Memories of the Ford Administration (Discontinued)
By the time the Ford Administration (discontinued) reached the small town in the Colorado Rockies where I grew up - not Vail, reportedly the President’s favorite resort in the state, but two hours’ drive north-northwest of it - its security detail had shrunk to two, and there were barely enough cabinet men, lackeys and hangers-on in the entourage to complete a foursome.
It was the late-eighties; I was a club-cleaner and boy-Friday at the big, exclusive golf course on “the mountain”, as the more elevated half of town, ringed in concentric circles of skiers’ condos and given to Chernobyl-like emptiness in the off season, is known. President Ford’s predilection for a round or six of the gentleman’s game had been well-established since his retirement - he was a noted athlete, captain of his high school football team (an achievement whose shadow he never quite shook, it seems) - and we received about a week’s advance notice that he was finally coming to scratch the itch that was our 18-hole Robert Trent Jones, Jr, masterpiece.
(Golf, I can assure anyone who cares to ask, is the ugliest sport on Earth - yes, uglier than poker - and this is largely because of the people who have swelled its ranks over the last fifty years. Granted, I’ve had little chance to mix with those who spend their weekends on the city or county courses - they might be perfectly decent men and women, with faded “Gore 2000″ bumper stickers on their economy-sized Hondas and Saturns - but the set that could sign for $90 green fees, in the nineteen eighties, with nary a sneeze, comprised just about the least deserving lumps flesh that had ever, until that point, walked upright. Ever seen a naked women bent over double and impaled on a large stake? I’ve seen dozens; it was a special thrill for the spare-tire-sporting good ol’ boys, dropping off their bags on the way to the 19th Hole, to conjure the pornographic tee in their palms like a magic coin, and lean over confidingly: “Keeps your head down.” Once I was given one in lieu of a tip. Those who populate the bottom echelon of America’s rich, I decided at that point, are profoundly disgusting - sheen and distended as old carp. They’ve probably only gotten worse since then.)
The day before the discontinued Adminstration’s arrival, two men in dark glasses and short sleeves comandeered a cart to scout our course for hazards - security and otherwise. Even to a boy in his middle teens, this was deeply unimpressive. It was clear that President Ford, though he still counted for something, had entered the twilight years. Our club’s pro, a noxious cad, and his deputy, who was 6′6″ and stored a rake or similar instrument of the same span up his rectum, made a blustery show of military efficiency, ordering their minions to spruce up the clubhouse, rake the sand traps ten times each, and bleach down the carts.
To every minion’s immense satisfaction, however, all our half-hearted industry was for nought. The moment Ford arrived (I wish I had gotten the make of his car - what if he drove a Chevy?), a mighty thunderstorm rolled in, much stronger than the ten-minute wet that is the normal “Colorado rainstorm”, and our bosses’ faces fell into their newly-polished cleats. They knew what the members of Ford’s foursome knew, and what Ford’s security detail knew, which was that Ford had come to play, and play Ford would, regardless of the deep rumblings in the sky.
As we prepared the carts, the storm broke, and rain crashed down, hitting the ground like sheets of glass. The thunderclaps were at the heels of the lightning flashes, the warning siren was calling everyone in - and three little carts, full of tall, fat men draped in colorful ponchos and cursing under their breaths, nosed out toward the first tee.
One of the carts returned after about three-holes’ worth of play: it was the club pros, cursing audibly now, soaked to the bone and cheerful as spitting cats. Another cart came in soon after, carrying the remnants of the Ford Administration, in equally bad shape. But the President himself, once leader of the free world, stayed out on the course, his beleaguered security men dogging his sodden drives and pitches and putts, dodging the lightning and probably praying for their lives, until the turn. Only after nine holes did Ford consent to re-join his party, and come in to listen to squeals of false admiration from the small, towelled-off crowd.
I remember Ford’s poncho-framed, rain-streaked face: it carried the same air of determination that was doubtless once remarked upon from the bleachers of the Grand Rapids South High School’s football field. Truly, we minions thought to ourselves, waiting for him to pull up and slide off the slick seat of the cart, this man was nuts. He personally handed me his clubs, and tipped me in advance - ten dollars, the best tip a boy Friday could hope for - for removing the huge clods of Robert Trent Jones, Jr, mud and grass that he had dug up with them.
- Adieu, Gerald Ford - unexpected eulogy by Alexander Cockburn (published in Counterpunch.org)
- Gerald Goddamned Ford - anti-eulogy (published in The Stranger)
January 17th, 2007 at 11:16 pm
They, the press, said Ford was, however, known for his candor and kindness and that he never said a bad word about anybody ever. And that he healed the country and helped the country move past the rainstorm and lightning fields that covered the American landcsape during Watergate when all politicains and newspepeople were like”spitting cats”. He brought calm, however controversial it was, to the America public and for that, many are grateful. He also dearly loved his wife and was devoted to her and helped her in her struggle to overcome alcoholism and found the Betty Ford Clinic as well as deal publicly and openly with breast cancer….more openly than any rpevious First Lady had ever been about two very private subjects.