S5996 CONGRESSIONAL RECORD— SENATE May 2, 1995 

It happens I was the Democratic speaker that evening, and I had the inexpressible joy of sitting next to Miss 

Rogers at the head table in my white 

tie and tails. I took the liberty of expounding, as best I was able, Professor 

Joseph Reed’s theory of the dramatic 

import of Miss Rogers’ abrupt decision 

to dance with Astaire on that lovely 

day they were caught in the raid in Regents Park. She confided to me that 

she had to slip off to dance, that night, 

with Geyelin. She returned to pronounce him divine! 

Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that the text of the above cited article be reprinted in the RECORD. 

There being no objection, the article 

was ordered to be printed in the 

RECORD, as follows: 

[From the Washington Post, Apr. 28, 1995] 

WHEN I DANCED WITH GINGER ROGERS

(By Philip Geyelin) 

That was a nice piece Tom Shales wrote 

about Ginger Rogers [Style, April 26]. He had 

it just right, except maybe the part about 

how she made it look effortless but ‘‘not for 

a minute did it look easy.’’ I would have put 

it the other way around: It wasn’t exactly effortless for me when I danced with Ginger 

Rogers, but she certainly made it look easy. 

You heard me: When I danced with Ginger 

Rogers. I am not dreaming this up. Rather, 

I’m setting out to describe the realization of 

a dream of, oh, let’s say close to a half-century. From the first time I saw a Fred 

Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie, I had nurtured 

the fantasy. And then, unbelievably, there I 

was 14 years ago standing on stage with Ginger, before an audience of more than 600 

swells, waiting for the beat that would send 

us gliding off to the music of ‘‘Isn’t This a 

Lovely Day.’’

It was March 28, 1981, at the spring dinner 

of what The Post’s Style section describes 

with relentless redundancy as the ‘‘exclusive 

Gridiron Club.’’ By ‘‘swells’’ I mean that 

when you peer across the footlights on these 

occasions, you dimly see a head table that 

starts with the president and the vice president and their wives, most of the Cabinet, 

maybe three justices of the Supreme Court, 

the Joint Chiefs and a gaggle of ambassadors. The ballroom is wall-to-wall governors, members of Congress, CEOs, TV talking heads, other assorted celebrities and the 

publishers and editors of the newspapers 

whose Washington correspondent make up 

the Gridiron Club’s membership. 

So much for the setting. A dance story 

should be taken step by step. It was the first 

year of Ronald Reagan’s presidency. A Hollywood touch was in order. An invitation was 

extended to Ms. Rogers through the good offices of Godfrey ‘‘Budge’’ Sperling Jr. of the 

Christian Science Monitor. She not only accepted but agreed in principle, to a surprise 

appearance on stage. In my capacity that 

year as music chairman (producer), I was in 

a position to claim the right to be Ms. Roger’s partner if there was to be any dancing. 

I did so at the cost of what may be the earliest onset of stage fright ever experienced 

by anybody. 

The plot was that Ms. Rogers, who was 

seated at the head table, would actually proceed directly backstage and appear in the 

opening number of the show, which, in another bow to the Gipper, was to the tune of 

‘‘Hooray for Hollywood.’’ The cue for her to 

step from the wings would be the line: ‘‘Hooray for Fred Astaire—Miss Ginger Rogers 

made him walk on air’’—whereupon there 

she would be, the real thing, at the microphone, singing a satiric put-down of the 

Gridirons: ‘‘Isn’t this a lovely way, to be 

meeting the press . . .?’’

Not bad, showbizwise, wouldn’t you say—

for amateurs? With only mild trepidation, I 

called Ms. Rogers. I told her my name was of 

French origin. She said her favorite husband 

was French. It was going well. Then I got to 

the part of the briefing that had to do with 

‘‘Hooray for Fred Astaire,’’ and the stories 

that she didn’t much like running as an 

entry turned out to have some truth to 

them. ‘‘Let’s stop right there,’’ she said. 

While I was mumbling my confusion she cut 

in to make her meaning clear. ‘‘If you were 

Abbott,’’ she asked, ‘‘would you want people 

to be always asking. ‘How’s Costello’’’? The 

mention of Astaire, I said quickly, will be 

excised. 

She arrived in Washington the Friday 

night before the dinner, and on Saturday I 

sent flowers to her room, thinking that to be 

the Hollywood way, with the lyric tucked in 

among them. At an appointed hour we met, 

and she handed me the lyric with some pencil editing. Recklessly, I questioned whether 

her changes would scan, noting modestly 

that, while I was tone deaf and usually urged 

when singing as a member of the chorus not 

to get too close to the microphone, I did 

have some experience as a lyric writer. 

