Each week, we studied a chapter from the New Testament. At first I was a little skeptical. I had a hard time resisting the temptation to wisecrack. One night the group leader asked, “What is a prophet?” I answered, “That’s when revenue exceeds expenses. No one has seen one around here since Elijah.”
Soon I started to take the sessions more seriously. As I read the Bible, I was moved by the stories of Jesus’ kindness to suffering strangers, His healing of the blind and crippled, and His ultimate act of sacrificial love when He was nailed to the cross. For Christmas that year, Don Evans gave me a Daily Bible, a version split into 365 individual readings. I read it every morning and prayed to understand it more clearly. In time, my faith began to grow.
At first I was troubled by my doubts. The notion of a living God was a big leap, especially for someone with a logical mind like mine. Surrendering yourself to an Almighty is a challenge to the ego. But I came to realize that struggles and doubts are natural parts of faith. If you haven’t doubted, you probably haven’t thought very hard about what you believe.
Ultimately, faith is a walk—a journey toward greater understanding. It is not possible to prove God’s existence, but that cannot be the standard for belief. After all, it is equally impossible to prove He doesn’t exist. In the end, whether you believe or don’t believe, your position is based on faith.
That realization freed me to recognize signs of God’s presence. I saw the beauty of nature, the wonder of my little girls, the abiding love of Laura and my parents, and the freedom that comes with forgiveness—all what the preacher Timothy Keller calls “clues of God.” I moved ahead more confidently on my walk. Prayer was the nourishment that sustained me. As I deepened my understanding of Christ, I came closer to my original goal of being a better person—not because I was racking up points on the positive side of the heavenly ledger, but because I was moved by God’s love.
I realized something else. When Billy started answering questions that night in Maine, I was on my third glass of wine, after a couple of beers before dinner. Billy’s message had overpowered the booze. But that was not always the case. I had long been a social drinker. I liked to drink with friends, with meals, at sporting events, and at parties. By my mid-thirties, I was drinking routinely, with an occasional bender thrown in.
We had a saying in West Texas: “Last night he thought he was a ten, when in fact he was an ass.” That applied to me more than once. I like to joke around, but alcohol has a way of turning a quip or tease into a slash or insult. What seems funny with booze can sound so stupid later. One summer night we were having dinner in Maine after a great day of fishing and golf. I had worked up a thirst, which I quenched with multiple bourbon and Sevens. As we were eating, I turned to a beautiful friend of Mother and Dad’s and asked a boozy question: “So, what is sex like after fifty?”
Everyone at the table looked silently at their food—except for my parents and Laura, who glared at me with disbelief. The lovely woman let out a nervous laugh, and the conversation moved on. When I woke up the next day, I was reminded of what I had said. I instantly felt that morning-after remorse. After I called the woman to apologize, I started asking myself if this was really the way I wanted to lead my life. Years later, when I turned fifty, the good-natured woman sent a note to the Texas Governor’s Mansion: “Well, George, how is it?”
Laura saw a pattern developing, too. What seemed hilarious or clever to my friends and me was repetitive and childish to her. She wasn’t afraid to tell me what she thought, but she couldn’t quit for me. I had to do that on my own. At age forty, I finally found the strength to do it—a strength that came from love I had felt from my earliest days, and from faith that I didn’t fully discover for many years.
I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since that night at The Broadmoor in 1986. There’s no way to know where my life would have headed if I hadn’t made the decision to quit drinking. But I am certain that I would not be recording these thoughts as a former governor of Texas and president of the United States.
I’ve been asked if I consider myself an alcoholic. I can’t say for sure. I do know that I have a habitual personality. I was drinking too much, and it was starting to create problems. My ability to quit cold leads me to believe that I didn’t have a chemical addiction. Some drinkers are not as fortunate as I was. I admire those who use other methods to quit, such as the twelve-step process of Alcoholics Anonymous.
I could not have quit drinking without faith. I also don’t think my faith would be as strong if I hadn’t quit drinking. I believe God helped open my eyes, which were closing because of booze. For that reason, I’ve always felt a special connection to the words of “Amazing Grace,” my favorite hymn: “I once was lost, but now am found / was blind, but now I see.”
he morning of June 12, 1999, was beautiful in Texas. The Rangers were in first place in the American League West. The Dow Jones Industrial Average stood at 10,490. Dad had just celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday by parachuting out of an airplane—successfully. And I was about to make a leap of my own.
After months of soul-searching and countless hours weighing the pros and cons, I was headed to Iowa, site of the first caucus in the 2000 presidential election. I was free from the anxiety of making the decision and eager to begin the journey. Laura and I kissed the girls goodbye, headed to the airport, and boarded a TWA charter bound for Cedar Rapids.
The flight was packed, mostly with journalists. They had filled hours of television and reams of newsprint debating, questioning, and analyzing whether I would run. Now they were going to get the answer. I decided to have a little fun with them. I had christened our plane Great Expectations. Shortly after we lifted off, I grabbed the microphone and announced, “This is your candidate. Please stow your expectations securely in the overhead bins, as they may shift during the trip and may fall and hurt someone—especially me.”
