All the Best, George Bush: My Life in Letters and Other Writings

by George H. W. Bush

  I don’t want to be with Jeb if he loses. It would hurt him even more to have us there. But if he wins, we will do what I haven’t done all year, make a public appearance with this wonderful son of ours. I will try not to be emotional. I think I can do it. I will walk out onto the stage and say “The next Governor of Florida, Jeb Bush.”

  Tomorrow I might well be the Dad of the Governors of the second and fourth largest states in the union. But there will be no feeling of personal vindication, no feeling of anything other than pride in two honest boys who, for the right reasons, want to serve—who fought the good fight and won.

  People will call to congratulate us, but they will never begin to know the true depth of my feeling towards my sons. It will be what life is really all about for me right now.

  Six years ago I was president of the United States of America. Tonight, maybe, the father of two governors. How great it is!

  But then tomorrow a whole new life begins.

  George Bush

  Another note to Hugh Sidey:

  March 29, 1999

  Dear Hugh,

  It’s 11:05 a.m. here in Houston.

  I feel horrible and alone—unloved and even scared.

  “Why?” might you ask. Well Michael33 just rushed in and said our E-Mail must be closed down for 4 days. He announced, firmly almost defiantly, “Our server will be being turned off in exactly five minutes.”

  No time to notify family and friends, no time even to say goodbye to my wife of 54 years, Barbara. Cut off as if Norad34 had told us a theater nuclear weapon was coming right here to suite 900, and here alone, in exactly five minutes. . . .

  Michael was too busy rushing from office to office to explain why, but it has to do with a nationwide virus. Some evil little computer nerd out there is spreading a virus; and to hear Michael tell it, if we don’t turn off our server and close out our own E-Mails in five minutes disaster could strike.

  This virus might come right into my machine and wipe out all my files, all ‘documents sent’. Michael tells me if it strikes, then virus laden messages will go out to everyone in my global file and in my Personal Address file. Every single person in those files will get a contagious message; and then their modems, their e-mails will crash. It’s that serious. It’s like Armageddon and there’s nothing even Bill Gates can do about it.

  It is a mean, unforgiving, penetrating virus and it sounds like it is coming my way.

  Who will tell Little Jeb who owes me a ‘reply’ on this summer’s fishing. Who will tell our two governors who e-mail me regularly or Quincy in New York or Brent, Ron or Kathy in Washington?35 Who? Who will e-mail them that my modem is closed that nothing can get in it or out of it?

  The answer “No one”. There is no time. “Hurry up and turn off your e-mail.” He’s thinking, “Just because you were President of the United States that doesn’t mean this virus won’t strike you. Shut the damn thing down.”

  Twelve months ago I was a Fax man or a phone man. Now I e-mail everyone in the office and tons of people outside the office. I am hooked. I know how to hit the “reply” button and to use the paper clip that let’s me forward documents. I can spell check and thesaurus words. I can use color and different fonts to emphasize things and I can forward Monica Lewinsky jokes.

  I even listen for the little chime that quietly sounds when an incoming e-mail hits my modem. When I hear it I look for that tiny little envelope icon on the bottom right hand corner of my IBM. It comes right on, saying by its very presence someone is writing you, someone cares.

  But that was five minutes ago. It has taken me longer than five minutes to write this cri de coeur and so right now I am a goner. . . .

  It’s 11:15 AM. We are now shut down, off line, disconnected from each other, alone in a world that is still tough in spite of the implosion of the Soviet Union.

  When I was kid we didn’t have TV. We didn’t know about faxes or computers: and, of course, Al Gore hadn’t even made his contribution to connectivity back then.

  But then came E-mail right into my life. I resisted at first because our server in Kennebunkport kept mal-functioning; and I had not then discovered the absolute essentiality of e-mail, but our server has been down now for 6 minutes and I feel lonely and lost.

  Call me—by phone. I’ll let you know when I get back on line.

  George

  This letter is slightly out of chronological order, but I decided it was a good way to end this book as I approach age seventy-five. It’s a letter about “life its ownself,” and about a man who is very happily growing old.

