Don never talked about his background, except for one aspect: He loved his Texas A&M. Over time, some of his life story emerged. His slurred speech was a result of bad hearing. His social awkwardness was a result of his troubled home environment. A childhood friend of Don’s later told us that his mother was a prostitute who died when Don was young, leaving him an orphan in Houston.
Over the years, Don Rhodes became one of my father’s most loyal and trusted aides. Dad saw something in the former convenience store clerk that others did not: a man who needed a friend, and a man he could trust completely. My parents’ trust in Don was so deep that they allowed him to handle their day-to-day finances. It was not uncommon for my siblings in college to get a call from Don reminding them to pay a bill or check the balance in their bank account.
One of my favorite memories of Don came after the strike that ended the major league baseball season in 1994. Don was so angry that he vowed not to attend a ball game for ten years. When the Houston Astros opened their beautiful new ballpark in 2000, Dad asked Don if he would like to join him for opening day. Of course, he had great seats. Don looked Dad straight in the eye and said, “I told you I wasn’t going to a game for ten years, and it hasn’t been ten years yet.”
When Don died in 2011, my father called Don “the most unselfish, most caring friend” he ever had. That was high praise from George Bush. After Don’s funeral, his ashes were scattered in my parents’ future gravesite at the George Bush Presidential Library. That was a fitting tribute to Don Rhodes. He was not just a staffer; he was a member of the family.
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ON MAY 1, 1979, my father officially announced his campaign for the presidency. Dad’s limited national following and skeletal staff dictated his strategy for the primaries. In 1976, Jimmy Carter had devoted all his resources to the early states of Iowa and New Hampshire. His victories there had provided the momentum that propelled him all the way to the nomination. Dad adopted a similar approach.
As in his earlier political races, George Bush resolved to outwork his opponents. He visited every one of Iowa’s ninety-nine counties, many of them multiple times. He would show up for pancake breakfasts, county fairs, chamber of commerce dinners, and coffees at people’s homes. He followed up with hundreds of handwritten letters. In the month before the caucus, he held dozens of campaign events. He talked about the struggling economy, rising inflation, and declining American power abroad. His message was that Jimmy Carter had to go—and that he had the energy and experience to replace him.
Dad was not the only one working hard. My brother Jeb came back from Venezuela, where he had been working for the international office of a Texas bank, to work full-time on the campaign. Neil worked on the campaign in New Hampshire, and Marvin spent almost a full year in Iowa. Doro enrolled in a typing class and volunteered on the campaign in Massachusetts. Dad’s brothers and sister all pitched in as well. And Mother maintained a full campaign schedule, speaking in living rooms and meeting halls across Iowa about why George Bush would be a great President. Our love for him was so powerful that it was easy for the family to go all in.
I made it to Iowa for the final weeks before the caucuses. I traveled the northeastern corner of the state with Congressman Tom Tauke. We met with groups of caucusgoers and tried to persuade them to turn out for George Bush. I loved every minute of the retail politics.
Ronald Reagan was clearly the front-runner going into the caucuses, but Dad had lined up support from respected Iowans like former RNC Chair Mary Louise Smith and Congressman Tauke. More important, he had spent a lot more time in the state than Reagan. That was crucial. Iowans appreciate candidates who give them personal attention. On caucus night, Dad’s hard work paid off. He was first to the finish line with just over 30 percent of the vote. The candidate who had once been an asterisk in the polls had just won the first major contest of the presidential race.
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THE UPSET VICTORY triggered a wave of national publicity. George Bush’s name was in the headlines; his picture was on the magazine covers. Amid the euphoria of the Iowa triumph, however, he was uncharacte
In retrospect, the Big Mo quote represented a missed opportunity. With the spotlight on him after his Iowa win, Dad had a chance to emphasize his vision for the country. Instead, he became entangled in the world of political process, and ultimately he allowed his candidacy to get defined by others. I learned a valuable lesson: Every time you have the microphone in a political campaign, you should use the opportunity to talk about your vision for the future. (Of course, I didn’t always heed those words. In 2000, I won in Iowa and lost in New Hampshire to John McCain, in part because I let him define me.)
Compared to Iowa, New Hampshire seemed like familiar territory. Dad had been born in neighboring Massachusetts, grown up in nearby Connecticut, and spent summers across the border in Maine. He had a strong network of supporters in the state led by former Governor Hugh Gregg. (Years later his son, my close friend Judd Gregg, would serve as a Governor, a Senator, and Chairman of my New Hampshire campaigns.)
Despite the home-field advantage, the atmosphere in New Hampshire was different from Iowa. New Hampshire voters are an independent lot, and they have a history of derailing front-runners. Dad’s front-runner status also led to intensified press scrutiny. In an interview with Mother, Jane Pauley asked, “Mrs. Bush, people say your husband is a man of the eighties and you are a woman of the forties. What do you say to that?” Mother defused the insult with a quip. “Oh, you mean people think I look forty?” Life as the presidential front-runner would not be easy.
The key moment in New Hampshire came at the debate two nights before the primary. In an attempt to dramatize the event, the debate organizers decided to invite only the two front-runners, Ronald Reagan and George Bush. The Reagan campaign supported the format and picked up the cost of the room rental. Dad hadn’t suggested the idea, but he relished the chance to go head-to-head with Reagan.
Naturally, the other candidates were incensed that they hadn’t been invited. They decided to protest their exclusion by showing up at the debate and demanding to be heard. It later became clear that the Reagan campaign had coordinated their appearance, creating a political setup: They wanted to put George Bush on the defensive at the debate—and they did.
After the moderator, Jon Breen of the Nashua Telegraph, introduced Dad and Reagan to the audience, the other candidates popped out from behind the curtain and stood angrily on the stage. Reagan argued that they should be allowed to join the debate, but the moderator insisted on adhering to the agreement. Dad sat awkwardly in his chair as the spectacle unfolded around him. His instincts had kicked in. Rules were rules, and Dad had been raised to follow them. Plus he did not want to embarrass Mr. Breen in front of the national audience.
Reagan, on the other hand, had no problem showing up his host. When Breen threatened to cut off his microphone, Reagan thundered, “I am paying for this microphone, Mr. Green.” The crowd roared with approval. (They didn’t care that his name was Breen, not Green.) The remark echoed a line from Spencer Tracy in the movie State of the Union, and the former actor had won over his audience big-time. Dad’s silence made him look weak and further infuriated the other candidates. The debate ended up as a one-on-one affair, but the only story anyone remembered was the controversy about the microphone. One press account said that Dad had shown “the backbone of a jellyfish.” Bob Dole said that George Bush “wants to be King” and compared his actions to the those of the Gestapo. Other candidates piled on.