Bush was still ahead in the polls nationwide, but people couldn’t give a reason why they were for him.
His support was soft, could bleed in a hurry.
Dole had gained five points in a month.
People didn’t see Bush as a leader.
(C’mon! Whadd-I-tellya? ...)
The Newsweeks had to stay ahead of the curve! So they commissioned their own numbers. Here was the key question:
“Some people say that George Bush’s loyal service to Republican Presidents over the years has hurt his political image and made him look like a wimp. Is this criticism a serious problem for Bush’s candidacy or not?”
Well, fifty-one percent said it sure was!
Of course, if you picked it apart, it wasn’t fifty-one percent saying Bush was a wimp. It was Newsweek said ... that “some people” said ... that Bush’s “political image” ... “made him look like a wimp.”
The only question asked: Is a wimp problem a serious problem?
It was a wonder that forty-three percent said no.
Anyway, this only went to prove what everybody knew. And now everyone could ask about his “wimp image.” It wasn’t just some people said anymore ... Newsweek said!
And it was amazing, when you thought about it, how the fads bore out the magazine’s prescience. ... This guy couldn’t even project a decent image at his own announcement!
For one thing, he didn’t look happy. People talked about it—how the whole event seemed a bit somber. ... Of course, no one in his hometown crowd brought up the Newsweek story. These were friends, after all.
There were hundreds of friends ... but not sufficient hundreds to fill more than half the Imperial Ballroom of the Houston Hyatt, nor certainly to overflow the overblown haute plastique atrium-lobby that stretched aloft 300-some feet in a vertiginous striation of balconies.
What happened was, Bush, Inc., got big eyes and took over the whole hotel—gave the Secret Service men a nightmare job, with all those balconies overlooking their goose ... had to commandeer every elevator. They filled three overhangs with high school bands, blaring brass ... the bar in the well of the atrium was closed and given over to supposed Bush-revelry ... tens of thousands of balloons were roped into nets, thirty stories above ... they built a big stage at one end, big camera platforms at the other, hung banners supposed to look homemade (looked like they were all from one home) ... there was a press-filing room sufficient for a Super Bowl, and a satellite truck so that any little station, anywhere in the country, could get free pictures of the big do.
And into this overscale they marched a slump-shouldered George Bush. Actually, in the ballroom, they marched in the Houston Astros blowhard announcer, Milo Hamilton, who introduced “our celebrities.” (... “Would you welcome ... and with resounding applause ... the RIGHT FIELDER FOR THE ASTROS—KEVIN BASS!”) ... Then Milo gave way to Bob Mosbacher ... who introduced Congresswoman Lynn Martin ... who introduced Governor John Sununu ... who introduced former Senator John Tower. ... And somewhere in the middle, Junior got introduced, to introduce the family ... and then John Tower took his spot at center stage again to say the name people had come to hear: George Bush!
By then, the crowd was clapped out.
Bush said he knew he’d have to come home, to Texas, to say the most important words of his life:
“I am here today to announce my candidacy for President of the United States. I mean to run hard, to fight hard, to stand on the issues—and I mean to win!”
They gave him a big cheer, and he launched into his speech.
“We don’t need radical new directions—we need strong, steady, experienced leadership.”
Small applause.
“We don’t need to remake society—we just need to remember who we are ...”
No applause at all.
It was actually a nice speech to read—Bush had the cleverest White House writer, Peggy Noonan, on the case. But it took too long to deliver ... at least for this hard-eyed crowd, which spent its time looking around for someone important. Minicam men switched off their lights and started roaming, looking for a more interesting shot. There was so much noise, it was hard to hear Bush, or pay attention, as he read out the most amazing part.
It was about his experience: all his jobs—they showed up in most of his speeches. But this time, instead of naming the jobs. Bush said:
“I am a man who ...” (Navy flier.)
“I am a man who ...” (Texas businessman, Congressman, RNC Chairman ...)
Seven times: “I am a man.”
It was sad to watch him drumming it home. Sad to note that this was the big windup, the final argument for his candidacy ... the litany that ended with Bush at the side of a great President, where he realized ...
