by Nancy Reagan
When I reached my seat, I turned to make sure that my parents and our children were there. All our friends were in place, and nobody looked too cold. Although the sky was overcast, the weather was remarkably mild. At fifty-six degrees, this was one of the warmest inauguration days in history.
While the Marine Corps Band played “Yankee Doodle” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the official guests marched in to take their seats. Majority Leader Howard Baker led his fellow senators, and I smiled when I noticed that Howard had brought along his camera. Then came George Bush, President Carter, Vice President Mondale, and the justices of the Supreme Court. Everybody was there except Ronnie, who was waiting in a special room in the Capitol along with John Rhodes and Mark Hatfield.
Just before Ronnie appeared, I looked around and caught the eye of my friend Betsy Bloomingdale. She started to cry, and naturally I did too. Stop it, I told myself. The television cameras are watching you. But I’ll never forget Bets’s face at that moment, and I’m sure she’ll never forget mine. I know we were both thinking the same thought—that from now on it would never be the same again.
We quickly turned away from each other, and I tried to focus on the view, the enormous crowd, and the overwhelming meaning of this event. The Capitol was covered with flags and red-and-white bunting, and today it looked more beautiful than ever.
I was terribly proud and excited, but it all felt unreal. Could it really be that Ronald Reagan, my husband, was about to become the fortieth president of the United States? How did this ever happen? It was like a dream: You’re going through something momentous, but it hasn’t really sunk in that it’s actually happening.
At 11:39, while the trumpets played “Jubilant,” Ronnie arrived on the podium. George Bush was sworn in first. Barbara held a Bible that had been given to them by Billy Graham, as Justice Potter Stewart administered the oath.
Then it was Ronnie’s turn. I stood beside him, holding the Reagan family Bible. It had belonged to Ronnie’s mother, and inside she had listed the births and deaths in her family, the Wilsons. It was old and crumbling and taped together, and it seemed just right for the occasion.
On the inside front cover, Nelle had written these words: “A thought for today: You can be too big for God to use, but you cannot be too small.”
Just before noon, Chief Justice Warren Burger administered the oath, and Ronnie repeated the words after him. At that moment I found it difficult to concentrate on the history of it all. But as I stood there with my husband, holding Nelle’s Bible in my hand, I thought, My Lord, here I am standing here, doing what I’ve seen other women do in photographs and on television. And it’s me. And it’s us. And it’s really happening.
Then, suddenly, it was over. The president kissed me, and a booming twenty-one-gun salute rang out in honor of the new president. The first man to shake Ronnie’s hand was Jimmy Carter, who was now a private citizen again. Then Ronnie walked to the podium to begin his inaugural address. What happened next—well, you’ll never believe me, so I’ll quote from the coverage in Time:
As he raised his head to look out at the crowd, a strange and wonderful thing happened. The dark cloudy sky over his head began to part slightly, within seconds there was a gaping hole in the gray overcast, and a brilliant, golden shaft of wintery sun burst through the clouds and bathed the inaugural stand and the watching crowd. As Reagan spoke a slight breeze ruffled his hair and the warm golden light beamed down on him.
Later, a few minutes after he finished speaking, as if on cue from some master lighter backstage, the hole in the clouds shrank, the sky darkened, and Washington grew gray and cold once again.
What was even more amazing was that the same kind of thing had happened in Sacramento during Ronnie’s first inauguration as governor. It had been a cold, drizzly, and overcast day, but when Ronnie got up to speak, the sun came out.
When it happened again this time, I was overcome with joy. Maybe this is an omen, I thought. Maybe it was meant to be.
Ronnie started his inaugural address, which he had written himself, by thanking President Carter for a smooth transition. He called for a war against inflation, which, he said, “distorts our economic decisions, penalizes thrift, and crushes the struggling young and the fixed-income elderly alike.”
He stated again, as he had in so many campaign speeches, that “government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem.” Then, as he loves to do, Ronnie talked about an inspiring example of individual initiative and heroism. He had recently received a letter about Martin A. Treptow, a little-known American hero who fought and died in World War I. Private Treptow was killed on a courier mission in France, but his diary survived. “America must win this war,” he had written. “Therefore, I will work. I will sacrifice. I will endure. I will fight cheerfully and do my utmost, as if the issue of the whole struggle depended on me alone.”
Soon Ronnie was finished, and the band played “Hail to the Chief.”
We moved inside the Capitol for lunch. The children told Ronnie how proud they were, and an enormous crush of well-wishers tried to shake his hand and offer their congratulations.
By this time, President Carter was already on his way to Andrews Air Force Base for the flight back to Georgia, and Walter Mondale was with him. I read later that when the phone rang in their car with news that the hostages had finally left the airport in Tehran, Carter and Mondale looked at each other and cried. I’d had my differences with the Carters, but they certainly deserved better than that.
At the luncheon with the congressional leaders in the beautiful Statuary Hall, I sat between Senator Hatfield and Speaker Tip O’Neill. My mother sat on the other side of Tip. My strongest memory of that lunch is of watching Mother and Tip swapping stories as if they had been friends all their lives. There were California roses on each table, and all the ladies received a souvenir—a small silver-plated box filled with jelly beans.
