ASIA TRIP DELAYED. All of the fuss made it seem as if I had ejected from the plane and parachuted to earth. We left the next day when the repairs were complete. The journey was not for the weak or meek. We landed on dirt runways with no lights, watched men with shovels try to de-ice our plane and were expected to sample a wide array of vodkas at every stop and at all hours of the day and night. It was one of the most exotic and evocative trips I took during my tenure at the White House. Mountainous, stark and eerily beautiful, the socalled “Stans” were home to the old Silk Road traveled by Marco Polo. Many of the Kazakhs, Kyrgyz and Uzbeks; some of whom still dressed in traditional indigenous costumes, were descendants of the Golden Horde, the soldiers of Genghis and Kublai Khan. In the post-Soviet era, they were trying to create a modern equivalent of the Silk Road so that their nations and economies could flourish into the twentyfirst century. Although Russified during the Soviet era, each country had retained a distinct ethnic character and a surprisingly diverse population.

  Kazakhstan is an oil-and gas-rich country with the potential to improve the standard of living for its citizens, assuming, of course, that public and private corruption doesn’t siphon off all the revenue. I visited a small women’swellness center funded through U.S.

  foreign aid. Because of the unavailability of contraception, abortion had become a common form of family planning under communism. The Clinton Administration’s policy was to make abortion “safe, legal and rare.” We worked to discourage abortion and minimize the spread of sexually transmitted diseases by providing aid for family planning and improved maternal health. This policy contradicted the global gag rule that had been imposed by President Reagan, continued by President Bush and rescinded by Bill on the second day of his Presidency (later reinstated by George W Bush). The resumption of American aid was beginning to show results. The doctors at the Almaty clinic told me that the rates of both abortion and maternal deaths were decreasing, further proof that our practical policy was more effective at making abortion rare than the Republicans’ more visceral anti-contraception approach.

  I knew that Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan’s mountainous neighbor to the southeast, needed medical supplies. Working with Richard Morningstar, the President’s Special Adviser on Assistance to the New Independent States of the former Soviet Union, I arranged to bring several pallets of humanitarian assistance―$2 million in medicines, medical supplies and clothing.

  Arriving in the Uzbekistan capital, Tashkent, I went directly to see President Islam Karimov, a former Soviet Communist with a reputation for authoritarianism who, it turned out, was fascinated by my husband. He asked how Bill remained in touch with people without losing the authority of the Presidency Karimov, like counterparts throughout the newly independent states, had no experience with democracy. There was no organized curriculum for such leaders to learn the formal and informal “habits of the heart”

  that underlie the theory and practice of democracy.

  And there was a struggle going on for the hearts and minds of the Muslims throughout Central Asia. Karimov was criticized in the West for cracking down on Islamic fundamentalists, but he viewed them as political agitators. He was willing to foster religious tolerance for others, as I learned when I visited a newly reopened synagogue down an alley off a side street in Bukhara, one of the Ancient Market towns on the old Silk Road caravan route. I met the rabbi, who also served as an OB-GYN. He explained how the remnants of a once thriving Jewish community, dating back to the Diaspora following the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in A.D. 70, had survived the Mongols and the Soviets and were now enjoying the tolerance and protection of the Karimov government.

  In Registan Square, in Samarkand, Karimov proudly told me that the Shir Dor Madrassa, a historic Islamic school for educating boys, was again accepting students and would teach them the traditional interpretations of Islam that had taken root in Central Asia, as opposed to the interpretations imported from some Arabic countries that had radicalized and militarized some Uzbeks. He described forces who wanted to destabilize his government and establish an Islamic state like that of the Taliban, then ruling neighboring Afghanistan. While he encouraged the resumption of religious activity, he would not tolerate foreign-sponsored political opposition camouflaged in religious claims.

