by Jo Haldeman
A few feet from the dock, the driver suddenly accelerates, and Bob is thrown off balance. With its siren wailing, the boat flies across the bay, breaking the strictly enforced five-mile-an-hour speed limit. A rough wake creates havoc for other boats. The sleepy-eyed pelican spreads his wings and takes flight.
This evening, after the Coast Guard delivers Bob home again, he quickly changes into faded blue shorts and a madras shirt. With a bowl of Fritos and a beer, he pauses at the round table in the living room where Hank and Peter are playing a game of Risk.
“That was some commute this morning, Dad,” Hank comments, as Peter moves his armies on the board and captures Kamchatka.
“Well, that was the first and the last of it,” Bob says. “I told the Coast Guard they’re to stick to the speed limit.” He takes a swallow of beer. “And no sirens!”
The boys and I exchange glances. Might there be a slight chance that their father actually enjoyed being “His Royal Highness” for a few minutes this morning?
The Presidents’ Men
A heavy fog creeps across the bay on Saturday morning, August 16. As I lie in bed, I hear the low, deep calls of the foghorn in the distance. The president is golfing this weekend, and Bob has both today and tomorrow off. Although this trip has been billed as a “working vacation,” he hasn’t had much time off. Even when he’s here with us, the White House switchboard is always able to reach him. The fog lifts after breakfast, and I find Bob reading on the front porch. A long cord stretches from the living room to a white phone under his chaise.
He looks up. “Jo, we need to talk.”
We need to talk. These are the same words that Bob used when we went for that unforgettable sail last summer. Dragging a chaise over to him, I’m curious to hear what he has to say.
Bob puts down his book. “It’s been seven months since I started working at the White House, and by now, you have a pretty good idea what my job’s all about. You’ve also been exposed to some of the hardships that go along with it.”
I nod in agreement, thinking of the president’s demands on him and Bob’s long working hours, lack of a vacation, cut in salary, and separation from the family. On the other hand, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, which far outweighs any of the negatives.
Bob shifts positions and continues, “When you and the kids are living in Washington, I want Sundays to be family time. I’ve asked Larry to set those days aside on my calendar so we can—”
The white phone rings, catching Bob in mid-sentence. His left hand drops down, and he fumbles for the receiver. While he listens, his right fingers drum on the arm of the chaise. Looking annoyed, he issues a slew of directives in an irritated tone.
“Jeez, Larry, how many times do I have to tell you? All you’ve gotta do is to come up with a sandy beach, and it’s gotta have privacy. There must be someone around who can take care of this for the president. It doesn’t take a whole lot of brains to get this staffed out, you know.”
I don’t like hearing Bob talk like this to his young assistant. Bob prides himself on the efficient way he manages things, but his manner can be harsh and demeaning. In advertising, his secretary described him as an “exacting but fair taskmaster.” I assume he runs the White House that same precise way, but from what I’m seeing, he’s becoming more demanding and less sensitive. Larry worked for Bob at J. Walter Thompson; consequently, he’s used to Bob’s way of operating. Fortunately, Larry seems to take the criticism in stride and appears to remain devoted to him.
Bob hangs up and pushes the phone back under the chaise. His annoyed expression vanishes, and his tone changes. He continues our conversation exactly where he left off. “We can have family dinner on Sunday nights. I’ll barbecue steaks or chicken and make a Caesar salad. I’ve been—”
The phone rings again. For a second time, Bob’s arm goes down, and the white receiver comes up. “Look, Ron,” he says, using the same belittling tone with the press secretary. “The president needs his privacy. That means no media when he goes swimming. Got it? No media. Handling the press is your job, remember? Larry’s job is to staff out a beach with no rocks. It can’t be any clearer than that.”
I’m uncomfortable listening to Bob berate Ron, and I resent the white phone with its long cord running along the porch. It connects Bob to this other world; it’s his “umbilical cord.”
The conversation ends, and once again, Bob returns to me. “As you know, Jo, I’ve been putting in ridiculously long hours at the White House. But when you and the kids move, I don’t want work to interfere with my time with the family. That time together is important. And I’ve made it clear to my staff that they should get home at a reasonable hour each night.”
“I’m sure their wives appreciate that,” I say.
“Also, I wanted to talk to you about our routine at home. Unless you need me to take part in the usual social events, I’d prefer to avoid them. I don’t want to feel pressured to attend school functions, neighborhood parties, and church every Sunday.” Bob pauses to apply ChapStick to his lips. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I can handle all of that on my own.”
When I ask about entertaining, Bob surprises me by saying that he’s interested in having occasional, small dinner parties, which would include other members of the White House staff. He tells me that we will have many opportunities to attend various White House functions.
Reaching under his chaise, Bob pulls out a book, The Presidents’ Men. “Patrick Anderson has written about the careers of White House assistants since FDR,” he says. “After reading about how their commitment took such a toll on their families, I realize how much is going to fall on your shoulders.”
“Look, Bob, you don’t have to worry about me,” I interject. “The children and I are really lucky to have a father and a husband who has such an incredible job. I mean it. You’re the one who deserves our full support.” Our eyes meet. “You don’t have to tell me how hard your job is. But it’s for the highest cause, and the whole thing will be over in eight years at the most.”
