to his inauguration in January 1999, making us the first pair of brothers to serve at the same time as governors since Nelson and Win Rockefeller more than a quarter century earlier. It was a wonderful moment for our family. It was also a time to think about the future. And I had a big question on my mind.
Running for president was a decision that evolved over time. Many urged me to run—some for the sake of the country, others because they hoped to ride the race to glory. I often heard the same comment: “You can win this race. You can be president.” I was flattered by the confidence. But my decision would not turn on whether others thought I could win. After all, everyone told me I could never beat Ann Richards. The key question was whether I felt the call to run.
As I pondered the decision, there was a dilemma. Because of the size and complexity of a presidential campaign, you have to start planning early, even if you are not sure whether you want to run. I authorized Karl to start preparing paperwork and recruiting a network of people who would raise money and tend to the grassroots political operation. Once the process started, it created a sense of inevitability. In October 1998, I told
I was determined not to get swept away. If I was going to get into the race, I wanted it to be for the right reasons. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I made up my mind, but there were moments of clarity along the way. One came during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig, our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.
I tried hard to focus on the inauguration, but I couldn’t. As we walked into the church, I told Mother I had been struggling with the decision of whether or not to run for president.
“George,” she said, “get over it. Make up your mind, and move on.” It was good advice, but not too helpful at the time.
Then Mark Craig struck. In his sermon, he spoke about the Book of Exodus, when God calls Moses to action. Moses’ first response was disbelief: “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” He had every excuse in the book. He hadn’t led a perfect life; he wasn’t sure if people would follow him; he couldn’t even speak that clearly. That sounded a little familiar.
Mark described God’s reassurance that Moses would have the power to perform the task he had been called to do. Then Mark summoned the congregation to action. He declared that the country was starving for moral and ethical leadership. Like Moses, he concluded, “We have the opportunity, each and every one of us, to do the right thing, and for the right reason.”
I wondered if this was the answer to my question. There were no mysterious voices whispering in my ears, just Mark Craig’s high-pitched Texas twang coming from the pulpit. Then Mother leaned forward from her seat at the other end of the pew. She caught my eye and mouthed, “He is talking to you.”
After the service, I felt different. The pressure evaporated. I felt a sense of calm.
Laura and I had been discussing the presidential race for eighteen months. She was my sounding board as I talked through the pros and cons. She didn’t try to argue me out of the race, nor did she attempt to steer me in. She listened patiently and offered her opinions. I think she always sensed that I would run. As she put it, politics was the family business. Her goal was to make sure I made my decision for the right reasons, not because others were pushing me to run.
If she had objected, she would have told me so, and I would not have run. While she worried about the pressure I would feel as president, she shared my hopes for the country and had confidence I could lead. One night she just smiled at me and said, “I’m in.”
Breaking the news to our daughters was more difficult. Barbara and Jenna were seventeen years old, with independent streaks that reminded me a lot of their dad. From the very beginning they had asked me not to run— sometimes joking, sometimes serious, often at the top of their lungs. One of their favorite lines was, “Dad, you’re going to lose. You’re not as cool as you think you are.” Other times they asked, “Why do you want to ruin our lives?”
Those were tough words for a father to hear. I don’t know if our daughters really thought I would lose, but I did know they did not want to give up their semi-private lives. One evening I asked Jenna to come out on the back porch of the Governor’s Mansion. It was a beautiful Texas night, and the two of us sat and talked for a while. I told her, “I know you think that I’m ruining your life by running for president. But actually, your mom and I are
She told me she had never thought of it that way. The notion of living life to the fullest appealed to her, just as it always had to me. She was not thrilled. But from that point on, I think she and Barbara understood.
Looking back on it a decade later, our daughters appreciated the opportunities that came with the presidency. They traveled with us on international trips, met fascinating and inspirational people like Vaclav Havel and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, and learned about public service. Ultimately, Laura and I probably saw Barbara and Jenna more during the presidency than we would have if we had stayed in Texas.
One of our favorite places to spend time with the girls was Camp David. One weekend in the summer of 2007, Laura and I invited Jenna and her boyfriend, Henry Hager, a fine young man from Virginia she’d met on the 2004 campaign. At dinner Friday night, Henry mentioned that he’d like to talk to me the next day. “I’ll be available at three o’clock in the presidential cabin,” I said.
Henry arrived at the appointed time, clearly well prepared. “Mr. President, I love your daughter,” he said, and then began a touching speech. After a couple of minutes, I cut him off. “Henry, the answer is yes, you’ve got my permission,” I said. “Now let’s go get Laura.” The look on his face said, “Wait, I’m not done with my talking points!”
Laura was as thrilled as I was. Wisely, Henry also asked Barbara’s permission. A few weeks later, at Acadia National Park in Maine, he proposed to Jenna. They were married at our ranch in Crawford in May 2008. We had an altar carved out of Texas limestone set on a peninsula in our lake, and our family friend Kirbyjon Caldwell—a wonderful pastor from Houston—officiated at a sunset ceremony. The bride was stunning. Laura and Barbara were radiant. It was one of the joys of my life to walk sweet Jenna down the aisle. After my eight years in the presidency, our family had emerged not only stronger, but bigger, too.
Walking Jenna down the aisle.
After I announced my candidacy in Iowa in June 1999, Laura and I went to Maine to visit Mother and Dad. I gave them an update on the campaign. Then the four of us walked out onto the lawn together. At our back was the beautiful Atlantic Ocean. In front of us was a large group of photographers. Mother got off one of her classic one- liners. She looked at the press corps and asked, “Where were you in ’92?”
I laughed. I was amazed by this wonderful woman. She was responsible for so much good in my life. I turned to Dad. My mind went back to my early days spent looking at pictures of him in scrapbooks. Like those old photos, his face was worn. But his spirit was still strong. I told the press what I had known for a lifetime: It was a huge advantage to be the son of George and Barbara Bush. What a journey we had shared. Seven years earlier, Dad’s final campaign had ended in defeat. Now I was standing proudly at his side, with a chance to become the forty-third president of the United States.
When I got back to Texas, my first stop was Bob and Jan Bullock’s house. The years of abuse had taken their toll, and Bob’s body was giving out. His skin was losing its color, he was bedridden, and he was wearing an oxygen mask. I gave him a gentle hug. He lifted his mask and picked up a copy of
“How come you didn’t smile?” he said. I laughed. It was vintage Bullock.
Then he caught me by surprise. “Governor,” he said, “will you eulogize me at my funeral?”
He slipped his oxygen mask back on and closed his eyes. I told him about my visit to Iowa and my announcement speech at the barbecue. I’m not sure he heard a word I said. After our extraordinary run together, my unlikely friend and I would both be moving on.
*Don Evans was the campaign chairman; Joe O’Neill was the treasurer; Robert McCleskey handled the
