When we went back to Texas, Ranger died. I cried for two days. I cried because I loved him and knew I’d miss him; for he had made me the happiest dog owner in the whole world. I know that when you are an old guy you aren’t supposed to cry, but I did. I hope you make Sam as happy as Ranger made me.
A lot of dogs like Halloween, because the kids in their house dress up in funny outfits; and they look different.
Here’s a Halloween present for you—just what you need, an adjustable collar with jack-o-lanterns on it.
Good-bye, and “woof” for now.
Devotedly,
George Bush
Sam’s Grandfather39
November 6, 1996
Dear Jerry [Ford],
The election has come and gone. Bob Dole did far better percentage wise than CNN and all those pollsters and pundits were predicting for so many months. But he lost15 and I’ll bet he’s hurting today. I know you must have hurt 20 years ago for I know how I felt 4 years ago.
I hope you don’t think this letter is odd and strange.
In the House, from a back bench, I watched you lead. As President you gave me a chance to do interesting things. When I went to the White House you were always supportive.
So now, a little later in life, with more time to really sort out my own priorities, I write simply to say I am very proud to be your friend. This friendship matters a lot to me—it really does. As you and I drove across that Ohio countryside last week, it hit me like a ton of bricks, that too often we fail to tell our friends that we really care about them and are grateful to them.
Sincerely,
George
I wrote this short essay to be included in my Yale fiftieth reunion book. Our assignment was to say in a few words who we were after fifty years.
Well, I am a happy man, a very happy man. I used to be a government employee, holding a wide variety of jobs. So many, in fact, that my wife Barbara became fond of saying “Poor George, he cannot hold a job.”
Now I am retired, unemployed. I do a lot of speaking—some for charity, some to pay the rent and buy the burgers. I travel abroad a lot for I like touching base with the world leaders with whom I used to work.
I used to love politics. Now I love politics no more. I love the fact two sons are involved in the “arena”, but I am happy on the sidelines.
Yes, I am the George Bush that once was President of the United States of America. Now, at times, this seems hard for me to believe. All that is history and the historians in the future will sort out the bad things I might have done from the good things. My priorities now are largely friends, family, and faith.
I count my blessings every single day.
George Bush
February 10, 1997
Ms. Britnay Marie Mason
Jacksonville Beach, FL 32250
Dear Britnay,
You never knew your Dad. I didn’t know him either.
When your Dad was killed I was President of the United States. I had to make the call that sent him into battle. Deciding to send someone’s son or daughter into harm’s way is the toughest decision a President has to make.
On December 19th 1989 I had to make such a decision. American lives were being threatened in Panama. Democracy had been ripped away from the people of Panama as an international drug lord took command of that country. Freedom was on the rocks and tyranny reigned in that friendly country; so upon the advice of many good people I decided that we had to act.
Your father was one of the ones that made the ultimate sacrifice. He gave his life. I think your Dad felt he might die in combat for he wrote a most beautiful letter to your grandmother, a letter that said among other things “I am frightened (by) what lays beyond the fog, and yet do not mourn for me. Revel in the life that I have died to give to you—Remember I joined the army to serve my country and ensure that you are free to do what you want and live your lives freely.”
I shared this lovely letter with our entire nation, reading it as part of my State of the Union address on January 31, 1990. As I did so I choked up a bit, for I knew that your entire family was hurting, hearts broken over the loss of your Dad. But this letter made an impression all across our country, for America saw once again that it does indeed have good men willing to serve, willing to sacrifice.
Britnay, these are the words of a hero, a man clear of purpose who died loving his country and proud of wearing its uniform, proud of putting service ahead of self.
Today it is said we have no heroes. Not so. We do have heroes. Your Dad, Jim Markwell was one such man. The United States of America will always have him, treasuring his memory, giving thanks to God that such patriotic men are willing to serve.
I wish I had known your Dad personally. I think I would be a better man if I had known him, for his kind of courage lifts men up and inspires them.
May God bless you in your life ahead.
George Bush
I am including only excerpts from this letter since I wrote it over some six weeks and it got rather long.
February 11, 1997
Dear Kids,
Okay, so you might think I have lost it.
I plan to make a parachute jump. So there!
Yesterday I went to the International Parachute Association’s annual meeting here in Houston. Asked to describe my [war] experience, I told them how terrified I was, how I pulled the rip cord and released my chest straps too early, and how I had sunk fairly deep when I hit the water.
As I recounted those errors, however, something happened. For some reason, I went back to a thought I had way in the back of my mind. It has been there, sleeping like Rip van Winkle, alive but not alive. Now it was quite clear.
I want to make one more parachute jump!
I was excited, but thought I better sleep on it—to give it a little time. This morning, however, I was more determined than ever, so I asked Chris Needels to come over. He brought Lt. Col. Danny Greene16 and two other association people. They arrived bearing the kind of chute I would use, and began by explaining the safety features involved. That seemed appropriate.
“Piece of cake,” thinks me.
The next move is up to them, but not entirely—for when I go home tonight I’ll tell your Mom about this. She will not like it, but in the final analysis I will convince her (1) that it is safe and (2) that this is something I have to do, must do.
