My Father, My President

by Doro Bush Koch

  Copyright © 2006 by Dorothy Bush Koch

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  First eBook Edition: October 2006

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-6909-6

  Contents

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: The End Depends Upon The Beginning

  Chapter 2: A Wartime Wedding

  Chapter 3: Go West, Young Man

  Chapter 4: Jumping Into Politics

  Chapter 5: Baker And Bentsen

  Chapter 6: Eloise At The Waldorf

  Chapter 7: The Titanic Boiler Room

  Chapter 8: Land Of Contrasts

  Chapter 9: A Year At Langley

  Chapter 10: An Asterisk In The Polls

  Chapter 11: Out Of The Clear Blue Sky

  Chapter 12: Mr. Vice President

  Chapter 13: Master Of The Small Gesture

  Chapter 14: Pointer Man

  Chapter 15: Age Of The Offered Hand

  Chapter 16: Greasing The Skids

  Chapter 17: The Right Thing

  Chapter 18: A Sense Of Honor

  Chapter 19: Almost A Miracle

  Chapter 20: A Steep Incline

  Chapter 21: Mountaintops And Valleys

  Chapter 22: Ultimate Freedom

  Chapter 23: The Spring Colt

  Chapter 24: Family Continuity

  Chapter 25: Ceiling And Visibility Unlimited

  Acknowledgments

  Sources and Other Notes

  For my father . . .

  Foreword

  I am so delighted and honored that Doro asked me to write the foreword for My Father, My President. This is a very important book. It is her story about her father—it’s our story, a story of laughter and tears, births and deaths, friends and family. It is a love story, written by the daughter of one of the kindest and most decent men in the world, who also happened to become the forty-first president of the United States—my husband, George H. W. Bush.

  Doro Bush Koch is the best-kept secret in America. Not very many people know that George and I have a daughter. We hear a lot about the men in our family, but not enough about the women. While George’s father, Prescott Bush, certainly was his role model in many ways, some of the greatest influences in George’s life have been the women in our family—his mother, his wife, his daughter, his daughters-in-law, and his granddaughters. Not to mention all the talented women who have worked with him over the years. There’s a reason why George Bush asked Doro to write this book. I am thrilled that people will now know George Bush through the eyes of a wonderful woman.

  Although I’ve been told I am the first woman since Abigail Adams to be both a wife and a mother to a president, Doro is the only woman ever in our nation’s history to live to see both her father and her brother become president. (Abigail Adams’s daughters, named Abigail and Susanna, did not live long enough to see their brother become president.) There is only one woman in American history who could have written My Father, My President, and that woman is Doro.

  She’s written her own narrative about her father’s life, which spans all the major events of the second half of the twentieth century and beyond—from World War II and the Cold War to Desert Storm and Hurricane Katrina. You’ll see George Bush the elder statesman and diplomat, but you’ll also meet George Bush the businessman, the adventurer, the sportsman, and the funniest man I know. Most important, you’ll see him as father and grandfather, working hard to raise our family despite the glare of the media and the rush of events.

  Our life with Doro began in the 1950s. George and I were living in Texas and had four beautiful, wild sons; we would have taken a fifth with joy, but in our hearts we were longing for another daughter. Our second child, Robin, had died of leukemia in 1953. Robin was named after my mother, Pauline Robinson Pierce, who had died in a terrible car accident that nearly killed my father as well, only weeks before Robin was born. It was a very sad time in our lives. Even in our pain, we knew that we wanted another girl in our family. George especially did.

  In August 1959 my Aunt Charlotte Pierce came to Houston to help with the boys, and I went into Memorial Hospital and had a beautiful healthy little girl. We named her Dorothy Walker Bush after George’s wonderful mother. The name Dorothy means “gift from God,” and Doro was—and is—just that.

  My Aunt Charlotte came into my hospital room and told me that when the nurse held up Doro at the window of the nursery, George put his head against the glass and tears flowed down his face. I know sons are supposed to be for their dads . . . and girls for their moms. That may well be true, but my heart fills with love when I think of the joy all six of our children brought us each in their own way. Every dad should have a daughter as loving, thoughtful, and sensitive as ours—and, I should add, as funny.

  Doro was at college and wanted to help her dad when he first ran for president in 1979, so it was her idea to leave school and work in the campaign office. George told her that she honestly could not go to the office and sit around as the candidate’s daughter. To our great surprise, Doro left Boston College (which she returned to after the election was over) and enrolled in a nine-month secretarial course that went right through the hot summer. She said that she would work her heart out for her dad. That meant a lot to us.

  I remember her wearing stockings, a skirt, and a neat blouse all that hot summer while I spent much of the summer in and out of lovely cool Maine. I know she worked hard, like she said she would. To this day, she’d do anything in the world for her dad—including writing this book.

  There is a very special relationship between Doro and her dad, and I hope between Doro and her mom. I love and adore our boys, but they don’t always understand like Doro does. Doro has a way of looking at the world like no one else in our family—sweet, empathetic, and seeing the humor in it all. Her brothers don’t just want to have her around, they need to have her in their lives.

