Life Without the Presence

"This is a new season of my life," said Lady Bird Johnson. "It's a strange new road I have traveled since Jan. 22." Lady Bird was at the wheel of her tan Lincoln, talking to TlME Correspondent Bonnie Angela and musing about her life without Lyndon Baines Johnson. Swinging the car through the silky bluebonnets and flaming Indian paintbrush massed on the banks of the Pedernales River, she tightened her grip on the wheel and forded the rushing stream. As she turned into the road that leads to the L.B.J. Ranch, the intercom attached to the dashboard dangled idly on its cord. Once it was the link between her car and Lyndon's as they roamed their vast Texas acres. Now he is no longer there to call or answer her, and she is trying still to come to terms with his absence.

OUTWARDLY, Lady Bird is as composed and gracious as she was in the White House, greeting callers with the same wide smile and vibrant enthusiasm that she displayed when Lyndon was alive. That part is not difficult, she explains, because "grief carries its own anesthesia. It gets you over a lot."

But it does not help Lady Bird to accept her new identity as a widow. The term itself makes her recoil: "I don't like that word--it comes from a Sanskrit word meaning empty. That is a harsh thought." She also cannot quite grasp that Lyndon is irrevocably gone. "The children and I find ourselves still speaking of him in the present tense. And when I'm reading a book, I find myself turning down the corner of a page, the way I always did when I wanted to talk to him about that passage. The worst time is early morning. Lyndon woke earlier and earlier in those last years--I really didn't like it much. But as early as 6:30 we would be up, having his tea and my coffee at a little table beside the window. It was such a pleasant time together, such a good way to start the day."

My Ranch. Lady Bird spends much of her time in her comfortable apartment atop the L.B.J. broadcast building overlooking Austin and an endless green vista of plains stretching beyond the city. But home continues to be the L.B.J. Ranch, which still seems filled with Lyndon's presence. There are the three television sets he used to watch the news; the worn lounge chair big enough to accommodate his great frame; the bentwood rockers on the front porch where he and Lady Bird used to watch twilight settle over the river; and a needlepoint pillow inscribed: "This is my ranch and I can do as I damn please."

On many occasions, Lady Bird has relied on her family and friends for support. She often has dinner with her younger daughter Luci, Luci's husband Pat Nugent and their two children. "A host of old friends have also rallied round," says Lady Bird. "Lyndon never cut the strings between himself and old friends, and they've been marvelous in thinking of things to do. They know a bridge game is my favorite way to push a button and escape." Other friends have invited her to Mexico to dig for Aztec artifacts and given parties for her in Washington and New York. "You notice the extraordinary generosity of people," she says. Then she adds: "To be honest, there is disappointment too, when you realize that some friendships change because Lyndon is gone."

Antidote. Despite being the wife of a man who dominated his family, Lady Bird remained a person in her own right. That identity has fortified her in her widowhood. "You have to prepare ahead of time," she says, "and nobody ever did so much to help anybody as Lyndon. He was ambivalent about it, but he wanted me to have my own thing, and he was proud of what I did."

Lyndon trusted his wife's business acumen and as a result named her executrix of his estate. Thus she now manages the L.B.J. business empire, conferring twice a week with the trusted lieutenants who once worked with L.B.J. himself. She also is involved in many other activities--overseeing the L.B.J. Library, serving as a regent of the University of Texas, pursuing various beautification projects. "I am head over heels in work," she says. "As an old friend put it, the hurrieder I get, the behinder I fall."

Lady Bird knows all too well the special function of work in this "new season" of her life. She recognizes it as an "antidote to grief" but knows also that its effectiveness cannot last. "The worst may yet be ahead for me. Somewhere down the road the sadness will come crushing down on me." Already, she acknowledges, "the sadness is all-consuming at times."

Lady Bird also draws strength from the past. "We lived so happily, especially these last four years. When I realize that he had 64 years and we had 38 of them together--when you've had so much, you can't be so ungrateful as to be less than happy about what there was. You must think about what you had, not what you lost."

Inevitably, there are some regrets about vanished opportunities. "There are so many things I wish I had done. But I put my thoughts into two categories: the 'Aren't-you-glad-thats' and the 'If-onlys.' I try to keep the second column as short as possible. We should think about the first column ahead of time and savor things more when we have them. To be close to death gives you a new awareness of the preciousness of life, and the extreme tenuousness of it. You must live every day to the fullest, as though you had a short supply--because you do. I said that glibly for years, but I didn't know how intensely one should live."

Lyndon's death, she continues, "has made me know that all those things I've laid by to do I must set about doing." For one thing, she is determined now to spend more time with her children and grandchildren. "I keep thinking: 'Don't put it off; time goes so fast.' I've been given a second time around with my grandchildren, and they are the funniest little set of people I ever knew." Already she is looking forward to family gatherings at the ranch. "I know it will be changed, but I see them coming back for Christmas ..." Then she stops herself short. "I must be very careful about saying now that I will do this or that. I'll have to see what works out. I'm going to live a bit 'fluid' this first year."

In the first few months of that year, Lady Bird has come a long way. Driving along the ranch road, she told Correspondent Angelo, "When Lyndon died my immediate response was almost anger: 'No, not now; later!' Then there was acceptance. You get to the point when you can say of his life, and your life with him, 'Well, it was all rounded out.' " She stopped the car for a moment at the little walled cemetery where a wreath of Texas evergreens marked the grave of Lyndon Johnson and a circle of tourists stood in quiet respect. Craning to see the license plates of their cars in the parking area, she noted with pleasure, "California . . . Pennsylvania . . . Michigan." Then she drove on, humming a cheerful tune.

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