Good Stuff Read online

  Dad pretends to snore.

  JG: Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Daddy! No, don’t sleep.

  CG: Oh, I mustn’t sleep? But it’s sleep time, isn’t it? It must be … it’s three thirty and we haven’t had our sleep.… Just think of that.

  Dad did LSD, I do archives.

  Marjorie Everett was one of Dad’s closest pals. She ran Hollywood Park. Aunt Marje sent me a big bag of her own keepsakes.

  My early nickname for Dad was Daddy Wabbut. This upside-down wabbut is a perfect illustration of his simple, silly sense of humor. The funny would be lost in the translation—either you get it or you don’t.

  Articles clipped from newspapers along with business and personal correspondence. Dad loved his position as a director on Marje’s board, and he took it seriously enough to take her to task if necessary. Their friendship could stand the mild friction.

  My Dear Marje,

  It occurred to me and possibly other outside Directors, that the monthly series of Hollywood Park board meetings are no longer truly necessary. With R.E.I.T. [Real Estate Investment Trust] firmly established, the Epicurean debt greatly reduced and soon to be eliminated, the problems attendant upon the building of new barns no longer of consequence, and with Hollywood Park running profitably and smoothly (thanks to the continuing efforts of you and Verne together with the executive staff and Neil), there is really no need for a meeting each and every month. Perhaps alternate months meetings of the entire board would suffice; unless, of course an emergency arises. Otherwise regular, or whenever convenient, meetings of efficient executive staff should be sufficient to continue running the track to the shareholders’ and everyone’s satisfaction.

  Howard Koch is also writing a letter to this effect so I trust you and Verne will give our thoughts your kind and serious consideration.

  With warmest regards, Cary

  Oh … there’s an article from the University of Chicago Chronicle about his death. He’s dead. Oh no. The Nile erupts. What? Didn’t I know he was dead when I was reviewing other bits and pieces just a moment ago? Did his letter suddenly bring him to life and now he’s gone again? Well, in a way yes. Reading his letters, seeing his pictures, I’m brought back. I feel him. Then, seconds later, there’s the objectification of a life before my eyes. Cary Grant, leading man, screen legend … dead.

  Afternoon cavorting on the front lawn of 9966, 1969.

  My father is irreplaceable. To me, and I think, the world. He left a hole. Almost daily I see his films listed in the TV section. Whatever special blend of temporal and eternal grace he had still resonates. It reminds me of the way he left himself undefended to his critics. He had enough character to recognize that being great doesn’t require perfection. The world hungers for that vibration. However, in growth, I stumble toward the graceful realization that it’s illusory to cling to “Cary Grant” or Dad as the embodiment of an ideal. As with the best of the best meals, when you’re full, you’re full. As delicious as the food or drink may be, more isn’t better. Stopping is the only way to enjoy the experience without compromise. Remembering is fine. Living is the apex.

  Chapter Three

  9966: Freedom Has a Beautiful Structure

  9966 Beverly Grove Drive. Dad and I lived, slept, played, wept, dined, danced, and laughed there. We were always free to be ourselves at home, whatever that meant. Through the thick and thin of divorce, earthquakes, remodeling, and construction, we were at home. There’s a beautiful symmetry to the number 9966, as if it were the end and the beginning of a quotation. The first time I remember seeing my father, and the last time I actually did see him, was at 9966. One of my father’s priorities was providing me with a sense of permanence and stability. The actual structure he chose was a farm-style house. Our home atop a hill. The following quote is from a book my father kept at his bedside, Thoreau’s On Man and Nature.

  Every leaf and twig was this morning covered with a sparkling ice armor; even the grasses in the exposed fields were hung with innumerable diamond pendants, which jingled merrily when brushed by the foot of the traveler. It was literally the wreck of jewels and the crash of gems.… Such is beauty ever—neither here nor there, now nor then—neither in Rome nor in Athens, but wherever there is a soul to admire. If I seek her elsewhere because I do not find her at home, my search will prove a fruitless one.

