The
recent passing of Barbara Bush made me recall the time I met her – and how if
it were nowadays instead of back in the early ‘90s, I probably would have been arrested.
At
the time, Mrs. Bush was campaigning for her husband’s re-election. I hadn’t
heard about her impending arrival here in New Hampshire, so when the editor of
the small newspaper where I was working as a correspondent at that time
informed me she would be making a stop at a pizza parlor in Epsom, only five
miles from my house, I suddenly had a burning desire to be at
that pizza parlor and meet her.
Unfortunately,
my editor never issued any press I.D. cards back then, mainly because the towns
the newspaper covered were so small, everyone either knew everyone or was related
to everyone, so there rarely was a need for press I.D.s. But that meant I had
no way of proving to Mrs. Bush’s security people that I was with the newspaper.
And I was fairly certain the only way I’d be able to get anywhere within 20
feet of her was to be a part of the press corps.
So
I did what any other half-crazed person in my shoes would have done – I made my
own press I.D. card. Mind you, hardly
anyone had home computers back then, so I had to make the card by using a
typewriter, a photocopy machine, a Polaroid photo, and some laminating
material.
After
I’d finished my masterpiece, I stared critically at it. The photo was crooked, the laminate had an
air bubble under it, and I’d misspelled a word. I could only pray that the person who was in charge of checking
the press I.D.s the next day would be someone who desperately needed cataract
surgery.
The
next morning, which was one of the coldest mornings of the year, I, with my
homemade I.D. clipped to my coat’s lapel, grabbed my camera and headed to
Epsom. When I pulled into the parking
lot in the strip mall where the pizza parlor was located, I was greeted by a
police officer who informed me the parking lot was full.
“But
I’m with the press,” I told him, pointing to my badge. “I’m going to be late!”
The
officer nodded and said, "Oh, OK, you can park right over there in the reserved area, then.”
Smiling
smugly, I parked my car and headed toward the pizza parlor, which by then, was
concealed behind a long line of people who also were hoping to catch a glimpse
of the First Lady. The poor people looked half-frozen. Their cheeks and noses
were red, and they were dancing little “get warm” dances to fend off frostbite.
Taking
a deep breath, I boldly walked to the front of the line and up to the
door. A man in a black overcoat, white
shirt and black tie was blocking it. I
opened my mouth to give him my well-rehearsed speech about how even though I
was from a small-town newspaper, I still was as entitled to meet Mrs. Bush as someone
from the Boston Herald when, to my shock, he glanced at my badge, nodded, and
held open the door. “Members of the press have to stand over there on the left side of the
restaurant,” he said.
So
in the blink of an eye, there I was, stiffly standing in the midst of a group
of very official-looking press people. They were armed with notebooks, video cameras and regular
cameras. Some held microphones and kept
glancing impatiently at their watches.
“Hi!”
the young man next to me suddenly said, extending his hand. “I’m Bob (or
whatever his name was) from CNN.”
“Sally
Breslin,” I reciprocated, shaking his hand. “The Suncook-Hooksett Banner.”
Another
voice from behind me also introduced himself. “I’m from a brand new cable
network,” he said. “New England Cable News.
Tell me, do you think a network that shows only New England news 24
hours a day can make it?”
I
shook my head. “Sounds too regional to catch on.”
Goes
to show you how much I knew.
I
turned my attention to what was happening on the right half of the restaurant -
the side that was off limits to us press people. Two men, apparently the pizza parlor’s owner and an employee,
were feverishly whipping up a pizza.
Another man, a clone of the guy wearing the white shirt and black tie at
the front door, was carefully checking (sniffing, tasting) every ingredient the
men were using.
This
pizza, I figured, was going to be for Mrs. Bush, and the guy doing all the
sampling and testing was the equivalent of an old-fashioned food taster, the kind who used to taste the royal family’s food before each meal, just in case it was poisoned. If the taster dropped dead, then the family
knew they’d probably be wise to either skip dinner or order takeout.
The
two pizza-makers were so nervous, their hands were shaking, which was
understandable, considering some strange guy was breathing down their necks and grabbing their ingredients. They had a temporary break from the man’s
constant scrutiny, however, when he suddenly was distracted by something even more heinous, more dangerous than any arsenic-riddled pizza ever
could be: a little girl carrying a dainty bouquet of flowers.
“Let
me check those,” the Man in Black said, grabbing the bouquet and rummaging
through it until it looked as if it had been arranged by someone whose arms
were in casts.
A
very distinguished-looking woman then announced to the few people who were
gathered on the right side of the pizza parlor (probably relatives of the pizza employees because no one from the line outside had been allowed inside yet), “Attention, please! If any of you plan to give flowers or gifts
to the First Lady, you MUST have them checked first - you cannot just hand them
to her!”
I
smiled to myself. Here they were,
worried about a little bouquet of flowers when they’d let me walk right in with
my handmade I.D. and a camera case they’d never even checked!
Finally,
after what seemed like years, an excited cry of “She’s here! She’s here!” rang through the pizza
parlor. Everything happened in rapid
motion after that. In came Mrs. Bush,
surrounded by her entourage. She was
wearing a lavender-blue coat and her ever-present string of pearls. She smilingly accepted the bouquet that had
just undergone a complete physical exam by the Man in Black. Breaking my member-of-the-press orders, I
boldly stepped over to the right side of the restaurant, stood in front of Mrs.
Bush and snapped a couple photos.
 |
| ONE OF THE PHOTOS I TOOK |
The
First Lady then gave the shortest political speech I'd ever heard. It boiled down to something like, “If you
think my husband has been doing a good job as president, please vote to
re-elect him.”
Only
a small group of the frozen people standing in line outside were allowed
inside. Mrs. Bush shook a few hands, offered a few greetings and hugged a baby or two.
Then the two very uneasy-looking pizza makers offered their bubbly,
cheese-covered masterpiece to her. She
graciously thanked them, took one bite, said it was delicious, then daintily dabbed her mouth with a
napkin, and with a wave, departed.
I
just stood there, staring at the door and wondering, “Is that it? Is that all there is?”
“Are you coming?” The Man in Black interrupted my
thoughts. “The bus is leaving.” I
looked around to discover that all of the press people had disappeared.
Before
I could answer, he explained, “The press bus.
Aren’t you part of the press corps covering all of Mrs. Bush’s stops in
the state today?”
I’d
be lying if I said a part of me didn’t want to hop on that bus and spend the
day having a free tour of the state and experiencing who-knows-what kind of
adventures. But I figured I’d already "pressed" my luck (pun intended) far enough.
I
shook my head and said. “No, I think I’ll just stay right here. There’s a large pizza with only one bite
missing just sitting over there, and I think it has my name on it.”
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