Throughout his years as Vice President, Dad maintained a close bond with his mother. She visited Washington frequently, and even when she wasn’t in town, she kept an eye on her son. After one of President Reagan’s State of the Union addresses, she called to inform Dad that she had caught him looking down during the speech. “When the President is speaking, you should be listening,” she admonished him. He protested that he had been reading a printed copy of the speech. She was not persuaded. He might have been Vice President of the United States, but he was still Dorothy Walker Bush’s son.
No matter what was going on in the world, Dad was never too busy to talk on the phone or send a letter to check in with my siblings and me. In a typical note to us in 1983, he wrote, “I’m getting a little older. I’m not sure what the future holds. I don’t worry about that. Win or lose, older or younger, we have our family.”
Dad didn’t just express his commitment to his family. He lived it. When my brother Marvin checked into the hospital suffering from a severe form of colitis, Dad visited every day. On the days when Marvin was in the most pain, my father rescheduled meetings and practically moved his office to the hospital so that he could sit at his son’s bedside. Marvin lost forty-five pounds, and at one point his vital signs failed. I know my parents were thinking of Robin and praying that they would not lose another child.
Fortunately, Marvin rallied and regained his health. To help lift his spirits after a difficult surgery, Dad reached out to a friend in the front office of the New York Mets, Arthur Richman. Before long, ballplayers were calling Marvin to cheer him up. He made a full recovery and soon had a reason to celebrate when he and his wife, Margaret, adopted their first child, their daughter, Marshall, from the Gladney Home in Fort Worth, Texas. They later adopted a son, Walker, from the same wonderful place. Dad remained grateful to the Mets for their generosity—until they beat the Houston Astros in the 1986 National League Championship series. For his part, Marvin remembered how much it helped to have people call to cheer him up. When Speaker Tip O’Neill underwent surgery for a similar condition, Marvin called to lift his spirits. The Speaker later told my father, “Anybody who raised a person as fine as Marvin ought to be all right.”
Marshall and Walker were not the only additions to the family during those years. My siblings and I produced eight grandchildren in eight years—including Laura’s and my twin daughters, Barbara and Jenna, who entered the world on November 25, 1981. Dad summed up his feelings about family in a letter to Jeb and Colu after their third child, John Ellis Bush Jr., was born in 1983: “Last night’s phone call brought us true happiness,” he wrote. “Nothing else matters. The birth of JB Jr. put everything that is important into perspective.”
Twenty-eight years later, in August 2011, Jeb Jr. and his wife, Sandra, were on the receiving end of another note from George Bush. In a sign of the times, it arrived not through the postal service but via e-mail. “I haven’t seen you yet and I love you already,” Dad wrote. “You are one very lucky little girl.” The message was signed “Gampy” and addressed to his first great-grandchild, Georgia Helena Walker Bush.
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LIKE MOST MODERN Vice Presidents, George Bush spent a good amount of time tending to the political grassroots. That came naturally to Dad given his love of people and his experience as a party Chairman. As the 1984 election approached, Dad traveled to all fifty states to tout the President’s record and fire up campaign volunteers. He attended a steady stream of fund-raisers and rubber-chicken dinners. I think his favorite event was an Old Timers baseball game at Mile High Stadium. He had been campaigning in Colorado and sent word that he’d like to drop by the game. The organizers of the exhibition game surprised him by inviting him to take the field at his old position: first base.
For a sixty-year-old politician, that was a risky proposition. The game offered plenty of potential for national embarrassment. But the former captain of the Yale baseball team still had a lot of young man in him. He put on the uniform of the Denver Bears, a team in the American Association league. When he came to bat against former Baltimore Orioles and Chicago Cubs pitcher Milt Pappas, a three-time All-Star who had pitched a no-hitter, he slapped a single into right field. It certainly didn’t hurt that Milt had served up a fat fastball for the Vice President to hit. Pappas and Dad stayed in touch for years after the game.
