Staying True (13 page)
After that, I instituted a team approach with adaptability as the new mode for everyone. I asked the staff to have an open mind and to think on their feet. Someone doing laundry might be expected to serve when the governor entertained guests and someone helping the chef would also be expected to load the dishwasher when needed, and so on. It was not long before the chef and I figured out who worked well in this type of setup and scaled down the staff accordingly. This reorganization saved the taxpayers more than $1.5 million over the years and has allowed us to operate without further private funds.
In addition to reorganizing operations at the mansion itself, I knew we had to attack the long-term problem of maintenance on the historic property. There was a nonprofit Governor’s Mansion Foundation, and I decided to raise money to modestly renovate the empty Lace House so it could be rented for events and generate income for the complex. Mark’s mother is a concert pianist who had studied at Juilliard, and she performed beautifully there to help us raise funds. When the renovation was complete, the Lace House soon became one of the top places in Columbia to host a wedding. The house ultimately netted hundreds of thousands of dollars in profits, which is in turn used for upkeep on the property.
The boys and I also wrote a children’s history book called
Mischief in the Mansion
to raise money for the Foundation. I’d been giving the boys a daily business lesson on the way to school. Driven there in a state vehicle, I’d read them highlights from the
Wall Street Journal
and quiz them on how the news affected stocks. “The price of oil is way up today boys. What does that mean?” Mark had opened each of them an account with five hundred dollars so they could trade. They began watching the market carefully. As a result, they didn’t like the fact that they didn’t profit from the sale of the books, but we learned about producing a book and marketing it all the same. By combining the small profit from the book, fees from the rentals, and Foundation funds, we then renovated the historic gardens. This further increased rentals there and improved access and use by the public.
Living a life with so many formal ceremonies offered us other great parenting opportunities. We could teach the kids how to be polite young men who knew how to conduct themselves with our company. If we had formal dinners or receptions, we would encourage the boys to join us in welcoming visitors. We chose carefully which dinners we wanted them to attend, only requiring them to be there when we hoped they might learn something from the guest. When the dinner was just for adults, we asked them to come downstairs to shake hands around the formal dining table and then return to do their homework upstairs. If the English cut-crystal chandelier shook, we knew a game of tag was taking precedence over their studies. This was wonderful boy noise to me. I didn’t want to sanitize their home experience too much. Yes, they were greeting formal guests who sat around a table under a majestic chandelier, but sometimes they were barefoot and sometimes in mismatched pajamas. However they were dressed, they made me smile and helped keep my perspective grounded.
The boys weren’t the only ones learning about protocol and etiquette. We entertained Madame Wu Yi, a vice premier and at the time the highest-ranking woman in China. The staff and I studied the rules of Chinese decorum and how they acknowledge a respected visitor, rules that were very different than the way honored guests are entertained in the west. The guest of honor had to sit facing a certain direction, we used red and yellow flowers arranged in numbers favorable to the Chinese, and we avoided anything white so as not to offend. Guests had to be arranged for a predinner meeting specifically according to rank, and we had to figure out the pecking order exactly. Mark was away on military duty for that event, and thus I adapted and was intent on making a good showing all on my own. I was proud that we made no mistakes.
With Mark as governor, things for us as a family changed in some ways for the better and in some not quite so. Living again under the same roof, Mark was often there to put the boys to bed and out of that grew his cherished routine of telling them a Bible story or lesson for the day. Yet we were still at the mercy of the almighty schedule. Mark was back into the life of five-minute meetings and thirty-second sound bites. For his schedulers, the public came first. This was a constant battle, and it was easy to get worn down. There were many nights when he was out giving speeches, being the featured speaker at fundraisers, or traveling the country and the globe for state business. Even nights at home were often booked for receptions and other official events. Still we had more family time than we had had when he was in Congress. On the nights when Mark was home, he attended many of the boys’ sports events, and he truly delighted in riding bikes with them or playing sports on the lawn. We grew to savor the occasional evening we had when it was just the boys and us.
There were extraordinary occasions for the boys too. Once we had an event at the mansion where there were NASCAR cars in the driveway and Tony Stewart landed on the lawn in a helicopter. (Blake conveniently had a cold and had skipped school that day.) They loved it when Steve Spurrier, coach of the Carolina Gamecocks, would come by or Dave Odom, the basketball coach. The boys became avid fans of the USC teams and so I tried to get used to the notion that four sons wearing hats that said “COCKS” was something of which a mother should be proud.
When we returned from a ten-day trip in August 2003, we discovered the mansion had developed a different kind of life of its own: black mold that was growing up the walls in the hall outside our bedroom and on every item of clothing and every pair of shoes in our closet. This was despite the fact that the air conditioner had been running the entire time we were gone. The arm of the bureaucracy that governed expenses at the house—the Budget and Control Board (BCB)—said that all we had was a tiny humidity problem and that everything in the house was fine. If it was
my
house, I said, and I had just spent all that money renovating it, I would get everyone who had had anything to do with the air system in to figure out why this happened.