  Home was beautiful because freedom was at the heart of it. Throughout the years, in a few of his different Super 8 films, Dad recorded my outdoor play at 9966. At age two, in a sweet frilly dress and patent leathers, Dad films me as I run around the flagstone deck whirling-dervish style. Crazy circles, arms outstretched, to and fro, until I pounce on the lawn and roll down the grass hill. There goes the dress! Perfectly out of my mind. Some years later, Dad, his girlfriend Maureen, and I concoct our own seventies summer square dance on those same flagstone pavers. Dad, then seventy-one, was by far the best dancer. His long limbs, precise gestures, and natural grace pull focus immediately. Super 8 shows my girlfriend Lisa Lennon and me, at age eleven, as we perform human “horse shows” on the lawn. We devise an obstacle course and canter around it, changing leads as horses do and jumping over every stool or lawn chair in our path. Dad loved my playtime because I was clearly happy at home. He must have known that if I was free and happy there, I had a springboard for the world.

  We lived in style, with many luxuries, but luxury is only luxurious if it doesn’t tax the senses by being pointless. Dad liked things that worked. Practical stuff. A friend of mine recently introduced me to the term “wabi-sabi.” While referring to my garden, and some roses that refuse to be replaced, he said that they added a touch of wabi-sabi, the Japanese art of seeing beauty in imperfection and profundity in nature. It’s the way Dad lived. It’s clean, it’s graceful, it reveres all stages of life, and it appreciates inevitable decay. It’s a way of being happily present and content with what is. It seems to be in line with Thoreau’s thinking. Dad “got” that. He appreciated nature’s wisdom. In nature, form and function are beautifully unified. Nature isn’t wasteful.

  Our home at 9966 Beverly Grove Drive was easy on the eyes because it was organized, but there was always room for the little bit of mess that accompanies life. The house was one story, which Dad always preferred. He liked to feel that everything was connected and easily accessible. In the actual front of the house (the side facing an extraordinarily expansive view of Los Angeles away from the street), was a flagstone deck and, beneath the deck, the lawn and pool. Our pool was occasionally a point of contention, at least as far as heating it goes. Dad experimented with the heating conundrum. Right around the time the heater went on, in fall or winter, I would stop swimming. It was getting cold; I didn’t much want to be jumping into the water. Without the heater, the water temperature was frigid. Of course, after a few weeks, I’d get a yen for a swim and request heat. “Use the pool and then I’ll start heating it. It’s too damned expensive to heat if no one’s going to use it.” Heating the pool was wasteful. Even in California, the pool wasn’t a big draw in winter. The heating bill wasn’t worth the two or three swims I might take. The frigid water won. I remember occasions when I flew into its chilly embrace.… Wait for summer! So the pool was refreshingly cool all summer and brave cold in winter. If I really wanted to swim, I could drive down the street to my friend Jonathon’s house and frolic in his heated pool! On the whole, Dad wasn’t much into structured exercise, but he occasionally did laps during the warmer months, which, in California, is 90 percent of the year.

  Dad introduced me to the sun on our front deck. “It’s healthy to get just a bit of sun. Not too much.” Funny. Now many people run from the sun, or at least shield themselves in its presence. Of course, the world is a different place now. The sun’s negative effects weren’t as widely known then, and “global warming” wasn’t in the everyday vernacular. Still, we knew the sun caused premature aging, but Dad reminded me occasionally, “You’re getting a bit pale, need some sun.” Dad “took” about half a
n hour of sun every few days when we were at home. He always had a healthy glow. His actions spoke: “Enjoy this. Enjoy nature, let the sun kiss your face.… Yes, you’ll have wrinkles.… Enjoy those, too.” What is the choice, really? Our house was bordered on the west by a thriving avocado tree, an apple tree, and a lemon tree. There was a large island of calla lilies just outside the door. I loved the look of the calla lilies: smooth, open, and strong. The east side dropped into a ravine of eucalyptus. With nature surrounding our home and our bodies, it could more easily affect our thoughts.

  Dad used to say that the state of your surroundings reflected the state of your mind. Also, there could be an inverse correlation. A clean atmosphere provides space for thought. This has become a truism for me. During college exams, regardless of my lack of sleep, my boyfriend used to marvel at the way I had to clean my apartment before studying. A direct offshoot of 9966. At home with Dad, everything had to be organized. Inside and out. Take his closets, for example. Everything was placed in order of color and length. Colors proceeded from light to dark. Shirts, pants, jackets, suits, and sweaters. Lined up or stacked, light to dark. Contrary to what one might think, he didn’t have an immense wardrobe. His policies about waste ran across the board. He had clothes for every occasion, just not too many of them. And no … not everything at home was neat and tidy.