  September 23, 1998

  Dear Kids,

  This letter is about aging. Not about the President’s Conference on Aging and how we should play lawn bowling, get discounts at the movies, turn into skin-conscious sunblockers, take Metamucil and grow old gracefully. No it’s about me, about what happened between last year and this, between being 73 and 74. It’s interesting—well, fairly interesting to you maybe, therapeutic to me for I know I am getting older now.

  Last year I could drop the anchor on Fidelity and worry only a little bit about falling off the bow. This year if Bill Busch36 or Neil isn’t up there on the bow of Fidelity II to drop the anchor I can still do it; but I figure it’s about a 75% chance that a wave will hit Fidelity, my balance will go and I’ll be in the drink.

  Last year I could fly fish on the end rocks at the Point, and not be too concerned about losing my balance. Oh, if I’d been casting at one target for a while way back in the summer of ’97, my spike clad feet firmly placed on two rocks, and then I turned fast I’d feel a little—what’s the word here—not “wobbly” but unbalanced”—that’s the feeling.

  This year if I turn fast, I wobble. I recover as I go from rock to rock, but I look like one of the Wallenza brothers going across Niagara Falls. Arms in the air are more important this year.

  In August I was floating down the Bow River near Calgary in a 14’ open fishing boat—the kind with the bow that goes up—not high up but up enough to keep the water out if you hit some rapids. Well we pulled in for a shore lunch, and I couldn’t bend my legs enough to get them over the freeboard.

  You may have noticed that in Greece37 I leaned on the guys holding the rubber launch when we pulled into a beach or when in a chop I climbed back onto Alexander’s gangway.

  When I climb in or out of the Navigator I have to swing one leg in then lift the other with my hands. Last year—no problem!

  Then there’s memory. I’m still pretty good at faking it. “Well, I’ll be darn, how in the heck are you?” or “long time no see!” or “What you been up to?” or if I want to gamble “How’s your better half?” Careful of this last one at both 73 and 74 though. The better half crop is getting a little thinner. Death has claimed some ‘better halfs’ and over the years some have been dumped.

  But no question my memory is getting worse. I was introduced up in Calgary by a guy named Sandy. I thanked him—then near the end of the speech I wanted to mention him again, ad lib him in, but I couldn’t remember whether it was Sandy or Randy—so I go “And let me again thank all of you and especially our great host” at which point I gestured towards the spot in the totally darkened hall to which I thought Sandy had repaired after introducing me. When the lights came on, my speech finished, there was Sandy right near where I had pointed. What a country!

  Memory? A definite problem now. The twins invited friends from Biddeford Pool over to Walker’s Point this summer. Mystery guests in a way for they’d leave one day midst warm embraces and farewells only to mysteriously reappear the next.

  Jenna introduced me to them on Day 1 and on Day 2—then gave up on me when failing to recall names I kept saying “Biddeford Girls—I am sure glad you came back. How long are you going to be with us?” They were very nice about it, and after a week of seeing them eating here they wedged into my heart—always room for more nice kids.

  Near the end of their tenure when I needled them “Hey Biddeford girls, g
lad to see you could make it for ice cream” I almost wish I hadn’t seen them exchange that ‘who is this whacko?’ look.

  Sometimes humor works, it kind of obscures the memory thing. At a huge corporate gathering I had just met Kevin’s wife. Kevin was my host and had been the question screener at a forum. When I went to bid farewell to Kevin and to his wife whose name suddenly escaped me I go “Kevin thanks a lot”—then patting his wife on the arm—a kind of farewell pat I go “You sure overmarried, Kevin old boy.” She never knew.

  One last point on memory. I can remember things very clearly that happened a long time ago. The longer ago, it seems, the clearer my recall.

  Examples:

  I can vividly remember the bottom of my mother’s feet. Yes, she played a much younger woman named Peaches Peltz in tennis back in 1935 or so. Peaches was smooth. Mum was tenacious. Mother literally wore the skin off the bottom of her feet. But I can’t remember whom I played tennis with last week.

