A Story From George Parrino

The painting on the left is a portrait of George done by one of his more recent students. The painting on the right is hismost recent work.

The late George Parrino was my friend.

He was an artist, a teacher, and an administrator I had known for many years. He read this blog and sent me a number of long and interesting stories as part of an autobiography he was never to finish. He passed away early this year, and we had been in touch often in what turned out to be his last days.

This is one of his stories lifted from his first hand account of life:

Sometimes the institute would host trips.  Now this was not so much to raise money, but was more of an opportunity to socialize with potential donors.  So in 1982, we arranged a trip to Washington D.C. to visit the “In Search of Alexander” exhibition at the East Wing of the National Gallery, and to see Elizabeth Taylor on stage at the Kennedy Center in Little Foxes.  And as one of our trustees was a close confident of the senior George Bush, she arranged for the group to have a reception with Barbara Bush at the Vice President’s residence on Embassy Row. 

After we arrived at our hotel in the nation’s capital, and got unpacked, we boarded a chartered bus out to the Naval Observatory.  On the way we began to hear a symphony of sirens, and immediately suspected something unusual must be happening.  And after we were cleared through gatehouse security, and finally arrived at the front door of the Vice Presidential home, Mrs. Bush appeared at the front door.  Then to our utter surprise and amazement, with a somber face she announced, “I am very sorry, but I have some very bad news.  The President has just been shot.” 

It was Monday the 29^th of March in 1982, just moments ago six gunshots rang out.  Ronald Reagan and his press secretary James Brady had both tragically been caught by a would-be assassin’s bullets.  None-the-less the consummate gracious hostess, Mrs. Bush invited thirty-seven of us in to an otherwise very pleasant afternoon tea.  Meanwhile the phone kept ringing, and she kept leaving the drawing room for what we all guessed were the latest news, and Secret Service briefings.  She would quickly return dutifully keeping us all informed, but for God’s sake, in some ways it was like being with Ladybird Johnson immediately after J.F.K. had been shot.  And I can tell you for sure that Barbara Bush was nothing less than pure aristocratic “Grace under fire.”