Los Angeles. My answer when asked where I am from. NOT good enough. WHERE in Los Angeles. Shit. I hedge and lower my usual loud voice, to a whisper “Beverly Hills” You were born and raised there???!! Did you know famous people? Never fails. EVER. Nor the feeling I was hatched from an alien. I was, however, born in the Hollywood Good Samaritan Hospital to a stunning mother. One of six daughters and Duke, my multi talented, manic-depressive, alcoholic,(gave it up for) pill popping, hard working, producer, director of film father. And yes. I did and do know ‘famous’ people.. Friends with whom I went to grammar and high school. Their parents. Many long gone. Some of my dearest friends dead.. painful. heartbreaking. suicide’s. addictions. Other’s struggling, recovering and the pride of sobriety. Many of us have gone onto to be successful. Very. In or out of the Film or Music “Industry” This blog will be my avenue for stories of my family and those who were and continue to be apart of my life. The life and place I left behind. The one I SURVIVED.

To Be Continued………

Homeless, I was. Not on the street, in my car. Clothes, makeup, favorite books, old photos and three ounces of Chanel No. 5 cologne stuffed in the back seat.

Just a few years before, I had escaped Beverly Hills for Manhattan’s big city lights. Young, ballsy, and boiling over with enthusiasm. Did I mention naive? Very. I had no college degree and unrealistic dreams of on-air broadcasting. But I had the voice, the look, and the guts to get in the doors at every network, including the vaunted CBS. My interview with Mike Wallace did not go as planned. He put me to shame, the glorious bastard. So, off to a temp agency I went with dejected pride.  

I lived right in the heart of the Upper East Side. 783 Madison Ave. A five floor walkup. Two bedrooms, furnished tip to top with Knoll furniture.  My portion of rent came to just $175. How did I win the apartment lottery? A man. A handsome man. A married man. An older man. He lived in Greenwich, commuted into the city and insisted he kept the pied a terre for when he stayed late. Well he stayed late – and then some. He promised me he’d divorce his wife and live with me. But summer turned to another and then another. I fled. Back to LA with childish hopes he would follow. 

A friend had kept my car while I was out east. A 1969 red Audi four door. My father’s. The one he loudly insisted I was never allowed to drive. But he travelled for months with his film crew, and I knew where he hid the keys. During one of his directorial trips, I sideswiped the passenger side and had just enough time to take it to Hans Ort, a local car wizard. Just like that, it was fixed, better than new. When he returned home, I held my breath. He walked around our half circular drive inspecting for anything fishy. “Hey the car looks great.” Whew.

Three years later, the car would become mine. I drove it to my father’s burial in Ventura. The impossible man insisted he would not leave his daughters a dime. He never lied. Unbeknownst to my father, he willed me something more bankable than money – a moveable suitcase.

I became the West Side vagabond, always on the hunt for a bed comfier than a reclined front seat. I hung out with an old boyfriend’s couch in Brentwood. Then to the Valley to take care of a woman’s cats. I don’t do felines, but any port in a storm – and the gig came with a pool. And then Fredde Duke and Kimberly Beck, great friends and aspiring actresses, invited me to live with them in a funky three bedroom outside the Malibu Colony. My room was upstairs, and the only thing separating me from a speeding car on the Pacific Coast Highway was a paper thin wall. Was I appreciative? Oh, you bet. Tiny, foxy, bawdy mouthed Fredde and too pretty, gloriously smiling Kim made me feel alive. Especially when Kim flashed her sizable breasts at us while she giggled. A parade of their friends filled our home. Most, if not all, were in the film or music business. I joined in getting high in the living room overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 

All the while, I mourned my boyfriend, who still insisted his divorce was around the corner.

 

The answer for a place of my own came in a phone call from one of my sisters. She owned a home on Beverly Drive in Franklin Canyon. Her voice, and the news, was more than just music. It was a symphony,  

“The house next door to mine has a small garage apartment. Here is their number. Give them a call.”

To call the apartment “small” was an understatement at best. The unit sat inside a carport with bars on the windows. The front door shone resplendent with sticker decals. I turned the knob to find a dank space with a small fridge to the right, a Bunsen two-burner, and a twin bed to the left.  A wooden rod stood where the closet should have been. There was no dresser, but light poured from the bathroom. Oh joy! One small window above the tub/shower combo let in glorious rays, and a giant mirror lined with white makeup bulbs ran the length of the room. What a deal! I signed on because, if you have to live in a shoebox, it better have the best address in town. At least according to Aristotle Onassis. Or my father. Either way, I was there.

