by Jo Haldeman
The impact of the scene is overwhelming. Up until this moment, I have generally viewed life in terms of black and white. I considered the antiwar demonstrators a bunch of hippies whose cause and tactics I did not support. To me, the march was unpatriotic and disruptive; therefore, it must be bad. In contrast, the moon launch was patriotic and unifying; therefore, it must be good. Tonight, however, I see “the hippies” as individual people expressing great sensitivity and compassion. I can no longer define life so simply, and my thinking changes.
Violence is predicted for the Moratorium the following day. Hundreds of paratroopers stand at alert with their rifles loaded, as a crowd of five hundred thousand assembles on the National Mall. Bob reports that when he surveyed the scene from a helicopter, it was “weird” looking down on a barricade of buses cordoning off a two-block area around the White House. The Department of Justice is mobbed. The American flag is torn down and burned. The protestors replace it with the Viet Cong flag—the flag of our enemy.
These acts are despicable, and ordinarily I would have passed harsh judgment on the Moratorium. However, when I read that splinter groups performed the more irreverent acts and that there were fewer arrests than predicted, I have a more reasoned outlook. I recognize that the greater mass of demonstrators was relatively orderly and peaceful.
I now view the protestors in shades of gray.
Antisocial and Nonsocial
December 1969
Bob and I were raised as Christian Scientists, and our faith has always been an important part of who we are. I am a new member of the Christian Science Church in Chevy Chase, and the three children are enrolled in the Sunday School. Unless Bob is traveling or working, he goes to church with us.
On Sunday, December 14, Bob suggests that we all attend White House Church, followed by a tour of the redecorated Oval Office. I’m excited about the invitation, but the children prefer to stay home. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and I’m annoyed at them for passing up another special opportunity. Today, I fight a losing battle with the two boys and make an enemy of Ann. On a freezing cold morning, I force her to get dressed up and accompany her mother and father to the White House.
As we enter the main hall, the three of us are engulfed in the spirit of Christmas. The six marble columns are decorated with garlands of fresh greens, and the two cut-glass chandeliers give off a warm glow. The red carpet extends the length of the room, where a giant Christmas tree stands at the far end.
Rows of gilded chairs and a raised platform fill the East Room, which will be used for both the church service this morning and the entertainment tonight. Ann and I follow Bob to the last row of chairs, where he points to three seats. Looking at all of the adult heads in front of her, Ann worries that she won’t be able to see.
“This is where Dad wants to sit,” I tell her. “He likes to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”
I don’t think our ten-year-old understands the logic in this, but today it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s not much to see. The highlight of the service is The New York Avenue Presbyterian Church Choir singing Handel’s Messiah. At the end, everyone stands and joins in a rousing last round of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
After enjoying cookies and punch in the State Dining Room, Ann and I follow Bob along the West Colonnade to the Oval Office. As soon as we step inside, Bob asks what we think of Mrs. Nixon’s decorating.
“It’s interesting,” I say, struck by the intensity of color. The blue rug features a large gold presidential seal, which intensifies the strong gold fabric in the drapes, chairs, and couches. Realizing that I should say more, I quickly add, “The room certainly looks presidential.”
The president’s massive dark wood desk was once Woodrow Wilson’s and was used by Nixon when he served as vice president. A portrait of George Washington by Charles Willson Peale hangs above the fireplace mantle, and Pat Nixon’s collection of porcelain Boehm birds is on display in the built-in cabinet by the door.
“The Oval Office should command your respect,” Bob says. “And that’s what President Nixon wants to achieve.”
“Respect,” he repeats.
◆
Having lived in Washington for three months, I continue to be amazed at the number and variety of social events that we are asked to attend. Each invitation is hand-addressed in fancy calligraphy to The Honorable and Mrs. Harry Robbins Haldeman. I am invited to receptions, teas, weddings, breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners. These are held in private homes, embassies, clubs, churches, various government buildings, and the White House. Tickets are available for symphonies, plays, horse shows, and private movie screenings.
Using Carolyn Shaw’s The Social List of Washington, D.C., commonly referred to as The Green Book, as my guide to protocol, I bone up on the rules of Washington society. Miss Shaw writes that these rules are of “momentous importance… They are not a social affectation, as many would have you believe… Protocol is, in part, a code prescribing deference to rank, and from this evolves the order of ‘who outranks whom’ among officials.” I discover that I take on Bob’s rank when he’s not present at an official function.
Many of our friends assume that Bob and I see the Nixons socially, but this simply is not the case. We are not “friends.” Although the president and Bob spend long hours together, it’s on a purely professional basis. Nixon knows very little about our family. This is not to say that he’s uninterested. His handwritten note to Bob’s mother at the time of his father’s death was deeply moving, and he generally calls Bob on his birthday and our anniversary.
When the Nixon family was living in California after he served as vice president, Bob and I would occasionally see them at receptions and large dinner parties. Julie babysat for our children a couple of times, and once Bob and I had dinner at their home. It was just the four of us, but even then the conversation was stilted. Nixon is uncomfortable socially and has an aversion to small talk. He’s content to rely on little private jokes when he’s at parties, and it’s obvious that his reference to “my drinking problem” falls into that category.
