With my sister, Doro, in China, 1975.
In 1975, China was emerging from the Cultural Revolution, its government’s effort to purify and revitalize society. Communist officials had set up indoctrination programs, broadcast propaganda over omnipresent loudspeakers, and sought to stamp out any evidence of China’s ancient history. Mobs of young people lashed out against their elders and attacked the intellectual elite. The society was divided against itself and cascading into anarchy.
China’s experience reminded me of the French and Russian revolutions. The pattern was the same: People seized control by promising to promote certain ideals. Once they had consolidated power, they abused it, casting aside their beliefs and brutalizing their fellow citizens. It was as if mankind had a sickness that it kept inflicting on itself. The sobering thought deepened my conviction that freedom—economic, political, and religious—is the only fair and productive way of governing a society.
For most of my time at Harvard, I had no idea how I was going to use my business degree. I knew what I did not want to do. I had no desire to go to Wall Street. While I knew decent and admirable people who had worked on Wall Street, including my grandfather Prescott Bush, I was suspicious of the financial industry. I used to tell friends that Wall Street is the kind of place where they will buy you or sell you, but they don’t really give a hoot about you so long as they can make money off you.
I was searching for options when my Harvard classmate Del Marting invited me to spend spring break of 1975 at his family’s ranch in Tucson, Arizona. On the way out west, I decided to make a stop in Midland. I’d heard from my friend Jimmy Allison, who had become publisher of the
I pulled into town in the fall of 1975 with all my possessions loaded into my 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass. I had a lot to learn, so I sought out mentors. One of the first people I visited was a local lawyer named Boyd Laughlin, affectionately known as Loophole. He set up a meeting with Buzz Mills, a big man with a crew cut and years of experience in the oil business. I found Buzz and his partner, a cigar-chomping man named Ralph Way, playing gin rummy. I couldn’t tell how much money they were betting on the game, but it was a hell of a lot more than I had.
Behind their friendly country demeanor was a shrewd understanding of the oil business. I told Buzz and Ralph that I wanted to learn to be a land man. The job of a land man is to travel to county courthouses and research who owns the mineral rights to potential drilling sites. The keys to success in the job are a willingness to read lots of paperwork, a sharp eye for detail, and a reliable car. I started by tagging along with seasoned land men, who showed me how to read title books. Then I made trips on my own, checking courthouse records for day fees. Eventually I bought a few royalties and small working interests in Buzz and Ralph’s wells. Compared to the big-time oilmen, I was collecting the crumbs. But I was making a decent living and learning a lot.
I held down costs by living lean. I rented a five-hundred-square-foot alley house that friends described as “a toxic waste dump.” One corner of my bed was held together with a necktie. I didn’t have a washing machine, so I took my laundry over to Don and Susie Evans’s place. Susie and I had known each other since grade school. She married Don, a Houston native with two degrees from the University of Texas, and they moved to Midland to break into the oil business. Don was a down-to-earth, humble guy with a great sense of humor. We ran together, played golf, and forged a lifelong friendship.
In the spring of 1976, Don and another close friend, a Midland orthopedic surgeon named Charlie Younger, suggested I join them for a Willie Nelson concert in Odessa. Of course, we needed a little libation to prepare for the event. We bought hip bottles of bourbon and had a few slugs on the way. When we got to the Ector County Coliseum, we were reminded that no drinking was allowed. We took a couple more gulps, discarded the bottles, and went to our seats.
Charlie decided we needed more alcohol to enjoy the experience fully. To our amazement, he was able to convince a stagehand that Willie Nelson needed some beer. The guy dutifully went out and bought the beer with Charlie’s money. Charlie left one case for Willie and snuck one back to us. We hunched over in our seats and drank like thirst-ravaged wanderers. After we had each downed several bottles, Charlie suggested we head up to the stage to thank his new friend. Don wisely stayed behind. Not me.
Over the noise of the band, I heard people yelling my name. A group of Midlanders in the front of the crowd had recognized Charlie and me. They were shouting for beer. We accommodated them. When the concert ended, Charlie stuffed several longneck bottles under his shirt. As the three of us were walking out, the longnecks slipped and exploded on the floor, one after another. It was as if we had set off an alarm for the authorities. Our steady stride turned into a sprint for the exits, three bozos running for our reputations.
The next day, dozens of folks in Midland told me they had seen me onstage with Willie. There was no editorial commentary until one old boy said I looked like a fool up there. He was right.
I spent Labor Day weekend 1976 at our family’s house in Kennebunkport, Maine. That Saturday night, I was at a bar with my sister Doro, Dad’s longtime political aide Pete Roussel, and two family friends, Australian tennis star John Newcombe and his wife, Angie. John introduced me to the Aussie tradition of drinking beer with no hands. You put your teeth on the edge of the mug and tilt your head back, and the beer goes down your throat. We had a great old time, until the drive home.
A local policeman, Calvin Bridges, thought it was odd that I was going about ten miles an hour and had two wheels on the shoulder. When I failed the straight-line walk, he took me off to the station. I was guilty and told the authorities so.
I was also embarrassed. I had made a serious mistake. I was fortunate I hadn’t done any harm to my passengers, other drivers, or myself. I paid a $150 fine and did not drive in Maine for the proscribed period. The case was closed. Or so I thought.
That fall, I started thinking seriously about settling down. The DUI was part of it, but the feeling had been building for months. My rootless ways were getting a little old. So was I. The big 3-0 had come in the summer. I had pledged that I would spend my first ten years after college experiencing a lot and not getting tied down. That was a promise I had kept. But the decade was almost up.
Back home in Midland in July 1977, my old friend Joe O’Neill invited me over for a burger. I rarely turned down homemade meals. They sure beat the fast food that tended to be my staple. Joe and his wife, Jan, had someone they wanted me to meet: one of Jan’s best friends, Laura Welch. I arrived a little late. There in the backyard were Jan and Laura, who was wearing a blue sundress.
She was gorgeous. She had stunning blue eyes and moved so gracefully. She was intelligent and dignified, with a warm and easy laugh. If there is love at first sight, this was it.
Laura and I discovered that we had grown up near each other in Midland and both attended seventh grade at San Jacinto Junior High. We had even lived in the same apartment complex in Houston. She lived on the quiet side, where people sat by the pool and read books. I lived on the side where people played water volleyball till late at night. No wonder our paths had never crossed.
I called Laura the next day, and we agreed to meet again that night. I asked if she wanted to play putt-putt golf. I knew she was my kind of girl when she agreed. Her short game was a little shaky, but she was a lot of fun to be around. My favorable impressions from the previous evening were strengthened. There was only one bad part. Laura had to go back to Austin, where she was a school librarian at Dawson Elementary. I missed her immediately and started visiting her there as often as I could.
We were a perfect match. I’m a talker; Laura is a listener. I am restless; she is calm. I can get a little carried away; she is practical and down-to-earth. Above all, she is genuine and natural. There is no phoniness about her. Her appeal was immediate and constant. In August, I went to visit my family in Kennebunkport, planning to stay for a week. After one night, I flew back to Texas to be with Laura.
Laura and me.
A few weeks after we met, Laura introduced me to her parents, Harold and Jenna Welch. Her mom, a kind,
