#Presidential Motorcade

[deadpresidents]

President Calvin Coolidge returning from the U.S. Capitol following his Inauguration, March 4, 1925.

#History #Calvin Coolidge #President Coolidge #Coolidge Administration #Inauguration #Presidential Inaugurations #Inauguration of Calvin Coolidge #Coolidge Inauguration #Presidential Motorcades #Presidential History #Presidency #Washington D.C. #Presidential Inaugurals #1925 Presidential Inauguration

[bikerlovertexas]

#la #verne #police #officer #bike #patrol #california #usa #president #obama #security #detail #motorcade #trip #presidential #flickr

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Presidential candidate Dwight D. Eisenhower waves at crowd as he rides through the financial district along lower Broadway, October 30, 1952.

Photo: NY Daily News via Getty Images

#New York #NYC #vintage New York #1950s #1952 election #Dwight D. Eisenhower #campaign #presidential campaign #October 30 #Oct. 30 #motorcade

[reality-detective]

The C-17 is a military equipment transport which is also used to transport the presidential motorcade 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #reeducate yourselves #think about it #think for yourselves #think for yourself #do your homework #do some research #do your own research #ask yourself questions #question everything

[donald-trump-official]

Actual value of things I own, not “assessed value”

- trump tower, $3 billion

- golden toilet, $100 million

- coffee maker given to me by the president of France, $5 million

- classified documents, $2 billion

- graceful, flowing locks, $30 million

- armored motorcade, $100 million

- Mar A Lago, $2.5 billion

- private jet, $1 billion

- set of golf clubs, $5 million

- presidential portrait, $3 million

- a bust of Abe Lincoln from the Oval Office, $20 million

- my last name, $800 million

#trump speaks again #satire #donald trump #parody

[cleverwordsandotherstuffilike]

60 years ago, on November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy, the 35th president of the United States, was assassinated while riding in a presidential motorcade through Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas

[todaysdocument]

President Jimmy Carter leaving [Three Mile Island] for Middletown, Pennsylvania.

Record Group 220: Records of Temporary Committees, Commissions, and BoardsSeries: President's Commission on the Accident at Three Mile Island, March 29 - April 30, 1979

This color photograph shows crowds of people (mostly press) in front of a nuclear power plant.  Several large cooling towers are visible in the background.  Two police cars are escorting a presidential motorcade away from the scene.

#archivesgov #April 1 #1979 #three mile island #1970s #nuclear power

[valmare]

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

Mare, I’m so happy for you—finally, you reached 300 followers!!!

Congratulations!!!!

🩷🍾 🩷

How about a fluffy, fluffy story of the night before the wedding with Ice?

I’d love to read your take on this!!

Not going to lie, I had so much trouble with this one. After restarting it and restarting it one more time, I love how it turned out. Enjoy, babe!

But You Love Me

Long shadows dance across the hardwood of the foyer, soft yellow light strobing in through the panes of a full-glass door. The porch light hanging overhead is almost dejected, looking sad and alone as you pull the door open. A rush of breeze off the ocean is nearly dizzying, tunneling into the space like your home is the last stop on a long line of destinations for the night. 

Sliding through the door on your socked feet, the wood of the porch thunks a little as you hurry down the front steps to the drive, seeking the sedan parked in front of the garage space. Less than perfect, you’d barely had time to hit the brake before you’d flown out of the passenger seat, arms full of whatever last minute details the wedding coordinator had thrown at you before leaving the bar. 

How there could be so many things that need your attention you don’t understand—you’ve been planning this wedding for months. There couldn’t be much left you hadn’t touched. Certainly not everyone in the history of getting married made such a big fuss over these things—right? Maybe. People are fickle, especially about weddings. Your mother had been dieting on goldfish crackers and salad for nearly three weeks, now. 

Marge, your obsessive wedding planner, had suggested a juice cleanse for you, to really make your skin shine. Your skin didn’t shine. It never had. And some half-baked diet recommendation form your wedding coordinator wouldn’t cure what twenty-something years had already written in your fine, Viking genetics. 

Looking at her sideways, you’d added that the only juice cleanse you could even begin to fathom involved orange juice and copious amounts of vodka. While you’d snorted into your whiskey sour, and your fiance had all but glared at the backhanded comment. Marge had not found it nearly as funny as you did. 

You’d been shit-grinning like the rebellious little goblin you were, sitting at the bar where she had tracked you down like she was Indiana Jones on the mission of Time’s Lost Wedding or something equally ridiculous. Trying not to titter as she’d simply rolled her eyes and marched out of the O Club to “make calls” (an ambiguously, ever-present reality) you’d nearly choked on the whiskey sour. With the amount of calls she handled, you’d thought she was managing the presidential motorcade. 

“You should take it easy on her,” the gentle little nudge at your elbow matched the amused chortle lingering over your ear as your fiance knuckled his glass across the lacquered counter, gesturing to the barkeep for another with a singular, pointed nod. 

Swiveling to face him on the barstool, your elbow knocked his lightly. The bar is bursting at the seams like always; there’s barely room to take five steps without brushing up against a stranger or a familiar face. Music practically bleeds from the open wounds of an aged jukebox, throwbacks that are familiar, foot-tapping.

