by Nancy Reagan
Since the election, I had been sorting through our belongings, trying to decide what should go into storage, what should be shipped to Washington. I had no idea what the residential floors of the White House were like, and I wasn’t even sure how many rooms there were in the family quarters, or how they were furnished.
The first time I was in the White House was in 1967. Lyndon Johnson was president, and Ronnie and I were invited to the annual governors’ dinner. I saw only two or three of the public rooms that night, but even so, I was awed by the majesty and dignity of the place.
Right after dinner, the president took off in his helicopter. True to his reputation, he wanted all the guests to gather on the lawn to watch him depart. I had a terrible cold that day, and Mrs. Johnson found me and made sure I was standing well back, out of the draft. Earlier in the day I had stayed in the hotel with a sore throat and had missed a tree-planting ceremony for the governors’ wives. But there was no way on earth I was going to miss that dinner.
It was hard to believe, but now I was going to be the hostess for the governors’ dinner. Other women would be coming to the White House, some of them just as nervous as I had been that night, and now it would be up to me to make them feel at home.
It’s traditional for the outgoing first lady to give her successor a tour of the residence, and a few weeks after the election, Mrs. Carter invited me to come for coffee and a look around. The first thing that struck me about the White House was how cold it was. The country was still suffering from the energy crisis, and President Carter had ordered that the White House thermostats be turned down. (Later I was told that Miss Lillian, the president’s mother, had found the place so cold that she decided to move out.)
Mrs. Carter met me in the Diplomatic Room and took me to the Yellow Oval Room on the second floor in the residence, where she told me about her efforts to obtain fine American paintings for the White House collection. But the chill in her manner matched the chill in the room. I was disappointed, but I also understood. It’s bad enough to lose an election, but it must be awful to be voted out of office so decisively. In recent years, the wives of defeated presidential candidates have suffered terribly—much more so than their husbands. And it must be painful to have to show the residence to the wife of the man who defeated your husband.
And as I eventually learned for myself, the White House is not an easy place to leave. Ronnie and I departed under the best of circumstances, but even so, it was a wrenching experience.
Finally Mrs. Carter turned to me and said, “I guess you’d like to see some things.”
Oh my, yes! She led me out to the West Hall, which is at one end of the Center Hall, which runs the length of the White House. Most presidential families have used the West Hall as a sitting room, as we did, but that day it struck me as cold and bare.
“Where would you like to start?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “I know there are two connecting rooms that can be separate bedrooms or, if you sleep together, a master bedroom and a study. I’d like to see those rooms to get some idea of what they’re like. I’m trying to decide what furniture to bring.”
“Well,” she said reluctantly, “things are so messed up these days. We’re packing, you know. I’ll open the door of the study and you can look in.”
They were packing, but I also had the feeling that Mrs. Carter just couldn’t bring herself to actually take me into these, their most private, rooms. We looked in the doorway, and then she said, “I have some things to take care of. My secretary will show you the rest.” So on that visit I never really saw the rooms we’d use as our bedroom and study.
Eight years later, when I took Barbara Bush around after George had won the 1988 election, I showed her everything—every closet, every detail, from the laundry room on the third floor and the closets where the tablecloths are kept to the beauty parlor that Pat Nixon had installed. Barbara had been to the residence many times, but she hadn’t seen every nook and hideaway. As we walked through, I couldn’t help but think, Boy, it sure would have been nice if I had been shown some of this back in 1980!
On that first visit, my overall feeling was of surprise that the residence looked so dreary and uninviting. It just didn’t look the way the president’s house should look. It wasn’t a place we’d be proud to bring people—our personal friends or our country’s friends. Frankly, the White House was run-down and a bit shabby. When my son, Ron, arrived for the inauguration, he said, “Mom, this place is a mess. It looks low rent.”
I have always felt that the White House should be magnificent, and I made up my mind that as soon as we moved in I would fix it up.
Somehow, a rumor got started—where do these stories come from?—that I wanted to renovate the White House before the inauguration, and that I had asked the Carters to move out early, so I could get started. I never asked the Carters to move out, and I wouldn’t even think of it. According to another report, I intended to knock down a wall in the Lincoln Bedroom—the Lincoln Bedroom! I would never dream of doing that, either.
At the time, I had no idea that stories like these would be typical of the press coverage of me during our first year in the White House.
On the morning of January 14, six days before the inauguration, Ronnie and I left the house in Pacific Palisades for the last time. As I walked out, I thought it had never looked so beautiful. Patti had come to say goodbye, and we hugged each other. We’d had our differences over the years, and she blamed me for the fact that Ronnie had run for president, which she had been dead set against. She couldn’t have been more wrong. But for now, at least, all that was put aside.
Our neighbors had gathered at the bottom of our driveway to see us off, and people lined both sides of the street, waving tiny American flags, all the way to Sunset Boulevard. When the limousine turned onto Sunset, led by a convoy of police cars and motorcycles, people started honking their horns and flashing their lights. I hadn’t expected this, and I’m afraid it made our leaving an even more emotional experience.
