There's a photo of Lane and me from 1983. I'm the kid in the baseball shirt. He's the one with the haircut he refused to change.
Twenty years later I owned the Brew & View, a little cinema-pub in downtown Rock Island. Lane's campaign office was across the street. He'd come in fifteen minutes late, watch half a movie, then sit in the lobby with a Diet Coke while I talked his ear off. He always listened.
By December 2008, Parkinson's had his legs, his voice, most of his face. I showed up at his apartment with a poinsettia and three mints in my mouth and told him I wanted to write his story. He whispered his answer. "Sounds good so far."
I told myself I'd just watch. Take notes. Stay out of it. That didn't last. Pretty soon I was feeding him lunch off a spoon. Holding him up on basement stairs. Marching to the nurses' station when I found him left in his own mess.
It took ten years. It isn't a fan letter. The scandals are in there. So are the bad days. It's Lane as I knew him. Guts and all.
Lane believed in working people. In competition. In a fair shot and a free country. He'd argue with anybody, then tell them, "I don't agree with you, but I respect your right to hold such an erroneous position."
The book came out in 2019. We had a tour planned. Then Covid locked every door in America.
So I never got to tell these stories out loud.
I'd like to now.
— Devin Hansen