But It’s Friday night. Of course everyone’s here— half the Pacific Fleet knows your wedding is tomorrow. Sending the two of you off after a thrilling day of rehearsal dinners, last-minute details, a final flyby fit. Running across Fightertown trying to find last-minute shoes, because Iceman Kazansky, somehow, has managed to forget he needs dress shoes for this event. 

To say the entire bar knows is generalizing, really. Every pilot here counts down to tomorrow, more accurately, but pilots do make up a majority of the bodies milling about this place. On the wrong side of tipsy and warm and giggly, the generalization is alright with you as you drown the day’s event in whiskey sours and screwdrivers at Tom’s side. 

Gently edging to lean against his arm a little, it’s always close quarters with the two of you. His warmth brushes against your arm and sends a zing of electricity through your blood, like he never fails to. The butterflies it sent into your stomach make you beam a little. He’s never far from a touch, a greedy hand as your fingers found his bicep. Curl against the rock solid muscle just so.

Actually, Tom Kazansky has lingered by your side like a shadow the last two years—a shadow, or persnickety and stubborn cat, you haven’t really decided which imagery fits better. 

“Mmmm—spoken like a man who hasn’t been taking calls from Marge the wedding planner from hell for the last six months,” chin rested on his shoulder, he angles a little, allows his light eyes to snap to yours. The corner of his mouth lifted with an amused smirk, “She mentions one more thing about flowers and I won’t be responsible for my own actions, Tommy.” 

His hand found yours, gently slipping his thick, calloused fingers through yours. “I think you’ll survive,” then the statement had been coy. He deliberately pushed at your buttons, with damnable ease. Like always. 

It hadn’t been what you wanted to hear. He was yours. Supposed to be on your side, fighting your battles for you. With you, whatever. His smile is blade sharp when you frown at him, lazily pushing him away as you righted on your stool. 

“You’re an ass sometimes, you know that, Kazansky?” 

Hand moving to brush at some of the hair curled behind your ear, he angled to face you. Elbow on the lacquered wood, his weight leaeds into the bar as megawatt eyes skim over you, drinking in details you can’t see. His fingers are bonelessly gentle, the look on his pace then a placid mask of pleasantry that sends you keening in your seat. 

A ghost of amusement ticks up the corner of his mouth in a smug smile. “Yeah. But you love it.” Leaned in, his words had vibrated against the smooth skin behind your ear. Chased the pout right out of you, your hot blood running the best kind of cold as his mouth teased the lobe of your ear.

Shut up and quieted, you’d forgotten the bite of whiskey in the back of your mouth, only able to focus on the oak and caramel tones on his breath from his own drink. 

Hours ago and you could still smell his cologne on your skin, your clothes.

Still on the wrong side of tipsy and the day in every ounce of color spread across your face, you reach for the day planner and your purse, both abandoned in the backseat of your little car when Ice had parked it here hours ago. Kneeing the door closed, you reach for the wisp of paper peeking out of the pages, head canting to the side a little as you read the ticket booking. Plane tickets. For Sunday afternoon, your honeymoon.

The first official day you will be Ice’s wife. A Kazansky. 

The idea rips a little squeak from the back of your throat. Breath whistling when you suck it in sharply, the idea sends you up on your toes as your spine seems to simmer with the bolt of lightning that zings through bone. San Diego is crisp tonight, the rush of air off the ocean enough to dizzy you a little as you glance down at the ticket again. 

Finger playing with the dog-ear corner of the paper, you barely notice the bounce of headlights turn down your street, the low growl of an engine. The sound is familiar, not unrecognized. But, it’s only until the growl dies, the lights kill, and the creak of an opening door at the curb pulls your attention to the street.

Batting the door closed with a lazy hand, the sight of Tom stepping up onto the curb and crossing through the small patch of blitzed and fried grass in your yard buoys you a little. He’s still wearing his aviators, even though the stars are out. Even still the force of his alive eyes knocks you in the gut. Mouth shifting in an attempt to withhold a smile you know won’t last, he approaches you, spinning keys on his finger. 

Slipping shades out of place, he comes up to the back of your car, gently resting fists on the back lid. His smile is disarming, lidded eyes all but sending you into a spiral at his feet as he considers you, standing out here, in your favorite oversized sweatshirt and jean shorts. Barefooted, tipsy, with color still on your face. Blithely unaware of the time, unable to sleep. Thrill sends through you a little as you slip the dayplanner into the crook of your arm, adjust the strap of your purse over your shoulder. 

For some reason you can’t place, nervousness stirs in the stew of your belly. “Ice.” You acknowledge with a goofy little grin, head tipped to the side in exaggerated disinterest at his arrival. He’s come back to your place, for some reason or another. Which is odd. He doesn’t live here. Had dropped you off a few hours ago, kissed your forehead goodnight. 

“What brings you back to my door, aviator?” 

