Rendezvous with Destiny: Ronald Reagan and the Campaign that Changed America (59 page)

As Bush left the field, John Anderson took a parting shot, saying that Bush reminded him of “a Hardy boy trying to be Winston Churchill.”
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Being forced to exit the race was particularly painful to Bush because numbers showed that on the national level he was competitive. A new Time-Yankelovich poll showed that he had closed the national gap among Republicans to just eight points, 48 percent for Reagan to Bush's 40 percent. Three months earlier, Reagan had been leading 49–17.
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Also, in a head-to-head with Jimmy Carter, Bush was now just as competitive as Reagan. Bush had peaked too early in Iowa and then too late in Michigan—he'd never peaked at the right time.
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The poll did provide some good news for Bush: it showed that by a wide margin, he was the preferred running mate for Reagan.

Having sewn up the nomination, Reagan was spreading his gospel in California, speaking to four thousand at the Western Desert Gospel Singers picnic. He told the pro-family group, “I think this country is hungry today for a spiritual revival.” Elaborating, he said, “You know, there are people in our land today who want to take ‘In God We Trust’ off our money. I've never known a time when it needed to be there more.”
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Mary McGrory of the
Washington Star
noted how well winning suited the Gipper. “Reagan looked wonderful,” she wrote of the presumptive nominee. “His dark blue eyes were sparkling and his cheeks had the rosy glow of conquest.”
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Yet the man who had such an ear for politics and theater had missed an important cue. For sixteen long years, thousands of his supporters had wished and dreamed and worked for this moment of triumph; after coming so close in 1976, and his failed effort in 1968, he had overcome his doubters—not least within his own party—to claim the Republican nomination at last. When it happened, Reagan and his campaign neglected the opportunity to make it magical. They also missed a chance to begin the process of healing the party.

Instead, the campaign focused on more mundane matters. Reagan's national headquarters had been in Los Angeles, but after months of internal skirmishes on this question, the Reagan team finally decided to move headquarters to northern Virginia. The decision reflected the fact that so much of America's power structure was built around the nation's capital: the money, the political media, the party establishment, and the government. Carter had made a critical mistake in 1976 by not moving his headquarters from Atlanta to Washington after winning the nomination, earning the ire of the D.C. establishment and ensuring that he remained mired in parochial thinking.

A search was under way for a place in rural Virginia for the Reagans to hang their hat. Whatever was selected, it had to be large enough for Reagan to go horseback riding. Eventually the Reagans rented a secluded estate in the hunt country, about an hour from downtown Washington, that had once belonged to John F. Kennedy. Jackie Kennedy had found and decorated the estate, known as Wexford, as a getaway for JFK. After his assassination, she never again visited Wexford.

The Reagan campaign also started looking at potential running mates. Dick Wirthlin began a national poll testing the names of eighteen prospective vice- presidential candidates. The poll took about one hour per sample; the unlucky Republican who was called had better have a pot of coffee nearby. Wirthlin would not reveal the names of the candidates to the media, but Reagan did mention two women he thought qualified, Senator Nancy Landon Kassebaum of Kansas and former ambassador Anne Armstrong of Texas.
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Kassebaum, however, quickly said she felt unqualified for the position and ruled herself out.
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The group touting Jack Kemp as Reagan's running mate—Republicans for Victory in '80—cleverly conducted a survey of 4,096 delegates and alternates to the 1976 convention. Kemp came in impressively with 28.3 percent. Closely behind were Howard Baker at 27 percent and George Bush at 19.6 percent. Gerald Ford was at 1.4 percent.
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The Gipper was flying high, even if his campaign plane didn't always get off the ground. Attempting a takeoff from Lindbergh Field in San Diego, his private Learjet had accelerated to top speed when the hydraulics blew, three-quarters of the way down the runway. Steering and brakes wouldn't work, but the pilot averted a disaster by aborting at the last moment. Reagan, never a good flyer to begin with, nonetheless got into another plane. He was probably just as glad to get out of San Diego, where, the Associated Press noted, he “suffered from a fat lip and taunts from a group of angry hecklers.”
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The AP story did not elaborate on how Reagan got the fat lip.

