Sensing that few, if any, in his own family believed him—grandchildren included—Dad pressed his case with Houston Astros owner Drayton McLane, who had a very funny piece of videotape created celebrating this unknown piece of baseball lore and played it for the crowd at Minute Maid Park during a game at which Dad was present. The crowd clearly enjoyed it.
So Dad showed the video to his distinguished visitor. President Clinton already knew that Al Gore invented the Internet, but not until that night did he know who first came up with the expression “You da man”!
Dinner that night was at Stripers, a new restaurant that is a local favorite, after which Mom and Dad retired for the night while President Clinton played cards with some staffers.
The next morning, Jim Nantz, 42, and 41 hit a few putts on the practice green right outside the living room windows near the Big House. (Jim and his University of Houston classmate Paul Marchand, now head pro at the Shadow Hawk Golf Club in Houston, had the putting green built as a present to Dad for his friendship through the years. “What do you give a guy who has given you so much?” Jim said to me.)
From there, it was on to Cape Arundel Golf Course—a course Dad has played most of his life, and where he claims to have won the 1947 club championship. Ken Raynor, the head pro at Cape Arundel, told me, “As the story goes, he took on a local by the name of Chad Brown, who was a post office worker down here. And your dad’s pride was not only winning the club championship, but closing him out on the eleventh hole. But nobody quite knows whether Chaddy was really sober or not during this match, because he was known not to be. The championship may be tainted a little bit.”
Anyway, on that day with Jim Nantz, Ken Raynor, and President Clinton, it seemed the entire town—and even a few members of the news media—turned out to watch the foursome tee off. The featured match that day pitted Dad and head pro Ken Raynor against President Clinton and Jim Nantz.
“After President Clinton birdied the second and third holes,” Jim recalled, “I was leaning on a putter and whispered to President Bush, ‘Of all the golfers you’ve had here through the years—Arnold Palmer, Greg Norman, Davis Love, Fred Couples, José María Olazábal—how many of them were two under par after three holes?’”
“None,” Dad whispered back.
On the fifth hole, Dad pulled his tee shot onto the steep embankment that runs down the left side. He discovered his ball tangled in a thick patch of grass. To reach the green a hundred yards away, Dad had two choices: risk that he could muscle the ball out of the rough and over the creek that also ran down the left side of the hole, or pitch out safely back into the fairway.
Spying Dad’s predicament, President Clinton jumped into a cart and drove to a point up the fairway. “Hit it here, George,” he shouted, waving his arms at the 1947 club champion. Dad followed the advice, hit a perfect recovery shot, and went on to save par.
The match ended dead even.
Most recently, Dad and President Clinton have teamed up to help raise funds to assist the Gulf States in their recovery from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Though these storms raged ashore within weeks of each other in 2005, anyone who has driven through the lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, or through Pass Christian, Mississippi, knows it is going to be years—and possibly even decades—before some communities resume any sense of “normalcy.” Together, my father and his successor have raised well over $100 million to lend a helping hand, so their productive partnership endures.
Looking back, what I noticed, first and foremost, was that Dad and President Clinton like each other. In fact, I formulated a theory about their relationship—that if Dad hadn’t extended the hand of fellowship and made it okay for them to be friends, they wouldn’t have what I saw to be a comfortable friendship.
Even today, however, some aren’t certain whether the friendship is genuine. To be sure, the sight of Dad and President Clinton coming together as they did stunned a great many people, particularly those who worked so hard on both sides during the 1992 campaign. How could two men who fought so hard to beat each other bury the hatchet and start a working partnership as if nothing had happened?
Some also wonder if there is an element of 2008 politics involved.
To be candid, my brother Jeb maintains Dad is being used. “President Clinton’s advisers have figured out that, in terms of character and integrity, a rising tide lifts all boats,” Jeb said. “So I could see President Clinton’s motivation. Apparently, he is a very likable person. I believe Dad does it because it was important to show the world that partisanship stops when there’s a crisis, and I think the tenor in Washington is such that having a nonpartisan relationship between two former presidents is good.”
