RN

by Richard Nixon

  The church was full, and many of my mother’s Whittier friends and acquaintances had to stand outside because of the great number of reporters, whose presence I deeply resented, who filled the back and side aisles. At the end of the service the family were the first to leave the church and walk by the open casket. My mother was not pretty, but she was beautiful, and she looked as beautiful in death as she had in life.

  The local minister and Billy were standing at the door as we left. I shook hands with the minister and then, as I shook hands with Billy, our eyes met. I could no longer control my pent-up emotions. I broke into tears. He threw his arms around me and said, “Let it all out.”

  We walked out into the sunlight and rode from the church to Rose Hills Memorial Park. My mother was buried in the family plot, alongside my father, my brothers Arthur and Harold, her mother and father, and her sister Elizabeth, who died of cancer. Only one reporter had the bad manners to stick a microphone in my face and ask how I felt. I just walked past him. I did not want to stay around the places that reminded me so painfully of my mother, so Pat and I went directly to the airport from the cemetery and were soon on our way back to New York.

  While Pat slept, I closed my eyes and thought back on my mother’s life. She had worked so hard and given so much of herself to others. I remembered the last time we had talked before she had her stroke. She had just had an operation, and although she was in terrible pain she never once complained about it.

  I knew that her chances of recovery were very small. Words were utterly inadequate, so all I could say was, “Mother, don’t give up.”

  She pulled herself up in the bed, and with sudden strength in her voice she said, “Richard, don’t you give up. Don’t let anybody tell you you are through.”

  Only later did I find out that just before her operation she had read a column in the Los Angeles Times speculating that I was through as far as any chances of regaining national office were concerned.

  “Richard, don’t you give up. Don’t let anybody tell you you are through.” What a typical sentiment, I thought as the plane flew eastward into nightfall. What a marvelous legacy.

  The Republican front-runner during the preprimary period was George Romney. I knew that Romney had a head start, but I also suspected that his lack of experience might make him politically accident-prone. Reports from his campaign organization confirmed this suspicion. His statement that he had been successfully “brainwashed” by his official hosts during his study tour of Vietnam was his worst, but by no means his only, gaffe during this period.

  From my point of view, the most interesting question about Romney was whether Nelson Rockefeller was using him as a stalking horse for his own candidacy.

  I saw Eisenhower again on October 17. By now the political situation was beginning to develop very quickly, and he was outspoken in analyzing the various political personalities who might play a role in 1968.

  I told him of my high regard for Jerry Ford. He agreed but was afraid that Ford was not exciting enough. “We need someone who can charge up the troops,” he said. He called Mel Laird “the smartest of the lot, but he is too devious.” In December 1968, after I had selected Laird as Secretary of Defense, Eisenhower expressed the same doubts. After the two men had a meeting in January, however, Eisenhower told me he thought I had made a good choice. Flashing his famous grin, he said, “Of course Laird is devious, but for anyone who has to run the Pentagon and get along with Congress, that is a valuable asset.”

  We discussed Rockefeller’s intentions and his chances. Eisenhower said, “His major liability is that his becoming a candidate would resurrect all the hard feelings of 1964 at a time when it is imperative to get the party together.”

  As usual we talked about the situation in Vietnam. I said that I thought we should quarantine North Vietnam by mining its harbors. Eisenhower said that he thought we would need a declaration of war in order to justify such action under international law. He took a hard line, however, regarding the proposals to stop the bombing of North Vietnam. He said, “Who wants to stop it? The Communists want to stop it because it is hurting them. Therefore, we should continue it.”

  He thought that Johnson’s hesitations at crucial occasions had been damaging. He thought he had made a serious mistake in restricting the bombing of North Vietnam, and that Johnson had been about a year and a half too late at every stage: in committing U.S. troops, in initiating the bombing, and in building up public support for the war.

  I asked him what he thought of the idea of switching to a volunteer army when the war ended. He strongly opposed it and said that he had written a thesis on the topic at the War College. He had investigated all the options and concluded that universal military training was a good idea. “Besides,” he added, “it would be good for the hippie generation.”

  He looked up suddenly. “Look at that beautiful bluejay,” he said. We watched the bird for a few moments. Eisenhower’s brow furrowed as he tried to pick up his train of thought, and it was painful for me to watch him struggling to remember. Finally he sighed and said, “If only the time would come when men would sit down and rationally settle their differences in peace.”

  By the end of 1967 I knew that I had to make a final decision about running. The Nixon for President organization was ready to shift into high gear as soon as I gave the signal. Johnson’s personal and political insecurity had become obvious; his party was ready to split apart under pressure from Eugene McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy on the left and from George Wallace on the right. The chances for a Republican to be elected President in 1968 looked better all the time. My chances of being that Republican had also improved over the year. I was the first choice of Republicans for the nomination in almost every Gallup poll taken in 1967; most of the party’s organizational leaders either wanted to support me or, at least, felt that I had earned a shot at the nomination by the hard labor I had done for the party during the dark times after Goldwater’s defeat. However, many of my strongest supporters were still not sure that I could throw off my “loser image” and lead the party to victory. As I had foreseen, everything was going to depend on the primaries.