All moved in, I secured a full-time position as a media consultant/press aide for U.S. Senator John Tunney. A quick commute got me to our re-election offices in Santa Monica. I spent 21 hours a day in the office, which kept my mind off Mr. Married Man and my body far from my very humble home. Working in the fury of a campaign left me only enough time to lay my head on the pillow in my single bed where, most nights, my landlords had herculean screaming matches. Bob and Connie didn’t fight. They went to war. The pillow became my headphones to drown out their screams. Why didn’t I call the cops?  They were out to lunch, and if I did call, I would be back on the street without one. 

Across the street, my sister rented her home to a man named Harry. He was also Jack Nicholson’s best friend and dated another of my sisters off and on. He was short and not overtly handsome. But he made up for it with his sense of style, complete with moniker black and white saddle shoes, not to mention his humor and lightening wit. We had an unwritten contract. I was to stay on my side of the fence.  

 I never intruded, until one early evening. I was getting ready to attend our biggest political fundraiser. Toweling off after another lukewarm shower, I pulled out the blow dryer, plugged it in, and boom. The thing exploded. Hot flames licked my fingers. Shit. I couldn’t go out without drying my hair. I was in a tizzy. I had no choice. I had to call Harry. He was so close I could hear his landline ringing.

 “HARRY YOU HAVE TO HELP! I NEED TO COME OVER TO DRY MY HAIR FOR FIVE MINUTES! MY BLOW DRYER BLEW UP!” 

“NO! I HAVE COMPANY!” he shouted, without hesitation. I managed to pull my hair, and my pissed feelings, together and show up at the gala with a wet head.

Life went on, as it does. I moved out of the garage and eventually ended up back on the East Coast. Mr. Married Man even got that divorce. He called to let me know a week before my wedding.

Harry packed his things for married life. He settled down with a lovely girl from my high school. I never revealed what I saw through my small window.  

I hear Connie continued screaming at Bob for years after I vacated their carport. He died not long ago. 

And, of course, the Audi died too, just a year after I returned to L.A. It sputtered to a stop at the corner of Wilshire Blvd and Rodeo Drive, right down the street from my father’s film company. As the tow truck pulled my two-ton red suitcase onto the flat bed, the last thing I saw was the license plate. 1DUKE, my father’s nickname. I had to lose him to gain one sweet, bittersweet car

Still, his voice echoes.  “JENNIFER DO NOT TOUCH MY CAR.”   

 

  

 

1958.  Easter Sunday. We trooped into the main dining room in the Beverly Hills Hotel.  What a sight. Six Dudley girls, ages 18 to 3. My Mother. My father, Duke our fearless leader. And my mom’s teensy, tiny, red haired aunt, Ellie. MY favorite. A pixiesh jokester with glasses as big as Coke bottles.

My eyes feasted on an elegant, extra long table. Each place was set with glistening dishes featuring green trim like the leaves on the elegant walls, and tons of forks, knives and spoons so shiny they hurt my eyes. The flowers in the middle of the table were mostly lilies. ECHHHHHH…. I detest heavy perfume odors to this day.

“Ellie, I want to sit next to you!”  I raced to do just that so I could be as far away from Duke, who reigned at the table’s head. I was a fine target for his bullying. “Sit up straight Jennifer. You are knucklehead.” Once I snagged my place next to the my bestie, I was in Beverly Hills seventh heaven.

Ellie and I had much in common. At the time, we were about the same height – four foot nothing.  I peaked under the tablecloth. Not one of our feet reached the floor. We both were awash with freckles and our legs were skinny. Really, really skinny.  We had raspy low voices – hers more so due to her beloved cigarettes. Oh, I forgot to mention. Our hair was the same firey red color. With one exception. I didn’t wear a hair piece to cover up my bald spot!

What began as a nice Easter brunch quickly soured, due to Duke’s less-than-patient, angry disposition. Despite that, we managed to order with ease.  Natch, Duke shouted, “Jennifer make sure you eat everything.” Wonder of wonders, my rail thin body consumed gargantuan amounts. Still does. So his negatives were just another way to set me apart. I turned, hurt. Ellie tapped me on the thigh with reassurance. Always.

An hour went by.  No food. Another few minutes and I could feel the tension rising from my father.  Aunt Ellie called the waiter over.

“I’ll have a bloody mary,” she said. My mother, who never drank before 5pm, echoed the same. My father stopped binge drinking the year I was born ( significance? ), so he  sharply ordered tonic water with a side of, “BRING SOME BREAD!” The Maitre D’ came over and attempted to ally Duke’s anger. “Lunch will be here soon, the kitchen is backed up.”  No dice. His temperature kept rising.

