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The speech took 21 minutes. Then the great solemnity of the moment began to dissolve. It was time for lunch with Congressmen and friends. Still, the process of history in which he had just participated was an affecting thing for Lyndon Johnson. En route to the luncheon, he stopped in his tracks, impulsively, wordlessly, leaned over and kissed his wife on the mouth. Lynda Bird saw it, and she moved up, drew the President's head down and kissed him on both cheeks. Johnson gazed down at Luci Baines, and she too kissed him. Then they walked on.
Min-na-so-ta, hats off to thee!
The time came at last for that most bewildering of American phenomena, the inaugural parade, a fixture that comes so naturally to a spectacle-loving public that few people ever think to question its necessity or its form. Yet there it was, with all the oomph and oompah, the crashing brass, the flights of unwitting comic relief, the displays of acrobatics, the precision marching, the dimpled knees and limber legs, the earnest faces of the young people who had come from all over the nation.
At least the parade officials tried to keep the spectacle within the bounds of human endurance and decreed that the last marchers must pass the reviewing stand at the White House before sun down. To underline America's pacific intentions, the customary show of rockets and tanks and guns was banned; the armed forces' participation was limited to one division apiece, plus small representations from the service academies. Each state, moreover, was held to a Governor's car, one float, one band and one marching unit, although Texas and Minnesota, in homage to the President and Vice President, were awarded an extra band each.
In the Glow. They lined up and began the long march past the reviewing stand at the White House, which was walled by bulletproof glass and rimmed with scores of guards. Lady Bird was in a brilliant red dress and matching coat, Muriel Humphrey in a light-blue wool dress she had made herself. Both men's faces glistened in the glow of spotlights, giving them the look of a ruddy tan. And both seemed extraordinarily happy. Johnson appeared to recognize at least one individual in each of the 50 states' flotillas. Now he clapped heartily, now he smiled a big Texas grin, now he shot an affectionate wink, now he made the O.K. sign with his thumb and forefinger, now his characteristic palm-down bye-bye wave.
The states tried to depict themes representative of the Great Society. Texas trundled by proudly with a model of the LBJ Ranch, including a plastic Pedernales River, and a beagle with a tail that wagged. Minnesota's banner heralded the state as the SOURCE OF MAN POWER AND BRAINPOWER, while Hubert's old college band cut loose with The Minnesota Rouser. Education and recreation were the principal themes, Southern states, by and large, had the prettiest girls, and each state had some touch that was indubitably its own.
Got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow . . .
As the last float rolled down Penn sylvania Avenue, Lady Bird leaned to Lyndon's ear and whispered a word. The President turned and said: "Thank you very much. You are wonderful people, and you have made this such a lovely day, and we will try so hard to be worthy of your trust and friendship."