The man in the crowd at the White House party

Noticeably absent from this week’s inauguration festivities was our oldest living President. Jimmy Carter, who excused himself for health reasons. Mr. Carter, or as I call him, “Jimma,” was born in October of 1924 and has survived at least one bout with cancer. He’s not getting any younger, and I fear that we won’t have him for much longer.

Jimma came along at a turbulent time and had a difficult presidency. Interest rates were skyrocketing and we had a second oil embargo. His attempt to rescue the hostages in Iran was foiled by our military’s lack of understanding of sand (they have since figured that out), and then he dug his own grave with the so-called “malaise” speech. It was as hapless a presidency as I have seen in my lifetime, and I believe, had a negative effect on the entire country. To his credit, he did establish the Department of Energy and the Camp David accords, but the administration was otherwise, luckless.

Even though Jimma had been a nuclear physicist in the Navy, he preferred the George W. Bush pronunciation of the word “Nuclear.” He elected to say “Nu-Que-Lar,” which has never made much sense to me. He obviously was not hooked on phonics. Between that and the British pronunciation of “aluminum,” I find it hard to sleep without heavy sedatives.

Although he admitted in a Playboy interview that he had lusted in his heart and was allegedly chased by a rabid bunny (straight out of Monty Python), his legacy will be as one of the dearest, kindest Presidents in recent history. He was, however, a micro-manager. He was known to have controlled the schedule at the White House tennis courts rather than pay attention to national security matters.

Ironically, his subsequent years have set a new standard for the post-presidency. He has been deployed by succeeding administrations as a good-will ambassador, has monitored third-world elections (much like our own), and has taken up the hammer and nail for Habitat for Humanity. He’s genuinely a good guy.

In a recent article, I mentioned that I had been a guest at the White House. I have received a couple of questions about that. Just for clarity, that doesn’t mean I slept in the Lincoln Bedroom. I was just a guest at a party, but holy smokes, they know how to throw a party.

It happened during the Carter administration. The food was fantastic, and it was at the indoor buffet where I bumped into Kirk Douglas. We were both having independent conversations and I don’t recall if I backed into him or if he backed into me, but we met. I was probably the youngest guy in the room at the time, so Douglas asked me all of the typical questions that old folks ask young people. He asked my name, my age, where I went to school, etc. He was very kind and very charming. Nice guy.

Kirk Douglas was cool, but I was more impressed with the Marine Band. On the inside, during the cocktail hour, they were in big-band mode and people were dancing. At the same time, they had a trio out on the portico: a piano, bass, and sax next to a second buffet.

This one was outdoors and mostly fruit, yet it wasn’t crawling with bugs. I’ve never figured that one out. How does one have a tray of fruit in the outdoors during summer in a city built on a swamp and not have bugs? Don’t underestimate the White House.

At some point in the evening, we were directed to go outside to sit for speeches and that’s when Jimma emerged. He had not been in the reception line. I was about ten rows back when he took the podium, and he didn’t look good. This was toward the end of his term and I have seen photos of Abe Lincoln when he took the job and toward his end, and the aging effects of the office. The same applied to Mr. Carter. He looked rough, but it was nice to hear him speak.

The truly poignant moment came after his speech. The Marine band emerged out of Big-band, dance hall mode into full uniform military band form. They played a medley of the service themes. It was everything from Anchors Aweigh to the Wild, Blue Yonder, and the White House staff put on the greatest fireworks show I have ever seen. It wasn’t even the fourth of July, and it seemed to go on forever.

I was seated next to a gentleman with a white cane, dark glasses, and what appeared to be a substantial number of skin grafts on his face. With every report (that’s the boom part of fireworks) he jumped. He shuddered. I can only guess that the display was bringing back unhappy memories for him. Back then, I think we were still calling it “shell shock,” but now we know it as P.T.S.D. or Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Whatever it’s called, this guy had earned it the hard way.

I was too young. I was a kid. I wish I had asked him for his name. I wish I had put an arm around him or held his hand. I didn’t. I regret that, so here’s the deal: Some folks are gung-ho on the flag. That’s fine. Go for it. Some folks freak out when some millionaire jock takes a knee during the Star-Spangled Banner. OK. I personally don’t care so much about that stuff, but when I meet a vet and say, “Thank you for your service,” I’m thinking about that guy sitting next to me on the South Lawn scarred both physically and emotionally for all of us. We live in tough times, but let’s be thankful for what we have and remember to be thankful for those who have preserved it for us.

Let’s also, regardless of political party, wish the best for Jimmy Carter. He’s a veteran too.