by Jo Haldeman
I give an overview of the past two days. When I describe how recklessly some of the teenagers drove the golf carts, Bob frowns. I’m not sure if he’s reacting to what I’m telling him or something he’s reading. When he picks up the White House phone and asks the operator to get Larry on the line, I realize he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. I quietly retreat to the front porch. A warm rain is beating down, and water gushes off the roof. Standing with my back to the kitchen, I fixate on a single late-blooming pink tulip. Folded over on itself, it succumbs to the downpour. From the kitchen, Bob’s hearty laugh filters through the closed French doors.
All I want is to have Bob listen to me. Larry was with him all this weekend, and I don’t see how the two of them can still have so much to discuss. It’s the same old story. The president, Henry, John, Larry, and a few others all take precedence.
A memory of yesterday’s volleyball game at Camp David flashes through my mind. After Jeanne Ehrlichman served an ace, John ran over and gave her a congratulatory hug. The image contrasts vividly with Bob’s indifference tonight. Catching myself, I know that it’s not fair to compare Bob and John. They have such different temperaments. But what’s happening to Bob and me? I’m sure we give the appearance of being a devoted couple. We have never had any real differences of opinion, and our commitment to each other is very deep. And yet, there are times when I feel so left out. I attribute it to Bob’s growing insensitivity, but could it be that I’m the problem? Am I overreacting and becoming overly sensitive?
By the following evening, my questions and doubts are forgotten. In the warm, fragrant night air, Bob and I stand arm-in-arm on our front lawn. Ann and Emilie, her best friend who is visiting from California, are running around trying to capture fireflies in empty mayonnaise jars. They plan to read by their light. The scene is enchanting, and soon Bob and I are catching fireflies, too.
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Susan tells Bob and me that a friend from Stanford is hitchhiking to Washington, and she has invited him to stay with us. While he’s here, she hopes that he will have an opportunity to visit the White House.
When Mark arrives, he’s barefoot, reeks of cigarettes, has shoulder-length, uncombed hair, and gives the appearance of having slept in his clothes all week. My immediate concern is how Bob will react. He has a negative view of hippies and never hesitates to make his opinion known.
Much to my amazement, he is unfazed by Mark’s appearance and suggests a tour of the West Wing. His one requirement is that Mark must wear shoes and a blazer. Bob agrees to supply the jacket, and Hank will donate shoelaces for Mark’s shoes, which he digs out of his backpack.
Three days later, I lead the way to Bob’s office with four children in tow. Ann and Emilie are dressed in simple party dresses, white socks, and Mary Jane shoes. Ann’s hair is neatly braided, and both the girls have perky hair bows. On the other hand, Susan has the current teenage “earthy” look. With her long hair parted in the middle and limply hanging down on either side of her face, she is wearing a brown print dress, dark brown tights, and thick-heeled brown shoes.
With clean, shiny hair slicked back into a ponytail, Mark shuffles along next to us. Bob’s blue blazer hangs loosely from Mark’s narrow, stooped shoulders. His shoes are laced, but he has no socks. Although I notice several raised eyebrows as we pass Bob’s straight-arrow Beaver Patrol in the hall, Mark appears to pass inspection.
Pat McKee buzzes, and the chief of staff comes bounding out of his office. With his hand extended, Bob enthusiastically welcomes our spruced-up hippie. Our tour of the West Wing goes without a hitch. Bob and I look beyond our stereotypical concept of a hippie, and Mark and Susan give us credit for genuinely accepting him.
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In rebuke to Nixon’s incursion into Cambodia, the Senate repeals the 1964 Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which authorized the president to use military force in Southeast Asia. By the end of the month, the last American soldiers are withdrawn from Cambodia, where over 350 of them lost their lives. President Nixon signs an extension of the Voting Rights Act, allowing eighteen-year-olds to vote. In London, Edward Heath becomes prime minister, as the Conservatives win a majority in Parliament.