Before leaving the city, Reagan spoke to a crowd of supporters, who pushed the protesters to the back as one shouted, “I want Teddy.” Reagan didn't waste a second telling the friendly crowd in front of him, “There's a fella back there who wants Teddy—he's sick!”
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Something else moving was the sick economy, and it was going down, down, down. The government released the Index of Leading Economic Indicators at the end of May and they had dropped a mind-boggling 4.8 percent, the worst dive in thirty-two years.
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Economists predicted it would get even worse, if that were possible. The White House's response was that the president was “concerned.”
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The administration did the best it could to point out that interest rates and inflation had momentarily slowed, but to the consumer, soothing words meant little.
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Inflation was now running at 18 percent per annum. Gas, which had cost 58 cents per gallon a couple of years earlier, was now running at $1.20 per gallon. Banks were offering certificates of deposit for over 11 percent interest.
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Saving was no option, as one lost money, somewhat gradually. Spending was the only other option, but with things so expensive, consumers were forced to hold onto increasingly worthless dollars.
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Americans were caught in an inflationary spiral.

Several days later, the government announced that unemployment had climbed to 7.8 percent. More than eight million people could not find a job.
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T
ED
K
ENNEDY WAS PROVING
even more stubborn than George Bush. President Carter rolled over him in Kentucky, Nevada, Idaho, and Arkansas, but still Kennedy wouldn't withdraw from the Democratic contest. Only technically in the game, he continued to angle for delegates and a rule challenge at the Democratic convention in August.

The whole exercise reminded many in the media of Reagan's last gasp in 1976. In fact, Reagan had won far more primaries and state conventions against the incumbent Gerald Ford than Kennedy had against the incumbent Carter in
1980. As quixotic as Reagan's challenge to Ford may have seemed at the time, Kennedy's was even more so.

Carter offered an olive branch to Kennedy and invited him to work together on the Democratic platform with “concessions in every direction.”
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Kennedy brushed aside the Carter offer and talked up the Anderson candidacy just to torment Carter.
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Several of Kennedy's men advised him to get out gracefully, but he was having none of it.
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There had never been any love lost between the two candidates or their families, and now Kennedy just hated Carter.

To almost everyone but Kennedy, it was clear that Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan were headed for a titanic showdown. Despite being governors simultaneously, the two adversaries had never met personally, according to President Carter.
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Still, it was apparent that they already didn't like each other. Carter met with a group of editors and cast aspersions on Reagan's work during meetings of the nation's governors. He said Reagan would “come into a meeting … without doing the long, tedious work … would call a press conference and because of his fame, would attract a great deal of press attention and then he would be gone.” When asked about Carter's comments, Reagan responded, “I remember a young newcomer coming aboard as governor of Georgia. For the life of me, I can't remember anything he ever did.”
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It would go downhill from there.