But soon we were at the airport, where I had my first glimpse of Air Force One, all shining blue and white, with the words “United States of America” on each side, the American flag on the tail, and the presidential seal on both sides of the plane’s nose.
One of the pilots welcomed us aboard, and the stewards showed us around. It was a wonderful surprise to find that the president and first lady have a little two-room suite with a private bathroom. I also discovered that you can order virtually any food you like on Air Force One, as the kitchen staff can cook up practically anything. (For security reasons, food is bought randomly, and never from the same place twice in a row.)
During our flight to Washington, Ronnie read reports and attended to paperwork, while I kept busy writing letters to friends back home, on Air Force One letterhead. Look at me, I’m riding on Air Force One!
After landing at Andrews Air Force Base, we were driven directly to Blair House, at 1651 Pennsylvania Avenue, right across from the White House. Blair House, which consists of four small houses joined together, is the president’s official guest house for foreign leaders, and the president-elect generally stays there during the week before the inauguration.
“Blair House really needs fixing up,” I wrote in my diary. Well, what an understatement that turned out to be! Although Blair House is a beautiful and large house with fifteen bedrooms, it was badly in need of renovation—and I mean badly. In 1982, a chandelier above the bed in the head of state’s room broke loose from the ceiling and plunged to the floor. Thank God nobody was sleeping in that bed at the time!
It took six years and almost ten million dollars to renovate Blair House, and during that period we had no place to house foreign visitors. I always found that embarrassing—here we were, the United States of America, and we had to put state visitors up in hotels. But Blair House just wasn’t safe.
The next morning the Secret Service arrived to fit us with bulletproof protective coats. They were heav
y, cut like trench coats, and we were supposed to wear them whenever the Secret Service told us to. I knew in the back of my mind that this kind of thing might be necessary, but I preferred not to think about it.
Then Ronnie and I walked across Lafayette Park to the Hay-Adams Hotel for a quiet lunch. The Secret Service was with us, of course, but by now we were used to them. People seemed startled when we entered the dining room, and then, spontaneously, everybody stood and applauded. It was such a nice gesture, and it made us feel so welcome. Little did I realize that this was the last time in all of our Washington years that Ronnie and I would just walk out the door and down the street like ordinary people. The enormous changes in our lives had yet to sink in.
While Ronnie was busy with meetings, I started trying to assemble a staff. I had hired housekeepers, babysitters, and gardeners before, but putting together a professional staff was a new experience for me. In Sacramento, I had had one secretary, in addition to Nancy Reynolds, who dealt with the press. But now there were all sorts of positions to fill—chief of staff, social secretary, press secretary, and many more.
This was new territory for me, and I found it difficult and confusing. Hundreds of people had applied for about twenty jobs, and I spent hours reading résumés and conducting interviews. But I didn’t really know what questions to ask, or how to decide which applicants were most suitable for jobs I myself didn’t yet understand. Some of the people I hired turned out to be terrific, and a few worked for me throughout both of Ronnie’s terms. Two or three others were gone within the year.
One highly recommended member of my staff, who was supposed to be experienced in the ways of Washington, arranged a White House reception for big donors to Ronnie’s campaign. We always had a buffet for those occasions. But after Ronnie and I came down, we learned that there had not been enough food and that the guests had been sent home early—which isn’t exactly how you treat your biggest campaign donors.
Letitia Baldrige was indispensable during this period. She had been Jacqueline Kennedy’s chief of staff and social secretary, and had later helped Lady Bird Johnson, Pat Nixon, and Rosalynn Carter. “Make sure you get along with the chief usher at the White House,” she told me. “He runs the place. Next to your husband, he’ll be the most important man in your life.”
I had already met Rex Scouten, and Tish was right: He did become the second most important man in my life. Despite his title, which makes him sound like the head man at a movie theater, the chief usher is in charge of almost everything at the White House: budget, personnel, entertainment, maintenance, and much, much more. Rex had been at the White House since 1949, when he was in the Secret Service, and had been made chief usher in 1969. He helped me in countless ways, especially in steering me through landmines and traps along the way, and we became such good friends that I named our dog after him.
Tish also warned me about the huge volume of mail I would be receiving as first lady—something like five hundred letters and invitations a day. “Get somebody who’s really smart about answering letters,” she said. “And never have them go out over your name.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I always sign my own mail.”
“Let me tell you,” she said. “When I worked for the Kennedys, one of the local priests invited the president and the first lady to attend the opening of his art show. Mistakes do happen, and somehow, a volunteer in the social office sent him a letter that said, ‘Dear Father. The President and Mrs. Kennedy have asked me to congratulate you on the birth of your son.’
“The priest was livid, and he made a huge fuss. Nancy, can you imagine what would have happened if Mrs. Kennedy herself had signed that letter? Remember, any letter with your signature could end up on the front page.”
The final days before the inauguration were a dizzying kaleidoscope of events. I remember going to a luncheon given by our California friends. I also remember sitting on some steps outdoors, watching a fireworks display. The fireworks were spectacular, but it was terribly cold, and I was huddled in a blanket next to a portable heater, wondering if I was going to freeze to death right there, without ever seeing Ronnie sworn in. And I remember dancing with Walter Cronkite at a party and finding, to my delight, that he was one of the world’s great dancers.
