I Love You, Ronnie Read online

  It’s time to move on to the next town now and every move is a step toward home and you. I love you so very much I don’t even mind that life made me wait so long to find you. The waiting only made the finding sweeter.

  When you get this we will be almost halfway through the lonely stretch.

  I love you

  Ronnie

  Ronnie and I had a ritual, which began before we were married, for when he’d go away to film on location. On the day he was leaving, I would go by his apartment to pick him up and take him to the railroad station. As he finished his packing (he always, even in the White House, did his own packing; he liked to know just what he was bringing and where his things were), I would slip little notes and jelly beans in with the clothes in his suitcase. I’d drive him to the station, and I’d stay on the train until the very last minute. Then I’d get off and drive home feeling very lonely and very sad, and I’d knit him socks.

  By the time we were married and Ronnie was traveling for G.E., I’d pretty well given up on knitting socks, but the rest of our routine was the same. Ronnie would leave California in the late afternoon, take the Super Chief train all the next day and night to Chicago, then take the Twentieth Century to New York. He’d visit plants, make speeches, shake hands, tape episodes of General Electric Theater, and then begin the long train ride back. He was mostly unreachable while he was on the train, but when it stopped, as it always did, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, he’d be sure to hop off and run into the Western Union office in the station. Each time he passed through there, whether heading east or going west, he’d send me a telegram:

  POWDER DOWN YOUR LIPSTICK. I AM ON THE DOWNHILL SIDE OF ALBUQUERQUE. I LOVE YOU.

  DID YOU EVER GET THE FEELING YOU’D BEEN SOMEWHERE BEFORE? I AM GOING IN A CIRCLE. I AM ALSO IN LOVE . . .

  PRESIDENTIAL TRAIN ON SCHEDULE. DON’T FIRE ANY SALUTES. I’M ABDICATING . . .

  A Valentine’s Day letter, from 1960.

  A letter Ronnie wrote from Schenectady.

  MEET ME IN LOUISVILLE AND LET’S GET MARRIED . . .

  STILL LOST BUT I THINK I’LL GET FOUND TOMORROW. DO YOU SUPPOSE I LOVE YOU? P.S. I DO

  And then, when he made it to Chicago, he’d see my parents and call me to check in. After that, we’d talk on the phone as often as we could. He’d write, and I’d wait, imagining him finding the little notes and jelly beans that I’d hidden among the clothes in his suitcase as a surprise. Doing things like that made me feel that I was still close to him when he traveled, and made Ronnie feel closer to me too. Nevertheless, as time passed, the separations became harder and harder to bear, and the long trips grew more grueling for Ronnie. Of course, no one ever heard the downside of things but me.

  THE VAN CURLER

  SCHENECTADY, N.Y.

  Thurs. April 7

  Dear Nancy Pants

  The enclosed clipping will give you an accurate picture of our arrival in Pittsfield last Sunday. Our hotel is the lighted building across the square.

  I left N.Y. by train and arrived in Albany two hours late because of a wreck on the N.Y. Central the previous night. Then we started our drive in one of the G.E. Cadillacs. We made it over the mountain weaving in and out of stalled cars and trucks scattered all over the road. Later that night three hundred and fifty cars and trucks were snowed in on that stretch of hi-way and hotels including ours were putting up cots to take care of the stranded week-enders.

  Now you might think this would curtail some of our activities—but think not so. Nothing interferes with one of these d-n “nut & bolt” fiestas.

  We arrived around 4:30 pm Sunday and by 7:30 were at a Country Club (Country Club??) for dinner with various and sundry G.E. executives (half the party were stalled around the country side & never made it) But we made it and in the meantime had showered, changed clothes gone to two radio stations for interviews and appeared on one TV program. And this was a leisurely three hours compared to the schedule that began Mon. morning with a press breakfast at 8 A.M. Try this with your shoes filled with snow.

  It is, with some justification, I believe that I now employ my full register of eloquence to say—“I have had it!”

