I wasn’t the only one inspired by George Bush. Around that same time, my brother Jeb announced that he was running for Governor of Florida. Jeb and I both felt—and Dad agreed—that he should not play a public role in our campaigns. It was important that the voters see us for what we were: our own men. Dad never intervened or offered unsolicited advice, but it was clear that he was following our races closely. From time to time I would check in with him, and he would always find a way to compliment a recent campaign performance or cheer me up after a lousy editorial. It struck me that our roles had been reversed. After years of my supporting him in the political arena, he was supporting me.
I think my campaign and Jeb’s campaign in 1994 played an important role in helping Dad adjust to the new chapter of his life. Just as his father had done after he retired from the Senate in 1964, he embraced his new position as a source of encouragement for the next generation. And he found something positive about his defeat in 1992—it had given rise to the political careers of two people whom he had raised and loves.
On election night 1994, I won the Governor’s race in Texas. Jeb lost a close race to Democratic Governor Lawton Chiles. When I called Dad to tell him that I was about to go deliver my victory speech, he told me how happy he was. But I could tell that he was preoccupied with Jeb’s defeat. “The joy is in Texas,” Dad told reporters, “but our hearts are in Florida.” To some, his reaction was surprising. Not to me. It was typical of George Bush to focus on the person who was hurting.
On the morning of my inauguration as Governor—a
Dear George,
These cufflinks are my most treasured possession. They were given to me by Mum and Dad on June 9, that day in 1943 when I got my Navy wings at Corpus Christi. I want you to have them now; for, in a sense, though you won your Air Force wings flying those jets, you are again “getting your wings” as you take the oath of office as our Governor….
You have given us more than we ever could have deserved. You have sacrificed for us. You have given us your unwavering loyalty and devotion. Now it is our turn.
Dad’s note moved me deeply. I knew how much the cuff links—and their connection to his father—meant to him. By passing on the cuff links, he was passing on the love and support that he had received from his dad. When it came time for the swearing in, Laura held a family Bible, and Barbara and Jenna stood beside me. My parents were seated behind me. I was not surprised when I later saw a photo capturing the moment: As I took the oath of office, Dad wiped away a tear.
—
A FEW YEARS later, I received a different kind of note from Dad. “Dear Kids,” he wrote. “Okay, so you might think I have lost it. I plan to make a parachute jump. So there!” I can’t say that I saw that one coming from my seventy-two-year-old father. Dad’s last parachute jump had come in 1944, when he bailed out of his flaming TBM Avenger amid Japanese antiaircraft fire. That day he had hit his head on the plane and pulled the rip cord too early. He joked that he wanted an opportunity to correct his form. But what he really wanted was closure—to repeat the experience of jumping from a plane on his own terms.
Mother was not so sure. Her first response was to tell Dad and everyone else that she thought he was crazy. In spite of her seeming reluctance, she knew how important the jump was to him. She was happy that he was going to pursue his dream. Dad asked the Golden Knights, the Army’s elite parachute squad, to jump with him. Colin Powell asked Dad if he was serious about his plan. “It’s the talk of the Pentagon,” Powell said, before mounting a cross-examination: Had Dad considered the risks? Were his knees and ankles in good shape? What about the wind? Apparently the Army brass was not keen on risking a skydiving accident involving the former Commander-in-Chief. They didn’t know what they were up against: George Bush had a mission, and he was not turning back.
At the Governor’s office one day, I received a call from Dad to inform me that the jump would take place at the Army base in Yuma, Arizona, on March 25, 1997. I congratulated him on making his dream a reality. “Just don’t tell anyone about your eighteen-year-old girlfriend,” I joked.
On the big day, Dad donned what he called his “Elvis suit”—white helmet and white gloves—and took the solo plunge (without any Golden Knights strapped to his back) from about twelve thousand feet. This time there was no contact between his head and the plane. Thanks to the fine training that he had received from the Golden Knights, he pulled the rip cord at the right time and floated safely to earth. Mother was there for the landing. As Dad later described it, “I was down. It had gone well. I had lived a dream. Bar hugged me and smiled. All was well with the world.”
As it turned out, that parachute jump was not his last. He jumped again to celebrate his seventy-fifth, eightieth, eighty-fifth, and ninetieth birthdays. His adventures sent a signal to Americans of his generation: Getting older shouldn’t stand in the way of staying active or trying new things. You might be a little slower or a little grayer, but life is rich enough that you can always find new areas to explore and new ways to push yourself. I like to think that I learned from Dad’s example when I picked up a paintbrush for the first time at age sixty-six.
Two of Dad’s parachute jumps came at his presidential library, which opened at Texas A&M in November 1997. Library dedications are one of the few occasions that bring together the sitting and former Presidents. All the members of the club were represented that day: President Clinton, who was coming off his reelection victory over Bob Dole in 1996, and former Presidents Carter and Ford. Lady Bird Johnson and Nancy Reagan came on behalf of their husbands. Given that President Reagan had announced a few years earlier that he was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, he did not attend.
As the President of Dad’s library foundation, Jeb served as the master of ceremonies. As the sitting Governor of Texas, I had the honor of delivering the welcoming address. I took the opportunity to summarize the way I view my father’s legacy, both as a President and as a man:
President Bush was a man who entered the political arena and left with his integrity intact. President Bush was a leader who stared tyranny in the face and never blinked. George Bush was a great President of the United States of America, because he is first and foremost a great man—a man who through it all knew exactly what is most important in life: faith and family. Through four years of world crises and enormous demands on his time, a phone call from me or one of my brothers and sister never went unanswered. The world knows George Bush as a master of personal diplomacy. We know George Bush as the world’s best dad.
Dad’s speech was vintage George Bush. He thanked President Clinton, who “saw to it that [he had] a wonderful private life.” He apologized if his presidential library violated his mother’s rule against bragging. He didn’t try to burnish his legacy, saying only that the archives housed there would allow future generations to sort it out for themselves. And he closed by saying, “Now that my political days are over, I can honestly say that the three most rewarding titles bestowed upon me are the three that I’ve got left—a husband, a father, and a granddad…. I don’t know if Lou Gehrig, my great idol, said it first, but I do know that he said it best—today I feel like the luckiest person in the world.”