Toward the end of the lunch, Ronnie made the announcement that everybody had been waiting for: “With thanks to Almighty God, I have been given a tag line, the get-off line everyone wants at the end of a toast or speech. Some thirty minutes ago, the planes bearing our prisoners left Iranian airspace and are free of Iran.”
Before we left the Capitol, Ronnie paid a brief visit to the Speaker’s office. Tip asked him to autograph a pile of special inaugural programs, and as he signed them, Ronnie joked that this little favor would cost Tip a few votes in the House. There was also a fair amount of baseball talk that afternoon. In the years to come there would be many political battles between these two men, but there was a warmth and a personal chemistry between them that day that never faded.
Then we were off to the inaugural parade, which marches down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol to the White House. As a special treat for Ronnie, one of the bands had come from the high school in Ronnie’s hometown of Dixon, Illinois, and he seemed to get a little misty-eyed as they marched proudly by. The final float in the parade held the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir, which stopped in front of us to sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which Ronnie and I both love.
The parade was great, but my mind was somewhere else. That night we were supposed to appear at ten different inaugural balls, and I wondered what had become of my gown, shoes, and purse. We had left our bags at Blair House that morning—all that now seemed like days ago—and everyone had assured me that all our possessions would be moved into the White House during the luncheon and the parade. Immediately after the swearing-in, our housekeeper, Anne Allman, and Ted Graber, our decorator, had hurried back to Blair House to supervise the move.
But as a world-class worrier, I kept wondering how on earth the White House staff could move one family in and the other family out in a matter of hours without losing something important in the process. Naturally, I was sure that this “something” would be my gown. I know this may seem a silly concern at such a moment, but I think most women will understand.
Nobo
dy can imagine what it’s like to walk into the White House after the inaugural parade, when, for the first time, you’re coming home as the new president and first lady. You feel awed. You think about all the families who have lived here before. It’s very humbling.
I remember thinking: When we left here this morning, Ronnie wasn’t president. Now he is. And from now on, whatever happens, we’re going to be part of history. Whatever we do will be recorded, debated, and remembered.
We went upstairs to the residence, and there was my gown. And our furniture from California was in place in the West Hall, which made me feel that this strange and wonderful new place really was our home. The wonderful and efficient White House staff, with help from Anne and Ted, had taken care of everything, and I still don’t understand how they did it so quickly.
I had hoped to spend a few minutes resting, but I was concerned about my parents, and the house was new to us, and there were all kinds of details to take care of. Toward evening, the rest of the family came over from Blair House to share a glass of champagne and to pose for a portrait before we fanned out to the inaugural balls. When they left, we noticed flashes of light outside, and Ronnie and I stepped out onto the Truman Balcony to see what it was.
“It looks like they’re welcoming you with fireworks,” I said.
“Do you really think so?” he asked. He just couldn’t imagine that all of this was for him.
When they hear the words “inaugural ball,” most people think of a grand ballroom with a huge dance floor and a lot of people dancing and enjoying themselves. I know I did. But the reality is very different: Crowds of people are jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, just standing there; there’s no way you can dance, and it’s so noisy that you can’t even hear the orchestra.
When you have forty-three thousand guests attending ten events, something is bound to go wrong. Some ticket-holders never even got in, and when Ronnie’s brother, Neil, showed up at one of the balls with his wife, he had a terrible time getting past security. “You’ve got to let me in,” he said. “I’m the president’s brother.”
“Sure, fella,” replied the agent. “You’re the fourth guy who’s tried that today!”
Somehow, we went to all ten inaugural balls in just under four hours. At each one, Ronnie spoke about the returning hostages, which always produced a strong reaction from the crowd. But mostly it was a night of celebration. At the last of the balls, Ronnie said, “I’d like to dance with my lady.” The floor was so crowded that we danced on the stage as the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra played “You’ll Never Know.”
We got back to the White House very late that night, happy, and totally exhausted. It had been an incredibly long and full day—the church service in the morning, coffee with the Carters at the White House, the swearing-in, the inaugural address, the luncheon, the release of the hostages, the parade, moving into our new home, followed by ten balls. As I closed my eyes that night, I remember thinking, My Lord, here we are, sleeping in the White House. And here I am, sleeping with the president of the United States.
It’s only now, after Ronnie and I have returned to Los Angeles, that I fully appreciate how truly wonderful it was to live in the White House. Believe me, it doesn’t take long to grow accustomed to all the services that are provided, the many things that are taken care of for you that you would normally do for yourself. Whatever you wanted, there it was.
If we needed a plumber, we’d call the usher’s office and he’d be there in five minutes. If I needed a package wrapped, somebody took care of it. There was a wonderful man named Johnny Muffler who would come around and wind all the clocks and set them. He had been there for years, and he’d fix anything you needed. And then there were the butlers, who were always trying to make sure I was getting enough to eat, and who, I found out much later, would report to the doctors as to how well I was doing!
Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone. Early in 1989, just a few days after we returned to Los Angeles, I was waiting at home one morning for the electrician. He simply didn’t show up. This is, of course, a perfectly normal occurrence, but after eight years in the White House, I was spoiled.
Every evening, while I took a bath, one of the maids would come by and remove my clothes for laundering or dry cleaning. The bed would always be turned down. Five minutes after Ronnie came home and hung up his suit, it would disappear from the closet to be pressed, cleaned, or brushed. No wonder Ron used to call the White House an eight-star hotel.
When you live at the White House, the world is yours. When I wanted to call somebody, I would just pick up the phone and an operator would be there to help me reach that person. They would track him down anywhere—unless I specifically said that if he wasn’t at home or in the office, they shouldn’t bother. A couple of weeks after we moved in, Ronnie put in a call to somebody—I don’t remember who—and then almost fainted when he learned that the man was in Japan, where it was three o’clock in the morning!
We grew very fond of the White House operators, but during Ronnie’s first term, one of the people I called the most was Michael Deaver, who worked right in our building.
Of all the advisers who have worked for my husband over the years, I was closest of all to Mike, who was my link to the West Wing. Mike’s title was deputy chief of staff, and along with Jim Baker and Ed Meese, he formed what was known as the troika—Ronnie’s three-man team of senior advisers during his first term as president.
Ronnie and I go way back with Mike, who served as Ronnie’s deputy executive secretary during the Sacramento years. From the very start, the three of us hit it off. By the time he came into the White House, he really knew Ronnie and understood when to approach him, and how. Mike was never afraid to bring Ronnie the bad news, or to tell him when he thought he was wrong. Because we were so close, and because he served Ronnie so well, I was heartbroken when Mike left the White House in 1985 to go into business on his own. But even then, we spoke often on the telephone.
It has sometimes been implied that Mike Deaver was more than Ronnie’s trusted aide—that while Ronnie was a great communicator, Michael Deaver was running the show behind the scenes. I am second to nobody in my admiration for all that Mike accomplished, but as he’d be the first to acknowledge, he was more interested in public relations than in policy. Ronnie made the decisions, and Mike, along with Ed Meese and Jim Baker, helped implement them.
His greatest skill was in arranging what were known as good visuals—televised events or scenes that would leave a powerful symbolic image in people’s minds. One that I’ll always remember came during the fortieth anniversary of D-Day, June 6, 1984. Mike arranged to have Ronnie go to Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, an isolated cliff overlooking the sea, where he made a speech with a group of D-Day veterans gathered around him.
In early 1986, a few months after he left the White House, Mike’s picture appeared on the cover of Time. In the photograph, he was sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car, talking on a cellular phone, with the Capitol dome in the background. The caption read: “Who’s This Man Calling?” And in smaller type: “Influence Peddling in Washington.”
Mike quickly became the symbol of government officials who convert their access into a salable commodity. He did what hundreds of people had done, but he did it too conspicuously and too quickly. When I saw his picture on Time, I called and said, “Mike, you’ve made a big mistake and I think you’re going to regret it.” Unfortunately, I was right.
Later, Mike was accused of lying to Congress and to a federal grand jury considering allegations that he had violated the Ethics in Government Act, which places severe restrictions on lobbying by former senior government officials. When his legal troubles began, I was told by the White House counsel that I couldn’t call him, so I was reduced to sending messages of support through Richard Helms, our mutual friend, to let Mike know I was thinking of him. When it was all over, and Mike was convicted, I called him again, but our relationship hasn’t been the
same since.
Somewhere along the line in Washington Mike Deaver went off track and caught a bad case of Potomac fever. He had suddenly become a national figure, a genius of public relations, and when something like that happens, it can be hard to keep your perspective. Mike was also frustrated by his relatively low government salary in a town where some of the people he was meeting were earning many times as much in the private sector.
But even after he left the White House he remained one of my closest friends. Suddenly, in late 1986, I had trouble reaching him on the phone. I kept calling his house every day, and Carolyn, Mike’s wife, kept giving me evasive answers. Finally she said, “Nancy, I can’t say where he is; he made me promise not to. But I’m going to be seeing him later and I’ll ask him if I can tell you.”
I immediately assumed that Mike had suffered a nervous breakdown. Then Mike called me and said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’m an alcoholic, and you’re the first person I’ve told. I’m staying at an addiction center in Maryland.”
“Oh, Mike, is that all?” I said. “I was afraid you’d had a breakdown! Alcoholism is a disease that can be cured. You can handle it.”
I must have said the right thing, because Mike told me later that my comment had encouraged him.
A year or so later, William Safire, who has never been my biggest fan, wrote in a column, “Was the First Lady so involved with her crusade against drug addiction that she failed to notice that her closest confidant was a drunk?” That was a heartless and dumb remark. Alcoholism can be hard to detect, and Mike kept his secret so well that nobody in the White House even suspected he had a drinking problem. Ronnie, Ed Meese, and Jim Baker were with him every day, but they never saw him take a drink or act strange. Some alcoholics never act drunk.