  Tonite I address a banquet of “execs” (G.E.) here in Schenectady—and incidentally I resent it because this is my 3rd speech in this d-n town. I get in N.Y. tomorrow at noon and will film “openings & closings” all afternoon. But rest assured of one thing—only you have seen this bitter side. I have been a smiling picture of grace and warmth throughout each 18 hour day.

  But all this is unimportant—what I really ‘took pen in hand’ to say was—I love you and miss you and I mean it differently than ever before. I’ve always loved you & missed you but never has it been such an actual ache. The clock is standing still and April 16th seems a year away. I find myself hating these people for keeping us apart. Please be real careful because you carry my life with you every second.

  Maybe we should build at the farm so we could surround the place with high barb wire and booby traps and shoot anyone who even suggests one of us go to the corner store without the other. I promise you—this will not happen again. How come you moved in on me like this? I’m all hollow without you and the “hollow” hurts.

  I love you

  Ronnie

  I felt hollow, too, whenever we were apart, but at least I was at home. Life went on quietly in Ronnie’s absence. I took care of Patti and the house, and saw friends. When Patti started attending school, I became very active in it. The John Thomas Dye School in Bel Air was a lovely place, with fireplaces in all the classrooms and May Day celebrations and hot cider and gingerbread at Christmastime. If Ronnie wasn’t traveling, he and I would cook hot dogs at the school fair.

  I was hoping to have another baby. But it wasn’t easy. I had a miscarriage, and then when I finally became pregnant again, I had to spend three months in bed, getting shots every week so that I wouldn’t lose him. The doctors told me that I’d be facing a cesarean birth. Patti had been born by cesarean, too, so I knew what that meant, and when our son, Ron, was finally born, on May 20, 1958, I was ready.

  Patti’s birth had been another story altogether. Ronnie and I had been at the international horse show at the Pan-Pacific Auditorium when I’d gone into labor—without knowing it.

  One of our horses was running, and I was so caught up with the show that I didn’t realize I had started having labor pains. I just thought that Herman—I called the bulge Herman—was changing positions. I knew that the baby was breech, and we’d been waiting for it to shift, so I thought,Thank goodness it’s finally happening.

  “Herman is moving,” I told Ronnie. He didn’t really react. He just said, “Well, every time you feel that movement, squeeze my arm.”

  Then, at the end of the horse show, he said: “You’re in labor.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not possible.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ve been squeezing my arm every fifteen minutes.”

  The poor man—I refused to believe it, so we drove all the way back to Pacific Palisades. We got undressed and got into bed. Only then did I decide he might be right. So we got dressed again and drove to the hospital.

  My father never forgave me. A doctor’s daughter not knowing she was in labor! He couldn’t believe it. He thought I just should have known.

  It was a long labor, and Ronnie was stuck in the fathers’ lounge in a big leather couch with a spring sticking up through a hole. He sat there watching all the other fathers go up to the pay phone and say: “It’s a girl!” “It’s a boy!” And he just waited and waited. By the time he finally saw Patti, he was exhausted. Unfortunately, in those days fathers weren’t present for births, and they couldn’t even see their babies right away after they were born. And so when they finally brought Patti in to me, I was alone. I so would have liked to share the moment with Ronnie.

  Maureen came to the house when I came home from the hospital, which made me very happy. She was eleven when Patti was born and had recently seen
a film in school about cesarean childbirth. “Is that what they did to you?” I remember her saying.

  —

  Those were precious years, wonderful years of building a home and becoming a family. General Electric Theater brought us a new kind of security—and I think it’s possible that the separations made Ronnie and me even closer. We cherished our time together all the more, knowing how lonely we felt when we were apart.

  In the fall of 1955, we began construction on a new house in the hills of Pacific Palisades. General Electric decided to turn it into a showcase for the latest electrical appliances, and we found ourselves with more refrigerators, ovens, and fancy lights than we could use. The house consumed so much energy, and involved so much intricate wiring, that a special switch box had to be installed on the outside. Then, just before we moved in and right after the G.E. men had attached all the wires, some neighborhood kids came and pulled them all out. Holy Toledo!—as Ronnie used to say. All the wires had to be reconnected. In both our houses, Ronnie drew a heart with our initials in the cement of the patio—and at the San Onofre house it’s there twice, on the patio and outside the bedroom.