The question at face value is simple, though everything about your tone isn’t as the ball of your barefoot twists lightly against the pavement of your driveway. Rough concrete bites into your skin, but you don’t really care. Beads of sweat chase down your spine beneath the sweater, the ocean breeze isn’t enough to kill the heat this man rises in your blood.  

Your wedding is tomorrow. He should be sleeping, or out getting his last tastes of freedom in the delicate hours of morning with Slider and Mitchell, at the very least. Talking things over with Jack Daniels. Preparing. But Ice is always ready for anything, and a wedding isn’t the kind of thing you’d think would rattle his cage. 

Your confusion is a wild thing, blowing like a tornado in your chest, spinning down your spine as you try to think of a reason he’s here. It’s probably the booze. Honestly, you’re glad to see him—it’s good that he’s here. Obviously, the quicksilver smile on his face says so.

Dropping his keys on the lid of the sedan’s trunk, his feet lazily carve a path to you, perfect hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. He stops, far into your personal space, his chest nearly brushing yours as he stares down into your face. 

“Do I need a reason?” His eyes are fierce, nearly pointed as he searches yours. He has magnificent eyes. Between the two of you, whatever children you may bring into the world do not have a prayer for any kind of dark, magical eyes. Yours are icy blues on the best day, dark sapphires on the worst. But the weight of his stare? 

That’s enough to make you swallow a nervous little breath that seems to shake you all the way down. 

His words rumble through your chest, probably too much. Probing a smile from you, you peer up at him through your lashes, purposefully. God, he sets off your bells and whistles in the most welcome way, you feel every one of them bolt across your nerves when he just smiles at you. Like he is, right now, looking superior and coy. Flirty. 

“Well I’d normally say no not really,” you hum, taking a half step back from him, “but Marge? She reminded me it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.” Wrinkling your nose, you tuck some of your hair behind your ear as you pop a step back, Ice matching you pace for pace, “And, since you were so ready to take her side earlier, it begs the question—-why are you here, Ice?” 

It’s not a serious question. And he knows that, the look on his face says so. Maybe he does. But suddenly the way his brow avalanches on his face and he rushes to close the distance between you, hand reaching for the front of your sweater to pull you to a short stop says that it isn’t a question he will leave unanswered. Has a meaning you may not have anticipated, could change the electricity cracking like a whip between the two of you. 

Angled back a little so that the sweatshirt material between his fingers it taut, neither of you moves. Another bead of sweat snakes down the valley of your spine, your heart begins to flutter a little more seriously behind your ribs. He takes you apart slowly, like it’s on purpose, and you wonder how long you’re just going to hang back in the air when he tugs you forward. It sends you off kilter enough that your feet tango against the concrete and into his chest, prompting a yelp. 

“Not so fast, killer.” In the time it takes to blink he crowds you up against the car. Now inches from your face, the back of your thighs kiss the warm steel of the door. The glint behind gray eyes tells you he’s prepared to answer the question, but that you may not like it.

He’s a whisper from grinning at you, you can tell by the way the muscle in his jaw ticks as his tongue shifts over his front teeth. Power move—always a power move with him. “Still on the wrong side of drunk, sweetheart?” The words are nearly chortled out. Blatantly antagonistic. 

Your brows skyrocket off your face, surprise all but written in the flush dusting your cheeks. He knows you’re still tipsy. You’ve always been a lightweight. Your only prayer for sobriety is to knock out in bed and pray there’s no hangover. Your mother will kill you if you’re hung over for the hair salon tomorrow, something you didn’t really stop to consider when Ice had asked you to come down the O Club for dinner and drinks. 

You want to ask him what he thinks. Instead, “And if I am?” 

He chuckles, amused, before he angles to press a deceptively soft kiss at the spot where your jaw meets the long line of your neck. Head canting to allow him the task, you suck in a short breath through your nose when one of Ice’s hands moves to grab you by the back of your neck, thumb gently stroking through the curls at the base of your hairline. He hasn’t moved from softly kissing the smooth skin of your neck, but you can feel in his posture he is on the hairline trigger of keeping it together.

His lips skim up your neck to behind your ear, and he hums like he’s considering his next words carefully. You can feel his smile dusting your skin, the steady thrum of his heart against your ribs as his chest brushes with yours perfectly.

“Then your answer to my next question could be interesting.” He draws back a breath to look you in the eye. 

Crowded back against your clunky little sedan, you’re nearly arched over it with him pressing into you, his other hand moving to grab the belt loops of your shorts with sure, strong fingers. Your empty hand moves to pull at his dog tags, twisting them in your first to draw him forward. He resists a little, until the chain pulls into the back of his neck, bright eyes flicking down to consider your pouty, drunk-swollen lips. All you can focus on is the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his hair is so Hollywood. 

His hand moves to gently skip down your jawline, fingertips fanning over the whisky heat in your cheeks. Nearly foaming beneath your sweatshirt, the front of his legs nudge yours, and you open yours a little, allowing him closer. There’s not a whisper of daylight between the two of you and that’s perfect, your head tipping back just a little in anticipation of a kiss that doesn’t find you. 

“Why do you want to marry me?” 

