Decision Points Part 2

Some weeks later we scheduled a trip to a sonogram expert in Houston, a lovely Indian American woman named Srini Malini Srini Malini. I was nervous as she guided the device over Laura's body. She looked at the video monitor and said, "Here is the head, and here is the body. It's a girl!" She moved to get a better angle. Suddenly she shouted, "I see two babies, two beautiful babies! This one is a girl as well. You are going to be the parents of twins." My eyes filled with tears. It was a double blessing. I started calling the sonogram image our first family photo.

When we called the Gladney director to deliver the news, we felt strangely guilty, as if we had been leading her on. She told Laura something so sweet: "Honey, this happens sometimes. Gladney can help a couple have a child one way or another." Ruby Lee was more right than she knew. On the original questionnaire, Laura had checked the box saying we would prefer to adopt twins.

The doctors had warned us that twins can be a high-risk pregnancy. Laura refused to decorate the nursery out of superst.i.tion. About seven months into the pregnancy, Laura was diagnosed with preeclampsia, a serious condition that could damage her kidneys and jeopardize the health of the girls. The day after we received this news, Laura checked into Baylor Hospital in Dallas, where her uncle was a surgeon. The doctors told Laura that she should begin bed rest.

I knew Laura had the best possible care, but I was worried. I remembered Mother's miscarriage. I had seen my parents after Robin died. I knew how much it hurt to lose a child. I confessed my anxiety to Laura. I'll never forget her reaction. She looked at me with her blue eyes and said, "George, I am going to bring these girls into the world. They will be born healthy." I marveled at my wife's strength. This quiet, una.s.suming woman was one tough soul.

Two weeks later, I was in my office in Midland-I had been shuttling back and forth to Dallas-when I got a call from Dr. James Boyd James Boyd. He was in charge of Laura's care, and he was not big on chitchat. "George," he said, "you are having your children tomorrow. I will deliver them at six in the morning." I asked about Laura's health. He said she would be okay. "What about the girls?" He said, "They will be five weeks premature. They will be fine. But the time to move is now." I called Laura to tell her how thrilled I was. Then I called her parents in Midland, my parents in Washington, a bunch of our friends-and, of course, the airlines.

I've been to some exciting events in my life-presidential inaugurations, speeches in front of huge crowds, throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium-but there was nothing like the moment those girls were born. Laura was in bed and sedated. I stroked her head. Before long, the doctor held up a tiny red body. The baby screamed, and the doctor proclaimed her healthy. A nurse cleaned her and gave her to me. Little Barbara. And then the same for Jenna. We wanted our girls to carry the names of two fine women, so we named them after our mothers.

Barbara Bush and Jenna Welch holding their namesakes.

I had thought about those girls for so long that I could barely believe they were in my arms. It was the day before Thanksgiving 1981. And thankful is exactly how I felt. I was thankful to G.o.d for their lives, thankful to the skilled medical team for their excellent care, and thankful to Laura for her determination to carry our girls long enough that they could be born healthy.

Holding Barbara and Jenna for the first time was a moment of incredible clarity. I had been given a blessing and a responsibility. I vowed to be the best father I could possibly be.

One relieved and happy dad.

Those early months provided a wakeup call. The girls would cry in the middle of the night. I would pick them up, one in each arm, and walk around the house. I wanted to sing them a lullaby, but I didn't really know any. Instead, I usually went with the Yale fight song "Bulldog Bulldog, Bow Wow Wow." That would calm them down, maybe just because they didn't want to hear me sing anymore. Whatever the reason, it worked. I would lay them in their cribs and go back to Laura as one happy dad.

As Laura and I were adjusting to life with our new family, I was running a new business. In 1979, I started a small energy exploration company in Midland. I raised money, mostly from the East Coast, to finance drilling in low-risk, low-return oil and gas wells. I made some respectable finds, including some that are still producing. I also drilled my fair share of dry holes. Running a small business taught me a lot, especially that market conditions can change quickly, so you'd better be prepared for the unexpected.