Alas, it was not my house and clearly, governor or not, we were not in charge. The BCB worked to reduce the humidity but ignored the possible cause of the mold—government housing and bureaucracy at its best. Mark wouldn’t let me pay someone to look into the problem, so I asked an engineer to volunteer his time. He concluded that there was, indeed, a problem in the house. No surprise to me. Still the BCB stonewalled me until I literally had to threaten in June 2004 to sue a bureaucrat over our own health and safety. The threat worked and soon efforts began to fix the problem. We decided the safest course was for us to all move into the one-room pool house. Getting permission to sleep in the pool house took some doing too as we needed approval from a number of state and federal agencies to do so, but it was surely safer than breathing the toxic mold.
Despite the six of us being crammed into that one room for weeks on end, I have a fondness for that pool house. One of my cherished memories of our time at the mansion took place there, and it has nothing to do with mold and is unrelated to swimming in the pool.
Near the end of Mark’s first term, Bobby McNair, the son of former governor Robert McNair, asked if he could have a reunion of sorts in the mansion with other sons—most now grown men—of South Carolina governors.
Bobby arrived with five other sons of governors on a weekday evening when it was pouring buckets of rain. Mark was away for military service again, but the boys and I showed the group around the house so that they could take a look around their old home once more. We ended up relaxing in the pool house where everyone told stories of the hijinks from their time there.
Jim Edwards told of an inmate who chased another with a knife from the kitchen before disappearing on Jim’s bicycle, never to be seen again. During our tenure, inmates from the Department of Corrections worked almost exclusively outside on the grounds, but in earlier years the house was staffed inside and out with inmates, often then referred to as trustees. We heard about inmates picking locks on the refrigerator for a governor who was hungry and of inmates actually teaching some of these boys how to shoot guns. Imagine that!
One man remembered when there were goats on the property and others told of getting drunk in the pool house or with the security detail when they were teenagers living there. One told of a faux pas he made in front of the press, cameras rolling, when he mistakenly ate the fancy pat of butter, thinking it was a mint. They all recalled sliding wildly down the banister and attending parades and festivals all over the state. Michael Hollings recounted his mother’s request that a trustee bring in his new baby brother to show to the dinner guests at the formal dining table. When the trustee arrived, he presented baby brother Fritz to the guests on a silver platter.
Like veterans of the same battles, the men and boys at the gathering also compared notes on their time spent in the shadow of a father who was governor.
Bobby McNair had called for this reunion, and it was becoming clear why he had done so. Bobby was in a serious battle with cancer, and perhaps also in the process of evaluating his life. At the end of the evening, he looked at our young boys and summed things up. “I want each one of you to know that there has not been a day in my life when I didn’t walk down the aisle of a church or the aisle of a crowded auditorium when I didn’t feel the eyes of those in the room looking at me while they whispered, ‘There goes the son of the governor.’ Well I want you to know that while you will always be the son of Governor Sanford, much more importantly, each one of you are who you are all on your own first. Each of you is special and unique and has survived life in this place and you will go on to live lives of your own independent of your dad or who he has been and what he has done. Yes you’ll always be the son of a governor but you will always be
you
first.”
In light of Mark’s recent actions, I can appreciate what a gift Bobby’s perspective was to me and an even more important gift for our boys. The challenge for any child is to develop a true sense of who he is. The child who develops a solid sense of self-worth independent of his parents, his siblings, or his circumstances is best equipped to face the world. Many of us try to live up to the expectations of those who precede us, which shades our sense of independence or worth. I can only imagine how difficult it is to be raised as the son of a successful governor, and then as a son of a man known for something less reputable altogether. I hope as the boys go forward they can remember Bobby’s caution to be themselves first.
TEN
I
N THE SUMMER OF 2004, THE BLACK MOLD IN THE GOVERNOR’S mansion drove the boys and me to the beach house the minute school was over. Mark stayed in Columbia during the week, sleeping in the pool house while the workmen attacked the mansion. He joined us at the beach on weekends. After the hothouse of the capital, the summer was blissfully uncomplicated. We spent our days by the water with my girlfriends and their families. As the children played, we read books, we barbecued, we gossiped, we relaxed. For the first time in a while, I could breathe fresh air. Best of all Mark and I were in a pretty good place. Though we were both incredibly busy, we’d been living under the same roof at last, and with that proximity, I’d fallen in love with Mark all over again.
One sign of our reconnection was that when I had a hysterectomy that August, Mark was at my side for one long, sleepless night in the hospital. After I was discharged, he took the boys back to Columbia, giving me ten days by myself at the beach to rest up before accompanying him to New York for the Republican National Convention.