  I remember Uncle Johnny Walker back about 1945 telling me that Mr. Frank Parker, then a distinguished NYC lawyer of around 50, liked to stand in a cold shower and let ice cold water hit him in the crack of his buttocks. But I can’t remember with any clarity what Gorbachev told me in 1991, or what Kohl said when the wall came down in ’89. Incidentally I don’t like what Mr. Parker liked. Warm water there—sure, but icy cold water no way.

  I remember a lot of detail about all five of you when you were little—all happy memories I retain; but alas I am vague on recent details in your lives. I am passionately interested but factoids escape me.

  This summer, one or two of you, I am sure in an effort to be helpful, said “get a hearing aid” or “try listening.” I heard you. I also heard a family member (I won’t say of which generation) go: “The old fogy is getting deaf.” But I had clearly heard what had gone before and I heard that “old fogy” thing, too. Come to think back on it I am not sure the word used was “fogy”—not sure, not sure at all.

  But on the hearing thing, here’s my side of it. Each year I have my hearing checked at the Mayo Clinic. They keep telling me “very slight hearing loss—no need for a hearing aid.” So there!

  What happens this year unlike last is I just tune out more: because I do not want to know when they are all thinking of going to the movies and I don’t want to sign off on having someone take them all the way to Portland. So, on purpose, I either look confused or simply proceed on my way pretending to have heard nary a sound. It works.

  Many times this summer I’d walk by that cluttered room off the kitchen—the TV, Nintendo, sloppy pillows on the floor lolling around room. I’d hear a voice go “Gampster, can we”—and I’d walk on by heading for the living room. The kids thought I was deaf when I was just in quest of tranquillity. I was tuning them out.

  I sleep about the same as last year, but I find I am going to bed earlier but I wake up when the first sea gull, beak wide open, sends out his earliest screechiest call. Seagulls don’t crow or scream, what is it they do? I forget.

  This year I am more philosophical. I don’t feel old at all, and I still love sports, but things are without a question different. I ache more after tennis—I mean I’m talking real hip and knee pain. Body parts hurt at night. Daytime is OK. . . . Golf’s a problem—less distance this year. . . . Horseshoes, I can still hold my own. . . .

  Desire—no aging in the desire department. I still want to compete. I still drive Fidelity II fast—very fast. My best so far—63 mph in a slight chop with one USSS agent on board.

  I desire to play better golf, but I am allergic to practice, so I just tee it up and play fast. I can still volley but I can’t cover behind me. I have the desire though. I love being out on the course or court with the greats of today or yesterday. It’s more than name dropping. It’s being close to excellence that I enjoy. No aging in the desire category.

  If I try to read after dinner I fall asleep on the third page no matter how gripping the mystery. Read a briefing paper in bed? No way—Sominex time!

  A very personal note. Three times this summer—once in June, twice in August someone has sidled up to me and whispered “Your zipper is down”. Once I responded by quoting General Vernon Walters’ memorable line: “An old bird does not fall out of the nest.”

  The other two times I just turned side ways, mumbled my thanks, and corrected the problem. But the difference is, 10 years ago I’d have been embarrassed. Now I couldn’t care less. Tragic!

  Actually I learned this zipper recovery technique from Italy’s Prime Minister Andreotti. In the Oval Office one time George Shultz whispered to Andreotti that his zipper was down. Though speaking little English, Andreotti got the drift. Turning his back to all of us he stood up as if to examine the Gilbert Stuart picture of George Washington that was hanging behind President Reagan; and then with no visible concern zipped his pants up

  Last year there was only a tiny sense of time left—of sand running through the glass. This year, I must confess, I am more aware of that. No fear, no apprehension, just a feeling like ‘let’s go—there’s so much to do and there might not be a lot of time left.’ And except for an ache here a pain there I feel like the proverbial spring colt. There is so much left to do

  Your kids keep me young even if I don’t bend as easily or run as fast or hear as well.

  Maybe I am a little grumpier when there are a whole bunch of them together making funny sounds and having too many friends over who leave too many smelly sneakers around.

