Heads High, Eyes Forward

This is how we say goodbye

Franklin the protester.

Two weeks ago, when I learned the date for Sherrod’s farewell address to the U.S. Senate, I assured him that I would be there in the family section of the gallery.

“I will be in my impeachment seat,” I told him.

This is our name for where I sat through much of Donald Trump’s first impeachment trial in early 2020. Left section, front row, on the aisle. No pens or paper permitted; no electronics allowed. Just me sitting in solidarity with my husband for hours on end. Whenever I started to grow sleepy, I resorted to a trick shared years ago by a House member’s wife, who had become a friend: Lift one foot a few inches off the floor and hold it there for as long as you can.

During the trial, the New York Times published a series of illustrations by Art Lien, who sat in the press gallery to my right. On January 24th, the Times ran his sketch of me, alone in the gallery. Sherrod loved the drawing, so much so that he gave me this framed print, which hangs in our living room. It was a marital moment like no other. So much at stake, and cowardice won the day.

Illustration by Art Lien for the New York Times.

For 18 years, Sherrod has been a U.S. senator, and for all those years I’ve been asked the same question: What’s it like to be a senator’s wife?

I understand why people ask, but the question is steeped in a false assumption. There is no one way to be a senator’s wife because there is no one way to be a senator. I know what it is like to be married to Sherrod Brown. I could not be prouder of him, especially since Election Day.

Our marriage was a second chance for both of us. Over the years—often during Q-and-A after a speech—I’ve been asked to share what I think makes for a good marriage. I’m no expert, and so I just tell them what has worked for me: Marry your hero. The first time I heard Sherrod give that same answer, to a young audience member somewhere in Ohio, I blubbered like a fool.

We have been immersed in a period of transition as we shut down our life in Washington D.C. This is not as sad as it may seem.

We’ve had our moments, of course, but they are fleeting because we are surrounded by so many staffers who have become family over the years. They have all but lifted us on their shoulders as they carry us over this mountain of final tasks and unwelcome endings. As always, they are bringing the full force of their personalities to the endeavor, which is keeping spirits high. Problems solved with speed and expertise, on wave after wave of shared memories and funny stories.

As one young staffer told me this week, this has been a master class on how to endure a shared loss. What a privilege to witness how love for one another can help heal a community that is grieving. His words reminded me of something our youngest daughter said to me the morning after the election.

“I had just wanted the kids to have the experience of that celebration,” Cait said as we watched her two children, ages seven and nine, playing with their cousins. “I had wanted them to know how that feels.”

I told her they were having another memorable experience, and one that was perhaps more valuable. This is what we do when life disappoints us. We grieve, yes, and we lean into the love all around us. Heads high, eyes forward.

Embracing this change is helping me keep my heart wide open to what comes next. It helps to remember an essential lesson of this lengthening life: Every ending is the beginning of something else. I keep imagining a playful, ethereal spirit, dancing up and down in the open doorway, waving to get our attention, eager to usher us through.

We’re coming. Soon.

This week, one last time, I flew to Washington as a senator’s wife. I have never cherished this unpaid job title, which lazy pundits continue to use as an excuse to reduce a woman’s role in life to being either a prop or a problem. I gave up caring about this years ago. Like every woman I know, I am many things. Any attempt to diminish me is not my problem. I have grown more accustomed to pointing this out, in real time. Sherrod isn’t the only one feeling unleashed.

When Sherrod called earlier this month to tell me the date of his farewell speech—December 17--I was sitting on the sofa, staring at Art Lien’s framed drawing. After our call ended, I started imagining sitting by myself as my husband gave what would surely be one of the most meaningful speeches of his career.

On the spot, I came up with a plan.

Within hours, all four of our kids had agreed to join me in the gallery that day, along with their families. With the help of Diana Baron and Susan Klein—schedulers extraordinaire and the true bosses of Sherrod and me--we would all surprise him the night before, at our hotel.

The hotel opens to an escalator that carries guests down to the lobby. I hope never to forget Sherrod’s face when he saw all 15 of us gathered at the base of the stairs, smiling up at him. He cried all the way down.

