Decision Points, Page 4

  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, sweet, and patient woman, always made me feel welcome. Her dad loved sports and enjoyed putting down a wager or two on football. His hangout was Johnny’s Barbecue. The locals called it the Sick Pig because of the awful wooden pig on top of the restaurant. One day Laura’s dad introduced me to his friends at the Sick Pig, including Johnny himself. I think I passed muster, because I was offered a screwdriver. I turned it down. It was nine o’clock in the morning.

  The courtship moved fast. One weekend Laura and I took a trip to Anne and Tobin Armstrong’s ranch in South Texas. Anne was a former U.S. ambassador to Great Britain, and she and Tobin had invited Prince Charles to play polo. Another weekend we visited John and Angie Newcombe at his tennis academy in New Braunfels, in the beautiful Texas Hill Country. This time I kept my hands on the beer mug and off the steering wheel. I was falling hard for Laura. I was not much of a cat person, but I knew our relationship was solid when I bonded with her black-and-white shorthair, Dewey, named for the decimal system.

  I’ve never been afraid to make a decision, and in late September I made a big one. One night in Laura’s small Austin rental house, I said, “Let’s get married.” She said yes right away. Ours had been a whirlwind romance, but we were ready to commit.

  Soon after the engagement, Laura and I traveled to Houston, where Jeb and Columba were celebrating the christening of their daughter, Noelle. I introduced Laura to the family. They were as smitten with her as I had been. Laura knew she would be joining a large, competitive family, and that suited her just fine. As an only child, she got a kick out of the boisterous Bush clan.

  Our parents checked their schedules, and we picked the first Saturday available, November 5, 1977. We had a small wedding with family and close friends in Midland. The invitations were handwritten by Laura’s mom. We had no ushers, no bridesmaids, and no groomsmen. It was just me, Laura, and her dad to walk her down the aisle.

  On our wedding day.

  While I couldn’t pinpoint it at the time, I believe there is a reason Laura and I never met all those years before. God brought her into my life at just the right time, when I was ready to settle down and was open to having a partner at my side. Thankfully, I had the good sense to recognize it. It was the best decision of my life.

  Shortly after we got married, Laura and I decided to have children. After a couple of years of trying, it was not happening as easily as we had hoped. We discussed, reflected, prayed, and made the decision to adopt. At first I was uneasy about parenting someone else’s child. But the more I looked into adoption, the more comfortable I became. We had friends who had adopted and loved their children as a precious blessing. And we were fortunate to know about a wonderful agency called the Edna Gladney Home in Fort
Worth.

  Founded by a Methodist missionary in 1887, Gladney had become one of the premier adoption homes in the world. Laura and I were introduced by phone to the longtime director, Ruby Lee Piester. She invited us to tour the hospital, where we met some of the pregnant women who were near term. I was touched by their selfless decision to bring their children into the world and give them to couples like us.

  The application process took several months. First, there was the initial interview, which included a lengthy questionnaire. Fortunately, we passed. In the next stage, Gladney planned to send a representative for a home visit. Laura and I were preparing meticulously. Then, in early 1981, she stunned me with the news that she thought she was pregnant.

  Some weeks later we scheduled a trip to a sonogram expert in Houston, a lovely Indian American woman named Srini Malini. I was nervous as she guided the device over Laura’s body. She looked at the video monitor and said, “Here is the head, and here is the body. It’s a girl!” She moved to get a better angle. Suddenly she shouted, “I see two babies, two beautiful babies! This one is a girl as well. You are going to be the parents of twins.” My eyes filled with tears. It was a double blessing. I started calling the sonogram image our first family photo.

  When we called the Gladney director to deliver the news, we felt strangely guilty, as if we had been leading her on. She told Laura something so sweet: “Honey, this happens sometimes. Gladney can help a couple have a child one way or another.” Ruby Lee was more right than she knew. On the original questionnaire, Laura had checked the box saying we would prefer to adopt twins.

  The doctors had warned us that twins can be a high-risk pregnancy. Laura refused to decorate the nursery out of superstition. About seven months into the pregnancy, Laura was diagnosed with preeclampsia, a serious condition that could damage her kidneys and jeopardize the health of the girls. The day after we received this news, Laura checked into Baylor Hospital in Dallas, where her uncle was a surgeon. The doctors told Laura that she should begin bed rest.

  I knew Laura had the best possible care, but I was worried. I remembered Mother’s miscarriage. I had seen my parents after Robin died. I knew how much it hurt to lose a child. I confessed my anxiety to Laura. I’ll never forget her reaction. She looked at me with her blue eyes and said, “George, I am going to bring these girls into the world. They will be born healthy.” I marveled at my wife’s strength. This quiet, unassuming woman was one tough soul.

  Two weeks later, I was in my office in Midland—I had been shuttling back and forth to Dallas—when I got a call from Dr. James Boyd. He was in charge of Laura’s care, and he was not big on chitchat. “George,” he said, “you are having your children tomorrow. I will deliver them at six in the morning.” I asked about Laura’s health. He said she would be okay. “What about the girls?” He said, “They will be five weeks premature. They will be fine. But the time to move is now.” I called Laura to tell her how thrilled I was. Then I called her parents in Midland, my parents in Washington, a bunch of our friends—and, of course, the airlines.

