I was doing a little spring cleaning last year, moving boxes around here and there, creating space for yet more boxes. Filled with stuff I can never quite throw away, they are things from my past that have been tucked away for years, nearly forgotten. A life condensed to a pile of boxes; that was my thought. My son was helping me and whenever he saw something interesting, he'd stop and take a look. It was slowing down the process.
"Hey, Dad, what's this?" He'd already done this several times that day, but I walked over, took a look and chuckled, "Oh, yeah, I remember that." This time, however, he wanted to know more about it. "Is this for real?" He asked in the astonished tone of voice that comes from a kid who discovers something new about his parent. "Sure, it's real." "Wow," he said. Sensing an opportunity to talk with my son, I decided to stop and tell him the story.
It was the night of July 4th, 1988, it was late. I had just finished playing a holiday concert at a festival on the riverfront in St. Louis, near the Gateway Arch. I had driven down earlier that day from Chicago and was told to arrive early to get a parking spot near the outdoor stage set on the riverbank. As I negotiated my way through the parking lots that afternoon, when stopped by a parking attendant, I'd simply say the magic words, "I'm in the band." Authorities hear those words and they let you right through. They pointed me down one aisle after another until, finally, I parked close to the stage. I played the rehearsal, waited around a few hours, played the concert - no problem - I'd done it so often, it had become routine; another gig, another paycheck.
The general rule for parking lots is this: first one in, last one to leave. Knowing this, I packed up quickly after the gig and headed to my car. I figured people would stay for the fireworks show, so I thought I could get out before the crowd. Except, I couldn't.
I looked down the aisle and saw a police barricade. A bunch of official looking cars were parked in the aisle and my path to the exit was blocked. After cursing to myself, I walked down and asked one of the policemen, "Listen, I'm in the band, I've just finished playing. Is there any way I can get out of here?" "No, not right now." "How long will I have to wait?" "Dunno," he replied. I knew I was stuck; in a few minutes, thousands of people would head to their cars. It was going to take forever to get back on the road to Chicago. Frustrated, I walked back to the car, threw my equipment in the trunk, cracked open a cooler, leaned against the car and settled in for a long wait.
I spotted a couple of guys in suits walk toward me down the aisle with flashlights, looking at every parked car. When they finally got to me, one guy flashed a badge and said, "United States Secret Service. This is a secure area. What are you doing here?" So, I said the magic words, "I'm in the band. I just finished playing. I'm waiting to get out of the lot." He said, "Unless you submit to a search, you're going to have to leave the area. Do you consent to a search?" "Yeah, sure." So, he patted me down, I opened the trunk, he looked in my equipment bags, then turned to his partner and said, "This guy's ok." They moved on down the aisle as I began to watch the group that followed. When they passed me, one tall guy separated himself from the group, walked over, smiled and stuck out his hand, "Hi. I'm George Bush."
I had a moment alone with the Vice-President of the United States, a man in the midst of a presidential campaign. We couldn't have talked more than a couple of minutes, but when you talk to someone that important, it seems longer. He was sincere, down to earth; I noticed the kindness in his eyes. He seemed genuinely interested in talking with me. There was nothing political about the conversation. He asked about my family, he told me about his. He asked the names of my wife and kids. He asked about my career. He told me he had heard a bit of the concert and it sounded great. He also didn't seem to be in a hurry, but he finally looked around and said, "It was a pleasure talking with you, Larry, but I've got to get out of this parking lot before the traffic." I said, "I've got the same thought." The Vice-President paused, then said, "Hey, why don't you pull your car right up behind mine and we'll go out together. I'll tell them you're with me and you'll get right out of here." And, that's what I did.
A woman came up to me as Mr. Bush was walking away and asked, "Do you mind giving us your name and address? The Vice-President likes to keep records on every person he meets." So, I did and after a couple of weeks, a small letter appeared in my mail box, the size of a thank you note. I didn't recognize it at first; the envelope was hand written and the return address was simply: Number One Observatory Circle, Washington, D.C. Inside was a hand written note that read:
"Dear Larry,
It was my pleasure to meet you the other night in St. Louis. I enjoyed hearing about you, your lovely wife, Judy, and your two wonderful children, Jennifer and Elizabeth. Barbara and I wish you much success in the future.
Sincerely,
George Bush"
Apparently, I had never told that story to my son, John, who was holding the letter that day cleaning out the closet. He asked, "You met George Bush?" "Sure I did." "Did he write this personally," John asked? "Well...I think he did, John. That's his signature." "How do you know he really signed it?" "If someone else had signed his name, they'd have put their initials underneath," I said. "I'm quite sure he wrote the note himself." "Wow," John exclaimed.
I read an article later about George H.W. Bush and his habit of sending thank you notes. He'd kept up the practice his entire career. Bush suggested that the simple act of a thank you has a powerful effect. It worked with me - I voted for him. And, years later, my son thinks greater of me because of it. A thank you goes a long way.
No comments:
Post a Comment