My Father, My President Page 52

  “So there’s kind of a family continuity there,” said Dad.

  While George’s election didn’t change us from a family standpoint, it did reverse the roles between my parents and the new president and First Lady. For twelve years, it was us “kids”—George and Laura included—who agonized over each negative story and every cheap political shot directed at Dad. My father was always the one to calm us all down.

  Since George and Jeb had entered the political arena in 1994, however, it was Mom and Dad’s turn to worry about their sons’ political fortunes—and that concern only intensified after George and Laura entered the White House. Dad continues to be a voracious consumer of political news and information, and hardly ever misses a slight against the current Oval Office occupant. Now my brother George finds himself telling Dad to stop reading the papers and to stop worrying about whatever the latest line of attack is.

  “Dad pays so much attention to the criticism that when we talk he’ll occasionally rehash some attack,” the president said. “So I spend a lot of time comforting him and assuring him that I’m fine. People looking from the outside in on the presidency can draw all kinds of conclusions as to how you’re feeling. Is the burden of the office getting to you? He, of course, has more concern than anybody because I’m his son.”

  “It’s much worse, by far, when it’s your son who’s criticized,” Dad said. “It didn’t bother me as president because I could handle it. I know George is strong and can take it, too—but it still burns the hell out of me.”

  After the 2000 election, very early on, I remember George asking me to look in on Mom and Dad more often, since he’d probably be less able to with his schedule. He’s always been very good about checking in with them—and still does—but he was worried enough about his impending schedule to say something to me.

  George’s election has had several other distinct effects on our family.

  Initially, it caused a great deal of confusion to have two presidents in the family. For example, whenever Dad and my brother were in the same room and someone called out “President Bush” or “Mr. President,” they both turned and answered. To cope with this problem, Congressman John Dingell came up with an informal nickname for Dad and George whereby Dad today is frequently referred to as “41,” shorthand for the forty-first president, while George W. is—you guessed it—“43.” Together, Congressman Dingell joked, they make “84.”

  To those who study the presidency and revere it as an institution, I recognize this shorthand treatment for the president seems highly inappropriate; yet at times it has proved inescapably necessary. Just ask artist Ron Sherr, who was commissioned to paint a dual portrait of Dad and George that today hangs in the Bush Library at Texas A&M. Ron was given a period of time with Dad and George in Laurel, the main lodge at Camp David. After George and Dad entered the room to begin the sitting, Ron said, “Mr. President, please turn to your left.”

  Both Dad and George turned to their left.

  “I’m sorry, President Bush,” Ron said, pointing to Dad. “Not you. I meant you, President Bush,” pointing to George.

  Dad told Ron he might want to use the 41–43 designations to avoid confusion, but Ron demurred, feeling it was not right. The confusion continued, however, wasting valuable time. Finally, George said, “Ron, you’ve got ten minutes left.”

  Flustered, Ron started barking out orders: “41, you do this! 43, sit like that!”

  Another impact of George W.’s presidency relates to Dad’s ability to speak out on the issues. Every former president is different, but for his part Dad has never had much interest in trying to shape legislation or influence events as an ex-president. He did go to the White House twice during the Clinton administration—for the NAFTA signing and the Mideast peace ceremony—and Dad later issued a statement of support for the Clinton administration’s stated goals in Bosnia.

  For the most part, however, he has kept his own counsel and tried to stay out of the press. That natural inclination for discretion increased dramatically once George W. and Jeb got into public life.

  “He has been there as a sounding board, as a loving father, as someone who cares about his son, but not trying to tell his son what he should do or how he should make decisions,” said Karen Hughes.

  “I don’t want to do something that in any way—directly or indirectly—complicates the life of the president of the United States,” Dad explained. “If I deviated from one of the president’s policies—even if it was unknowingly—some enterprising reporter would rush into the White House press room and say, ‘Mr. President, your nutty father over here is saying this and that.’ The president doesn’t need that kind of grief, and neither does the governor of Florida.”

  Like any father and son, Dad and George do speak often.

  “I originate the calls and it’s as much a call just to check in than anything else,” the president said. “Mother says, ‘Dad loves to talk to you.’ Point being that he likes to be kept abreast. He likes to hear what’s going on. But I think he’s got enough confidence in me as the president and as a person to be able to deal with the pressures and the decision-making. I remember fishing with him one time in 1992. Sitting there on the boat, he said, ‘This is a job where you make an enormous number of decisions, and I like making decisions.’ It turned out to be an accurate description of the job. You’ve got to be able to make decisions and stand by them.”

  Finally, George’s election also prompted comparisons between the Bushes and the only other American family to have a father and son as president—the John Adams family of Massachusetts. Dad wrote a letter to his friend Hugh Sidey about the phenomenon:

  I have just finished David McCullough’s book on John Adams. I loved it. I read every page carefully and with great enjoyment. I kept trying to make comparisons between the Adamses and the Bushes, though author McCullough would probably die if he thought I was doing that . . .

  We both had sons who became president. Once out of office Adams largely stayed offstage, although he was more actively involved than I have chosen to be. Like Adams I am very proud of my family.

