Staying True (12 page)

On another occasion, I had all the boys on stage in Columbia as we awaited the arrival of President Bush, coming in to campaign for the party. I had given them clear expectations for their behavior: They could run around onstage until I told them it was time to stop and then they were expected to sit very quietly through the president’s speech. One of the secret service men was getting anxious about Blake, who was dancing on the stage in his cowboy boots waving an American flag in one hand and his blankie in the other. I didn’t see much harm in Blake entertaining the crowd as they waited in the heat, and I promised him the boys would behave when told. On cue, when President Bush arrived they quieted down and sat patiently through the speech. The next morning, however, there was a photo in the paper with the president at the podium and just behind him to the side was Bolton (maybe five) with his head in his hands looking incredibly bored! Mark was disappointed in me for not coaching the boys to look interested, but I myself was proud of their good behavior. There’s only so much you can ask of a child, and sitting quietly through a political speech was the limit!

One time we traveled from city to city campaigning over a weekend, ending up at a fundraising event. After the event we loaded the boys in the car and headed to a friend’s house in the country near a town called Estill. We arrived past midnight and moved the boys to beds while they were asleep, something that had become a common occurrence on the campaign trail. We were staying in a private cabin and in the morning awoke in a room full of large stuffed game on the walls. When we asked if the boys knew what city we were in, one responded “Africa!” Sometimes I, too, felt like we were lost on safari.

In the weeks leading up to the primary the boys, out of school for the summer, joined us on a tour of the state in a Winnebago we dubbed the Caravan for Change but that they referred to as the Win-a-Bagel. We did our best to make things fun for the boys—they played GameBoys, tic-tac-toe, or cards, watched movies, and ate fast food. It was pretty clear that they often had a blast with all the campaign volunteers along the way. Certainly that is my hope. Surely they missed out on fun with friends during that time, but it was a family adventure all the same.

The boys did journal on occasion during the campaign so I do have a way to test my impression against their own experiences. Marshall’s journal says, “We went in the caravan and it was huge! We went around the state to different places shaking signs and screaming vote for Mark Sanford…. It was crazy but it was worth it for dad.” Landon felt a little differently: “I went in a win a bagel and a van. It was very boring. It felt like we were in there for a month.” And later: “My mom is mostly on the computer and has lots of calls. My dad has a lot of calls to.” He was right about that. We were nothing if not busy and constantly on the phone but I hope that they will have a generally—if not specifically—positive memory of their political experience in time.

When we won the primary and the campaign for governor moved to an office outside the house (in addition to needing more space, it was hurricane season and our beach house was thought to be vulnerable), I more or less moved with it. I had a great young girl who helped to care for the boys during this crunch time, and I trusted that they were okay, but I missed them terribly. I missed seeing them every day after school, and I hated not knowing what they were doing for homework or eating for dinner on the many nights I wasn’t home to join them.

But I was also very proud of them then, and I remain so now. I know they were as tired of the campaign as we were and yet I asked them to persevere for just a few more months and to do their best in school in the meantime. They did beautifully. It’s amazing what kids can do when you have faith in them.

As soon as Mark won the Republican nomination, he became the immediate enemy of the incumbent governor and the existing political establishment. I learned to live with the knowledge that a good portion of the state disliked Mark because of his party affiliation and that they disliked me by extension. If nothing else, the campaign process and then life in the public eye taught me that you can’t really live to make others happy. You also simply can’t correct all the misperceptions about you or your spouse or your intentions on any given event or statement. Mark understood before me that it is much easier to let things go, than to try to right every wrong. This is, in fact, one of the best things Mark has taught me: to let God be responsible for righting any wrongs.

By the time Mark ran for governor, I had learned this lesson well. When I think back to how incensed I could become when Mark was misrepresented in the newspaper or by his opponents, I marvel at the energy I put into fighting back, writing that impassioned letter to the editor, for instance, to correct the record on what I now see as merely a slight. I suppose the world of politics had toughened my skin, but with four children to be responsible for during Mark’s run at governor, I had less time and energy to fight back than when I had had only two. In addition, people now knew what Mark stood for and what he had tried to accomplish when he was in Congress. We didn’t have to work so hard to create a good identity for him and craft his positive message. Much of that work was already done.

