Most of us are familiar with the broad strokes of Sen. Strom Thurmond's career: He entered politics when he was 31 and he's been a symbol of Southern politics ever since, serving the last 49 years as a senator for his home state of South Carolina. Born in 1902, Thurmond's career stretched across 70 years, making him the longest standing public official in our nation's history.

He also got me my first job as an intern in his Senate office. I was 20; Strom was a spritely 70-something. We maintained a fond acquaintance since then. During the course of that friendship, I have been privy to a few Strom moments.

For starters, there were the football games. Every other year, the senator and I would watch my alma mater, South Carolina State, play at Howard University, a historically black college in Washington, D.C. Spectators' eyes would grow wide as saucers as the senator sauntered through the stands, hot dog in hand. "Hi, I'm Sen. Thurmond," he would proclaim, extending his hand in greeting. They would stare blankly at the senator whose leadership extended back to the days of segregation.

"Now when an old man extends his hand, you return the favor. Haven't you ever heard of respecting your elders?" proclaimed Thurmond. The senator made the remark with such good humor that the students could not help but reciprocate. In time, they looked forward to Thurmond's arrival, cheering him on as he shuffled through the crowd. Nothing about that situation surprised me. The senator effused wit, insight and brilliance. The sheer force of personality made him a man so vastly energetic that one could not help but admire his liveliness. This energy overflowed even his customary interactions and enlivened everything around him.

One of my most vivid memories of the senator occurred in 1996 when the Washington Urban League honored Thurmond and I with awards recognizing the growing bonds between black and white Americans. Sadly, public announcement of the award was greeted with protest. Apparently, a small segment of detractors quivered at the idea of a civil rights organization bestowing an award upon Sen. Thurmond, who once ran for president as a Dixiecrat.

In response to the public outcry, the Urban League requested that Thurmond not attend the ceremony. They suggested that he instead receive the award in a private ceremony at his office. Sen. Thurmond cackled at that one. He had never backed down from a challenge in his life. He was not about to give an inch now.

Leading up to the event, newspapers across the country began to flood their copy with tales of public outcry. Urban League members threatened to sever their ties with the organization. Fearing a public protest, additional security was ordered for the event.

The day of the ceremony, the 92-year-old senator fell ill. His nurse advised that he remain in bed. It did not matter. The senator was adamant about walking across the stage and receiving his award. After all, he was proud of his record on civil rights, his support of the King holiday bill, his work to extend the voting rights act and his strong support for his black constituents and black colleges in the state of South Carolina.

Press circled the senator as he arrived at the event. A production assistant warned us that the senator would be booed. Nonetheless, when our names were announced, we strode proudly down the aisle to thunderous applause. There were no boos. Just respect for a senator who has spent the better part of this century serving the interests of his constituents.

Tears slid down the senator's weathered cheek as he turned to me and said, "You never back down from what you believe in. No matter what people call you, you stand by your convictions."

One of the last times I saw Sen. Thurmond was at the memorial service for his dear friend Holly Richardson, the senator's longtime scheduler and personal secretary, who recently passed away from breast cancer at the age of 47. The senator had attended hundreds of such services in the past. Always, he remained stoic and sturdy. This time, however, tears slid uncontrollably down his cheeks. His head drooped onto his chest and his mouth let out anguished moans. His staffers scurried to cover his eyes with shades so that those in attendance would not bear witness to his grief. It did little good. The senator became so overwhelmed with sadness that they had to wheel him out of the church.

It was the one time, in the 20 years that I had known him, that I became concerned for his well being. I stood by the senator's side as the aides drove his car around. He clutched my hand, "What am I going to do now?" I stroked his hand. "Holly's gone, and I am still here ... why not me?" he sighed.

If perhaps, late in life, this stubborn defiance of time became something of a burden for him, we are nevertheless grateful that the man actually had the audacity to overflow his era and enliven ours.

We will miss you, Strom.

Armstrong Williams is a native of South Carolina and columnist for Tribune Media Services.