  Doro started this project by borrowing our Christmas card list and writing to everyone on it, asking for stories about George. It snowballed from there, because the response was overwhelming: hundreds of people responded by snail mail, e-mail, BlackBerry messages, phone calls, you name it. Many stories were laugh-out-loud funny, some were so poignant you’d get a lump in your throat reading them. A few had perfect recall of every detail, and others were foggy with time. Over and over, people told Doro stories she’d never heard before, often of quiet good deeds George had done over the years that no one knew about. Even in the midst of crises, he has always made time for the personal touches—some little, some big—that can make all the difference in someone else’s life. These stories speak to George’s love of his friends and family.

  Through and through, My Father, My President is about loyalty. Doro has shown us her dad’s loyalty to the principles he was raised with; his fidelity to his friends who have carried him through good times and bad; his trueheartedness in always wanting to do what is right, no matter what the personal cost; and his faithfulness to our family—not just to our sons and daughter but to all the grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins whom he loves so much.

  Loyalty is something learned by example and motivated by love. You can’t teach loyalty; it is natural. My dad once told me there were really only three things you can give your children that count: the best education available, a good example, and all the love in the world. That was very wise advice. We tried to do all these things. George was better at it than I was, probably because he is the most honest, caring person I know. From his example, our children have learned loy
alty, and Doro has all the same sweet loyal instincts he has.

  All of our children feel joy with the successes—and sorrow in the pains—of the others. They look out for each other, and they are proud of each other’s accomplishments. Life in our family has had its ups and downs—both private and public—like all families. We’ve made our share of mistakes, and no one in our family is perfect. Politics may sound glamorous, but we’ve lost a lot of campaigns along the way and seen a lot of heartache. Some of the rough times we’ve been through could have driven us apart. The important thing is that we stuck together, and we’re thankful for that.

  Life in politics has certainly given me a few extra wrinkles and gray hair. One time I was asked to be the keynote speaker at the National Plastic Surgeons Convention. I was afraid they’d rush the stage, eager to get their hands on me. Many times I’ve received letters in the mail with suggestions for new hairstyles, hair colors, and improvements to my wardrobe. If I had a nickel for every fashion “tip” I’ve gotten, I’d be a millionaire! But my philosophy is that the wrinkles show where the laughs have been, and my white hair is, well, the inspiration for the name my kids bestowed upon me, the Silver Fox.

  The only way I know how to be is to be myself. The only way I know how to parent is to parent the way I have been for sixty years. I don’t want to be remembered for the number of my children who have been elected to office, or succeeded in business, or raised money for charities. My yardstick for success as a mother is how many of my children are kind, honest, decent people who work hard and serve others. That’s the only way I know to measure success in life.

  George and I are very proud that all of our children still want to come home. That is our greatest accomplishment. That’s the greatest accomplishment of any parent.

  The three things I hope you take from reading this book are the importance of family, of love, and of loyalty, for those are the essence of George Bush.

  Barbara Bush

  April 2006

  Introduction

  It was the Fourth of July, 1939, and my father had just turned fifteen years old. He was on summer vacation, listening over the radio in Kennebunkport, Maine, when first baseman Lou Gehrig stepped up to the microphones in Yankee Stadium. Facing a terrible death from ALS—now known as Lou Gehrig’s disease—Gehrig said with tremendous grace and courage, “Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.”

  It’s no coincidence that Lou Gehrig is my father’s hero. Dad played baseball—first base, in fact—just like the Iron Horse. I remember Dad saving the postage stamps with Gehrig’s image on them, on the first day of their issue, for his grandchildren. For as long as I can remember, he’s had the same philosophy as Lou Gehrig: he considers himself the luckiest man on earth. He enjoys every minute to the fullest. I’m sure you’ve seen the photos of him skydiving, playing “speed golf,” and traveling halfway across the world with his former political rival Bill Clinton to raise money for tsunami victims.

  My father has lived a remarkable life and has lived it with great humility. And it is a uniquely American life. Long before he became president, he lived through a large measure of modern American history, and he kept his moral compass throughout. It’s true that no one chooses their family, but he was tremendously blessed to be the son of Prescott and Dorothy Bush, just as I am lucky to be the daughter of George and Barbara Bush.

  As his only daughter, I’ll do anything in the world for him. Anyone who’s met him knows how infectious his enthusiasm is . . . how he draws you into whatever his project is at the time . . . how hard it is to say no to that twinkle in his eye.

  And so I couldn’t turn him down when, in March 2005, he sent me the following e-mail. He had just returned from a meeting at the Bush Library at Texas A&M University with Patty Presock, perhaps his closest assistant when he was president.

  Dear Doro,

  Today, Patty Presock came to our Library Advisory meeting. She made a suggestion that she thinks is exactly right for you.

  When she worked for me she kept some very personal, very special files. She told me she did this because some day she thought you might want to look these files over and then write a book about what is in them.