  In October 1967 the Gallup poll’s presidential trial heat had shown me running ahead of Johnson for the first time, 49 percent to 45 percent. Even though he regained the lead in November, this showing did much to improve my chances.

  In all the conversations that I had in the latter part of 1967, seeking advice about what to do, I did not reveal to anyone my inner doubts about becoming a candidate. Late on the night of December 22, 1967, I committed some of them to paper.

  It had been a long day—lunch with my law partners, an afternoon meeting with key campaign advisers, and in the evening our annual Christmas party at our apartment, at which I played Christmas carols on the piano and Tom Dewey led the singing in his rich baritone. After the party, Pat and I went to the kitchen to thank Manolo and Fina Sanchez for the splendid job they had done in serving over a hundred guests. We realized again, as we had so many times before, how fortunate we were to have had the loyal and efficient services of this remarkable Spanish couple who had come to us as refugees from Cuba in 1961. Then I retreated to the quiet of my library. Manolo had laid a fire, and the room had a comforting, familiar warmth.

  I sat in my easy chair and took a fresh yellow pad. I wrote: “I have decided personally against becoming a candidate.” Then I summarized my thoughts:

  —Unlike some of the political newcomers, I did not want the presidency in order to be someone.

  —Losing again could be an emotional disaster for the family. The memories of 1960 and 1962 were still painful.

  —Perhaps I had lost the spirit and zeal essential to survive the ordeal of a long presidential campaign—particularly one that begins on the tortuous primary route. I wrote, “Combat is the essence of politics.” Yet I really did not relish the combat and had to force myself to develop the fighting spirit necessary to inspire others.

  —I was tired of h
aving to ask for support from political and business leaders and even from old friends.

  —There would be no draft at the convention. People were still hesitating about their support, and I continued to hear the message that the party needed a winner.

  —I was bored by the charade of trying to romance the media. They were being relatively courteous at this period, but I knew the majority opposed my views and would strongly oppose my candidacy.

  —“Personally, I have had it. I want nothing else.” Even as I wrote the words I was surprised by my ambivalence regarding the presidency. As if to restore some balance I noted that neither was the practice of law what I wanted for the rest of my life.

  —A good candidate must have five qualities: brains, heart, judgment, guts, and experience. I felt that I measured up to four of them. But I was not sure whether I still had the heart—whether I had not reached the time in life when I lacked the zeal to continue a political career.

  —Many of my friends did not want my place in history to be determined by the defeats of 1960 and 1962. They argued that defeat should not be my epitaph. That argument never had much appeal to me because I had a fatalistic, almost deterministic, view of history—that history makes the man more than the man makes history.

  Finally, I startled myself again by writing at the bottom of the page a thought that I had never expected to have: “I don’t give a damn.”

  I put down my pen and just sat looking into the fire and thinking. I had somehow always known that if everything worked out right, I could have another presidential candidacy. The road had been tiring and at times unbearably lonely. Had I come all this way to avoid the clash? I did want to run. Every instinct said yes. But now, on the brink of that decision, I was surprised to find myself procrastinating.

  On Christmas Day, I had a long discussion with Pat, Tricia, and Julie. Pat said that she was completely happy with our life in New York, but whatever I decided, she was resigned to helping out. Tricia and Julie were now grown up, and I gave great weight to their opinions. Julie was a sophomore at Smith College. She had never really accepted the loss in 1960. She said, “You have to do it for the country.” Tricia, a senior at Finch College, spoke in more personal terms. “If you don’t run, Daddy, you really will have nothing to live for.”

  With the New Hampshire primary less than three months away, I could not prolong the final decision much longer. It was clear that in the busy holiday atmosphere at home, I would not be able to do any concentrated thinking. I decided therefore to go to Florida for a few days to relax and think in solitude.

  As I left on December 28, Pat took my arm and kissed me. “Whatever you do, we’ll be proud of you,” she said. “You know we love you.”

  Bebe Rebozo met me at the airport, and we went directly to a villa at the Key Biscayne Hotel. I had telephoned Billy Graham and asked if he could come down and join us. For the next three days I walked on the beach and thought about the most important decision of my life. On the first night we sat up late talking about theology and politics and sports. Billy read aloud the first and second chapters of Romans. The next afternoon I invited him to join me for a walk along the beach. He had been very sick with pneumonia and was still recuperating, so we decided not to tax his strength by walking too far. I told him that I was genuinely torn on the question of whether to run. One part of me wanted to more than anything else, but another part of me rebelled at the thought of all it would entail. It was far from certain that I could win the nomination; even if I did, that would be only the prelude to an even more arduous campaign. Ten months of campaigning would mean great stress and strain on me and on my family, especially Pat.

  We had become so involved in our conversation that we walked more than a mile—all the way to the old Spanish lighthouse at the tip of Key Biscayne. By the time we got back, Billy was weak and exhausted. He went upstairs to rest while Rebozo and I watched the Green Bay Packers defeat the Dallas Cowboys 21–17 in subfreezing weather in Green Bay. That night, New Year’s Eve, we had dinner at the Jamaica Inn, where I had reserved my favorite table beside a small waterfall.