  I’ve been to some exciting events in my life—presidential inaugurations, speeches in front of huge crowds, throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium—but there was nothing like the moment those girls were born. Laura was in bed and sedated. I stroked her head. Before long, the doctor held up a tiny red body. The baby screamed, and the doctor proclaimed her healthy. A nurse cleaned her and gave her to me. Little Barbara. And then the same for Jenna. We wanted our girls to carry the names of two fine women, so we named them after our mothers.

  Barbara Bush and Jenna Welch holding their namesakes.

  I had thought about those girls for so long that I could barely believe they were in my arms. It was the day before Thanksgiving 1981. And thankful is exactly how I felt. I was thankful to God for their lives, thankful to the skilled medical team for their excellent care, and thankful to Laura for her determination to carry our girls long enough that they could be born healthy.

  Holding Barbara and Jenna for the first time was a moment of incredible clarity. I had been given a blessing and a responsibility. I vowed to be the best father I could possibly be.

  One relieved and happy dad.

  Those early months provided a wakeup call. The girls would cry in the middle of the night. I would pick them up, one in each arm, and walk around the house. I wanted to sing them a lullaby, but I didn’t really know any. Instead, I usually went with the Yale fight song “Bulldog Bulldog, Bow Wow Wow.” That would calm them down, maybe just because they didn’t want to hear me sing anymore. Whatever the reason, it worked. I would lay them in their cribs and go back to Laura as one happy dad.

  As Laura and I were adjusting to life with our new family, I was running a new business. In 1979, I started a small energy exploration company in Midland. I raised money, mostly from the East Coast, to finance drilling in low-risk, low-return oil and gas wells. I made some respectable finds, including some that are still producing. I also drilled my fair share of dry holes. Running a small business taught me a lot, especially that market conditions can change quickly, so you’d better be prepared for the unexpected.

  As oil prices softened in 1983, I decided to merge my operations with two entrepreneurs from Cincinnati, Bill DeWitt and Mercer Reynolds. I would be the eyes and ears on the ground in Texas, and they would raise funds back east. The business did well for a couple of years, and we became close friends. But in early 1986, the price of oil plummeted from twenty-six dollars to ten dollars a barrel. A lot of people I knew had borrowed heavily and were now in dire financial jeopardy. Fortunately, we had kept our debt low, and we were able to merge our business into a larger publicly traded company, Harken Energy.

  The mid-1980s were gloomy years in Midland. There was a sense of anxiety, and many were searching for purpose. Religion had always been part of my life, but I really wasn’t a believer. I was baptized in Yale’s nondenominational Dwight Hall Chapel. When I was young my parents took me to First Presbyterian in Midland, St. Martin’s Episcopal in Houston, and St. Ann’s Episcopal in Kennebunkport.

  I went to church at Andover because it was mandatory. I never went at Yale. I did go when I visited my parents, but my primary mission was to avoid irritating Mother. Laura and I were married at First United Methodist in Midland. We started going regularly after the girls were born, because we felt a responsibility to expose them to faith. I liked spending time with friends in the congregation. I enjoyed the opportunity for reflection. Once in a while, I heard a sermon that inspired me. I read the Bible occasionally and saw it as a kind of self-improvement course. I knew I could use some self-improvement. But for the most part, religion was more of a tradition than a spiritual experience. I was listening but not hearing.

  In the summer of 1985, we took our annual trip to Maine. Mother and Dad had invited the great evangelical preacher Billy Graham. Dad had asked him to answer some questions from the family after dinner. That was typical of Dad, always willing to share. It would have sent a signal of importance to have had Billy to himself, but that is not George H.W. Bush. He is a generous man, devoid of a big ego. So there we sat, about thirty of us—Laura, my grandmother, brothers and sister, first and second cousins—in the large room at the end of the house on Walker’s Point.

  The first question was from Dad. He said, “Billy, some people say you have to have a born-again experience to go to heaven. Mother [my grandmother] here is the most religious, kind person I know, yet she has had no born-again experience. Will she go to heaven?” Wow, pretty profound question from the old man. We all looked at Billy. In his quiet, strong voice, he replied, “George, some of us require a born-again experience to understand God, and some of us are born Christians. It sounds as if your mom was just born a Christian.”

  I was captivated by Billy. He had a powerful presence, full of kindness and grace, and a keen mind. The next day, he asked me to go for a walk around the property. He asked about my life in Texas. I talked to him about the
girls and shared my thought that reading the Bible could make me a better person. In his gentle, loving way, Billy began to deepen my shallow understanding of faith. There’s nothing wrong with using the Bible as a guide to self-improvement, he said. Jesus’ life provides a powerful example for our own. But self-improvement is not really the point of the Bible. The center of Christianity is not the self. It is Christ.

  Talking with the Reverend Billy Graham, three decades after he deepened my understanding of faith.White House/Paul Morse

  Billy explained that we are all sinners, and that we cannot earn God’s love through good deeds. He made clear that the path to salvation is through the grace of God. And the way to find that grace is to embrace Christ as the risen Lord—the son of a God so powerful and loving that He gave His only son to conquer death and defeat sin.

  These were profound concepts, and I did not fully grasp them that day. But Billy had planted a seed. His thoughtful explanation had made the soil less firm and the brambles less thick.

  Shortly after we got back to Texas, a package from Billy arrived. It was a copy of The Living Bible. He had inscribed: “To my friend George W. Bush, May God bless you and Laura always.” He included a reference to Philippians 1:6: “And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”

  In the early fall, I mentioned my conversation with Billy to Don Evans. He told me he and another Midland friend, Don Jones, had been attending a community Bible study. It met Wednesday nights at First Presbyterian Church. I decided to give it a shot.