Posterity
Page 26
I want to tell you what some of you may have to think about, since chronologically I'll not outlive any of you . . .
I wish and want and hope to die in my own home. Some of you may want to help me do this.
Rex Kennedy told us that he wanted to die in his own house, “at home.” It was difficult at times, and even painful and unpleasant, but we brought it off. And I must tell you that I myself feel that it was worth any physical and perhaps spiritual inconveniences I had to put up with for a time . . . quarrelling nurses, sad and sometimes scary character-changes in my father. A few hours before Rex died, in a cosmic rage at finding himself only mortal . . . and I know he was frightened too . . . Dr. Bruff said, “You must keep in your mind that this is not your father, the man you have known.” This helped me accept the raging roaring old lion in his next-to-last hours, and the suspicious wily fox of perhaps five days before that. It was not Rex, really, or at least it was not the man I knew as my father and friend.
And this may happen with me, although I, and all of you, devoutly hope it will not, and that I can leave the scene easily.
BUT . . .
I want to leave it either by myself or with a few friends, HERE, or with you.
I know that nurses, either RN or “practical,” are hard to find and hard to live with. But they exist. And the situation by the time they are needed is a temporary one. As for the expense, they cost no more than the kind of rest-home or nursing-home you might find, that you would want me to end my life in. There are a few, perhaps, but we all know that most of them are simply living graveyards . . . and that living corpses are not often treated as decently as dead ones.
I hope to leave enough available cash to take care of such possible expenses. If there is not enough, you will simply have to borrow for more. It will be worth the doing, believe me, a few years along . . .
As for the personal physical side, I feel sad if you must try to carry out this wish of mine. I apologize to you now, for whatever trials it may put you through, and I thank you with all my heart. Between and among you, there will be enough energy and love to see the thing through. It may mean a temporary displacement, and it may even change the lives of your children or your friends, but I believe that it will not be bad, eventually. And meanwhile, I'll send this little manifesto to you, and then leave it lay where Jesus flang it.
What it comes down to is that I hope somebody will enable me to die in my own bed, if I do indeed need help then.
With love and thanks . . .
On June 22, 1992, Fisher died at home.
GEORGE HERBERT WALKER BUSH TO HIS CHILDREN
“Well, I'll be there ready when you are,
for there's so much excitement ahead . . .”
That George Bush, the forty-first president of the United States, has been a lifelong and prolific writer of emotive, warm, thoughtful, and humorous letters came as a surprise to many Americans. He was the president who led the country into war with Iraq and deftly presided over the end of the cold war, but while in office was often thought of as stiff and unfeeling. In hindsight George Bush himself realized there was a gulf between the public perception of him and the reality of his personality: “I'm convinced the American people didn't know my heartbeat,” he said. “I can't blame anybody but myself for that.”
He is a man who believes that the best way to lead, in any situation, is by example and he is a father who is always conscious of the example he sets for his family. In 1992, the day after he lost the presidential election, Bush directed himself in his diary, “Be strong, be kind, be generous of spirit, be understanding and let the people know how grateful you are.”
Here the seventy-four-year-old former president writes to his five grown children about himself and his advancing age. In less than two months, on election night 1998, his two sons George and Jeb were elected to the governorships of two of the largest states in the nation.
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 Busch 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 Greece 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 toward 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, glad 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 over married, 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 rememb
er 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 the 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 tranquility. 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 George 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 anymore; 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 loose 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 us 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.
Devotedly,
Dad
Anne Bradstreet's 1664 letter to her son Simon
Rules to
Live By
ANNE BRADSTREET TO SIMON BRADSTREET
“Many can speak well, but few can do well.”
Anne Bradstreet was not only America's first female poet, she was the first American ever to have a book of poetry published. She was a Puritan who, in 1630, made the journey to New England with John Winthrop and his party aboard the Arabella. As the mother of eight children, keeping house in the newly settled towns of Ipswich and North Andover, she wrote poems for herself and for her family. That her work was printed at all was the doing of her brother-in-law, John Woodbridge, who in 1650, without Bradstreet's consent, published a book of her poems in London.
The following letter and “Meditations” for her second son, Simon, were discovered in Bradstreet's Massachusetts house after her death in 1672. The “Meditations,” upon which she was still working, number seventy-seven. Included here are the first four.
March 20, 1664.
For my deare Sonne Simon Bradstreet.
PARENTS perpetuate their lives in their posterity, and their maners in their imitation. Children do natureally rather follow the failings then the vertues of their predecessors, but I am perswaded better things of you. You once desired me to leave something for you in writeing that you might look upon when you should see me no more. I could think of nothing more fit for you, nor of more ease to my self, then these short meditations following. Such as they are I bequeath to you: small legacys are accepted by true friends, much more by duty full children. I have avoyded incroaching upon others conceptions, because I would leave you nothing but myne owne, though in value they fall short of all in this kinde, yet I persume they will be better prif'd by you for the Authors sake. The Lord bless you with grace heer, and crown you with glory heerafter, that I may meet you with rejoycing at that great day of appearing, which is the continuall prayer, of