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

had endured long hours and made personal sacrifices to join Bill’s Administration in service to our country. From the twenty-three-yearold office assistant to the sixtysomething cabinet secretary, these were the men and women who helped advance Bill’s agenda and his vision of America.

As our staffers toasted each other, Al and Tipper Gore joined Bill and me several hours into the party.

“Here is the candidate who won the most votes in the presidential election,” I said, introducing Al to a cheering ovation. Al asked for a show of hands for everyone who had found spouses or had babies during their time in the Administration. Hands shot up throughout the crowd. And then, in a surprise that Capricia had arranged, the curtain on stage rose and Fleetwood Mac emerged from the wings. When the band broke into the opening chords of “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow,” the anthem of Bill’s 1992

campaign, the crowd erupted in a loud, joyous and off-key chorus wailing the refrain.

I had taken those lyrics to heart. It may have been a cliché, but the phrase that best summed up my political philosophy was: “It’s always about the future,” about what must be done to make America safer, smarter, richer, stronger and better, and how Americans can prepare to compete and cooperate in a global community. As I thought about my own tomorrows, I was excited about serving in the Senate but also overcome by nostalgia for the people who had been part of our journey, especially those who were no longer with us.

For the next two weeks, I wandered from room to room taking mental snapshots of all my favorite things in the White House, marveling at the architectural details, gazing at the pictures on the walls, trying to recapture the wonder I felt when I first arrived. I lingered in Chelsea’s rooms and tried to hear in my mind the laughter of her friends and the sound of her music. She had grown from a child to a young woman in this place. Many of her memories growing up in the White House as the daughter of a President were happy. I was sure of that.

Every morning and every evening I found myself sinking into my favorite chair in the West Sitting Hall, a comfortable retreat where for eight years I had welcomed Chelsea home after school, met with staff, gossiped with friends, read books and collected my thoughts. Now, I reveled in this extraordinary time and this extraordinary place, watching the sunlight stream through the glorious fan-shaped window.

Many times over the last few weeks I thought back to Bill’s first inauguration in 1993, an event that seemed as vivid as yesterday and as remote as a lifetime ago. Chelsea and I took one last walk down to the Children’s Garden, hidden by the tennis court, where the grandchildren of Presidents left their handprints in the cement. Outside on the South Lawn, Bill and I looked out over the fence to the Washington Monument as we had countless times before. Bill threw tennis balls for Buddy to chase, while Socks kept his distance.

The White House staff busily prepared for the arrival of the new First Family, who would join us for coffee and pastries on January 20 before we all drove together to Capitol Hill for the swearing in. For the forty-third time in our nation’s history, Americans would witness the peaceful transfer of power, as one Presidency came to a close and another began. When we entered the Grand Foyer for the last time as occupants of the People’s House, the permanent residence staff had gathered to say farewell. I thanked the florist for the flowers she artfully placed in every room, the kitchen staff for the special meals they faithfully prepared, the housekeepers for their daily attention to detail, the grounds crew for their careful tending of the gardens, and all the other dedicated staff whose hard work graced the White House every day. Buddy Carter, the veteran White House butler, received my last goodbye embrace and turned it into a joyous dance. We skipped and twirled across the marble floor. My husband cut in, taking me in his arms as we waltzed together down the long hall.

Then I said goodbye to the house where I had spent eight years living history.