Lessons My Father Taught Me

by Michael Reagan

  My father honestly didn’t care who got the credit for his achievements, such as restoring the American economy and ending the Cold War. But you and I should care deeply about whether he gets the credit. Why? Because historical truth matters. If American leaders and the American people are going to make wise decisions in the future, we need to know what has worked in the past. We need to know the political principles that always get results—and the ideological theories that always fail.

  History tells us that the economic program we call Reaganomics—lower taxes, limited government, and greater economic freedom—always produces an economic boom. It worked during the Harding–Coolidge years of the 1920s, the Kennedy–Johnson years of the 1960s, and the Reagan Eighties. The U.S. economy has been ailing ever since we abandoned Reaganomics. And we abandoned Reaganomics because of historical and political amnesia. We forgot what works—and even Republicans have failed to stand up for the most successful economic turnaround in American history.

  Historian Larry Schweikart, author of A Patriot’s History of the United States (2004), uses a so-called Reagan test to determine whether a history textbook is truthful or unfairly biased. You simply open the textbook to any section that discusses the presidency of Ronald Reagan, and the way the authors describe Reagan’s legacy tells you all you need to know about the book and its authors. For example, if the textbook gives Mikhail Gorbachev sole credit for ending the Cold War, you can bet that the book is equally dishonest on other subjects.3

  We need to have a clear understanding of my father’s principles and achievements in order to maintain our freedom, our prosperity, and our security for future generations. All Americans need to know the truth about the Reagan Eighties.

  Be scrupulously honest in everything you do and say. In your family life, in your business life, in your conversations with friends and neighbors, always tell the truth. Always own up to your mistakes. Prove you can be trusted to always tell the truth. Your reputation is at stake. Let people know you stand for the truth.

  When you overstate your case, you undermine your cause and your credibility. So stick to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Absolute honesty is not only your best defense, but your best offense is well.

  Sometimes I can’t help being amazed when I look back over the lessons in integrity my father taught me. Again and again, he told me how important it is to tell the truth, to respect my family name, and to guard my integrity and my reputation. Again and again, whenever I had tried to get away with lying or cheating, he reminded me that a good reputation takes years to build but moments to destroy. These lessons are hardly new or profound, yet every generation needs to be reminded of the importance of speaking and living the truth.

  What amazes me is that the man who tried to build in me a love for the truth was the same man who lived out a love for the truth on a world stage. Every lesson he tried to teach me, he exemplified in a magnified way when he told America the truth—and won America’s trust.

  4

  Live to Influence Others

  WHEN I WAS A boy, I wanted nothing more than to be like my dad. More than anything, I wanted to be as rugged as he was and to ride like he did. Above all, I wanted to shoot like he did. Of course, there’s more to shooting a gun than pulling the trigger. The first thing Dad taught me was that there’s no such thing as an “unloaded” gun. A lot of people have been accidentally killed by supposedly “unloaded” guns. He also taught me to never point a gun in a direction that would cause injury and never aim at anything I don’t intend to shoot.

  I learned to shoot with Dad’s .22 semiautomatic. Later, he gave me a .22 caliber Remington single-shot rifle and taught me to use it. I couldn’t have been more proud. After our chores and before we went swimming, we’d drive around the ranch in his Jeep and shoot ground squirrels.

  Dad had two reasons for shooting squirrels. First and foremost, he was protecting his thoroughbreds. Squirrels dig holes and it would have been easy for a horse to stumble in a hole and break a leg. Dad’s second reason for taking me to shoot squirrels was to teach me patience. The squirrels would scurry into their holes and hide there. Dad and I would sit and watch those holes, just waiting. After five or ten minutes, I’d get impatient and say, “I’m tired of this. Let’s go find some other squirrels.”

  “Shhh,” my father would whisper. “Wait. Get ready.”