“... What it all comes down to, after all the shouting and the cheers, is the man at that desk. And who should sit at that desk. ...
“I am that man.”
That was it. Bush started shaking hands, saying hi to all those friends. The Secret Service had him pinned at one corner of the stage with a ropeline ... so, for friends who couldn’t get to the front, Bush would just point and make a goofy face of welcome. There was a Chinese couple who worked up to the rope. “Ah! The Asian contingent!” Bush cried. He grabbed for a hand, but the woman reached her arms around his shoulders. Bush was going to kiss her cheek, but then doublethought (God! Awfully public!), so he pulled back a twitch and ... (Oh, what the hell!) went for her ... but the woman had been bobbing and weaving her cheek into position while Bush played net with his kiss, so her head pulled away just at the moment—Bush ended up slurping her neck.
He had to go.
He had to get to the lobby! To do it all again ... with those long camera angles—the balconies, the bands ... or maybe he was supposed to do just part of the speech again, or maybe make another speech ... hard to tell.
Because by the time Mickey Gilley’s band stopped playing and Milo Hamilton yammered on again, and they brought George and Bar out on stage again as the high school bands played “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” while the elevators ...
Well, that was the problem. The Hyatt had those elevators, all shiny lights and glass, that rode up and down outside the balconies, so the rubes could gawk up the atrium ... and these four magnificent elevators were supposed to rise behind George Bush—just to the top of camera frame, where they’d all stop at a single floor, each with a letter in lights, in the outside glass, to spell:
B U S H
Except they got it screwed up, so it said:
B
U S H
So they dicked around with the elevators until the B finally landed, bobbing like Groucho’s duck, next to the U ... and it must have thrown off the schedule, because Bush was saying:
“I am going to be ... the next President of the United States ... and let me just say, before the balloons come down ...”
But balloons already were coming down, the dead ones that lost their air, picking up thirty stories of speed—trash from the sky, little rubber turds, falling on the heads of Bush’s old friends, who were all looking up like turkeys in the rain ... and the place got very noisy, and what Bush wanted to say ... was lost.
81
It All Began in Russell!
WHEN BOB CAME HOME a couple of nights before his announcement, November 9, brother Kenny Dole had to pick him up at the airport. Kenny and his wife, Anita, went to Great Bend. They had to wait—two planes ... Bob and Elizabeth flew separate planes. But it wasn’t any more than two or three hours for Kenny—no more than usual. He didn’t mind, though he groused about it the usual way. He always got the call when Bob needed fetching ... a voice on the phone from Washington: “Senator says pick him up in Hays, nine o’clock tomorrow night.” That’s all. No questions. No please or thank you. If Kenny knew the voice, maybe he’d say something.
“Is he bringin’ his sandals?”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“I thought Jesus Christ always wore sa
ndals.”
Kenny used to say he was going to start the BOB Club. “B-O-B stands for Brother of Bigshot.” But he was used to it. He probably would have been offended if they hadn’t called him, now that Bob was going to be President.
Kenny wouldn’t say that, of course. In Russell, it’s best not to talk about your dreams. But you could see the idea had got to him, like a flu making the rounds. Everybody had a touch of it, whether they’d admit it or not.
Russ Townsley, the newspaper chief, had been whipping up folks for months, trying to get all the businesses in town involved in Bob’s announcement, not to mention the Chamber, the Legion, Kiwanis. ... It got to be quite some pressure—like Russell had to pass this test for Bob, and for the country.
