by Sheila Tate
On one of my visits to the Reagan home in California, Nancy gave me a packet of her favorite photos of her husband and some of them as a couple. She asked me to handle the press when he died and to give reporters the photos and encourage them to use them. I like two of the photos the best: one is the two of them on the dock of their little lake at their ranch, taken from behind; the other is them in their canoe.
When this opportunity arose to write a book, I could almost hear Nancy saying Do it, Sheila. And now here I am getting ready to tell you about the Nancy I came to know, admire, and whose friendship I cherished. She was no cardboard cutout. She was sometimes complicated; she could get on your nerves. But who couldn’t? Sometimes she made me mentally roll my eyes. It is true that she did love the phone as reporters frequently reported—as if it were a flaw—and her calls were never short. Some of those calls came at inconvenient times, but looking back now I treasure them all. She could be stubborn and sometimes her judgment wasn’t perfect. She was a human being. Imagine that.
At the lunch after her funeral I asked my friend Mark Weinberg, former press officer for President Reagan, what he would most miss about her. Turns out we both had the same answer: we would miss hearing her voice. That distinctive Nancy voice. And Mark could even mimic her voice so well it would often fool me. It was and still is hard to imagine when the phone rings she will never be on the other end of the line.
In the course of writing this book, I have had the privilege of talking to so many friends of Nancy’s and old friends of mine: coworkers in the Reagan White House; some Democrats as well as Republicans; reporters who covered her; children of old friends. Each person added a piece to the portrait of Nancy I wanted to share.
I begin at the beginning: the first rocky year in the White House, 1981, from the transition to the details of Nancy’s refurbishment of the White House and the press criticism that went with it. And as painful as it still is, I revisit the assassination attempt on President Reagan and the First Lady’s grief that lasted through Jim Brady’s death thirty-five years later.
And I take you behind the scenes to introduce you to Nancy’s top-secret preparations when she appeared onstage dressed as a bag lady to win over the press critics at the Gridiron Dinner, and then to go on the road to begin a never-ending campaign to fight youth drug abuse.
I promise you will get to know her better, and some of what I write may surprise you. I spent many hours discussing the possible roots of her protectiveness with some of her family and friends. What I learned from her brother astonished even me. And, in my opinion, her perfectionism was something to be admired.
And nothing was more magical than the Reagan White House at Christmas. I go into great detail—both the exhausting schedule and the exhilarating moment during one special Christmas when Nancy introduced Amie Garrison, a five-year-old girl in desperate need of a liver transplant, to the unexpecting White House press corps. It’s an incredible story.
I give you a glimpse into Nancy’s artsy side and her special affinity for young artists.
You’ll also learn about Nancy’s growing self-confidence in public speaking, from her timid first appearance before the East Wing press in early 1981 to the last speech she gave as First Lady—to children at Boys Town. That speech is powerful proof of how much Nancy had grown and changed; how much she’d come to recognize the power for good she possessed; and how comfortable she became in telling emotional personal stories in public.
While I never thought of Nancy as a diplomat, she was, in fact, a superb one. She made real friends all across the globe. I devote considerable attention to details of not only her impact on world leaders but also her personal diplomacy, which helped save lives. I dare you to read about Brett and Diana Halvorson without feeling a lump in your throat.
It was a special honor to write about Nancy’s security, especially because it revolves around George Opfer, Nancy’s lead agent for the first six years of the Reagan presidency. George had always refused to talk publicly about Nancy before with anyone, but he trusted me to treat his recollections properly. He also entrusted me with the notes Nancy wrote to him during those six years. George epitomized the professional Secret Service officer, the best of the best. And I know Nancy agreed with me; she put her life in his hands. Literally. And two other members of Nancy’s security, Joe Sullivan and John Barletta, talked with me at length about their memorable experiences on Nancy’s detail.
Nancy had a distinctive style. She was a classic; President Reagan said she never threw anything away. Mainly because none of her clothes ever went out of style. You will learn all about her fashion sense from her off-the-rack press secretary, so take what I say with a grain of salt. She favored the deep red color that came to be known as Reagan red. And that’s why this book’s title and cover design were so easy to conceive.
I had some fun revealing a closely held secret among White House staffers: a president’s wife—no matter who—is a very convenient excuse for saying no to a request. It’s the staff’s easy way out and I am not without sin. You’ll see.
Nancy’s relationship with the press was my area of professional expertise. A good deal of silly gossip passed for news in those days and I was always batting false stories down. Part of the problem was solved, or at least mitigated, as the press came to know her better. But it was a never-ending challenge. The seriousness of her drug abuse campaign won over some reporters; her growing self-confidence in her interactions with them also was helpful.
Nancy was my boss and I always respected the way she worked with me. She said she would always take my calls, no matter how many. That was critical to my ability to perform my job. She never went back on that promise. When our professional relationship grew into a real friendship, I found I also admired her private side. I recall the wonderful experiences of traveling with Nancy; what an amazing friend she was. And I am particularly proud to share staff memories from about a dozen of those who consider themselves lucky to have been on her team. Many are very funny.
