Many times over the last few weeks I thought back to Bill’s first inauguration in 1993, an event that seemed as vivid as yesterday and as remote as a lifetime ago. Chelsea and I took one last walk down to the Children’s Garden, hidden by the tennis court, where the grandchildren of Presidents left their handprints in the cement. Outside on the South Lawn, Bill and I looked out over the fence to the Washington Monument as we had countless times before. Bill threw tennis balls for Buddy to chase, while Socks kept his distance.

  The White House staff busily prepared for the arrival of the new First Family, who would join us for coffee and pastries on January 20 before we all drove together to Capitol Hill for the swearing in. For the forty-third time in our nation’s history, Americans would witness the peaceful transfer of power, as one Presidency came to a close and another began. When we entered the Grand Foyer for the last time as occupants of the People’s House, the permanent residence staff had gathered to say farewell. I thanked the florist for the flowers she artfully placed in every room, the kitchen staff for the special meals they faithfully prepared, the housekeepers for their daily attention to detail, the grounds crew for their careful tending of the gardens, and all the other dedicated staff whose hard work graced the White House every day. Buddy Carter, the veteran White House butler, received my last goodbye embrace and turned it into a joyous dance. We skipped and twirled across the marble floor. My husband cut in, taking me in his arms as we waltzed together down the long hall.

  Then I said goodbye to the house where I had spent eight years living history.

 

 

  Unknown, Living History

 

 

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