Remembering my time behind-the-scenes with first lady Barbara Bush

Political misadventures

Politicians are upon us. Political big mouths — nailed shut most years — now open wider than the Grand Canyon. I have covered elections that predate Millard Fillmore. Itchy to get their black-dyed heads on another black-dyed head’s TV program they’d even resurrect and re-elect Calvin Coolidge.

See a paper plate of warm tuna fish schmeared with mayo and you know right away it’s a political event. Difference being the Dems’ accompanying bread slice might’ve been used previously for Ulysses Grant. Baked maybe when the Dutch celebrated buying our island for less than a slice of Junior’s cheesecake.

I remember George Bush and Barbara had a king-size bed. Needful because she always wore a heavy triple-strand pearl necklace. Can get in the way. She even wore it when I visited the suite named for her at the Grand Hotel’s Mackinac Island, Michigan. Plus her prescient words: “When you’re out, you’re OUT! Everybody should stop whining. Life doesn’t end after a job does.”

I spent lots of time with Barbara. The late superdesigner Arnold Scaasi dressed and taught her — as did I — about makeup. Didn’t help. At the Marriott she requested a hairdresser. None came so she shampooed herself.

Many seasons ago a presidential shindig was in Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love. I was in a good hotel. My husband had just had made for my birthday a chunky crystal bracelet with two hearts embedded — one for him, one for me — in diamonds. It was a big wide slip-on. My job was to shake hands, hug, pat on the back and carry a notebook so I thought it smart — safer — since this could slip off — to leave it in the hotel. I was thrilled with my bracelet.

No safe in the room. Safes were downstairs near the check-in desk. I took my bracelet down, since there was no way with its design to connect both ends and so could be slipped or wrenched off. I signed for it, put it in the safe and went to work. That was years ago and all I know today is that somebody else also must’ve gone to work.

After the convention I went to reclaim it. Gone. The safe — empty. Nothing in it. Zip. And no record with the hotel clerk of anyone checking into the vault space. Nothing. No trace. No signature. No information about anyone else having been near the safes. We interviewed everyone. Zilch. The clerk in charge knew nothing. Political season, police were never called about some break-in or robbery.

That was a lifetime ago. My husband’s gone. My bracelet’s gone. I realize this is stupid but anyone wants to make a few dollars and return it — no questions asked — I’ll be grateful. Whoever got elected that year I can’t remember. I only know I want my bracelet back.

Another thing I remember is girl talk with Barbara Bush — and why she didn’t dye her white hair. Years back when George was running for Congress in Texas she had to meet him on her own. She got put into a tiny propeller job and came fresh from her then tinted brown hair appointment. The day was hot. Plane: no air-conditioning. The rinse ran. And ran. All over her face.

She used tissues. It stuck. She went for her handkerchief. The running brown down her cheeks never stopped. She ran into the tiny john and applied toilet paper. The now wet toilet paper wouldn’t come off. It shredded and stuck to her like an advanced case of measles. The plane landed. Her face had brown spots all over.

Meeting the plane was a little four-piece local band. Nervous and unstrung, she tripped on the stairs and, she told me, “fell right into the tuba.”

Great story. I’ll never forget it. But I’d still like my bracelet back.