Our family is packed and ready to leave for another summer in California. On June 25, Bob takes off from Andrews Air Force Base on Air Force One, while the children and I follow in a windowless cargo plane. The Nixons’ two dogs, Tim and Pasha, are with us on their way to the Western White House. After landing at El Toro Marine Air Base, Bob and the rest of the presidential party travel by helicopter down the coast to San Clemente. Mom and Dad meet the children and me and drive us to Newport.
This evening, a Coast Guard boat slowly crosses the bay and delivers Bob to Bay Island. Gripping his briefcase, he crosses the lawn to #11. After changing into striped seersucker shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of beat-up espadrilles, he heads for the porch. Across the bay, houses and boats are tinted pink in the glow of the setting sun. Here at #11, Bob softly strums a classical tune on his guitar. A long white cord snakes its way across the weathered gray planks of the deck and disappears under his chaise.
July 1970
The family goes all out with its decorating this Fourth of July. In no time, #11 looks appropriately patriotic with red, white, and blue crepe paper streamers, balloons, and flags.
Susan and Hank are not with us. With their father’s help, they were able to get summer internships in Washington. Susan has a job at the White House Conference for Children and Youth, while Hank works at the Senate Republican Policy Committee.
After spending twenty-two days at the Western White House, President and Mrs. Nixon return to DC. Bob goes with them. In his absence, I spend more time with my parents, who follow their summer routine of arriving every Friday for a four-day weekend. Mom enjoys cooking and painting, while my father works on his boat and tinkers with his telescope. Both do a lot of reading. Mom’s eclectic collection of books is crammed into shelves above the mantle and includes mysteries, philosophies, and novels, as well as books on cooking, art, and metaphysics. Daddy reads thick biographies of statesmen and explorers. Occasionally, he focuses on home repairs. Today, it’s an extension cord.
My father’s flip flops slap against his feet as he shuffles across the porch and steps into the living room. “I don’t think I can fix this, Adele,” he says, planting himself in front of the red wing chair, where my mother sits reading a Dick Francis mystery. Dad holds up a cord that looks as if a rat had been chewing on it.
As the discussion continues, I’m fascinated to see how involved my parents become in trying to resolve such a mundane issue. Trying to picture Bob and me having a similar conversation, I realize that the two of us haven’t discussed ordinary household problems for two years. Instead of being relieved, I suddenly yearn to have a dialogue with Bob over an extension cord, a leaky faucet, or a clogged vacuum cleaner. I’m tired of communicating with him by notes and working around his schedule. I know that I agreed to be a supportive wife, but I miss our partnership in sharing the little things that crop up every day.
August 1970
When the Nixons return to the Western White House in August, they stop overnight in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, for a meeting with President and Mrs. Diaz Ordaz. Carol Finch, Jeanne Ehrlichman, Nancy Ziegler, and I fly down on a government Jet Star the day before our husbands arrive on Air Force One.
As part of the presidential party, we stay in the Camino Real, a glitzy new hotel that towers over one of the beautiful white sand beaches of Puerto Vallarta. After enjoying an afternoon swim in the ocean and a late dinner, Carol, Jeanne, Nancy, and I take a midnight dip in the Finches’ penthouse swimming pool. The warm night air is the same temperature as the water. Floating on my back, I look up and see the rising moon. Below us lies a town of tin shanties. I’m struck by the stark contrast between the “haves” and the “have-nots.”
The next morning, colorfully d
ecorated burros and flag-waving children line the presidential route as the motorcade passes from the airport into town. The heat is intense, but confetti falls like snow. Tiny pink, orange, and turquoise paper “snowflakes” float down on the long line of black limousines. Bob is probably filming the scene on his movie camera.
President Ordaz hosts today’s lunch, and the guests are seated at long tables with translators sitting or kneeling behind them. The entrée is half a pineapple with a whole fish standing upright on top. A red rose sprouts from its dorsal fin. Across from me, President Ordaz’s brother-in-law smiles broadly and shows me the correct way to eat it.
The Nixons’ reciprocal luncheon the following day features roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, strawberry mousse, and petit fours. As on all presidential trips abroad, everything is flown in from the United States. This includes not only the food and the White House china, but the president’s bulletproof limousine as well.