Heat explodes behind your ribs, every nerve within your body igniting with nervous fire that leaps through your core like a dragon. Spinning out, the question circles your brain like a screeching vulture, waiting for death, and the swallow you manage burns the back of your throat. Releasing his dog tags, you fall nearly slack against the sedan, sensuality that has kept you wired falling to your feet. 

It feels like a trap. Nothing on his face says it is, but it feels like it. And three whiskey sours in, you’re not sure you can read the disturbing blankness on his face anymore. Head spinning with six months—six months—of preparation, of endless decisions and stress and wanting to beat Marge’s head in with a frying pan on the line, you can’t help the small breath that escapes through your nose. 

“Wh—what?” you manage. The question has left you stupid. “W—what? Why? Ice, are you—” shaking your head a little, you push at his shoulder in an attempt to back him off. Doesn’t budge. “Why do you want to marry me?” Throwing it back in his face won’t earn you brownie points, but you’re reeling. 

Turning slightly to drop the day planner on the roof of your sedan, your arms fold over your chest. Almost in a pout, but, you try to manage a neutral expression. And he doesn’t move, his face doesn’t change. He just stands there, his expression stony but wholly unreadable, watching you as you squirm.

All too quickly you want to disappear, to move. Heat licks up at the back of your neck from beneath the hooded sweatshirt, and you’re not sure you can hold back the tears threatening to track down your face. 

Ice says nothing for a few beats. And you’re unable to fight back tears anymore. Will bludgeoned thanks to the alcohol ramping up your emotions, you cover your face with your hands and exhale roughly, your breath more than potent as it bounces back into your face from your palms. Hot tears drip to the lenses of your glasses, the heat of your hands fogging them as you rally the determination not to blubber right in Ice’s face. 

This can’t be happening. And it doesn’t feel real, not even close, until one of his hands moves to tug lightly at the hood of your sweater. “Look at me.” His other brushes your hands away from your face.

You huff and your eyes cut away, and he chuckles amusedly. “Look at me, sweetheart.” And it’s admonishing, even though the sentiment is soft. 

Ice crowds you again, his weight pushing against yours at the hips in a way that sends a pleasurable zing up your spinal cord. The sensation sounds off at the base of your neck, buzzing through your muscles and nerves at a dizzying rate. Your eyes slip back to him again, you can’t help it. He’s magnetic, you’re but a star revolving around the sun of him. And you always have been, ever since the very first time he’d slipped up beside you at the O Club, asking to buy you a drink. 

His fingers hook your chin, his smile all but a little wolfish. “Good girl.” With the pad of his thumb he gently pushes your glasses up a little on your nose, his fingers tracing down the temples until they fan behind your ear. Inexplicably his fingertips move to affectionately rub your earlobe and the stud earrings there, toying with them a bit. “Answer my question.” 

Rapid fire blinks, then, “Answer mine.” 

“Quit being a brat,” he bites, the words dominant. “I asked first.” 

He’s got you there and he knows it. Your bottom lip rolls inward a little for you to gnaw on. The question isn’t lost on you. Ice will keep you standing here all night until he gets what he wants, he’s stubborn and driven like that. Hand moving to grab the waistband of your shorts, he pops you forward until you’re flush up against him, the weight of his hand keeps you there. From falling back against the sedan. From falling away. 

Maybe the action is intentional. But your gut twists a little. Almost hanging in midair, he’s nonplussed and can stand here all day holding you forward. Like he wants you close. Swallowing a little nervously, you rally some of the courage you know will carry you down the aisle tomorrow—you hope will carry you to him, anyway. 

Lidding your eyes, you offer him the best expression of smug you can muster. “You know why I want to marry you, Ice.” 

The chuckle he releases is warningly, like you’re in trouble. The glint in his eye tells you you are.  “That’s not what I asked.” 

Huffing again, this earns him something of a smile from you. It’s more out of irritation with him than anything, but it’s a fair statement. Being a brat pulls something from him that you can’t quite put a finger on, something that sends your senses spinning. Maybe it’s the dominance. Maybe it’s the cat and mouse that sends both of your stubborn selves around and around—but whatever it is, you love the chase. You know he’ll chase you around the sun, anywhere. Forever, probably.

That’s why he’s standing in your driveway at almost two in the morning, when you have to be up in four hours to marry his ass. 

“You’re such a prick,” 

“Yeah, but you love it,” his fist tightens in the band of your shorts again, “answer me.” 

“Because I love you, you asshole,” you attempt to pull back, but he pulls you closer. Leans in to brush his lips against the pulse in your neck. Reminding you to whom you belong, even if you’re name isn’t Kazansky yet. But it always has been. You’ve always been his, even before he knew your name. He’d captured you with that first look. “You’re a good man. Tenacious and fierce, but you understand me and care about the stupid things that make me—me. You’re kind, when you’re not an asshole. Challenge me, make me feel good and stupid and lucky like I haven’t ever felt before. But mostly I’m marrying you because I can’t live without you, and don’t wanna.”

Shoving at his shoulder, attempting to try and force his hand away from where he’s conjoined you, he hums pleasurably. You tack on smartly, “Let go of me.” 