As oil prices softened in 1983, I decided to merge my operations with two entrepreneurs from Cincinnati, Bill DeWitt Bill DeWitt and and Mercer Reynolds Mercer Reynolds. I would be the eyes and ears on the ground in Texas, and they would raise funds back east. The business did well for a couple of years, and we became close friends. But in early 1986, the price of oil plummeted from twenty-six dollars to ten dollars a barrel. A lot of people I knew had borrowed heavily and were now in dire financial jeopardy. Fortunately, we had kept our debt low, and we were able to merge our business into a larger publicly traded company, Harken Energy Harken Energy.

The mid-1980s were gloomy years in Midland. There was a sense of anxiety, and many were searching for purpose. Religion had always been part of my life, but I really wasn't a believer. I was baptized in Yale's nondenominational Dwight Hall Chapel. When I was young my parents took me to First Presbyterian in Midland, St. Martin's Episcopal in Houston, and St. Ann's Episcopal in Kennebunkport.

I went to church at Andover because it was mandatory. I never went at Yale. I did go when I visited my parents, but my primary mission was to avoid irritating Mother. Laura and I were married at First United Methodist in Midland. We started going regularly after the girls were born, because we felt a responsibility to expose them to faith. I liked spending time with friends in the congregation. I enjoyed the opportunity for reflection. Once in a while, I heard a sermon that inspired me. I read the Bible occasionally and saw it as a kind of self-improvement course. I knew I could use some self-improvement. But for the most part, religion was more of a tradition than a spiritual experience. I was listening but not hearing.

In the summer of 1985, we took our annual trip to Maine. Mother and Dad had invited the great evangelical preacher Billy Graham Billy Graham. Dad had asked him to answer some questions from the family after dinner. That was typical of Dad, always willing to share. It would have sent a signal of importance to have had Billy to himself, but that is not George H.W. Bush George H.W. Bush. He is a generous man, devoid of a big ego. So there we sat, about thirty of us-Laura, my grandmother, brothers and sister, first and second cousins-in the large room at the end of the house on Walker's Point.

The first question was from Dad. He said, "Billy, some people say you have to have a born-again experience to go to heaven. Mother [my grandmother] here is the most religious, kind person I know, yet she has had no born-again experience. Will she go to heaven?" Wow, pretty profound question from the old man. We all looked at Billy. In his quiet, strong voice, he replied, "George, some of us require a born-again experience to understand G.o.d, and some of us are born Christians. It sounds as if your mom was just born a Christian."

I was captivated by Billy. He had a powerful presence, full of kindness and grace, and a keen mind. The next day, he asked me to go for a walk around the property. He asked about my life in Texas. I talked to him about the girls and shared my thought that reading the Bible could make me a better person. In his gentle, loving way, Billy began to deepen my shallow understanding of faith. There's nothing wrong with using the Bible as a guide to self-improvement, he said. Jesus' life provides a powerful example for our own. But self-improvement is not really the point of the Bible. The center of Christianity is not the self. It is Christ.

Talking with the Reverend Billy Graham, three decades after he deepened my understanding of faith.White House/Paul Morse Billy explained that we are all sinners, and that we cannot earn G.o.d's love through good deeds. He made clear that the path to salvation is through the grace of G.o.d. And the way to find that grace is to embrace Christ as the risen Lord-the son of a G.o.d so powerful and loving that He gave His only son to conquer death and defeat sin.

These were profound concepts, and I did not fully grasp them that day. But Billy had planted a seed. His thoughtful explanation had made the soil less firm and the brambles less thick.

Shortly after we got back to Texas, a package from Billy arrived. It was a copy of The Living Bible The Living Bible. He had inscribed: "To my friend George W. Bush, May G.o.d bless you and Laura always." He included a reference to Philippians 1:6: "And I am certain that G.o.d, who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns."

In the early fall, I mentioned my conversation with Billy to Don Evans Don Evans. He told me he and another Midland friend, Don Jones Don Jones, had been attending a community Bible study. It met Wednesday nights at First Presbyterian Church. I decided to give it a shot.