  As Billy was getting ready to leave the next day, I went to his room and sat looking out at the ocean while he finished packing. “Well, what is your conclusion?” I asked. “What should I do?” Billy closed his suitcase and turned toward me. “Dick, I think you should run,” he said. “If you don’t you will always wonder whether you should have run and whether you could have won or not. You are the best prepared man in the United States to be President.” He talked about the problems facing America and how much greater and more serious they were now than in 1960. He said that I had been denied the chance to provide leadership in 1960, but now, providentially, I had another chance. “I think it is your destiny to be President,” he said.

  I stayed in Florida for another week. One morning when I went to the hotel from my villa to pick up my mail, I found a letter from David Eisenhower.

  Dear Mr. Nixon,

  During my past visit, Julie told me of the difficult decisions you were facing and of the strong possibility that you might not run for President. I hoped that an appropriate moment would arise to say something about it to you in person, but the subject seemed so delicate that the words and the moment eluded me. . . .

  The most discouraging aspect of politics, when I rationally consider my ambitions in life, is its thanklessness. My Grandad is now regarded as a simple country bumpkin and a sweet old General. The liberal element, since it does control educational and journalistic media to a vast degree, has distorted his personal and public image possibly forever. Yet I feel his efforts were, for himself and many others, the source of genuine satisfaction since he served his country to the best of his ability and touched the lives of millions.

  Everything I say must be a tremendous understatement since I have never endured a political campaign or political life in its most taxing form. Politics is a sacrifice, in terms of one’s family, privacy, and countless other aspects of a man’s life. This I have seen. It is rare when someone possesses such wisdom and insight that he should be called upon to sacrifice himself and to serve. But I sincerely feel that you have it and that America needs the guidance you could render. I also feel that America will come to realize this in due time, if it doesn’t already. . . .

  Only you can determine whether to run is worth the effort and the hardships or not. I simply hoped to tell you a little of how I felt on the matter. . . .

  Sincerely,

  David

  By January 9, my fifty-fifth birthday, I was back in New York. My mind was made up, but I decided to wait until Julie could come home from school for a weekend so that I could tell the whole family at the same time.

  On January 15, we were all together for dinner. I asked Rose Woods to join us—she had been through so much with us that she was virtually a part of the family. I felt she should be present at this moment. I waited until dinner was over, and then I asked Manolo and Fina to join us.

  I said that, as they probably guessed, I had reached a decision. I knew that Pat was not in favor of my running, and that was the one factor that finally weighed most heavily in my mind against it. But I had increasingly come to understand that politics was not just an alternative occupation for me. It was my life. Although it would be a long, hard road, I felt that this time I could win. Finally, I said, “I have decided to go. I have decided to run again.”

  There was a brief pause. Then Pat said, “I know what you are asking us to do, and what you are asking of yourself. Now that the decision is made, I will go along with it.”

  Tricia picked up her water glass and proposed a toast. She said, “Whatever happens, we will win either way!” Fina, standing next to Manolo, said, “You are the man to lead the country! This was determined before you were born!”

  1968 CAMPAIGN AND ELECTION

  I began my second campaign for the presidency with a press conference on the afternoon of February 2, 1968, in the Holiday Inn at Manchester, Ne
w Hampshire. I came to the microphones and announced, “Gentlemen, this is not my last press conference.”

  Anticipating the central question, I said at the outset that I had considered the “he can’t win” problem and had decided to enter all the primaries to prove that I could win. As a challenge to Nelson Rockefeller—who was, I was convinced, behind George Romney’s candidacy—I said that the next Republican nominee must be selected not in smoke-filled rooms but in the “fires of the primaries.”

  I had some reasons for confidence about the chances for success of my primary strategy. The most recent nationwide Gallup poll of Republicans gave me a commanding 40 percent lead over Romney, and I led Rockefeller by a comfortable 14 percent. Given these generally reassuring figures, I had three major concerns about the New Hampshire primary. First, there was always the danger of an upset; no candidate can be confident of an election when 32 percent of the voters are undecided. I had to show that I could be a winner, but I could not let the proud and independent voters of New Hampshire think me arrogant or start regarding Romney as an underdog. Second, there was always the danger of making a mistake. I knew that the media would analyze and examine everything I did and said, and I would have to be extraordinarily careful of the image and tone my campaign projected. Third, there was the danger of allowing the primary campaign to split the Republican ranks so deeply that whoever won would inherit a dispirited and disunited party. Johnson’s popularity ratings were low because of North Korea’s seizure of the intelligence ship Pueblo in January, the Tet offensive in Vietnam in February, and the bitter disunity being stirred up among the Democrats by Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy’s antiwar candidacy. Even considering these factors, it would still be very difficult for any Republican to challenge Lyndon Johnson, a resourceful politician armed with the powers of incumbency.

  The Vietnam war was the dominant issue in New Hampshire, as it was throughout the campaign. I wanted the war to end, but in a manner that would save the South Vietnamese people from military defeat and subjection to the domination of the North Vietnamese Communist regime.