable 28-inch waistline, wasn’t built for basketball. Nonetheless, his grit surpassed his vertical deficits, and he was awarded the position of team manager and athletic trainer. He devised plays, tended to minor injuries, kept the game stats. This job earned him the privilege of enjoying the team’s successes as one of his own and nurturing what would become a life-long friendship.

High school friends became college students — one a Maryland Terp, the other a Florida Gator, but they stayed in touch despite living technology-free before the dawn of texting and Facebook.

At 25 and 26, these Boca Ciega Pirates teamed up again, this time for politics. The athlete was to compete in an arena that counted votes not baskets. And, the team manager was to handle platforms, fundraising, and strategy instead of plays, injuries, and stats.

Rick was to manage Lars’ first run for the State House. A valiant and spirited effort by the political novices didn’t produce a win, but it solidified a friendship that eventually birthed a partnership, one borne of a shared passion for politics and service. This was to be his inauguration into the world of politics. He just didn’t know it yet.

Half-way through that bottle of wine, Lars became the coach. He’d already served 12 years in the State House and his political seniority earned him such status. He was ready to call up a new player from the bench.

“How about you run for City Council?” Lars asked Rick. Without warning or preface, the proposal jarred us out of the light buzz we were enjoying.

We were in our sixth year of marriage and had known each other for almost eight years, but this subject never came up. We’d endured serious discussions, including which religion in which to raise our children (Catholic or Jewish?), which house to buy and even what type of dog to get, but this was unexpected.

Rick had never uttered a word about running for political office unless you count middle school class president. My political involvement only amounted to a perfect voting record and a volunteer stint at 19 on a state senator’s campaign.

“Why not?” urged Lars, explaining that the incumbent was stale and his relevancy evaporating, and while he’d done no harm while in office, the time was ripe for fresh blood and new ideas. In Lars’ opinion, Rick was the ideal candidate to inject energy into city politics and challenge the status quo. We were surprised, intrigued and flattered, but mostly we were unsure.

We said goodnight to Lars, and we promised to take time to mull over this proposition. Sometimes, ideas become reality only after someone else plants the seed. That seed is sewn and cultivated in a garden that you didn’t even realize existed in your realm of consciousness. A few days and several discussions later, we decided the answer would be yes. As Lars had said, “Why not?”

My husband, a personal injury attorney with a heart for helping others, always had time to listen to clients’ concerns, often took phone calls after hours and even reduced his fees to ensure his clients would receive a fair settlement. He planned to use his knack for connecting with others and his traits of empathy and understanding to serve his city.

The time from “yes” to election day passed swiftly. January to March is a cruelly short amount of time to craft a platform, raise funds, engage voters, design marketing collateral and establish name recognition. The early campaign honeymoon phase didn’t exist for us, which likely was a blessing. It was survival of the fittest, politics version. We were the epitome of “on-the-job training.” Thankfully, we had each other and a few trusted advisers, friends who became volunteers and loyal family members who believed in Rick.

Many spouses aren’t suited to working together. They clash on the fundamentals of running a business, bring home the office drama, and often the work, which can jeopardize the marital relationship. It was different for Rick and me. In 1994, budget cuts at the St. Petersburg Times meant that my non-Newsroom dependent Marketing job was reduced from full-time to part-time. I now only worked 28 hours, with what seemed like an inordinate amount of spare time. We hadn’t yet started a family, so there were no children to take care of. I enjoyed working out, but I had no desire to become a gym rat. Shopping tended to overwhelm me at times, as did the overpowering smells of the mall food courts and perfume counters, so I had no interest in expanding my wardrobe. This wasn’t my plan, but it became my challenge — to find something inspiring to do when I wasn’t working at the newspaper.

That same year Rick opened his law practice. As a new business owner and sole practitioner, it was necessary to keep overhead low if he was expected to bring home a paycheck. Managing Rick’s law office became my new part-time job. I was an easy hire. I had the time, a vested interest in the success of the business, and I didn’t need to be vetted or paid.

My stint at the law office ended with the 1997 birth of our daughter, Jordan, when it was mutually agreed upon that I would become an at-home parent. But by 1999, I was happy to become his coworker again, this time for his first run for City Council. Rick and I had always enjoyed working toward a common purpose, and this time was no different.

The three years that I worked with Rick taught me something about him that I might have never known if we hadn’t shared a work-life outside our marriage. We had separate offices, but the doors between our spaces always remained open, except of course when he met privately with clients. While I worked, I listened to him spend time on the phone with clients, explaining, consoling and reassuring.

Victims of auto accidents receive a double blow. They lose their cars, incur expenses, and sometimes gain permanent physical and emotional scars. Rick understood that and treated his clients with empathy. His patience and willingness to listen are now his strongest and most-admired traits as a politician. In his practice, he represented his clients’ best interests, always seeking fairness. As a City Council candidate, he desired to represent a constituency, hoping if elected, to improve their lives through action and impassioned and fair governance.

Politics is ugly at times. It’s often the only part of elected officials we see — the negativity, partisanship, bickering, and backstabbing. Even the word “politician” is used hesitantly and apologetically as if a candidate’s announcement of the intention to run needs to be followed with an explanation reassuring that he or she is “one of the good ones.”

I know now that politics is Rick’s passion, driven by an innate desire to help others. Simple, but true. As his wife, I’ve had a front-row seat for 20 years to what I call an unlikely accidental political life.

My story of becoming an accidental political spouse has mostly been about my husband, his journey. But, it’s important to know history so that we can understand the inevitable path. Politics was never part of the plan. I never heard, “Honey, I really love being a lawyer, but someday I’d like to run for office.” And, we could’ve never predicted a future that included Rick becoming a two-term mayor of the fifth largest city in Florida.

Some days, I feel as if I’m on a mountaintop, proclaiming, “My husband is a politician.” There is no hesitancy, apology or justification needed. Only pride. I now firmly believe that politics is not a bad word or a poor life choice. Those who seek public office have more gumption, courage, and grit than many of us. They’re willing to forsake their reputations and subject themselves and their families to public scrutiny. They are the change seekers who are called upon to serve a greater purpose. They know the uncertainty, perception, and sacrifice. Yet, they recognize and answer the calling.

That January when Rick said yes, we unknowingly entered a life-altering existence, the equivalent of a roller coaster with ups and downs, twists and turns, thrills and scares. As the spouse, I was along for the ride, for better or worse.

Politics is politics, whether on the local, state or national level. The constituency may be larger, the issues different and the money needed to win certainly greater. In the end, how you navigate a political campaign, an unpredictable campaign season, and if you’re lucky, the governing phase, determines how you survive and hopefully thrive as a political spouse.