His smile grows against your skin as he presses a thick, burning kiss to the vein in your neck. You try to angle away, huffing and attempting to convey that you don’t want his mark in all of your wedding photos. And it’s futile, because he’s unmovable, and your squirming only plants him more flat-footed in place. His hand grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you into a bruising kiss, one that leaves you breathless and skips your heart like a stone behind your ribs. 

His other hand guides your arms around his neck, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. Biting a little, he grabs your hair and pulls back until you’re craned back to stare up at him, arched forward into his chest. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a superior smile, and his tongue clicks off the inner wall of his cheek in a tsking sound.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” 

“You’re such a prick,” you seethe. 

“But you love me.” He pulls back a little harder until your face shows it, his smile growing into a pleased one. Keening as he shuffles you back against the sedan again, Ice bends to kiss at the hollow of your throat, his tongue lathing a little at the perspiration that’s began to seep forward there. “You love me.” 

“I do, against my better judgment at the moment.” 

“And I love you, even if you are a spoiled brat.” His tongue skips up the length of your throat before he slants his mouth against your kiss-swollen lips. Releasing your hair, he instead smooths his hand over it, and wraps his thick arms around you in a tight, hard embrace. Smiling against his mouth, you break from him with a pop, and look up at him through your lashes. “You ready to get married tomorrow?” 

“Only if you are, Ice.” 

You’d like to smack the smirk off his face. And you would, if it wasn’t so pretty. Pressing a light kiss over your mouth, he takes your face between his thick hands, calluses all but delightful against your creamy skin as his thumbs breeze over the apples of your flushed cheeks. It’s a thousand degrees out here, suddenly. How it happened you don’t know. Don’t care, as long as he doesn’t let you go. 

“That’s good, sweetheart. That’s so good.” 

Taglist: @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed @kmc1989 @imp-number-3 @spicydisaster14 @thescreamingpeach @your-local-crzy-lady

#tom iceman kazansky x reader #tom kazansky #iceman kazansky #top gun #top gun 1986 #top gun imagines #valmare's 300 followers party #300 followers #300 followers celebration #val kilmer #tom iceman kazansky #blurb requests #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #call sign meerkat #iceman top gun #answered asks #tom kazanksy x reader #iceman x reader #iceman x you

[deadpresidents]

"Thank you Mr. President" Jackie Kennedy's letter to LBJ less than 24 hours after burying JFK

When Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in as President on board Air Force One at Love Field in Dallas, Texas on November 22, 1963, Jackie Kennedy was standing next to him, her pink Chanel dress, white gloves, and bare legs smeared with the blood and brain matter of her assassinated husband.  Traumatized and almost certainly in shock, Jackie wanted to support the new President and new First Lady as power was officially transferred in the same solemn ceremony that has always marked such an occasion in American History.  As the Presidential airplane left Dallas and returned to the nation's capital, Jackie sat in the back of the plane with the coffin containing her husband's body.

Despite her deep personal loss, her traumatic experience, and her obvious physical exhaustion, Jackie threw herself into planning President Kennedy's funeral as soon as she returned to Washington, D.C.  Jackie was sensitive to the needs of the country and protective of her husband's legacy.  When she arrived at the White House, she requested information about the exact specifications of Abraham Lincoln's funeral after he was assassinated in 1865.  Even though it was the middle of the night, Kennedy staffers went to the National Archives and the Library of Congress to research the Lincoln funeral and Jackie helped make plans for the pageantry that would commence over the next few days.  With a few minor exceptions, JFK's funeral was nearly an exact replica of Lincoln's funeral almost 100 years earlier.  The effect was monumental.  Kennedy's funeral will always be remembered as a dignified, iconic moment in our nation's history.

As Jackie Kennedy prepared to bury the 35th President, Lyndon Johnson consumed himself with becoming the 36th President, continuing Kennedy's work and leading the nation through the darkness of the assassination and its aftermath.  When Air Force One landed at Andrews Air Force Base on the night of November 22nd, the Secret Service urged now-President Johnson to take a helicopter directly to the White House.  Johnson immediately vetoed the move as he thought it would disrespectful for him to land on the South Lawn of the White House (as Presidents regularly do) while Kennedy's family still lived in the building.  When LBJ arrived at the White House via motorcade to begin his work that night, the new President went directly to an office in the Old Executive Office Building rather than working out of the Oval Office.

Over the next few weeks, President Johnson extended many kindnesses to Jackie Kennedy.  LBJ and Jackie had always had an extremely close relationship, and Johnson never forgot how kind Jackie had been when LBJ was Vice President -- a depressing time for Johnson due to his lack of power and influence.  During his Vice Presidency, Johnson had experienced many problems with members of Kennedy's Administration, but was always treated very well by President and Mrs. Kennedy. 