By this time everyone, except the 3-year old who happily sat next to my mother, began to fidget. And, as if on cue, an accordion man appeared. Around and around the table he travelled with his happy dappy tunes. By this time, Aunt Ellie had consumed more than one bloody and a few dozens cigs, so when the music man arrived she could not hold her giggles.  Duke made it worse with his glare. Aunt Ellie leaned over to me and whispered, “I am corked,” (her slang for being drunk). She proceeded to wet her pants just as the head waiter arrived to say, “Luncheon served!”

Aunt Ellie headed to the ladies room to clean up. I followed. She managed to dry herself with some fancy BHH engraved towels,  and then she messily reapplied her red lipstick. Always messy. We hurriedly returned to our waiting meals. I inhaled mine, along with most of her leftovers.

As we exited, Ellie and I brought up the back of the train. I spotted a lot of money in front of my father’s now empty plate. “Boy that would fill my piggy bank!” I thought, as my rascally spirit reared its head. And so, with both hands, I picked it up and stashed it all in my ‘big person’s” purse.  

Half way home in my big sister’s car, I pulled out my wad and proudly shouted, “Look what I found on the table!” “

“JENNIFER that was the tip!  You have to take it back!” I threw a fit, but she u-turned on on Sunset, pulled right back into the hotel carport, and watched as I marched back inside with my black patents and frilly white dress.

On tiptoes, I handed the Captain at the desk all the bucks.

“My sister says I need to return the money I took off our Easter table.”  

He tried not to grin. “This will teach you a lesson. Never take what is not yours.”  

I never stole money again. But it was not my last act of thievery.

 

I’ve forgotten why my 21-year-old sister was invited to 79-year-old Conrad Hilton’s estate. I’m guessing it had something to do with her charm, and her shock of beautiful red hair.  Whatever the case, she solicited my mother and I to chaperone. Safety first.

I had never met the hotel scion, despite my close friendship with one of his granddaughters, so my interest was piqued. That evening, we got dolled up as if we were going to a black tie gala – long dresses, high heels, lipstick, the works. We piled into my old blue, VW stick shift, puffing away on cigarettes and off we went up Sunset Boulevard, rounding the curves until we approached the iron mansion gates in Bel Air. I pushed the private bell, and the bars opened to reveal a long, elegant drive. My rickety muffler shook the carefully landscaped flowers and cupid statues. It was nothing if not a bold entrance to Casa Encantada –  The Enchanted House.

Hugo, Mr. Hilton’s trusted butler, came out to greet us. He opened my door, and then the passenger side.  My mother and I smiled, stood aside, and submerged giggles while he, with polite difficulty, pushed the broken back seat to take my sister’s hand.  We were a sight. What had we gotten ourselves into?

 

Hugo led us into the living room. It felt sad and empty, as if no one ever came to visit.  I looked to my left, and a mustached, slightly balding, distinguished Conrad Hilton sat comfortably in his small den. He rose from a chair, and we joined him around a glass table.

I sat right next to him, but it appeared most of his attention would be on my sister. I thought it really should have been on the elegance of my mother. Nevertheless, I decided to break the awkward silence and ask him about his rise in the hotel business.  He was much more than willing to oblige my curiosity. For the next hour, over many drinks and pre-dinner munchies, I moved in and listened with fascination. I followed Conrad from his birth and early life in New Mexico, to his first small hotel in Texas, and even to the Conrad Hilton Hotel in Chicago.  His voice rose with pride when he noted he bought it the day before the crash. In between, he mentioned his devout Catholicism as well as his belief that, no matter how much money he made, prayer was always the best investment. Damned if I didn’t kick myself for not having pen and paper to take notes.

Hugo returned, this time holding a tiny, white, fluffy poodle. He announced dinner would be served, but first, we need to give Sparky a kiss. We politely obliged this peculiar request. Our attempts to hold back laughter may have faltered.

The dining room was as I expected.  A table built for a 50 with only four places set. I sat beside my mother, my sister sat across, and our wine glasses were perpetually filled, although Conrad did not drink. Instead, he made his move on my sister, pulling closer to flirt. This was going to be one heck of a meal.

When dinner was over, Conrad pressed a button on the floor under his chair, and in came Sparky for a repeat performance. Hugo brought him to our faces for a smoocheroo, and I looked straight ahead. Otherwise, I would have caught my mother’s eye, and we both would have wet our pants with laughter. By this time, my sister was in her cups and calling him ‘Connie.’ Instead of joining in our humor, she gave us disapproving glares.  Unfortunately for her, that just upped the comedy ante.

