Obama played things close to the vest. Trump, by contrast, constantly talks to people at the top levels of business, sports, entertainment, publishing, and Congress—even mere second-termers like me without a committee chairmanship—if he thinks we have valuable insight. Those conversations become an important early part of his decision-making process, as do arguments with his friends and close advisors.
This leads to the criticism that he reverses himself or thinks out loud. That’s all part of his process. I’m sure glad it is.
May 30, 2020
Air Force One. Traveling to SpaceX launchnat Cape Canaveral, Florida. Presidential Office.
“The Russia investigation was corrupt. It was started by corrupt people, advanced before secret courts with fake evidence, and then repeated by media personalities and Democrats who now look like the liars and fools they are. No American should disproportionately shoulder the burden of the Mueller investigation. It should be relegated to history for what it was—a setup in search of crimes,” I said, looking right at the president.
“Write that down. Write me three paragraphs. It can be longer. But say it just like that.”
As I write, I’m certain that President Trump, in his willingness to fight, will also pardon Roger Stone—as well he should. I still talk to Roger on the phone. He’s a bullshit artist and a dirty trickster, but no criminal. Our political operatives shouldn’t end up in jail while some of the other team’s still work at the Department of Justice and FBI.
“Happy birthday, my sweet mother!” Having the Air Force One operator connect us was a nice touch. I was about to watch Elon Musk bring humankind one step closer to multiplanetary species status. Here on Earth, though, my mother is the hero of my life. She no longer takes any steps. She has built businesses and wealth, has been married to my father for nearly four decades, and inspires everyone she meets, while treating people with empathy and love. My father got the highest vote margins, my sister Erin is the smartest and funniest, and I hold the highest office. But everyone in Northwest Florida knows my saint of a mother is the most popular Gaetz. She’s also the strongest, and usually the prettiest.
My mother has been confined to a wheelchair for thirty-five years. A blood clot burst in her spinal column when she was pregnant with my brilliant sister. She was advised she could terminate her pregnancy and improve her own health odds. Many days she has pain she never mentions. She has no time for complaints. She is a woman always on the move. She won’t allow anyone to push her—even sometimes up hills. She drives where she wants, maintaining the strength to sling her wheelchair over her body into the passenger seat like a gladiator. She won’t let anyone else, including my father, drive her—but who could keep up with her anyway? She manages construction projects, participates in local animal welfare organizations, and serves as the CEO of the Gaetz Family.
In every campaign I’ve had, my mother’s phone calls to potential voters have been noted by my opponents as my strongest weapon—and we’ve never lost an election. Watching her grind through call sheets during my first campaign for public office in 2010, my Catholic friend Mike Fischer observed, “If Jesus had run for state representative, I don’t know if Mary would have made more voter contacts than Vicky Gaetz.”
During my 2016 congressional campaign, a Republican primary opponent criticized me for self-designating as a “momma’s boy.” I learned to assemble a wheelchair when I was six years old. When my mother was ill, I slept in her hospital room against the rules to bring her comfort. I’m a serviceable cook today because I was her helper in the kitchen growing up. I’m a momma’s boy with pride!
Calling my mother from Air Force One on her birthday was one of the best perks so far of my two terms in Congress. I’d love to tell you which birthday she was celebrating, but I’m still afraid of her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Green Real Deal
America is neither an idea nor a constitution. It is our home—and we must keep our home clean and splendid from sea to shining sea. America will only be great if she is beautiful. Littering is a crime against nature. If we don’t protect the small things, we certainly won’t have the focus to protect what really matters. No, we cannot be “America First” if we allow her to be filthy. She deserves better. We cannot be a great nation strewn with trash. Our beauty is why so many come from far away to enjoy our shores, rivers, mountains, valleys, lakes, and beaches. While immigration romantics love citing that poem—“give us your poor…yearning to breathe free”—they rarely note that those huddled masses are not only breathing free but are breathing clean air. Can’t say the same in Shanghai, Mexico City, Cairo, or even Rome.
Conservative, Inc.—bought off as always—would have you believe it’s in your best interest for chemical plants to pollute our rivers, agribusiness to clog our estuaries with their runoff, and coal plants to darken our skies. This pollution even shows up in the human body. Atrazine and other industrial waste products turn us into fat, weak husks of humans. One of the few remaining advantages we have over China is that we love our country enough not to let her fall into squalid decay. We do need to get much better at it, though.
Washington bureaucrats fail us. They’ve been too dumb or too corrupt or too dishonest. Stewardship requires foresight and rewards planning that goes well beyond the quarterly reports, election cycles, or lobbying contract term lengths. The people engaged in the old conservative welfare scheme that converts corporate cash into D.C. sinecures seem to forget that we conserve nothing if we