The whole nation would be watching, Russ said. But as the big Monday drew close, it was easier, the fever took hold: the kids in the high school choir and band were practicing ... their parents ordered signs for their storefronts, and bunting from Topeka ... Bob’s ex-wife Phyllis sent handsome handmade wooden buttons: DOLE ’88 (Bob’s Aunt Gladys Friesen sold them in Russell) ... in Kenny and Anita’s office on Main Street, you could buy tiny stone fence posts like the pioneers once carved in Kansas, except these said DOLE FOR PRESIDENT and sold for forty dollars a pair ... Dean Banker got a sign for the front of his department store: BOB DOLE SUITED UP HERE FIRST ... the men of the Russell Volunteer Fire Department polished the pumper they’d named The Doran Dole ... the Russell Record printed every hopeful poll that came over the wire, and readied two special sections with pictures of Bob, his family, his house, his school, his campaigns ... national reporters came to town in ones and twos, collecting “color,” which could be anything down-home, folksy, or Kansan—anything at all about the town—so it got to be like everyone in Russell had done something, just by living there, and knowing Bob (though many were hazy on Bob; it had been almost thirty years). ... It came clear to everyone that something big was happening, that it started with Russell, and people in the Chamber thought they ought to consider what would happen, you know, if it got to be like Plains, Georgia, or Abilene, with its museum for Ike ... so it wasn’t really politics—more like a civic thing, but emotional, because of the Bob Dole story ... which was the centerpiece of this festival, like a passion play the town was putting on, about Bob (and the apostles, who were the family, the exiled Phyllis, and Bub Dawson from the drugstore).
That Saturday night, when Bob got home, Kenny made sure to drive him up Main Street, so Bob could see the banners (IT ALL BEGAN IN RUSSELL!), the new mural, the storefronts, the grandstands, platforms ... then it was straight to Bina’s old house. It was late, Bob and Elizabeth had to rest. Kenny would be back early the next day, to take Bob to the graveyard.
Sister Gloria had gone out to clean off Bina and Doran’s headstones, and make sure there were fresh flowers. Doran had died in 1975, Bina eight years later. Gloria’s own cancer was under control from chemotherapy, but she had only one kidney, and her blood pressure was just shooting up. The problem was the family reunion that Sunday before announcement. Gloria had made a ham boat with twenty pounds of ham and pork—it was thirty pounds by the time she added twenty eggs and the rest of the trimmings. She’d made a loaf of cheese potatoes in the big electric roaster, and a load of candied sweet potatoes—from scratch, like Bina used to do. And two loaves of buttered French bread, a plate of pumpkin bread, a big black cherry salad, a cranberry-apple salad, fresh applesauce, a plate of cookies, a banana cream pie, and chocolate, cherry, and apple pies, a hundred-and-some cinnamon and pecan rolls, and homemade ice cream, with the corn starch, like they always had.
Then Kenny called and said he’d invited that cousin from the power company—he was a cousin, wasn’t he? Anyway, the fellow said he’d be delighted, and now he was bringing sixty more “cousins” ... so Kenny was yelling for help, and Gloria swung into a higher frenzy of cooking.
Gloria had a houseful, too, with her kids, their spouses and babies, all come back to town. And Aunt Gladys, Doran’s sister, had all her beds filled ... and then Bob asked her to take in Mrs. Kelikian. (She put her off on Faith and Harold Dumler, who weren’t even family, but there was no choice—and Faith would do a lovely job.) Then Robin wasn’t comfortable in Bina’s house, where nothing had changed—nothing had been moved—since Bina died. There were all the fussy matching drapes, with valences, and the carpets, and Doran’s favorite chair. But there was no more scent of honeysuckle, rose, wax, or baking bread ... no life. Robin thought it was creepy, like sleeping in a shrine. So she came to Gloria’s and asked if she could stay. Gloria didn’t have a spare inch, but she took Robin in, put her with her own girls.
After the graveyard, Bob and Elizabeth went to the Methodist Church, where three rows in front were roped off for them. Aunt Gladys was hoping for a word with Bob, after the service, but his back was turned—he was being interviewed. After that, it was Dawson Drug, which was packed with press and photographers, and then to the 4-H for the family reunion. There were more than two hundred people there, and it almost broke Gloria’s heart. Bob was working the whole time. He didn’t get to eat anything. They had red-checkered tablecloths ... and they were paper. There were six Republican women in the kitchen ... they didn’t know what to do with the food. The fourth cousins ate like they wouldn’t get another meal all year. Bob was busy shaking hands. He took more than an hour, working his way through the crowd, and then he was gone. Kenny had to take him to the hospital and the nursing home.
Elizabeth came over to Gloria’s. She was hungry again. Gloria fixed her some chicken noodle butterball. When Elizabeth finished, she said, “That shore was good!” And Gloria said, “Cherry pie?”