  Anyone who has ever built a house knows that nothing ever gets done just as, or when, it should, and this can drive you mad. But we were so grateful to have the financial security to have a new house, and so glad to be together, that much of the frustration just rolled off us. And Ronnie, of course, did his part to make sure that we laughed our way through it all.

  Another snapshot from the scrapbook. Ronnie wrote, “The second house goes up.” He loved being involved in the construction of the house at 1669 San Onofre.

  RONALD REAGAN

  HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

  Dear Mommie Poo Pants

  The plumbers finish today—“honor bright hope to spit in the ocean”!

  The slab gets poured next week—“hope to kick a dog”!

  The carpenters start July 5—“I’ll kiss your elbow!—your elbow??”

  We should move in by Dec. 1—“That’ll be the day!”

  I left “Lucky” behind because she and our daughter were playing together and because it’s too hot in Agoura for a fur coat you can’t take off.

  I love you and pledge my continued efforts at early morning machinery checks.

  When I first opened the door?

  Daddie Poo Pants

  P.S. Never snuggled before—not even once.

  Ronnie had started calling me Mommie when Patti was born. When I called her Patti Poo, he called me Mommie Poo. That led, somehow, to Mommie Poo Pants. Then to Daddie Poo Pants. The nicknames made us laugh—and becoming “Mommie” and “Daddie” also meant that our lives were changing, in very real ways. We were parents now—but we were also careful to never forget our marriage. We were always vigilant to not be “careless,” as Ronnie put it in one letter, “with the treasure that is ours—namely what we are to each other.”

  Building a house brought Ronnie and me even closer together. It was a project we shared and both loved. Ronnie really liked all the details of building, the concrete steps involved. He took a very active role in planning the house. He built a model for it himself, which sat in the living room, and he went over every detail of the final design with our architect, Bill Stephenson. We decorated it together, carefully and slowly. I found some yellow couches for the living room that we both just loved, and they came everywhere with us afterward, including to the White House. By then, they were re-covered in a red print. At holiday times, instead of exchanging gifts, we finished rooms, built bookshelves and closets.

  After a while, however, Ronnie got tired of giving these kinds of presents. For one birthday, he went to the jewelers instead:

  RONALD REAGAN

  Happy Birthday Mommie!

  We’ve run out of rooms to buy.Anyway, how could we top the closet? I’ve gift-wrapped the living room, the bedroom, the dressing room, the den and the back bedroom. I’m tired of rooms for “presents.”

  Then you see I found out about these rocks—how would you like to get stoned on your birthday? ?—? I don’t think I worded that right.

  Building the San Onofre house.

  Anyway (again) please keep on having birthdays because I wouldn’t know what to do without you. I think that’s because I love you so much.

  Happy Birthday.

  Your surly Gunga Din

  P.S. I truly do love you—mucher than that.

  The first time we celebrated our anniversary in our new house was in 1956.

  Nancy Poo Pants—

  I should have married you so long ago this would be our Silver Anniversary. Anyway, I’ve had 25 years’ happiness for each of the last 4.

  I love you.

  “That Man”

  When Ronnie traveled now, I missed the little things most of all—the ways he loved and cared for me, how he would cover my shoulder with the blanket every night before we went to sleep, how we always slept on the same sides of the bed—him on the left, and me on the right—how we had breakfast on trays in bed together on weekends, which we started doing in our new house in the Palisades. I hated it even more then, when he went away. No matter how necessary it was for his work and the family, I never got used to it.

  And sometimes, when we separated, I could get a little carried away. . . .

  This led to a funny incident during the filming in 1957 of the picture Hellcats of the Navy, the only movie Ronnie and I ever made together.