I luxuriated in this time alone. The surgery had rendered me pretty immobile, but every day I walked to the beach at least once. I read lots of books and reflected on where I was in life. I felt myself aging, and the changes in my mind and body felt good. I yearned to soften into a slower kind of life, something more tender, and with less conflict. My childbearing years were definitively over, but instead of feeling that as a loss, I was filled with hopefulness about what was to come for me and Mark in time. However long he would remain governor, I knew there would be an end to the busy political life ahead. I found myself thinking again about Galatians 5:22, the same scripture Mark had listed as a spiritual goal when we discussed them nearly fifteen years earlier in New York: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” We had, in fact, lived that Galatians verse, except for peace. I could see that peace on the horizon. Peace would come to us when Mark stepped out of the limelight.
By that summer, we had lived together as a family for almost four years, but it wasn’t until we moved into the mansion that Mark truly came into his own as a father. There I could rely on him to help me discipline the children, which was a huge relief after the congressional years. Gradually he started taking over their spiritual guidance too. As governor, he had an “Open Door After Four” one day a month when any South Carolinian could speak directly to him. People of all backgrounds came seeking assistance. Their stories were often heartbreaking to hear, and Mark was a spellbinding storyteller as he retold them. The boys listened over dinner, drinking in his stories from those afternoons. Often Mark would end on a lesson from a Bible verse, and they’d discuss it for a while or continue with the lesson as he tucked them into bed. Mark seemed to enjoy this too. He expanded his repertoire to tell stories from politics, or from his day at the Capitol. These sessions filled a great hunger the boys had for more time with their dad.
During this time Mark took it upon himself to create what he called the Sanford Family Constitution. When he read it to us over dinner one evening, I nodded in agreement. Everything in it described my own belief system as well. I was impressed that Mark had found time to create the statement, but I shouldn’t really have been: The process of quantifying his beliefs and goals was reminiscent of the goal itemization he’d introduced to me all those years before. This document described a vision for our family in which “God is glorified and the communities each of our lives touches are better because of the lives we live. Toward that end, our mission is to be a nurturing, loving and fun safe harbor and home place—where each member is loved unconditionally for who they are, where values are instilled, and where each person is encouraged to develop their talents, find their passion and pursue it with excellence to indeed glorify God and make the world a better place.” The family constitution also talked about the things we value: love, faith, passion and excellence, hard work, appreciation, honor and integrity, fun and stewardship and responsibility.
I have a difficult time now looking at this family doctrine in light of Mark’s recent actions. That summer, though, I wanted to think of the good times we had and the better times that were to come. The demands on all of our time were significant, but we were settling into a routine as a family and enjoying respite and time together as best we could. I was learning how to seriously prioritize my time, and once again, I focused on the fact that the busy life wouldn’t last forever. I was even feeling content.
George Orwell says, “To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.” In relaxing into my optimistic vision for the future, I now see that I wasn’t acknowledging how disconnected Mark was becoming from his stated Sanford Family values.
A governor necessarily has to have a team of people to schedule his every move. If Mark agreed to attend a meeting or to make a speech, he had someone at his elbow jotting down that commitment. At the end of each day, he’d receive a schedule for the next one so detailed it would even advise him what to wear. He no longer had to think about how to get places. His security detail drove him. People everywhere wanted to have their picture taken with him or just shake his hand. I, too, had staff to help coordinate my days, but I wasn’t surrounded by “yes” folks, ready to jump to attend to every need.
During the campaign, Mark had promised a lot to his constituents, a very ambitious agenda, and many voters admired his willingness to take it all on. He didn’t just want to govern the state, he wanted to reform it, cutting spending and growing the economy instead of the government. This rookie governor, a stranger to the ways of the Capitol, picked a fight with the old boy network, asking them to abolish entire programs and dramatically cut services or merge longstanding agencies.
Mark railed against the legislators who campaigned as deficit-conscious conservatives but stuffed the budget with questionable projects for their districts. As part of his campaign to reform the way government does business, he challenged the legislators to repay a state deficit (the existence of which was unconstitutional) before adding new programs. They paid some off but proposed new spending before finishing the job. That spring, Mark captured the public eye and the national spotlight by carrying two squealing piglets he named Pork and Barrel to the floor of the legislature. The legislators hated how this made them look, and they blustered about lack of decorum in the hall of the legislature. But it worked. They adopted Mark’s policies, fully repaying the debt. I was proud of him, but he wasn’t making any friends; in pushing so hard for his fiscal principles, he was attacking many within his own party.
