Destined for Destiny Read online

  My father’s humble beginnings would eventually lead him to the highest office in the land. But to get there, he would have to make the ultimate sacrifice, and give his life during the Great War.

  It was a sad loss for our family, but a proud loss, for he had died fighting for America’s freedom against the feared Burmese.

  After the war, his death would be commemorated by a grateful nation, who proudly elected him to the House of Representatives in Texas—the first corpse to ever attain such a high honor. He served with distinction, fighting for the rights of all undead Texans during the turbulent Civil Rights era of the 1950s and 60s.

  He would be offered the Chairmanship of the Republican Party, the first-ever Zombie to hold that post, and a singular honor for a dead man in the years of the Nixon administration. He was the standard bearer of Republican virtue during this time, and looked on proudly with his dead, black eyes.

  My father would hold many important posts in public life in the coming years, and in some, I would play modest parts.

  We will get to such achievements in due time, but for now, we move to the next phase of my life, the part where it begins.

  2

  A Legacy of Destiny

  I am not one to obsess over the details of history. But I can report with a great deal of certainty that I was born at some time in July, 1946.

  However, I believe in a culture of life. Therefore it is my view that I was born long before I was born. The date I began life as an unborn warrants equal recognition as a momentous date in history. Some laws would have you believe I was not a full citizen until I was born the second time. But I believe that God’s law supercedes man’s law. And God’s law states that life begins when I say.

  Having said that, I believe it is inappropriate to investigate the date of my conception. It would be an overly burdensome and delicate undertaking involving complicated calculations and tough questions.

  In the years in which I was born, it was the golden time of America’s peacetime after a Great War. A World War that spawned a Great Generation, many of whom paid the ultimate sacrifice, and won a great victory over tyranny, defeating the hated invaders, the China-men.

  My father and mother had played their part in that generation. Therefore I was a child of war.

  Some have said that at the time of my birth a great star shone in the night sky, shining brighter than the rest, and it marked my birth in the Heavens. Stars can do that, which verifies what scientists teach us regarding the nature of stars.

  A poor man and his wife traveling in Kennebunkport, Maine could not find room in the inn. So it was there that George H. W. Bush and his wife, Barbara, who was great with child, lay down in a straw barn, not knowing the great portents of these happenings.

  Legend also says that in attendance at my birth were three wise Republican political consultants, who followed the birth-marking star, traveling a great distance to the parents of the newborn babe to bestow upon me great gifts of jewels, frankincense, and a campaign contribution for my father’s upcoming congressional race. It was a true miracle.

  A great and powerful Angel appeared to Barbara and George that night, saying, “Lo, your son born unto the world this night will grow up to be a great leader, a leader who will lead a people to freedom from a brutal dictator not yet born.”

  These Angel’s words have unquestionably come to pass, and it is my view that this story is an accurate account. Some have said there were no wise men present at my birth, according to the hospital records that have been released. However, it has been confirmed that one of the nurses had at one time been a shepherd.

  Birth announcement card, August, 1946

  It is an interesting fact that the Angel had been aware not only of my birth but the birth of the brutal dictator I would one day face. He had the power to foretell the full details of the prophecy concerning me, the war, and all the related events—a complicated process, even for a great and wise Angel.

  It electrifies the mind to contemplate the intricate workings of the Lord of Hosts, who must have offered aid to this Heavenly Agent, and worked in concert with the dark forces, perhaps allowing Satan to mate with a human female to create this future opponent for me. The otherworldly machinations of these mysteries cannot be known to mortal men.

  Regardlessness, from the earliest moments it was clear that I was a child of destiny. What would that destiny be? Only the storied fates would know.

  I believe it was the wise Billy Graham, who would later play a pivotal role in my spiritual life, who first noted the signs of my coming role in future times. It is said that he pointed out to my mother, “Behold, a child of great promise.”

  He revealed to my mother the evidence at hand: that I ate off only the finest china, that I suckled from bottles made of the finest blown glass, and drank only the finest, richest milk. My blankets were always fresh and clean—and swaddling—and were made of the finest silk and flamingo-down stuffing, which had to be washed by hand, gently. I myself was bathed by attendants and anointed with sweet-lotions and powders.

  Surely these were the trappings of a future leader of men, a great tool of the Lord.

  But it would not all go so smoothly on a path from promising infant to War President of prophecy.

  Soon after I was born, my mother and father placed their swaddling infant in swaddling clothes, and I proceeded to swaddle. In fact, I swaddled uncontrollably for seven days and nights.

  They began to grow concerned.

  They tried covering me in more swaddling clothes and tightly swaddled blankets and even a magnificent swaddling cape. But nothing would stem the swaddle. Swaddling does not normally go on for so long, especially with such high-quality infant-wear.

  They called for a doctor, a swaddlhiatry specialist. He applied a swadpository ointment. But it was to no avail.

  My mother and father were preparing for the worst, loading up the car for a long stay at the hospital. In those days, an infant had a recovery period of two to three weeks following a swaddlectomy. Thankfully the swaddling went into remission, and I emerged, a young baby full of promise and hope.

