OPINION: Who was Don Young? There’s no single right answer.

Writing about Don Young in the past tense is unsettling. The self-anointed Congressman for All Alaska was such a vivid, verbose actor on the Alaska public stage for more than half a century that, like the four seasons, he seemed part of the natural order.

Don Young had presence. He was a tall, strapping, powerful man with a big grin and exceptionally-developed vocal cords. As the writer H.L. Mencken said of William Jennings Bryan 100 years ago, “He was born with a roaring voice, and it had the trick of inflaming halfwits.”

Don had the handshake of Hercules well into old age. I learned not to shake hands with Don. My paw was powerless in his steely grip. This seemed like an intimidating trick he learned in high school.

Maybe the handshake was part of his sense of humor. He had a good one — from what he revealed — but, like most public figures, he had almost no sense of humor about himself. The joke had to be somebody else. And he kept numerous flunkies nearby to absorb his japes and gags.

People ask: What was Don Young really like? This a hard question to answer about anyone, but especially someone who lived 88 years. Yes, he had been what his former legislative colleague Mike Bradner called “that likeable California farm-boy type” when he entered politics, but as the years passed, the farm boy seemed to be so distant as to be another person.

From what I can tell, there were two Don Youngs after he became the congressman. There was “press release Don Young,” as Fairbanks journalist Dermot Cole shrewdly observed, and Don Young the guy who played golf with lobbyists, told tired old stories to cronies, and occasionally ventured from his office for floor votes and hearings where he did battle with his enemies. This Don Young saved his energy for campaigning, where he was relentless.

Don Young needed enemies and relished them. Environmentalists, bureaucrats, tweedy professors from fancy universities, Democratic presidents — he denounced them all with colorful epithets and insults. He was known for his malapropisms and mixed metaphors, but in his hands they were effective as combat weapons.

Don’s Washington office, where dead animal heads adorned the walls and Alaska memorabilia on the tables and floor give the place the aura of a museum, was actually a production studio. In these friendly confines, staffers blew hot air into press-release Don Young to project the image Don wanted to create in Alaska. Namely, the tough, powerful, clever though not brilliant, unyielding, ever-vigilant congressman battling for constituents abused by Big Government, liberal meddlers and greenies in waffle-stompers. And, by his own account, he was the best friend Alaska Natives ever had.

This Don Young was a robust descendant of Davy Crockett, fighting to keep us free, as he insisted in a campaign jingle of long ago.

Nobody could live up to this idealized Don Young, and the real Don Young didn’t try. If he was beholden to lobbyists, rich friends, big corporations, so what. He brought home pork, and he knew that Alaska contractors, Native corporations, and labor unions embraced him for delivering.

As time passed, I came to appreciate his stamina. How in blazes could he keep up the act? There he was in the lobby of the Captain Cook Hotel smiling at everyone who passed him by, as he had been smiling for decades. I suppose people in Hollywood understand this — through repetition, the act becomes the man.

About 10 years ago, I had an unguarded moment with Don that actually was sweet for both of us. JCPenney in downtown Anchorage was having a men’s sale, and I went through the doors to have a look. At the large table displaying dress shirts, Don was pawing through the extra-large selection. He saw me, smiled, and said, “Which one should I get?” I asked, “What’s the occasion?”

He explained that he was giving a speech that night, and I immediately fell into the role of haberdasher to the congressman. I advised him to go with a traditional color — white or blue — and stay away from purple and pink. “No need to be loud.” I asked if he had a tie. “Lots of them,” he answered. Then I told him to get a full-fitting shirt befitting a man of his size. “Don’t go for one of those slim-down shirts 24-year-olds wear.” Don laughed.

After appraising three or four shirts, Don Young found a white extra-large he liked, thanked me, headed for the cashier and was gone.

Now he is gone for good.

Michael Carey is an occasional columnist and the former editorial page editor of the Anchorage Daily News.

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