Jacques reflects on life in Shakespeare’s As You Like It:

 All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

They’re gone.  They’re done.  The chambers are dark and cool.  The hearing rooms are empty and quiet.  The unpopulated rotunda echoes with the sounds of a few footsteps.

The players have departed, some to return but others now of no further use, their importance immediately extinguished because they can no longer do things for people who want things done.

Some of those who have served will never be seen again in these hallways.  Their offices soon will be occupied by some other temporary presence who will come to this time, too.

And what have they left behind? What lasting benefit was there of their service?

The fact that they served, that they sought the responsibilities and the obligations of office, can be enough.

Some—those who will never again do anything as consequential as vote on some pages of words that establish allowable behaviors for six million people—might have time now to ponder their legacies.  Did they benefit all Missourians or just a few?  Did they protect the many or place a few ahead of them?  Will their time in the Capitol matter in the arc of history.

Or does it make any difference?

We have found ourself wondering during this session what some departing members will consider their legacy. When the last newspaper article is written about them, will one of their distinguished accomplishments be that they shut down the Senate for half of the session, for purely partisan and sometimes personal reasons?

For those who won’t be back in either the House or the Senate, will they be remembered because they almost were part of the least productive legislative session in modern history?  If the House had not approved twenty Senate-passed bills on Friday, the day after the Senate quit a day early, this session would have approved only 23 non-budget bills. The record low number in modern times is 31 in 2020, when the pandemic scrambled everything.  What scrambled everything this year was the conservative caucus in the Senate that believed its seven members should tell 17 other Republican Senators and ten Democrats how to run the place.

Our friend Rudi Keller says the average number of bills passed since 1981 was 155.

Senator Emory Melton, who served 28 years from Cassville, once opined that “it is not the bills that pass sometimes; it’s the bills that DON’T pass.”  A lot of bills didn’t pass this year, good ones and bad ones that were sentenced to death, early, by seven of 197 legislators who thought the congressional redistricting map should be about partisan politics rather than about public representation in Government.

We wonder if anyone considers whether a law they sponsored will still be on the books twenty-five years from now.

Will two legislators who talked to each other during debate almost every stay in touch even one year after leaving the capitol?

All glory is fleeting, said Patton.  All glory is fleeting but obscurity is forever, said Napoleon. How many years will elapse before one of their townsfolk is surprised to learn they once served in the Missouri General Assembly?

What’s done is done. The session will be recalled for the stalemate that froze the Senate for half the session.  It will be recalled because one chamber threw in the towel a day early and the other gave up before the statutory deadline on the last day.  Well after any memories of individual accomplishments, this session will be recalled for those things.

Grantland Rice, the dean of sportswriters in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s—–the man who described the Notre Dame backfield as “The Four Horsemen”—wrote a poem titled, The Record:

When the game is done and the players creep

One by one to the League of Sleep,

Deep in the night they may not know

The way of the fight, the fate of the foe.

The cheer that passed, the applauding hands,

Are stilled at last — but the Record stands.

 

The errors made, and the base hits wrought;

Here the race was run! There the fight was fought.

Yet the game is done when the sun sinks low

and one by one from the field they go;

Their day has passed through the Twilight Gates,

But the Scroll is cast — and the Record waits.

 

So take, my lad, what the Great Game gives,

For all men die — but the Record lives.