  I am luckier in one sense because, thanks to TV, the telephone, and the papers, I get to see my beloved son actively involved in the problems of the presidency. Whereas by the time John Quincy Adams was elected, John Adams was very old and though sharp until the end he was not able to keep up with events and problems John Quincy was facing. Communications were so different back then.

  In many ways Abigail Adams and Barbara Bush are alike. Both are very strong women, both possessed of very strong opinions, both loyal wives devoted to family.

  One big difference between John Adams and me related to his education and his reading. A prolific reader, he loved the classics, prided himself on his ability to speak Latin, and had a library of extraordinary proportions.

  True I studied Latin for four years—two in grade school, two in boarding school; but I couldn’t wait to stop studying Latin. Big difference there between me and John.

  I took eleven years of French, too; but unlike John I never lived in France and thus I am far less fluent in the language than he.

  Who had the tougher role as president, John Adams POTUS #2 or George Bush POTUS #41? [POTUS is an acronym for President of the United States.]

  I’d have to go with John Adams. Life was tougher back then and the press was sometimes ugly. Adams was attacked in editorial-like letters. But then again I used to be hammered in actual editorials and in the news columns day in and day out.

  On the other hand, John was elected by only a tiny handful of people. He did not appear to me to put in the grueling hours I did. He was gone from Philadelphia and Washington a lot. His name-calling evil press was sporadic, whereas mine and every modern president’s press coverage was (is) a constant barrage of attacking articles.

  The problems he faced were huge and he took tough positions particularly regarding France and standing up to [Alexander] Hamilton and others.

  Bu
t my challenges, though different, were pretty big, too. Back then he was an original. I was just one more man in the long line; but the presidency meant every bit as much to me as it did to John Adams.

  I loved the fact that toward the end of their lives, [Thomas] Jefferson and Adams overcame their differences and again became friends.

  Should I make up with Ross Perot? The answer is no. Perot is no Jefferson, and I am not trying to say I am a John Adams.

  Adams dealt with small numbers and big problems. I dealt with huge numbers and big problems, though my problems, unlike those Adams faced, had little do with the survival of our country.

  Adams, like everyone back then, had medical problems that plagued his family, and medicines were primitive. I am spoiled by modern medicine.

  Adams spoke in flowery words. I don’t speak such words.

  Adams had some humor but that does not appear to be a main trait for him. I love humor of all kinds; and I have the Internet to keep the jokes rolling in. No Internet for old John, and besides, I am not sure he would approve of the Monica Lewinsky limerick that has given me so much laughter.

  John Adams had a son who was a real disappointment, a black sheep. I have no such son—only four wonderful men who bring me nothing but joy. They are of fine character and they are strengthened by their loving families. John Adams’ daughter, Nabby, seemed close to him, but not as close as my beloved Doro is to me.

  John Adams died at 90 or was it 91? I want to live to at least 90 unless of course my health is such that I become a burden on others.

  When John Adams wanted to convey his pride in John Quincy, it took horses and carriages and plenty of time to get the letters through. When I want to talk to #43 I just pick up the phone and usually the president answers. As a matter of fact I just hung up from calling him. I saw him give a great speech in Missouri. I called him and in but a few minutes I got him in his car sitting there in Independence, Missouri. Amazing!

  When he got older, John Adams had bad tooth problems. No crowns or drills or Novocain for Old John; but for me a broken tooth is nothing. Music in the dentist’s office. A fine assistant passing the tools and pumping in the Novocain and shortly afterward a new gold crown. Lucky me, poor toothless John.

  John and I both enjoyed working on matters foreign. The problems he faced as envoy and president were enormous. Mine were less formidable, but certainly they were important, sometimes urgent.

  At time John Adams seemed a bit cranky. I am not a cranky guy.

  So I shall end this treatise. Don’t show it to McCullough for he will look at these rambling comments and say “Harvard educated, cultured, well spoken and well written, John Adams would never write such trivia. I feel I know John Adams. And I do know George Bush. And George Bush, you are no John Adams.”

  John Adams was reportedly happy in his later years, but he could not possibly have been as happy a man, as lucky a man, as I am.

  When George W. became president, he told my brother Marvin and me that every time he and Laura go to Camp David on the weekends, we were invited. Marvin, Margaret, Bobby, and I live close by and feel lucky to be able to be a part of George W.’s presidency. When I heard the president’s invitation, I thought how very nice it was, but I wouldn’t dream of imposing. He was the newly elected president, after all, and would have so much on his mind. All he needed, I thought, was his sister hanging around and getting in the way. I quickly learned, or the president and Laura quickly made me feel, that I was completely and utterly welcome.

  One weekend, I was there with my two younger children, Robert and Gigi. We were sitting around the dinner table with a big crowd: the president, Laura, Dr. Condoleezza Rice (who was then the national security adviser), and other family and friends. Robert, eleven years old at the time, loves the food at Camp David and really looks forward to the dinners. The president enjoys Mexican food and southern fare, and it’s usually served family-style on the table and passed around.

