Back at the White House, it was nearing midnight when there was a knock at the Carveys’ bedroom door. They thought it was the butler, but it was Dad who walked into the Lincoln Bedroom, carrying glasses of water on a big tray. “Who’s thirsty?” Dad asked before he and Mom led the Carveys on a tour of the White House. Then Mom tucked the Carveys in and took their order for breakfast.
The next morning, the White House staff was invited to assemble in the East Room, and after they played “Hail to the Chief” to announce the president into the room, Dana walked out as Dad as a surprise. As Dana remembered it: “The president said, ‘You go out as me, and I’ll go out as me. That way there’ll be two of me.’”
Mom and Dad and Paula Carvey joined Dana onstage—whereupon Dana gave an impromptu performance. Displaying all his trademark Dadisms, Dana joked that he had even impersonated Dad in calling the Secret Service, saying, “Feel like going jogging tonight . . . in the nude.”
The presidential and personal transition aside, Dad still had two months in office—and as always, he packed a lot into the time he was given.
For example, on December 4, Dad announced Operation Restore Hope to repair the food supply lines in war-torn Somalia. Already, a quarter of a million people had starved to death because of famine. The United Nations appealed to the world for help because the warring factions there made it impossible for relief workers to deliver food supplies.
For months, Mom and Dad had watched the TV reports as the suffering in Somalia deepened by the day, and finally my father could bear it no more. As he had in Iraq, Dad gave the Pentagon a clearly defined mission: end the starvation, then come home. In fact, my father wanted the troops home before the inaugural because he didn’t want to saddle President Clinton with a military operation at the outset of his administration.
Roughly two weeks later, Dad signed the North American Free Trade Agreement, or NAFTA, which had become the centerpiece in Dad’s vision of a hemisphere united by economic and political cooperation. NAFTA to this day continues to be a hotly debated issue; yet Dad and many experts believe it has been a major success.
The final foreign policy achievement during Dad’s waning days as president came on January 3. After visiting American troops and relief operations in Somalia over the New Year holiday, Dad met Mom in Moscow, where he became the first American president to set foot in a democratic Russia. There, together with Russian President Boris Yeltsin, Dad signed the second Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty of his administration, called START II. This was perhaps Dad’s last major act as president, but it was certainly not the least important.
Though START II has since been superseded by an agreement that my brother, our current president, signed with Russian President Vladimir Putin in 2002, START II remains a landmark step in the ongoing process to drastically reduce the threat of nuclear war and make ours a safer world.
In one of two major, final speeches, Dad went to the United States Military Academy at West Point on January 5 to warn the cadets—and the nation—against complacency in the face of the tough global challenges that remained, saying:
We see disturbing signs of what this new world could become if we are passive and aloof. We would risk the emergence of a world characterized by violence, characterized by chaos, one in which dictators and tyrants threaten their neighbors, build arsenals brimming with weapons of mass destruction, and ignore the welfare of their own men, women, and children. And we could see a horrible increase in international terrorism, with American citizens more at risk than ever before.
Little did Dad or anyone else know, but as he was warning about American citizens being more at risk than ever, terrorists were preparing to strike the World Trade Center towers just a month later, on February 26, killing six people and injuring one hundred.
As Dad and Mom were preparing to leave the White House, the many people who worked there were preparing to say good-bye to them as well. Mary Jackson, one of the military nurses assigned to the White House, wrote to him:
Respecting you was so easy. We just wish every American could know the George Bush that we know—a George Bush who sends soup and skim milk down to the office of a lowly nurse, because he’s afraid she’s missed dinner; a George Bush who calls a young WHCA [White House Communications Agency] trooper who mistakenly introduced him as the Vice President instead of the President—and consequently, takes the heat off of the young man; a George Bush who agonizes over the loss of each pilot and soldier in a war where losses were overwhelmingly low; a George Bush who visits the Vietnam Memorial at midnight so as not to be construed as a pretentious act, but as a man truly paying respect to his fallen comrades; a George Bush who I overheard refer to himself as “the luckiest Gampy in the world” and openly displays affection with his wife, kids and grandkids; a George Bush who laughs at my dumbest jokes and on his worst days, is a better and stronger person than I have ever been.
During Dad’s final weekend as president, he and Mom hosted a cocktail party at Camp David on Saturday evening for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Supreme Court of the United States, and country singer George Strait. General Scowcroft also came because there was a lot of foreign policy being conducted that weekend.
But there were a few other surprise guests as well.
“Only George Bush would do this,” said Prime Minister Mulroney, who stayed the entire weekend with his wife, Mila. “Only George Bush had the generosity and the magnanimity and the sense of genuine friendship to invite to Camp David that weekend the cochairs of the incoming transition team, Vernon Jordan and Warren Christopher. And they were there. Together, we had cocktails, then went over to the chapel where people spoke and a few hymns were sung. Then they all went home.”
On Dad’s last day at Camp David, a Sunday, he had a particularly expansive talk with his Canadian counterpart. “He reviewed his entire life with me—what had happened to him, the good and the bad,” Prime Minister Mulroney told me. “He said he had been to the mountaintops and into the valleys.”