Once again, we sit at long tables, and I have to rely on the interpreter to communicate with the animated woman next to me. When I admire her beautiful jewelry, she surprises me by taking off her beetle pin and attaching it to my dress.
When the beetle moves, I’m horrified to discover that it is alive. Covered with tiny diamonds and rubies, it pulls on its little gold chain as it walks in circles on my chest.
On our return flight to California, Jeanne, Carol, and I accompany our husbands on Air Force One. Because of the intense heat in Puerto Vallarta, the air-conditioning has been turned up in the cabin. I sneeze.
Caught without my hankie, I turn to Bob and tentatively ask, “Can I borrow your handkerchief?”
“You mean, ‘may I,’ not ‘can I,’” he says, giving me the Haldeman look.
I know Bob is not keen about sharing his things, and I’m used to his blunt way of talking to me, but in front of others it’s embarrassing. I look over at Jeanne and wonder what she thinks. Sometime, I would like to talk to her about my relationship with Bob; however, I have never discussed my feelings with anyone. Now is not the time to begin.
The Silent Majority
September 1970
Summer is over. Saturday, September 5, is my final night at Bay Island. A stunning sunset lights up a layer of low-lying clouds. From the dining room window, we look out on the bay. Two sailboats silently glide by, catching the changing colors in their listless sails. Across the lawn, the giant eucalyptus tree is silhouetted against a broad expanse of flaming reds, oranges, and purples.
At dinner, my sisters, Milly and Gay, bring in a decorated sheet cake with “Farewell to Summer” written across it. My father stands and proposes a toast. Raising our water glasses, three generations of Hortons sing “Hoch Sollst Du Leben,” followed by a round of “For We Are Jolly Good Fellows.” The scene is reminiscent of many summers in the past, but instead of returning to Los Angeles, Susan, Peter, Ann, and I will be departing for Washington.
The next day, standing on the steps of a Jet Star at El Toro, the four of us wave goodbye to my parents and Non. Four hours and 2,320 miles later, we put down in Maryland at Andrews Air Force Base. It’s 1:30 a.m., and a White House car is waiting for us.
At home, I face two months of accumulated mail and a calendar full of appointments. We spend the weekend at Camp David, and the children start school the next day. After getting Susan off to Stanford, I have to deal with an infestation of ticks. They are in every nook and cranny of the kitchen, as well as embedded in our Dalmatian’s fur.
October 1970
In October, the president proposes a “standstill” cease-fire in Vietnam, pending a formal peace agreement. Hanoi doesn’t respond. Anwar Sadat is elected president of Egypt, and in the Philippines, a typhoon kills almost eight hundred people. In the world of rock music, singer/songwriter Janis Joplin dies from drug-related causes, only sixteen days after the death of guitarist Jimi Hendrix. They were both twenty-seven years old.
An off-year election is coming up in November, and it looks as if the Republicans might lose thirty seats in the House, as well as all but one in the Senate. Although Nixon didn’t want to get involved, he reverses himself and campaigns for Republican candidates in twenty-two states. While he’s on the road, a grand jury clears the National Guard of any wrongdoing at Kent State and indicts twenty-five students. This incites the antiwar protestors, and demonstrations flare up again.
In response, the president increases his rhetoric and calls for those who oppose the vocal minority of liberal activists to stand up and be counted. Capitalizing on the “silent majority” catchphrase that he used in a speech last year, he appeals to the huge, quiet constituency of the political center. To counter the obscenities that are shouted at nearly every rally, Nixon adds a new line: “The four-letter word that is the most powerful of any in the world is ‘vote.’”
Bob is noticeably upset after a campaign rally in San Jose, California. In a late night phone call, he angrily describes the hecklers who shouted obscenities at the motorcade. They threw garbage at his car, and when a rock hit it, the driver slammed on the brakes so hard it caused the car behind them to ram into them. Another rock shattered a window in the bus carrying the White House staff.
