by Nancy Reagan
At around six o’clock Ronnie did his exercises, followed by a shower in the president’s bathroom, where Lyndon Johnson had installed a telephone, a very elaborate shower, bright lights, and enough electrical power to run a small country.
About once a month we hosted a state dinner, which began with cocktails with the visiting party in the Yellow Oval Room, just down the Center Hall from our bedroom. Betty Ford used to call this the “leg room,” because there were so many table and chair legs for the maids to dust. It’s a lovely room, with a beautiful view of the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial. When we first moved in I found it cold, with too many chairs and bare surfaces, but over time, and with the addition of two sofas from storage, two or three coffee tables, porcelain figurines, and other objets, the room seemed more inviting and became a favorite of mine. I also used the Yellow Oval Room to entertain the wives of visiting heads of state, or for tea with a friend. Ronnie used it occasionally—like the time in 1984 when he met with the congressional leaders to inform them of the rescue operation in Grenada. We also used this room for cocktails and coffee when we had guests for dinner in the private quarters.
We didn’t have much occasion to go to the third floor, which consists mostly of five guest bedroom suites. But we had fun decorating the billiard room, which was a great place to hang family pictures and mementos—movie posters, a photograph of Ronnie playing in his high-school band, a Peanuts cartoon that Charlie Shultz had dedicated to me when Ronnie was governor, our wedding certificate, pictures of us at the ranch, a gag poster of Gone With the Wind, starring Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, and my special favorite—a picture of two hogs, who appear to be kissing, over the slogan “Hogs Are Beautiful.”
Down the hall and up a ramp was the solarium. You get a lot of privacy there, which is why the teenage children in several administrations have used this room for courting. (The Johnsons even put in a soda fountain, but it’s no longer there.) My niece Anne and her future husband, Jon, became engaged there one Christmas Eve and the next morning came bursting into our bedroom to tell us. This is the sunniest room in the White House, and it’s where Ronnie spent much of his time recuperating after the shooting. Sometimes I would have lunch there with a friend, and on the few weekends when we weren’t at Camp David, Ronnie and I would have lunch and spend time there.
If we were having company, or if Maureen was joining us, we had dinner in the family dining room. It’s hard to believe, but until the Kennedys came to the White House, there was no dining room on the second floor of the residence, and no kitchen, either. And so, for example, the Eisenhowers often ate at a card table in the West Hall, with meals brought up in the service elevator from the main kitchen on the ground floor.
There is a family dining room one level down, on the state floor, but that’s a public area, with security guards, visitors, and not much privacy. President and Mrs. Hoover used to go down there every night for dinner, dressed in formal clothes. I can’t imagine anything more awful, but that was another era. When we arrived, the old family dining room was being used as a butler’s pantry for state dinners. It’s a pretty room, so I fixed it up with furniture and paintings, and Ronnie used it for luncheons for visiting heads of state. With the fire going, it provided a less formal atmosphere than the large State Dining Room.
To create the new family dining room on the second floor, Mrs. Kennedy had converted one of the bedrooms, and had the adjoining bathroom made into a small kitchen; the work was done so quickly that the original bathtub remained there for close to ten years. She decorated the dining room with historic wallpaper from an old house in Maryland, which depicted scenes from the Revolutionary War. Betty Ford had this taken down because she felt it looked too violent for a dining room, but Mrs. Carter put it back up. I agreed with Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Carter; I thought it added a nice historical feel to the room, and I was grateful to Mrs. Kennedy for finding it.
When it was just the two of us for dinner, we usually ate in Ronnie’s study, sitting at tray tables as we watched the evening news. We watched all three networks, one after another, on the White House taping system. (Yes, we had to sit through the commercials, too.) We watched ABC first, followed by NBC, and then CBS, which happened to be our order of preference.
Dinner was usually meat loaf, veal, chopped steak, or lamb chops, although we also had chicken or fish. Or, if Ronnie was lucky, macaroni and cheese. Just about the only food we don’t agree on is liver. Ronnie hates it, so whenever I had liver, he would usually kid around and make a face. I’d kid him back and say, “Come on, honey, it’s good for you.” But he never gave in.
