The first coup d'état in American history was not unexpected. There had been telltale signs. Just as a Soviet official's demotion is revealed when he fails to show up in a Kremlin photograph, so the President had disappeared from recent White House portraits. His signature on bills looked suspiciously shaky, and there were rumors of a last swim in the White House pool.
Then the truth was known. The First Family had seized power. Since its members had done so much campaigning, they reasoned that they should be allowed to serve. The First Lady moved into the Oval Office and turned the desk to face the Rose Garden. Son Biff took command of the Pentagon since he had made so many pronouncements on defense policy during the campaign. Daughter Brenda, who washed down so many votes with her teas, became Secretary of State. With her concern for beautification, Bobo took Interior, EPA and, for good measure, Agriculture. Because he logged more campaign miles than anybody else, Bradford grabbed the ICC and the FEA. Billingsgate, who eagerly commented on all topics, was a natural for press secretary despite his age, seven. Throughout the coup, the wholesome, ever smiling, photogenically perfect First Family performed flawlessly as usual.
For all the wonders being worked by Betty, Mike, Jack, Steve and Susan, it is presumed that President Ford need fear no such bedroom and playroom revolt; Jimmy Carter remains his principal worry. Well, not just Jimmy. There's Rosalynn and Chip and Jeff and . . . The plain fact is that never before in a presidential campaign have spouses and progeny played such a conspicuous role. Which raises a question: Should a presidential election begin to sound like Book CXXXV of One Man's Family?
In a sense, the trend is understandable. The family campaigners can extend the candidate's image far beyond what he could achieve alone. They are added eyes, ears and antennas. They can appeal to generations and interest groups by whom the candidate might not be welcomed or understood. They ensure constant exposure of the candidate's name.
But must wives and children be programmed as if they were the candidate himself? Until recently, the political family had quite a different view of its proper function: it should be seen only occasionally and not heard at all. Americans survived the 19th century without knowing the everyday habits of politicians' families. There were brainy, determined and manipulative First Ladies—Abigail Adams, Dolley Madison, Lucy Hayes, among others. But they exercised their power at the hearthside with their husbands. A campaign biographer could think of no greater accolade for Lucy Hayes than to call her "the true housewife, the noble consort, the faithful Christian mother."
Even when politicians began to campaign in earnest at the end of the century, their families stayed unobtrusively on the sidelines. If wives did appear with their husbands in public, they had nothing to say, or at least said nothing that seemed to matter. A campaign biographer boasted of Mrs. Thomas E. Dewey: "She has a mind of her own, but she ventures no political opinions except to her closest friends. She makes no speeches. She could make a speech, but she sees no reason for making one."