“The press should clobber those guys,” Bob tells me. “They should show the American public what those ‘peaceniks’ really stand for. This is the first time a president of the United States has ever been subjected to anything like this, and it’s a major news story. We’ve got to keep things cranked up.”
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On Halloween, I celebrate my forty-second birthday with Susan on the Stanford campus. Flying out to Los Angeles with Bob on Air Force One, I hitch a ride to Northern California on a Jet Star with Al Haig and John Ehrlichman.
As much as I love spending three days with our daughter, I’m appalled at the condition of the Stanford campus. The students look grungy and act as if they have no pride. Trash is everywhere. Stray dogs wander wherever they want, and I discover a cat licking up spilled milk on the kitchen table in Susan’s coed fraternity house, where I am staying. In answer to my question about the mold on the tiles in the girls’ bathroom, I’m told the bathroom is “cleaned” once a week by one of the boys. He climbs through the window with the garden hose and washes everything down.
Susan loves Stanford, but I regret that she is on the campus at such a troubled time. Although highly intelligent, most of the students today are rabidly antiestablishment. They show little respect for anything traditional, which includes the professors and the campus. Dressed like hippies, they trash the grounds, skip classes, protest the draft, and hold mass rallies for peace.
On my return flight to Washington, the atmosphere on Air Force One is tense. When Bob hears that the media is predicting an overall Republican defeat in the upcoming election, he calls it a “conspiracy of the press.”
Newsmakers
November 1970
In November, the election results aren’t as dire as the press had predicted. The “silent majority” comes through, and the Republicans lose only twelve House seats. This means a slight increase in the Democrats’ majority. Ted Kennedy wins reelection following his first campaign since Chappaquiddick.
With the election over, I thought Bob would be around more, but that’s not the case. He is home only four days between November 1 and November 22. His travels take him to San Clemente, Key Biscayne, Camp David, and even Paris, for the funeral of Charles de Gaulle.
When he’s out of town, Bob’s crew cut suffers. As a teenager, he was told that a buzz cut was the only way to keep his hair manageable; however, his fine hair grows fast, and he worries about keeping his weekly appointment with the White House barber. Milton Pitts, who also cuts the president’s hair, has a barber shop on the ground floor in the West Wing. Next door, Henry Kissinger and his National Security staff hold their briefings in the Situation Room.
The press is intrigued by Bob’s crew cut, and before
long a reference to it appears in print. “Is it true that H. R. Haldeman will permit no long-hairs to visit President Nixon?” a columnist writes. “Has the president banned his aides from having long hair?”
At home, Bob and Hank joke about their hair. It’s the crew cut versus the hippie look. Bob promises he will let his hair grow whenever his oldest son gets a haircut. Hank reciprocates. They both know they’re safe. Neither one will ever concede.
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Henry Kissinger, Vice President Agnew, and Martha Mitchell are the newsmakers in the Nixon administration. Their larger-than-life personalities consistently attract the media’s attention. Journalists love to write about Henry’s good-natured jokes and womanizing. Ted Agnew, who describes himself as “an attack dog,” is famous for giving inflammatory speeches. And Martha’s flamboyant antics fill the gossip pages almost daily.
It’s obvious that John Mitchell adores his wife, but her unpredictability is often embarrassing. Her obsession for attention drives Bob nuts, and at social events, both he and I try to avoid her. At a small Washington dinner, however, Bob finds himself trapped. His indifference to Martha only encourages her, and after dinner, she makes a determined effort to sit on his lap. Perching herself on his knee, she appears to have him right where she wants him. For someone always in control, Bob appears helpless. The other guests and I try to overlook the scene Martha is creating.
Like Martha, Ted Agnew is often referred to as a “loose cannon,” and I don’t know why Nixon chose him as a running mate. His remarks are clever, but they are often offensive. When he calls the antiwar demonstrators, “an effete corps of impudent snobs” and “nattering nabobs of negativism,” he incites the opposition. I don’t think it helps Nixon’s image when the vice president classifies critics of the administration as the “4-H Club of the hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history.”
