EDITOR’S CORNER
Isaw the late Barbara Bush exactly once in her life. She never knew it, but I saw her.
It was early in the season on a perfect spring day in Houston’s Minute Maid Park. Sue and I were in the right center field mezzanine, the roof was open and it was a “baseball all is right with the world” day.
My binoculars were scoping the batter or the ridiculous looking Astros mascot, who was actually kind of talented as mascots go.
Far better than “Youppi,” the bizarre mascot for the now-defunct Montreal Expos, but not in the class with the best mascot in the history of athletics, the legendary San Diego Chicken of many years gone by.
Whatever I was looking at, my attention was drawn to this shock of snow white hair crowning a lady sitting directly behind home plate.
I recognized her immediately. I turned to my wife and handed her the binoculars. “Sue, that’s Barbara Bush sitting in the first row!”
She looked. “Yes, and that’s George sitting beside her.”
I reclaimed the binoculars. It was indeed the 41st president of the United States.
I had simply failed to recognize him.
This was the second time I’d been close to political royalty and failed to even notice it, although I had no trouble recognizing a spouse.
Once I was even closer than at the baseball game. And that time it was a current vice-president, not a former office holder.
It was October, 1968, and the presidential race between Richard Nixon and Vice-President Hubert Humphrey was in its final days.
A bunch of us were studying one night in old Brackenridge Hall on the campus of The—ahem—University of Texas, radio on, blaring the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.”
It was interrupted by an announcement: “The motorcade bearing the vice-president will come down Interregional to 19th, over to Congress and proceed to Auditorium Shores for a political rally.
Well, we were on 21st Street, in between San Jacinto and Congress, if Congress had extended that far north.
Which meant that motorcade would pass within two blocks and none of us had ever seen a vice-president.
Plus, a little night-time excursion sure sounded more exciting than the chemistry I wasn’t getting.
So off we walked to the corner of Trinity and 19th. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before all the flashing red-and-blue lights announced the approaching motorcade.
Now this was the awful assassination-filled 1968. Across Trinity was the Santa Rita Oil Rig. A group of students had rushed up and were unfurling a banner in front of it. Uh-oh.
The motorcade screeched to a halt. Suddenly security people piled out of cars.
But the banner read “This Pump’s For Hump.” They were friendlies.
Briefly the VP’s car skidded to a full stop directly in front of me. The rear window was down and I looked into the back seat. There was Muriel Humphrey, the vice-president’s wife. I waved. She waved back.
The motorcade started up again. On the way back, I said I guess Humphrey had been in a different car.
My buddies were incredulous. “He was sitting next to his wife!” they shrieked.
Oh, that vice-president.
I hadn’t recognized him.
Sorry, George. Sorry, Hubert. I guess your lovely and gracious ladies just outranked you in my brain.
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