February 12th
So far, so good. Last night at home, sitting in the den, I casually told your Mom, “Bar, I’m going to make a parachute jump.”
“You’re crazy,” came the reply. She meant it, but she didn’t sound angry.
I was firm. “This is something I must do.”
“Sure, you must do it. Sure!” She could have well said, “Yeah, right!” That’s what people say these days when they mean you’re wrong.
Having clearly established my position, I changed the subject. “Another glass of Chardonnay, Bar? How’d the construction go today?”17 Smart, for she answered both questions and never came back to the parachute jump.
February 27th
I attend a Desert Storm reunion party in Northern Virginia hosted by Prince Bandar.18 It is in honor of his father, Prince Sultan, who is the number three man in the Saudi hierarchy.
As the dinner crowd readies to leave, Colin Powell,19 with an amused look on his face, pulls me aside and asks: “Are you planning to jump from a plane? It’s the talk of the Pentagon.”
When I told him it was true, his only reaction was “Really?” Colin, too good a friend and far too polite to call me nuts, only smiled. I think I detected a shake of the head.
February 28th
I called Colin.
This time he is armed with examples where men far younger than I had landed hard and were badly hurt.
I tell him the precautions we would be taking.
“Yes, but it isn’t a question of the chute opening,” he replies. “That will happen okay. It’s the landing.”
“The parachute g
uys tell me it’s like stepping off a curb,” I counter.
“Sure, but not if the wind does tricks.”
Colin was not trying to talk me out of this, just pointing out some problems. “I know you look 45, but you’re 72. How are your ankles, knees, etc.?”
“The ankle’s better now. Knees in great shape—firm upper legs and buttock.” Did I detect a smile by the good General?
Colin reports that the Pentagon can hardly believe this; and he confesses that Denny Reimer, the top General in the Army, had called him.20
I assure Colin that I will fully understand if Reimer vetoes this, and ask him to have Reimer call me directly—promising to be light of heart.
So Colin goes into the fray not convinced of my sanity, certainly not a strong ally (understatement), but willing on his own to report back to Reimer that this is for real.
Has this shaken my determination? No it has not, but I will now make further inquiry. I do not want to do anything dumb, but I must complete my mission.
Why has this now become an obsession? I have everything in life, far more than I deserve. I want to finish my life as God would have it. I have never been happier, but I want to do this jump.
March 6th
Chris Needels calls. “All systems are go. General Reimer has agreed to permit the jump to go forward. No military plane, but the Knights can jump with the President at Yuma.”21
I was so elated and caught off-guard that I’m afraid I made a ribald comment to Jean Becker. I told her that, if any press ends up covering the event, we should be sure not to give them the name of my laundry man. Should’na dunnit. Wasn’t prudent. Wasn’t nice. I’m a little ashamed.
Why did I do this? It goes back to my carrier days. We pilots would joke like this when we had a night landing or a rolling deck. “Only my laundry man will ever know!” we used to say. It helped to ease the tension.
Then I start to think that so much of this relates back to my pilot days—back to that dreadful day, September 2, 1944. I was scared then. Will I be scared again? I know I will not panic, but I expect to feel a touch of fright when I first look down from 12,500 feet—ready to jump.
I have a goal. I will achieve it. I will do it right.
March 7th
General Reimer, Chief of Staff US Army, calls. He asks if I was serious about the jump. I tell him I am, that it’s a “matter of closure” for me. He went on to point out the risks involved, then he asked: “How does Mrs. Bush feel about all of this?” I said she was on board, though “unenthusiastic.” The General then said, “I hope this doesn’t lead to my getting a call from Strom Thurmond next week.”
In any event, his phone call meant that all systems really were a “go,” and from that point on Gen. Reimer was fully supportive of the jump.
March 14th—J Minus 11
Notification day for the kids. I first break the news to Marvin. “Are you kidding, Dad?” then becoming very supportive. “I can understand. I can see why you want to do this. Go for it!” He will talk to his Mother—to help put her at ease. I tell the Governor of Texas. Like Marv, there was the momentary “Are you kidding?” followed by enthusiasm. He was great about it, though he did add: “Don’t tell anyone about your 18 year-old girlfriend.”
Next was Jeb. He fully understood. Never one for idle chatter, Jeb says what he means and then hangs up. “Fine, Dad, but don’t change your sexual preference.” I put him down as positive.
Neil was abroad when I tried to reach him, but he was instantly supportive when told of the jump.
Finally I called Doro, who gasped upon hearing the news. I asked her not to tell anyone. She said, “You must be kidding. Do you think I’d tell anyone about this?” I felt Doro was ready to support me—tentative but okay.
March 25th—J Day
I went with your Mother to the jump area. Then, wearing my Desert Storm boots, I was off to a final plane-side briefing and into my white Elvis suit (with white helmet and white gloves—the King would have approved) before boarding. We were off.
The jumpers inside were hyped, giving the parachute jumper’s equivalent of the high five—two fists on top of the other guy’s, then under, then knock the end of his fists, and finally index fingers point at each other (the signal for pulling the rip cord). I got caught up in the spirit of it all—totally hyped, too.