“It’s just that I think we should go into this with our eyes wide open,” Bob says, putting the book back under the chaise.
“We are. You’ve thought of everything, and I’m not worried. If something should come up, the two of us can handle it. We’ve got our wonderful family…and, more importantly, we have our faith.” I pause. “Would it help if I read Anderson’s book?”
“No!” he answers emphatically. “It’s pretty dry…not your sort of thing.”
The following morning, everyone is up and out early. It’s quiet, with the exception of the steady clink of a halyard hitting against the metal mast of the neighbor’s sailboat. With a twinge of guilt, I take The Presidents’ Men from the nightstand and curl up in one of the wing chairs in the living room. Scanning the pages, I make a note of every reference to a presidential aide that I can find.
The aide must be willing to be used as a political lightning rod to draw criticism away from the president…
The aide will almost certainly develop an enemy or two among his fellow staff members, his rivals in the harem…
The aide must be willing to subject himself to another man’s interests, to accept another man’s decisions, to run another man’s errands, to be permanently number-two…
The president, when he leaves office, has at least been president; the assistant, when he leaves, has been—what? A man who stood in the shadows of power, who played a mysterious role in a complicated process, a man who got little credit for his successes and ample blame for his mistakes, a man who will seem a braggart if he seeks credit, but whose good works will soon be forgotten if he does not…
A president’s trusted aide can attain power and glory, but the power is precarious, and the glory may become tinged with notoriety, for there are many dangers inherent in his position. The sc
rutiny of the press will magnify both the aide’s virtues and his faults…
As the aide departs from the White House, bloody but not quite bowed, he must watch with envy as the new president’s team marches in—crisp, confident, eager to clean up the mess in Washington, to get the country moving again…
Patrick Anderson doesn’t paint a very pretty picture, and I can understand why Bob doesn’t want me to read the book. As I look at the list of pitfalls, however, I don’t see how most of them would apply to him. I can’t imagine his ever being “scrutinized” by the press or striving for power and glory. I’m sure if there were even a hint of a scandal or any misconduct, he would deal with it openly and impersonally.
Stretching, I close the book and return it to the nightstand.
◆
At long last, that time has come. It’s the last week in August, and I’m standing alone in our empty house on Muirfield Road. A hazy sun casts elongated shadows on an enormous Allied moving van as it negotiates the turn at the bottom of the driveway. Its cavernous interior holds everything we own.
Groping for a handkerchief wadded up in the pocket of my grubby Levi’s, I wipe away a tear. This forty-two-year-old house, with its weathered shingles and six large white columns, is an odd combination of elegance and funkiness, but for four and a half years, it has been our home. I’m sad that we had to sell it. Living here has been a wonderful period in our lives, and I linger just long enough to say goodbye.
Jo and Bob Haldeman at a White House state dinner, April 10, 1970.
Photo by Ollie Atkins, White House Photographer
Part Two
The White House
Super Non
September 1969
The early morning air on Thursday, September 4, is hot and oppressive. The pungent scent of boxwood surrounds me, and I take deep breaths. I associate the fragrance with having lived in the East many years ago, and I love it. Standing at my post at the front door of 5330 Chamberlin Avenue in Chevy Chase, Maryland, I watch a large black and orange moving van pull up and park at the curb. As furniture pours out, I call out where each item goes. The sun rises higher, and the humidity becomes almost unbearable. Sweating, I worry about Non, who insists on making up all ten of the beds.
At noon, a station wagon stops in front of the house, and Jeanne Ehrlichman climbs out. Carrying a large picnic basket, she surprises us with lunch.
“Since moving to Washington, I feel like Cinderella,” she tells us as she unpacks fried chicken and homemade brownies. “I spend half my days in grubby work clothes—concentrating on the children, the house, and the garden. Then at night, I live like royalty. A White House car picks me up and whisks me off to join John at a black tie dinner at some embassy. When I get there, I’m still trying to get the dirt out from under my fingernails.”
The Ehrlichmans bought a home in Great Falls, Virginia, at the time of the inauguration. Jeannie has been living here for eight months, and I hang on her every word. It’s hard to believe that I, too, will soon be attending functions at embassies and the White House.
In the meantime, Non and I work to get the house in order. Bob’s mother is a tiger. She works nonstop each day until I tell her it’s time to quit. On Sunday night, when it’s time to leave for a celebratory dinner, I can’t find her anywhere. After calling her name and knocking on her door, I step inside her room. A yellow linen dress is carefully laid out on the bed, tan Ferragamo shoes are placed side by side on the floor, and a gold charm bracelet is spread out on the dresser. The only place left is the bathroom, where at last I find her. Super Non has fallen sound asleep in the bathtub.
Monday, September 8, is move-in day for the Haldeman family, and the first to arrive are our four dogs. After boarding at the White House kennel for the past week, our Dalmatian and three pugs excitedly explore their new home. Each has a bed in the kitchen, and a new doggy door opens into the backyard.