  So we’d sit in the shade and wait. Neither of us said a word. Fifteen minutes would go by. Thirty minutes. An hour. Eventually a furry little head would pop up out of the hole. Sometimes Dad would take the shot; sometimes I would. In time, I got to be very good with that .22. Dad was teaching me patience because he knew that was my greatest need. To this day, I get anxious waiting in line at the theater or the grocery store. Though Dad tried to teach me, I never learned patience.

  In the fall of 1958, a new Western premiered on ABC, The Rifleman starring Chuck Connors. The hero used a lever-action Winchester rifle, which I thought was great—so Dad bought me a lever-action .22. I soon found I was a much better shot with my single-shot rifle than with a lever action. Why? Because the single shot required patience. I had to take careful aim, control my breathing, and apply steady force to the trigger. I only had one shot, and I had to make it count. With the lever-action rifle, I had more bullets. If I missed my first shot, I could pump the lever until I emptied the gun—a sloppy way to shoot. I thought it was cool to shoot Rifleman style—but I was a better marksman with the single-shot rifle.

  To give you an idea what kind of marksman Dad was, on more than one occasion, I saw him shoot a running ground squirrel from a moving Jeep. But most of the time, we’d drive out to one of the places where the squirrels proliferated—and we’d wait. And wait. We wouldn’t say a word; we’d just listen to the silence. In the process, I learned patience. I learned to enjoy the silence. I learned to enjoy just sitting beside my father, waiting for the next squirrel to appear, waiting for the deafening crack of Dad’s gun.

  He set down some strict rules about shooting and especially about what I was allowed to shoot. Targets, ground squirrels, and nest-robbing scrub jays—that’s it. If Dad ever caught me shooting at blackbirds or sparrows, or if he caught me being careless with my gun in any way, he’d confiscate it for a few weeks. Dad also taught me how to clean, oil, and care for a gun. I treasured not only the time I spent shooting with him, but also the time we spent cleaning and maintaining our firearms.

  When I left home for Judson School in Arizona, Dad bought me a .243 hunting rifle and a 12-gauge shotgun. I still have that rifle. In 1963, I used it to hunt javelina on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation, and I brought down a 43½-pound sow—the largest javelina sow killed that year. I had it mounted and displayed in my apartment until someone stole it. I still go dove hunting every year with a 12-gauge shotgun. Everything Dad taught me about gun safety I have since taught to my son Cameron—a Reagan family tradition.

  I listened carefully to my father and watched everything he did. I wanted to have a confident, optimistic personality like his. I wanted to have his rugged charm. Most important of all, I wanted him to be proud of me. I never wanted to disappoint him.

  When people want to listen to you and follow your example, that’s called influence. My father, Ronald Reagan, had an incalculable influence on the lives of millions of people around the world. But long before he became a man of influence on the world stage, he had a deep and lasting impact on the lives of his children.

  And especially on the life of one Michael Edward Reagan.

  A Boy and His Horse

  My father famously said, “There’s nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.” And he instinctively knew that what is true for a man is true for a boy.

  I’ll never forget one special Saturday when I was nine years old. As we arrived at the Malibu ranch in Dad’s red station wagon, I saw a new horse in the corral. He was a beautiful golden palomino quarter horse with a white stripe down his face.

>   “Dad!” I shouted. “A new horse!”

  I jumped out of the car and ran to the corral for a closer look. I had learned to ride on Dad’s big thoroughbred, Baby, but this palomino was more my size.

  Dad came up behind me. “Well, what do you think? Would you like to ride him?”

  “You bet!”

  So Dad saddled the palomino and helped me into the saddle. Then he took the lanyard and led the horse around the corral. The question burning inside me as we loped around the corral was a question I didn’t dare ask out loud: Whose horse is he?

  Dad said, “Michael, would you ever want to have a horse of your own?”

  Would I? I wanted that horse more than anything I had ever wanted in my life.

  “Wow, Dad! Yes! Can I have this horse?”

