B.P. Terpstra
As a critical thinker, I never bought the media’s sales pitch that Obama was the messiah we were all waiting for. It’s 2011, and he hasn’t miraculously lowered the sea levels, “gulag” Gitmo is still open for business, and America’s unemployment figures speak for themselves.
What a mess.
As for the media’s anti-Republican hysteria? Granted, not all journalists referred to Bush as the devil, but many portrayed him as one. In Decision Points, though, we meet a greyer, funnier, and humbler man, who lost a sister to leukemia but also treasured simpler times.
On quitting cigarettes (page 1):
I have a habitual personality. I smoked cigarettes for about nine years, starting in college. I quit smoking by dipping snuff. I quit that by chewing long-leaf tobacco. Eventually I got down to cigars.
On deciding to leave alcohol (pages 2 &3):
It took about five days for the freshness of the decision to wear off. As my memory of my hangover faded, the temptation to drink became intense. My body craved alcohol. I prayed for the strength to fight off my desires. I ran harder and longer as a way to discipline myself. I also ate a lot of chocolate. My body was screaming for sugar. Chocolate was an easy way to feed it. This also gave me another motivation for running: to keep the pounds off.
On the simple life as a child, Big Oil, and hookers (page 5):
We spent our first year in the blue-collar town of Odessa, where there were few paved streets and frequent dust storms. We lived in a tiny apartment and shared a bathroom with – depending on whom you ask – either one or two prostitutes. Dad’s job was on the bottom rung of an oil services company. His duties included sweeping warehouses and painting pump jacks.
On door knocking (page 5):
Life in Midland was simple. I rode bikes with my pals Mike Proctor, Joe O’Neill, and Robert McCleskey. We went to Cub Scout trips, and I sold Life Savers door-to-door for charity.
On losing his sister (page 6):
I looked in the backseat. Robin was not there. Mother whispered, “She died.” On the short ride home, I saw my parents cry for the first time in my life.
On his mother “the enforcer” (page 7):
I would smart off, and she would let me have it. If I was smutty, as she put it, I would get my mouth washed out with soap. That happened more than once.
On Goldfishgate (page 8):
I borrowed Dad’s car, carelessly charged in reverse, and tore the door off. I poured vodka in the fishbowl and killed my little sister Doro’s goldfish.
On driving mom to the hospital (page 8):
As I pulled out of the driveway, she told me to drive steadily and avoid bumps. Then she said she had just had a miscarriage. I was taken aback. This was a subject I never expected to be discussing with Mother. I also never expected to see the remains of a fetus, which she had saved in a jar to bring to the hospital. I remember thinking: There was a human life, a little brother or sister.
On one cool nickname (page 12):
I discovered that I was a natural organizer… at Andover, I appointed myself commissioner of our stickball league. I called myself Tweeds Bush, a play on the famous New York political boss. I needed a cabinet of aides, including a head umpire and a league psychologist.
In short, Bush wasn’t the devil, or a Little Lord Fauntleroy.