The Kennedys had two young children who had just lost their father, and the first thing that LBJ did as President was write two letters to President Kennedy's children to read when they were old enough to understand them.  When JFK was elected President, the Kennedys hoped that their daughter Caroline would be able to attend a normal school with children her age.  When it became apparent that the logistics wouldn't allow that, a room was prepared at the White House for Caroline's teacher to hold class daily.  When JFK was assassinated, LBJ insisted that Caroline's class continue using the White House for classes as long as Jackie wished.  In fact, LBJ urged Jackie to continue living in the White House throughout the entirety of his term.  Jackie moved out within a few weeks, but she appreciated President Johnson's offer.

What Jackie Kennedy most appreciated, however, was President Johnson's presence at John F. Kennedy's funeral.  On November 25, 1963, the entire nation stopped and world leaders gathered in Washington to bury the slain President (one place that the nation didn't stop was Dallas, where JFK's assassin Lee Harvey Oswald was shot and killed as he was being transferred to another police facility).  Kennedy's funeral was historic and emotional.  The enduring image is of John F. Kennedy, Jr. -- celebrating his 3rd birthday on that very day -- stepping forward to salute as father's flag-draped casket passed by.

Another stirring image from that day was accompanying President Kennedy's funeral cortége.  As Kennedy's casket rested on the exact same caisson that carried Abraham Lincoln's casket, a remarkable procession of some of the most famous, powerful people in the world followed behind it.  Led by Jackie Kennedy and the slain Presidents two brothers, Robert F. Kennedy and Edward Kennedy, scores and scores of political leaders, diplomats, monarchs, and more trailed the casket, marching in complete silence other than the sounds of their feet on the pavement.  Dozens upon dozens of countries were represented -- not just by ambassadors or minor officials, but by Kings, Queens, Emperors, Presidents, and Prime Ministers.  When one looks at the photos, our eyes are immediately drawn to the majestic strength of Jackie Kennedy leading the procession.  If the faces of those behind her are scanned, they reveal legendary leaders such as Charles de Galle, Haile Selassie, U Thant, Golda Meier, King Baudoiun I, Lester Pearson, Willy Brandt, Queen Frederica, Eamon de Valera, Prince Philip, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, and scores of other international figures, not to mention the leading Americans, who took to the streets of Washington, D.C. -- on foot -- to honor President Kennedy.

It's often forgotten that Lyndon Johnson was there.  Johnson was such a larger-than-life character and so rarely relegated to the background that it's difficult to imagine a scene where he would not be the major player.  Since President Kennedy had been murdered in broad daylight on the streets of a major American city just three days earlier, the Secret Service -- understandably nervous due to their failure to protect one President that week -- was adamantly opposed to President Johnson's participation.  Johnson overruled the Secret Service concerns and turned down their insistence that he ride in an armor-plated limousine.  For maybe the only time in his life, Lyndon Johnson -- now President of the United States -- went virtually unnoticed to the public.

Yet, one person did notice.  And, on November 26, 1963, despite all that she had been through; despite all that she was feeling; despite all that she had lost; despite the fact that just 24 hours earlier she had buried her husband, the father of her two young children, the 34-year-old widowed former First Lady Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy sat down in the White House and wrote this letter to the new President of the United States, Lyndon Baines Johnson:

November 26 Tuesday Dear Mr. President, Thank you for walking yesterday - behind Jack.  You did not have to do that - I am sure many people forbid you to take such a risk - but you did it anyway.  Thank you for your letters to my children.  What those letters will mean to them later - you can imagine.  The touching thing is, they have always loved you so much, they were most moved to have a letter from you now. And most of all, Mr. President, thank you for the way you have always treated me - the way you and Lady Bird have always been to me - before, when Jack was alive, and now as President. I think the relationship of the Presidential and Vice-Presidential families could be a rather strained one.  From the history I have been reading ever since I came to the White House, I gather it often was in the past. But you were Jack's right arm - and I always thought the greatest act of a gentleman that I had seen on this earth - was how you - the Majority Leader when he came to the Senate as just another little freshman who looked up to you and took orders from you, could then serve as Vice President to a man who had served under you and been taught by you. But more than that we were friends, all four of us.  All you did for me as a friend and the happy times we had.  I always thought way before the nomination that Lady Bird should be First Lady - but I don't need to tell you here what I think of her qualities - her extraordinary grace of character - her willingness to assume ever burden - She assumed so many for me and I love her very much - and I love your two daughters - Lynda Bird most because I know her the best - and we first met when neither of us could get a seat to hear President Eisenhower's State of the Union message, and someone found us a place on one of the steps on the aisle where we sat together.  If we had known then what our relationship would be now. It was so strange - last night I was wandering through this house.  There in the Treaty Room is your chandelier, and I had framed - the page we all signed - you - Senator Dirksen and Mike Mansfield - underneath I had written "The day the Vice President brought the East Room chandelier back from the Capitol." Then in the library I showed Bobby the Lincoln Record book you gave - you see all you gave - and now you are called on to give so much more. Your office - you are the first President to sit in it as it looks today.  Jack always wanted a red rug - and I had curtains designed for it that I thought were as dignified as they should be for a President's office. Late last night a moving man asked me if I wanted Jack's ship pictures left on the wall for you (They were clearing the office to make room for you) - I said no because I remembered all the fun Jack had those first days hanging pictures of things he loved, setting out his collection of whales teeth etc. But of course they are there only waiting for you to ask for them if the walls look too bare.  I thought you would want to put things from Texas in it - I pictured some gleaming longhorns - I hope you put them somewhere. It mustn't be very much help to you your first day in office - to hear children on the lawn at recess.  It is just one more example of your kindness that you let them stay - I promise - they will soon be gone - Thank you Mr. President Respectfully Jackie