Each week, we studied a chapter from the New Testament. At first I was a little skeptical. I had a hard time resisting the temptation to wisecrack. One night the group leader asked, "What is a prophet?" I answered, "That's when revenue exceeds expenses. No one has seen one around here since Elijah."

Soon I started to take the sessions more seriously. As I read the Bible, I was moved by the stories of Jesus' kindness to suffering strangers, His healing of the blind and crippled, and His ultimate act of sacrificial love when He was nailed to the cross. For Christmas that year, Don Evans gave me a Daily Bible, a version split into 365 individual readings. I read it every morning and prayed to understand it more clearly. In time, my faith began to grow.

At first I was troubled by my doubts. The notion of a living G.o.d was a big leap, especially for someone with a logical mind like mine. Surrendering yourself to an Almighty is a challenge to the ego. But I came to realize that struggles and doubts are natural parts of faith. If you haven't doubted, you probably haven't thought very hard about what you believe.

Ultimately, faith is a walk-a journey toward greater understanding. It is not possible to prove G.o.d's existence, but that cannot be the standard for belief. After all, it is equally impossible to prove He doesn't exist. In the end, whether you believe or don't believe, your position is based on faith.

That realization freed me to recognize signs of G.o.d's presence. I saw the beauty of nature, the wonder of my little girls, the abiding love of Laura and my parents, and the freedom that comes with forgiveness-all what the preacher Timothy Keller Timothy Keller calls "clues of G.o.d." I moved ahead more confidently on my walk. Prayer was the nourishment that sustained me. As I deepened my understanding of Christ, I came closer to my original goal of being a better person-not because I was racking up points on the positive side of the heavenly ledger, but because I was moved by G.o.d's love. calls "clues of G.o.d." I moved ahead more confidently on my walk. Prayer was the nourishment that sustained me. As I deepened my understanding of Christ, I came closer to my original goal of being a better person-not because I was racking up points on the positive side of the heavenly ledger, but because I was moved by G.o.d's love.

I realized something else. When Billy started answering questions that night in Maine, I was on my third gla.s.s of wine, after a couple of beers before dinner. Billy's message had overpowered the booze. But that was not always the case. I had long been a social drinker. I liked to drink with friends, with meals, at sporting events, and at parties. By my mid-thirties, I was drinking routinely, with an occasional bender thrown in.

We had a saying in West Texas: "Last night he thought he was a ten, when in fact he was an a.s.s." That applied to me more than once. I like to joke around, but alcohol has a way of turning a quip or tease into a slash or insult. What seems funny with booze can sound so stupid later. One summer night we were having dinner in Maine after a great day of fishing and golf. I had worked up a thirst, which I quenched with multiple bourbon and Sevens. As we were eating, I turned to a beautiful friend of Mother and Dad's and asked a boozy question: "So, what is s.e.x like after fifty?"

Everyone at the table looked silently at their food-except for my parents and Laura, who glared at me with disbelief. The lovely woman let out a nervous laugh, and the conversation moved on. When I woke up the next day, I was reminded of what I had said. I instantly felt that morning-after remorse. After I called the woman to apologize, I started asking myself if this was really the way I wanted to lead my life. Years later, when I turned fifty, the good-natured woman sent a note to the Texas Governor's Mansion: "Well, George, how is it?"

Laura saw a pattern developing, too. What seemed hilarious or clever to my friends and me was repet.i.tive and childish to her. She wasn't afraid to tell me what she thought, but she couldn't quit for me. I had to do that on my own. At age forty, I finally found the strength to do it-a strength that came from love I had felt from my earliest days, and from faith that I didn't fully discover for many years.

I haven't had a drop of alcohol since that night at The Broadmoor in 1986. There's no way to know where my life would have headed if I hadn't made the decision to quit drinking. But I am certain that I would not be recording these thoughts as a former governor of Texas and president of the United States.