Dinner was served by two butlers and always included dessert. I tried not to let them serve a rich, gooey dessert every night, although Ronnie would have liked that. Roland, the pastry chef, was exceptionally skilled, and on special occasions—Mother’s Day, our anniversary, a birthday—he’d bake a cake with a message on it.
Some people have the impression that the president and first lady are wining and dining every night. Not us. But for eight years, we always attended the annual dinners that a president is expected to go to (although not all of them do), such as those given by the Gridiron, the White House Press Corps, and the White House Photographers, the Ford’s Theater Benefit, and many more, as well as many fund-raisers, receptions, and Christmas parties. And sometimes we were invited to friends’ houses.
But when we could grab an evening alone, we did so gladly. So much of your life is on display that to be alone and relaxed was a luxury we looked forward to. Besides, we like being alone. When we had no plans, we could talk, read, and do some work after dinner—Ronnie in his study, I in my office. We rarely watched television in the evening, although on Sunday we usually saw 60 Minutes, followed by Murder, She Wrote, with Angela Lansbury.
Most nights we were in bed by ten. When I pushed the button twice, it was a signal to the usher’s office that we were turning in for the night. They would turn off all the lights and hold all calls, except for emergencies. We both love to read in bed. Ronnie would usually fall asleep around eleven, and I’d continue reading for another hour or so.
As much as Ronnie and I loved the White House, we found it very difficult to live in a place where you couldn’t ever go out for a walk. We’re both outdoor types, and it didn’t take long before we started feeling cooped up.
Thank God for Camp David! I never expected that we would use it practically every weekend, but it became a regular and welcome part of our routine.
As most people know, Camp David is a rustic presidential retreat in Catoctin Mountain Park, seventy miles north of the White House. Franklin Roosevelt was the first president to use it, and he referred to it as Shangri-la. Eisenhower changed the name to Camp David in honor of his grandson.
It was impressed on us from the beginning that Camp David was the president’s most private retreat, and that every president who has used it has gone to great lengths to keep it that way. So did we. We really guarded the privacy of the place. Prime Minister Nakasone of Japan once joined us there for lunch, and Mrs. Thatcher came twice, and we had a visit from President Lopez Portillo of Mexico, but except for family—mostly Ron and Doria, when they lived in New York, and my brother, Dick, and his family, from Philadelphia—that was about it. Even Ronnie’s closest advisers were rarely there.
The only people who came with us regularly were John Hutton, the White House doctor; Jim Kuhn, Ronnie’s personal assistant; Mark Weinberg, Ronnie’s deputy press secretary; and the military aide who carries the “football”—a briefcase containing special codes in case of a nuclear war. Jim and John used to bring their families, and for me, part of the charm of Camp David was being with Jim’s young children and John’s daughter.
Most Fridays we would leave the White House around three. Usually we went to Camp David by helicopter, which took about twenty-five minutes. In bad weather we drove, which added an extra hour or so to the trip.
I was never crazy about the
helicopter, although as helicopters go, ours was large, and the ride was fairly smooth. I’m sure one image that people will always remember of the Reagan years is of Ronnie and me leaving the South Lawn of the White House for Camp David. Sam Donaldson would be shouting something to Ronnie, who could rarely hear him over the noise of the helicopter’s engine. I would be walking behind Ronnie, led by one of the dogs—either Lucky, until he became too big to live at the White House, or Rex. Lucky is a black Bouvier sheepdog who was given to me as a small puppy in 1986 by the March of Dimes poster girl; I named her Lucky after Mother. She was just a little bundle of fur when I got her, but she grew to be the size of a pony. When she became too big for the White House, we took her to live at the ranch, with the other four dogs. She’s in heaven.
