by Jo Haldeman
I glance at my watch. It’s 6:00 a.m. in Los Angeles, and I’m anxious to talk to Non and the children. Everyone is jazzed up. They each get on a different extension and talk at the same time. First, we discuss the returns, and then come the questions. “What happens now? Will we get to go to the inauguration? Will Dad be working in the White House? Will we have to sell this house? What about schools?”
“I have no idea what happens right now,” I tell them. “Dad hopes to be a part of the Nixon White House, and if that’s the case, yes, we would move to Washington after you complete this school year. We could be there up to eight years.” I’m glad Bob and I have already discussed these logistics. It gives me confidence in reassuring the children.
9:25 a.m. The white phone rings. Bob’s voice is hoarse. “We’re having a small victory celebration. Bring the other ladies with you and come on up.”
At the penthouse, Jeanne, Nancy, Dee, and I face a crush of bodies looking every bit as bedraggled as we do. The one exception is Bob, who appears remarkably fresh. His suit is unwrinkled, his tie is straight, and he has even shaved. With an exuberant hug, he lifts me off my feet. In our excitement, we talk in shorthand.
“We won.” “Congratulations.” “Long night.” “Exhausted.” “Children?” “Excited.” “Mom?” “Thrilled!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the newly elected president of the United States heading toward us. I freeze. As the prospective leader of the free world, he suddenly looks different. He’s taller and more formidable. There’s an aura about him.
I frantically grab Bob’s hand. “What do I call Mr. Nixon now?”
“Mr. President-elect,” he says without faltering.
“I have to say all of that? It’s so awkward.”
“All of that,” Bob repeats firmly.
Flustered, I give a partial curtsy as Nixon pats Bob on the back and smiles at me. I wait for him to say something presidential.
“Well, how’s the drinking member of the family?”
“Congratulations, Mr. President-elect,” I say, looking him right in the eye.
The words come out perfectly.
Alone in the Crowd
On Wednesday morning, November 6, The New York Post’s six-inch headline screams, “NIXON IS THE ONE.” Hubert Humphrey concedes at 11:30 a.m., and within half an hour, Richard Nixon is on his way downstairs to make his first public appearance as the president-elect.
In the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, I am swallowed up in a sea of jubilant campaign workers waiting to cheer their hero. A wild roar surges across the room as the Nixon family walks onto the stage. Forming a line, the president-elect, Mrs. Nixon, Tricia, Julie, and David hold hands. They seem to be saying, “Here we are, the all-American family who made it into the White House.”
I search for Bob. Straining to see past the victory balloons and Nixon signs, I finally spot him standing in the wings on the left side. With his arms folded across his chest and a slight smile on his face, he reminds me of a proud football coach. His expression is serene. Down on the ballroom floor, surrounded by bedlam, I feel out of sync. I know I’m tired, but this is different. I’m all by myself, an outsider looking in.
The president-elect addresses the throng. His words pass in and out of my consciousness. Something about “winning being more fun than losing” and “a great philosophy is never one without defeat, but always one without fear.” The crowd cheers at every pause. “I saw many signs in this campaign,” Nixon continues, “but the one that touched me the most was the one I saw in Deshler, Ohio. Standing in a crowd, a teenager held up a sign saying, ‘Bring Us Together.’”
Bring us together. I latch onto the words. Looking up at Bob, I feel as if the two of us were standing on opposite shores. An impassioned mob of people separates us. Bring us together…
Julie presents her father with a piece of crewelwork that she made during the campaign. It’s the Great Seal of the United States. I smile. The gesture adds a sense of poignancy to the scene. President-elect Nixon raises both arms high above his head and gives his victory wave. The crowd roars its approval as he and his family walk off the stage.
It’s over. People start to leave, and I’m surrounded by chaos. A woman with a Nixon sash across her ample bosom steps on my foot. A balloon pops behind me. I look around for Bob. He’s gone. I’m alone in the crowd.
Historically Significant
The newly elected president and his top staff plan to leave immediately for Key Biscayne, Florida, where the Nixons have vacationed for the past seventeen years. Wives are included, and Bob explains that the trip will be part celebration, part vacation, and part work. I’m excited, and I’m glad that Bob alerted me to this possibility earlier. I packed for the occasion, and Non agreed to stay on with our children.
For security reasons, the president-elect cannot travel commercially. The government has assigned him an Air Force 707 jet, but as soon as I step on board I can see that something’s different. We have been given a converted cargo plane, and it has no windows. Someone speculates that this must be a political “dirty trick,” but Bob thinks that it’s just an oversight. He tells me that if President Johnson had been aware of the situation, he never would have allowed it to happen.
At this point, I don’t care. I’ve been without sleep for thirty hours, and I’m still wearing the same clothes I had on when we left Los Angeles. We can’t get to Florida fast enough. The engines roar, we buckle our seat belts, and our seats vibrate. Bob becomes absorbed in a New York Times crossword puzzle, and I pull out my needlepoint. The steward comes down the aisle and, much to my amazement, informs us that we will be taking off shortly. With no windows, I was convinced we were already airborne.
