I once heard it said of man that the idea is to die young, as late as possible.
At age 85, a favorite pastime of George H.W. Bush was firing up his boat, the Fidelity,
and opening up the three 300-horsepower engines to fly — joyfully fly — across the Atlantic
with the Secret Service boats straining to keep up.
At age 90, George H.W. Bush parachuted out of an aircraft and landed on the grounds of
St. Ann’s by the Sea in Kennebunkport, Maine, the church where his mom was married and where
he worshiped often.
Mother liked to say he chose the location just in case the chute didn’t open.
After high school, he put college on hold and became a Navy fighter pilot as World War
II broke out.
Like many of his generation, he never talked about his service until his time as a public
figure forced his hand.
We learned of the attack on Chichi Jima, the mission completed, the shoot-down.
We learned of the death of his crew mates, whom he thought about throughout his entire
life.
And we learned of the rescue.
And then another audacious decision: He moved his young family from the comforts of the
East Coast to Odessa, Texas.
He and Mom adjusted to their arid surroundings quickly.
He was a tolerant man.
After all, he was kind and neighborly to the women with whom he, Mom and I shared a bathroom
in our small duplex, even after he learned their profession: ladies of the night.
Dad could relate to people from all walks of life.
He was an empathetic man.
He valued character over pedigree.
And he was no cynic.
He looked for the good in each person, and he usually found it.
Dad taught us that public service is noble and necessary, that one can serve with integrity
and hold true to the important values like faith and family.
He strongly believed that it was important to give back to the community and country
in which one lived.
He recognized that serving others enriched the giver's soul.
To us, his was the brightest of the thousand points of light.
In victory, he shared credit.
When he lost, he shouldered the blame.
He accepted that failure is a part of living a full life but taught us never to be defined
by failure.
He showed us how setbacks can strengthen.
None of his disappointments could compare with one of life’s greatest tragedies, the
loss of a young child.
Jeb and I were too young to remember the pain and agony he and Mom felt when our 3-year-old
sister died.
We only learned later that Dad, a man of quiet faith, prayed for her daily.
He was sustained by the love of the Almighty, and the real and enduring love of our mom.
Dad always believed that one day he would hug his precious Robin again.
He loved to laugh, especially at himself.
He could tease and needle, but never out of malice.
He placed great value on a good joke.
That’s why he chose Simpson to speak.
On email, he had a circle of friends with whom he shared or received the latest jokes.
His grading system for
the quality of the joke was classic George Bush: The rare sevens and eights were considered
huge winners, most of them off-color.
George Bush knew how to be a true and loyal friend.
He nurtured and honored many — his many friendships — with a generous and giving
soul.
There exists thousands of handwritten notes encouraging or sympathizing or thanking his
friends and acquaintances.
He had an enormous capacity to give of himself.
Many a person would tell you that Dad became a mentor and a father figure in their life.
He listened and he consoled.
He was their friend.
I think of Don Rhodes, Taylor Blanton, Jim Nantz, Arnold Schwarzenegger and, perhaps
the unlikeliest of all, the man who defeated him, Bill Clinton.
My siblings and I refer to the guys in this group as brothers from other mothers.
He taught us that a day was not meant to be wasted.
He played golf at a legendary pace.
I always wondered why he insisted on speed golf.
He was a good golfer.
Well, here’s my conclusion: He played fast so that he could move on to the next event,
to enjoy the rest of the day, to expend his enormous energy, to live it all.
He was born with just two settings: full throttle, then sleep.
He taught us what it means to be a wonderful father, grandfather and great grandfather.
He was firm in his principles, and supportive as we began to seek our own ways.
He encouraged and comforted but never steered.
We tested his patience.
I know I did.
But he always responded with the great gift of unconditional love.
Last Friday, when I was told he had minutes to live, I called him.
The guy who answered the phone said, “He — I think he can hear you, but he hasn’t
said anything for most of the day.”
I said, “Dad, I love you, and you’ve been a wonderful father.”
And the last words he would ever say on Earth were, “I love you, too.”
To us, he was close to perfect.
But not totally perfect.
His short game was lousy.
He wasn't exactly Fred Astaire on the dance floor.
The man couldn't stomach vegetables, especially broccoli.
And by the way, he passed these genetic defects along to us.
Finally, every day of his 73 years of marriage, Dad taught us all what it means to be a great
husband.
He
married his sweetheart.
He adored her.
He laughed and cried with her.
He was dedicated to her, totally.
In his old age, Dad enjoyed watching police show reruns, the volume on high.
All the while, holding Mom's hand.
After Mom died, Dad was strong, but all he really wanted to do was hold Mom's hand again.
Of course, Dad taught me another special lesson.
He showed me what it means to be a president who serves with integrity, leads with courage
and acts with love in his heart for the citizens of our country.
When the history books are written, they will say that George H.W. Bush was a great president
of the United States, a diplomat of unmatched skill, a commander in chief of formidable
accomplishment, and a gentleman who executed the duties of his office with dignity and
honor.
In his inaugural address, the 41st president of the United States said this: “We cannot
hope only to leave our children a bigger car, a bigger bank account.
We must hope to give them a sense of what it means to be a loyal friend, a loving parent,
a citizen who leaves his home, his neighborhood and town better than he found it.
“What do we want the men and women who work with us to say when we are no longer there?
That we were more driven to succeed than anyone around us, or that we stopped to ask if a
sick child had gotten better, and stayed a moment, there, to trade a word of friendship.”
Well, Dad, we're going to remember you for exactly that and much more.
And we're going to miss you.
Your decency, sincerity and kind soul will stay with us forever.
So through our tears, let us know the blessings of knowing and loving you, a great and noble
man, the best
father a son or daughter could ask.
And in our grief, let us smile, knowing that Dad is hugging Robin and holding Mom's hand
again.