Nearing the exit zone, I was told to stand and back up towards the rear of the plane. My instructors kept saying, “Back up a little more, sir, a little more.” It was only then that I felt a twinge of fear—not panic, but rather a halting feeling in the leg, groin, and gut.
Finally, it was time.
“Are you ready to sky dive?”
“Ready to go!”
Before I knew it, I was plummeting face down towards the desert at 120 mph, shoulders arched, pelvis out.
When I pulled the rip cord at 5000 feet, the jolt was far greater than I expected. Looking up, I saw the multi-colored canopy fully deployed. I grabbed the handles over my head for steering. I checked the altimeter on my left wrist, amazed at the slow and gentle descent. I practiced my turns and the flare.
I was at peace. Gone was the noise from the free fall. I was alone, floating gently towards earth, reveling in the freedom, enjoying the view. It was a marvelous sensation.
The floating to earth took longer than I thought, but I wish it could have gone on twice as long. At about 750 feet, the ground seemed to come up at me much faster—more so at 100 feet. I was anxious to flare properly so as to make a soft landing, and the order to do so came about 50 feet before hitting the ground.
Pulling down hard on the two shrouds gently softened the descent. I didn’t hit hard, but a gust of wind seemed to pull me back. By then, my chute had been swarmed by the Golden Knights.
I was down. It had gone well. I had lived a dream.
Bar hugged me and smiled. All was well with the world.
Here are some excerpts from the speech I gave at my Greenwich Country Day reunion.
May 29, 1997
It is hard to believe that we are the old fogies (some of the more vulgar among us use a more descriptive term) that we used to watch march by and even laugh about at various reunions at various schools and various colleges over the years. Yet, we are them! (We are “they” Mr. Wierum—he was the guy that taught me English in 1934.)
And yet it doesn’t feel that way. I don’t feel old—bent over—out of it looking grumpily at life. Life is good and Barbara and I are very happy. “Blessed” might be a better word.
1929—the stock market crashed that year; and yet my classmates and I were privileged to enroll at GCDS in the fall of that very year. I’ll never forget that year. The teacher wanted us all to write right handed. I was a lefty. I was not a rebelling little guy—I went along to get along, but this was too much. First the teacher wanted to call me “Walker” instead of Poppy, then she wanted to make me right handed. I won both minor skirmishes.
The depression came and persisted and yet my classmates and I were lucky—we lived in nice houses. We had loving parents who cared and who could pay the doctor when we were sick and could pay this school to give us the fine education that started us off in the right direction—in the process giving us “the right stuff.”
Yes we were privileged.
Years later when I went into politics “privilege” was used against me. When I ran for the Presidency back in 1979-80 and then again in 1988 some adversarial reporters and elite editorialists used my background, my “privileged” background, to say ‘how can this man, sheltered from the tough realities of this world, really understand the problems of America, really empathize with the poor, the homeless, the underprivileged?”
In a sense I could understand where they were coming from, for I was conservative by nature; and that, coupled with this life of “privilege”, played into one of life’s clichés and into the very ‘id’ and feelings of the liberals—“Rich, pampered conservatives simply cannot understand the problems and needs of t
his country.” . . .
I rather defensively would say “You don’t have to have cancer to be concerned about cancer”. I made little headway with this stellar argument. . . .
But you know what the critics missed?
They missed “values”—the values we were taught at home—the values that were reinforced right here at GCDS. Our parents taught us to care—and the faculty here seemed to be intent on inculcating into us the fact that we had an obligation to care, indeed that we had an obligation to help others. Our critics called it Noblesse Oblige. I was later to call it being one of a 1000 Points of Light.
Society today is plagued by lack of values. Street crime, teen aged pregnancy, drugs, dishonor—you name it. The more outrageous your own actions, the better your books sell, the more TV talk shows you go on, the more fame you get. Vanity Fair will celebrate you.
The Internet is filled with a lot of good worthy things. Push a button and you can find the price of IBM, get the latest news. Know how the weather is in Phoenix or Phoenicia. Watch Tony Blair debate John Major. See Kabila march into Kinshasa, though the early adulation of Kabila as he ousted Mobutu reminds me a little of the NY Times treatment of Castro when he overthrew Batista.
Yes, in an instant on the tube or Internet you can watch the fundamentalist Talibans drive the women of Afghanistan back into the dark ages, you can learn how to garden, collect stamps, even chat with people about life its ownself, as my pal Dan Jenkins calls it. Or you can go back into history and watch the blimp Hindenburg blow up as it was about to land in New Jersey. . . .
But, lets face it, today the Internet and more broadly TV are adulating weird lifestyles, often just plain filth. Some of the lyrics in today’s music are just plain sick—we don’t want to offend any group or be against freedom of expression so we condone things that we know in our hearts we should condemn. And, if you are in politics, you’ve got to be careful about speaking out lest those protectors of the 1st Amendment who buy ink by the barrel and pay handsome blow dried men and women to tell you what you saw and what you should think will climb all over you like ugly on an ape and have you down as a puritanical censor.
All the Best, George Bush: My Life in Letters and Other Writings Page 65