Both dogs loved to ride in the helicopter; they knew we were headed for Camp David, where they had room to run around. During the flight, they would sit peacefully and look out the window. Lucky usually sat on Ronnie’s lap.
When we drove to Camp David, we left the White House quietly, without the press. We’d just get into the car and drive off—almost like ordinary people. I loved passing through the pretty towns along the way, which always reminded me of Galesburg, Illinois, where my grandparents (Loyal’s parents) lived. As we passed by the houses and the shops, I found myself wondering about the lives of the people who lived there. What were they thinking about? What would they be doing this evening? That’s always been a favorite game of mine. Invariably a handful of people stood along the road and waved to us, which gave me a neighborly feeling.
When we arrived, whether by car or by helicopter, the camp commander would be there to greet us. A marine stands by the flagpole, and the moment the president arrives at Camp David, the presidential flag goes up. The moment he leaves, it comes down.
I had a tremendous feeling of release when we got to Camp David. It was so important to us, in keeping our perspective on things, to be able to be there alone, to have quiet time together to think and reflect and get our thoughts in order.
By the time we arrived it was usually too late in the afternoon to go riding, and there were always phone messages for Ronnie. When you’re president, there no such thing as a vacation. No matter where you go, there are always briefing books to study, papers to read, intelligence reports to review, speeches to work on, decisions to be made. You might be off in the mountains, but you’re still president, and the world doesn’t stop turning.
All the buildings in Camp David are named after trees, and we stayed in Aspen Lodge, which has a combined living-dining room, a bedroom suite, a guest room, and a kitchen, which we enlarged, to the delight of Eddie Serrano and his staff, who cooked for us. (Eddie, the president’s valet, came on all our trips.) There was also a study in Aspen, but Ronnie preferred to work in the living room and used the study only when he had to take a phone call on the secure line—most often from the national security adviser, or from George Shultz.
Behind the living room was a picture window with a wonderful view across the valley. On our very first visit to Camp David, we looked out and saw eight deer staring in at us. “Look,” Ronnie said, “we have a welcoming committee.”
Although the White House has a movie theater, we rarely used it. But at Camp David we watched movies every Friday and Saturday night in our cabin, together with John Hutton and his wife, Jim Kuhn (or his wife, Carole, depending on who was babysitting that night), Mark Weinberg, Eddie Serrano, the helicopter pilot, the camp commander, and the Secret Service agents. Ronnie and I sat together on the couch, and everybody else settled into his or her personal chair. Eddie made popcorn in the kitchen, and Mark brought along peanut brittle. (We had to stop serving popcorn after Ronnie’s cancer operation, and instead of peanut brittle, Mark started bringing chocolates.)
John’s wife and I were generally the only women there, and the men loved Westerns, so we ran a lot of those. We saw a number of current films, but Ronnie and I both love golden oldies—the pictures from our day, such as North by Northwest, with Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint; The African Queen, with Bogart and Hepburn; Separate Tables, with Rita Hayworth and Burt Lancaster; and Yankee Doodle Dandy, with James Cagney. Ronnie enjoys John Wayne pictures and I love Fred Astaire, so we must have seen just about all their pictures.
Before long, even the younger members of the audience started asking for more golden oldies. These pictures were made before they were born, but they appreciated them—especially when Ronnie would tell behind-the-scenes stories about the actors and the studios, which he generally did when the movie was over. We even screened some of our own pictures when we were asked to, including King’s Row, Bedtime for Bonzo, The Winning Team, Cattle Queen of Montana, and Knute Rockne, All American, all starring Ronald Reagan, and Night into Morning, with Nancy Davis, and Hellcats of the Navy, which Ronnie and I made together in 1957.
On Saturday morning we’d read the newspapers, and Ronnie would work and go over his radio script. Then we’d walk up to Laurel, the main building, where Ronnie would do his weekly radio broadcast. We’d get there a few minutes early, pulled along by Rex, and Jim’s kids would be waiting for us—and especially for Rex, whom they loved. Ronnie would do the broadcast from a conference room, with a radio crew supplied by one of the networks on a rotating basis. I was always in the room with him, along with Jim, Mark, a military aide, and a Secret Service agent. The broadcast began at 12:06 and lasted for five minutes.