  As an American viewing the Shir Dor Madrassa, I was conflicted. After years of oppression by the Soviets, these religious schools were open and flourishing, but I was concerned about the lack of educational opportunities for girls and by the fact that madrassas elsewhere had become exporters of radical fundamentalism. In the days following September 11, 2001, I remembered Shir Dor and other madrassas I saw. The term is now linked in America with brainwashing training camps for extremists and potential terrorists.

  In developing nations, the educational infrastructure for both boys and girls must be a priority, and understanding the role that madrassas play in the Islamic world is crucial. In countries like Pakistan where the public schools are often unaffordable, they might be the only option for the sons of ambitious poor parents, though education there may be limited strictly to the memorization in Arabic of the Quran. The new fundamentalism in Asia could be traced to Arabled movements and madrassas. Karimov, who feared this foreign influence, was trying to nurture the religious tolerance that had marked Central Asia in the past. If the U.S. gave more aid to help countries fund public non-radical schools, it might save money and lives in avoided conflicts and terrorist acts down the road.

  Word of our visit apparently had spread throughout Samarkand. As Karimov and I were leaving a USAID-sponsored project that promoted the export of crafts produced by local women, we saw a large crowd gathered, held back by the ever present police, who had formed a human rope line to keep the people away. I said to Karimov: “You know, Mr. President, if my husband were here, he’d walk across the street and shake hands with those people.”

  “He would?”

  “Yes, because in a democracy, those people are the boss. Bill would cross the rope line not just because he’s friendly, but because he knows who he works for.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  To the amazement of his aides, the police and the crowd, the President walked over and stuck out his hand, where it was grasped by some very eager Uzbeks.

  I came home to celebrate a key legislative victory, the signing of the Adoption and Safe Families Act on November 19. Reforming adoption and foster care had been important to me since my days at Yale Law School when I first represented the foster mother who wanted to adopt her foster child.

  During Bill’s first term, I had worked with Dave Thomas, the founder of the Wendy’s fastfood chain and a staunch Republican, and other corporate and foundation leaders to spearhead adoption reform. Dave was adopted and had devoted considerable energy and resources to streamlining the foster care system. At the time, 500,000 American children remained trapped in the limbo of foster care. Returning home was not an option for 100,000 of them, and only 20,000 found permanent placements with families each year.

  My hope was that, through new legislation, we could speed up the process and remove arbitrary barriers that prevented many caring families from being able to adopt.

  Deanna Mopin, a teenager from Kansas who was placed in foster care at age five after being abused in her own home, was one of the lead speakers at a White House celebration of National Adoption Month in 1995. Shy and ill-at-ease, she described what it was like to live with nine other foster children under one roof, unable to go to the movies or buy school clothes without permission from her “house parents” and two social workers.

  The next time I saw Deanna she had been adopted and had blossomed into a confident, happy young woman.

  My domestic policy staff had worked tirelessly with Administration officials and congressional staffers to craft the new legislation, which included financial incentives to states, efforts to keep families together in appropriate circumstances and faster time frames for making permanent placement decisions and for terminating parental rights in cases of abuse and neglect. Passing this important legislation was instructive. We were learning that in working with a recalcitrant Congress, we could often move more expeditiously on a targeted issue, rather than on a broad initiative such as health care or welfare reform.

  The sweeping changes in federal adoption law would speed up the placement of thousands of foster children like Deanna into safe and permanent homes. “The legislation represents a fundamental shift in the philosophy of child welfare, from a presumption that the chief consideration ought to be returning a child to his biological parents, to one in which the health and safety of the child is paramount,” The Washington Post said. One of the most surprising and satisfying aspects of this legislative success was the opportunity to work with Tom Delay, perhaps the most partisan and effective leader of the extreme conservatives in the House. But on this issue, he was steadfast in his support. He and his wife have cared for foster children, and after I became a Senator, we continued to work together.

