Deleted Tweets From Nate McMurray, D-N.Y.

My My brother just texted the Secret Service agent who we worked out logistics with when we picked up Joe Biden at the Buffalo Airport. We haven’t talked to him since. He texted, “We did it!” He got a thumbs up back.

My brother lives in Japan now. He’s trying to get a drivers license. It’s apparently super difficult in Japan. He just told me, I’m gonna write them a letter and say are used a drive the President of the United States. Technically true.

To be honest. I’m sad. I know I would’ve helped President Biden. I would’ve done a good job. I’m not sad for me so much though, as I’m sad for Western New York. Sorry to say that sounds arrogant, but I am. I know we lost out on part of this. But I will hope. It’s the only way.

To be honest. I’m sad. I know I would’ve helped President Biden. I would’ve done a good job. I’m not sad for me so much though, as I’m sad for Western New York. Sorry to say that sounds arrogant, but I am. I know we lost out on part of this.

Joe Biden is not a saint. Joe Biden and I disagree on many things. But I know, as I have always said, that Joe Biden is a good man. And boy do we need a good man right now. With hope, always with hope, Nate https://t.co/T3rQaE9AFQ

He told me the most important thing was loving my boy, no matter what, always.

And then he said hello to my son, Moses. He tussled his hair. Commented on how tall he was. And then Joe, put his arm around me, and walked me to the back. He told me about his sons, the one he lost and the won he almost lost to despair.

At the end of our discussion, his wife called. It was the day the insane Trump supporter put a pipe bomb in her mailbox. I saw him talk to her. I saw tears well up him his eyes. I heard him reassure her, express his concern—real emotion, love. My eyes tear up now as I remember.

I told him, “You should run for President. We need you.” His eyes sparkled.

He then blew me away with a detailed discussion of international affairs, as good as anyone I have seen do in politics. I always laugh when people told me he wasn’t sharp. The guy is sharp.

We talked a lot about my experience in Asia, he put me on the phone to call his team to check my language abilities. “Pretty good kid,” he said, as I hung up his phone.

I shared breakfast, one one one, with Joe. He asked me about my race, but he really wanted to know about me. He put blueberries on my pancakes, whip cream. He was calm, and smart.

But he doesn’t get impressed by politicians too easily anymore. But Jim was impressed by Joe. The President looked at him, pointed up, and said without a pause “If I had hair like that, I would have been President.” Jim blushed. I’ve used that line 100 times since.

And Joe said hello to Jim Sharpe, my dear friend and my former Deputy Supervisor on Grand Island. JIm is also Joe’s peer in age. And Jim spent his whole life in local politics, gathering signatures, running for office. He is a loyal soldier—literally, a vet.

He listened to her about her health concerns, made some subtle recommendations, and shared her french fries. By the end, she hugged him like she was hugging her own son at graduation.

I saw how Joe talked to an reserved elderly woman with a sea of brilliant white hair. At first, she too wanted no part of it. But that changed quick. She was probably not much older than Joe, but in that interaction, Joe became the earnest youth.

But Joe slid right into his booth, and said, “How you doing man?” The large man blushed, and said in a meek tone, “Good Joe.”

And he talked to everyone. I mean everyone. Selfies and stories for all! I won’t forgot how he put his arm around this mountain of a man in a camouflage hunting jacket. The guy knew who he was, had a Trump hat on, wouldn’t make eye contact.

The guy is as kind and warm as a dog and an electric blanket on a Christmas Eve. And he talks like that too, like an older man to be sure, with a reassuring folksy charm—like a wandering storyteller jumping freight trains.

Joe was quiet, smiling eyes in the rear view mirror. He took him to meet me at a diner in Lancaster. Joe was going to speak at a the University of Buffalo that night. I was told we would have ten minutes with him. But we got a few hours. What can I say? The stories are true.

My My brother just texted the Secret Service agent who we worked out logistics with when we picked up Joe Biden at the Buffalo Airport. We haven’t talked to him since. He texted, “We did it!” He got a thumbs up back.

My brother lives in Japan now. He’s trying to get a drivers license. It’s apparently super difficult in Japan. He just told me, I’m gonna write them a letter and say are used a drive the President of the United States. Technically true.

To be honest. I’m sad. I know I would’ve helped President Biden. I would’ve done a good job. I’m not sad for me so much though, as I’m sad for Western New York. Sorry to say that sounds arrogant, but I am. I know we lost out on part of this. But I will hope. It’s the only way.

To be honest. I’m sad. I know I would’ve helped President Biden. I would’ve done a good job. I’m not sad for me so much though, as I’m sad for Western New York. Sorry to say that sounds arrogant, but I am. I know we lost out on part of this.

Joe Biden is not a saint. Joe Biden and I disagree on many things. But I know, as I have always said, that Joe Biden is a good man. And boy do we need a good man right now. With hope, always with hope, Nate https://t.co/T3rQaE9AFQ

He told me the most important thing was loving my boy, no matter what, always.

And then he said hello to my son, Moses. He tussled his hair. Commented on how tall he was. And then Joe, put his arm around me, and walked me to the back. He told me about his sons, the one he lost and the won he almost lost to despair.

At the end of our discussion, his wife called. It was the day the insane Trump supporter put a pipe bomb in her mailbox. I saw him talk to her. I saw tears well up him his eyes. I heard him reassure her, express his concern—real emotion, love. My eyes tear up now as I remember.

I told him, “You should run for President. We need you.” His eyes sparkled.

He then blew me away with a detailed discussion of international affairs, as good as anyone I have seen do in politics. I always laugh when people told me he wasn’t sharp. The guy is sharp.

We talked a lot about my experience in Asia, he put me on the phone to call his team to check my language abilities. “Pretty good kid,” he said, as I hung up his phone.

I shared breakfast, one one one, with Joe. He asked me about my race, but he really wanted to know about me. He put blueberries on my pancakes, whip cream. He was calm, and smart.

But he doesn’t get impressed by politicians too easily anymore. But Jim was impressed by Joe. The President looked at him, pointed up, and said without a pause “If I had hair like that, I would have been President.” Jim blushed. I’ve used that line 100 times since.

And Joe said hello to Jim Sharpe, my dear friend and my former Deputy Supervisor on Grand Island. JIm is also Joe’s peer in age. And Jim spent his whole life in local politics, gathering signatures, running for office. He is a loyal soldier—literally, a vet.

He listened to her about her health concerns, made some subtle recommendations, and shared her french fries. By the end, she hugged him like she was hugging her own son at graduation.

I saw how Joe talked to an reserved elderly woman with a sea of brilliant white hair. At first, she too wanted no part of it. But that changed quick. She was probably not much older than Joe, but in that interaction, Joe became the earnest youth.

But Joe slid right into his booth, and said, “How you doing man?” The large man blushed, and said in a meek tone, “Good Joe.”

And he talked to everyone. I mean everyone. Selfies and stories for all! I won’t forgot how he put his arm around this mountain of a man in a camouflage hunting jacket. The guy knew who he was, had a Trump hat on, wouldn’t make eye contact.

The guy is as kind and warm as a dog and an electric blanket on a Christmas Eve. And he talks like that too, like an older man to be sure, with a reassuring folksy charm—like a wandering storyteller jumping freight trains.

Joe was quiet, smiling eyes in the rear view mirror. He took him to meet me at a diner in Lancaster. Joe was going to speak at a the University of Buffalo that night. I was told we would have ten minutes with him. But we got a few hours. What can I say? The stories are true.