On election night, I came up short. I won my home county of Midland and some of the southern part of the district. But as Governor Shivers had predicted, the district was drawn perfectly to suit Kent Hance. He stressed his Texas roots and painted me as an Ivy League–educated outsider, which played well in the mostly rural district. He won 53 percent to 47 percent.
Even though I lost the race, I learned a lot—about campaigning, and about the partner at my side. And thanks to my father’s example, I knew that life would go on after defeat. In some ways, losing the election might have been for the best. To this day, my friend Kent Hance reminds people that he is the only politician ever to beat me. “I’m responsible for George W. Bush being President,” he says. “If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be stuck in Congress.”
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I DON’T REMEMBER the exact moment when Dad told me he had decided to run for President. It was obvious that he was leaning strongly in that direction in 1977 when he created the Fund for Limited Government, a political action committee that allowed him to raise money as he explored his options.
It did not require much exploration to recognize that George Bush faced an uphill climb for the Republican nomination. Unlike other prospective candidates, he was not an elected official. He had no natural constituency. His national name recognition was so low that in many early presidential polls he didn’t register enough support to be included in the results. He was listed under the asterisk as one of “others receiving votes.” His early campaign aides formed the “asterisk club.” George Bush had overcome long odds before, and he intended to do it again.
The competition for the 1980 Republican nomination promised to be intense. In addition to Governor Reagan, the field included Senator Bob Dole of Kansas, a former RNC Chairman and Gerald Ford’s running mate in 1976. Another presidential hopeful was John Connally, a former Democratic Governor of Texas whom Richard Nixon had recruited into the Republican Party by appointing him Treasury Secretary. Connally, who had been in the car with John F. Kennedy on the day that he was assassinated in Dallas, was charismatic and had a strong following in the boardrooms of corporate America. Rounding out the field were Howard Baker, a respected Senator from Tennessee, and two Congressmen from Illinois, John Anderson and Phil Crane.
The Chairman of the Fund for Limited Government was my father’s close friend and confidant from Houston, James A. Baker III. Dad first met Jimmy Baker shortly after he and Mother moved to Houston in 1959. While Dad was building his offshore oil business, Jimmy was making his name as a lawyer. A graduate of Princeton and the University of Texas School of Law, Jimmy was a brilliant strategist, a skillful negotiator, and a man who could always make Dad laugh. He was one of the best joke-tellers that I have ever heard (most of his best jokes cannot be repeated). He and Dad struck up a friendship as tennis partners at the Houston Country Club. Before long, they were club champions in men’s doubles.
Jimmy had grown even closer to Mother and Dad when his wife, Mary, died of breast cancer in 1970. My parents reached out to help comfort their grieving friend. Dad explained how he had dealt with Robin’s death by plunging into his work, and he asked Jimmy if he wanted to spend more time on his 1970 Senate campaign. He accepted the offer. For the rest of Dad’s career, James Baker was his most trusted and valuable political adviser—including in the 1980 presidential campaign.
Another Houston friend taking a leading role in the 1980 effort was Bob Mosbacher, who volunteered to head up Dad’s fund-raising effort. His job was to raise enough money for Dad to travel the country and set up political organizations in a few key states. One of the first staffers hired was Karl Rove, a twenty-eight-year-old political whiz who had led the College Republicans while Dad was at the RNC. Karl played an important role in Dad’s campaign and later became one of my closest advisers and a dear friend.
No account of George Bush’s team would be complete without mention of Don Rhodes. My father first met Don in 1964, when he volunteered on Dad’s Senate campaign. Don would stop by the office on the way home from his job as a convenience store clerk. He worked grueling hours stuffing envelopes and checking mailing lists. At first, few people took Don seriously. He was different. He hardly spoke. And when he did, it was in a loud, slurred way. Many around the campaign pitied Don. Few thought he was capable of more than menial tasks.