At the LBJ Library on the campus of the University of Texas in Austin, there are many displays of priceless, historic artifacts that tell the story of the years of Lyndon Johnson, his service to the United States, and the world that he knew.  As you pass through the exhibits, it's difficult not to be astonished, inspired, and touched by what you see around you during your visit.  Many of the things you'll see there will take your breath away, but nothing leaves an impression on your heart and soul like the seven pieces of paper containing these words in Jackie Kennedy's handwriting -- words that somehow convey strength and fragility, evoke optimism and sadness, and simultaneously project support while demonstrating a sense of loss that very few of us can imagine.  Items like these are the source materials for what history truly is -- a biography of humanity, a story about people.

#History #JFK Assassination #Kennedy Assassination #Assassination of John F. Kennedy #JFK #John F. Kennedy #President Kennedy #Jacqueline Kennedy #Jackie Kennedy #First Lady #First Families #Death and State Funeral of John F. Kennedy #Funeral of John F. Kennedy #Presidents #Presidential History #Presidential Funerals #Presidential Deaths #Lyndon B. Johnson #LBJ #President Johnson #White House #Kennedy Family #Presidential Relationships #Presidential Correspondence #JFK's Funeral #60th Anniversary of JFK's Assassination #60th Anniversary #60th Anniversary of the Kennedy Assassination

[jadeseadragon]

#Repost @jvpny

"Hundreds of anti-Zionist Jews blockading President Biden’s motorcade route as he travels to a campaign fundraiser on the Upper East Side, calling on the President — in his first New York City appearance since the crisis in Gaza began — to stop funding and arming the Israeli government’s genocide of Palestinians and ensure an immediate and permanent ceasefire.

As U.S. Jews and anti-Zionists, we want to make it crystal clear that President Biden is not welcome in our city while he continues to push additional funding and weapons for a genocide. Biden says he is doing this forJewish safety, but we call his bluff. The President is advancing the US’s own imperial interests. The price has been the lives of almost 30,000 Palestinians. Hundreds of thousands more are on the brink of famine.

There is no single person with more decision-making power over the US's funding, arming and backing of Israel's cataclysmic bombardment of Gaza than President Biden. Under his leadership, the United States has expedited $150 million of weapons sales to the Israeli military, ignored the World Court’s determination that Israel is plausibly committing genocide, suspended U.S. funding to UNRWA (the UN agency providing essential food and aid to Palestinians), and refused for months to call for an immediate and lasting ceasefire.

This is the first time President Biden has been in NYC since October 7th. And instead of answering to the majority of his base that has been imploring him for a ceasefire, he is pushing a deal for an additional $14.3 billion in military funding to Israel.

We refuse to just stand by while President Biden funds and arms a genocide. Today, thousands of New Yorkers took off work to demonstrate against him. And right now, hundreds of Jewish New Yorkers are getting arrested for blockading Fifth Avenue outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, disrupting the Presidential motorcade route as it attempts to travel from one private fundraiser to another.

President Biden, answer to your constituents. Stop funding and arming the genocide of Palestinians in Gaza."

#CeasefireNow #LetGazaLive #NotInOurName

#free gaza #let gaza live #israel #stop the genocide

[breadandblankets]

here's a bat assortment as cars I associate them with:

alfred: columbia victoria, old ass car, looks like they just let the horses loose, also early electric car and the first car to be included in a presidential motorcade

bruce: dodge challenger, a gorgeous piece of american muscle that has been thoroughly ruined by cops

kate: ram 2500 diesel, theoretically a reliable truck with a moderate tow capacity, in reality owned by alcoholic dads

babs: subaru outback (i know what you are)

luke: audi r8 idk i always associate audis with fashionable people and tech bros and idk luke fits that overlap to me..... i just found out this is what tony drives in the mcu..... i swear i didn't pick this on purpose

dick: mclaren spider, pretty, sporty, and really fucking maneuverable like if i had to ask for a (street legal) acrobatic car its this one

jason: Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR jkjk Toyota Hilux an excellent truck that will work forever and also is v good for strapping guns onto

cass: dodge viper, insane power plus tiny body equals a car for people who want to kill themselves

steph: 00s Honda Civic, reliable, dependable, will never die, unfortunately created to be intentionally looked over and driven by people who don't fear death

tim: Lamborghini, expensive, pretty, but if you know you know

duke: Volkswagen Thing, yes this is a real car, yes they look like a toy, theyre technically military vehicle so they come modifiable stock, not very comfortable but it doesn't need to be, it gets its job done and it does it Very well, utilitarian and cool as hell

damian: a Buick coupe, they send him a complimentary AARP membership with it not knowing he's 12, it doesn't much matter though, he appreciates the discounts

#batfam #all the links are wikipedia #im not tagging them all i hate that #if you want to see this post you will come to me #these are not what they would Drive this is what they Are To Me #dick and duke were the hardest im ngl #i wanted it to be Right #anyway lemme know if u want clarification or if you want my car opinions #as a car gay TM #tw suicide ideation #but like its cass so.... #tw canon #bread talk

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

One of the funniest subplots in the Donald Trump Indictment Show—which centers on the hush money payment made to porn star Stormy Daniels in 2016—involves the multiple reports that, after predicting to his followers that he would be arrested on March 21, the ex-president and his allies came to believe he was in the clear.

