41: A Portrait of My Father

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by George W. Bush


  Dad’s defeat partially helped answer that question. Had he been reelected in 1992, I would not have run for Governor in 1994. I was running against a popular incumbent, and as the son of the President it would have been distracting to answer questions about whether I agreed with every decision that his administration made.

  I knew there was a chance that I would not succeed. As I saw it, I could either run and lose, in which case some people would say, “What a lousy candidate.” Or I could run and win, in which case some people would say, “What a lousy Governor.” But none of that matters if you have the unconditional love of a man you admire. And I admire George H.W. Bush above anyone else.

  I wasn’t the only one inspired by George Bush. Around that same time, my brother Jeb announced that he was running for Governor of Florida. Jeb and I both felt—and Dad agreed—that he should not play a public role in our campaigns. It was important that the voters see us for what we were: our own men. Dad never intervened or offered unsolicited advice, but it was clear that he was following our races closely. From time to time I would check in with him, and he would always find a way to compliment a recent campaign performance or cheer me up after a lousy editorial. It struck me that our roles had been reversed. After years of my supporting him in the political arena, he was supporting me.

  I think my campaign and Jeb’s campaign in 1994 played an important role in helping Dad adjust to the new chapter of his life. Just as his father had done after he retired from the Senate in 1964, he embraced his new position as a source of encouragement for the next generation. And he found something positive about his defeat in 1992—it had given rise to the political careers of two people whom he had raised and loves.

  On election night 1994, I won the Governor’s race in Texas. Jeb lost a close race to Democratic Governor Lawton Chiles. When I called Dad to tell him that I was about to go deliver my victory speech, he told me how happy he was. But I could tell that he was preoccupied with Jeb’s defeat. “The joy is in Texas,” Dad told reporters, “but our hearts are in Florida.” To some, his reaction was surprising. Not to me. It was typical of George Bush to focus on the person who was hurting.

  On the morning of my inauguration as Governor—almost exactly two years after Mother and Dad left the White House—Mother brought me an envelope. Inside were a handwritten card and two small metal objects:

  Dear George,

  These cufflinks are my most treasured possession. They were given to me by Mum and Dad on June 9, that day in 1943 when I got my Navy wings at Corpus Christi. I want you to have them now; for, in a sense, though you won your Air Force wings flying those jets, you are again “getting your wings” as you take the oath of office as our Governor….

  You have given us more than we ever could have deserved. You have sacrificed for us. You have given us your unwavering loyalty and devotion. Now it is our turn.

  Dad’s note moved me deeply. I knew how much the cuff links—and their connection to his father—meant to him. By passing on the cuff links, he was passing on the love and support that he had received from his dad. When it came time for the swearing in, Laura held a family Bible, and Barbara and Jenna stood beside me. My parents were seated behind me. I was not surprised when I later saw a photo capturing the moment: As I took the oath of office, Dad wiped away a tear.

  —

  A FEW YEARS later, I received a different kind of note from Dad. “Dear Kids,” he wrote. “Okay, so you might think I have lost it. I plan to make a parachute jump. So there!” I can’t say that I saw that one coming from my seventy-two-year-old father. Dad’s last parachute jump had come in 1944, when he bailed out of his flaming TBM Avenger amid Japanese antiaircraft fire. That day he had hit his head on the plane and pulled the rip cord too early. He joked that he wanted an opportunity to correct his form. But what he really wanted was closure—to repeat the experience of jumping from a plane on his own terms.

  Mother was not so sure. Her first response was to tell Dad and everyone else that she thought he was crazy. In spite of her seeming reluctance, she knew how important the jump was to him. She was happy that he was going to pursue his dream. Dad asked the Golden Knights, the Army’s elite parachute squad, to jump with him. Colin Powell asked Dad if he was serious about his plan. “It’s the talk of the Pentagon,” Powell said, before mounting a cross-examination: Had Dad considered the risks? Were his knees and ankles in good shape? What about the wind? Apparently the Army brass was not keen on risking a skydiving accident involving the former Commander-in-Chief. They didn’t know what they were up against: George Bush had a mission, and he was not turning back.

  At the Governor’s office one day, I received a call from Dad to inform me that the jump would take place at the Army base in Yuma, Arizona, on March 25, 1997. I congratulated him on making his dream a reality. “Just don’t tell anyone about your eighteen-year-old girlfriend,” I joked.

  On the big day, Dad donned what he called his “Elvis suit”—white helmet and white gloves—and took the solo plunge (without any Golden Knights strapped to his back) from about twelve thousand feet. This time there was no contact between his head and the plane. Thanks to the fine training that he had received from the Golden Knights, he pulled the rip cord at the right time and floated safely to earth. Mother was there for the landing. As Dad later described it, “I was down. It had gone well. I had lived a dream. Bar hugged me and smiled. All was well with the world.”

  As it turned out, that parachute jump was not his last. He jumped again to celebrate his seventy-fifth, eightieth, eighty-fifth, and ninetieth birthdays. His adventures sent a signal to Americans of his generation: Getting older shouldn’t stand in the way of staying active or trying new things. You might be a little slower or a little grayer, but life is rich enough that you can always find new areas to explore and new ways to push yourself. I like to think that I learned from Dad’s example when I picked up a paintbrush for the first time at age sixty-six.