  From that moment, my mother and father knew there was something different about me. They would feed me baby food and I would dribble it all over my lip, turning mealtime into chaos. They would attempt to feed me Cheerios, and I would smash them with my tiny fists on my high-chair tray. When it came time for bed, often I would not sleep through the whole night. I would sometimes awaken at odd hours, and cry and cry.

  Clearly at every turn, I was an extraordinary child. I was a fighter.

  Perhaps it was clear at that point, looking back at it, that I would grow to be a War President. A President who would never shrink from a fight, who would take on the greatest challenges of the 21st century, such as the defeat of evil.

  Like peas in a bowl, I would go on to smash the dictators with a spoon. I would squish the terrorists in my hands like a warm pork wiener, and watch them ooze out between my clenched fingers. I would squash the enemies of freedom like macaroni and cheese until they were nothing but a yellow pulp on my plate. I would smear the evil dictators all over my bib.

  When I was a toddler, the high chair was my throne, a great perch from which I would decide which foods were to be my favorites. Wieners made the cut. Green beans did not.

  I grabbed handfuls of beans and hurled them out of sight the best I could. Our dog, Buster, gobbled them up as soon as they landed on the floor. But my mother glared at me, trying to will me into eating those beans.

  But I did not yield. It was then, when faced with a fierce opponent, that I learned the importance of standing one’s ground. I would remain at the dinner table as long as it took to finish the job. I would feed that dog all of my beans.

  My mother was a critic of this eating strategy. As with all critics, I did not spend time puzzling over her words. I pursued a strategy that was working. And hurtling beans on the floor for the dog to eat was working. I had the facts to back up my st
rategy. Buster liked the beans. And there were none left by the time I was through eating. No one can refute these successes.

  This tactic was vital to mealtime. If I had stopped feeding beans to the dog, it would have dishonored all the beans I had already thrown. To honor the sacrifice of these fallen beans, I had to continue to throw beans to the dog.

  Deep down I knew that my mother was a worthy opponent. For reasons unknown, she refused to suckle me, and therefore my sustenance came from the baby bottle. I do not fully understand why my mother used this method. And I do not reflect on such things at this late stage in life.

  But I do know that the bottle became my friend. I was always reaching for it, and felt empty without its sweet nectar at my lips. I believe I was four years old before I gave it up. My mother wrested it from my tightly gripped little hands over my wailing protestations. No matter how loudly I demanded it, she would not give it to me.

  During those dark times, my father would read me a bedtime story. Usually it involved a heroic U.S. Senator finding oil in Texas. Sometimes the Senator would get a historic bill passed. It was hard for me to get to sleep afterwards, with stories so thrilling.

  He also told me stories of far-off sandy lands of great wealth and opulence, filled with more oil than a nation could possibly use in a century. His eyes would mist over as he spoke of the Arab princes with their hundred wives and a hundred more oil wells. He said, “Son, remember, having a hundred wives is wrong.”

  To this day that adage has guided me.

  3

  No Bush Child

  Left Behind

  There is something that I must confess about my childhood. It was, at times, a difficult struggle.

  I realize that a President is expected to recollect fondly on his childhood years, with golden sunsets on a family farm, drinking milk, doing chores, and learning the value of a dollar.

  But my early years were a tough road of hardships.

  My parents were simple oil folks. My father barely made enough money in the family oil farm to keep my mother in pearls. He worked long, hard hours, was rarely in the home, and when he ventured out on his own, in the uncertain Texas oil business, we all had to pull extra weight.

  I remember grueling chores, in which I had to haul buckets of oil money from the car to the house. And there was a great deal of discipline when chores were not completed satisfactorily.

  To enforce this discipline, my mother used what we called the “spanking board.”

  It was a bread-cutting board with a handle, made out of thick oak hardwood. Perhaps in a long-ago time it was smooth, but after years of slicing cucumber sandwiches, it had gained a rough and splintery surface.

  I accepted this as a show of love and respect. Tough love. You cannot have toughness without love, nor loveness without tough.

  One particularly defining tragedy that occurred in my life took place when I was six. I fell and skinned my knee.

  My mother comforted me as best she could. Never one to touch a child directly, she quickly summoned a nanny. That nanny bundled me up in warm blankets, and suckled the gravel from my torn flesh. She dabbed tentatively at my tear-stained cheeks with a laced handkerchief. She gave me warm milk and buttered cakes, until my little belly was round and full. She tucked me in my warm, soft bed and comforted me as I cried and cried from the pain.

  Later, I would learn that my father had come home after I had fallen asleep and asked his secretary to write me a check for $1,000 to further ease my intense discomfort.

  That night, visions of painful asphalt filled my nightmares. It was a hellish night I would never forget. But the important thing is that I had faced my fears. The horror of this incident did not defeat me. It made me stronger.

  To this day, I still draw upon that torturous memory for strength in difficult times.

