July 2003
FLFW Will See You Now
That would be George H.W. Bush, Former Leader of the Free World. But, sorry, he doesn't give extended interviews about his post-presidential life, his relationship with his sons, and rascally antagonists like the Dixie Chicks and Martin Sheen. Okay, just this once.
THE FOYER OF GEORGE H. W. Bush's office in the memorial neighborhood of Houston is perfectly round, but if you squint really hard, it can look . . . oval. The geometric fantasy is supported by the presence of official-looking artifacts, presidential and otherwise. The guest book where I sign in contains scribbled signatures of visitors famous and infamous (April 10, "Chuck Yeager"; April 18, "Karl Rove, Washington, D.C."). On one curve of the wall is a framed series of three photos, all taken over half a century in the East Garden on the White House grounds by the same photographer, of presidents and vice presidents at the lunch table: Roosevelt and Truman, Reagan and Bush, and Bush and Quayle. On the other, next to a small bronze statue of George Washington, is a Peter Max painting of the American flag, one of several gifts from the artist while Bush was in office. In the hallways off the foyer, family photos and paintings donated by well-wishers share space with a glass-encased baseball autographed by Joe DiMaggio and a neatly arranged display of medals and crosses given to Bush by governments around the world after his defeat in 1992 by Bill Clinton, which he jokingly refers to, Churchill-like, as having received the "Order of the Boot."
When he ambles out of his private office, cup of coffee in hand, Mr. Bush seems relaxed and happy, in the mode of a carefree retiree, and he looks like an older version of his trim, preppy self (he turned 79 in June). I had been warned by Tom Frechette, the 24-year-old Josh Hartnett look-alike who handles his press and travel, that the former president wasn't going to be able to give me or our photographer, Platon, much time. But on this late April morning, FLFW, as Mr. Bush is known in shorthand, seems to have no place special to be. (The meaning of that abbreviation? Frechette says that when the staff had to set up the Internet domain name for the office, someone waggishly suggested "flfw.com," as in "former leader of the free world." Mr. Bush liked it, and it stuck.)
Mr. Bush makes his way to the small, dark conference room where the photos will be taken and greets Platon and his assistants warmly. His time in front of the camera turns out to be casual and jokey—very Bush or, I couldn't help thinking, very Dana Carvey.
"Mr. President," Platon says in his full-on British accent, "I'm going to have to explain some of my English phrases to you. When I say you're 'wicked,' I don't want you to take offense. It means 'cool.'"
"I'm just getting used to 'cool,'" Mr. Bush replies. A few seconds go by. "Would you say Brad Pitt is wicked?"
Mr. Bush patiently mugs for fifteen minutes—standing, sitting, grinning, flashing a victory sign at Platon's request—and then starts to leave. It's time for our interview. But as we head back to his office, he turns to me and motions to a few framed photos on a table in the corner. "Did you see that picture of me and Jacques Chirac?" he asks slyly. "I just want to be sure you mention that."
Mr. President, it's now been a little more than ten years since you returned to private life. How's it going?
I don't think we've ever been happier, Barbara and I. There's plenty to do, and we can control our own time. I have to make a living, so I go out and commit white-collar crime by speaking for a lot of dough, or what seems to me a lot—not compared with my successor, but still plenty. I try to be a point of light, and I'm engaged in certain eleemosynary causes, like M. D. Anderson. So life is full—much fuller than I thought it would be. And we've got the best lifestyle, because we spend seven months in our little house in Houston and then five months based out of Maine. We'll leave in a couple of weeks to go up there, and it's very different. Neckties come off, there are few drop-ins, and we've got a little gym so I can work out. I have my boat there—the sea means everything to me. I've been there a part of every summer except one, so there are a lot of memories, and all our kids and grandkids love it, as did we and my grandparents.
What are the responsibilities of a former president to the country?
I don't think there are any. I don't think there's a job description. Truman wrote a book, a chapter of which was called "What To Do With Former Presidents," where he suggested they be honorary members of Congress with no right to vote, but they could sit in on stuff. That has no appeal for me. Of course, with the new president, and before that, with both George and Jeb running for office, I was disinclined to get out there and take positions and write op-ed pieces, and it's just verboten now, because some enterprising reporter would say, "Look at this. Don't I detect an iota of difference here between this president and number forty-three?" It's better just to stay out of the limelight, sit on the sidelines, and go about my life. At times I miss making important decisions. At times I miss seeing my views out there. But it's unimportant to Barbara and me when compared with the well-being and progress of our two sons in politics.
