President Taft: Too Big for Politics, Too Brilliant for Just One Job

There are plenty of reasons President Taft stands out in American history, and yes, some of them have to do with bathtubs. But before we soak in the most famous rumour of all, let’s stretch out across the rest of his life. This is a tale of ambition, awkwardness, judicial obsession, and the kind of moustache that could cast a shadow over the entire Progressive Era.

William Howard Taft was the only person in American history to have served as both President and Chief Justice. That’s right, the man couldn’t decide between executive power and judicial robes, so he did both. Most kids dream of being president or a Supreme Court justice. Taft was the one lad who turned up to career day and said, “I’ll take both, thanks.”

He never actually wanted to be president. His wife did. Nellie Taft was the one who saw the White House as her destiny. He saw the Supreme Court as his happy place. But once Theodore Roosevelt gave him a friendly push into the presidency, he couldn’t exactly say no. Which is how we ended up with a president whose heart was really in legal briefs rather than campaign rallies.

Roosevelt and Taft were close friends until they weren’t. Teddy made him his successor, assuming Taft would carry on his legacy. Instead, Taft started playing by his own rulebook, which didn’t sit well with Roosevelt’s ego. Their bromance combusted spectacularly when Roosevelt ran against him in 1912, splitting the Republican vote and handing the win to Woodrow Wilson. Thanksgiving must have been fun that year.

Despite the feud, Taft was no slouch in the reform department. He busted more trusts than Roosevelt did, including Standard Oil. But he did it quietly, with the legal finesse of a man who actually read every footnote. He wasn’t great at self-promotion, which might explain why history textbooks tend to skim past him like a politician dodging a tough question.

He weighed over 300 pounds, which leads us inevitably to the famous bathtub incident. Supposedly, Taft got wedged in the White House tub and had to be extracted by several men and a bit of engineering ingenuity. While historians squint and mutter that it might be more myth than fact, Taft did order a custom-made tub that could comfortably host four grown men. Which is either a luxury or a lifeboat, depending on how you look at it.

Taft had an extraordinary appetite, but also a tragic relationship with food. He tried dozens of diets and even worked with a British doctor who mailed him daily letters filled with instructions and, presumably, stern British disapproval. His weight fluctuated dramatically, and so did his health. The man carried both a country and his own considerable mass with impressive tenacity.

He was the first president to throw out the ceremonial first pitch at a baseball game, launching a tradition as American as peanut butter and a stubborn refusal to use the metric system. His pitch reportedly landed somewhere between third base and mild embarrassment, but the gesture stuck.

Taft also started the tradition of the president being driven in an automobile. Goodbye horses, hello horsepower. He had the White House stables converted into a garage. It was the end of an era for manure and the start of a long road trip towards motorcades, bulletproof glass, and traffic jams.

He wasn’t a gifted public speaker. Or even an adequate one. His speeches were famously dry, sometimes described as sleep aids with punctuation. This might explain why he was never a crowd favourite, though he did excel at explaining constitutional law with a zeal usually reserved for sports commentary.

Despite his size, he was surprisingly active. He loved golf, often playing several times a week. He also enjoyed tennis, even though there were murmurs that watching him on the court was like observing a walrus perform ballet. Graceful he was not, determined he most certainly was.

Taft had a voice described as “deep and soothing,” which helped him in his later years as Chief Justice. People didn’t always agree with him, but they felt strangely comforted while he explained why they were wrong.

He served as Governor-General of the Philippines before becoming president, a post that required diplomacy, patience, and an ability to pronounce Filipino names under pressure. He took the job seriously, living in sweltering humidity, battling mosquitoes, and doing his best to prepare the islands for self-governance.

He loved the law. He spoke about it like some people talk about their pets or favourite jazz albums. His dream job had always been the Supreme Court, and when he finally got there, it was as if the clouds parted and a choir of lawyers sang Handel.

Once on the Supreme Court, he spearheaded the construction of the Supreme Court building. Before that, the justices met in the basement of the Capitol. Taft thought this was undignified. He wanted marbled halls and Corinthian columns, not the scent of government laundry wafting through the vents.

He fell asleep at public events more than once. There are photographs. Newspapers loved it. His naps became an inside joke for the press corps. Honestly, if you sat through some of the Senate speeches of the day, you’d understand.

He had a famously restrained temper. While Roosevelt bellowed and Wilson brooded, Taft practised the fine art of the diplomatic sigh. When angry, he was more likely to draft a calm letter than flip a table. It made him look soft, but it also made him extremely effective behind the scenes.

He appointed six Supreme Court justices while president. That’s right, six. The man was practically building a legal dream team. It’s no wonder he slipped into the role of Chief Justice like a judge into a velvet robe.

He was a Yale man through and through. He graduated second in his class and was a member of Skull and Bones, which sounds ominous but mostly involved elite networking and the occasional cryptic prank.

Taft once lost 70 pounds by eating only half of what he wanted. Revolutionary, really. His secret wasn’t a miracle diet or a magic pill, just a bit of willpower and a whole lot of grumbling.

His moustache was a national treasure. Thick, bushy, and slightly curled at the tips, it had the aura of a man who could out-argue you with one raised eyebrow. Taft without his moustache would be like Churchill without a cigar.

He was the last president to keep a cow on the White House lawn. Her name was Pauline Wayne, and she provided fresh milk to the Taft household. Presidential perks in 1910 were clearly more bovine than today.

He didn’t smoke or drink, which made him something of an anomaly among the political class. Instead, he ate. His comfort food was chicken pot pie, which he reportedly once declared “the only diplomatic solution to a bad day.”

His son, Robert Taft, became a major political figure in his own right, almost clinching the Republican nomination for president in 1952 before Eisenhower swooped in with his military swagger and catchy smile.

Taft was the first president to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery and one of only two (the other being JFK). It was a fitting resting place for a man who spent his life in service, even if that service was occasionally sleepy and always judicial.

Even after achieving his dream of becoming Chief Justice, he remained hard on himself. He once said, “I don’t remember that I ever was President.” That wasn’t self-deprecation. That was Taft acknowledging what everyone had long suspected: the White House was just a detour on the way to his real job.

In the end, Taft’s legacy is like his custom bathtub: broader than expected and oddly comforting. He may not have shouted the loudest or charged up any hills, but he quietly reshaped two of the most powerful branches of American government. And he did it all while fighting his waistline, his party, and the sleep-inducing power of constitutional law.