  I have not seen the files. But I suggest, if you are at all interested, that you call Patty. It would be a fun project. This may not interest you at all but if it does I would be thrilled for you to undertake it. Bobby’s sister-in-law, Tricia, could be your researcher.

  Just a thought from your devoted Dad

  I wrote him back right away, immediately accepting the project. After I hit the “send” key, however, at once I felt excited and worried.

  I was excited to help bring to life a side of Dad that most people don’t know. The idea of writing a book about his life around never-before-seen private files was instantly enticing. It just felt right.

  I was also worried that I wouldn’t do Dad justice—that somehow I would let him down, and let down my mother and brothers as well.

  For many years, even before my father’s presidency ended, people who knew and loved him urged him to write his memoirs either for history’s sake or for the sake of his own “legacy” (a word that makes him wince ever so slightly). Invariably, Dad would just shake his head, smile, and say something like, “I think I’ll leave that to the historians.”

  Ben Bradlee, the distinguished editor of the Washington Post, once referred to news coverage as the “first rough draft of history.” No doubt every president feels that the draft was rougher in some spots more than others. The man my mother married and the father my brothers and I grew up with is a man of uncommon grace, humility, humor, and wisdom, but this was not always conveyed in the pages of the morning newspaper or on the nightly newscasts.

  Even when cast in a positive light, the image of Dad captured by the media was never three-dimensional—and as a result, the man we knew was not the man that the vast majority of Americans saw. After all, there is more to a president’s life than what happens behind the desk in the Oval Office or in front of the cameras.

  My Father, My President is written from the perspective of not only a daughter but also of our family and Dad’s legions of friends. Captured in these pages are insights and stories from the people who know my father the best and who shared so many dramatic, historic, and poignant moments in his life.

  Within a week of my e-mail exchange with Dad, I sent hundreds of letters to his associates, contemporaries from the world stage, and even his political opponents. The response was overwhelming. In fact, the reaction was so tremendous that I received a response to my letter before I even sent it out! I had shared a draft of the letter with Dad, who couldn’t wait for the final version before distributing it to a ton of people. The next thing I knew, the first of many letters arrived with a story quite literally from the end of the earth: Arthur Milnes, a reporter who met Dad during a fishing trip to the remote Canadian Northwest Territories, described how a guest fishing column my father wrote had affected his career.

  What followed were several trips to the Bush Library to review his personal papers and other files that no one had ever seen. Together with my sister-in-law Tricia Koch, I also interviewed over 125 people and collected hundreds of letters.

  Working on this book project is the most meaningful thing I have ever done. It gave me a legitimate excuse to spend more time with Mom and Dad—to call them and e-mail them. I also spent most of the summer of 2005 in Maine with them—not tough duty, I confess. There I got in the habit of getting up early and walking next door to my parents’ house, having a cup of coffee with them, and starting my day visiting with Dad. I would tell him of my progress going through the stacks of material that I was amassing.

  At first, Dad was very enthusiastic about the project and we had great fun reminiscing about the past—both that of the country and of our own family. But as the days wore on, I began to sense that he was losing his enthusiasm. I wondered to myself why he was reacting like this, but couldn
’t bring myself to ask him. What if he had changed his mind about the book and couldn’t bear to tell me?

  I thought of Jean Becker, his chief of staff, who is like a sister to me. “Let’s run it by Jean” is a phrase often uttered in the Bush family. So I went to her and said, “Jean, I’m really worried because Dad was completely enthusiastic about the project and now I sense there’s some hesitation there.” She told me not to worry, that she would look into it and get back to me.

  The next day, Jean approached me. “Your father loves the project. He still thinks it’s a great idea. But he’s worried about one thing.” She paused for a moment, her voice grave but her eyes twinkling. “He’s just worried the book is going to be too much about him.” After a stunned silence, we both broke out laughing. It was just so typical of him. If nothing else, Dad is humble, a trait he inherited from his mother.

  As president, Dad didn’t care much about his image. Coming from the “greatest generation,” he was more concerned with action and results—not flowery words or a made-for-TV wardrobe. Advisers routinely counseled him how he should dress in neutral tones and present himself; but to be candid, my father didn’t think it mattered whether he wore a red or a blue tie during a debate.

  Historians seek the truth as they see it, but the viewpoint they offer isn’t necessarily the whole picture. True, a daughter may not have either the expertise or the objectivity of a historian, but a historian doesn’t know a father the way his daughter does. For those parts of Dad’s life that took place before I was born, or while I was away at school, I reached out to people who could fill in stories from those years. Many of their experiences with Dad were consistent with mine, but they added a new perspective.

  You’ll hear the voices of his friends throughout the book, and my hope was to include as many of them as I possibly could. My Father, My President is not the whole story, but an important piece of it. My story is partial, in both senses of that word, but it’s the story I’ve witnessed—one that I have lived. It won’t be objective—how could it be?—but it will be true, I promise you that.