Mrs. Johnson

I never heard her called Ladybird.  I heard her grandkids call her "Nini."  Otherwise, I only heard her addressed as Mrs. Johnson.

I had the pleasure of Mrs. Johnson's company on only two occasions.  The first time that I met the former first lady was in a private dining room, upstairs in the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library at the University of Texas.  My play "The Speaker Speaks: an evening with Sam Rayburn" has just been performed in the auditorium and a small group had been invited upstairs for a dinner afterwards.

There were two tables, and, of course, the actor that played Mr. Sam was invited to dine with Mrs. Johnson, while the lowly playwright was assigned to the "B" table.  Fortunately, the voluble Harry Middleton, former head of the library and LBJ speechwriter, was holding court there, telling amazing stories about Rayburn as he really was.  He told me I had it mostly right, then he got down to the juicy stuff.

Middleton put me enough at ease that I was not completely in a panic when I was introduced to Mrs. Johnson.  Nothing like writing a historical play as a school project when you are a senior in college, then finding yourself in the back of an auditorium with the play being performed for the people that lived it.

In my research, it had always been said that Rayburn had a soft spot for Mrs. Johnson – that the two had a tender relationship – and there was some reference to that in the play. I was introduced.  Mrs. Johnson was kind about the play, then said a few words about Rayburn.  Her eyes told me how weak a poor old hack is when it comes to bringing history to life.

I was pretty sure that between the weakness of the play and my own stammering idiocy in our short conversation, that Mrs. Johnson and I were pretty much done.  That's why I was so surprised to find a small handwritten invitation in my mailbox a few months later.  My wife and I were invited to the LBJ ranch in the Hill Country for dinner.  (And, yes, the invitation is framed in my bookshelf at this writing.)

The occasion: Mrs. Johnson wanted to know "what the young people were thinking."  (I was young at the time.  My wife and I had just married, and she was still new to Texas.  I tried to explain that getting summoned to the LBJ ranch was pretty unusual and kind of cool, but she's from the Northeast and really didn’t get it.)  We would be joined by a few other "young" Austinites and a healthy contingent of Johnson grandkids to talk about what we thought.

We arrived for dinner, and after clearing the Secret Service and parking the car, we found the ranch and its occupants to be warm, welcoming and modest – pure Texas Hill Country.  The assembled young guests passed through the buffet and settled (again) into two large tables.  This time we were seated with Mrs. Johnson.  When the meal was winding down, she asked that all of the attendees take a moment to stand and address the group regarding their assessment of the current political situation (c. 1997).

I welcome any moment to show off, but my wife started to panic as soon as Mrs. Johnson announced her format.  She struggles with public speaking anyway, but in front of the former first lady?  I can't even remember what I said, but I do remember my sweet, shy wife rising to her feet and, flushed, confessing that she was not from Texas, but from Cape Cod.  Mrs. Johnson interrupted.  "Oh, the flowers there," she said. "The lilies and the beach roses."  And suddenly they disappeared into what they really loved to talk about, my wife, the Cape, and Mrs. Johnson, the flowers.  The grace of that moment lingers with me.

We all talked a lot, and Mrs. Johnson listened attentively.  She really did want to know what the young people were thinking.  When we had all had our moment, she gave us a tour of the ranch.  She showed us photos.  I stood in the President's closet, as she talked about his love for the ranch.

The lilies are in full bloom here on Cape Cod, and they dance in the cool breezes, but I wish I was home today.  Austin is a town that knows its history.  Mrs. Johnson will be remembered and honored there like nowhere else.  Some presidents will show, some might not.  The whole town will be at its absolute best.  Better that SXSW.  Better than Austin City Limits.  The best that Austin has will rise and speak and reflect and sing.

The beach roses will be out soon, and then the bluebonnets, and the columbines, and the camellia and the apple blossom and the sunflower and the lilac and then the mountain laurel.  And all the rest.