  OCTOBER 20, 1969 · FLAGSTONE TERRACE AT 9966

  Jennifer and Daddy cavort. Classical piano plays in the background.

  Daddy and Jennifer sing “Jack and Jill.” Jennifer riffs on, improvising …

  JG: Little Miss Muffett sat on his puffitt … and they followed Mary into the teapot.

  CG: I don’t know that song.… They followed Mary into the teapot … hmm.

  JG [singing]: Mary had a little lamb…

  CG: With some green beans and jelly…

  JG: Daddy!

  CG: Oh … sorry. Would you give us a concert again under the umbrella if we have some coffee cake and juice and coffee and milk?

  JG: Mmm-hmm.

  CG: Do you like that music, dear?

  JG: Yes, I do!

  CG: It’s a Chopin waltz. And the man who’s playing it is an old friend of Daddy’s. His name is Arturo Rubinstein. [Then] How old are you now, Jennifer?

  JG: (proudly) Three!

  Dad credited music with transporting him beyond his habitual mind-set. Classical music generally set the tone at home. Days were infused with Beethoven, Bach, and Debussy. At day’s end, with saturated minds, he added the lyrical joys of Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, or any manner of Sammy Cahn’s stylings to soothe and entertain us. Dad was close with both Sinatra and Cahn. Lyrical magicians. In an offbeat mode, Dad would marvel at Uncle David’s music. Mom’s brother, David Friesen, plays the upright bass. Dad sat listening, fascinated, as Uncle David’s jazz shot out of our stereo, my father’s eyes wide with delight: “Your uncle is out there.… He’s out so far I can’t catch up.” It’s akin to hearing Robin Williams riff at comedy. Sometimes he takes a turn that just loses me in the dust. I wait, mind altered, eagerly anticipating his return, as a catcher might wait for a fly at home plate. For musical playtime, Dad “doodled” self-taught tunes on the piano. Some of his own concoctions, other songs he practiced by ear. He was a damn good doodler, really.

  Dad tried for years to interest me in piano, and for a while, I was startlingly average at it. Dad was present for my one note pecked at a time, bungled recital of “We Three Kings” when I was eight. Later, a miserly, abusive piano teacher scared me away entirely. Whenever I’d miss a key, she hit my finger with her fist. Never forgot it. I didn’t “tell,” undoubtedly due to some misplaced respect for authority, so sadly, despite Dad’s urgings, I never returned to my lessons.

  My typical teenage jam-out music boggled Dad’s mind. As noted, Dad enjoyed either wordless, classical music or lyrics with meaning, timing, and style. So my heavy “pop” phases were like nails on a chalkboard at home. Occasionally he granted me radio station privileges on the way to school, and invariably ended up calling the music rubbish. “Any moron could write that. Baby baby, love ya love ya, need ya need ya. Hogwash.” If we were at home and the decibels forced him from his perch down the hall, he would lean in the doorway, cross his arms, and with his best consternated look growl, “Oooooh, what a pip you are.” I liked it. I sort of enjoyed the mild chastising. Made me feel spunky. Most of the time I was, by natural inclination to his ideas, obedient. Yes, I liked Sinatra, Chopin, Beethoven, Stravinsky, Cole Porter, Tony Bennett, and Sammy Cahn. Just throw in a little Foreigner and Led Zeppelin and it’s all good. Dad and I had a sixty-year generation gap between us. Much of what Jennifer Diane Grant found “cool” Archibald Alexander Leach deemed preposterous. If I was going to play the Top 10, at least I could keep the volume below 5.

  Our most profound and habitual music was silence. Silence meant independent thought. Silence meant we were digesting ideas, learning new ones, or simply meandering in essential downtime. Perhaps because I was an only child and there were fewer feet at home, or more likely because it was an established ritual, silence was a comfortable atmosphere at 9966. We knew we were all there … doing our own “things”…Dad might be reading in his club chair, Barbara taking a bath, while I did homework, made a snack, or otherwise entertained myself … but there was always the requisite space for midday silence. No one knocking at the door. No one affirming themselves with peekaboos or hellos. Everyone left to their own devices. Solitude in numbers. Active silence. At once asserting our individual parameters and defining a familial respect. There is something deeply comforting in knowing that your family is happy enough to leave you alone, knowing you’ll bring the newfound treasures of solitude back to the table soon enough. It’s a great preparation for the world. An unwritten pause. Whatever our own meditations were, we left one another the room to muse.