Part of what makes the Dad-President Clinton relationship such a fascinating thing to watch is that they both have family members who are active in national politics. The fine line that they have to walk as former presidents—and occasional partners—is even more complicated.
“President Bush is obviously very protective of the president and Jeb,” President Clinton said, “and on the other hand he knows I have to be protective of Hillary. He knows that we have to air our disagreements some, partly because we’re still in the game—but I try to leave most of this stuff to her. 41 is probably better at this than I am.”
“President Clinton is in a different spot than I am,” Dad offered. “He’s still young compared to me, and he’s got a wife who’s politically active, so he seeks out more press and more attention for the wide variety of causes he pursues. I periodically catch grief from family and friends and people on the right—just as President Clinton has caught hell from the left—but what we are doing together transcends politics.”
A few days after my brother George launched the 41–42 partnership for tsunami relief in January, he and the First Lady also hosted my parents and over one hundred family members and close friends at the White House to celebrate Mom and Dad’s sixtieth wedding anniversary. Of course, that very special occasion marked an important milestone for our family, but it was also a noteworthy historic event. No other president and First Lady had lived long enough to see their sixtieth anniversary. Abigail Adams died three days after she and President John Adams celebrated their fifty-fourth, which now stands as the second longest marriage of a First Couple.
Laura came up with the idea for the party, which touched Mom and Dad. The evening was a formal black-tie affair, and the entertainment featured the Marine Corps Band, as well as performers Ronan Tynan, Michael W. Smith, and the U.S. Army’s Alvy Powell, who sang at Dad’s 1989 inaugural.
The hardest job that night, assembling the guest list, fell to Dad, while my brothers and I had the easiest job that night: deciding how to salute our parents. We chose George to speak on our behalf since he was the oldest, but I’m not going to lie: the fact that we would be in the White House and he was the president may have also factored into the decision.
The president spoke before dinner, and after dinner he invited others to make brief remarks. One toast that stood out came from David Rubenstein, cofounder of the Carlyle Group. David started by noting he was probably the only person there who had worked in a Democratic White House—at which point a few eyebrows were raised.
“Wait a second,” David continued. “If it hadn’t been for me getting inflation so high in the Carter years, 41 would not have been elected vice president of the United States; and if he hadn’t been elected vice president, he might not have become president. If he hadn’t become president, 43 wouldn’t be president!”
Both my parents gave moving remarks that night.
“To have your family around you,” Mom said, looking back, “and to celebrate in the house where your son serves as president—that’s not a bad deal.”
That night, Dad observed that it was amazing to give a speech where you looked back at a life where you fell in love with a special girl, went to war and got shot down, got pulled out of the Pacific Ocean, and somehow went home alive. Then you married th
at special girl and together set out on an incredible journey marked by tremendous challenges and heartbreak and joy that led to the White House and beyond. Then, to be able to give such a speech in the White House because of what your son had accomplished . . . well, let’s just say the tears flowed.
You could say that the Bush “Bawl Patrol,” a phrase Dad coined referring to the fact that we cry a lot, has been on constant alert in recent years—as there have been a few weddings to celebrate.
First, in March 2004, Mom and Dad and Marvin and I were on hand to see my brother Neil remarried to a fellow Houstonian, Maria Andrews, who volunteered in Dad’s office. The ceremony and reception were held at the beautiful home of Neil’s friend Jamal Daniel, and the bride and groom looked radiant. This happy union not only brought three new grandkids into the family—Lizzie, Pace, and Ally—but it also meant I had another very kind, very smart, but very tiny sister-in-law! (By the way, I’ve learned to stand next to my tall brothers in photos, rather than their tiny wives.)
We reached another milestone in August 2005, when George P., the oldest grandchild, became the first grandchild to wed, marrying Mandi Williams of San Angelo, Texas. George P. and Mandi met at the University of Texas Law School and they make a striking couple.