And then there’s the simple truth that I had come to understand and that I wanted to model for our kids: What matters most is how you live your life, not what you have to show for it. I ask myself if I have tried my best to love my family, to improve my character, to make a positive impact on the world in some small way. I know who I love and I know who loves me, and if I have made a positive impression on others, that’s great. But if someone out there doesn’t like me or Mark because of something they read in the paper or heard on TV, then that is okay with me too. I had come to understand by then and live by it still today: At the end of the day I need to be happy with myself and my own behavior in light of the person I know I can be and in light of the person I want to be in the eyes of our Lord, the ultimate judge, the only one that matters.

Although the pace was hectic and I went to bed exhausted nearly every day, I didn’t pray for relief from the challenges in my life. I was fully committed to this new quest, and I wanted to meet the challenges that came my way. Instead my prayers were for discernment in setting priorities, protection for us and our boys, and strength to proceed. Then, and during other trying times of my life, I found meaning in an old Jewish proverb: “I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders.”

Incredibly, we won the election. At the celebration at a local restaurant there was more media than I had ever seen and homemade signs in the crowd saying things like “Thanks for running an honorable campaign!” We were thrilled and exhausted and Blake fell asleep in my arms as the night wore on. As it was a school night, I wanted to get the boys home. I tried to cut out early, carrying Blake and leading the other boys through the kitchen instead of working my way through the crowds. A policeman with a gun and wide-brimmed hat came up to me and said “I’ll take him Mrs. Sanford. The car is right outside.” Policeman or not, I wasn’t about to pass my sleeping child over to a stranger with a gun, and so I thanked him quickly and told him I had my own car and was happy to take the kids home myself. Then it occurred to me to ask “Do you even know where we live?” “Yes ma’am,” he replied. “We’ve been watching you there for two weeks.”

That was my first clue about how significantly our life was about to change. Once again, we had achieved success at the polls by focusing on the campaign tasks at hand and juggling our family, hoping to make a difference. We had not spent one minute thinking of or planning for the future in the event we were to win.

We looked upon Mark’s new job as quite an honor and a time to truly serve and to make a positive difference for our boys and the future of our state. We were tired but enthusiastic, exhausted and yet energized, hopeful and yet realistic, and encouraged too because this time, we would all be living in the same house, sharing the journey together. I was about to find out all that would come with this “free” house and the full price we would ultimately come to pay.

NINE

I
NAUGURATION DAY WAS COLD AND CRISP WITH A BRIGHT BLUE SKY, picture perfect and a bit surreal. As I helped our sons, then ages ten, nine, six and four, get dressed for the formal inaugural ceremony, I thought about how these four little boys would be walking out of the house and into state history.

Yet there I was doing the ordinary things that every mother does: making sure their clothes looked just right, that they had enough socks and underwear in their overnight bags to last until our things arrived from Charleston in a week, and checking that their book bags held what they needed for school. The ordinary and the extraordinary collided when we opened the front door and the security detail whisked us into the state SUVs to begin our first day as the First Family of South Carolina.

The Sullivan family motto, learned from my grandmother Nana when we were children, was A.Y.T.C.—adapt yourself to circumstances. My aunt Gier, my dad’s sister, a mother of nine, lived just a few houses away when I was growing up. She was the reigning authority on adapting to whatever was thrown her way. I took up the mantle for a new generation when my family moved into the governor’s mansion. From the day of the election forward, all circumstances were new: finding a new school, moving, and learning how to oversee the mansion.

A few weeks after Mark was elected, the curator led me on a tour of the mansion, one of three historic homes on nine acres in a secluded complex. We walked past an emerald green lawn and blooming camellias as the curator described the gardens in summer, bountiful with incredible roses, irises, daffodils, and hydrangea. Built in 1855 to house officers from a nearby military academy, the state turned it into the governor’s mansion after the Civil War, when much of Columbia was destroyed by fire.

Mark and I thought of the mansion as the people’s house, and we took our responsibilities as custodians seriously. As we walked inside I saw how the house was in great shape after the previous administration had spent millions on renovations. The curator ushered me into the grand, gleaming marble Hall of Governors, past somber portraits of Mark’s predecessors. Everywhere she pointed out exquisite museum-quality antiques, some upholstered in vibrant silks and pristine cottons, many that had been donated by prominent families. As we walked the hallways, I noted the fragile light fixtures, historic paintings, and exquisite battleship silver with growing alarm. We were moving four bulls into this china shop!

