Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/111692/11169918.000

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                                                                                ELECTION `92, Page 82

THE PRESIDENCY

Going Gently into the Night


There is no easy way for a loser to endure the transition of
power from his own expiring Administration to that of his exuberant,
victorious rival

By Hugh Sidey


    A piece of George Bush's soul has been crushed. He will
hide it behind his patrician grace in his season of defeat.
Rejected by the American people, a life's ambition cut short,
a political finale cast in defeat -- a heavy burden even for a
man of Bush's discipline. Yet this cruel ritual is the heart of
democracy.

    Like the office itself, the pain of an incumbent's defeat
has to be immense. A friend of Jimmy Carter's watched him
confront the fact he would not be re-elected in 1980 and said,
"a part of him died." Jerry Ford clung to his hope for victory
into election night, but as always with good politicians there
comes a moment when truth confronts them and they accept it.
When Ohio slipped out of Ford's grip on that fateful night in
1976, he got up from his chair in front of his television set
and said, "That's it." Tears streamed down his face and that of
Joe Garagiola, former baseball player and sports commentator,
who had campaigned desperately for Ford in the final hours. The
two old friends hugged each other in their silent despondency.

    Later Rex Scouten, chief White House usher, remembers
walking with Ford to his bedroom on that night, saying something
about Ford's long, distinguished public career and how it might
be best for him to move on and think of himself. Ford looked at
Scouten with a great hurt in his eyes. "I don't believe so," he
said. None of them ever do.

    There probably is no easy way for the loser to endure the
transition of presidential power. He is faced with the
exuberance of the winner, impatient to get into the White House.
He is surrounded with the political disarray of his expiring
Administration. By most measures, the change from Bush to Bill
Clinton will be less traumatic than others. The anti-Bush tide
was running for weeks. Only blind fanatics -- and that does not
include Bush -- could see a good chance of redemption in the
last campaign days.

    The worst hours in presidential power shifts follow the
unexpected episodes like the assassination of John Kennedy. On
Air Force One bringing both Kennedy's body and Lyndon Johnson,
the new President, back to Washington, there played out a scene
of anguish and exhilaration, a weird struggle contained in the
hurtling fuselage. Devastating sorrow among the Kennedy people
turned to a blind hatred against the statutory heirs to power.
The Johnson group, though stunned by the death of Kennedy,
could scarcely contain their satisfaction at gaining the office
that had eluded them in the electoral process.

    Back at the White House the most devastating images were
those of the physical changes taking place inside the old
building, like the pictures of the Kennedy rocking chairs piled
on a furniture dolly being rushed out the side door even before
Kennedy's funeral was over. There was no choice. The White House
staff perpetuated the heartbeat of American authority.

    Richard Nixon made the final decision to yield the
presidency, and the inevitability of his departure had been writ
large for days. Still, the pain was intense. Not long before
Nixon made that final wave from the door of his helicopter,
Alexander Haig, then the White House chief of staff, met with
a friend in the shadowy Map Room in the basement of the Mansion.
"He will be dead within a year," said Haig of Nixon, having
witnessed an emotional wound beyond anything Haig the soldier
had seen before.

    Nixon recovered, as did Ford and Carter, though even today
their disappointment lingers. Politicians know the risks of
their game, but like soldiers in battle they all expect the
other person to be laid low. Lyndon Johnson was renowned for a
cast-iron political gut, but even he had a soft core. While he
secretly decided not to run in 1968 rather than risk defeat,
there is strong evidence that he never cleansed himself of
despair. Being out of power may have hastened his death down at
his ranch four years after leaving the White House.

    Even in a programmed transition after eight years in
office, there is a sadness and a frantic shifting of the complex
internal gears of the White House, which must serve one man up
to his departure on Inauguration Day, then welcome the newcomer
a few hours later. At the end of that sunny, joyous day in 1981
when Ronald Reagan was sworn in, Usher Gary Walters pulled down
the U.S. flag that had flown over the White House and tucked it
away; eight years later, he and the assembled staff gave it to
the departing President. Even the Gipper choked up, and so did
Walters and all the others. End of the Reagan home at 1600
Pennsylvania Avenue.

    Over in the working West Wing, Reagan had stoically
stepped in for a last look around the Oval Office, perhaps the
world's most recognized symbol of political authority. Then he
fished in his pocket, pulled out the code card for nuclear
attack and asked huskily, "What do I do with this?" That Godlike
hold over life and death vanished from his fingers and into a
military aide's hands and later to Bush's pocket.

    When an election decrees a new White House resident, the
outgoing President and his governing team must continue to
operate for another 10 weeks. That in turn dictates that the
home must continue to be familiar, comfortable and functional.
Family pictures stay on the walls and tables, favorite desserts
are served up at night, fresh flowers placed at every turn.
Then, when the First Family departs for the Capitol and the
Inaugural, the resident staff and supplemental crews launch a
furious assault. By the end of the great Inauguration parade,
say around 5 p.m., the new President and his family enter the
White House furnished and decorated in the private quarters to
fit their style and taste. Inside, the staff must contemplate
new habits, accommodate strange kids, house new dogs or cats,
position new furniture and pictures and make sure that sadness
yields to cheer, tears turn to smiles.

    The greater burden in these days of passing the power will
fall on Barbara Bush. The change in the business end of the
White House is a stodgy ritual. The Clinton people don't want
to get entangled in the last days of Bush decision making, and
so they will do little more than learn how to operate the
machinery and scout the office space, then wait for the moment
of truth when they can claim the desks and issue orders. But
Barbara, wife and nester, must dismantle a home and shift a
family. Walters and his crew by tradition will wait until the
immediate pain of defeat subsides and the First Lady signals she
is ready to make plans. Then the staff, renowned for its
sensitivity, will feel their way into the new routine.

    It took a White House servant three tries back when Harry
Truman moved in to get the formula that Bess and Harry liked for
their nightly old fashioned cocktail. The final solution: double
the shot of bourbon. The flower arrangers went from Nancy
Reagan's lower, denser bouquets to airy sprays favored by Mrs.
Bush. Pastry impresario Roland Mesnier boosted his cookie output
when the Bushes arrived trailing various combinations of their
eight (now 12) grandchildren. Walters, who is no cat lover,
remembers being sent to Blair House in 1977 to bring Amy
Carter's cat, Misty Malarkey Ying Yang, over to its quarters in
the White House. Walters got a firm but nervous grip on Misty,
tenderly threaded his way through the amused crowds on
Pennsylvania Avenue who were waiting for the Inauguration
parade. Both Walters and Misty were relieved to get safely
inside the White House. The cat loved the new home; Walters even
grew to like Misty.

    Now and then there is a bump or two in the changing of the
presidential family. Legend has it that Lyndon Johnson asked
French chef Rene Verdon, who had been installed by Jackie
Kennedy, if he could cook Texan. "I don't cook fried chicken,
corn bread or barbecue," said Verdon, who soon left to open a
restaurant in San Francisco.

    For the most part the bittersweet drama goes along without
any lasting rancor. Peaceful change is what democracy is all
about, and the people who play the political game despite their
frayed feelings know the rules and respect them. On election
night when Bush had conceded to Bill Clinton, and the White
House in its weary sadness had dimmed and paused for a few
hours, one could loiter on Pennsylvania Avenue and marvel anew
at the magic in this old system of ours. No tanks guarded the
White House gates. No troops cordoned the streets. The greatest
political power on the face of the earth had been taken from one
man and given to another, and it was done with only the riffle
of an autumn breeze around the big house that George Washington
built.