Poppen lived simply, spoke little in Capitol By Terry Woster Watch the South Dakota Legislature for any

length of time, and you'll discover that some of the most influential of its members do the least talking. That's how it was when Henry Poppen served in the Senate. The De Smet farmer joined the Legislature as a Republican in 1967. He won elections every two years after that until he decided in 1992 to let someone else represent the folks of Kingsbury County. He died at 83 earlier this month. The obituaries duly noted that he was a leader on the Joint Appropriations Committee, the group of Senate and House members whose main task each session is to take a governor's recommended budget, study agency programs and staffing, and make the spending and the expected revenue come out even. The budget always balanced, of course. That's partly because the constitution requires it. During Poppen's years, it was also because he wouldn't have had it any other way. "I've never thought of it as my money, I guess is why,'' he said once when I asked him about his reputation as a bit of a skinflint with the state budget. Even if he had thought of state revenue as his money, he probably would have acted the same way. I remember a conversation we had one afternoon outside the Senate chamber after legislative campaign reports had been filed. One of the candidates in a large city had spent something like $12,000 or $15,000 to win a seat. Poppen was amazed. He'd spent more like $18.50 or so, whatever it cost for a couple of 2-by-2 ads in the local paper. "I'd be embarrassed to go out there and tell people what a great job I'm doing,'' he said with a grin and a dip of the head. "I just put in the ad saying I'm running again and I'd appreciate their vote. Either they want me back or they don't.'' He was a pretty conservative little guy, with a wardrobe that favored grays and earth-browns. Even in polyester's glory days of the 1970s, when legislators were

sporting neon leisure suits and flowered ties as wide as a freeway, Poppen stuck to a selection of charcoal jackets and navy blazers. A muted stripe in one of his ties was a bold fashion statement. From the first time I met him in 1969 to his last day as a legislator in 1992, Poppen kept the same hair style, conservative, close-trimmed on the sides, with one unruly forelock that simply wouldn't stay in place. He didn't waste his time on fashion or fads. He didn't waste time in floor debates, either. Most days, most years, he let the battles of words rage about him. When he did decide to stand and say something, the rest of the Senate listened. Likely as not, they paid attention, too, because a Poppen floor speech wasn't an everyday occurrence. In that respect, he was a lot like Otto Stern, a Republican from Freeman who was a House leader on appropriations for years. When Otto stood in the House, he'd say something simple and direct, like "I think this is a good bill,'' and the rest of the members would fall all over themselves to vote for it. It seldom happens that way these days. That's neither good nor bad, necessarily, just different. Poppen's goal each session was to have the general appropriations bill, the budget bill, written and ready for floor action at least by Tuesday of the final week. That way it could be debated and decided in one house on Wednesday, move to the other house for the same thing on Thursday and be done with a day to spare. Once the budget bill had passed the Senate, though, that's when Poppen became dangerous. His major work was done, and he was ready to go home. Of that point in session, a lieutenant governor once said something like, "I have to be careful not to recognize Senator Poppen. He'll move to adjourn. We still have bills to finish, but, who knows? He just might win.'' That story is legend in the Capitol. It won't soon be forgotten. Neither will Henry Poppen.