I've been asked if I consider myself an alcoholic. I can't say for sure. I do know that I have a habitual personality. I was drinking too much, and it was starting to create problems. My ability to quit cold leads me to believe that I didn't have a chemical addiction. Some drinkers are not as fortunate as I was. I admire those who use other methods to quit, such as the twelve-step process of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I could not have quit drinking without faith. I also don't think my faith would be as strong if I hadn't quit drinking. I believe G.o.d helped open my eyes, which were closing because of booze. For that reason, I've always felt a special connection to the words of "Amazing Grace," my favorite hymn: "I once was lost, but now am found / was blind, but now I see."

he morning of June 12, 1999, was beautiful in Texas. The Rangers were in first place in the American League West. The Dow Jones Industrial Average stood at 10,490. Dad had just celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday by parachuting out of an airplane-successfully. And I was about to make a leap of my own.

After months of soul-searching and countless hours weighing the pros and cons, I was headed to Iowa, site of the first caucus in the 2000 presidential election. I was free from the anxiety of making the decision and eager to begin the journey. Laura and I kissed the girls goodbye, headed to the airport, and boarded a TWA charter bound for Cedar Rapids.

The flight was packed, mostly with journalists. They had filled hours of television and reams of newsprint debating, questioning, and a.n.a.lyzing whether I would run. Now they were going to get the answer. I decided to have a little fun with them. I had christened our plane Great Expectations Great Expectations. Shortly after we lifted off, I grabbed the microphone and announced, "This is your candidate. Please stow your expectations securely in the overhead bins, as they may shift during the trip and may fall and hurt someone-especially me."

I often use humor to defuse tension, but I knew I was embarking on a serious undertaking. More than almost any other candidate in history, I understood what running for president would entail. I had watched Dad endure grueling months on the campaign trail, under the constant scrutiny of a skeptical press. I had seen his record distorted, his character attacked, his appearance mocked. I had witnessed friends turn against him and aides abandon him. I knew how hard it was to win. And I knew how much it hurt to lose.

I worried most about our seventeen-year-old daughters, Barbara and Jenna. I had learned that being the child of a politician is tougher than being a politician yourself. I understood the pain and frustration that comes with hearing your dad called nasty names. I knew how it felt to worry every time you turned on the TV. And I knew what it was like to live with the thought that any innocent slip could embarra.s.s the president of the United States. I had gone through all of this in my forties. If I became president, my girls would be in college when I took office. I could only imagine how much more difficult it would be for them.

I had thought through some big questions. Was I willing to forgo my anonymity forever? Was it right to subject my family to the scrutiny of a national campaign? Could I handle the embarra.s.sment of defeat with the whole country watching? Was I really up to the job?

I believed I knew the answers, but there was no way to be sure.

I did know that I felt a calling to run. I was concerned about the future of the country, and I had a clear vision of where to lead it. I wanted to cut taxes, raise standards in public schools, reform Social Security and Medicare, rally faith-based charities, and lift the sights of the American people by encouraging a new era of personal responsibility. As I said in my speeches, "When I put my hand on the Bible, I will swear to not only uphold the laws of our land, I will swear to uphold the honor and dignity of the office to which I have been elected, so help me G.o.d."

My exposure to the presidency had revealed the potential of the job. The two presidents I knew best, Dad and Ronald Reagan Ronald Reagan, had used their time in office to accomplish historic objectives. President Reagan had challenged the Soviet Union and helped win the Cold War. Dad had liberated Kuwait and guided Europe toward unity and peace.

I had also seen the personal side of the presidency. For all the scrutiny and stress, Dad loved the job. He left office with his honor and values intact. Despite the many pressures, the intensity of the experience brought our family closer together.

The decision process was all-consuming. I thought about it, talked about it, a.n.a.lyzed it, and prayed about it. I had a philosophy I wanted to advance, and I was convinced I could build a team worthy of the presidency. I had the financial security to provide for my family, win or lose. Ultimately, the decisive factors were less tangible. I felt a drive to do more with my life, to push my potential and test my skills at the highest level. I had been inspired by the example of service my father and grandfather had set. I had watched Dad climb into the biggest arena and succeed. I wanted to find out if I had what it took to join him.