With so much underway, Mark was never off duty. He was besieged from many sides during his day job and simultaneously raising money already for reelection. I was frankly amazed by how he survived. I had experienced the pressures of Wall Street, but they were nothing like what a governor faces. He was elected to serve
all
the people, not just the shareholders, or the company bottom line. Plus he had determined enemies within who were wily in blocking his agenda and frequently planted spurious rumors about him in the media. Witnessing the incredible demands on his time inspired profound empathy in me. With his growing involvement with the boys and the principled battle he was waging, I felt a richer admiration for his abilities and the strain than I had during the congressional years.
That admiration and appreciation fueled my thinking about our future during my recuperation at the beach, looking forward to the easy way we could be with the boys, and with each other, once this time in politics was done and he could focus more of his heart and mind on our family. I guess I conveniently edited out of this vision how, as the pressures on him never let up, I saw him gradually detaching again. Mark was gone speaking or fundraising many evenings while I turned down most evening requests for the First Lady’s presence so I could be with the boys. Evenings when he was in Columbia, it was routine for the staff to call to advise me where he was on his schedule. It wasn’t uncommon for a staffer to call saying, “The governor wanted me to call to let you know that he has scheduled dinner for nine P.M. instead of seven because he needs time to work out before he sees the boys.” I would then ask her to relay the message that dinner would be no later than eight because of bedtimes and homework. Incidents like this infuriated me. He didn’t call me himself, but had an aide issuing an order from the governor’s office, an order that the aide had no authority to change. Presumably neither did I.
I could see it happening again if I was honest with myself, that feeling I sometimes had when he was home from Congress that he was here, but not here. He might, in fact, already have his eye on the next goal. I could see it sometimes in the way he treated his staff. Like many people drawn to politics, most on Mark’s staff believed in his mission and were willing to put up with rough treatment to serve the cause. He could be very short with the staff if he thought they’d been sloppy, wasted his time, or gone “off message.”
And he was beginning to be short with me too. After the election he found himself at a disadvantage without clear continuity between the issues he campaigned on and the realities of carrying those out in office. He convinced me he needed me to help bridge that gap by helping to manage his office mornings while the boys were at school. I saw in time that my role as a sounding board and adviser had taken some of the romance out of our relationship. When he was home, I got the brunt of his complaints and his worries because I understood all the issues, and not enough of the fun-loving and patient man the public saw. Indeed, he was never short with constituents or with the man on the street, and this contrast was increasingly hard for me to endure. I tried sometimes to talk to Mark about the madness of his schedule and the damage that it was doing to us. I asked for time away, time without a political conference or family. Mark wholeheartedly agreed that we needed that time, but somehow those plans always got squeezed out by the all-important demands of his overburdened schedule.
As I recuperated at the beach that summer, I was torn between hoping Mark wouldn’t run for reelection and worrying if he would be happy with the slower pace that would come with choosing to leave office. I knew in the end it would be his decision, not mine. But did he really want another four demoralizing years fighting to enact his agenda? Because of the checks and balances setup in South Carolina, he really had very little control, and it seemed he had few allies as well. Despite his high popularity statewide, the press rarely acknowledged how he stuck to his campaign principles while governing. The headlines were all, “Governor Wants Cuts in Spending” or “Sanford Bad for Public Schools.” These were much more dramatic ways of phrasing what Mark was doing than “Governor does exactly what he promised to do while campaigning”!
If he decided to run again, I knew that this time I would refuse to run his campaign and stand strong against any cajoling on his part to get me to reconsider. He couldn’t claim he didn’t have the money to hire anyone this time. I would help out with the campaign but remove myself from any duties in his office. If we were in the governor’s mansion for another four years, I decided, I would spend my time enjoying this unique life, raising our sons and instilling character, focusing on my own causes and quiet volunteer work, and planning for our family’s future.
My dear friend Sally Coen joined us in New York for the convention. In our unmarked security car, we glided down Eighth Avenue, using the designated dignitary lane to pass easily through block after block of congested traffic as we made our way toward Madison Square Garden. Out the window, we could see hundreds of New Yorkers staring as the sleek black cars whisked past. As we got close to Madison Square Garden, we saw protestors and the sounds outside our windows grew louder, even if their words were indistinct. We didn’t have to stop for them. We took a private route underground and pulled into a special area for VIPs.
From there, we were ushered up to a private box overlooking the convention floor, which was jammed with delegates waving flags and brightly colored banners. Sally joined us for the parties and stood with me at press events while the media hung on Mark’s every word. His reputation as a man who lived by his word and didn’t shrink from a fight made him a hero to some outside the state. There was some talk in the run-up to the convention about how this handsome, principled young governor might have a place on the national political stage. We knew there was a long distance between that kind of chatter and running as part of a presidential ticket, but the attention was flattering to Mark all the same. Sally was more than a little starstruck. “Wow!” she said. “I could really get used to a life like this!” I didn’t want to burst her bubble by explaining how quickly it gets tiresome.