The day of the inauguration, the security team seemed as nervous about meeting our brood as our boys were excited about discovering where they hid their guns. They drove us directly to Mark’s new office at the Capitol and then escorted us as we walked behind the procession of the cross, mace, and legislators to the inaugural prayer service while bagpipes played. For the first time, I truly felt “handled” and I was quite thankful. After the chaos of crisscrossing the state with four boys during the campaign, I could relax and enjoy every moment. Then we made our way through the waiting crowds, past dozens of cameras and blinding flashes, and back to the Capitol where Mark was sworn in.

I was awed. So many people had put their faith in Mark, and we wanted to live up to their expectations. Being First Lady and living in the governor’s mansion was an honor, something to be lived fully and absorbed wholly. I knew I would struggle to keep in focus the fact that I was Jenny, a wife and mother, long before I was First Lady of South Carolina. Throughout Inauguration Day, the boys constantly offered reminders of where my focus should be.

After Mark was sworn in, we hosted a luncheon for all the constitutional officeholders at the Lace House, adjacent to the mansion. Then we held the traditional governor’s open house. We stood in the Hall of Governors, greeting people who had waited in the cold for hours to meet Mark and me, warmed by hot cider and cookies provided by the mansion staff. I remember Bolton, then age six, running in from the other side of the hall screaming with glee, “Dad, this place is
incwedible
and you ought to see the kitchen!? They have bwownies, Little Debbie cakes, evewything, and its all FWEE!”

Together he and his brothers already had covered every inch of this grand house, while Mark and I had yet to get above the main floor. As we stood shaking hundreds of hands, the boys were running all over the mansion, finding secret staircases and alternate routes between the floors that allowed them to avoid the formal rooms and the waiting public. When they tired of that, they snuck their friends past security to join them on the lawn.

There were moments when I just wanted to dash off and find out what they were up to, but I couldn’t budge. I was so delighted when I heard a familiar voice yell out, “Oh my goodness! What is the fastest-talking girl in the Midwest doing married to the governor of South Carolina and living in a house like this?” It was Julie Joyce Kenary from Winnetka, the friend with whom I lurched around Wisconsin back roads on a summer afternoon trying to master the stick shift. She’d traveled all the way from Boston to surprise me! Comforted to have someone there who “knew me when,” I too felt I needed to pinch myself to make sure this was really happening.

After that and the inaugural barbecue, I could hardly stand any longer. We’d smiled until our cheeks hurt. When Mark and I finally went upstairs to get ready for bed, we were exhausted, yet filled with pride and great hope in our grand new home. I was pleased I had worked with the staff to give the mansion some personal touches for our first night there. I’d sent ahead family photos and favorite paintings of the low-country, which they hung around the family quarters and the public rooms. We’d also sent a bunk bed to add to the beds already in the mansion. Marshall wanted his own room, and there were plenty of bedrooms in the mansion, but Mark believed in carrying on as he and his brothers had, and I agreed that sharing a room was yet another way they might learn adaptability.

We tucked them into their beds and made our way, weary but joyful, into our new bedroom. Our family was beginning another exciting journey through unknown territory. I myself stumbled looking for light switches during the night. The learning curve would be steep.

As First Lady Iris Campbell told me, living in the mansion was “like living above the shop” and she was so right. Our rooms were at the top of the long staircase in the entrance hall and they were not fully closed off. We could hear the events and tours below, and they likely could hear us too. When guests often exclaimed, “This house is beautiful! Don’t you just love living here?” I would smile and politely respond, “It is a beautiful home and there
is
so much that comes with this house!” Yes, and even more than I expected on that first day as First Lady.

In the first week, I discovered that the boys required a new set of rules. I found myself yelling, “Boys, don’t throw those balls! You might break the chandelier!”

Marshall’s pragmatic response: “Whoever heard of a chandelier in a playroom?”

Balls, swords, and toy guns had to remain outside or in the pool house. Running in the house or sliding down the banister was discouraged, rather ineffectively. At first, I said no scooters in the house. I relented when the boys showed me how well the wheels glided on the marble floors and in the kitchen without leaving any scuff marks. We had great wheelbarrow races in the marble hallway and even whirled each other around in the wheelchair we kept for elderly or disabled guests. Thankfully no one went through the glass doors.