‘‘Honey,’’ Ms. Rogers replied gently, with 

no hint of any awareness of what that salutation meant to me, ‘‘I’ve been singing that 

song longer than you’ve been writing lyrics 

for the Gridiron Club.’’

With only three hours to go before curtain, 

we repaired to the empty ballroom, where a 

piano player and the club’s dance director 

put us briefly through what were, mercifully, 

pretty elementary paces. We parted to 

change for dinner, she to a ball gown, me 

to—you guessed it—white tie and tails. 

We met again backstage and warmed up 

with a few practice twirls. Her introduction 

went precisely as planned; the song was a 

smash. We were perfectly poised to begin the 

dance, but somehow, with a full orchestra, 

the bar of music that was our cue didn’t 

come through. I froze. Now, I’m not saying 

Ms. Rogers also missed it. But she knew 

what to do. Stepping to the mike, she said: 

‘‘Let’s try that again—We only had 20 minutes to rehearse.’’

The second effort was—how shall I put 

it?—pretty close to perfection, or at least 

relatively close. Things are relative when 

you have been contemplating the real possibility of stumbling off stage into the orchestra pit and taking Ginger Rogers with you. 

My sigh of relief, however, was cut short. 

Ms. Rogers, was back at the microphone. 

‘‘Let’s see,’’ she was saying, ‘‘if this guy can 

do it one more time.’’ I did, or I should say 

that we did. She was then 69, but to dance 

with she was going on twenty-something, 

and she made it easy—so much so that when 

she graciously consented to stay over for the 

usual Sunday afternoon reprise of the Saturday night show, it was becoming very nearly 

effortless. 

A few years later, she sent a message saying she was writing her memoirs and would 

appreciate a memorandum on some of the 

details of that night at the Gridiron. Ignoring my effusions on what the evening had 

meant to me, she wrote in her book that the 

dance ‘‘had brought the house down but not 

because of me; the audience couldn’t get over 

Mr. Geyelin’s dancing.’’

A classy dividend, I thought, from a classy 

lady who made the lifelong dream of an inkstained wretch come true. 

f 

CARTNEY KOCH MCRAVEN 

Mr. PRESSLER. Mr. President, I was 

saddened to learn the news last night 

that rescue workers in Oklahoma City 

discovered the body of Cartney Koch 

McRaven amid the rubble that once 

was the Alfred P. Murrah Federal 

Building. 

Cartney Koch McRaven was one 

American—not ordinary—extraordinary. 

Cartney graduated from Spearfish 

High School in 1993. She enlisted in the 

Air Force, whose members believe that 

the protection of freedom is the highest, most important public service. 

With devotion and honor she served her 

country. Her action was a tribute to 

the core values that make this country 

great. 

Cartney was only 19 years old. Newly 

married on April 15 to Shane McRaven, 

a fellow airman in the U.S. Air Force. 

She was stationed at Tinker Air Force 

Base. She had traveled to the Murrah 

Federal Building to register her new 

name on Federal documents. A new 

name. A new husband. About to start a 

new life. A life that will never be. A life 

cut short by the savagery of domestic 

terrorism. By murderers who kill their 

fellow citizens. 

Cartney had a beautiful life ahead of 

her. On behalf of the people of South 

Dakota, my wife Harriet and I extend 

our condolences to Cartney’s family, 

friends, and loved ones. 

For Cartney and the other victims of 

the Oklahoma City tragedy, we must 

not let our commitment to freedom 

waiver. These cowards will be brought 

to justice. She and the others tragically killed in Oklahoma will not have 

died in vain. 

f 

RALPH NEAS—THE 101ST SENATOR 

FOR CIVIL RIGHTS 

Mr. KENNEDY. Mr. President, later 

this month, Ralph Neas will step down 

from his position as executive director 

of the Leadership Conference on Civil 

Rights, after 14 years of extraordinary 

service as a champion of the basic 

rights of all Americans. 

For nearly half a century, the Leadership Conference has been the Nation’s conscience in meeting the fundamental challenge of protecting the 

civil rights of all of us. Ralph Neas 

joined the Leadership Conference in 

1981, following 8 years of outstanding 

service to the Senate on the staffs of 

our former colleagues, Senators Edward Brooke and David Durenberger. 

During Ralph’s tenure, the Leadership Conference fought some of its 

most difficult battles, and achieved 

some of its most important victories. 

Time and again, when the forces of reaction sought to turn back the clock 

on civil rights, Ralph Neas rallied the 

coalition, and civil rights prevailed. 

When the Reagan administration 

sought to block extension of the Voting Rights Act, Ralph Neas helped to 

put together a broad bipartisan majority in Congress to renew it. 

mmaher on MIKETEMP with SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBERS