The biggest headline of the debate came the next morning. As Dad met with some lively longshoremen in New Jersey, a relieved and energized George Bush offered a review of his performance in language fit for the docks. “We tried to kick a little ass last night,” he said. Unbeknownst to him, a TV microphone picked up their interaction. The press had a field day, blowing the comment out of proportion and accusing Dad of sexism. Fortunately, campaigns move fast, and for most voters the incident was quickly forgotten.

That incident was just one example of the tense relations between Dad and the media during the 1984 campaign. When I joined Dad for the final days of the campaign, I could tell that relations with the traveling press had grown hostile. They hammered Dad with repetitive questions about his position on abortion and his privileged upbringing. My impression was that many members of the press corps, particularly the women, were actively rooting for Geraldine Ferraro.

Mother was infuriated by the negative coverage, and eventually she snapped. After a reporter repeated the latest of many allegations that Dad was a rich elitist, she pointed out that Congresswoman Ferraro and her husband actually had a higher net worth.

“That four-million-dollar—I can’t say it, but it rhymes with rich—could buy George Bush any day,” she said. It was a classic Barbara Bush blurt, and she regretted it the moment it left her lips. Mother called and apologized to Geraldine Ferraro, who immediately forgave her. My siblings and I weren’t quite so generous. We took great delight in calling Mother the “poet laureate” of the family.

Years later, Dad went on to develop a genuine friendship with Geraldine Ferraro. Near the end of her life, Dad sent an e-mail to her: “I often think of our strange but wonderful relationship,” he wrote, “and I hope you know that I consider you a real friend. In fact, I hope it’s okay if I say I love you.”

In hindsight, the incidents with the press in 1984 were a good learning experience. A presidential campaign is grueling and stressful. Even the most seasoned campaigner can be tempted to vent frustrations, and you never know what a stray microphone might pick up. I was reminded of that reality in 2000, when an unexpectedly live microphone in Naperville, Illinois, captured me delivering an unflattering review of a New York Times reporter to Dick Cheney. The lesson was to stay disciplined, keep your composure, and stay on message. And if your wife happens to put her foot in her mouth, go three-quarters of the way to forgive her.

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FOR ALL THE drama of the campaign, the election turned out to be one of the most lopsided in history. President Reagan won every state except Minnesota (plus the District of Columbia). Early in their second term, the President generously let Dad use Camp David for a weekend. He invited a group of his siblings and children to meet the campaign team that he had begun to assemble for the 1988 presidential race. One of the strategists that we met that day was Lee Atwater, a brilliant South Carolinian who had been one of President Reagan’s key advisers. Jeb and I pressed Lee on whether he would be loyal to Dad first and foremost. As Jeb put it, “If someone throws a grenade at our dad, we expect you to jump on it.” Lee assured us that he would be fully devoted to George Bush.

Then he laid out an interesting idea. “If you’re so worried about my loyalty,” he said, “why don’t you come up to Washington to work on the campaign and keep an eye on me?”

THE ROAD TO THE WHITE HOUSE

WHEN LEE ATWATER SUGGESTED that I move to Washington to help in Dad’s campaign, I was intrigued. The timing seemed right. I had just merged my oil business into a larger company. I was interested in exploring other opportunities. And there was no better cause: George Bush would make a great President.

I also knew that Dad would need all the help that he could get. My father and I both love history, and the history of Vice Presidents seeking the presidency did not provide much hope. Dad was up against the Van Buren factor: Not since Martin Van Buren defeated William Henry Harrison in 1836 had any Vice President been elected to follow the man who had selected him.

When I arrived at the campaign in the fall of 1986, Lee Atwater asked what title I wanted. I consulted with Dad, who told me that I didn’t need a title. After all, I already had the title of son. His point was that proximity to power is power. He was right. Everyone involved in the campaign knew that I could talk to the candidate at any time, and that was more valuable than a title. Proximity to power was also a reason that Mother and Laura were so effective throughout our careers. Everyone knew that my father and I spoke frequently to them and trusted their judgment. So when Mother or Laura had a request or a piece of advice, our aides were usually wise enough to comply.

I had no specific portfolio at the campaign. My duties included raising money, delivering surrogate speeches, encouraging volunteers, dealing with reporters (occasiona

lly), fielding suggestions and complaints, and discussing strategy with Dad’s senior aides. I also took it upon myself to be a loyalty enforcer, ensuring that campaign staffers were there to serve George Bush and not their own interests. One memorable example involved Lee Atwater. Early in the campaign, Esquire magazine ran a profile of Lee in which he conducted part of the interview while using the restroom. The theme was that Lee was the bad boy of Republican politics—that he was so important to George Bush that he could get away with anything. I was furious. I told Lee that his job was to make George Bush look good, not make himself look good.

“By the way, if you think I’m mad,” I said, “you ought to hear what Mother says.”

Lee immediately apologized to Mother and toned down his public behavior.

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IN THE FALL of 1986, it seemed that being Ronald Reagan’s Vice President would be a strong asset in the 1988 race. The President had been reelected in a nationwide landslide. But there’s a reality about every two-term presidency: Toward its end, Americans grow weary of the President. (Tell me about it!) The first signs of President Reagan’s slipping popularity came in the midterm elections of 1986. Republicans lost five seats in the House and eight in the Senate. For the first time in the Reagan presidency, Democrats had control of both houses of Congress.

In November 1986, several media outlets reported that the Reagan administration had secretly sold weapons to Iran in return for cooperation in releasing American hostages who had been captured by Hezbollah in Lebanon. Though the desire to free the hostages was understand

able, the revelation was startling. The administration had previously professed that it would never pay ransom for hostages. Plus Congress had outlawed arms sales to state sponsors of terrorism, one of which was Iran.

As bad as the story looked, it soon got worse. In late November, Attorney General Ed Meese revealed that more than half of the money that the Iranians had paid for the weapons had been diverted to support the Contras, an anticommunist rebel movement in Nicaragua. That was a problem because two years earlier, President Reagan had signed a bill that prohibited government aid to the Contras.

The press, on high alert for a scandal similar to Watergate, demanded to know what the President knew and when he knew it. The administration initially denied that President Reagan had approved an arms-for-hostages deal but later backtracked and acknowledged that he had. The President insisted that he had not known that members of the National Security Council staff had diverted funds to the Contras. Ultimately, President Reagan accepted responsibility for the actions of his administration and appointed an independent counsel to bring charges against anyone who had broken the law. National Security Adviser John Poindexter and Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North were found guilty (their convictions were reversed on appeal).