At the end of the night, we entered a room smothered in dusty rose light, much like the cheeks on my mother’s face. Her beautiful mouth, just the right touch of red, and her Hepburn cheekbones, glowed.  For the first time, I looked upon her not as my mother, but as a desirable yet untouchable woman. Innocent and sensual. It caught me off guard when, at that moment, Conrad turned to her, not my sister, and asked her to dance.  Soft music played. She took his lead while I, starry eyed, watched her whirl around the room with a man who was not my father. How comfortable they were. How happy and content she was. She deserved more of these moments, for she had already relinquished too many.

To this day, this remains one of the most indelible memories of my mother. She would have been 98 years old this week, and while I don’t often write about her, her beauty, quiet grace, and easy sense of humor left a deep imprint on me.

These are the moments I wish I could grab and replay. Once, just once, more.  

Eleanor Murphy Dudley, you always said I was the only daughter who didn’t love you.

I lied.  

 

 

It was just past 8 am on a sunny, chilly Beverly Hills morning, when my feet stopped across from my childhood home. I stood, staring at the front lawn, in borrowed gym shoes, black workout pants, and a pink Target T-shirt with a colorful parrot on the chest pocket. Should I cross the Rodeo Drive bridal path and invite myself inside? And then I stepped off the curb.

——

I had not been back to Beverly Hills in 8 years.  Long stretches between visits were deliberate. I argued with myself. I can’t stand the place.  It’s too expensive. It’s become a Kardashian joke. It’s a City of greed. Despite the less than glowing report card ,  I relented and booked a ticket to ride.

I reserved the week at a charming, boutique Hotel called The Crescent. The price was right and the location was perfect –  in the hub of 90210 retail and eateries. Still bleary from a time change and early morning flight, I greeted a lovely lady at the front desk.

“Your room is still occupied. Would you be interested in staying in another room?”

I saw no reason not to. So up we went. Famous film and concert photographs lined the walls in black and white. They felt much larger than life-sized. We paused by a photo of Raquel Welch crucified on a cross. And then we opened the door next to it. What had I gotten myself into?  

The room was tiny and dark. The bed was near the floor, garnished in purple velvet and a floor-to-ceiling photo of Dean Martin.

“I can’t sleep with Mr. Martin!”  She looked at me, puzzled. I had spent many teenage years in the Martin home with my friends and his son Dino.  I didn’t bother to tell her that, as I contemplated racing out without my luggage. Instead, I found Henry, the manager who quelled my anxiety and led me into a larger room with a bird of paradise hanging behind the king-sized bed. A poster of Tina Turner and the Ikettes graced the wall. I decided I could live with Tina.

From there, my week turned into one giant reunion. I had meals from noon to midnight with grammar school buddies and coffees with old friends in between. Marymount High School pals gathered for a wine-infused salmon dinner in one of their elegant Benedict Canyon homes. The moment I walked in the kitchen, years of distance dissolved. There was no pretense or awkward  pauses. We immediately launched into hugs, laughter, and glowing memories. It had been so long since I felt so enriched with women whom I cherished and admired. A bittersweet feeling filled my heart as the last visit came to an end, and I headed back to the hotel.

 

The morning before I left, I headed out for a walk feeling light and a bit giddy. The sounds, buildings and air felt so familiar, it seemed I could stroll these streets with my eyes closed. I waited for the green light on Santa Monica, crossed over and began to walk up to the residential area. Homes of my youth. Those of my friends. Ones where we played,  grew, and partied hard. Many still standing graciously, handsomely, nestled amidst manicured lawns with gardens of flowers as if painted and framed. Others had been torn down and rebuilt like ostentatious, gaudy fortresses with iron gates. Yet no architect, builder or designer can erase the underbelly of a City that was known for sophistication not glitz .

The journey was, in truth, for one reason: to confront the ghosts I left behind. I I turned left onto Rodeo Drive.  My steps quickened. The trees on both sides of the street had merged together into a tunnel of lush green that lead to a shadow of the childhood house I remembered. The exterior was unkempt, disheveled, and unloved.

I crossed the street to take a closer look. There were four or five dusty cars in the driveway.  My heart quickened. I peeked over the wooden gate and saw the little guest house. The paint had peeled off long ago. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell, but no one answered. So I knocked. And knocked again. Finally, the front door opened just enough to see the eyes of a frightened Asian woman.

“I used to live here. May I come in?”

She mumbled incoherently but not before I got a quick peek. There was no furniture in the living room.  Just long, wooden tables with an array of computers and wires. Four Asian women worked furiously. They didn’t look up.   