The wedding at the church of St. Ann’s by the Sea in Kennebunkport, where my grandparents had been married in 1921, was beautiful. The father of the groom, Jeb, said, “It was a huge day for Columba and me. Having the wedding in Maine was such a blessing, and seeing our son, fully in love, getting married in front of family and friends was one of the greatest joys of our lives. Mom and Dad were such incredible grandparents for their first grandchild.”
All of the grandkids were clearly excited to see the first of their generation “take the plunge.” Mandi thoughtfully included Gigi as the flower girl, and Sam and some of his cousins served as ushers. Also, in honor of George P. and Mandi’s alma mater, the University of Texas, everyone in the wedding party wore tuxedos and dresses accented by burnt orange.
The new couple held their reception on a specially built platform at Stripers Restaurant, using the Kennebunk River as a backdrop, and Ariel made the groom’s cake. Even though he is not a big dancer, Dad danced with the new bride.
One final wedding story: During the summer of 2004, Dad invited golf pro Phil Mickelson and his wife, Amy, to Maine for a visit that included not only golf but also a boat ride.
“We thought it would be a lovely little cruise along the Maine coast,” Phil recalled. “Very quickly, we found out we had two choices: hold on tight or become lobster bait.”
On our way back to the dock, Dad noticed a wedding party on the grounds of the Nonantum Hotel, and said, “Do you think we should say hi?”
The Mickelsons laughed, but the next thing they knew they were trailing along as Dad docked and shouted to the party, “I guess FedEx lost my invitation!”
“Here was the forty-first president working his way through a gathering, shaking hands, taking pictures, smiling all the way,” Phil said. “Then in front of this group, he wished the wedding couple a life filled with happiness, humor, and love.”
One of the great honors of my life came when Dad called a few years ago and asked me to serve as the sponsor of an aircraft carrier being built—one that would bear his name. I had no idea what was involved in being a sponsor; but if Dad was asking, again, the answer is always “yes.”
On December 9, 2002, Secretary of the Navy Gordon England officially named a new carrier being built after Dad, owing to his service during World War II and his service as president. The new aircraft carrier will eventually replace the forty-seven-year-old USS Kitty Hawk (CV–63). The George H. W. Bush (CVN 77) will be the tenth and final ship in the Nimitz class, and the first carrier of the twenty-first century.
Next, on September 6, 2003, Mom, Dad, and I went to the Northrop Grumman shipbuilding yard at Newport News, Virginia, for the keel-laying ceremony. The keel is the horizontal part on the hull, or bottom, of the boat which steadies it and helps with steering. Dad went there to “authenticate” the keel by chalking his initials onto a steel plate, which was then welded and permanently affixed to the hull. As sponsor, I had to “certify the keel to be true and fairly laid.”
In July 2006, the ship’s huge island—its command and control center—was lowered onto the massive hull. A set of Dad’s navy wings and those of the ship’s captain, Kevin O’Flaherty, along with a bound set of galleys for the present memoir, were sealed into a time capsule that was then placed onboard.
To be christened in October 2006, the George H. W. Bush is three football fields long, weighs 97,000 tons, and carries seventy-five combat aircraft. It is among the world’s largest warships, possesses state-of-the-art technology, and is powered by two nuclear reactors, making it capable of operating for twenty years without refueling.
Being a sponsor, I quickly discovered, involves more than you might think. The sponsor’s spirit remains with the ship for as long as it is on the water, and sponsors develop a special relationship with their ship and keep in contact with it over the years. At the ship’s christening, I will smash a bottle of champagne over the bow and say, “In the name of the United States, I christen thee George H. W. Bush.”
In 2008, when the ship joins the fleet and is officially commissioned, I will say, “Crew of the USS George H. W. Bush, man our ship and bring her to life!” The entire crew, assembled onshore, will yell, “Aye, aye, ma’am!” and sprint up the gangplanks onto the ship. The radar will start to rotate, the gun turrets will spin around, bells will ring, alarms will sound, and ship whistles will blow. The Navy Band will play “Anchors Aweigh” and the fighter jets will fly overhead. The ship truly will come to life.