  Within five years of the signing of the Adoption and Safe Families Act, the number of children adopted more than doubled, exceeding the goals of the legislation. I realized, however, that approximately 20,000 young people “age out” of the foster care system when they turn eighteen, without ever having been placed in a family home. Just as they confront the critical transition to independence, they become ineligible for federal financial support, and a disproportionate number of them become homeless, living without health insurance or other crucial assistance. On a trip to Berkeley, I met with a remarkable group of young people from the California Youth Connection, a support and advocacy organization for older children in foster care and those who had recently aged out.

  They stressed the difficulty of entering adulthood without any of the emotional, social and financial support that families often provide. Joy Warren, a beautiful blond college graduate, spent most of her teen years in temporary foster homes, but managed to focus on her studies and was admitted to U.C. Berkeley and then Yale Law School. Joy had two younger sisters, one of whom was still in foster care, which intensified the pressure she felt to assume adult responsibilities at an early age. She became an intern in my White House office, assisting my staff in developing new legislation to address the needs of young people aging out of the foster care system. I worked with Republican Senator John Chafee of Rhode Island and Democratic Senator Jay Rockefeller of West Virginia on what became the Foster Care Independence Act of 1999, which provides young people aging out of foster care with access to health care, educational opportunities, job training, housing assistance, counseling and other support and services.

  I turned fifty in October, and though the rule books say that this is a difficult passage, it felt insignificant compared to living without Chelsea. My days and nights were crammed with meetings and events leading up to the holidays, but 1 was surprised by how barren the White House seemed without the sound of Chelsea’s music coming from her bedroom or the giggles of her friends as they gossiped and ate pizza in the Solarium. I missed watching her pirouette down the long center hallway. Sometimes I’d catch Bill just sitting in Chelsea’s bedroom, looking around wistfully. I had to admit that my husband and I were caught up in a generational cliché, a milestone in life that only members of our selfconscious age group would define as a syndrome. We were now empty nesters. While we felt more freedom to go out at night and socialize with friends, coming home to a quiet house was jarring. Our nest needed refilling: it was time to get a dog.

  We hadn’t had a canine companion since our cocker spaniel, Zeke, died in 1990. We had loved that dog, and it was hard to imagine finding another to take his place. Shortly after we buried Zeke, Chelsea brought home a black-and-white kitten she named Socks, who moved with us to the White House, where he clearly preferred to be an only cat.

  But after Bill was elected to a second term and we knew Chelsea would be leaving for college, we started thinking about getting another dog. We got a book about dogs, and Bill, Chelsea and I spent a lot of time looking at all the different pictures and reading about different breeds. Chelsea wanted a teeny-tiny dog she could carry around with her, and Bill wanted a big dog he could run with. We worked through that and finally decided that a Labrador would be just the right size and temperament for our family and the White House.

  I wanted to give the dog to Bill as a Christmas present, so I set out to locate the perfect puppy. In early December, a bouncing three-month-old chocolate Lab met the President for the first time. The puppy scampered straight into Bill’s arms, and they fell in love on the spot. All we had to do was figure out a name for the dog. We vacillated and made lists. People wrote letters with suggestions and devised dog-naming contests. Two of my favorite candidates were Arkanpaws and Clin Tin Tin.

  The process was getting out of hand, and we realized we’d better hurry up and name the poor little thing. We finally decided on a simple and, to our minds, noble name: Buddy.

  Buddy was the nickname of my husband’s favorite uncle, Oren Grisham, a devoted dog owner and trainer who had died the previous spring. When Bill was growing up in Hope, Uncle Buddy let him play with his hunting dogs. The more Bill talked about the new puppy, the more he remembered his uncle Buddy and the clearer it became that we should name the dog after him. The only glitch, I thought, was that one of the butlers on the White House staff was named Buddy Carter. We didn’t want him to take offense at our naming a dog Buddy. But we asked him, and he loved the idea. In fact, I believe he started to identify with that dog. “Buddy got in trouble again,” he’d joke with us when the dog had chewed up the newspaper. “Not me, the other Buddy.”