From there we walked over to the gym, which had been built for the men stationed at Camp David. After my operation in 1987, John Hutton gave me a series of special therapeutic exercises to do, and I kept up with them while Ronnie lifted weights and used the treadmill. Then it was back to Aspen for lunch.
In good weather, we rode after lunch. I would ride behind Ronnie rather than beside him because our horses didn’t like each other; if my horse got too close, Ronnie’s horse would try to kick him. But even when we ride together at the ranch, we don’t talk much. One thing I hate is riding with someone who keeps up a steady stream of conversation. You’re there to relax, to look at the trees and the sky, to think. At Camp David, sometimes we’d see deer, which would suddenly jump right in front of us, frightening the horses.
I knew almost nothing about riding when I first met Ronnie, but I soon realized that if I wanted to marry this man, I’d have to trade in my tennis racket for a saddle. I still remember the first time he helped me up on a horse at his ranch. “It’s easy,” he assured me. “You just show him who’s boss.”
Well, that horse was enormous, and I remember thinking that this was the silliest thing I’d ever heard. At least my horse and I had one thing in common: We both knew who was really the boss.
I’m still not the world’s most enthusiastic rider, and I don’t ride nearly as well as Ronnie does. I’m still slightly afraid that my horse will jump. I don’t enjoy riding fast, and Ron kids me about the time he and Doria were with us, and I called ahead to Ronnie, “Honey, Doria thinks we’re going too fast.” I’ll use any excuse to slow us down.
When we first came to Camp David, we found that all the riding trails had been paved over by Richard Nixon so he and his guests could go around in golf carts. Ronnie and I had them restored. At first we confined ourselves to the grounds of Camp David, but soon Ronnie started pushing to go farther, beyond the fence, and eventually the Secret Service relented. It made for a pretty ride, but I don’t think the security people were ever too crazy about it.
We always rode by the remains of an old stone house that had been owned by a woman named Bessie Darling. Bessie had a lover, a doctor, who was terribly jealous, and who thought she was cheating on him. One night he rode to her house, along the same trails that Ronnie and I were riding. He was sure he was going to find her with another man, and he brought along his shotgun.
Now Bessie had a maid, a young girl, who slept in front of Bessie’s door, and when she saw the doctor, she tried to keep him out of Bessie’s room. The doctor pushed his way
in; Bessie was alone. When she saw him with his gun, she got out of bed and reached for her own gun—whereupon her lover killed her. When they found Bessie’s gun, the safety catch was still on.
Bessie’s maid is still alive, which is how the story is known. Every time I rode down that trail I thought about Bessie and the doctor, and how he had seen these same trees on that fateful night. What was he thinking? There I go, playing that game again.
In rainy weather and in the winter we wouldn’t ride at all. While Ronnie worked, I was happy to curl up in front of the fire with a good book. Aside from the gym and the outdoor pool, we didn’t use the other facilities very much. But Camp David does have a two-lane bowling alley, an archery range, two clay tennis courts, and, thanks to President Eisenhower, a putting green in front of Aspen. I tried skeet shooting once, but once was enough. Too loud!
Saturday night was another movie. On Sunday morning we watched the television news and interview shows, especially This Week with David Brinkley, which is one of my favorites. I often wished that Camp David had a chapel, because after the shooting, the increased security measures made it virtually impossible for us to go to church without causing an enormous disruption. If it was known in advance that we were coming, everybody had to go through a metal detector, which just didn’t seem right. But if we showed up unexpectedly, the congregants were so busy watching us that they didn’t pay attention to the service. That didn’t seem right either, so we rarely went to church during our years in Washington.
Ronnie and I are religious in our own way, and it bothered me when people said Ronnie was a hypocrite because despite everything he said, we never went to church. Until we moved to Washington we always went to church, and now we do again.