Bob claims that he, too, is uncomfortable with small talk. He describes himself as “antisocial,” because he doesn’t like parties, and me as “nonsocial,” because I’m ambivalent about them. When he tells me that he dreads the thought of being seated between “two babbling women” at dinner, I don’t take him too seriously. On most social occasions, Bob thoroughly enjoys himself, preferring small parties where he knows everyone. Always well-informed, he converses easily on a variety of subjects.
Looking for a way to save Bob from “suffering through” another dinner in the State Dining Room, and yet still enjoy the entertainment afterward, Larry comes up with a plan. He suggests that Bob and I eat in the Housekeeper’s Office. Bob is delighted with the idea and decides to try it out at an informal White House dinner honoring Bob Hope.
Bob is working late on Sunday, December 14, so I drive into the White House alone. The guard at the west gate knows me and only glances at my ID. White House drivers give me a wave in the parking lot, and secretaries and staff greet me by name as I walk down the hall. I feel at home.
I meet Bob in his office, and we walk over to the East Room together. Waiting for the Nixons to make their appearance, we mingle with the other guests. When several people gather around Bob, it’s obvious that he enjoys being the center of attention. He is charming. Standing off to the side, I observe the group. How can my husband possibly describe himself as being antisocial?
When President and Mrs. Nixon arrive with Dolores and Bob Hope, a receiving line is formed in the Blue Room. According to protocol, Bob precedes me in going down the line.
Nixon extends his hand. “Good evening, Bob.”
Bob shakes hands. “Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”
“Yes, sir. I plan to. I’m a big fan of
Bob Hope.”
A casual observer would never know that these two men spend hours together every day. When it’s my turn to greet the president, I know what’s coming.
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Well, well, well. Do you like Bob Hope, too? Just remember to stay sober tonight so you can enjoy his show.”
“I’ll try, Mr. President.” I smile. “I’ll try.”
When the military social aides announce that dinner is being served, everyone files into the State Dining Room. Instead of following them, Bob and I discreetly head for the stairs. It feels like the two of us are playing hooky.
“Hi, y’all.” White House Social Secretary Lucy Winchester greets us as we step into the small Housekeeper’s Office on the ground floor.
With a shy grin, the president’s good friend Bebe Rebozo stands and shakes hands with both Bob and me. The desktop in front of him has been cleared to accommodate a formal place setting. Bob, Lucy, and I have similar set-ups on three small tables. A formally dressed waiter serves us the same five-course dinner that’s being served in the State Dining Room.
As soon as Bebe takes a bite of the Grande Marnier soufflé, he declares that he makes a better one. His secret ingredient is a topping of melted vanilla ice cream, and he promises to send me the recipe.
When dinner is over, Bob and I rejoin the other guests in the East Room for the entertainment. We sit in the back row.
◆
Monday, December 15, brings another round of antiwar protestors to the nation’s capital for the third Moratorium. Although it’s miserably cold the following night, a group of about two hundred demonstrators is determined to disrupt the National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony on the Ellipse. At 5:30 p.m., Bob, Ann, and I huddle together with other families at the base of a towering Norway Spruce tree. From a spot nearby, the protestors shout obscenities as a blustery wind whips at their Viet Cong flags. Interrupted by jeers, the president tries to speak before lighting the tree.
“All we want for this nation is not only peace now, but peace in the years to come…”
“One, two, three, four. We won’t fight your f***ing war.”
“…Peace for all people in the years to come…the kind of peace…that gives a chance for our children also to live in peace.”
“Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh. NLF is gonna win.”
The president manages to complete his remarks. A pleased smile spreads across his face as he pulls a lever and nine thousand small red and white lights illuminate the seventy-five-foot tree.
◆
The president announces a further reduction of troops, bringing the total to 115,500 men brought home since he took office. At the same time, he promotes SALT, the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, with the Russians. Cult killer Charles Manson and his followers are arraigned in a Los Angeles court. And at the movies, the box office favorites are: Midnight Cowboy, Easy Rider, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
The Nixons plan to celebrate Christmas at the Western White House, and I’m delighted. This means we get to spend the holidays in California with our families.
On Saturday, December 20, Bob travels with the president on Air Force One, while the children and I fly on a government backup plane. It’s eighty degrees when we arrive at my parents’ home in Bel-Air. Sunshine streams into the living room through the sliding glass doors, casting a hazy light on their artificial tree with its large silver balls. Home for the holidays, Susan joins Hank, Peter, and Ann in the pool.
On Monday night, Susan is presented at the annual Las Madrinas Debutante Ball, an event that raises money for Children’s Hospital. Exchanging her ragged jeans for a white formal and long white gloves, she looks radiant as her father proudly escorts her around the dance floor.