  Months later, when our new canine pal was sent off to be neutered, Buddy Carter came into the residence shaking his head and muttering, “Not a good day for Buddy today.

  Not a good day at all.”

  The little Lab settled swiftly into my husband’s routine. He slept by his feet in the Oval Office and stayed up late into the night. They were perfect for each other, since Buddy had, or developed, many of Bill’s traits. Buddy loved people, possessed a sunny, optimistic disposition, and had the ability to focus and concentrate with singular intensity.

  Buddy was obsessed with two things: food and tennis balls. He was an absolute maniac when it came to chasing balls. He retrieved the ball, if you let him, until he fell down exhausted.

  Then he’d get up and look for his dinner.

  Buddy quickly became the center of our family life, which was hard for Socks to deal with. Socks had been showered with all the attention for years. One of my favorite photos showed Socks surrounded by photographers outside the Arkansas Governor’s Mansion before our move to Washington. Unfortunately, Socks despised Buddy. We tried so hard to convince them to get along. But if we left them in the same room, we inevitably came back to find Socks with his back arched, hissing at Buddy, who was intent on chasing the cat under the couch. Socks had blunt-clipped claws, but he never passed up an opportunity to take a swipe at Buddy and once landed a direct hit on the puppy’s nose. Both of them had their fans and each received thousands of letters, mostly from children who expressed their affection―and preference―for one or the other. In fact, I had to set up a separate correspondence unit at the U.S. Soldiers’ and Airmen’s Home to answer their mail. In 1998, I published some of the letters in Dear Socks, Dear Buddy, giving the proceeds to the National Park Foundation, the charity that raises funds to support our national park system.

  Before we knew it, Christmas had come and gone, and we were off for our trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for Renaissance Weekend and a gathering of 1,500 friends and acquaintances.

  I looked forward to seeing our friends and loved the long, serious conversations at Renaissance. But I needed some rest, and I was eager for the four days we had planned on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Is lands after New Year’s. We had visited this beautiful Caribbean island the year before, staying in a house overlooking Magens Bay. This year we were returning to the same location, taking Buddy along with us.

  We landed at the little airport in Charlotte Amalie, the capital, and drove along the curvy mountain road lined with coconut and mango trees to our secluded spot on the north side of the island. The warm air and tropical breezes were so welcoming, as was the house, set on a hill with winding steps leading down to a tiny beach below. The Secret Service was headquartered next door, and the Coast Guard had cleared boats out of the little bay to enhance security―and privacy. As we looked out across the water, there was virtually no sign of life. It was an idyllic setting.

  Bill, Chelsea and I did what we usually do on vacations: We played cards and word games and put together a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. We brought plenty of books that we read, swapped and discussed over informal meals. Otherwise we swam, walked, jogged, hiked and cycled together. Normally Bill plays golf every chance he can, and since our vacations usually coincide with football and basketball seasons, our accommodations must have adequate television reception. We were not, however, ever truly alone.

  The Secret Service was on duty nearby, and the Navy stewards who travel with a President were ready to cook or clean whenever needed. And, of course, essential staff was with us: the doctor, nurse, military aide, press staff and security adviser. But we got used to the entourage, and they respected our privacy. The paparazzi did not.

  One afternoon midway through the trip, Bill and I put on our bathing suits and ventured down to the beach for a swim. Unbeknownst to us, a photographer from Agence France-Presse, the French wire service, was hiding in the bushes on a public beach across the bay. He must have had a powerful telephoto lens, because the next day a photo of us slow-dancing on the beach appeared in newspapers around the world. Mike McCurry, the White House press secretary, was angry about the invasion of privacy and the fact that the photographer was, as he told the press corps, “sneaking around in bushes and taking pictures surreptitiously.” Obviously, the incident raised questions about security as well as privacy. If you’re close enough to take a picture with a telephoto lens, you’re close enough to shoot a gun with a scope. Bill wasn’t upset. He liked the photo.