Olivia: Alright, Jackson. Quick, before we dive in. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the name George H.W. Bush? Jackson: Honestly? "Read my lips, no new taxes," a deep-seated hatred of broccoli, and maybe... skydiving? It’s a weird, random mix. Olivia: Exactly. And that weird mix is the whole point. Today we're talking about the 25 years after the presidency, where the story gets truly fascinating and, frankly, much more human. Jackson: The part nobody ever talks about. The epilogue. Olivia: Precisely. We're diving into The Man I Knew: The Amazing Story of George H. W. Bush’s Post-Presidency by Jean Becker. And what makes this book so compelling is that Becker wasn't a historian watching from afar; she was his chief of staff for nearly his entire post-presidency, from 1994 until his death. She saw everything. Jackson: Wow, so this is the ultimate insider account. Not a political analysis, but a human one. Olivia: It is. And it's incredibly highly-rated by readers, I think because it gets at something we rarely see: what happens when the most powerful person in the world has to go back to civilian life? What does that do to a person? Jackson: And more importantly, what do they do next? How do you even write a second act to that?

Olivia: Well, that's the first major idea we have to unpack. This concept of the "second act." Because it didn't start gracefully. Remember, in early 1991, after the success of Operation Desert Storm, Bush had a staggering 91 percent approval rating. He was on top of the world. Jackson: And then, less than two years later, he loses the election to Bill Clinton. That must be a brutal, whiplash-inducing fall. How does someone even process that? Do you just... sit on the porch and watch the tide come in and go out, like he famously said he did? Olivia: For a little while, yes. The book paints a picture of a man who was genuinely devastated. He felt, in his words, "fired by the American people." But the most telling moments of this transition weren't in grand political reflections; they were in these small, almost comically mundane domestic disasters. Jackson: Oh, you have to give me an example. Olivia: Okay, so soon after leaving the White House, he and Barbara are back in their Houston home, without the massive staff they've had for decades. One day, Barbara is trying to make a vegetarian smoothie for their granddaughter. She turns on the blender, the top flies off, and bam—carrots and tomatoes are splattered all over the kitchen ceiling. Jackson: No way. That's incredible. It's like a sitcom plot. The former leader of the free world, defeated by a blender. It's so... human. Olivia: It gets better. Later that same day, she knocks over a giant jar of spaghetti sauce that George had just bought in bulk from Sam's Club. They were so out of their element they just gave up and ordered pizza. They became regulars at Sam's Club, this former President and First Lady, pushing a giant cart, buying toilet paper in massive quantities. It’s this stark, humbling image of returning to earth. Jackson: I love that. It grounds the whole experience. It’s not just about losing an election; it’s about losing the entire structure of your life and having to rediscover how to do the simplest things. Olivia: And the emotional side of that was just as raw. Becker shares a really poignant story from a few months after he left office. His dog, Ranger—one of Millie's puppies born at the White House—passed away. And Bush just broke down. He later said he cried more over losing his dog than he did over losing the election. He theorized that all the grief he'd been holding in—from the loss, from his mother's death shortly after—it all came pouring out when he lost his dog. Jackson: Wow. That's a gut punch. It’s the small, personal loss that finally unlocks the bigger, public one. Okay, but a lot of people in that situation would just get bitter or fade away. How did he turn that corner from 'blender explosions' and grief to finding a new purpose? Olivia: Through one of the most audacious and symbolic acts you can imagine. He decided he needed a "do-over." Not for the election, but for one of the most traumatic moments of his life. In 1997, at 72 years old, he tells Jean Becker, "I have an idea... I think I want to jump out of a plane again." Jackson: He wants to go skydiving? At 72? After the only other time he parachuted was when his plane was shot down in World War II? Olivia: Exactly. He felt he had failed that first time because he hit his head on the plane bailing out and couldn't remember pulling the ripcord. He felt it was a sloppy exit. He wanted to do it right. He wanted to face that fear head-on and prove to himself that he could. Jackson: That's a powerful metaphor for his entire post-presidency, isn't it? It's not about re-litigating the past, but about taking control of the narrative of your own life, even the scary parts. Olivia: It is. And he didn't just do it once. He jumped again for his 80th, 85th, and even his 90th birthday, by which point he was in a wheelchair. His son, George W., apparently told the staff, "Let him do it. It will help him feel younger." It was his way of refusing to be defined by his age, his physical limitations, or his political loss. He was writing his own second act, literally falling from the sky.

