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.