Dad held his own in the field as well. Orlando Cepeda, a Hall of Fame slugger who played most of his years for the San Francisco Giants, hit a rocket down the first-base line. Dad made a slick play, stabbing the hot shot and tossing the ball to the pitcher to beat Cepeda to the bag. I still remember his look of joy as he jogged back to the dugout.
Dad’s political travels intensified once the Democrats selected their presidential nominee for 1984: Walter Mondale, who had served as Vice President under Jimmy Carter. Mondale had won a tough primary over Senator Gary Hart of Colorado. Typical of the sound-bite era in American politics, the race was defined by a single phrase. In one of the Democratic debates, Mondale criticized Hart’s lack of substance by demanding, “Where’s the beef?” a line he borrowed from a commercial for Wendy’s hamburgers. Like Ronald Reagan’s devastating question at his 1980 debate with Jimmy Carter—“Are you better off than you were four years ago?”—Mondale’s sound bite effectively encapsulated his criticism of Hart.
President Reagan held a comfortable lead in polls for most of the summer, but shortly before the Democratic convention, Mondale shook up the race by naming Congresswoman Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate. The first woman ever to appear on a presidential ticket, Ferraro was a savvy politician and former prosecutor from Queens, New York. She had little experience on the national stage, but her selection generated excitement and big crowds across the country. Dad sent a letter to the Congresswoman the day of her nomination. “Dear Geraldine, It is a good job,” he wrote. “Congratulations on your selection. Good luck—up to a point.”
A month before the election, Dad had the unenviable task of debating Ferraro in what remains one of the most anticipated vice presidential debates in American history. His knowledge and experience dwarfed hers, but he was wary of appearing condescending. He knew the press was ready to pounce on him for even a hint of sexism. He prepared for the debate by sparring with Congresswoman Lynn Martin of Illinois (he was impressed enough that he later named her to his Cabinet). All things considered, the big night in Philadelphia went well for Dad. He treated his opponent respectfully, but he did not hesitate to point out their differences or call out her mistakes, such as when she mischaracterized the administration’s position on the START treaty and missiles in Europe. Years later, when I debated Ann Richards in the race for Governor of Texas, I remembered Dad’s example as a lesson in how to be firm without being insulting.
The biggest headline of the debate came the next morning. As Dad met with some lively longshoremen in New Jersey, a relieved and energized George Bush offered a review of his performance in language fit for the docks. “We tried to kick a little ass last night,” he said. Unbeknownst to him, a TV microphone picked up their interaction. The press had a field day, blowing the comment out of proportion and accusing Dad of sexism. Fortunately, campaigns move fast, and for most voters the incident was quickly forgotten.
That incident was just one example of the tense relations between Dad and the media during the 1984 campaign. When I joined Dad for the final days of the campaign, I could tell that relations with the traveling press had grown hostile. They hammered Dad with repetitive questions about his position on abortion and his privileged upbringing. My impression was that many members of the press corps, particularly the women, were actively rooting for Geraldine Ferraro.
Mother was infuriated by the negative coverage, and eventually she snapped. After a reporter repeated the latest of many allegations that Dad was a rich elitist, she pointed out that Congresswoman Ferraro and her husband actually had a higher net worth.
“That four-million-dollar—I can’t say it,
but it rhymes with rich—could buy George Bush any day,” she said. It was a classic Barbara Bush blurt, and she regretted it the moment it left her lips. Mother called and apologized to Geraldine Ferraro, who immediately forgave her. My siblings and I weren’t quite so generous. We took great delight in calling Mother the “poet laureate” of the family.
Years later, Dad went on to develop a genuine friendship with Geraldine Ferraro. Near the end of her life, Dad sent an e-mail to her: “I often think of our strange but wonderful relationship,” he wrote, “and I hope you know that I consider you a real friend. In fact, I hope it’s okay if I say I love you.”