  And, yes, I confess I am less tolerant about the 7-up can barely sipped—left to get stale and warm or about all the lights left on or about the VCR’s whose empty cases are strewn around, the tapes themselves off in another house—stuck into yet another VCR machine.

  Though I try not to show it, I also get irritated now when I go to watch a tape and instead of the Hitchcock movie or my Costner film in the proper cover I find a tape of Bambi or of that horrible Simpson family—always a tape that needs rewinding, too.

  This summer when he came to the Point, Kevin Costner his ownself gave me tapes of 7 of his movies. I now have 2 tapes in proper covers, empty cardboard covers for two others, the rest of the covers and the other 5 tapes gone—vanished—MIA. Am I being unreasonable here?

  I have given up trying to assign blame. I did that when you all were young but I never had my heart and soul in the blame game. Now I find I tune out when someone says “Ask Jeb, he knows!” or “Gampy, I wasn’t even in the boat when they hit the rock.” Or after all five gallons of French vanilla turned to mush, the freezer door having been left open all night, “I didn’t do it, and I’m not saying who did, but Robert took out two Eskimo Pies after dinner—honest!” I wasn’t trying to find the culprit. I was trying to safeguard our future.

  I realize “Keep the freezer door closed from now on and I mean it” lacks the rhetorical depth of “This will not stand” or “Read my lips”, but back in the White House days Ramsey or George38 worried about closing the freezer door while I worried about other problems. The lines were more clearly drawn back then.

  No there is a difference now and maybe when we reconvene next year, you’ll notice even more of a gentle slide. I hope not. I want to put this “aging” on hold for awhile now.

  I don’t expect to be on the A team any more; but I want to play golf with you. And I want to fish or throw shoes. And I want to rejoice in your victories be they political, or business, or family happiness victories.

  And I want to be there for you if you get a bad bounce in life, and no doubt you will for the seas do indeed get rough.

  When I say “be there” I don’t mean just showing up—I mean in the game, in the lineup, viscerally involved in your lives even though I might be miles away.

  I don’t want you to pull your punches. If I call Lauren “Barbara” go ahead and give me your best shot—I can take it. But try not to say “C’mon, Alph, get with it.”

  If I shed tears easier now try not to laugh at me, because I’ll lose more
saline and that makes me feel like a sissy, and it might make my mouth dry later on, and might be bad for digestion, too. And besides it’s OK to cry if you are a man—a happy man (me) or a man faced with sadness or hurt (not me).

  Hey, don’t point the first finger at whom ever is shedding the tear because all Bushes cry easily when we’re happy, or counting our blessings, or sad when one of gets bruised or really hurt inside.

  As the summer finishes out and the seas get a little higher, the winds a little colder, I’ll be making some notes—writing it down lest I forget—so I can add to this report on getting older. Who knows maybe they’ll come out with a new drug that makes legs bend easier—joints hurt less, drives go farther, memory come roaring back, and all fears about falling off fishing rocks go away.

  Remember the old song “I’ll be there ready when you are.” Well, I’ll be there ready when you are, for there’s so much excitement ahead, so many grandkids to watch grow. If you need me, I’m here.

  Devotedly,

  Dad

  CHAPTER 17

  Anchor to Windward

  I wrote this letter to our five children after returning from the funeral of Jordan’s King Hussein. Former Presidents Carter and Ford and I flew over on Air Force One with President Clinton.

  February 12, 1999

  Dear Kids,

  Sitting in my bedroom at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, slightly jet lagged out, I want to send you five this report on my trip to King Hussein’s funeral. . . .

  We were all glad we went, though the 25 hours spent in the air getting me from Houston to Washington, then back to Wisconsin have taken a bit of a toll on my aging body. My frame hurts—yes, the hips and knees hurt a little more. I did sleep a lot on the plane, cozily tucking into one of the two sacks in the medical compartment on AF I. The trouble is you never get totally rested on a long flight.

  Now for the trip report. I was picked up by an Air Force G-3 right out there at Atlantic Aviation at Hobby. Boarding the plane I was immediately drowned in nostalgia. The crew was terrific and I thought back to all the flights in the past aboard the Air Force planes based out of Andrews Air Force Base.