By Jackson Thoreau
In 1968, a 14-year-old Texas girl attended the HemisFair, an international festival in San Antonio. I remember attending that same festival with my family when I was nine and riding up to the top of the 750-foot Tower of the Americas, thinking how cool that was.
Meanwhile, during one of those days of the HemisFair, this then teen-aged girl bumped into none other than George W. Bush. He was a never-do-well 22-year-old who had just come out of Yale. There, he had branded fraternity pledges with lit cigarettes, gotten arrested for stealing a Christmas decoration from a store display, and bragged about being let off by police who stopped him for drunk driving by simply telling them his father's name.
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