Trump, The Washington Post reported late Thursday, “had grown cautiously optimistic” in recent days, after “advisers had counseled him that a possible indictment by a Manhattan grand jury…would not come for some time—if at all.” The former president, the outlet noted, was apparently so unconcerned about the prospect of being charged that he’d “even begun joking about ‘golden handcuffs,’” which is probably not something one does if one thinks there’s a legitimate possibility they might be indicted, convicted, and sentenced to time in prison. “It was a surprise to everybody,” David Urban, a longtime Trump adviser, told the Post, which noted that “some of his lawyers had been preparing to take a few days off.” Following the indictment, The New York Times similarly reported that “Trump and his aides were caught off guard by the timing, believing that any action by the grand jury was still weeks away and might not occur at all.” The paper of record noted that Trump had recently been “telling nearly anyone that he was in a good mood and that he believed the case against him by Alvin Bragg, the Manhattan district attorney, had fallen apart.”

Of course, the biggest indication that Trump indeed believed he’d outrun Bragg? His taking to Truth Social on Wednesday to write: “I HAVE GAINED SUCH RESPECT FOR THIS GRAND JURY, & PERHAPS EVEN THE GRAND JURY SYSTEM AS A WHOLE…. THE GRAND JURY IS SAYING, HOLD ON, WE ARE NOT A RUBBER STAMP, WHICH MOST GRAND JURIES ARE BRANDED AS BEING, WE ARE NOT GOING TO VOTE AGAINST A PREPONDERANCE OF EVIDENCE OR AGAINST LARGE NUMBERS OF LEGAL SCHOLARS ALL SAYING THERE IS NO CASE HERE.” Sure, that could have been an unabashed attempt to sway the jurors through flattery—but, in retrospect, those very much sound like the words of a man who was extremely confident he was not going to be indicted. “Such respect”! “The grand jury system as a whole”! “The grand jury is saying, hold on”! Do you think he still stands by these statements? If there were ever a time for the internet-ism “ROTFLMAO,” it would be now.

In related news, according to the Times, Trump was less focused on “the legal consequences” of the indictment Thursday than “the political implications.” Trump previously said he would not drop out of the 2024 presidential race if charged, boldly claiming that being indicted might actually help his chances of making it back to the White House. One adviser told the Post that the ex-president and current presidential candidate is planning to “milk [the indictment] for all it’s worth politically.” And while Trump has reportedly raised millions since he first claimed he’d be arrested earlier this month, it does not appear that people are reacting exactly as he had hoped.

Per the Post:

"The causeway that leads to Mar-a-Lago has long been a rally spot for Trump supporters, especially during his presidency, when they would regularly gather to cheer on his motorcade. But as the sun set along the causeway Thursday, more people were fishing for sand perch and croaker than had shown up to support the former president. Shortly before 8 p.m., only a half dozen Trump supporters had amassed in their usual spot."

Meanwhile, according to the Times, on Thursday, “a large group of former Trump Organization employees was quietly cheering the latest developments via text messages.”

#us politics #news #donald trump #republicans #conservatives #gop #2023 #vanity fair #indictments #hush money #stormy daniels #alvin bragg #mar a largo #truth social #the washington post #the new york times #David Urban #manhattan grand jury

[reality-detective]

I'll leave this 👇 here

Just in case anyone wants to educate themselves!? 🤔

If memory serves me correctly everything Trump has, has already been declassified. I'm sure you're aware that during Trump's whole presidency has been by the book, the rule of law.

If you really want to do some research... Löök up what vehicles are in a presidential motorcade and ex-presidents. Trump's motorcades are what presidents get NOT ex-presidents. 👀 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #reeducate yourselves #think for yourself #think for yourselves #think about it #question everything #ask yourself questions #do your homework #do your own research #do some research #do your research #american history #history lesson #history research

[the-empress-7]

The fact they got in a taxi on the way back tobthe hotel/airport/whateverplanet they are from, shows they didn't actually need the presidential style motorcade and security teams on the way in and it was all for drama and PR photos. Look how important I am! Or maybe they could only afford one way...

Expectation vs reality

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Breaking: The moment after Joe Biden tells a lie in response to reporter's question (while on vacay) in Delaware, an automobile hits 1 of the presidential motorcade's parked vehicles.

Q: Mr President why are you losing to Trump in the polls?

Biden Lies: ...wrong poll(s)

Car Crashing Noise

From the Comments:

#biden crime family #liars #trump 2024