In the late afternoon, I eagerly await the children’s arrival. A meatloaf is in the oven, and tapioca is cooling on the kitchen counter. Non bustles in and out of the rooms, making a final inspection. Finally, a sleek black Mercury sedan turns the corner and stops at our front walk. Without waiting for the White House driver to open the doors, Susan, Hank, Peter, and Ann spill out. Dropping their bags in the entry, the children start to look around. Before I know it, Ann has let the dogs out of the kitchen, and bedlam ensues. With four dogs and four children going in every direction, it’s as if we have always lived here.
Camp David
Non returns to California, and life with Bob settles into a routine. Every weekday morning, a White House car arrives at exactly 7:15 a.m. to get him. Larry Higby and Dwight Chapin are already in the car, and the three of them use the twenty-minute commute to the White House to review their daily schedules. At night, Bob returns home about 7:30 p.m.
At forty-two, Bob is managing the largest White House staff in history. He has three aides in his personal office, as well as three secretaries. Eight other White House aides report directly to him. Bob has already established a reputation for running a tight ship. At 8:15 a.m., he has a White House staff meeting, followed by a one-on-one meeting with the president in the Oval Office. The two meet again at the end of the day.
Meanwhile, my focus is on the children and their schools. Susan doesn’t leave for Stanford until September 22, but the other children start this week with a combination of orientation programs and classes. Hank is a junior at St. Albans, Peter is in the seventh grade at Sidwell Friends, and Ann is a fifth grader at National Cathedral School. Filling out the many registration forms, I am self-conscious about writing “The President” as Bob’s employer and “The White House” as his place of employment.
◆
On Thursday, September 18, Bob spends the day in New York with the president. When he returns home, it’s late, and I’m in bed, reading. His footsteps are heavy as he comes up the stairs. Putting down my book, I watch as he wearily removes his tie and pulls off his shoes and socks.
“The president’s going to Camp David this weekend,” he says. “Do you and the children wanna go?”
“My gosh,” I say, trying to grasp what Bob just said. “Are you kidding? We’d love to go.”
“This will be a good time for you to see the place. I’ll be going by chopper with the Nixons. Are you okay driving with the kids?”
“Of course. That won’t be a problem.”
I try to read my book, but my mind is spinning. We are going to Camp David. Just the president, the first lady…and us…
The next afternoon, we are on our way. After driving through the Maryland countryside for about an hour, we come to Catoctin Mountain Park. As the road starts to twist and turn, we are sure that Camp David can’t be much further.
Susan spots the simple wood sign, which is virtually camouflaged by trees. Making a right turn, I follow a paved road through the woods for about a mile. Arriving at an unpretentious guardhouse, we find two marines splendidly attired in full dress uniform. They snap to attention the minute our dirty station wagon comes to a stop. Rolling down the window, I’m embarrassed to have them see how scruffy I look in my jeans and sneakers.
A marine steps forward and salutes. “Welcome to Camp David, ma’am.” His words are as crisp as his appearance. “Mr. Haldeman is with the president right now. He will be joining you later for dinner.”
Bending slightly, to prevent creasing his pressed jacket, the young man hands each of us a map. Pointing to a cluster of small, dark rectangles with his white-gloved finger, he says, “You and your family will be berthed in Sycamore, Linden, and Walnut. All meals will be served at Laurel.”
A jeep appears in front of us, and I’m told to follow it to our cabins. Deep shade makes it impossible to see past the trees on either side of the road. Patches of sunlight, breaking through the heavy fall foliage, provide glimpses of the staff barracks, a playing field,
a volleyball net, and a tennis court. Eventually, the jeep stops in front of three plain wood cabins, whose sizes vary from small to tiny.
There are fifteen cabins at Camp David, each named after a tree. Bob and I are assigned to Sycamore, which is slightly larger than the others. Stepping inside, I find myself in a living room, engulfed in red birds. The curtains, upholstered furniture, and wallpaper are all covered in a print featuring exotic red birds with long tails. The pattern seems too sophisticated for the simple room with its window air conditioner, gurgling radiator, and open bottle of Airwick.
In the bedroom, two navy blue windbreakers are spread out on the twin beds, and I can’t resist trying on the smaller one. Looking at myself in the mirror above the dresser, I instinctively straighten up to better show off the round Camp David patch on the right side.
A note from Bob propped up in the corner of the mirror suggests that I select a movie. Thumbing through a black three-ring notebook, I find that the movie choices are limited and cater to Camp David’s all-male staff. The movie I choose is an innocuous comedy, starring Bob Hope.
The screen door slams, and Susan, Hank, Peter, and Ann burst into the room. “Let’s get going,” Hank says. “I want to check out the rest of this place.”
Looking around, I have to laugh. All five of us are wearing “our” Camp David jackets.
At Laurel, we are greeted in the living room by Commander Dettbarn of the US Navy. After welcoming us “aboard,” he points to a collection of red Schwinn bicycles and suggests that we go for a ride before dinner. The fall colors are vibrant as we pedal along an asphalt road through the woods. At the perimeter of the camp, the road ends abruptly and the scene changes. A barbed wire fence runs along the property line, and soldiers in battle fatigues peer down at us from a raised sentry station. Without saying anything, the children and I turn around.
