My meeting with a president, and what might have been

Thank you, Jimmy Carter.

When I was a student in Florence, Italy, in 1979, I was invited to a fellow student’s home in Munich. There I was awakened by loud noises out in the street, and watched a huge truck with giant arms and claws that was lifting several odd-shaped bins from two street corners at the same time.
My friend explained that this was something called “recycling.” The truck was gathering separated bins of brown, green and clear glass and paper, all at the same time. I was intrigued, and further investigated this new idea, writing six pages of notes. After I returned to the U.S., I hand-wrote that six-page letter to the president of the United States, Jimmy Carter.
Then a strange thing happened. Our office secretary in Monroe, Michigan, came to my desk and said that a man named William Ruckleshaus, chairman of the federal Environmental Protection Agency, was on the phone, and wanted to speak to me. He explained that President Carter had received my letter and wanted to meet. I was 22 years old.
Because it was election time, the president was doing town hall meetings across the country, and selected a high school near my home in Toledo, Ohio. I was sent a special pass to give to Secret Service agents, and on Oct. 25, 1980, at 9:42 am, in a crowded gymnasium, I presented my pass to a tall Marine-like agent who seemed to be aware of the arrangement. He didn’t hesitate. I was walked behind a backdrop by two agents, down a hallway and seated in a classroom.

In walked President Carter, and he came over, shook my hand and sat in a school desk next to me. He was holding my letter on recycling, and we discussed the many specific things he was interested in implementing, starting with government, to reduce waste in the United States. I kept answering, “Yes, Mr. President,” and he kept saying, “Call me Jimmy.”
As we talked, he smiled that big Jimmy Carter grin, and I kept thinking he was too genuinely sincere, too nice to be the president, too down-to-earth — and how surreal the moment was. But the most surreal of all was when he asked me if I would come to Washington, D.C., and work with him to implement this program from the White House. I immediately answered, “Yes, Mr. President,” still unable to call him Jimmy. Then he smiled at me one more time and said, “Of course, I have to get re-elected.”
He lost to Ronald Reagan, and the rest is history. I always wonder how my life would have been, working with the president, overseeing a new program that never materialized. I wouldn’t have crossed paths with the young lady who has shared my life for 43 years, never enjoyed the two daughters we raised or the grandchildren we fuss over, might not have opened my own architectural practice, moved to Long Island or started writing a column for the Herald. I wonder. Thank you, Jimmy Carter!

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