On inauguration day, Dad had his final national security briefing, left a note on the Oval Office desk wishing President Clinton well, and took a final walk around the White House grounds with Mom and the dogs. That morning, someone noted to Dad that “the polls look good today. You’re leaving office with people liking you.” Dad thought that was pleasant, but it didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t finished the job—a fact that weighed on his mind. Yet he left office feeling the same sense of wonder and majesty for the presidency as he had coming into the job.
The good-byes that proved to be the hardest—the most emotional—were to the White House nurses, the groundskeepers, the butlers, the ushers, and other staff members who had become like family to my parents. “We’ll make it in Houston—I know we will,” Dad recorded in his diary. “We kid about her [Barbara’s] cooking. We kid about no staff, no valets, no shined shoes, and no pressed suits. We did that before, and we can do it again.”
Then, according to custom, Dad and Mom prepared to receive the Clintons. When President Truman handed the presidency to Dwight Eisenhower forty years earlier, in 1953, they reportedly exchanged not a word during their ride to the Capitol. Dad and President-elect Clinton—as well as Mom and Mrs. Clinton—had no such difficulties.
“On the ride to the Capitol, I told President-elect Clinton that I knew he had a tough job and that I would not be out there criticizing him,” Dad recalled. “I believe I kept my word on that.”
Before he took leave of his responsibilities, however, Dad had one more mission. Special Agent Rich Miller, his Secret Service detail leader, asked my father to carry his brother-in-law’s Purple Heart from Vietnam during the ceremony. “My brother-in-law, Bill Ellis, was wounded in Vietnam, and was a big Bush fan from South Carolina,” Rich recalled. “I thought it would be such an honor for President Bush to carry Billy’s medal—as if he didn’t have 200,000 things on his mind. After the ceremony, of course, I’m going to go with President Clinton. But President Bu
sh hands me this white envelope, and in it was the little card to my brother-in-law saying how proud he was to carry the medal up there for him.”
On inauguration day, I went about my normal daily routine trying to stay busy and keep my mind occupied. As I watched President Clinton being sworn in on my kitchen television, the hurt of the loss came flooding back. I had already said good-bye to Mom and Dad, but it didn’t feel like a good-bye because I knew I’d see them in either Houston or Maine very soon.
When I saw them climb the stairs to Air Force One, however, it hit me. They were gone. For my parents and for all of us, life was taking a new and exciting turn into the unknown.
Chapter 22
ULTIMATE FREEDOM
“George has a flair for life that is infectious. I wish I got up every morning feeling the way George Bush does—you don’t waste ten minutes because it’s a wonderful life, and you’ve got to take advantage of every second of it.”
—Dean Burch
I had moved to Washington in 1990 to be closer to Mom and Dad, and I was naturally very sad when they left Washington. When Dad was president, people would often ask me if I ever saw my parents; and they were always surprised to learn that I saw them all the time. “But aren’t they busy running the country?” they would ask. That was true, but both of my parents have always made time for family.
They still do; but on January 20, 1993, the epicenter of my parents’ life together shifted to Texas and Maine. By moving back to Houston, in fact, they surprised their political opponents and more than a few media commentators. This, despite the fact that they had lived in Houston since 1959—and in Texas since 1948. They had voted in every election in Houston; raised their kids there; Dad launched an offshore drilling business venture in Texas; and both made many lifelong friends there.
Simply put, Texas is their home. During his presidency, Dad also brought the 1990 G–7 economic summit and the 1992 GOP convention to Houston.
“We knew all along we would be moving back to Houston,” Dad said. “For one thing, I darn sure didn’t want to hang around Washington writing op-ed pieces with other ex-presidents on how to save the world. There’s too much to do here at home.”
Still, some people weren’t convinced where “home” would be.
In 1980, Mom and Dad purchased a vacant lot in West Houston next to their longtime friends Bobbie and Jack Fitch, and had planned to build a new home there when fate interceded—Dad was elected vice president. Though the lot would remain their intended home for twelve years, they took up residence at the Houstonian hotel a few blocks away, where they stayed whenever they were in town.
Throughout his vice presidency and presidency, however, Dad’s political opponents would put up signs in front of the vacant lot ridiculing the thought that “this elitist could live in so modest a space” and that “Bush will never return here.” They thought Dad and Mom would go back to their childhood roots in the East, or eventually buy a much bigger lot and build a palatial home.
Whatever their motivation, such speculation proved wrong.
As soon as the 1992 election results were clear, Mom in particular pivoted immediately into preparing for private life, including the long-anticipated construction of their new house. While the new house was being built, they rented a house on the same street. (Today, my brother Neil lives on the same street, right across from Mom and Dad.) When they arrived at their temporary home on January 20, and their final motorcade pulled into the driveway, all of the neighbors lined up to greet the new arrivals.
There they exchanged greetings and took bags inside to unpack. After a while, though, Dad got fidgety and said to Jack Fitch, “Let’s go to the office and see how they are coming along with the renovation.” So Dad and Jack got back in the limousine with all the police escorts, and off they went to the new office—just over two miles away.