We spend New Year’s week in Palm Springs at Smoke Tree Ranch, where both the Hortons and the Haldemans have vacation homes. My parents’ hacienda-style house is within walking distance of Non’s one-story contemporary house at Rock 12, where we always stay, along with Bob’s sister and brother and their families. An American flag hangs from a brand new flagpole at the end of the front walk, and the Army Signal Corps has installed two pristine white phones.
“The phones have pictures of the White House on them,” Non exclaims. “Look, Bob, the one in the family room even has a long cord so you can take it out to your chaise by the pool.”
I don’t share Non’s enthusiasm. I’m starting to view the White House phone as an intruder.
Non is in her element. With the Nixons vacationing at Bob and Dolores Hope’s hillside home, she is thrilled that the president can look down on Smoke Tree. Taking our evening walks on the desert, we always pause and say a daily prayer. Recently, Non has added to our ritual a little wave to the Nixons.
January 1970
When our week at Smoke Tree is over, everyone takes off in different directions. My father drives Hank, Peter, Ann, and me to the airport, where we board a helicopter for the short flight over the mountains to El Toro Marine Base. From there we fly to Washington on a small government Jet Star. Throughout the trip, a bag of groceries never leaves my side. It’s filled with food that I can’t buy in Washington: corn tortillas, Knudsen’s cottage cheese, Thomas’ English muffins, Pioneer sourdough French bread, and Van de Kamp’s cinnamon-crumb “dunkettes.”
Dignity in the White House
It snows on Tuesday, January 20, the first anniversary of Nixon’s inauguration. Watching the white flakes silently swirl through the air, I become pensive and think back on the highlights of this past year. In particular, I’m reminded of the inaugural address and Bob’s reaction to it. He immediately identified with the words, “Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole.” The quote has had a continuing presence in our lives. In Nixon’s handwriting, it hangs in our den in an antique gold frame. A burgundy leather scrapbook with the words “Truly Whole” embossed in gold on its cover sits on the coffee table in our living room.
Since moving to Washington, the White House has become an integral part of my life. During the week, I usually attend several social events there, and when we entertain at home, most of our guests are members of the senior White House staff. I serve Bebe Rebozo’s Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert, and Bob shows his White House movies for entertainment.
In Bob’s films, we see Henry Kissinger with Charles de Gaulle on the steps of Le Grand Trianon and Nixon playing the piano for Harry Truman. Bob even has pictures of Pope Paul VI at the Vatican. Holding his Bolex Super 8 camera at his side, he surreptitiously filmed the president’s private papal audience. As a result, depending on whether Bob was sitting or standing, the Pope appears either sideways or upside down.
Bob and I also accept a variety of invitations. In the last ten days, we have attended a dinner party at the home of columnist Joseph Alsop, a play at Ford’s Theater, the ballet at the Kennedy Center, and the wedding of the son of the secretary of state to the daughter of the secretary of agriculture.
Though exciting, there’s also a downside to being married to the chief of staff. Bob’s work consumes most of his time and attention, even when he’s at home. Other than making an appearance at the dinner table, he’s usually working in his office upstairs. Although it’s becoming increasingly difficult for the two of us to have a spontaneous discussion, my system of leaving notes in his mail is a workable solution. We talk eventually, always at his convenience.
Another downside to Bob’s job is the White House phone. Although I was initially intrigued to have seven government phones in our home, each with direct lines to both the White House and the Signal Corps, they are becoming my nemeses. They can interrupt, delay, or change my entire routine.
Sometimes, even being at White House events can be a challenge. When people fawn over Bob, they often look right through me. There are times when he forgets to introduce me or leaves me standing alone
while he socializes with others. An irritated frown or impatient word from him can easily cut through the exhilaration of the moment. Despite the perception of my being the confident and gracious wife of H. R. Haldeman, I often feel insecure and alone.
A lighter side to our Washington life comes at our family dinner on a rainy Sunday evening in January. Bob is making a Caesar salad while Hank, Peter, Ann, and I watch. Wearing a dark blue apron with gray vertical stripes, he mashes anchovy and garlic in a wooden bowl. Next, he adds lemon juice and olive oil and mixes them with a fork.
Looking up, Bob tells us that he finally got his Fedco card. He explains that Fedco is a discount store available to federal employees. It is something new, and he is delighted to be a member.
“The application process was pretty funny,” Bob says, breaking up two heads of romaine. “On the form, it asked who my employer was, and when I wrote, ‘The President,’ the clerk wanted to know the president of what. I had to add ‘of the United States.’”
Bob cracks a coddled egg on top of the greens and continues. “Then, the clerk thought I was kidding when I wrote, ‘The White House’ as my place of employment, and she refused to process my application.”
“So how did you get the card?” The children ask. All four of us are caught up in Bob’s narrative.
Adding homemade croutons and Parmesan cheese, Bob replies, “Larry reminded me that I have a White House ID card, so I showed it to her.”
“Oh, Dad,” the children groan.
Unperturbed, their father tosses the salad with a flourish. “Voila!” he says, bowing.
The children and I applaud.