  One aspect of my childhood that I recall with some fondness is my warm friendship with Mr. Bigsby, my best friend. He was an invisible boy who played with me whenever I wanted to play.

  First note received from father, October 22, 1947

  Mr. Bigsby helped me see the brighter side.

  He helped me see that my childhood was not all tragedy. My toys, for example, brought me much joy. I derived great pleasure from taking my battleships and tanks and little plastic men out into the back yard to create a play-battle, one that typically ended with them getting blown up somehow, or mashed beneath my feet in a terrible imaginary struggle in which many toy soldiers melted, broke, or were tragically lost, battling the feet of a mighty goliath.

  Let us take a moment of silence to remember those toy soldiers.

  Every President has one moment in his childhood that he credits with being the formative experience of his life. One of the earliest Presidents of America, George Washington, went to his father and admitted that he had chopped down the cherry tree, saying, “I cannot tell a lie.” Abraham Lincoln wrestled a Kentucky log cabin to the ground. And Ronald Reagan vanquished Pancho Villa to found the new territory of California.

  I had a similar defining moment.

  Mr. Bigsby came to me one day and said, “Hey, let’s go torture some frogs.” And I said, “Sounds like fun.”

  After that, I could not get enough of the joyous wonder that is frog torture. Frogs were truly a gift of God’s creation. Bouncing playthings one could collect and torment endlessly without it ever becoming boring.

  I had collected a few frogs one summer’s eve, and was prepared to toss them all in a big clump against the wall of our garage, where they would burst in one glorious bloody sploosh. Just as my arm was cocked back, however, my father came up behind me and said, “George, what are you doing?”

  I told him I was going to watch these frogs splat against the wall.

  He looked at me for a moment with his sad eyes and said, “Be sure to get one of the servants to help you clean that up when you are done.”

  It was an important lesson in delegating responsibility that I would never forget. One cannot discount the influence a father has on the developing scruples of a young boy. Time and again, my father’s influence during my youth would mold me into the man I am today.

  But more important than a parent are the choices one makes which form a President’s morals. These are the great trials in life in which one learns the importance of personal responsibility for one’s actions. This is especially important in a President, who must lead a people.

  I recall the precise moment in my life when my ethical compass was forged.

  It was a bright summer day in Texas. While playing in the garage, I encountered a box of firecrackers. It was a spectacular, bright yellow package, and the firecrackers were the kind with the little cylinders and the little fuse like miniature sticks of dynamite, and they were in a pristine, sealed box, waiting to be torn open. One could even smell the intoxicating fumes of the gunpowder within.

  I was faced with an ethical dilemma which would define my moral principles for years to come.

  I could, as I saw it, do one of two things.

  One, I could light the firecrackers in the back yard.

  Two, I could take them to the quarry where I had much less chance of being caught, and stuff them up the buttholes of frogs that I had collected, then watch them explode, with guts and frog legs flying in every direction, and thereby enjoy a good laugh.

  It is perhaps obvious which path I chose to follow.

  4

  Teacher’s Pest

  As I entered my school years, I began to realize the burden that was upon me to excel. I looked at the long line of Bush ancestors whose pictures hung on our living-room wall, and I realized that these pictures of my family were destined for something special. They were destined to lead.

  I thought of the strange two-dimensional world these forebearing ancestrals had to live in. A world of black and white, where they were surrounded on all sides by fine wooden picture frames. Yet they thrived and became the masters of their times.

  Therefore, as a Bush, I w
as held to a higher standard in education, not bound by the same rules as others.

  I am not talking about a kind of special pass that comes from the idea that “my dad is a powerful oil executive so I should get special privileges.” That would be unfair and unjust in our country. I am talking about a kind of special pass that comes from God.

  But I quickly learned that you cannot always get special treatment in life.

  Some days in school I sat next to children who were from the cattle ranches, and no matter how hard they may have tried, they could not get the stink of the cattle farm off of themselves. The tolerance I learned while sitting next to these other children, being exposed to their strong smell, has served me well as President. I will speak in more detail about this in a later chapter, the chapter about the human sense of smell, in which I detail the mechanism that nose glands use to detect odors.

  My true personality came out during those early years of my education. Teachers and students alike quickly learned that I was the kind of child that you could sit down and have a chocolate milk with. I made friends easily, and those I could not make friends with, I would tease relentlessly until I was assured of their loyalty.

  I met a boy in elementary school who was to become a life-long friend. Albert Tolliver. I tormented him endlessly with taunts, teasing, and bullying. Yet he always came back to me and said, “George, you are my best friend.” Once his loyalty was proven to me, which took many cruel and dangerous tests, I allowed him to become a dear friend. We have remained close to this day. His wife and two lovely children have joined Laura and me for dinner on many occasions.

  Before his wife and children first came over, however, I had to subject them to the same battery of grueling loyalty tests. They were each taped to the flagpole, forced to put their tongues on a freezing cold monkey bar in the dead of winter, and repeatedly dunked head first into the toilet bowl. But after these preliminary trials, we proceeded to have a pleasant meal.