What's interesting, I think, is that the press takes your silence as an indication of differences between you and the president. The fact that you're not speaking out supposedly says something. When a friend of mine like Jimmy Baker or Brent Scowcroft says, "Well, we ought to do more about the Middle East," the press says, "It looks to us like they're reflecting what president number forty-one really feels but doesn't want to say," which is all bullshit, if you'll excuse the expression.
We can edit that out.
You can print it. At this stage in my life, I don't care.
Okay.
It's crazy. If I wanted to say something publicly supportive of the president or different from the president, I'd do it. There was a story recently in the New York Times that implied that there seem to be differences. They picked out some phrase I used [in a speech] up at Tufts. And they acted like, Hey, there's a little running room between the two of them. Well, there wasn't. It certainly wasn't intended that way, whether someone interpreted it that way or not. But that's the big game: What do I really think; what advice do I give our son. It's better to just stay out of that altogether, and I do. I'm not in the advice-giving business.
The other day, we were in Washington. I went up there to watch Margaret, our daughter-in-law, in a play. Laura and I went over and watched it. Then I went to get a haircut and got back to the White House, and we were with the president and Laura just a couple of minutes after he had done all these briefings and made his overseas phone calls. There he was in his running clothes, and we just sat there and chatted like father and son used to over here on Briar Drive—without advice, without my trying to suggest some direction on some issue, without my trying to outline policy for him or having him do that for me. We don't need that. I don't try to be this old, senior former president who's giving a lot of free advice. I don't have all the information, to start with, and I don't have the "need to know" for that highly selective intelligence. And so if I don't know, why the heck should I pop off? I'll leave that to Newt Gingrich.
You're not just any father and son—it's only the second time in American history that we've been in this situation. Your relationship must be different today than it used to be.
It's not different. It's father and son—it's about family, it's about how the girls are doing, how's Jenna, how's Barbara. He calls us: "What's happening down there?" It's not different in the sense that we treat the president or the governor of Florida any differently than the other three kids. When they come to visit us in Maine—they usually spend a couple of days up there, I wish it was more—it's exactly the way it used to be. It's closeness. It's family. It's doing things together. It's teasing each other. It's not what's going to happen next with Germany or France or Iraq. I know that must be hard for people to understand, but it's not what our life together as a family is about.
Can you think back to the first time that you thought of the president: "He's for real in this job?"
I guess it was Inauguration Day. It was icy-cold out during the parade, so when we came back to the White House, I went to the Queen's Bedroom, where we now stay when we go up there. I got in a hot bath, and [James] Ramsey, who is one of the marvelous people who look after the White House, knocked. "Mr. President!" "What is it, Ramsey?" "The president wants you over in the Oval Office now." I said, "I'm taking a—" and he said, "He wants you right now!" So I had to put my suit back on and get over there. And we had our picture taken together—the first picture taken of the president in the Oval Office. And I thought, "Well, not back that many years ago, there's a picture of my mother and me, the first picture that I had taken in the Oval Office." I think it's something about the majesty of that office itself—the physical dimensions of the office, the beauty of the office, the symbol of the office—that made it clear to me that he was president of the United States.
You were part of the White House environment for twelve years, and you lived in the White House for four. People on the outside imagine that it's this extraordinary bubble. Is it impossible to have a real life?
I think the current president would agree that you can have a relaxed family life in the White House. People are there to do stuff for you. You don't have to worry about the laundry or having to cook, although we used to cook on Sunday nights, and I think the president and Laura pick up from the upstairs pantry. There's a movie theater, a bowling alley, nice grounds on which you can go out and throw a couple of fastballs to your dogs. You can have the dogs upstairs. We had dogs in the White House—Millie's puppies were born there. And so there is this kind of quiet, personal side that's protected, properly so, from the public, where you can relax, where you can be informal, where you can have a couple of friends over for a drink. That part is marvelous.
