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

reverently held the Bible as Bill took the oath of office. Then he gathered Chelsea and me in his arms and, kissing each of us, whispered, “I love you both so much.”

Bill’s speech stressed the themes of sacrifice and service for America and called for the changes he had featured in his campaign. “There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America,” he said, calling Americans to “a season of service” on behalf of those in need at home and those around the world whom we must help to build democracy and freedom.

After the swearing-in ceremony, while some of our new staffers hurried to the White House to start unpacking and organizing our things, Bill and I lunched in the Capitol with members of Congress. Just as the mantle of power passes from one President to the next at noon on Inauguration Day, so does possession of the White House. The belongings of a new President and his family cannot be moved into the White House until after he is sworn in. At 12:01 P.M., George and Barbara Bush’s moving vans pulled away from the delivery entrance as ours came in. Our luggage, furniture and hundreds of boxes were unloaded in a mad dash in the few hours between the ceremony at the Capitol and the end of the inaugural parade. Aides scrambled to locate what we would need immediately and stuffed the rest of our possessions into closets and spare rooms to deal with later.

White House security procedures require that essential employees be cleared with the uniformed Secret Service guards, a process known by its acronym, WAVES, which stands for “Workers and Visitors Entry System.” A list of prescreened guests or staff is then WAVE-d into the White House. Unfortunately, my personal assistant, Capricia Marshall, hadn’t quite mastered the system. She thought being “waved in” involved a welcoming hand gesture. Capricia, who would not let my inaugural gown out of her sight that day, carried it from Blair House, waving at guards as she went from gate to gate trying to find someone to WAVE her in. It’s a testament to her persuasiveness―and her eventual inclusion in the WAVES system―that my violet blue lace-covered ball gown made it past White House security on Inauguration Day.

After lunch, Bill, Chelsea and I drove from the Capitol down the parade route to the Treasury Building; there, with the Secret Service’s reluctant blessing, we got out and walked along Pennsylvania Avenue to the reviewing stand in front of the White House, where I sat down in front of a space heater to watch the parade. Because Democrats hadn’t had a winner in sixteen years, everyone wanted to participate. We couldn’t say no and didn’t want to. There were six marching bands from Arkansas alone, in a parade that lasted three hours.

We first walked into the White House as its new residents in the early evening after the last float passed by. I remember looking around in wonder at this house I had visited as a guest. Now it would be my home. It was during my walk up the path toward the White House and up the stairs of the North Portico and into the Grand Foyer that the reality hit me: I was actually the First Lady, married to the President of the United States. It was the first of many times I would be reminded of the history I was now joining.

Members of the permanent White House staff, numbering about one hundred, were waiting to greet us in the Grand Foyer. These are the men and women who run the house and tend to the special needs of its residents. The White House has its own engineers, carpenters, plumbers, gardeners, florists, curators, cooks, butlers and housekeepers who continue from one administration to the next. The entire operation is overseen by the “ushers,” a quaint term from the nineteenth century still used to describe the administrative staff. In 2000, I published my third book, An Invitation to the White House, which was both a tribute to the permanent White House staff and a behind-the-scenes look at the extraordinary job they do every day.

We were escorted upstairs to the private residence on the second floor, which looked barren as our belongings had not been unpacked. But we had no time to worry about any of that. We had to get ready to go out.

One of the most convenient features of the residence is the beauty salon, put in by Pat Nixon on the second floor. Chelsea, her friends, my mother, my motherin-law and my sister-in-law, Maria, crowded in and jockeyed to be transformed, like Cinderellas, for the balls.

Bill wanted to attend each of the eleven inaugural balls that evening, and not just for the customary five-minute drop-by and wave. We were going to celebrate. Chelsea and four of her girlfriends from Arkansas accompanied us to several events, including the MTV Ball, before returning to the White House for a sleepover. The Arkansas Ball, held in the Washington Convention Center, was the biggest and most fun for us because that’s where our families and twelve thousand of our friends and supporters had gathered. Ben E. King handed Bill a saxophone, and the crowd erupted in cheers and Razorback hog calls of “Soooooo-ey!”

No one had more fun than Bill’s mother, Virginia. She was the belle of at least three balls. She probably already knew half the revelers, and she was quickly meeting the rest.

She also made a special friend that night: Barbra Streisand. She and Barbra struck up a friendship at the Arkansas Ball that continued with weekly phone calls for the next year.

Bill and I carried on at the balls, and by the end of the evening, we had danced to so many renditions of “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow,” the unofficial campaign theme song, that I had to kick off my shoes to give my feet a rest. Neither of us wanted the night to end,