Even if I lost, I would still have a wonderful life. My family loved me. I would be governor of a great state. And I would never have to wonder what might have been. "When my time is up," I would tell friends, "my dance card is going to be full."

My announcement came at a barbecue in the small Iowa town of Amana. I gave my speech in a barn, atop a stage covered with hay in front of a giant cornfield. Congressman Jim Nussle Jim Nussle, who would later serve as my Office of Management and Budget director, introduced me by singing "Iowa Stubborn" from The Music Man The Music Man. With Laura at my side, I said, "I'm running for president of the United States. There's no turning back, and I intend to be the next president."

My path to that day was unconventional. I hadn't spent a lifetime planning to run for president. If I had, I probably would have done a few things differently when I was younger. Yet along the journey, I built up the desire and skills to wage and win a presidential campaign. The seeds of that decision, like many others in my life, were planted in the dusty ground beneath the boundless sky of Midland, Texas Midland, Texas.

Politics in Midland were conservative. West Texas has an independent spirit and distrust of centralized government. Like much of Texas, Midland had been dominated by the Democratic Party for generations. Midland's sprawling congressional district, which included seventeen counties, had been represented by a Democrat named George Mahon George Mahon for forty-three years. He was the longest-serving congressman in America. On July 6, 1977-my thirty-first birthday-he announced that he would retire at the end of his term. for forty-three years. He was the longest-serving congressman in America. On July 6, 1977-my thirty-first birthday-he announced that he would retire at the end of his term.

By then I had been back in Midland for two years after business school. I was learning the oil business, reconnecting with friends, and generally enjoying life. I was also getting a feel for the political scene.

While I had never considered politics as a profession, I had helped out in all of Dad's campaigns: his Senate race in 1964, his House campaign in 1966, and his second bid for the Senate in 1970. Before I started flight training in 1968, I spent several months as a traveling aide to Congressman Edward Gurney Edward Gurney, who was running for the Senate in Florida. The highlight of the experience was a huge rally in Jacksonville where Gurney was endorsed by the tall, tan governor of California, Ronald Reagan Ronald Reagan. In 1972, I was the political director for Red Blount Red Blount's Senate campaign in Alabama. In 1976, I volunteered on President Ford's West Texas operation in the Republican primary. I helped him win a total of zero delegates.

The campaign lifestyle was a perfect fit for me in my twenties. I enjoyed moving around and meeting new people. I thrived on the intensity and compet.i.tion of the races. I liked the finality that came on election day, when the voters picked a winner and we all moved on. I hadn't planned it this way, but by the time Congressman Mahon retired, I was a relatively seasoned political operative.

I started to think about running for the seat. I had the experience to handle the political side of the race. I also felt something stronger pulling me in. I was concerned about the direction of the country. My experiences in business school, China, and the oil business were converging into a set of convictions: The free market provided the fairest way to allocate resources. Lower taxes rewarded hard work and encouraged risk taking, which spurred job creation. Eliminating barriers to trade created new export markets for American producers and more choices for our consumers. Government should respect its const.i.tutional limits and give people the freedom to live their lives.

When I looked at Washington under President Jimmy Carter Jimmy Carter and the Democratic Congress, I saw the opposite. They had plans to raise taxes, tighten government control over the energy sector, and subst.i.tute federal spending for private-sector job creation. I worried about America drifting left, toward a version of welfare-state Europe, where central government planning crowded out free enterprise. I wanted to do something about it. I was having my first experience with the political bug, and it was biting hard. and the Democratic Congress, I saw the opposite. They had plans to raise taxes, tighten government control over the energy sector, and subst.i.tute federal spending for private-sector job creation. I worried about America drifting left, toward a version of welfare-state Europe, where central government planning crowded out free enterprise. I wanted to do something about it. I was having my first experience with the political bug, and it was biting hard.

