Living History by Unknown (the lemonade war series txt) 📗

first time. The puppy scampered straight into Bill’s arms, and they fell in love on the spot. All we had to do was figure out a name for the dog. We vacillated and made lists. People wrote letters with suggestions and devised dog-naming contests. Two of my favorite candidates were Arkanpaws and Clin Tin Tin.

The process was getting out of hand, and we realized we’d better hurry up and name the poor little thing. We finally decided on a simple and, to our minds, noble name: Buddy.

Buddy was the nickname of my husband’s favorite uncle, Oren Grisham, a devoted dog owner and trainer who had died the previous spring. When Bill was growing up in Hope, Uncle Buddy let him play with his hunting dogs. The more Bill talked about the new puppy, the more he remembered his uncle Buddy and the clearer it became that we should name the dog after him. The only glitch, I thought, was that one of the butlers on the White House staff was named Buddy Carter. We didn’t want him to take offense at our naming a dog Buddy. But we asked him, and he loved the idea. In fact, I believe he started to identify with that dog. “Buddy got in trouble again,” he’d joke with us when the dog had chewed up the newspaper. “Not me, the other Buddy.”

Months later, when our new canine pal was sent off to be neutered, Buddy Carter came into the residence shaking his head and muttering, “Not a good day for Buddy today.

Not a good day at all.”

The little Lab settled swiftly into my husband’s routine. He slept by his feet in the Oval Office and stayed up late into the night. They were perfect for each other, since Buddy had, or developed, many of Bill’s traits. Buddy loved people, possessed a sunny, optimistic disposition, and had the ability to focus and concentrate with singular intensity.

Buddy was obsessed with two things: food and tennis balls. He was an absolute maniac when it came to chasing balls. He retrieved the ball, if you let him, until he fell down exhausted.

Then he’d get up and look for his dinner.

Buddy quickly became the center of our family life, which was hard for Socks to deal with. Socks had been showered with all the attention for years. One of my favorite photos showed Socks surrounded by photographers outside the Arkansas Governor’s Mansion before our move to Washington. Unfortunately, Socks despised Buddy. We tried so hard to convince them to get along. But if we left them in the same room, we inevitably came back to find Socks with his back arched, hissing at Buddy, who was intent on chasing the cat under the couch. Socks had blunt-clipped claws, but he never passed up an opportunity to take a swipe at Buddy and once landed a direct hit on the puppy’s nose. Both of them had their fans and each received thousands of letters, mostly from children who expressed their affection―and preference―for one or the other. In fact, I had to set up a separate correspondence unit at the U.S. Soldiers’ and Airmen’s Home to answer their mail. In 1998, I published some of the letters in Dear Socks, Dear Buddy, giving the proceeds to the National Park Foundation, the charity that raises funds to support our national park system.

Before we knew it, Christmas had come and gone, and we were off for our trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for Renaissance Weekend and a gathering of 1,500 friends and acquaintances.

I looked forward to seeing our friends and loved the long, serious conversations at Renaissance. But I needed some rest, and I was eager for the four days we had planned on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Is lands after New Year’s. We had visited this beautiful Caribbean island the year before, staying in a house overlooking Magens Bay. This year we were returning to the same location, taking Buddy along with us.

We landed at the little airport in Charlotte Amalie, the capital, and drove along the curvy mountain road lined with coconut and mango trees to our secluded spot on the north side of the island. The warm air and tropical breezes were so welcoming, as was the house, set on a hill with winding steps leading down to a tiny beach below. The Secret Service was headquartered next door, and the Coast Guard had cleared boats out of the little bay to enhance security―and privacy. As we looked out across the water, there was virtually no sign of life. It was an idyllic setting.

Bill, Chelsea and I did what we usually do on vacations: We played cards and word games and put together a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. We brought plenty of books that we read, swapped and discussed over informal meals. Otherwise we swam, walked, jogged, hiked and cycled together. Normally Bill plays golf every chance he can, and since our vacations usually coincide with football and basketball seasons, our accommodations must have adequate television reception. We were not, however, ever truly alone.

The Secret Service was on duty nearby, and the Navy stewards who travel with a President were ready to cook or clean whenever needed. And, of course, essential staff was with us: the doctor, nurse, military aide, press staff and security adviser. But we got used to the entourage, and they respected our privacy. The paparazzi did not.

One afternoon midway through the trip, Bill and I put on our bathing suits and ventured down to the beach for a swim. Unbeknownst to us, a photographer from Agence France-Presse, the French wire service, was hiding in the bushes on a public beach across the bay. He must have had a powerful telephoto lens, because the next day a photo of us slow-dancing on the beach appeared in newspapers around the world. Mike McCurry, the White House press secretary, was angry about the invasion of privacy and the fact that the photographer was, as he told the