Before heading to Florida, we put down at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland so Nixon can pay his respects to former president Dwight Eisenhower. “Ike” is in Walter Reed Hospital with a heart condition, and the visit is historically significant to the president-elect.
The flight to Miami seems endless and claustrophobic. Playing bridge with Bob and Carol Finch helps to pass the time. When we finally arrive, I can hardly wait to get outside. The door opens, and warm air floods the cabin. In the soft glow of the moonlight, I can see gently swaying palm trees in the distance. At the side of the tarmac, a small group of enthusiastic supporters cheers and waves “Nixon’s the One” pennants. I make an effort to smile and wave back.
The next morning, the sun beats down on our villa at the Key Biscayne Hotel. Normally early risers, Bob and I are still asleep when the phone rings at 10:00 a.m. Before Bob finishes shaving, his twenty-three-year-old assistant, Larry Higby, knocks on our door. As the two of them confer over room service breakfast, the phone rings. Soon, people are coming and going. Nixon has much to accomplish over the next seventy-five days. His administration must be in place by the inauguration on January 20.
When Bob tells me that there are a zillion appointments to make on every level—including the cabinet, White House staff, ambassadors, and all the government agencies and departments—I’m more than curious to know what role he will play. He doesn’t seem to be concerned and hasn’t mentioned it.
A lovely morning turns into an intense work session, and I slip outside to join the other wives on the beach in front of our villa. Jeanne Ehrlichman, Nancy Ziegler, Dolores Higby, and I don’t have political backgrounds. None of us has ever lived in Washington, so we turn to the “old pros” in our group to explain government protocol, as well as the ins and outs of life in Washington. Carol Finch and Betty Harlow give us tips on real estate, schools, churches, and the weather. They don’t mention the one thing that’s uppermost in our thoughts. No one dares to speculate on what part her husband might play in the new administration.
Later, Jeanne tells me that her family is happy in Seattle, and she doesn’t think that they are interested in moving to DC. She’s involved in community proje
cts, John’s law practice is thriving, and their five children love their home on the water at Hunt’s Point. I’m surprised. If Bob is given the opportunity to become part of the White House staff, I don’t see how he could pass it up. Like Jeanne, I love our life in LA, but I wouldn’t let that hold us back.
On our first full night in Key Biscayne, the president-elect plans another historically significant event—a “victory dinner.” He wants it to be in symbolic contrast to the gathering that he and his staff had eight years ago, following his loss to John Kennedy.
“I sense an impending disaster,” Bob grumbles, as soon as he hears about the dinner. “I haven’t the foggiest notion who’s supposed to be organizing this.”
There will be seventeen guests, and Bob wants to get to the restaurant and check on the arrangements before the others arrive. He is anxious to leave as soon as he’s dressed, but I discover a run in one of my stockings and have to replace it. When I reappear, I get the steely-eyed Haldeman look.
At the Jamaica Inn, we are escorted to the English Pub. My heart sinks. Instead of being seated outside, where we can enjoy the sunset on this balmy evening, we are in a dark private dining room with a depressing red and black décor. A solitary round table, slightly off-center, is set for us. There are no flowers, place cards, or wine glasses.
Bob turns to the maître d’ and asks if he has something that could be used for place cards. When the maître d’ obligingly gives him a reservation pad, Bob hands it to me along with his felt tip pen.
“I’ll tell you the names, and you print them as fast as you can.” As Bob dictates, I write. Each name appears on the back side of a slip of paper labeled: “date, server, table, persons, check no.” As soon as I complete a “place card,” Bob folds the paper in half and sets it on the table. He decides who sits next to whom.
The guests start arriving before I’m finished, but Bob calmly keeps things moving. There is no cocktail hour. Nixon wants everyone to be seated immediately. The Ehrlichmans are late, because they took naps and overslept. Carol Finch’s teapot leaks, dripping hot water on the president-elect’s left knee. We use water glasses to make our toasts. Nixon repeatedly tells us that he wants the theme song from Victory at Sea to be played as loudly and as often as possible at the various inaugural events.
The evening is awkward, but it isn’t the “disaster” that Bob feared it might be.
When Bob and I return to our villa, we place a call to the children. Instead of going right to bed, the two of us decide to take a walk on the beach. Bob removes his shoes and socks and throws his suit jacket and tie on the bed. I take off my shoes and stockings, and we step outside. Moonlight reflects off the ocean, and the air is warm. Bob pauses to search the sky for his favorite constellation and has no trouble finding the three stars in Orion’s belt. We hold hands and walk slowly, leaving a trail of footprints in the damp sand.
Tonight, we have each other. There’s no reason to hurry.
Seashells
The next four days fly by. Bob works, and I play. I live in shorts and bathing suits, while he wears a sport coat and tie whenever he meets with Nixon, and a dark suit on more formal occasions. This attire seems out of place in such a tropical setting, but the respect it shows is important to the president-elect.
The Nixons are staying in a bungalow not far from the Key Biscayne Hotel, and Bob is there much of the time. He and the president-elect have an extremely close working relationship and spend hours together daily. Socially, however, their relationship is surprisingly formal and impersonal. I am amused to observe this on Sunday morning as Bob and I eat breakfast by the pool.