  Ronnie played Commander Casey Abbott. I was a navy nurse. He went down to San Diego to start shooting before I was called in. Then, when I showed up for my first day of work, I found this note waiting in our hotel room:

  THE U.S. GRANT

  Darling

  Us old “Salts” always say “Welcome Aboard.”—And My Goodness AreYou Welcome!?!

  We are working a while tonite so come on out to the war when you have “stowed your gear” (Heave Ho)

  I love you

  Commander Abbott

  I loved working with Ronnie. Anytime I could be with him, I loved it. All went fine on the set—until, toward the end of the film, brave Commander Abbott had to take his leave and said good-bye to me. I began to cry—really cry. I guess there had been too many real-life good-byes in those days.

  The director shouted “Cut!” and the scene had to be reshot.

  The truth was, though, it was hard for both of us to say good-bye.

  And as the G.E. years lengthened, it became particularly hard for Ronnie to spend long periods of time away from home and the family.

  A letter that was waiting for me in our hotel room when I joined Ronnie to make Hellcats of the00 Navy, the only picture we made together.

  His telegrams now became more and more filled with longing.

  WHAT AM I DOING HERE WHEN I WANT TO BE THERE. I MISS YOU & LOVE YOU.

  WHY IS IT I DON’T GET AROUND TO SPEAKING MY MIND MORE OFTEN LIKE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU AND HOW LOST I’D BE WITHOUT YOU.

  HOW COME IT DOESN’T GET ANY EASIER. I MISS YOU VERY MUCH PROBABLY BECAUSE I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.

  As Ronnie traveled around the country for General Electric Theater, visiting plants and meeting with executives, he learned what was on people’s minds. He heard people complain about the bigness of government and the burden of high taxes. The government, they said, was taking too much away from them. Ronnie knew what they meant. When we were first married, 90 percent of his salary had gone to the government. It got to the point where he had to turn down pictures because there was just no financial reason to make them.

  Hearing other people’s stories, hearing what bothered them and what they wanted, was a wonderful opportunity for Ronnie. He toured every single G.E. plant, walking miles and miles, talking and shaking hands with the plant workers. Afterward, he’d come home and tell me about meeting those people and how important it was to him.

  A family Christmas photo, from when Ronnie was working for G.E.

  Soon, Ronnie’s speeches became shorter and shorter
, and his Q & A sessions longer and longer. People didn’t ask him about toasters, and gradually, his talks became more political. He learned a lot by listening to the hundreds of people he saw and hearing what was on their minds and what was worrying them. He began to express his concern that excessive government regulation was draining the American economy and the free-enterprise spirit, which is what he was hearing. His political views were changing. He’d gone into the G.E. years a Roosevelt Democrat—and he’d remained a Democrat even while petitioning Dwight Eisenhower to run for president and campaigning for Richard Nixon. But with time, his political views had shifted more dramatically. And a new set of views formed that would eventually lead him to the governorship of California and then to the presidency.

  Interestingly, General Electric never told Ronnie what to say or asked him to tone down the political content of his speeches until shortly before his show went off the air, under ratings pressure from the new color show, Bonanza, in the spring of 1962.And then, when G.E. told him to stop talking politics and start talking product, Ronnie simply refused. “I can’t do it,” he said. “When people ask me to speak, I can’t switch lines completely and talk about appliances.” He knew that when people went to see him, they wanted to hear what he thought—and to get the big picture.

  With Mike, when he was living with us in the San Onofre house.

  Ronnie and Ron, summer 1962.

  When the travel for G.E. came to an end, we had a few years, from 1962 to 1965, of relative calm. Ronnie taped a couple of television episodes—for Wagon Train and Kraft Suspense Theatre—then spent a season as host of Death Valley Days. He was at home in those years much more than he’d ever been before in our married life, and he was glad to have a full-time family life.

  When he wrote this letter, in May 1963, he was in New York, working in television and collaborating with the coauthor of his early autobiography, Where’s the Rest of Me? What was clearly in the forefront of his mind, however, was a troubling conversation we’d had the night before about the children.