Don never talked about his background, except for one aspect: He loved his Texas A&M. Over time, some of his life story emerged. His slurred speech was a result of bad hearing. His social awkwardness was a result of his troubled home environment. A childhood friend of Don’s later told us that his mother was a prostitute who died when Don was young, leaving him an orphan in Houston.
Over the years, Don Rhodes became one of my father’s most loyal and trusted aides. Dad saw something in the former convenience store clerk that others did not: a man who needed a friend, and a man he could trust completely. My parents’ trust in Don was so deep that they allowed him to handle their day-to-day finances. It was not uncommon for my siblings in college to get a call from Don reminding them to pay a bill or check the balance in their bank account.
One of my favorite memories of Don came after the strike that ended the major league baseball season in 1994. Don was so angry that he vowed not to attend a ball game for ten years. When the Houston Astros opened their beautiful new ballpark in 2000, Dad asked Don if he would like to join him for opening day. Of course, he had great seats. Don looked Dad straight in the eye and said, “I told you I wasn’t going to a game for ten years, and it hasn’t been ten years yet.”
When Don died in 2011, my father called Don “the most unselfish, most caring friend” he ever had. That was high praise from George Bush. After Don’s funeral, his ashes were scattered in my parents’ future gravesite at the George Bush Presidential Library. That was a fitting tribute to Don Rhodes. He was not just a staffer; he was a member of the family.
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ON MAY 1, 1979, my father officially announced his campaign for the presidency. Dad’s limited national following and skeletal staff dictated his strategy for the primaries. In 1976, Jimmy Carter had devoted all his resources to the early states of Iowa and New Hampshire. His victories there had provided the momentum that propelled him all the way to the nomination. Dad adopted a similar approach.
As in his earlier political races, George Bush resolved to outwork his opponents. He visited every one of Iowa’s ninety-nine counties, many of them multiple times. He would show up for pancake breakfasts, county fairs, chamber of commerce dinners, and coffees at people’s homes. He followed up with hundreds of handwritten letters. In the month before the caucus, he held dozens of campaign events. He talked about the struggling economy, rising inflation, and declining American power abroad. His message was that Jimmy Carter had to go—and that he had the energy and experience to replace him.
Dad was not the only one working hard. My brother Jeb came back from Venezuela, where he had been working for the international office of a Texas bank, to work full-time on the campaign. Neil worked on the campaign in New Hampshire, and Marvin spent almost a full year in Iowa. Doro enrolled in a typing class and volunteered on the campaign in Massachusetts. Dad’s brothers and sister all pitched in as well. And Mother maintained a full campaign schedule, speaking in living rooms and meeting halls across Iowa about why George Bush would be a great President. Our love for him was so powerful that it was easy for the family to go all in.
I made it to Iowa for the final weeks before the caucuses. I traveled the northeastern corner of the state with Congressman Tom Tauke. We met with groups of caucusgoers and tried to persuade them to turn out for George Bush. I loved every minute of the retail politics.
Ronald Reagan was clearly the front-runner going into the caucuses, but Dad had lined up support from respected Iowans like former RNC Chair Mary Louise Smith and Congressman Tauke. More important, he had spent a lot more time in the state than Reagan. That was crucial. Iowans appreciate candidates
who give them personal attention. On caucus night, Dad’s hard work paid off. He was first to the finish line with just over 30 percent of the vote. The candidate who had once been an asterisk in the polls had just won the first major contest of the presidential race.
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THE UPSET VICTORY triggered a wave of national publicity. George Bush’s name was in the headlines; his picture was on the magazine covers. Amid the euphoria of the Iowa triumph, however, he was uncharacteristically boastful. Looking ahead to New Hampshire, he said, “We’ll do even better there.” He continued, “There’ll be absolutely no stopping me.” In one of his most memorable lines, he announced that he had “Big Mo” (momentum) on his side. That was true, but not for long.