The door slammed. I stood shocked, frozen in place. What the hell was going on?  Human trafficking? My imagination was spinning. Damn it. The Dudley’s had an open door, never locked, come on-in  policy. Our dining room overflowed with  family and guests. My father, Duke, always sat at the head of the table conducting raucous dialogue, political debates and film critique while my mother excused  overdone leg of lamb. Martha Stewart she wasn’t especially after her second Dewars and water. Three phone lines constantly ringing, our annoying cocker spaniel barking, friends swimming in the pool and someone passing out in the back den after one too many.  Never a dull moment should have been engraved above the fireplace.

After my father’s untimely death my mother sold the house, perhaps too emotionally and hastily. She and I were the last to walk through the empty rooms.  I believe we collected two bags of pennies, dimes and quarters that had fallen into the chair and couch cushions. We were quiet, very, as we we turned, gave one another a hug, and didn’t look back.  

I guess you really can’t go home again. That taste is bitter.  

But you can go to your hometown again. Turns out, that’s unexpectedly, deliciously, sweet.   

 

.

 

     

 

I reached over into the glove compartment of my 1965 red VW Bug for the hidden joint. Relief.    

The last of my 60’s heroes was dead. Robert F. Kennedy had been assassinated a few miles from my family home on North Rodeo Drive.  A night of jubilance at the Ambassador Hotel Ballroom. An evening of passionate screaming. “BOBBY, BOBBY.” Silenced. I lit up just after sunrise. All I wanted was to feel numb.  

The vision of Kennedy’s bloody head, held by a teenage busboy, has never left my mind. Nor has the vision of another teenager. One so naïve, so pure, so undeserving of the fate that robbed her of life.   

—–

A grieving mother sat. Silently. Proudly. Breathlessly. After 27 years of investigation, someone would finally be held responsible for her beautiful teenage daughter’s vicious death. Michael Skakel, Robert F. Kennedy’s nephew, was declared guilty in the 1975 murder of 15-year-old Martha Moxley.

Martha was last seen across from her house at the Skakel pool. Hours later, she was found bludgeoned to death with a six-iron golf club. Her underpants drooped around her ankles, but her virginity still intact. Pieces of the club encircled her body,  head ripped from its shaft, the shaft through her neck.  Police determined the club came from the Skakel home.

I followed the trial. I knew Michael. Very well. When I saw him handcuffed and led away, I choked up. Suspicions continue to surround Michael and that brutal Halloween eve on his family’s lawn. I have my own doubts.

I met the Skakel family when I moved east from Beverly Hills in 1977. My mother suggested I call “Uncle Rush” to make some connections. His sister, Georgeann Skakel Terrian, was a bridesmaid in my parents’ wedding.

The moment I drove into Belle Haven, the Skakel’s exclusive Greenwich community, I felt right at home. I am one of six Catholic girls. They had seven Catholic children. Our family was financially comfortable and had its pockets of darkness. Their family was a sweet and sour mixture of too much wealth, too much freedom, too much alcohol, too much entitlement, and one big secret. Who killed Martha?

When I first arrived, I hadn’t heard of the murder, so it was easy to be taken by the Skakels’ charm. The house became a comfort zone. Much like my home, there was never a dull or quiet moment, and every day was wild, raucous and fun. I was occasionally included in their Sunday night dinners at various private country clubs. The younger boys were always delighted when their dad, Uncle Rush., ordered “one extra rabbit ear” – his term for ice cream. I still use it to this day. Their only daughter, Julie, always sat quietly amidst the chaos, her beautiful blonde hair pulled tight. I loved her razor quick wit, and we built an immediate bond. We shared Marlboros, cocktails, adventures in her station wagon, gossip and intimate details about our lives. But Julie never spoke of the night before Halloween. It was as if it had been scraped from the family history, despite glaring evidence around almost every corner. When I asked Julie why she double bolted her bedroom door, her laughter shifted into an ominous confession. “It’s to keep the boys out,” she said.

Once I knew about the murder, I rewound the film constantly. All I wanted to do was edit or reverse the story. Tommy and Michael Skakel, both close to Martha’s age, were under the constant eye of the Greenwich police. Were they really capable of such a passionately hateful act? The possibility that one of them killed Martha fogged my loyalty.

I couldn’t get the scene out of my head, every time I walked across that lawn. The vision of Martha’s bloodied body shattered the magic of the smell, the touch, the blinding autumn colors around their home.

Countless stories have been published, a TV film aired, and the trial was highly rated. Gossip whirled from Greenwich to New York and Los Angeles.  Which boy? Was there a trespasser? Was it the tutor who was living there? The only thing I know for sure is that whoever killed Martha had to be high on booze, drugs and rage. They were mentally blacked out of their mind. At least I hope so.  