  At this particular dinner, Robert was looking around the table to see what he might have, and I suddenly heard him say very politely to Condoleezza Rice, “Dr. Fruit, could you please pass the rice?” at which point he turned as red as a tomato, and then stammered, “I mean, Dr. Rice, could you please pass the fruit?” Everyone laughed at such an innocent faux pas.

  I realized then we could provide these family moments for the president—to lighten his burden for just a moment, in the way that only family can.

  In July 2001, Jeb visited Walker’s Point, and, as usual, the agenda called for a little fishing. Jeb showed up that first morning on the dock wearing a red windbreaker and took off with Dad and Bill Busch. The fishing was as great as the weather, but before they headed home Bill decided to play a little joke and slipped a mackerel they were using as bait fish into the pocket of Jeb’s coat. Bill fully expected to hear from Jeb regarding this “souvenir from Maine” before long.

  A few days later, the president arrived at Walker’s Point—and Dad and Bill took him fishing as well. After a good morning trip, they returned to the dock, tied up the boat, put away the gear, and headed up to the Big House for one of Ariel’s great lunches.

  “We came inside, passing the big closet by the door, which was open with all of its contents over chairs, on the floor, and on a rolling garment rack,” Bill recalled. “There was even a fan inside the closet blowing air out toward the screen door. Everyone looked—puzzled—and continued into the dining room for lunch,” Bill said.

  A few moments later, Ariel passed by with a funny look on his face. He stopped and declared, “I found the smell in the closet. It was a mackerel in your pocket, sir.”

  Mom looked at Dad and said, “George Herbert Walker Bush! What are you doing with a mackerel in your pocket?” Bill started to sweat, as he realized how the mackerel got there. He sensed certain death at the hands of my mother and quickly came up with, “Mr. President, you didn’t have to save the bait, I’ll get more tomorrow!”

  On September 11, 2001, Al Qaeda terrorists crashed four commercial airplanes filled with innocent men and women into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a field in rural Pennsylvania. A fifth plane was reportedly supposed to crash into the White House or the Capitol building, but that attack never materialized.

  Mom and Dad attended a Washington, D.C., event on September 10 and stayed the night at the White House. That next fateful morning, they kissed Laura good-bye as she was getting ready to testify on Capitol Hill and jumped on a plane bound for St. Paul, Minnesota, where they were scheduled to give a joint speech.

  At 9:45 a.m., the Federal Aviation Administration grounded all air traffic for the first time in history, forcing Mom and Dad to land in Milwaukee. They were taken to a motel on the outskirts of town and started to catch up on the surreal, devastating news. Bobby, likewise, was grounded in California and was not able to get home to us for a week.

  As soon as I heard about the attacks, like everyone else, my first thoughts concerned my family. Our four children were in four different schools, and there was a lot of phone calling as to whether to pick up the children or leave them at school, where they may have been safer. Some of the schools told the kids what had happened, some left that to the parents. I walked down the street to pick up Robert at school, where he was in third grade. Gigi and Ellie, meanwhile, were retrieved by friends. The only child I could not get to was Sam, whose school in downtown Washington would not release him until later that day.

  Also nerve-racking was the fact that Marvin was in New York, and we couldn’t get in touch with him. It turned out that he was in the subway near the Twin Towers when the attacks happened, and he had to evacuate from where the train stopped on the tracks.

  Of course, “my family” also included my brother, the president of the United States, who was thrust into a crisis unlike any other since our nation was attacked at Pearl Harbor sixty years before, in 1941. God only knows how he coped with the shock and the enormity of such a catastrophe, as the worl
d watched the Twin Towers collapse, as we saw the Pentagon in flames. And yet, while everyone was struggling to understand the meaning of these atrocities, the president was already reaching out to his advisers, assessing the information, and preparing our government to fight the global scourge of terrorism that descended from the sky that day.

  Naturally, when I saw the president get off Marine One on the White House South Lawn that night, I was relieved and concerned—relieved that he and the First Lady were safe, but also deeply concerned about the awesome responsibility now set upon his shoulders.

  The next day, Mom and Dad received special permission to fly back to Maine. All air travel was still grounded, so they didn’t see a single plane on the way. That afternoon, Jim Dionne, who owned a fishing store in Kennebunkport and is an occasional fishing partner of Dad’s, took his boat out on the Kennebunk River and headed over to Walker’s Point. He encountered Dad and a Secret Service agent in Fidelity coming out of the cove.

  “What are you doing out here, Jimmy?” Dad asked.

  “I came out to see if you were okay,” Jim responded.

  In what would become a familiar refrain from Dad in the aftermath of the attacks, Dad said, “We’re fine, but please say a prayer for my son George.”

  Jim then pointed to the American flag flying high on Walker’s Point. “Those colors never run, sir,” he said.

  Dad turned to look at the flag, then told his friend, “You’re right, Jimmy. They don’t.”

  Like New York, Washington was a traumatic place to live in the aftermath of 9/11. Everywhere you looked, you saw a reminder of the new world in which we were living. Fighter planes routinely screamed overhead at all hours, and helicopters were flying low over the city. Heavily armed Humvees and antiaircraft batteries were also positioned throughout our nation’s capital.