Jackson: It's fascinating how he found this personal 'second act' through adventure. But the book argues his public second act was even more surprising. I mean, the friendship with Bill Clinton... how on earth does that happen? This is the man who took his job. Olivia: It’s one of the most remarkable stories in the book, and it didn't happen overnight. The turning point was after the devastating 2004 tsunami in South Asia. George W. Bush, now president, asked his father and Bill Clinton to lead the U.S. fundraising efforts. He sent them on a five-day trip to the disaster zone together. Jackson: Putting them on a plane together for five days. That's either a brilliant move or a recipe for the most awkward trip in history. Olivia: It turned out to be brilliant. Becker recounts these small, human moments that built the foundation of their friendship. On the plane, there was only one real bed. Clinton, knowing Bush was older and dealing with the early stages of Parkinson's, insisted Bush take it. Throughout the trip, Clinton would physically help Bush, who was having trouble with his balance, steadying him as they walked through rubble. Jackson: Huh. So it wasn't a political alliance. It was just two guys, former rivals, who found a common humanity in a shared mission. It completely reframes what's possible. Olivia: It does. Bush wrote in his diary after that trip, "I thought I knew him, but until this trip, I did not really know him." He saw Clinton's compassion firsthand. And that trip birthed what the media called "The Odd Couple." They went on to raise millions together for Hurricane Katrina relief and other causes. It became a genuine, deep friendship. Bush's family even started calling Clinton his "son from another mother." Jackson: That's wild. But it fits this larger theme in the book, doesn't it? That his real legacy wasn't built on grand political maneuvers, but on these small, personal acts of connection. Olivia: Absolutely. And many of them were done completely in secret. For me, the most powerful story in the entire book is about his pen pal. In 2001, he's at a Christmas concert that's raising money for Compassion International, an organization that sponsors children in poverty. On the spot, he decides to sponsor a 7-year-old boy in the Philippines named Timothy. Jackson: Okay, that's nice, but a lot of famous people do that for the good press. Olivia: But here's the thing. He insisted on doing it anonymously. For years, he wrote letters back and forth with this little boy under the alias "George Walker." He'd send him little gifts—pencils, a coloring book. He'd ask about Timothy's life and encourage him. Timothy had no idea he was corresponding with a former President of the United States. The organization's security team was nervous, but Bush just kept writing. Jackson: Wait, he did that for years, in secret? That's... that's not something you do for PR. That's just pure character. That's who you are when nobody is watching. Olivia: Exactly. And that's what Becker argues is his real legacy. It wasn't just the big, visible things like the friendship with Clinton. It was shaving his head in solidarity with a Secret Service agent whose young son had leukemia and lost his hair. It was cold-calling Dan Rostenkowski, a Democratic congressman, in prison, just to check in on him as a friend. It was inviting a firefighter's grieving 13-year-old son to an Astros game on the day of his father's funeral. These quiet, unpublicized acts of grace. Jackson: When you hear those stories, it makes the political battles seem so small in comparison. The book is really making an argument for a different kind of greatness. Olivia: It is. It’s a greatness measured in empathy. When Arnold Schwarzenegger's marriage was publicly falling apart, Bush insisted on calling him. His staff argued against it, saying it was too messy. And Bush's response, which Becker quotes, is just perfect. He said, "That's when you call people, Jean. When you know they are down and need a friend."

Olivia: When you put all these stories together—the blender, the skydiving, the secret pen pal, the friendship with Clinton—the book paints a clear picture of a man whose legacy was truly forged by how he handled the absence of power, not the exercise of it. Jackson: It really makes you rethink what we value in our leaders. We're so focused on wins and losses, on policy debates and approval ratings. But Becker's book suggests the true measure of a person is found in the quiet, unscripted moments. The letter to a grandson, the kindness to a rival, the courage to jump out of a plane at 90 because you still feel alive. Olivia: He wasn't trying to build a monument to himself. He was just trying to live a good, decent, and joyful life. And in doing so, he built a legacy of character that might just outlast any policy or political victory. Jackson: It's a powerful lesson. It’s not about what titles you hold, but about how you show up for other people, especially when there are no cameras around. Olivia: It really is. And it leaves you with a question, one that I think is at the heart of this book: What will our own 'second acts' look like? And what small kindnesses will define our legacies, long after the big achievements are forgotten? Jackson: That's a powerful thought to end on. We'd love to hear what you all think. What's a small act of kindness, from you or to you, that's had a big impact on your life? Let us know on our social channels. We read everything. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.