In retrospect, the Big Mo quote represented a missed opportunity. With the spotlight on him after his Iowa win, Dad had a chance to emphasize his vision for the country. Instead, he became entangled in the world of political process, and ultimately he allowed his candidacy to get defined by others. I learned a valuable lesson: Every time you have the microphone in a political campaign, you should use the opportunity to talk about your vision for the future. (Of course, I didn’t always heed those words. In 2000, I won in Iowa and lost in New Hampshire to John McCain, in part because I let him define me.)
Compared to Iowa, New Hampshire seemed like familiar territory. Dad had been born in neighboring Massachusetts, grown up in nearby Connecticut, and spent summers across the border in Maine. He had a strong network of supporters in the state led by former Governor Hugh Gregg. (Years later his son, my close friend Judd Gregg, would serve as a Governor, a Senator, and Chairman of my New Hampshire campaigns.)
Despite the home-field advantage, the atmosphere in New Hampshire was different from Iowa. New Hampshire voters are an independent lot, and they have a history of derailing front-runners. Dad’s front-runner status also led to intensified press scrutiny. In an interview with Mother, Jane Pauley asked, “Mrs. Bush, people say your husband is a man of the eighties and you are a woman of the forties. What do you say to that?” Mother defused the insult with a quip. “Oh, you mean people think I look forty?” Life as the presidential front-runner would not be easy.
The key moment in New Hampshire came at the debate two nights before the primary. In an attempt to dramatize the event, the debate organizers decided to invite only the two front-runners, Ronald Reagan and George Bush. The Reagan campaign supported the format and picked up the cost of the room rental. Dad hadn’t suggested the idea, but he relished the chance to go head-to-head with Reagan.
Naturally, the other candidates were incensed that they hadn’t been invited. They decided to protest their exclusion by showing up at the debate and demanding to be heard. It later became clear that the Reagan campaign had coordinated their appearance, creating a political setup: They wanted to put George Bush on the defensive at the debate—and they did.
After the moderator, Jon Breen of the Nashua Telegraph, introduced Dad and Reagan to the audience, the other candidates popped out from behind the curtain and stood angrily on the stage. Reagan argued that they should be allowed to join the debate, but the moderator insisted on adhering to the agreement. Dad sat awkwardly in his chair as the spectacle unfolded around him. His instincts had kicked in. Rules were rules, and Dad had been raised to follow them. Plus he did not want to embarrass Mr. Breen in front of the national audience.
Reagan, on the other hand, had no problem showing up his host. When Breen threatened to cut off his microphone, Reagan thundered, “I am paying for this microphone, Mr. Green.” The crowd roared with approval. (They didn’t care that his name was Breen, not Green.) The remark echoed a line from Spencer Tracy in the movie State of the Union, and the former actor had won over his audience big-time. Dad’s silence made him look weak and further infuriated the other candidates. The debate ended up as a one-on-one affair, but the only story anyone remembered was the controversy about the microphone. One press account said that Dad had shown “the backbone of a jellyfish.” Bob Dole said that George Bush “wants to be King” and compared his actions to the those of the Gestapo. Other candidates piled on.
It was agonizing for me to listen to the jilted candidates hammer Dad. Looking back on it, the New Hampshire debate was the first time I experienced the unique brand of pain that the child of a public figure feels. I was used to hearing my father get criticized in his Texas campaigns and in his Washington jobs. This was different. The stage was bigger, the stakes were higher, and the barbs were more personal. How could anyone accuse George Bush of being selfish and uncaring? Didn’t they know anything about his life? It made me furious.
Over the years, I would have that feeling again. When I was President, people often asked how I could handle all the criticism. The answer was that putting up with criticism of me was nothing compared to listening to attacks on a man I admire and love. There was one thing that lessened the pain: Dad never seemed to be bothered by the attacks. No matter how nasty or untrue the allegations might have been, he never complained or vented his frustration in front of his family. Looking back on it now, I can see that he was trying to send us a message: The critics were not getting to him, so we shouldn’t let them get to us either. I adopted the same approach when my daughters got upset about the criticism that I received when I was in office.
