George Was a Gentleman
Last December Sean Kernan wrote about our late disaster, The Donald. He makes a negative comparison to George H.W. Bush, which reminded me — I’d met George Bush several times, strictly in passing.
I’m only a few months late in getting back to him — Sean, not Donald.
Working in DC back in the 80s, I used to run at noon from 5th Street, heading west on the Mall, to climb the Washington Monument hillock toward the Potomac, turning left by the Jefferson Memorial, avoiding the tour buses parked by the Tidal Basin and onto Hains Point — a stretch of landfill between the Potomac and Washington Basin where golfers whack little white balls into the river. Summer, winter, the seasons didn’t matter long as I was running.
One cold January, I’d forgotten it was Reagan’s inauguration parade. I worked my way through to the front of the crowd, looked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capital and seeing no one coming, crossed over. I wasn’t fond of our ‘what me worry’ president, but I was bothered people might think that I was deliberately dissing him, when I just wanted to put in my six miles and get back to work… OK, now to tell the story.
Anyone who’s lived through DC summers knows it’s like living inside a stinking soup bowl. This was a truly ugly day in July, high 90s, higher humidity, sun blazing, jets taking off from National Airport. I was wearing shorts and carrying my T-shirt, still dripping sweat as I turned onto Hains Point at the three mile mark.
In the 80s, Hains Point was best known for The Awakening clawing its way out of the ground at the point of the Point. It was the 20-mile ‘point’ in Marine Corps Marathon, and the grimace on the metal giant’s face was totally believable. At that point in the marathon I always wanted to give the sculpture the traditional middle finger salute. Though I digress — with too many points.
Looking ahead on Ohio Avenue, there was what seemed to be a men’s football team easily ten or eleven coming at me in a slow shuffle. Maybe they’d come across the river from the Pentagon, except they were formed around another not as large a runner. As they drew closer, they got bigger — as in really big. None were having fun, judging from a lack of smiling faces. Then, there in their midst, I saw Vice President George Bush. Jogging. He was jogging, and his guardian footballers were sucking wind.
I did a quick think —I was near naked so I couldn’t be hiding a weapon, and one of the Secret Service boys by himself could have taken me out, so I continued forward. As we passed, Bush said something like ‘hot day’ or ‘good day’ in a very casual, neighborly way and I said the same in return.
I’d forgotten — or maybe I didn’t know — easily in his sixties, Bush still liked to run.
Friends in the NOVA running club told of running into Bush on the C&O towpath occasionally. Then again after a road race, we were doing a cool down run along the river by the Kennedy Center. Bush checked out the gear — and commented on the running tights most of us were wearing. One bright star said he should try them, ‘great for winter running’ and he chuckled, saying he was probably too old to be wearing tights— too racy, perhaps.
For the grandson of a Connecticut scion, Bush seemed as friendly as a next door neighbor. Some people in high office assume they are as important as their titles — our most recent failure the best example. You don’t get to the Presidency on charm, and Bush had attended Yale where they preach the ruling class to show kindness to the common man, having good fortune and all. But still, George Bush was at ease in his own skin and as much a gentleman as his reputation.
As President, George Bush gave Saddam Hussein a can of whoop ass as they like to call it down south, then withdrew the troops; even Stormin’ Norman was told to get on home. Bush wasn’t intending on saving Iraq for democracy — something his son had to learn the hard way. This was back in the old days when the Republican Party hadn’t gone totally insane.
I count myself as an independent when it comes to political parties. Neither party has a corner on ethics, or even good manners, judging from Cuomo’s story. And it’s true that I, like Groucho wouldn’t want to belong a party who’d have me as a member. Being a true gentleman doesn’t make you a great president, but being an asshole pretty much guarantees the opposite. And I have the proof.