Carter and Reagan crossed paths in Ohio at the end of May. The president was in the Buckeye State in hopes of securing the last delegates he needed for his party's nomination. It was his first overtly political trip since vowing to stay in the White House until the hostages were released. Ohio would also be a key battleground state in the general election, as polling had Reagan and Carter tied in the mid-30s.
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Campaigning in Columbus, Reagan and Carter found themselves within spitting distance of each other. Reagan remarked that he and Carter were “about two blocks apart physically. I think spiritually and mentally and philosophically, we're a million miles apart.”
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In front of the statehouse he told the crowd, “I understand that there are two candidates in town today. [Sounds of laughter and applause] As a matter of fact somebody said that they were having a little trouble telling which motorcade was ours and which was the other one. Well, you could tell his—it turns left at every corner! [Sounds of laughter]”
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Legendary Ohio State football coach Woody Hayes was on the dais for Reagan. But not everybody was glad to see the Gipper. Several protesters were dressed as clowns and holding signs that said, “Bozos for Reagan” and “Robots for Ray-Gun.”
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Before leaving Ohio, Reagan met with a group of editors and acidly said that when he'd heard Carter's State of the Union address in January, “I didn't know what country he was talking about.”
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The Democrats began to crank up the anti-Reagan rhetoric. First out of the block was Pat Brown, with whom Reagan had wiped the floor in California's 1966 gubernatorial race, denying Brown reelection by almost a million votes. Brown, fourteen years later, still hadn't gotten over the humiliation. After having a White House lunch with Carter, presumably to give him tips on how not to lose to Reagan, Brown said a Reagan presidency would be “tragic” for America. Brown called Reagan “a very poor governor,” stating that he “hurt” people and that his policies were “cold-blooded.”
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Carter got in on the act when he described the Republican in apocalyptic phrases, accusing Reagan repeatedly of “simplistic beliefs” and “demagoguery” to a group of Democratic state party bigwigs. He also implied that Reagan was a warmonger.
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It was not all harmony in the GOP, but Carter was a great organizing principle. Inside Reagan's new coalition were neocons and paleocons, libertarians and theocrats, fusionists and federalists, family groups and foreign-policy groups, pro-lifers and proletarians. The neoconservatives, old anti-Communist “Humphrey Democrats,” were, as the
Washington Post
noted at the time, “uncomfortable with traditional Republicans, who favor trade with the Soviet Union and are mildly hostile to labor unions.” The neocons had their differences with the New Right as well. “Those people are different,” lamented one neocon. “They believe Communism comes to power beginning with OSHA [the Occupational Safety and Health Administration]. They believe the Soviet Union is one giant OSHA with nuclear weapons.”
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OSHA was the conservatives' poster child for waste, fraud, and abuse in the federal government. The New Right had less influence with Reagan than the traditional conservatives—as he kept some conservative social activists at arm's length. But he did owe a great deal to many in the New Right, such as Richard Viguerie, Paul Weyrich, and Phyllis Schlafly, as they had done much to prepare the GOP and the conservative movement for the coming revolution.

A “conservative enlightenment” was in full flower. At the core, more or less, was a philosophy based on, as Reagan had said in 1964, “maximum freedom consistent with law and order.” Most of the players from all the seemingly dissociated groups agreed with this. They believed that with the exception of national defense, the problems that afflicted Americas were best handled by the states and localities, and then only after the individual and the free market could not address such issues. Across the board, they were strident anti-Communists who thought that only a strong national defense would roll back Soviet hegemony. Combined, they were a muscular new phenomenon in American politics. Pro-family conservatives attempted to take over a White House Conference on Families, and when
they failed to prevent passage of pro-choice and pro-ERA planks, they stormed out en masse for the benefit of the media. Saul Alinsky would have been proud of the street theater protests of the guerrilla conservatives.

When the exemplar of Soviet accommodation, Henry Kissinger, sat down to break bread—at Kissinger's request—with Reagan's top national security adviser, Richard Allen, the avatar of “peace through strength,” all knew which side had won. Allen had once worked for Kissinger in the Nixon administration, and Kissinger had fired the brash young man. Now Allen, on Reagan's behalf, was not interested in lording it over his vanquished foe. Much. Rather, he was extending an olive branch. Allen told the
Washington Post
that he and Kissinger “see the world approximately the same way.”
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Jaws dropped all around Washington as establishmentarians read Allen's comments in the
Post
that morning.

Allen's move, and other Reaganite efforts to reach out to the Republican establishment, demonstrated a new level of sophistication not exhibited by either Barry Goldwater or Richard Nixon. Upon his nomination in 1964, Goldwater stuck a thumb in the eye of the moderate elements of the GOP by picking as his running mate Congressman Bill Miller of New York, another conservative who enjoyed tormenting liberals—and liberal Republicans—even more than Gold-water did.