It seemed most appropriate to me to close by remembering what brought us all together to begin with, the presidency of Ronald Reagan. And finally, to say goodbye to Nancy. A sad time, for sure, but when you read about Digby, the dog, you’ll find it impossible not to smile.
In the course of writing this book, I learned a great deal about Nancy that even I did not know. I dearly hope that I have brought her voice to this book, that I help the reader come to better know and appreciate a woman who deserves our respect and admiration. I have the distinct feeling that she is looking over my shoulder, especially when I need to correct something. She was, after all, a perfectionist.
1
Elegance and Style
My first assignment in December 1980, as the newly named press secretary for Nancy Reagan, was to entrust one of the Reagan advance men with the highly confidential assignment of driving to New York City to pick up the final glossy sketches of Nancy’s inaugural wardrobe. Now, thirty-eight years later, I am free to unmask my accomplice. Mark Hatfield, son of Senator Mark Hatfield of Oregon, took on the assignment. Mark Jr., my hero, did not disappoint.
When he returned to our nation’s capital, he met me in the parking lot of transition headquarters where we transferred the contraband from his trunk to mine. Sounds a bit like Deep Throat, doesn’t it?
It really was important to keep those designs secret until Nancy wore those outfits. There had been instances in past presidencies where this kind of information was leaked in advance. It puts a real damper on the excitement of the day. I believe the worst example was when Lynda Bird Johnson was marrying Chuck Robb; drawings of her wedding dress designed by Geoffrey Beene were leaked to Women’s Wear Daily before Lynda’s special, historic White House wedding took place.
Nancy’s outfit on Inauguration Day—a red crepe day dress with a red twill coat and hat—was created by American designer Adolfo. Its brilli
ant red hue quickly became known as Reagan red. She favored that color for the rest of her life. It became an essential part of her style.
I thought it was the perfect color for her. Not that she consulted me on that subject! After all, less than ten days earlier I had been working at a large public relations firm’s Washington office, directing national publicity efforts in favor of continued regulation of the trucking industry. I’d never even heard of Adolfo before.
Shortly before the January 20, 1981, swearing-in and at some time during the luncheon in the Capitol, our new president, Ronald Reagan, was able to announce that our American heroes—held hostage for 444 days in Iran—had been released and had just cleared Iranian airspace on their way home. As an added grace note, he dispatched former president Jimmy Carter, who worked tirelessly to bring them home, to meet the hostages as they reached safety.
All of America celebrated. The National Christmas Tree on the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument was lit that night in celebration for the first time since they had been taken hostage. That evening the Reagans danced at eight inaugural balls, Nancy in a glittering white gown and gorgeous satin coat designed by James Galanos, another top American designer. The president, by the way, wore a tuxedo. I do not know who designed it. It was black.
Those balls were packed with ecstatic Republicans from across the country. I was present at the ball held at the Capital Hilton where the coat check line snaked around the block. In truth, it was no more glamorous than a high school prom, except we did have alcohol. In paper cups. Funny the things one remembers. I also remember that it was so overcrowded that every foray onto the dance floor ended up with some man stepping on my feet.
The ballroom came alive when the new president and First Lady arrived. Everyone knew they were witnessing the beginning of an exciting new presidential term. I was thrilled to be even a small part of it. It was one of the few presidential events that I would not have to work; the West Wing presidential advance people took charge. I got to be a witness to history.
Nancy’s inaugural gown, in keeping with long-standing tradition, was eventually donated to the Smithsonian. I grew up in the DC suburbs and for as long as I can remember, the wing of the American History Museum that houses its gown collection has always been the most popular exhibit at the Smithsonian. Folks at the Smithsonian confirmed that fact when I was working on the details of Nancy’s donation. The oldest inaugural gown in the museum’s collection dates from 1829 and belonged to Andrew Johnson’s niece. The oldest First Lady’s gown in the Smithsonian collection—not part of an inauguration—belonged to none other than Martha Washington.
* * *
Nancy Reagan really was an American classic. Her style and grace has held up through the decades. It took care, thought, and planning to be the First Lady, and she understood that her image was important.
Imagine having to attend multiple public events nearly every day. Imagine at least twenty of those events every year are formal in nature. And imagine having the media documenting, photographing, and commenting on every outfit you wear.
Some First Ladies have been publicly adjudged to be frumpy; others to have poor taste. And lord help you if you wore something too frequently; the style press would not be kind to you.
Nancy organized her wardrobe to keep track of when each outfit was worn. Other First Ladies had also found this tactic helpful, but I’d never seen it before and found it amazing. A tag hung from each outfit listing the dates and events to which it had been worn.
Sometimes, her outfit made the news when we didn’t intend it. When Nancy wore her fur coat in public one cold winter evening, we received bags of critical mail. Almost all of it was generated by animal rights activists and it was pretty ugly.
