41 is a biography of George H.W. Bush by his son, George W. Bush, and is written with affection, not objectivity. Bush offers that as a disclaimer at the very beginning. This is a tribute, written by a man who was not only the son of his subject, but an ally for decades. Because there’s so much overlap between this and The Last Republicans, I’m not going to precis the book but rather just share some quotations from it. One interesting thing I learned from this, though: George H.W. Bush met Babe Ruth while playing ball at Yale! (Also, fun fact: no vice president has ever pursued and won two full presidential terms. Adams, van Buren, and Bush all lost their reelection bids; Teddy Roosevelt served almost two terms but one of those was McKinley’s, who was shot by a left-anarchist; and LBJ declined to pursue a second term. ) One thing I will take away from this is increased admiration for 41 — who chose to serve in WW2 as an aviator, instead of using his status to escape service or find an easy spot, who struck out on his own, and who erred time and again on the side of principle rather than expediency, courting death threats and boos from his own party as a congressman for his stances against segregated housing and McCarthyism. Bush’s narrative has the usual establishment blinkers.

My grandmother tempered her zeal to win with genuine humility, and she demanded that all her children do the same. She expected grace in victory, good sportsmanship in defeat, and a commitment to “do your best” at all times. She instructed her children to downplay personal accomplishments and share credit with others. And her cardinal rule was that one must never brag. In her view, arrogance was unattractive, and a person with true self-confidence did not need to gloat. “No one likes a braggadocio,” she liked to say.

My father agreed to a first dance but warned Mother it would be the last time he danced in public. Obviously he never dreamed that he would one day have to dance at twelve inaugural balls.

Looking back on it, I can see that the frantic activity was his way of coping with the helplessness he felt. George Bush, the Navy pilot who swam to the life raft and paddled away from death, must have found it unbearable not to be able to do anything to help the girl he loved.

Not every risk my father took in those years paid off. That taught him another lesson: If you refuse to give up, opportunity can arise not only from victory, but also from defeat.

My grandfather considered McCarthy a demagogue and a bully. Prescott Bush was last to speak. “While we admire his objectives in the fight against communism,” he said, “we have very considerable reservations concerning the methods which he sometimes employs.” The crowd booed lustily, but my grandfather was not intimidated. He later rejected a campaign contribution from McCarthy. Years later, when I learned about my grandfather’s stance, I admired his willingness to stand up to extremism. Boston Mayor James Michael Curley once summarized the philosophy of many politicians as, “There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.” Prescott Bush had the courage and integrity to reject that view.

My grandfather’s opponent in 1956 was Thomas J. Dodd, a Democratic Congressman and lawyer. Dodd took a populist line of attack against my grandfather. “I notice Senator Bush seems to have a lot of time to play golf,” he said. “I can’t afford to play golf.” Then someone asked Dodd what his favorite hobby was. He said it was horseback riding. Without missing a beat, my grandfather said, “Well, I congratulate my opponent. I’ve never been able to afford a horse.”

Taiwan lost its UN seat by a few votes, fifty-nine to fifty-five. Several delegates who had promised to support Taiwan either switched their position or abstained from the vote. In a show of sympathy, Ambassador Bush rose from his seat on the floor of the General Assembly and accompanied Taiwan’s disgraced Ambassador, Liu Chieh, out of the UN. They were heckled and jeered on the walk down the aisle. Mother, who had come with Dad to watch the historic vote, remembers delegates spitting at her. The UN, created as an idealistic forum to pursue peace, had become a venue of ugly anti-Americanism.

Mother was infuriated by the negative coverage, and eventually she snapped. After a reporter repeated the latest of many allegations that Dad was a rich elitist, she pointed out that Congresswoman Ferraro and her husband actually had a higher net worth. “That four-million-dollar—I can’t say it, but it rhymes with rich—could buy George Bush any day,” she said. It was a classic Barbara Bush blurt, and she regretted it the moment it left her lips. Mother called and apologized to Geraldine Ferraro, who immediately forgave her. My siblings and I weren’t quite so generous. We took great delight in calling Mother the “poet laureate” of the family.

Throughout his presidency, he had been portrayed on Saturday Night Live by the comedian Dana Carvey, who had honed an impression of Dad that exaggerated his speech patterns, hand gestures, and reputation for “prudence.” To the comedian’s astonishment, Dad called him a few weeks after the election and invited him and his wife, Paula, to stay in the Lincoln Bedroom and then appear at a White House event. The staff was told to gather for an important message from the President. As “Hail to the Chief” played, Dana Carvey walked into the East Room, took the podium, and regaled the audience with his trademark routine. Among other jokes, he created a scene of Dad informing the Secret Service that he planned to go jogging in the nude. The room roared with laughter. The idea was vintage George Bush: He was thinking of others, laughing at himself, and bringing joy to people who were hurting.

“Hi, George, how are you? And there’s Laura. Hi, beautiful.” He lay back contently as Barbara and Jenna rubbed his head. Then he reached out and gently put his hand on Jenna’s pregnant belly. “There’s death,” he said, “and there’s new life.” We all left the room sobbing.