Copyright © 2014 by George W. Bush
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
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CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Photograph from George W. Bush’s Inauguration as Governor of Texas from Fort Worth Star-Telegram, January 18, 1995 © 1995 McClatchy. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribu
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress
ISBN 97805
eBook ISBN 97805
eBook design adapted from book design by Elizabeth Rendfleisch
Frontispiece oil painting by President George W. Bush
Photograph of frontispiece oil painting by Grant Miller
Cover design by Chris Brand
Front cover photograph by William Coupon/Corbis
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Beginnings
War
Heading West
Hat in the Ring
Man of the House
Photo Insert 1
Diplomacy
Runner-Up
Within a Heartbeat
The Road to the White House
Photo Insert 2
Number 41
The Hardest Year
The Afterlife
Photo Insert 3
Acknowledgments
To Mother and Dad with love
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A FEW MONTHS AFTER we left the White House, Laura and I invited Tim Lawson and his wife, Dorie McCullough Lawson, to our ranch in Crawford, Texas. I had commissioned Tim—a real artist, not an amateur like me—to paint some scenes of the landscape we love. As Tim observed the native prairie grasses and live oaks on the property, Dorie and I talked about her father, David McCullough. I told her that a highlight of my presidency had been meeting her dad, the fine historian and Pulitzer Prize–winning biographer of John Adams.
After updating me on her father’s health and projects, Dorie said, “You should know that one of my father’s great regrets in studying John Adams is there was no serious account of him by his son John Quincy Adams.”
She knew, of course, my connection to John Quincy: We are the only sons of Presidents who have served as Presidents ourselves. “For history’s sake,” she said, “I think you should write a book about your father.”
At the time, I was working on a memoir of my own presidency. But Dorie’s idea planted a seed. Eventually, it sprouted into this book.
Over the years, I suspect there will be many books analyzing George Herbert Walker Bush, the man and his presidency. Some of those works may be objective. This one is not. This book is a love story—a personal portrait of the extraordinary man who I am blessed to call my dad. I don’t purport to cover every aspect of his life or his years of public service. I do hope to show you why George H.W. Bush is a great President and an even better father.
I loved writing this book; I hope you enjoy reading it.
BEGINNINGS
IN LATE MAY 2014, I received a phone call from Jean Becker, my father’s longtime chief of staff. She got straight to the point.
“Your dad wants to make a parachute jump on his ninetieth birthday. What do you think?”
About eighteen months earlier, Jean had called to review the funeral arrangements for my father. He had spent nearly a month in the hospital with pneumonia, and many feared that this good man was headed toward eternity. He could not walk, and he tired easily. In my phone calls to Dad, he never complained. Self-pity is not in George Bush’s DNA. Now he was hoping to complete another parachute jump—the eighth of his life, counting the one he made after his torpedo bomber was struck by Japanese anti-aircraft fire over the Pacific in 1944.
“Are you sure this is what he wants?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she said.
“What do the doctors say?”
“Some say yes, some say no.”
“What about Mother?”
“She is concerned. She knows that he wants to do it. But she’s worried that the jump will tire him out and he won’t be able to enjoy the birthday party that she’s planning for that night.”
After some thought, I said, “I think he ought to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because it will make him feel younger.”
The truth is that my opinion didn’t matter much. After a parachute jump on his eighty-fifth birthday, my father had announced that he would make another jump on his ninetieth birthday. And George H.W. Bush is a man of his word.
A few weeks later, Laura and I arrived for the birthday celebration in Kennebunkport, Maine. The jump logistics were complete, the party was planned, and Mother was now on board. The afternoon before the jump, I sat next to Dad on the porch of his beloved home at Walker’s Point, perched on a rocky outcropping over the Atlantic. I had been painting an ocean scene and was wearing cargo pants stained with oil paint. For a few peaceful minutes, we stared quietly at the sea.
“What are you thinking about, Dad?” I asked.
“It’s just beautiful,” he said, still looking out at the ocean. It seemed that he had said all that he wanted to say.
We sat quietly for a few more minutes. Was he reflecting on the jump? His life? God’s grace? I did not want to interrupt.
Then he spoke. “Do those pants come in clean?”
I laughed, something I have been doing with my father all my life. His quip was typical. He was not nervous about his jump or his life. He was at peace. And he was sharing his joy with others.
The morning of Dad’s birthday, June 12, dawned chilly and gray. There was a modest breeze, about fifteen miles per hour. At first, we feared that the clouds might force a change in plans. Fortunately, the veteran paratroopers coordinating the jump, known as the All Veteran Group, determined that the visibility was sufficient. The mission was a go.