Dad just can’t wait. He has a model of the ship on his desk and shows it to every visitor who comes to call. The day after the keel-laying ceremony, I received this e-mail from him:
Doro,
Yesterday was a very happy, meaningful day in my wonderful life and that you were at my side in that starring role made it perfect, even beyond perfect. Love from your admiring devoted DAD.
In an active life filled with change, Mom and Dad have lived in more than thirty houses during their marriage, but their home in Kennebunkport has been the one constant. Dad has spent a part of every summer there except one—in 1944, when he was at war in the Pacific.
Just as my grandfather Prescott was viewed as the unofficial mayor of Greenwich, Connecticut, Dad has also come to support a wide range of local causes in Kennebunkport.
To give you an idea: In recent years he has picked up some local scuttlebutt at H&B Provisions, the local grocery store, that some of the newcomers to Kennebunkport felt somewhat unwelcome and were having a hard time meeting people. After he heard it a few times, Dad decided he wanted to do something about it.
He told his aide Tommy Frechette, “Let’s invite everyone in our neighborhood that we’ve never met before and introduce them to some of the old neighbors. We’ll have them all come in together.”
The event was soon dubbed the Old-New Party. Everyone that received an invitation showed up, but figuring out whom to invite required Dad’s staff to go door-to-door to see who lives there.
“Whenever he encounters a barrier,” Tommy said, “his natural inclination is to break it down.”
Dad is at his best when he’s on Walker’s Point. When he is not there over the winter, he gets antsy by February—talking about his boat every day.
“Let’s talk to Bill Busch just for the heck of it,” he’ll say to Tommy Frechette.
“I know it’s February and it’s freezing, but how’s Maine looking?” he’ll ask Bill. “Are we ready to go? Any patterns on the fish?”
When people come for a visit, Dad’s whole outlook changes. He gets into what I call kid mode and gets very excited. He gets everything ready, and whether the visitors are heads of state or a grandchild, he’s waiting at the door for the big arrival. Then it’s on to the activi
ties, whether fishing, boating, or sports events. “Let’s do something fun,” he’ll say. “Let’s get them out here on the banana boat and we’ll spin them around” or “Let’s see who can jump in the cold water first.”
My dad’s nephew Hap Ellis sums up life at Walker’s Point this way: “Nothing beats fishing the rocks at Walker’s Point at all hours. And if your dad sees me, he invariably comes out on the porch and shouts to get my attention and then, in that timeless fishing gesture, holds his hands wide apart as if to ask, How big? I honestly think he gets enormous pleasure out of knowing those bass are there, and that we are out there battling for them, even though the Secret Service won’t let him out there anymore. It is as if one little piece of what Walker’s Point is all about for him is intact for that moment that day: family, fishing, Walker’s Point . . . and then it’s on to the next event.
The times Dad spends in Kennebunkport are his happiest times—not the years at the White House, or in China, or at the CIA, as much as those places and institutions mean to him. Walker’s Point is where his heart is, and where he can do all the things that are most important to him. It is there that he can give back to others, he can spend precious time with friends and family, and can “get into the grandchildren business big-time.” It is there he can go to the church of St. Ann’s by the Sea, he can spend time on the ocean and breathe in the salt air.
One time, a friend asked Dad about my brothers’ decisions to enter public service. “What is it about public service and your family? Is it something in the water up here in Kennebunkport?” he asked. “I’ll tell you what’s in the water,” Dad said. “Bluefish!”
To Dad, life is not about looking back to the presidency, but looking forward to all the adventures still to come. Every family has its history, and most people think the most important part of our family’s history involves the presidency. But we think what’s significant about our family history is what Kennebunkport has come to symbolize for us: faith, family, and friends.
My Father, My President Page 55