In hindsight, the incidents with the press in 1984 were a good learning experience. A presidential campaign is grueling and stressful. Even the most seasoned campaigner can be tempted to vent frustrations, and you never know what a stray microphone might pick up. I was reminded of that reality in 2000, when an unexpectedly live microphone in Naperville, Illinois, captured me delivering an unflattering review of a New York Times reporter to Dick Cheney. The lesson was to stay disciplined, keep your composure, and stay on message. And if your wife happens to put her foot in her mouth, go three-quarters of the way to forgive her.
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FOR ALL THE drama of the campaign, the election turned out to be one of the most lopsided in history. President Reagan won every state except Minnesota (plus the District of Columbia). Early in their second term, the President generously let Dad use Camp David for a weekend. He invited a group of his siblings and children to meet the campaign team that he had begun to assemble for the 1988 presidential race. One of the strategists that we met that day was Lee Atwater, a brilliant South Carolinian who had been one of President Reagan’s key advisers. Jeb and I pressed Lee on whether he would be loyal to Dad first and foremost. As Jeb put it, “If someone throws a grenade at our dad, we expect you to jump on it.” Lee assured us that he would be fully devoted to George Bush.
Then he laid out an interesting idea. “If you’re so worried about my loyalty,” he said, “why don’t you come up to Washington to work on the campaign and keep an eye on me?”
THE ROAD TO THE WHITE HOUSE
WHEN LEE ATWATER SUGGESTED that I move to Washington to help in Dad’s campaign, I was intrigued. The timing seemed right. I had just merged my oil business into a larger company. I was interested in exploring other opportunities. And there was no better cause: George Bush would make a great President.
I also knew that Dad would need all the help that he could get. My father and I both love history, and the history of Vice Presidents seeking the presidency did not provide much hope. Dad was up against the Van Buren factor: Not since Martin Van Buren defeated William Henry Harrison in 1836 had any Vice President been elected to follow the man who had selected him.
When I arrived at the campaign in the fall of 1986, Lee Atwater asked what title I wanted. I consulted with Dad, who told me that I didn’t need a title. After all, I already had the title of son. His point was that proximity to power is power. He was right. Everyone involved in the campaign knew that I could talk to the candidate at any time, and that was more valuable than a title. Proximity to power was also a reason that Mother and Laura were so effective throughout our careers. Everyone knew that my father and I spoke frequently to them and trusted their judgment. So when Mother or Laura had a request or a piece of advice, our aides were usually wise enough to comply.
I had no specific portfolio at the campaign. My duties included raising money, delivering surrogate speeches, encouraging volunteers, dealing with reporters (occasionally), fielding suggestions and complaints, and discussing strategy with Dad’s senior aides. I also took it upon myself to be a loyalty enforcer, ensuring that campaign staffers were there to serve George Bush and not their own interests. One memorable example involved Lee Atwater. Early in the campaign, Esquire magazine ran a profile of Lee in which he conducted part of the interview while using the restroom. The theme was that Lee was the bad boy of Republican politics—that he was so important to George Bush that he could get away with anything. I was furious. I told Lee that his job was to make George Bush look good, not make himself look good.
“By the way, if you think I’m mad,” I said, “you ought to hear what Mother says.”
Lee immediately apologized to Mother and toned down his public behavior.
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IN THE FALL of 1986, it seemed that being Ronald Reagan’s Vice President would be a strong asset in the 1988 race. The President had been reelected in a nationwide landslide. But there’s a reality about every two-term presidency: Toward its end, Americans grow weary of the President. (Tell me about it!) The first signs of President Reagan’s slipping popularity came in the midterm elections of 1986. Republicans lost five seats in the House and eight in the Senate. For the first time in the Reagan presidency, Democrats had control of both houses of Congress.
In November 1986, several media outlets reported that the Reagan administration had secretly sold weapons to Iran in return for cooperation in releasing American hostages who had been captured by Hezbollah in Lebanon. Though the desire to free the hostages was understandable, the revelation was startling. The administration had previously professed that it would never pay ransom for hostages. Plus Congress had outlawed arms sales to state sponsors of terrorism, one of which was Iran.