—

Last month, the Connecticut Supreme Court reversed Michael’s conviction. He served half of his 20 year sentence. The trial that transfixed the nation because of the Kennedy connection may have come to an end. RFK’s son and Michael’s sister, Julie, were his biggest supporters.

RFK Jr. has also called for a new the investigation into his father’s assassination. He just wants the truth – the only thing the Kennedy family has never been able to possess.  Martha’s mother and brother are still waiting for the truth.  

I was sipping morning coffee when a CBS News special report rolled across the screen.

REVEREND BILLY GRAHAM, 99, DIES.

I grinned. Then chuckled, out loud, at a memory still very much alive.

—-

“Where the hell am I?”

I was jolted out of a dead sleep, bits of slobber running down my mouth.

“Welcome to Charlotte Douglas International Airport. The local time is 7:30 am.”

I pushed the shade up on the TWA jet and put my headache against it.

The in-flight valium and cocktails had not done me well. But I was a white knuckle flyer, and I needed both to cope. So here I was, half way to Rome with a full hangover. And, honestly, I wasn’t thrilled about the trip in the first place.

I was perfectly happy at home in Benedict Canyon, working in the garment business and sleeping with a man my father, Duke, couldn’t bear. So when Duke phoned one morning to say he was on his way over to drop off a surprise, my boyfriend leapt from my king size bed and into his car with one motion.

My father was a very tall and, at times, scary presence. But that morning, when I answered the door, I could sense his other, gentler, side. He gave me a kiss hello and sat down in a chair opposite mine. The living room was still shaded, and the morning sun had not yet peaked through the windows. I was tense. What was he going to give me? Clearly not money, for he insisted I could never make it on my own when I moved out – even though I had.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out a large envelope and handed it to me.

“Open it up!”  He said through a huge smile.

And there, inside, was a round trip ticket to Rome couched as a visit to see my sister, when in fact it was his attempt at breaking up my romantic dalliance.

“Thanks very much, but I don’t want to go. I am settled and I don’t want to leave.”

With that, he stood up and screamed every synonym for ‘ungrateful.’ Then he headed to the front door and slammed it with such force that the very long, thin glass at the top of the stairs shattered.

His rage had the desired effect. I packed my bag and boarded the plane to Italy. The man was nothing if not a master of control.

Back in Charlotte, the hour layover gave my muddled brain a chance to recoup. New passengers filtered into empty seats, and one particularly handsome face stopped in my row.

I stood to allow Franklin Graham, the 20-something, rebellious son of Reverend Billy Graham, to take his seat next to me. And for the next nine hours, while we put down more than a few drinks, and I smoked, yes, smoked, aboard a 747, we had the conversation of our lives. Nothing was off limits. I knew very little about his father, other than he was a famous preacher. But that didn’t stop me from yapping about my love of Judaism despite being a fallen Catholic, and what’s all the fuss about Jesus, and abortion is not a sin, and sex before marriage was clearly the way to roll, and the bible? Not on my top ten list. But I listened as he defined what his future might bring, as well as his father’s very high expectations – which included traveling with the large group of evangelicals on our plane. He didn’t seem sold on following in his father’s religious footsteps, so I wasn’t sure if I sitting next to a holy man on a mission or someone I could date.

“How are you getting to your sister’s house when we land?” Franklin asked.

“I’ll get a cab,” I said, as if there were any other options.

“Oh, please Jennifer, be our guest. We will be taking our tour bus to the hotel. Come along.”

So there I was, suitcase in hand, boarding a bus with Franklin and 60, count ‘em, 60, of Billy Graham’s faithful. Each one cheerfully encouraged me to ‘let Jesus enter my life.’ I barely found my way through the Leonardo da Vinci Airport exit, so I definitely wasn’t going to find my way to their Lord.

Nevertheless, the joy on board that bus sucked me in. It was simply infectious. Between the singing and the loud, exuberant praying, Franklin turned to me and smiled.

“You are a good sport.”

When we finally arrived at the Cavalieri Hilton, I said goodbye to everyone and gave a special hug to my traveling buddy. Then I got into a cab and gave Franklin best wishes for his future.

—

I watched a portion of Franklin’s eulogy to his father a few days ago. He was no longer the wild-haired renegade with bad boy charm.  No longer a genuine, non-political, open-minded young man. In fact, he didn’t seem like the Franklin I’d met at all.

Maybe because he’d finally met his father’s expectations. Or maybe because I single-handedly drank him down the straight and narrow.

And that’s something to laugh about.

 

For a couple of hours, Natalie Wood and I became friends.

