Happy to help, Mr. President!
Back to basics.
NOT TOTALLY SURPRISED at getting the red phone call in the middle of the night, as WHO has now entered his 80th1 year, a generation that *owns* the middle of the night, however we choose to define it.
He needed advice, of course, having dropped 14 bunker busters on Iran without asking permission from Congress, and now, as usual, he expected me to solve it.
“You need to have a meeting,” I said, and he reminded me that he hated meetings unless he could play “friends around the table,” where everyone takes turns saying really nice things about him.
“That doesn’t have to change,” I said. “Did you hear that beep? That’s me, sending you the President’s list.2 It says ‘Pres—’ with no name— Got it? Good. Any ques—What’s the Camp Fire Law? You don’t know the Camp Fire Law?”
He was taken aback, I could tell. I said a few unkind things I’d rather not put in print, but they had to do with the kind of women he’s put in positions of power, women who I know damn well wouldn’t be able to defend WoHeLo3 with a finely honed marshmallow stick.
“Worship God. Seek beauty. Give service. Pursue honor. Be trustworthy. Hold on to your health. Glorify work. Be happy.”4
WHO had moved on, short attention span. Asked about the reference to the Vice Pres—did he have to have something to do?
“It’s a very tiny role,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. He just asks for a motion from someone to adjourn the meeting. What? Adjourn. It’s just a big word for ‘end.’ You don’t have to use it. Oh, right, ha ha, potty break.”
He seemed concerned about the song leader. I had been afraid that would be a deal-killer, and I was ready for it. “You need a leader but you don’t need a new song,” I said and I explained that the director of the Marine Band—Lt. Col. Ryan J. Nowlin— is the official music advisor to the White House, he coordinates all musical events, and he always chooses “Hail to the Chief.”
“Hail to the Chief!” he said. He was—up— and I said, “Yes, but you have to sing it.” And just to completely convince him, I did, every word5, at 4:17 a.m. EST this morning. And if he says that didn’t happen, I’m sorry to say this, but he’s a liar.
Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation,
Hail to the Chief! We salute you, one and all.
Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation,
In proud fulfillment of a great, noble call.
Yours is the aim to make this grand country grander,
This you will do, that is our strong, firm belief.
Hail to the one we selected as commander,
Hail to the President! Hail to the Chief!6
Goodnight and good luck, Mr. President. And call anytime. You know I’m always here for you.
The subversives of 1952, training for leadership roles in the Eel River Valley Camp Fire Girls organization, a youth group for girls that poured us right out into the real world as fiercely independent, dream-inspired, life-skilled humanists who thought women could accomplish anything. And so we did. The list-maker is in the front row, in the plaid skirt.
At 79, you began your eighth decade. At 1, for example, you were not beginning your first year, you were *ending* your first year. It’s an ever-fixed mark, nothing like the idea of “designer 6.” (The first fashion shoot I booked, I called the office of the woman who was the cover subject—a female bank exec—and asked her assistant what size she wore. Stylists dressed the real women who were on our magazine covers. “A designer six,” the assistant responded. I hung up the phone and turned to my much more sophisticated assistant—she’d made her bones at Esquire—”What the hell is a designer six?” She said, “It’s an eight, maybe a ten. Tell the stylist to bring both sizes.”)
From one of the many Book of Lists, Casual Lists, Back of Envelope Lists, and other similar works by Maxine F. Detlefsen, a World Master of Lists, winner of the 1968 List Olympics, honored by four Emmys and one Tonya (my sister, and also an off-off-Broadway award for list-writing); a Camp Fire Girls leader, and my mother.
Work. Health. Love. The most important element of life, as taught to three generations of young women when absolutely no one was paying any attention. We walked slowly with our candles, in long ceremonial gown and headbands, singing songs of praise that included “The great Wokanda watches o’er” in the very same years that Jos. McCarthy was screaming in the Senate about anti-Christian communists.
I sang it over the phone; his learning style is through songs, or at least two songs, and maybe this could be the third.
The original words would be more fun (four verses; here are the last two):
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
And Blanochar's groans to our slogan replied,
Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on our side.
Widow and Saxon maid,
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan Alpine with fear and with woe.
Lenox and Levon Glen,
Shake when they hear agen
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
Row, vassals, row for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine!
O, that the rosebud that graces yon islands,
Were wreath'd in a garland around him to twine.
O, that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and blest in their shadow might grow;
Loud should Clan Alpine then,
Ring from her deepmost glen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! i-e-roe!"
These may be the singularly worst lyrics to any triumphal song ever written in English; the author was Albert Gamse, a Latvian bachelor who lived in his cousin’s basement in the Bronx.