The boys also played manhunt or hide and seek with the aid of the mansion’s security cameras. I’d hear one of them at the bank of security monitors yelling to another outside, “He’s under the big oak tree!” Once, the boys were playing hide and seek with friends inside the mansion, and security called me in to look at one boy who was hiding in the industrial dryer in the basement. The guard was worried for his safety. I chuckled at this clever hiding spot. I was only worried about the dryer.

I realized quickly that each time the boys had friends over, I needed to line up the newcomers outside the front door and explain the rules before entering, including, you break it, you pay for it. Our only mishap was a science experiment with fire and wax conducted in the dining room. Needless to say, the boys soon found out how much it cost to refinish a table.

When we had been in the governor’s mansion just a few months, Blake decided to take the elevator to go upstairs for bed. The elevator got stuck, and he was trapped inside for forty-five minutes, a long time for a small child. The security team called me down to watch Blake on the elevator camera recording his every move. First we turned the power on and off, trying to reboot the system. That didn’t work. Next we called the elevator company, but the representative who had the right key was three hours away. I went to the elevator door to keep Blake comforted while the staff tried to solve this problem. Finally we had to take the option everyone wanted to avoid: a 911 call to the fire department, which also had a key.

As soon as the firefighters left, a reporter called asking why fire trucks had been at the governor’s mansion. On the front page of the paper the next day was a photo of Blake under the headline “4-Year-Old Survives Elevator Scare.” Ever adapting, we used the experience as a lesson to the boys that actions have consequences. They should think, we explained, before getting ideas about pouring suds into the mansion’s fountain or pulling a false fire alarm, anything that might alert emergency authorities and thus the press. Learning to be on guard for the press has thus far helped keep the boys from embarrassment, but all the same, I regret the loss of innocence and boyishness that accompanies the grown-up-too-soon requirement to be ever conscious of one’s public image.

In these unique surroundings and with this schedule, I constantly struggled to give the boys normal responsibilities, such as regular chores. I didn’t want them getting used to living a life of luxury. I asked that they make their beds daily, feed the dogs, and clear the table. But even that last simple request had to be modified for mansion living. I would have liked them to clear the dishes to the industrial kitchen and rinse and stack them at the sink. One sink, however, featured a hose with a nozzle that hung from the ceiling, a tempting weapon if there ever was one. After several epic water fights, I asked them only to clear the plates and dishes from the table, no rinsing required.

In addition to managing the boys, managing the mansion took more time than I had expected. The mansion was broke. Most of the funds appropriated for that fiscal year were gone, and we still had six months to go. I had to somehow find the money to continue the events that “the First Lady
always
hosts” and more. I worked to make sure that we didn’t have to close the mansion, as Mark had suggested to the press. I’m a believer in leaving things better than you found them, and I certainly didn’t want to allow this grand old complex to deteriorate on my watch. I raised money privately to help finish out the year and set out immediately to cut costs and reorganize the staff.

First, I eliminated the high-paid position of mansion director, and I took over those duties myself for free, learning on the go. Then the new chef discovered that the outgoing administration had burned most of the kitchen files, including financial records, event details, recipes, grocery information, and items to guide us on how to keep the mansion running. Suddenly I was managing a large staff with well-defined, though limited, duties without a guidebook. Some people just washed dishes while others only helped in the kitchen. After the first week, a staff member told me about a new crisis. We needed to hire an additional person to help the woman whose sole duty was keeping up with the cleaning, as she needed help with the ironing.

“The ironing?” I asked, amazed. “Please tell me what, exactly, requires so much ironing?”

She had been taught that the First Family must always look pressed and perfect, and thus she routinely ironed every shirt, all shorts and pants, even underwear. The sheets were washed and ironed every week. Now that there was laundry for six people in the First Family, the ironing responsibilities would surely be too much for just one person who also was charged with doing the cleaning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I laughed. She obviously had no clue about Mark Sanford, a guy who prided himself on saving money on dry cleaning by making a starched white shirt last ten days. The notion of taxpayers funding someone to iron his underwear was absurd!

I chuckled as I led the woman to the dryer and showed her how we Sanfords “iron” polo shirts, shorts, pants, and underwear: we removed them from a dryer while hot and shook out the wrinkles before folding and placing the clothes in a drawer. Changing the linen every two weeks was sufficient for me, and my kids wouldn’t notice, I assured her, if they were ironed. I told her not to bother. Crisis solved.