As expected, the New Hampshire primary did not go well for George Bush. Ronald Reagan won in a landslide, claiming 50 percent of the vote. Dad finished second with 23 percent. Bob Dole dropped out of the race shortly thereafter. John Connally, who had pinned his hopes on South Carolina, dropped out when he finished a distant second to Reagan there. By mid-March, the 1980 Republican nomination was essentially a two-man race.
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THE LOSSES IN New Hampshire and South Carolina returned Dad to his underdog status. Reagan had more money and greater name recognition, and now he was the candidate with Big Mo. Dad’s competitive instincts were strong. He fought hard and held his own. He won primaries in Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania. To have any chance of winning the nomination, Dad had to draw some contrasts with Reagan. But negative campaigning never came naturally to him, especially against a fellow Republican. His campaign slogan was “A President We Won’t Have to Train”—a reminder that Governor Reagan had limited experience outside California. He jogged regularly to highlight his relative youth and energy (and to burn off some of the late-night campaign junk food). He occasionally discussed their differences on policy issues, most famously by labeling Reagan’s plan to cut taxes and balance the budget “voodoo economics.”
The toughest blow for Dad in the 1980 primaries came in Texas in early May. For the third time in his career, Dad campaigned across his home state. But Ronald Reagan was strong in Texas. He had won all one hundred of Texas’s delegates against Gerald Ford in 1976, and in 1980 key elected officials like Republican Governor Bill Clements decided to stay on the sidelines. Like his Senate races, the Texas primary left Dad disappointed. Reagan won 53 percent to 46 percent.
Dad continued to battle. He won an impressive victory in Michigan in late May. However, Reagan was on the verge of picking up a massive number of delegates in his home state of California, which would essentially clinch the nomination. George Bush was not a quitter. His instinct was to finish the race. Jimmy Baker had a different perspective. He strongly suggested that Dad get out before he did irreparable damage to his political future.
Dad finally accepted his friend’s advice. After spending Memorial Day weekend at home in Houston, he announced that he was ending his campaign and endorsing Ronald Reagan. He had a lot to be proud of. A year or two earlier, few would have imagined that he would be the runner-up for the nomination. Even in defeat, he showed his characteristic sense of humor. On the campaign plane’s final flight, he played the Kenny Rogers song “The Gambler”: “You’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.” George Bush was folding his hand, but he wasn’t out of the game.
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ABOUT SEVEN WEEKS after the primaries ended, my parents attended the Republican National Convention in Detroit. The big question was whom Governor Reagan would pick as his running mate. The rumor swirling around the convention was that he was considering creating a “co-presidency” by selecting former President Gerald Ford. That idea made no sense to me. No former President had ever returned as Vice President, and I did not see how the sitting President could agree to share power with a predecessor.
Laura and I did not attend the convention. Instead we went to New York, where I had meetings with investors to discuss the oil and gas exploration company that I had started in 1979. One of our friends in New York invited us to dinner at the ‘21’ Club. Near the end of the meal, the maître d’ approached and said excitedly, “Mr. Bush, there’s something on the news that I think you’ll want to see.” He wheeled out a portable television, and Laura and I watched in shock as Lesley Stahl of CBS News announced to the nation that Ronald Reagan had picked George Bush as his running mate. We hurried back to the hotel, where I called my surprised but thrilled dad to congratulate him and booked a flight to Detroit.
The vice presidential selection is the first big decision that a presidential nominee makes. Not surprisingly, I thought Ronald Reagan’s choice sent all the right signals. The pick gave him a running mate with a foreign policy background, experience in Washington, and a reputation for loyalty. Once again, a political career that seemed lifeless had been reborn.
41: A Portrait of My Father Page 12