I often use humor to defuse tension, but I knew I was embarking on a serious undertaking. More than almost any other candidate in history, I understood what running for president would entail. I had watched Dad endure grueling months on the campaign trail, under the constant scrutiny of a skeptical press. I had seen his record distorted, his character attacked, his appearance mocked. I had witnessed friends turn against him and aides abandon him. I knew how hard it was to win. And I knew how much it hurt to lose.
I worried most about our seventeen-year-old daughters, Barbara and Jenna. I had learned that being the child of a politician is tougher than being a politician yourself. I understood the pain and frustration that comes with hearing your dad called nasty names. I knew how it felt to worry every time you turned on the TV. And I knew what it was like to live with the thought that any innocent slip could embarrass the president of the United States. I had gone through all of this in my forties. If I became president, my girls would be in college when I took office. I could only imagine how much more difficult it would be for them.
I had thought through some big questions. Was I willing to forgo my anonymity forever? Was it right to subject my family to the scrutiny of a national campaign? Could I handle the embarrassment of defeat with the whole country watching? Was I really up to the job?
I believed I knew the answers, but there was no way to be sure.
I did know that I felt a calling to run. I was concerned about the future of the country, and I had a clear vision of where to lead it. I wanted to cut taxes, raise standards in public schools, reform Social Security and Medicare, rally faith-based charities, and lift the sights of the American people by encouraging a new era of personal responsibility. As I said in my speeches, “When I put my hand on the Bible, I will swear to not only uphold the laws of our land, I will swear to uphold the honor and dignity of the office to which I have been elected, so help me God.”
My exposure to the presidency had revealed the potential of the job. The two presidents I knew best, Dad and Ronald Reagan, had used their time in office to accomplish historic objectives. Presiden
t Reagan had challenged the Soviet Union and helped win the Cold War. Dad had liberated Kuwait and guided Europe toward unity and peace.
I had also seen the personal side of the presidency. For all the scrutiny and stress, Dad loved the job. He left office with his honor and values intact. Despite the many pressures, the intensity of the experience brought our family closer together.
The decision process was all-consuming. I thought about it, talked about it, analyzed it, and prayed about it. I had a philosophy I wanted to advance, and I was convinced I could build a team worthy of the presidency. I had the financial security to provide for my family, win or lose. Ultimately, the decisive factors were less tangible. I felt a drive to do more with my life, to push my potential and test my skills at the highest level. I had been inspired by the example of service my father and grandfather had set. I had watched Dad climb into the biggest arena and succeed. I wanted to find out if I had what it took to join him.
Even if I lost, I would still have a wonderful life. My family loved me. I would be governor of a great state. And I would never have to wonder what might have been. “When my time is up,” I would tell friends, “my dance card is going to be full.”
My announcement came at a barbecue in the small Iowa town of Amana. I gave my speech in a barn, atop a stage covered with hay in front of a giant cornfield. Congressman Jim Nussle, who would later serve as my Office of Management and Budget director, introduced me by singing “Iowa Stubborn” from The Music Man. With Laura at my side, I said, “I’m running for president of the United States. There’s no turning back, and I intend to be the next president.”
My path to that day was unconventional. I hadn’t spent a lifetime planning to run for president. If I had, I probably would have done a few things differently when I was younger. Yet along the journey, I built up the desire and skills to wage and win a presidential campaign. The seeds of that decision, like many others in my life, were planted in the dusty ground beneath the boundless sky of Midland, Texas.
Politics in Midland were conservative. West Texas has an independent spirit and distrust of centralized government. Like much of Texas, Midland had been dominated by the Democratic Party for generations. Midland’s sprawling congressional district, which included seventeen counties, had been represented by a Democrat named George Mahon for forty-three years. He was the longest-serving congressman in America. On July 6, 1977—my thirty-first birthday—he announced that he would retire at the end of his term.
By then I had been back in Midland for two years after business school. I was learning the oil business, reconnecting with friends, and generally enjoying life. I was also getting a feel for the political scene.
While I had never considered politics as a profession, I had helped out in all of Dad’s campaigns: his Senate race in 1964, his House campaign in 1966, and his second bid for the Senate in 1970. Before I started flight training in 1968, I spent several months as a traveling aide to Congressman Edward Gurney, who was running for the Senate in Florida. The highlight of the experience was a huge rally in Jacksonville where Gurney was endorsed by the tall, tan governor of California, Ronald Reagan. In 1972, I was the political director for Red Blount’s Senate campaign in Alabama. In 1976, I volunteered on President Ford’s West Texas operation in the Republican primary. I helped him win a total of zero delegates.
The campaign lifestyle was a perfect fit for me in my twenties. I enjoyed moving around and meeting new people. I thrived on the intensity and competition of the races. I liked the finality that came on election day, when the voters picked a winner and we all moved on. I hadn’t planned it this way, but by the time Congressman Mahon retired, I was a relatively seasoned political operative.