Merry Christmas, honey. You are ours, and we are yours, always.

At one point this week, our 10-year-old granddaughter, Jackie, tugged on my ID badge and said, “Grandma, when was this picture of you taken?” Six years ago, I told her, or maybe 12. She looked at it again, then up at me, and grabbed my hand. “I love you, Grandma.” A future diplomat.

On Tuesday afternoon, our family entered the gallery. I wore what I have come to think of as my Senate spouse uniform: The gold lapel pin and ID badge that alert Capitol Police of my spouse status. I also wore the silver Tiffany charm bracelet that then-Majority Leader Harry Reid gave all the wives of newly elected senators in 2006. It had been years since I had worn it, and as I polished the Senate charm, I remembered a conversation with Harry two weeks after that election.

Democrats had won back the Senate, and we were invited—Harry’s word for “required”--to attend a celebratory dinner in the Capitol. I was seated next to Harry. I had no idea why, but the reason quickly became clear after he started talking to me during the main course.

“Connie,” he said, “you’re going to need to move to Washington now.”

I set down my fork and turned to face him. “Harry, I have a job in Cleveland. Sherrod will come home every weekend, just as he did in the House.”

Harry shook his head. “The Senate is different. He’s going to need you here. You can find a job here.”

I took one of his hands in mine. “You know what, Harry? If ever I’m looking for unsolicited advice on how to live my life, you will be my first call.”

One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two….

Harry smiled, and then he laughed. “You and I are going to get along great,” he said.

And we surely did. I loved that man.

On the Senate subway with seven of our eight grandchildren. The oldest had high school finals. Photo by Emily Brown.

Here’s the link to Sherrod’s speech. To answer the most common question in the last few days: Yes, when he cried, I cried. This happened twice, when he talked about love: for the people who have worked for him, and for his family. I know when my husband’s tears are coming. It’s that look on his face. The way he often presses his fist against his mouth, and glances at me. Each time he looked at me, I hoped my face conveyed what my heart was trying to shout. He told me later he knew, because with me he always knows.

One more story, and it’s about that top photo of Franklin, our 13-year-old rescue boy.

Franklin’s internal clock has always been set to the rhythm of Sherrod’s days. On Mondays, he sits on the bed next to Sherrod’s bag as it fills with the week’s clothes. Gently, when he thinks we aren’t watching, he uses his mouth to pull out a sock here, a t-shirt there. I know to wait for the moment when Sherrod notices and buries his nose in the fur on Franklin’s face. “I’ll be back buddy,” he tells him every time. “You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

Impossible.

By 7 p.m. on Thursdays, Franklin abandons Walter and me—the only time he does this all week—and pads to the front door, where he waits for the vibrations of the garage door announcing that his number one human is finally home.

This week, Sherrod’s last in Washington as a senator, ran long due to a level of political ridiculousness I am happy not to chronicle for you. You’ve likely seen those news alerts, and if you haven’t, I applaud your ability to step away from the madness in this holiday season.

By yesterday afternoon, Franklin was bereft. Roaming from window to window. Pulling pieces of Sherrod’s clothing out of the laundry basket. Staring at me and whimpering for no reason I could discern. In this photo, he was staring at me in the open doorway and had just heard me say into my phone, “Okay. Bye, honey.”

He let out one long sigh and would not come into the house. For nearly a half-hour, he just sat in the falling snow and stared at me. Every time I approached him, he walked away. I held up a carrot. Nothing. I waved his favorite dental treat. You eat it, his eyes said. He tends to look away when I aim my camera at him. Not this time.

Meanwhile, Walter, who tiptoes through snow as if he were touring a nuclear waste site, was growing increasingly alarmed about Franklin’s protest. Loudly, desperately alarmed. Finally, with great fanfare, Walter dashed out in his Christmas sweater and barked himself into flight until Franklin walked, not ran, into the house.

“Good news, buddy,” I just told Franklin, who is dozing at my feet right now. “Today, Daddy is coming home.”

His eyes are closed but his tail is thumping, thumping.