“Whah, yes!” (Gloria never could figure why that woman didn’t weigh three hundred pounds.)
That’s when Gloria got to ask how Bob was—she asked Elizabeth ... who said Bob was just saying, the other day, how pleased he was to be coming home to Russell. Elizabeth was sure the welcome had touched Bob’s heart.
Gloria was going to doll up and go to Bob’s party at the VFW that night—they were going to show Bob’s new video. But when the time came, Gloria didn’t feel well. ... Aunt Gladys got everybody in her house together—she had ten in tow—got them out to the VFW. But by nine, when she arrived, she couldn’t get in the door.
People were backed up from the door of the hall. It was dark inside. Everyone was watching the video. It was spectacular—all about Bob’s childhood, and Russell, Bina and Doran ... Bob went off to war, and came back, just broken bones and heart ... he picked himself up, and never forgot ... and by the end of the film, when he’s running for President, standing in a cornfield, making a speech, with the cornstalks eight feet tall around him, and that wonderful music welling up under his words—when he talked of opportunity, freedom, our future ... you were guaranteed to end up crying if you knew Bob, or his folks, or the town—or even if you didn’t, you felt like you did. Even the reporters stopped talking (there were hundreds staying over that night—some had to sleep in Hays). The people from Washington—staff and smart guys—you could almost see it dawn on them: this stuff they’d been saying, Dole and the heartland, small-town, hardworking ... it was real, here it was, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Post Number 6240, Russell, Kansas ... they were in it! And as the lights came up, everybody was talking at once—wasn’t that great! Did you see that picture of Bob, so skinny! ... And people who knew him, even slightly, felt they were part of something, something great was happening—no one left the hall ... except Bob and Elizabeth (who had to go, so Kenny took them) and Gladys—she got in the back door, saw all those strangers, and just went home.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said Dave Owen—first at the microphone on Main Street, early that Monday. “Good morning, and welcome to Russell, Kansas!” There was a cheer from the big crowd, shivering in shadow. The sun still hadn’t peeked over Banker’s Mercantile, to the left of the stage. The wind was blowing straight down Main Street, the temperat
ure was in the twenties, the air was frozen clear.
Up on stage, behind Dave Owen, stood Chuckie Grassley from Iowa, Bill Brock, Bob Ellsworth, and every Republican official from Kansas. To the right of the stage stood the Russell High School Bronco Pops Choir, which warmed up with its choral rendition of “Twist and Shout.” Then the emcee, Russ Townsley, got the mike and boomed out:
“Boy! On a morning like this, does anybody have any doubt they’re in Kansas?”
Behind Russ, Doran Dole’s old grain elevator was the first building to catch the sun. From the top of the tanks, a banner announced: RUSSELL, KANSAS, HOME OF BOB DOLE. Townsley was in a transport of local pride. “I say, ‘Hey, America!’ ” he yelled. “ ‘You take a good look at who we are!’ ”
Russ introduced Larry Ehrlich, Chairman of the Russell County GOP, who said: “We know he’s going to make it ...” Then Bob’s old friend and opponent, the gentlemanly former Governor, Bill Avery, stepped up to talk about three icons of Kansas Republicanism: Huck Boyd, Alf Landon, and Dwight Eisenhower. The Russell High School Bronco Marching Band followed up with a fight song, and the kids in the bleachers were waving little flags, as the sunshine, at last, lit them in sharp glare. Cheerleaders cued them:
“Go Bob go!
“Go Bob go!
“Eatem up! Eatem up!
“Go Bob go!”
When the band swung into “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” the Bobster emerged from Dawson Drug, stage right, and climbed onto the platform. He was wearing a gray topcoat and red power tie, and was bouncing to the music like Bob Crosby of the Bobcats. Elizabeth was splendid in purple. Robin matched entirely, in rose.
Russ Townsley read out the telegram received in Russell, in May of 1945. “The Secretary of War wants me to express our deep regret ...” Then, Bub Dawson was on stage: “If I can take you back forty-two years ...” Bub talked about the collection for Bob. “There was a cigar box on the counter,” Bub said, “with Bob Dole’s name on it.”
What It Takes Page 105