And once, at a congressional wives’ reception on the Hill one rainy day, Susan Watters from Women’s Wear Daily insisted I find out from Nancy how to describe the vivid quilted purple outfit she was wearing. I slipped into the front of the receiving line and quietly asked Nancy how to describe it. She said, “It’s a purple rain outfit.” I returned to Susan with that information, but the press was not yet satisfied. Another reporter had a follow-up: she asked me to interrupt Nancy once more and find out what kind of fur trim was on the collar. I lost my patience and said something to the effect of “It’s a dead animal.” I learned quickly that one did not make light references to expired furry creatures connected to First Ladies. My mail was highly negative to put it mildly. One said: “I have seen your type; your vacant stare; your empty eyes.” My personal favorite letter came addressed to “King Ronald, Queen Nancy and Princess Sheila.” I was royalty!
By far Nancy’s greatest volume of mail during my years of service dealt with fashion. Nancy generally looked great in whatever she wore and that was what a lot of Americans were interested in.
Nancy made only one major style misstep as First Lady that I can recall: the infamous knickers.
The Reagans were on a European trip in early June 1982, and while in Paris, they attended a party in honor of François Mitterrand at the American ambassador’s residence. We were all enjoying the evening when the press in attendance suddenly perked up. Helen Thomas of UPI pulled me aside and said, in her serious, authoritative, rather piercing Helen Thomas voice, “What the hell is she wearing?” I realized that I had failed to find out in advance the details of her outfit. There was such a stir among the press corps that I had to pull Nancy aside and ask for the details.
The knickers were a James Galanos creation—a black chiffon skirt over rhinestone-studded black satin knickers. Those knickers were publicized worldwide. I regret never asking Nancy why she chose to wear that outfit. I suspect she wanted to make a big fashion statement in Paris, the center of haute couture. The sensation, thankfully, was short-lived.
* * *
January 20 is the constitutionally required date for routine presidential inaugurations. In 1985, that happened to be on a Sunday that was also Super Bowl Sunday. So it was decided that to comply with the law, there would be a private swearing in at the White House on Sunday, January 20, and then a public/ceremonial swearing in at the Capitol on Monday, January 21, to be followed by the traditional parade and balls at hotels across town. Initially, Mike Deaver did not want press coverage of the private swearing in, because he did not want to detract from the next day’s extravaganza. He proposed that there be an official White House photo release of the actual swearing in, after which the Reagans and Bushes would briefly appear on the North Portico for a picture together. The press objected vigorously, and Mike wisely relented. There was a pool of reporters and photographers on the State Floor when Reagan was sworn in on the Grand Staircase before a small audience of family, Cabinet, bipartisan congressional leaders, friends, and senior staff. True to form, Mrs. Reagan wore red and beamed as she held the Bible while Chief Justice Warren E. Burger administered the oath of office to her husband.
That Sunday was the coldest anyone could remember in Washington history, and as the day went on, the temperatures dropped. Way down. So much so, the Reagans reluctantly accepted the Inaugural Committee’s recommendation to move all events indoors. Due to the extreme cold weather, an evening concert for Sunday and all of the next day’s outdoor inaugural events, specifically the swearing in ceremony at the Capitol and the parade on Pennsylvania Avenue, were moved inside. Mrs. Reagan was especially worried about the danger to the young people playing in bands during the parade because exposure to the cold—especially to those playing metal musical instruments—could cause injury. I remember standing on the North Portico of the White House and shivering during a brief TV interview to explain the decision to move that evening’s and the next day’s events inside. After less than a minute I had to end the interview because my eyelids had frozen shut!
On Monday, January 21, Reagan was sworn in again, inside the Capitol, only this time Mrs. Reagan surprised everyone and wore a lig
ht blue suit, complete with a matching hat, to the ceremony. After this second swearing in, the president delivered his full inaugural address; he and Mrs. Reagan attended the traditional postceremony luncheon in the Capitol, and then they went out to the Capital Center in Landover, Maryland, for a makeup concert and parade with people who had been scheduled to perform outdoors. The Reagans wanted to tell the people how sorry they were that Mother Nature changed the carefully laid plans and how much they appreciated everyone’s flexibility, efforts, and support. Admittedly, the event was hastily arranged, which I think may have unsettled Mrs. Reagan a bit. She was supposed to say a few words and then introduce her husband to speak. She delivered her remarks perfectly and then sat down—without introducing him! After an awkward silence, she realized her mistake and rushed back to the podium where she introduced the man she called “my roommate.”
Later that evening they attended eleven inaugural balls.
When I was thinking about this chapter, Donald Trump was on his first overseas trip as president. Several times I found myself looking up at Melania on TV, beautiful and dignified. And then I heard repeated commentary on how Jackie Kennedy, Nancy Reagan, and Melania Trump were the most stylish First Ladies we’ve had. Each different but each representing us well. I agree. I think Nancy would have been so pleased to be in such good company.
2
The Boss
Nothing in this world is more important for a press secretary’s reputation and credibility than his or her access to the boss.