It was 1976. I was a leggy, freckled, 20-something in the midst of a steamy romance with an older, married man. He was not tall, but dark, and killer handsome, not to mention a great tennis player. Despite the risk of ‘outing’ our affair, or maybe because of it, he insisted I join him for a round of doubles and lunch at famous restaurateur, Jean Leon’s, Malibu home.

We arrived at Jean’s home above the Pacific Coast Highway dressed for the event. He in classic tennis whites, and I in a short dress with a loose braid down my back.  I was uncharacteristically shy and uncomfortable, so I stuck by his side as we walked to the front door and greeted our host. Jean was charming, and imposing. He had established some of Beverly Hills’ most successful restaurants, including La Scala and The Boutique. I still drool thinking about sitting in one of the red leather booths, inhaling his famous Chopped Salad. It’s simply impossible to recreate.

We headed down to the tennis court.  I sat on the grass and watched a heated doubles match. I do not recall my boyfriend’s partner, but I do remember Roy Emerson, four-time Australian grand slammer, on the other side of the net. Even he couldn’t keep my attention. I became distracted and bored and wandered back up to the house.

Jean was clearly in the midst of entertaining family and friends. From a distance, I could see a very long table on the stone porch, set for at least 15 people. Fresh cut flowers bloomed from elegant vases, and a single dark-haired woman sat alone. I could not make her out because of my nearsightedness, so I drew closer.

And there she was. Natalie wood. I lost my breath. And footing.

Beautiful, alluring, movie star, America’s sweetheart. None of those adjectives come close to her presence that day. She was ravishing. I was simply magnetized with her. Natalie looked at me through deep brown eyes and thick lashes. She pushed out the chair next to her.

“Please. Join me,” she said with an inviting smile.

Me?  Next to Natalie Wood? I certainly couldn’t turn down such a sincere request. So, while drinking one glass of white wine and another, we spoke openly about her life. And she listened to mine: one of six sisters, the family joke, ugly duckling, screw-up.

“That can’t be true,” she shot back. I beamed inwardly. Validation happily received.

We may have chatted for two minutes or two hours – time lost its relevance. But I finally managed to tear myself away. She stood with me, reached up with her petite arms and gave me a hug. I blushed.

As I headed back down to the court, I took off my flats and felt my bare feet in the soft grass. Fitting for my encounter with Natalie wood.  Splendor in the grass.

Splendid, you were, Natalie. Splendid, you will always be. Indeed.

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not; rather find
Strength in what remains behind.

-Deanie Loomis quoting William Wordsworth

A star-studded list of Hollywood movers and shakers, social activists and political big shots took their seats next to us at Carroll O’Connor’s funeral.  And all my teenage daughter wanted to do was go to Venice Beach.

—-

June, 2001. My daughter, Erin, and I flew from Cincinnati to San Francisco for a visit with my family in Sausalito. We had planned to take a road trip down the coast from there. But before we got in the car, I received a call from my eldest sister.

“Jennifer, Carroll O’Connor died last night. His funeral is Tuesday at St. Paul’s. I am sure Nancy would like you to attend.”

Carroll and his wife, Nancy, were amongst my sister’s dearest friends. I had the pleasure of their company many times. Nancy was the salt of the earth. And Carroll was arguably the most recognized, loveable faces in television history. He lived in polar opposite to his racist, Republican, chauvinistic Archie Bunker character. I’d never met anyone as inclusive, or as big of a champion for women. So we would attend.

Off we went for our jaunt down the famous Highway 1. Erin’s first, my tenth. We hit the garden spots and Carmel, had lunch at Nepenthe, and stopped overnight at The Ragged Point Inn near Big Sur. The view from our room could only be described as something the gods made.

Around 7 pm, we sauntered into the dining room wearing jeans. A hostess sat us at a candlelit table overlooking the cliffs and presented us with a menu for a four-course meal from a five-star chef.

“Mama, this is tooo romantic,” my well-beyond-her-years, budding 15-year-old beauty giggled. “You should be here with Dad.” I said no way.  She is, and continues to be, the finest of company.

After a quick stop at Hearst Castle, we rolled into Beverly Hills. From Wilshire to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, to Rodeo, Beverly, and Canon Drives, I gave Erin the movie star map personal tour. I even took her to see the austere homes of childhood friends who had famous parents. But not a single one interested her. Chock it up to her Midwest upbringing and down-to-earth nature.

Some moments in life are indelible. Carroll O’Connor’s funeral was one. It was held in my elementary school’s church, St. Paul the Apostle. I hadn’t been inside since my 8^th grade graduation, and as I walked through the doors, I welled up. It was just as I’d left it – soaring, impressive, and rich with simple, elegant architecture. Nothing had changed. Except me.