  “Whoa, there, Michael. I meant, would you like to have a horse of your own—someday. But this horse belongs to another man. The man’s son is about your size, so we’ll get this horse used to being ridden by a boy your size and weight, so the man can give it to his son for Christmas. As long as we’re training him, you can ride him.”

  “Oh.”

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed, son. The horse doesn’t have a name. Would you like to name him?”

  I thought for a moment. “Can we call him Rebel?”

  Dad nodded. “Rebel it is.”

  I always looked forward to Saturdays when I could ride that palomino horse. One December day in 1954, I rode to the ranch with Dad. During the last mile of our drive, Dad said, “Michael, there’s something I need to tell you about Rebel.”

  My heart froze.

  “Remember, I told you that Rebel has another owner—a man and his boy. Well, that boy is going to get Rebel as a Christmas present.”

  “Did they take Rebel away?”

  “No, not yet. He’s still in his stall.”

  “Can I say good-bye to him?”

  “Of course you can, Michael.”

  Dad pulled the station wagon up near the stable. I got out of the car and raced to the stall—Rebel’s stall. I opened the top door, and Rebel poked his head out. He was freshly washed and beautiful. His coat shimmered like molten gold.

  Then I saw a big red bow someone had tied around his neck, along with a card that read, “Merry Christmas, Michael. Love, Dad and Nancy.”

  Dad followed me into the stable, grinning ear to ear.

  “Is it true, Dad? Rebel’s really mine?”

  “He’s all yours, Michael. Merry Christmas, son.”

  I whooped and jumped up and down. I spent most of that day riding, feeding, and grooming my Christmas present. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

  That night, I went back to Mom’s house and told her all about Rebel. I went to bed that night and couldn’t sleep. Finally, I crawled out of bed. Often, when I had trouble sleeping, I would sneak into my sister’s room to see if she was still awake. Many times throughout my childhood, Maureen and I had stayed up, talking to each other in whispers. She was my best friend, and she knew me better than anyone else. When I was scared or worried or just too excited to sleep, she could calm me down.

  I slipped out of my room and started down the hallway toward Maureen’s room—then I froze in my tracks. Mom was just walking out of her bedroom. In her arms were a brand-new saddle and bridle. She turned and saw me—and her eyes went wide.

  “Well, I had planned to surprise you with this.” She dropped the tack on the floor with a heavy thud. “Here’s my Christmas present for you, Michael. You can go down and put it under the tree yourself.”

  So I picked up the saddle and bridle and carried them downstairs. I set them carefully next to the tree, beside the other gifts. There was a card attached to the stirrup. In Mom’s flowing handwriting, it read, “These are for Rebel. Ride him well. All my love, Mom.”

  Dad saw Rebel as much more than a Christmas present for his son. Yes, he enjoyed watching how happy it made me—but that horse was part of Dad’s plan to influence my life, to teach me important lessons, and to help me grow in my character, my life skills, and my physical and emotional maturity.

  Few people were more keenly aware of the benefits of riding than Dad. Owning a horse involves much more than riding, just as owning a gun involves much more than shooting. A horse owner must work hard and be responsible to look after the horse’s health and grooming. Dad instructed me in caring for Rebel. He told me I needed to be responsible and disciplined.

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but Dad was using Rebel to teach me character qualities of patience, self-discipline, accountability, and kindness to animals. He wanted me to learn the skills needed to safely and responsibly control a thousand pounds of horseflesh. He also knew that riding a horse is good for one’s health. A rider works a lot of muscles while riding, which is why horseback riding often leaves people feeling tired and sore. And of course, a horse owner gets a great upper body workout while grooming the horse and cleaning out the stalls.

  It was character-building for me to not only ride Rebel, but to care for him and to clean up after him. At the time, all I knew was that Dad was giving me the best gift anyone could want. Looking back, I realize that Rebel was part of Dad’s plan to help me grow into responsible manhood. I truly loved that horse. In the process of caring for Rebel, I gained strength and confidence that helped me endure the wounds of my childhood.