When I told Mother and Dad about my idea, they were surprised. My decision must have seemed like it had come out of nowhere, but they didn't want to dampen my enthusiasm. Dad asked if I would be willing to listen to advice from a friend of his, former Texas Governor Allan Shivers Allan Shivers. "Absolutely," I said. Shivers was a legend. He had been the longest-serving governor in Texas history. He was a conservative Democrat, and his advice would be valuable in a race against Kent Hance Kent Hance, a right-of-center state senator and the likely Democratic nominee.

When I went to see the old governor, he asked me point-blank if I was running for Mr. Mahon's seat. I said I was seriously considering the race. He looked me in the eye and said, "Son, you can't win." There was no encouragement, no nothing. He told me that the district was drawn perfectly to elect Kent Hance. I mumbled something like "I hope you are wrong if I decide to run," and thanked him for his time.

I remember wondering why Dad had introduced me to the governor. Looking back on it, it may have been his way of telling me, without smothering my ambition, that I should be prepared to lose.

The first phase of the campaign was the Republican primary. I made it into a runoff against Jim Reese Jim Reese, a smooth-talking former sportscaster and mayor of Odessa. He had run against George Mahon in 1976 and felt ent.i.tled to the nomination in 1978. He was very unhappy that I had outpolled him in the first round of the primary.

Reese had a hard edge, and so did some of his supporters. Their strategy was to paint me as a liberal, out-of-touch carpetbagger. They threw out all kinds of conspiracy theories. Dad was part of a trilateral commission campaign to establish a one-world government. I had been sent by the Rockefeller family to buy up farmland. Four days before the election, Reese produced a copy of my birth certificate to prove prove I had been born back east. How was I supposed to counter that? I responded with a line Dad had once used: "No, I wasn't born in Texas, because I wanted to be close to my mother that day." I had been born back east. How was I supposed to counter that? I responded with a line Dad had once used: "No, I wasn't born in Texas, because I wanted to be close to my mother that day."

Reese received an endors.e.m.e.nt and campaign contributions from Ronald Reagan Ronald Reagan, who was seeking an edge on Dad in the 1980 presidential primary. Despite all the innuendos, I was optimistic about my chances. My strategy was to build up a bulkhead in my home county of Midland. Laura and I attended coffees across town, organized the county block by block, and persuaded friends who had never been involved in politics to help us.* On election night, our gra.s.sroots effort in Midland produced a ma.s.sive turnout. I lost every other county in the district, but took Midland by such a huge margin that I won the nomination. On election night, our gra.s.sroots effort in Midland produced a ma.s.sive turnout. I lost every other county in the district, but took Midland by such a huge margin that I won the nomination.

Dad had predicted that Reagan would call to congratulate me if I won the primary. He did, the next day. He was gracious and volunteered to help in the general election. I was grateful for his call and bore no hard feelings. But I was determined to run the race as my own man. I didn't do any campaigning with Reagan, nor did I do any with Dad.

The race against Reese toughened me as a candidate. I learned I could take a hard punch, keep fighting, and win. My opponent in the general was Kent Hance Kent Hance, the state senator Governor Shivers had warned me about. Hance's strategy was the same as Reese's-turn me into an East Coast outsider-but he executed it with more subtlety and charm.

One of my first TV ads showed me jogging, which I thought emphasized my energy and youth. Hance turned it against me with one line: "The only time folks around here go running is when somebody's chasing 'em."

He also ran a radio ad: "In 1961, when Kent Hance graduated from Dimmitt High School in the Nineteenth Congressional District, his opponent, George W. Bush, was attending Andover Academy in Ma.s.sachusetts. In 1965, when Kent Hance graduated from Texas Tech, his opponent was at Yale University. And while Kent Hance graduated from University of Texas Law School, his opponent...get this, folks...was attending Harvard. We don't need someone from the Northeast telling us what our problems are."