Despite a standing room only crowd, an usher led Erin and I to a pew near the front. The Cardinal and priests from many dioceses greeted Carroll’s coffin, and the music swelled. Mass began.

“How long is this going to last? I want to go to the beach,” Erin whispered as Martin Sheen walked past us and up to the pulpit. Well. I had promised.

“President Bartlett from the West Wing is about to speak,” I softly whispered back to her. He recited from Corinthians 13:4, love is patient, love is kind, and his melliferous tone resounded through hushed air. Rob Reiner spoke from the scriptures. No one gave a formal eulogy. Instead, a single violinist played a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Danny Boy.

Guests spilled out of the church, onto the steps and along the sidewalk to say their final goodbyes. We joined the crowd in the blazing California sun to see Carroll off. The casket passed by a row of small wood boxes on the ground. A man approached, opened them carefully, and released a dozen white doves into the Los Angeles skies.

Neither of us said a word as we walked arm in arm to the parking lot. A rarity.

Bathing suits and towels in the trunk, we got in the car and turned left toward Venice Beach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had never spent a New Year’s Eve with my parents. Probably because it also happened to be my father’s birthday. They had a standing date with one another and Chasen’s, the famous, exquisite restaurant, just outside the Beverly Hills’ city limit. My father, aka Duke, stepped out looking distinguished, tall and lanky in tuxedo. An initialed gold watch nestled in his vest. My mother always looked simply elegant with a tinge of makeup and red lipstick on her sensuous, yet girlish, mouth. I always ran to the front door to give him a hug and her a kiss. As they drove away, I would yell, “Happy New Year.”

Little did I know, the one time we celebrated together would also be the last.

The invitation came from Ralph and Alice Bellamy, my parents’ best friends. Mine too! I spent hours at their home listening to Ralph’s captivating stories of stage, screen and politics, and Alice’s inviting warmth disguised under a raspy, gruff tone. How deeply I cherished my time with them.  So, when I heard I was going to be a part of the ‘big people’s” party, I was psyched.

I drove my own car that evening, because I knew I would split early to roll to another scene. But once inside, that idea went out their Mulholland Drive living room window.

“Oh my god,” I whispered to Ralph, as he stood beside me. “That’s James Cagney!”

He chuckled. “And Jennifer, over there, my dear friends, Shirley Booth, Jack Webb, and Harry Morgan.”

I had either walked into Hollywood’s Wax Museum or the most memorable night of my life.

I was not of drinking age yet, so I made a beeline for the bartender, tout suite.  With my glass and courage full, I cut through a small handful of guests to introduce myself to Mr. Cagney. I began to mumble something silly and inane. He eased my obvious pain with his giant Irish grin.

“Please, call me Jimmy,” he said, with bright eyes.

Exhale.

I was particularly intrigued with Shirley Booth, who distanced herself on a small couch. Most of my generation knew her for her silly TV role as Hazel, an apron-clad maid with a nails-on-a-chalkboard-voice. But she was, in fact, a brilliant Academy Award-winning actress. I approached slowly and sat beside her with ease.  She was lovely and soft spoken. I believe we chatted for over an hour about her life and mine. I can gab on, but she just kept listening. It appeared she was as in tune with me as I with her. As our conversation ended, I realized I had not had a chance to get another scotch and water, so we were definitely two of the soberest guests in the room.

Jack Webb certainly wasn’t. He was sloppy drunk. I managed to steer clear of him. I knew of his show Dragnet, but never watched it. His sidekick Harry Morgan was a nice gent to meet though.

Between the booze and the casual atmosphere, it didn’t take long for a room full of actors to put on a real show. James Cagney kicked up his heels and danced. I’m telling you, he really was a Yankee Doodle Dandy.  Afterward, his wife, Billie, recited her own poetry. Then they shared a warm embrace, as if they were still young lovers. Everyone roared with laughter and applause.

From the edge of the party, I stopped to admire the lights of the San Fernando Valley through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The buildings sparkled and glittered like a box of multicolored jewels. My father and I stood together just before midnight. I wished him happy birthday and new year and, as always, he tapped the top of my head. Then he turned and walked toward my mother to ring in the first day of 1973. And the final year of his life.

My parents, the Bellamys, and their famous guests have left me behind. I am not sullen. More so wistful. I wish I could rewind the film to that evening on the hill but, as we all know, that only happens in Hollywood.

So instead, I scream, “Happy New Year” to Mom and Dad, wherever you are. I’m sure you’re celebrating in classic style. You’d have it no other way.