“We pulled up to the entrance where the reporters and TV people were,” Jack recalled. “After various interviews, we went up to the office for about an hour. When it was time to go, we went down in the elevator—and no one was in the lobby, no police escort in sight. We went to the parking garage, where only one car was left, an old Lincoln Town Car with two Secret Service men waiting. Then we joined the bumper-to-bumper business traffic going home for the evening.”
Dad and Jack slowly made their way home like all the other commuters stuck in traffic, nobody bothering to look at their car. In a few hours, the president of the United States became “the guy next door.”
On the way home that night, Dad told Jack, “Things are going to be different. I am going to set up the office on a 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. basis so the staff and volunteers won’t feel like they have to come in early and stay late.”
When Mom heard about that, she was skeptical. “Famous last words,” she said.
She was right. This decree lasted exactly one week. From then on, Dad has always left the house between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. and comes home between 6:30 and 7:00 at night—and that’s when he’s not on the road.
“He has the energy of ten bulls,” Jack said.
On his second day as a private citizen, Dad wrote to Patty Presock, his longtime assistant, who remained back in Washington:
Dear Patty,
My office, where I am now sitting, looks out over a sea of green trees. Beyond, off to my left, is the skyline of Houston—then further right the skyline of the Galleria area.
Then, way beyond that, way beyond, off to the north and east is Washington, D.C.
I am separated out now. Away from the decisions, the attention, the majesty and wonder of the White House.
No one says, “Sign here” or “Check options 1, 2 or 3.” No one says, “The motorcade is ready,” or “We have 3 quick photo-ops then the Roosevelt Room signing!”
I have no doctors nearby—and woe, no nurses.
It’s strange, it’s very different. I feel tired like I did after Robin died—and, yet, I’ve done nothing.
Friends have rallied ’round—and I like that; but I don’t want to go off and do things with people. I hope I’m not instantly aging.
Barbara is bustling—rental house . . . cozy and done. New house—contracts signed, building starts tomorrow—Book contract, a major one, signed up and her computer is already digesting Chapter 1. Buying a car (Taurus, maybe Sable)—busy—and she’s leaning forward.
I’m different. I’ll get there, but right now I don’t seem to care. It’s not lack of limelight; it’s not even a sense of failure—it’s the people in my life—people that have given, given, given.
I miss you, Patty. I loved your letter (so did BPB). But I really miss you.
Love,
GB
In March 1993, Dad returned to Washington to receive an award at a downtown hotel. There he noted how his life was different: “The last time I was in this ballroom, I had speechwriters. I had a TelePrompTer. Now I have writing paper that says ‘Sam’—that’s my grandson, Sam, out here where we’re staying—with a picture of a basketball, a baseball, a bat, a soccer ball, and a football. Things have gone to hell, I tell you, since I left,” he said to laughter.
During this first trip back, Dad asked me to host a party at my house for some of his former staff members. Dad did all the inviting, and I asked some of the butlers at the White House who were off duty if they wanted to come and give us a hand. I knew Dad would love to see them.
The biggest hurdle Dad faced was the feeling that he had disappointed everyone around him. I can’t remember my father ever being so low. Still, he wanted to see everyone, see how they were doing, tell everyone he was there to help if needed. He wanted to make sure everyone got settled into their new lives after their devoted service to him.
He told Chase Untermeyer and a group of friends at the party, “I was with a carpenter who was working on the house. He was explaining to me how he could build out the closets. Not long ago, I was being briefed on the Soviets and the Chinese. But you know what? I found it pretty interesting.�
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After President Truman left office, he wrote a book called Mr. Citizen in which he suggested that former presidents be given the right to participate in congressional debates—with the right to speak, but no right to vote. While Dad deeply respects President Truman, he has had zero interest in injecting himself into some sort of formalized role in the legislature. As he saw it, he had his chance and did his best during the quarter century between 1967 and 1993—and there were plenty of strong leaders who were perfectly capable of fighting for the principles that unite Republicans.
“I don’t think there should be any formalized role, because the four or five living former presidents are just as different as any four or five Americans you might encounter on the street,” former president Jimmy Carter told me. “All of us have different backgrounds and responsibilities and interests. So I don’t think it’s possible to have any uniformity about the way former presidents should act after they leave office.”
Still, if Dad wasn’t going to do as President John Quincy Adams did, and run for the House of Representatives after leaving the White House, my father had to decide how his post-presidency would start to take shape.
On March 1, 1993, Dad wrote three or four close friends, including his friend Lud Ashley, and included a copy of a book titled Farewell to the Chief: Former Presidents in American Public Life, by historian Richard Norton Smith and Timothy Walch. The note went as follows:
I am trying to decide what to do with my life after a good period of thinking, catching up with family, and going to Maine for four months.
Before fall, I’ll do some speaking. I’ll be talking [about doing my] Memoirs. I’ll be doing no interviews, no press, very few public appearances. I have been at the Head Table and now I want not to do that so much.
My Father, My President Page 46