  I miss that horse, and today my yellow Labrador is named Rebel.

  A Manipulative Ploy

  As I moved into adolescence, I became increasingly rebellious. I loved Mom, but there was a huge obstacle in our relationship that she knew nothing about. On a number of occasions, beginning when I was in the third grade, I was molested by a day camp counselor. This evil man controlled me with guilt and fear, threatening to show my parents some pictures he’d taken of me. I kept the secret and didn’t tell a soul until I was in my early forties. (I’ve written about these incidents, including my redemption and recovery, in two books, On the Outside Looking In and Twice Adopted.)

  Because of the molestation, I was afraid of being in an all-boys Catholic school. I didn’t want to be in an all-male environment, which only reminded me of what I had gone through. There was so much fear in my life, and I couldn’t tell Mom why I was afraid and why I didn’t want to go to school. Some Sunday nights when Mom was working, she’d send a cab to pick me up and take me to school. When the cab arrived, I’d be hiding on the roof. My sister Maureen and Carrie, our housekeeper, would find me and talk me down from the roof.

  Mom was at her wits end trying to understand my rage, much of which was rooted in guilt and fear because of the molestation. I was scared to death that Mom would find out what the day camp counselor had done to me, and she would hate me for it. Paradoxically, I actually provoked conflict with Mom out of my love for her. I wanted her to send me away so that she would never find out about the molestation. So I battled her and rebelled against her in an attempt to protect her from the awful truth I carried inside.

  She sent me to a priest for counseling, but I steadfastly refused to cooperate with the priest or discuss with him why I was so rebellious. “Talk to me, Michael,” he said. “Let me help you.”

  “Father John,” I said, “if I want to tell God something, do I have to go through you? Can’t I just talk to God?”

  “Certainly, you can always tell God anything.”

  “Then I’m not going to tell you.”

  At the end of the session, Father John told Mom, “I can’t do anything for your son. He refuses to talk to me.”

  Mom’s next step was to send me to a Beverly Hills child psychiatrist. The prospect of going to a psychiatrist terrified me. I was about fourteen years old and I thought that only crazy people went to psychiatrists. The whole field of psychiatry seemed shrouded in mystery, and I was afraid that this doctor might uncover my darkest secrets.

  Over the course of four or five sessions, the psychiatrist gave me all sorts of tests and asked me countless questions,
which I answered guardedly. He told me that everything I said to him would be kept strictly confidential—but I didn’t believe him. I suspected that the psychiatrist was a friend of Mom’s and I was sure he’d report to her anything I said. I decided to test my theory—and use the psychiatrist to my own advantage.

  In one of our final sessions, I told the psychiatrist, “Do you want to know why I don’t get along with Mom? She won’t let me spend time with Dad. I only get to see my father every other weekend. I want to go live in his house. It’s that simple.”

  It was a manipulative ploy—and it worked. The psychiatrist must have relayed my words to Mom because the next time Dad came to pick me up and take me to the ranch, he said, “Michael, how would you like to come live with Nancy and me?”

  Mom had probably told Dad to make it seem it was his idea—but I was sure my ploy with the psychiatrist had worked. From my immature perspective, I was convinced I had won. I didn’t think about how much I had hurt my mother by choosing Dad’s home over hers. All I thought about was that I would finally get to be with Dad.

  So in 1959, I moved in with Dad and Nancy at their General Electric showcase home on the bluff in Pacific Palisades. Dad was at the height of his eight-year tenure as host of General Electric Theater on CBS. By that time, Dad and Nancy had two children—Patti, age seven, and Ron, a newborn. I was looking forward to being their big brother.

  I had assumed that by moving in with Dad, I wouldn’t have to go to boarding school anymore. But Mom had made arrangements for me to attend Loyola High School in the fall. Though I lived in Dad’s home, I could only be with the family on weekends.