As bad as the story looked, it soon got worse. In late November, Attorney General Ed Meese revealed that more than half of the money that the Iranians had paid for the weapons had been diverted to support the Contras, an anticommunist rebel movement in Nicaragua. That was a problem because two years earlier, President Reagan had signed a bill that prohibited government aid to the Contras.
The press, on high alert for a scandal similar to Watergate, demanded to know what the President knew and when he knew it. The administration initially denied that President Reagan had approved an arms-for-hostages deal but later backtracked and acknowledged that he had. The President insisted that he had not known that members of the National Security Council staff had diverted funds to the Contras. Ultimately, President Reagan accepted responsibility for the actions of his administration and appointed an independent counsel to bring charges against anyone who had broken the law. National Security Adviser John Poindexter and Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North were found guilty (their convictions were reversed on appeal).
The scandal, which became known as Iran-Contra, put Dad in a difficult position. While he was aware of the arms sales to Iran, he knew nothing about the diversion of funds to the Contras. Regardless, he knew the press and his political opponents would try hard to wrap him into the scandal. Although none of the commissions that studied the scandal concluded that he had done anything wrong, the specter of Iran-Contra haunted him. President Reagan’s approval rating plummeted below 50 percent in the weeks following the revelations. Even worse, a poll showed that 39 percent of voters favored a Democrat in 1988, while only 27 percent favored another Republican.
The big question facing George Bush was whether to distance himself from the President. Some advisers and friends told him it was his only hope to win the nomination. Reporters pressured him to explain where he disagreed with the President. George Will of the Washington Post mocked him as Reagan’s “lapdog.” Dad refused to take the bait. He was a loyal man in good times and bad. He understood the political risks, but he was not the kind of person to turn his back on his friend.
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AS THE 1988 primaries approached, the campaign strategy began to take shape. Unlike Dad’s 1980 campaign, which focused primarily on Iowa and New Hampshire, the campaign built a national infrastructure. The campaign paid particular attention to the seventeen states that scheduled their primaries for the same date in early March, Super Tuesday. Those primaries represented a firewall—if George Bush crashed and burned in the early states, victories on Super Tuesday would keep the damage from spreading.
While Dad’s place as the front-runner had its advantages, it als
o created challenges. He spent all of 1987 with a target on his back, and the press and his political rivals in both parties let plenty of arrows fly. One of the most outrageous charges was that he had engaged in an extramarital affair. The whisper campaign started in June 1987. Tellingly, the gossip peddlers could not agree on who the “other woman” was. Around the same time, Senator Gary Hart withdrew from the Democratic presidential race amid allegations of adultery.
As I watched the Washington circus unfold, I grew incensed. The rumors were not only false; they were hurtful to Mother and Dad. Lee Atwater and I agreed that we should not let the gossip go unanswered. He set up an interview for me with a Newsweek reporter.
“The answer to the Big A question is N-O,” I said.
When Mother heard about my interview, she was furious.
“How dare you disgrace your father by bringing this up?” she demanded.
Although Mother was the one who expressed her displeasure, I was certain that she was reflecting Dad’s concern too. They feared that my denial would give credence to the gossip and spark a new round of coverage. My quip did make national news. Thankfully, the story died shortly thereafter.
In retrospect, I don’t know whether my response helped. It’s possible that the story was so ridiculous that it would have died on its own. Mother was correct that sometimes the best way to handle a false allegation is just to ignore it. That was generally my approach when people leveled false charges at me during my candidacies. But when the lie impugned the character of a man I loved and respected, I couldn’t hold back.
It turns out I wasn’t the only one in our family who felt that way. When I was running for reelection as President in 2004, my daughter Jenna wrote me a letter offering to work on my 2004 campaign. “I hate hearing lies about you. I hate when people criticize you. I hate that everybody can’t see the person I love and respect, the person that I hope I someday will be like…. I may be a little rough around the edges, but with the proper training I could get people to see the Dad I love.”
41: A Portrait of My Father Page 14