I started to think about running for the seat. I had the experience to handle the political side of the race. I also felt something stronger pulling me in. I was concerned about the direction of the country. My experiences in business school, China, and the oil business were converging into a set of convictions: The free market provided the fairest way to allocate resources. Lower taxes rewarded hard work and encouraged risk taking, which spurred job creation. Eliminating barriers to trade created new export markets for American producers and more choices for our consumers. Government should respect its constitutional limits and give people the freedom to live their lives.
When I looked at Washington under President Jimmy Carter and the Democratic Congress, I saw the opposite. They had plans to raise taxes, tighten government control over the energy sector, and substitute federal spending for private-sector job creation. I worried about America drifting left, toward a version of welfare-state Europe, where central government planning crowded out free enterprise. I wanted to do something about it. I was having my first experience with the political bug, and it was biting hard.
When I told Mother and Dad about my idea, they were surprised. My decision must have seemed like it had come out of nowhere, but they didn’t want to dampen my enthusiasm. Dad asked if I would be willing to listen to advice from a friend of his, former Texas Governor Allan Shivers. “Absolutely,” I said. Shivers was a legend. He had been the longest-serving governor in Texas history. He was a conservative Democrat, and his advice would be valuable in a race against Kent Hance, a right-of-center state senator and the likely Democratic nominee.
When I went to see the old governor, he asked me point-blank if I was running for Mr. Mahon’s seat. I said I was seriously considering the race. He looked me in the eye and said, “Son, you can’t win.” There was no encouragement, no nothing. He told me that the district was drawn perfectly to elect Kent Hance. I mumbled something like “I hope you are wrong if I decide to run,” and thanked him for his time.
I remember wondering why Dad had introduced me to the governor. Looking back on it, it may have been his way of telling me, without smothering my ambition, that I should be prepared to lose.
The first phase of the campaign was the Republican primary. I made it into a runoff against Jim Reese, a smooth-talking former sportscaster and mayor of Odessa. He had run against George Mahon in 1976 and felt entitled to the nomination in 1978. He was very unhappy that I had outpolled him in the first round of the primary.
Reese had a hard edge, and so did some of his supporters. Their strategy was to paint me as a liberal, out-of-touch carpetbagger. They threw out all kinds of conspiracy theories. Dad was part of a trilateral commission campaign to establish a one-world government. I had been sent by the Rockefeller family to buy up farmland. Four days before the election, Reese produced a copy of my birth certificate to prove I had been born back east. How was I supposed to counter that? I responded with a line Dad had once used: “No, I wasn’t born in Texas, because I wanted to be close to my mother that day.”
Reese received an endorsement and campaign contributions from Ronald Reagan, who was seeking an edge on Dad in the 1980 presidential primary. Despite all the innuendos, I was optimistic about my chances. My strategy was to build up a bulkhead in my home county of Midland. Laura and I attended coffees across town, organized the county block by block, and persuaded friends who had never been involved in politics to help us.* On election night, our grassroots effort in Midland produced a massive turnout. I lost every other county in the district, but took Midland by such a huge margin that I won the nomination.
Dad had predicted that Reagan would call to congratulate me if I won the primary. He did, the next day. He was gracious and volunteered to help in the general election. I was grateful for his call and bore no hard feelings. But I was determined to run the race as my own man. I didn’t do any campaigning with Reagan, nor did I do any with Dad.
The race against Reese toughened me as a candidate. I learned I could take a hard punch, keep fighting, and win. My opponent in the general was Kent Hance, the state senator Governor Shivers had warned me about. Hance’s strategy was the same as Reese’s—turn me into an East Coast outsider—but he executed it with more subtlety and charm.
One of my f
irst TV ads showed me jogging, which I thought emphasized my energy and youth. Hance turned it against me with one line: “The only time folks around here go running is when somebody’s chasing ’em.”
He also ran a radio ad: “In 1961, when Kent Hance graduated from Dimmitt High School in the Nineteenth Congressional District, his opponent, George W. Bush, was attending Andover Academy in Massachusetts. In 1965, when Kent Hance graduated from Texas Tech, his opponent was at Yale University. And while Kent Hance graduated from University of Texas Law School, his opponent … get this, folks … was attending Harvard. We don’t need someone from the Northeast telling us what our problems are.”
Hance was a great storyteller, and he used his skill to pound away with the outsider theme. His favorite story was about a man in a limo who pulled up to a farm where Hance was working. When the driver asked him for directions to the next town, Hance said, “Turn right just past the cattle guard, then follow the road.” The punch line came when the driver asked, “Excuse me, but what color uniform will that cattle guard be wearing?” The West Texas crowds loved it. Hance would twist the knife by adding, “I couldn’t tell if the limo had Massachusetts or Connecticut license plates.”
Laura and I moved temporarily to Lubbock, the biggest city in the district, about 115 miles north of Midland. An important hub for the cotton business, Lubbock was home to Texas Tech University. We used the city as our base to campaign in the district’s rural counties. Laura and I spent hours in the car together, stumping in towns like Levelland, Plainview, and Brownfield. For someone who didn’t particularly care for politics, Laura was a natural campaigner. Her genuineness made it easy for voters to relate to her. After our wedding, we had taken a short trip to Cozumel, Mexico, but we joked that the campaign was our honeymoon.
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