  1967 · TAPE RECORDER IN MY CRIB

  CG: Good morning, brown eyes. Say something Jennifer. Talk to them.

  (no response)

  CG: There are certain similarities we have. Eyes, hands…

  Jennifer, come try to walk. Come to me. Try to walk.

  Jennifer crawls over to investigate Daddy’s bookshelves.

  CG: They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Beautiful books. Oh yes, I do, I have beautiful books that you’ll enjoy and treasure and cherish. Yes you will because you like books, don’t you? Now we look at books—all the beautiful things. Pictures, you see. Careful. Be very careful. These are very fine books.

  Chapter Four

  Butter and Margarine

  1970 · KITCHEN AT 9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE

  Dad and Jennifer play as assistant David cooks pork chops for dinner.

  CG: Can I have a pork chop with fat on it please, sir?

  Later same evening … Jennifer’s bathroom

  Jennifer being bathed by Willie. Daddy whistles in the background.

  JG: Oh, this soap smells marvelous. I’m four years old. I’ll be five.

  CG: You mustn’t rush your life. You must enjoy every moment—so take your time until you’re five. [Then] She’s rubbing herself down with a towel. She has the sweetest little figure you’ve ever seen and she’s just been to England to see her grandmama.

  Our family loved to eat. On weekdays, dinner signaled the end of work. Postdinner, nothing needed to be accomplished. There wasn’t a single evening Dad worked after supper. Dining meant time, effortlessness, and freedom from “doing.” Whether Dodger Dogs or the extravagant elegance of Chasen’s restaurant, we savored our experience. Meals lasted an hour or so; nevertheless, Dad admonished himself for rushing.

  “Everything in moderation, darling.… If you eat less, you’ll live longer. My mother ate like a bird and lived to ninety-two.” Though he occasionally grumbled, Dad managed to abide by his principled moderation. Still, he was no renunciant. Dad spent his life surrounded by fine food and drink, and he enjoyed it. While Dad was known for his refined nature, his palate was an exception. Sure,
Dad enjoyed good, quality food, and even haute cuisine, but really he just loved to eat. He used to swear that he couldn’t tell the difference between butter and margarine. The Hollywood Park directors’ lounge buffet was a perfect example. The food was fine, but it was no Chasen’s. Still, how the platters taunted him. They were logistically challenging, as well. We had to pass the buffet each time we journeyed to place a bet. Damned éclairs! The racetrack was minimally a four- or five-course day. So when we went to the track for the afternoon, we skipped the evening meal as penance. Dad generally drank white wine with dinner, and on occasion he drank a Gibson. Dad’s “Gibson” was vodka and dry vermouth with a pearl onion. He was funny about his wine. After a glass he’d make an off-color remark about something, and follow it with, “Oh! Watch out for me, I’m drunk!” Then it was time for what I call his happy foot dance. He’d wiggle his feet back and forth and, with a childlike grin eclipsing his features, say, “These are my exercises, you know, I’m an old man now.” (He was, astoundingly, never an old man. His mind kept him young.)

  Sometimes after dinner I’d make a play for Dad’s candy drawer. Yes. He had an actual drawer filled with candy. Well, I guess it wasn’t really full, but it always seemed so. Although there were other cakes, cookies, and things in the pantry, this was the place for his most cherished sweets. The candy drawer contained a good deal of chocolate, some marzipan, lemon drops, and lots of hard candies. Dad said hard candies were good for your throat, so I scored on those when I had a cold. He especially liked Cadbury chocolate. When he visited England, or the Tudor shop, he’d bring me my favorite, Cadbury Flake bars. Flake bars are quite literally thousands of chocolate flakes stuck together, which ingeniously melt in your mouth the moment they’re consumed. Dad had a hard time letting go of his “sweeties,” even when they began to turn. I usually found a few overly hard marzipan fruits or some whitening chocolate in there. If I didn’t like it, I could “keep your mitts out of my stash.” Dad grew up during the war, when waste was preposterous, so we forgave him his hardened marzipan bits and he forgave us our trespass. He would often tell of the stockpot he grew up with, “You just didn’t waste food … throw it all in the pot, a bit of a carrot, a potato, on a rare day turkey … and it was damn good.”