  Two of Dad’s parachute jumps came at his presidential library, which opened at Texas A&M in November 1997. Library dedications are one of the few occasions that bring together the sitting and former Presidents. All the members of the club were represented that day: President Clinton, who was coming off his reelection victory over Bob Dole in 1996, and former Presidents Carter and Ford. Lady Bird Johnson and Nancy Reagan came on behalf of their husbands. Given that President Reagan had announced a few years earlier that he was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, he did not attend.

  As the President of Dad’s library foundation, Jeb served as the master of ceremonies. As the sitting Governor of Texas, I had the honor of delivering the welcoming address. I took the opportunity to summarize the way I view my father’s legacy, both as a President and as a man:

  President Bush was a man who entered the political arena and left with his integrity intact. President Bush was a leader who stared tyranny in the face and never blinked. George Bush was a great President of the United States of America, because he is first and foremost a great man—a man who through it all knew exactly what is most important in life: faith and family. Through four years of world crises and enormous demands on his time, a phone call from me or one of my brothers and sister never went unanswered. The world knows George Bush as a master of personal diplomacy. We know George Bush as the world’s best dad.

  Dad’s speech was vintage George Bush. He thanked President Clinton, who “saw to it that [he had] a wonderful private life.” He apologized if his presidential library violated his mother’s rule against bragging. He didn’t try to burnish his legacy, saying only that the archives housed there would allow future generations to sort it out for themselves. And he closed by saying, “Now that my political days are over, I can honestly say that the three most rewarding titles bestowed upon me are the three that I’ve got left—a husband, a father, and a granddad…. I don’t know if Lou Gehrig, my great idol, said it first, but I do know that he said it best—today I feel like the luckiest person in th
e world.”

  —

  AS THE YEARS passed and the sting of defeat subsided, Dad fully embraced his new life. Nothing gave him greater joy than being at Walker’s Point with his family. He loved to organize tennis matches, pitch horseshoes, play speed golf at Cape Arundel (scoring was based on a combination of strokes and time), and entertain a constant stream of family and visitors. Perhaps his favorite thing to do was fire up his Mercury-powered Fountain speedboat, the Fidelity, and race through the water with the throttle at full blast. At age seventy-nine, he sent an e-mail to his grandchildren boasting that he had topped sixty miles per hour. “I felt about 19 years old,” he wrote. While he followed politics closely, he was content to stay out of the arena. He liked to describe his role in the words of a Mandarin adage: “Stand on sidelines hands in sleeves.”

  Although Dad was retired from government, he was not finished serving. He gave his time and his name to causes that mattered to him, just as he had all his life. He served as Chairman of the Board of Visitors at the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, a widely respected cancer hospital. He founded the Bush School of Government and Public Service at Texas A&M, and he loved to drop into classrooms as a surprise guest lecturer. He supported military charities and visited troops around the world. Mother continued to serve as well, creating the Barbara Bush Foundation for Family Literacy and reading books to children every summer at the Maine Medical Center in Portland. Throughout their lives, George and Barbara Bush have been two bright points of light.

  Mother and Dad have traveled widely in their retirement. Dad loved to fly-fish, and he visited some of the world’s greatest spots: Islamorada, Florida, with his friend Ted Williams; Canada with his grandson Jeb Jr.; and the river Test in England. He kept the family golf tradition alive by serving as the honorary Chairman of The First Tee and attending Ryder Cup and Presidents Cup matches. Occasionally he used his status as a former President to get himself invited to great golf courses like Augusta National or Pine Valley. And he loved to assemble interesting foursomes, such as the time that he and Jeb played with Arnold Palmer and Joe DiMaggio.

  In November 1998, Mother and Dad took one of their most meaningful trips when they chartered a plane to Florida to be with Jeb on election night of his second race for Governor. He ran a great campaign and won 55 percent of the vote. For the first time in more than two decades, brothers served together as Governors. Mother liked to point out that one in eight Americans lived in a state governed by one of her sons. Dad expressed his pride a little more quietly. On the day before Jeb’s election, he wrote, “People will call to congratulate us, but they will never begin to know the true depth of my feeling toward my sons. It will be what life is really all about for me right now.”

  I too was thrilled that Jeb won. In our early years, our seven-year age separation seemed to matter, but as we got older, we became not only brothers but friends. He is a man of conviction with a great deal of inner strength. I was confident that the people of Florida would benefit from his leadership—and I was right. He was a strong and accomplished Governor.

  —

  AFTER MY 1998 reelection as Governor, Dad predicted that speculation about a presidential campaign would follow. He was sure right. Prospective advisers, fund-raisers, and organizers all over the country urged me to enter the race. As I told Washington Post reporter David Broder, I felt like a cork in a raging river. I was determined not to get swept away. I would make the decision for the right reasons and on my own terms.

