When Frank Horton left Congress, they had a big celebration for him at the Rochester Riverside Convention Center. As the evening wore down, I sat on a bench near the coat room, putting together a column for the newspaper. Louise Slaughter walked up, and in that beautiful southern drawl called me by name. “Bob,” she said. “Bob, be sure and write something nice about dear Frank. He deserves it.”The same is true of Louise Slaughter. I want to write something nice, because she deserves it.