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The Eternal Optimist |
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Editor's note: Before her husband's death, Nancy Reagan wrote about her memories of him for TIME |
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By NANCY REAGAN |
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Posted Sunday, June 6, 2004
I think they broke the mold when they made Ronnie. He was a man of strong
principles and integrity. He had absolutely no ego, and he was very comfortable
in his own skin; therefore, he didn't feel he ever had to prove anything to
anyone. He said what he thought and believed. He could move from being a
sportscaster to moving pictures and TV, to being Governor of the largest state
in the country for eight years and then to being President for eight years, and
somehow remain the same wonderful man. Perhaps this was helped by his strong,
unshakable religious beliefs.
Ronnie always believed that God has a plan for each of us and that we might not know what it is now, but eventually we will.
He never took off or landed in a plane without looking out the window and saying a silent prayer. I don't think many people knew this. He was the eternal optimist¡Xthe glass was always half full, not half empty.
I think his faith and his comfort with himself accounts for that optimism. Since he felt that everything happens for a reason, he never saw things darkly. After he was shot and we almost lost him, he lay on his hospital bed staring at the ceiling and praying. He told me that he realized he couldn't pray just for himself, that it wouldn't be right, and that he also had to pray for John Hinckley. Hinckley's parents sent him a note and he wrote a nice one back to them.
Later, Cardinal Cooke visited Ronnie in the White House and said, "God was certainly sitting on your shoulder that day." Ronnie replied, "Yes, I know, and I made up my mind that all the days I have left belong to Him."
Ronnie was a very private man but also gregarious, and he loved seeing and meeting people. After being married to him for 52 years, I have so many memories. He was very sentimental and romantic and tender. On my birthday, he always sent my mother flowers to thank her for having me, and he wrote me beautiful, touching letters when we had to be apart.
Some time ago, he went for a walk and passed a house with roses in front. He bent over to pick one, and the Secret Service agent reminded him it wasn't his house. He looked stricken and said, "But I want to give it to my lady." He picked it and brought it home to me.
You cannot talk about Ronnie without mentioning his wonderful sense of humor. I think he could tell stories all day without repeating himself¡Xa joy for people with him, but he also made use of it politically. If things got a little heated and tense, he would break the tension with a story. By the time he ended, the mood would have changed, and they got on with the business with no rancor.
Ronnie always told his children, "If you go into a store and feel that the clerk is being rude, stop and think that she may have had a tough day, and put yourself in her shoes." I remember that he told his son, "A gentleman always does the kind thing." Yes, Ronnie could be stubborn¡Xbut always with a smile.
He was deeply guided by the principle that the Soviet system was wrong. It made a tremendous impression when we went to Berlin and stood on a balcony to see the other side. There was not a soul on the street, and we thought how eerie and disturbing that was. When we went to Checkpoint Charlie, and Ronnie was shown the line that people couldn't cross, he took his foot and put it over the line. He felt it was important to assert what was right. He got very stubborn and even mad when his advisers would take out a line he really believed from a speech. It was on that trip that he stood in front of the Berlin Wall and said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
Ronnie felt this was his greatest accomplishment¡Xfinding a safe ending to the cold war. And his other great legacy, he felt, was giving our country back its optimism.
At our last Kennedy Center Honors show, Walter Cronkite went back onstage at the end and brought out all the cast, performers and crew to salute us. By this time, the aisles were filled with ushers, and he gave a very touching tribute. The audience then turned, faced us and sang Auld Lang Syne. I had dissolved into tears by that time. But Ronnie called down, "Beats getting an Oscar." Only Ronnie could do that.
When we were leaving the White House for the last time and walking toward the helicopter, he turned to me with his heartwarming grin. "Well, it's been a wonderful eight years," he said. "All in all, not bad. Not bad at all."