  More than any presidential candidate in recent history (with the exception of Hillary Clinton), I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. For all the so-called burdens of the presidency, I knew how much Dad had loved the job—the honor of leading a great country and the opportunity to make decisions that would change history. After my experience as Governor, I felt that I could handle the work. I understood the scrutiny that my family would face, and I was concerned about our daughters. But I had learned from my father’s experience that it was possible to serve as President and leave office with your family stronger than before.

  Mother’s example also gave me confidence. One of her great contributions to my father’s political career was ensuring that he never had to worry about whether she could handle the pressure of the presidency and at the same time hold our family together. That confidence is liberating. I was blessed that Laura gave me the same peace of mind.

  Finally, I believed, as Dad did, in living life to the fullest—in pushing yourself to your limits and working hard for the causes in which you believe. I believed strongly that America needed a new direction on issues like education, taxes, and military readiness. And I believed that I could help provide the leadership that the American people sought.

  I never felt the need to ask Dad for a direct opinion on whether I should run. I knew he would support whatever choice I made. And I knew from watching him my whole life that he believed everyone has a duty to serve. After a lot of soul-searching, I decided to give it a shot. I announced my candidacy on June 12, 1999 (coincidentally, my father’s seventy-fifth birthday).

  I was aware that there would be inevitable comparisons between Dad and me, some good and some not. He had assured me that I should feel free to criticize any of his decisions without fear of offending him. As he wrote in a 1998 letter to Jeb and me, “At some point both of you may want to say, ‘Well, I don’t agree with my Dad on that point’ or ‘Frankly I think Dad was wrong on that.’ Do it. Chart your own course, not just on the issues but on defining yourselves. No one will ever question your love of family—your devotion to your parents.”

  When reporters would ask how my father would affect the race, I joked that I had inherited half of his friends and all of his enemies. The truth was that he didn’t have many enemies, and I was able to pick up many of his friends. I had no qualms about Dad’s friends supporting me. I was running against a sitting Vice President at a time when the country appeared to be secure and the economy appeared to be strong. And as it turned out, I needed every vote I could get.

  On election night, Mother and Dad led a huge convoy of family to Austin. A celebration began late in the evening when Vice President Gore called to concede the election. He then called back a little later to retract his concession. My lead in the pivotal state of Florida was less than a thousand votes—too close to call. A multiweek recount began. I asked Jim Baker to lead my legal team in Florida, while Laura and I retreated to our ranch in Crawford, Texas, to await my fate. Dad on the other hand was obsessed by the news. He constantly called Karl Rove and Jim Baker for updates. He called me frequently too. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was worried. “Dad, I’m at peace,” I said. “Stop watching TV.”

  Eventually, the legal dispute worked its way to the Supreme Court. On December 12, 2000, thirty-five days after the election, the Court delivered its judgment. By a vote of seven to two, the Justices determined that Florida’s haphazard recount process violated the equal protection clause of the Constitution. And by a vote of five to four, they concluded that Florida could not complete a fair recount in time to meet the deadline for the Electoral College. The electoral count stood; I had won. After receiving the news that I had been elected President, the first phone call I made was to Mother and Dad. They were thrilled.

  The next day, I addressed the nation from the Texas state capitol. As Mother and Dad watched the speech on television from bed at their home in Houston, the reality of the moment hit them. Dad later wrote, “I saw a couple of shots of George and Laura holding hands. I saw in his posture, in the way he walked, in his smile the same mannerisms and expressions we have known ever since he was a little boy.” He continued, “As the camera focused on George and Laura walking into the chamber my body was literally wracked with uncontrollable sobs. It just happened. No warning, no thinking that this might be emotional for a mother or dad to get through—just an eruption from deep within me where my body literally shook. Barbara cried, too. We held hands. Just befo
re he began to speak we saw in George’s eyes the emotion he was feeling. We know it so well. He did not ‘lose it,’ but he was clearly moved and his mother and father knew it for fact certain.”

  Shortly before the moment that so moved Dad, Vice President Gore had delivered a gracious speech conceding the election. That prompted an unexpected phone call. George H.W. Bush called Al Gore to congratulate him on his strong campaign and courageous speech. “I’ve lost a few times myself,” Dad told him, “and I know how you feel.”

  —

  ONLY TWO TIMES in American history has a President been sworn in with both his parents on hand to witness the moment. The first came in 1961, when Joseph and Rose Kennedy watched their son take the oath of office from Chief Justice Earl Warren. The second came in 2001, when my parents attended my inauguration. I was comforted to know that Mother and Dad were sitting behind me as Chief Justice Rehnquist swore me in as President.

  After the swearing in, a luncheon in the Capitol, and the traditional inaugural parade down Pennsylvania Avenue, I went to the Oval Office for the first time as President. Dad had gone upstairs to the White House residence to take a warm bath and thaw out from the frigid parade, but when the ushers told him that the President was waiting for him in the Oval Office, he hopped out, put on a suit, and came down. A few minutes later, the door swung open and he walked in. We spent a few minutes together just soaking in the moment. Over the next eight years, I would have many memorable meetings in the Oval Office. None compared to standing in the office with my father on my first day.

 

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