Hance was a great storyteller, and he used his skill to pound away with the outsider theme. His favorite story was about a man in a limo who pulled up to a farm where Hance was working. When the driver asked him for directions to the next town, Hance said, "Turn right just past the cattle guard, then follow the road." The punch line came when the driver asked, "Excuse me, but what color uniform will that cattle guard be wearing?" The West Texas crowds loved it. Hance would twist the knife by adding, "I couldn't tell if the limo had Ma.s.sachusetts or Connecticut license plates."

Laura and I moved temporarily to Lubbock, the biggest city in the district, about 115 miles north of Midland. An important hub for the cotton business, Lubbock was home to Texas Tech University. We used the city as our base to campaign in the district's rural counties. Laura and I spent hours in the car together, stumping in towns like Levelland, Plainview, and Brownfield. For someone who didn't particularly care for politics, Laura was a natural campaigner. Her genuineness made it easy for voters to relate to her. After our wedding, we had taken a short trip to Cozumel, Mexico, but we joked that the campaign was our honeymoon.

On the campaign trail with Laura.

On the Fourth of July, we campaigned in Muleshoe, in the far northern part of the district. In the May primary, I had received 6 of the 230 votes cast in Bailey County. The way I saw it, I had plenty of room for improvement. Laura and I smiled and waved at the spectators from the back of our white pickup truck. n.o.body cheered. n.o.body even waved. People looked at us like we were aliens. By the end I was convinced the only supporter I had in Muleshoe was the one sitting next to me.

A campaign ad during my run for Congress.

Election night came, and it turned out that old Governor Shivers was right. I won big in Midland County and in the southern part of the district, but not by enough to offset Hance's margins in Lubbock and elsewhere. The final tally was 53 percent to 47 percent.

I hated losing, but I was glad I'd run. I enjoyed the hard work of politics, meeting people and making my case. I learned that allowing your opponent to define you is one of the biggest mistakes you can make in a campaign. And I discovered that I could accept defeat and move on. That was not easy for someone as compet.i.tive as I am. But it was an important part of my maturing.

As for Congressman Kent Hance, he deserved to win that race, and we became good friends. Two gubernatorial and presidential victories later, he is still the only politician ever to beat me. He went on to serve three terms in the House before losing a bid for the Senate. Then he became a Republican and contributed to my campaigns. Kent is now the chancellor of Texas Tech. He says that without him, I would never have become president. He's probably right.

Six months after my campaign ended, I had another race to think about. Dad announced his candidacy for the 1980 presidential election. He was a long shot against Ronald Reagan Ronald Reagan, but he ran a strong campaign in Iowa and won an upset victory in the caucus. Unfortunately, his hot streak ran out amid the cold winters of New Hampshire. Reagan defeated him there and continued on to the Republican nomination.

There was a lot of speculation about whom Reagan would choose for vice president. At the convention in Detroit, he was in discussions with Gerald Ford Gerald Ford about some sort of co-presidency. They agreed it wouldn't work-a good decision. Then Reagan called Dad and asked him to be his running mate-an even better decision. about some sort of co-presidency. They agreed it wouldn't work-a good decision. Then Reagan called Dad and asked him to be his running mate-an even better decision.

Dad with President Reagan.

On election night, the Reagan-Bush ticket crushed Jimmy Carter Jimmy Carter and and Walter Mondale Walter Mondale 489 to 49 in the Electoral College. Laura and I flew to Washington for the Inauguration on January 20, 1981, the first time the ceremony was held on the majestic west front of the Capitol. We beamed as Justice 489 to 49 in the Electoral College. Laura and I flew to Washington for the Inauguration on January 20, 1981, the first time the ceremony was held on the majestic west front of the Capitol. We beamed as Justice Potter Stewart Potter Stewart swore in Dad. Then Ronald Reagan repeated the oath administered by Chief Justice swore in Dad. Then Ronald Reagan repeated the oath administered by Chief Justice Warren Burger Warren Burger.

As a history major, I was thrilled to have a front-row seat. As a son, I was filled with pride. It never crossed my mind that I would one day stand on that platform and hold up my right hand at two presidential inaugurations.