“Good morning, Bob,” the president-elect says, nodding as he strolls by with his family on the way home from church.
Returning the nod, Bob replies, “Good morning, Mr. President-elect.”
The Nixons continue on their way, and Bob and I resume our breakfast.
In contrast, my renewed relationship with Jeanne Ehrlichman flourishes. Bob and I met John and Jeanne when the four of us were undergraduates at UCLA. Several years later, our paths crossed again, when John attended Stanford Law School and Bob worked at J. Walter Thompson in San Francisco. Jeanne and I have not seen each other since then. On a two-hour walk to the lighthouse, we reminisce and speculate. Along the shoreline, we search for seashells, saving the prettiest.
“Let’s keep these,” Jeanne says. “Years from now, it’ll be fun to have them as reminders of this special time together.”
“They’ll always be with me,” I promise.
◆
The first appointment of the Nixon administration is announced on our final day in Florida. Rose Mary Woods, Nixon’s secretary for the past seventeen years, will serve as personal secretary to the president of the United States. When I congratulate her, I can’t help but wonder what Bob’s role will be and when his appointment will be announced.
Before leaving, I pull open the sliding door of our villa and step out onto the lanai. I will miss this beautiful setting with its white sand beach and sparkly ocean. But I will miss being with Bob even more. We are going our separate ways. Over the next three months, he will be living in New York City, where he will work full-time on the transition. I will be headed home.
As Bob meticulously packs his suitcase, he pauses and looks up. Our eyes lock, and I sense a deep inner confidence in him. We both know that a new chapter in our lives is about to begin.
Transition
I return to California by myself, and Bob accompanies the Nixons on their flight to Washington. Tomorrow, while the incoming and outgoing presidents and their wives get together, Bob will be meeting in the White House with Johnson’s acting chief of staff. Chief of staff. Could that be Bob’s role? A top managerial job in the White House would be a perfect fit for him.
On Wednesday, November 13, Bob calls from Nixon’s transition headquarters at the Hotel Pierre. He tells me that the president-elect’s second appointment is going to be announced soon and I should listen to the news.
When the newscaster says that my husband, Harry Robbins Haldeman, has been appointed assistant to the president, White House chief of staff, I’m overjoyed. Although I had considered this possibility, now that I hear it, I have trouble believing it. I’m so proud of Bob and excited for our family. When I ask him what exactly this entails, he unhesitatingly recites his new job description.
“My primary responsibility will be to enable the president to function more effectively. With no independent schedule of my own, I’ll oversee the administration of the White House. That includes the president’s schedule, as well as the flow of both paperwork and people in and out of the Oval Office.”
True to form, Bob is concise and to the point. When he adds that he will be available to the president at all times, operating at his beck and call, I know him well enough to take him literally. He’s saying that his work will take priority over the children and me, and momentarily, I’m concerned. Then I remind myself how much of a family man Bob is. Certainly, being part of the White House won’t change our routine at home that much.
◆
Bob and I have always worked as a team in raising our children. Now that he is living in New York, I miss his hands-on help in parenting. Communicating once again by long-distance phone calls, I try to be upbeat. But often that’s not easy.
Today in particular has been filled with frustration, and for the last twelve hours, I’ve done nothing but nag the children. Thanksgiving and Christmas are almost here, and I have to sell our home, purchase a new house in Washington, find schools for Hank, Peter, and Ann, follow up on college choices for Susan, and pack for the move.
I’m tired of handling things on my own. Needing reassurance, I reread a letter Bob wrote to me when he left on the campaign. His words of support encourage me once again.
Hi Jo,
After a tearful farewell, I’m sitting on the pl
ane… I know that you’ll be doing double duty as both parents, and that in many ways this period is going to be tougher for you at home than it is for me.
In spite of my constant flow of comments and suggestions on the subject of dealing with our four characters, I have absolute and complete confidence in your handling of anything that may arise. Just don’t take it too seriously…
I’m very proud and grateful for your marvelous willing acceptance of this one more disruption of our lives. It would be impossible to do without your attitude. See you in a couple of weeks.
All my love, always,
Bob
◆
On Thanksgiving night, Bob calls from his apartment at the Wyndam Hotel. His voice sounds wistful as he tells me how much he misses the family, but he adds that he had a surprise visit. The president-elect called him at eight this morning and asked if he could come by. “He stayed for two hours,” Bob says in amazement.
“Nixon came over to your little apartment?” I question. “On Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, I think he just needed to get away for a while.” Bob chuckles. “Word got out that the president-elect was here, and the entire hotel staff lined up outside to greet him. The poor manager was so excited he was shaking. He couldn’t even hold his camera still enough to take a picture. It was pretty funny.”
December 1968
On a foggy afternoon in early December, the children and I head for the airport to pick up Bob. The president-elect plans to spend a few days in Los Angeles, and we are given VIP passes onto the tarmac to greet his plane. Shivering in the fog, we unfurl a ten-foot homemade banner, saying “Welcome Home—Bob Haldeman!” Bob smiles and waves as soon as he sees us.
