Waving Goodbye: Remembering President George H. W. Bush

A summer day and I was working from home.  The windows were open and on a summer breeze, I heard the faint slicing of blades through the air above.

Choppers.  Not one—that usually meant the Coast Guard.  Several.  I knew who was coming.

Quickly I made myself presentable:  a quick straightening of my outfit and a brush run through my hair.  I then would dash outside to my deck overlooking the water and wait.

They would come into view, flying low, a formation of helicopters each with the Presidential seal.  My cottage was in the flight path for President and Mrs. Bush to get to their summer home in Kennebunkport, Maine.

I would start jumping, madly, continuously, waving and smiling, for this really was the closest I would get to a president, and this particular one and his wife seemed so friendly, so approachable.  They had to see me down below, how could they not?

So I would continue my waving until the choppers disappeared north.

I would like to think that maybe, just maybe, the President waved back.

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