The early 1980s brought tough moments, from a painful recession to the bombing of our Marine barracks in Lebanon, but the Reagan-Bush administration accomplished what it had promised. They cut taxes, regained the edge in the Cold War, and restored American morale. When President Reagan and Dad put their record before the voters in 1984, they won forty-nine of fifty states.

Dad was the logical favorite for the 1988 presidential nomination, but the race would not be easy. He had been so loyal to President Reagan that he had done almost nothing to promote himself. He was also battling the infamous Van Buren factor. Not since Martin Van Buren Martin Van Buren followed Andrew Jackson into the White House in 1836 had a vice president been elected to succeed the president with whom he had served. followed Andrew Jackson into the White House in 1836 had a vice president been elected to succeed the president with whom he had served.

Early in his second term, President Reagan generously allowed Dad to use the presidential retreat at Camp David for a meeting with his campaign team. It was thoughtful of Dad to invite all his siblings and children. I enjoyed meeting his team, although I had some reservations. Dad's top strategist was a young guy named Lee At.w.a.ter Lee At.w.a.ter. A fast-talking, guitar-playing South Carolinian, Lee was considered one of the country's hottest political consultants. No question he was smart. No doubt he had experience. I wanted to know if he was loyal.

When Dad asked if any of the family members had questions, my hand went up. "Lee, how do we know we can trust you, since your business partners are working for other candidates?" I asked. Jeb chimed in: "If someone throws a grenade at our dad, we expect you to jump on it." Our tone was tough, but it reflected our love of Dad and our expectations of his staff-an agenda that put the candidate first and personal ambition second.

Lee said he had known Dad at the Republican National Committee, admired him a lot, and wanted him to win. He added that he was planning to sever his conflicting business connections. Yet it was obvious that our doubts had shaken him. Later in the day, he sought out Jeb and me. If we were so worried, he asked, why didn't one of us move to D.C., help in the campaign, and keep an eye on him and the staff?

The invitation intrigued me. The timing was right. After the downturn in the oil markets, my partners and I had merged our exploration company and found jobs for all the employees. Dad liked the idea, and Laura was willing to give it a try.

At the campaign office in downtown Washington, I had no t.i.tle. As Dad put it, I already had a good one: son. I focused on fundraising, traveling the country to deliver surrogate speeches, and boosting the morale of volunteers by thanking them on Dad's behalf. From time to time, I also reminded some high-level staffers that they were on a team to advance George Bush's election, not their own careers. I learned a valuable lesson about Washington: Proximity to power is empowerment. Having Dad's ear made me effective.

One of my tasks was to sort through journalists' requests for profile pieces. When Margaret Warner Margaret Warner of of Newsweek Newsweek told us she wanted to do an interview, I recommended that we cooperate. Margaret was talented and seemed willing to write a fair piece. Dad agreed. told us she wanted to do an interview, I recommended that we cooperate. Margaret was talented and seemed willing to write a fair piece. Dad agreed.

Mother called me the morning the magazine hit the newsstands. "Have you seen Newsweek Newsweek?" Not yet, I told her. "They called your father a wimp!" she growled.

I quickly tracked down a copy and was greeted by the screaming headline: "Fighting the Wimp Factor." I couldn't believe it. The magazine was insinuating that my father, a World War II bomber pilot, was a wimp. I was red-hot. I got Margaret on the phone. She politely asked what I thought of the story. I impolitely told her I thought she was part of a political ambush. She muttered something about her editors being responsible for the cover. I did not mutter. I railed about editors and hung up. From then on, I was suspicious of political journalists and their unseen editors.

After finishing third in Iowa, Dad rallied with a victory in New Hampshire and went on to earn the nomination. His opponent in the general election was the liberal governor of Ma.s.sachusetts, Michael Dukakis Michael Dukakis. Dad started the campaign with a great speech at the convention in New Orleans. I was amazed at the power of his words, elegantly written and forcefully delivered. He spoke of a "kinder, gentler" nation, built by the compa.s.sion and generosity of the American people-what he called "a thousand points of light." He outlined a strong policy agenda, including a bold pledge: "Read my lips, no new taxes."