Then our family started arriving, streaming in from all over the country.
My parents flew in from Phoenix. Neither of them was well, and I worried that the trip might be too much for them. But they wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
My brother, Dick, and his wife, Patricia, and their children drove in from Philadelphia.
Ron and Doria, newly married, came down on the shuttle from New York.
Patti arrived from California with a lovely red chiffon evening dress for the inaugural ball. But I could see that she really wasn’t comfortable at the White House, and she didn’t stay long.
Maureen and her fiancé, Dennis, flew in from California, as did the rest of the California contingent: Michael, his wife, Colleen, and their little boy, Cameron; Ronnie’s brother, Moon, and his wife, Bess; Anne Allman, our housekeeper, and Barney Barnett, who had been with us since Sacramento, with his wife; and lots of other friends.
The night before the inauguration we all went to the inaugural gala at the Capital Center in Landover, Maryland, a gigantic sports arena. It was a great evening, with performances by Frank Sinatra, Ethel Merman, Bob Hope, Rich Little, and Donny Osmond, among others, with Johnny Carson as the master of ceremonies.
The most touching moment of the evening came when our old friend Jimmy Stewart appeared on stage with General Omar Bradley, the nation’s only living five-star general, who was confined to a wheelchair. They stopped in front of Ronnie, and both Jimmy and the general saluted the president-elect. Ronnie immediately stood and returned the salute. It was the first time I had ever seen him do that, but from then on it became standard practice.
When Jimmy wheeled General Bradley back off the stage, Ronnie leaned over to me and whispered, “I think it’s finally sunk in.”
When the program was over, Ronnie insisted on thanking the performers. I was especially moved by what he said that night, because he was true to his roots and so proud, as always, of his former profession:
“I’m going to say something that I’ve dreamed of saying to an audience like this sometime, in the presence of these wonderful people. If it is true that when the curtain goes up on eternity, all men must approach the gates bearing in their arms that which they have given to life, the people of show business will march in the procession carrying in their arms the pure pearl of tears, the gold of laughter, and the diamonds of stardust they spill on what otherwise might have been a rather dreary world. And when at last all reach the final stage, I’m sure the keeper will say, ‘Let my children in.’ ”
At Blair House the next morning I woke up earlier than usual. Inauguration day was jammed with activities, but there was also the excitement of trying to get everybody ready in time. We had a full house, and my parents needed extra help to prepare for the busy day ahead.
Traditionally, the president-elect has worn a morning suit for the swearing-in. President Kennedy, who was famous for going bareheaded even in the coldest weather, chose to wear a top hat. Lyndon Johnson, under the circumstances of his swearing-in, wore a business suit. Nixon wore a club coat with striped pants, whereas Carter, who wanted a less elaborate presidency, wore a business suit. Ronnie wore a club coat, striped pants, and a gray vest, but without the top hat. I wore a red dress and coat by Adolfo.
The day began at nine-thirty with a brief service at St. John’s Episcopal Church, around the corner from Blair House. St. John’s, which is known as the president’s church, is a small, beautiful building. We sat in George Washington’s pew, and I couldn’t help but feel history closing in on us that morning. There was only room for our family and a few close friends to join us, along with George and Barbara Bush and their children.
After church, most of our party went on to the Ca
pitol to get seated for the swearing-in. Ronnie and I went back to Blair House to wait for Senator Mark Hatfield, chairman of the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies, who would escort us to the White House for the traditional coffee with the outgoing president and first lady.
We entered the White House through the North Portico and walked directly to the Blue Room with the Carters and the Mondales. President Carter had been up all night working on the Iran hostage situation—and it showed. His face was pale and he looked exhausted. It was impossible not to feel for him. Rosalynn was visibly uncomfortable and unhappy. She said hello, but aside from that we barely spoke to each other.
The hostages had been freed, but they hadn’t yet left Iran. And now it was becoming clear that the Iranians must be waiting until Carter was out of office before releasing them. Ronnie thought this was inexcusable. “If they’re released during the swearing-in,” he told Mike Deaver, “even if it’s during my speech, I want you to pass me a note. Interrupt me, because I want to announce it.”
Traditionally, the outgoing and incoming presidents ride together from the White House to the Capitol, and so do their wives. Then, after the swearing-in and the inaugural parade, the new president and first lady return to the White House—this time not as guests but as residents.
And so Rosalynn and I rode to the Capitol together, along with John Rhodes, the House minority leader. Thank God John was with us, because he kept up a steady stream of conversation in a very awkward situation. Rosalynn just looked out the window and didn’t say a word. I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet, too. Fortunately, it’s a short ride.
Ever since Andrew Jackson’s inauguration in 1829, the swearing-in ceremony had been held on the steps of the East Front of the Capitol. This time, Mark Hatfield had suggested that we move it to the West Front, with its breathtaking view of the Mall, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial. Ronnie loved the idea. From the East Front all you saw were government buildings, and Ronnie preferred to take the oath as he looked out westward toward the rest of the country. As soon as we got there, I could see it was the right decision.