Good Stuff Read online

  I love Dad’s penmanship, and his tiny drawing of the ship is almost architectural.

  below: Mom and I headed for our 98 Malibu Colony home. The puffball of fur behind us is our poodle au natural, Lovie. Circa 1975.

  Chapter Six

  Friends and Travel

  Dad and his friends traveled together, and traveled well. Cruising was one of the favorite “family” vacations. From the start Dad enjoyed trips at sea. “Terrific concept. You unpack once, visit several places, and always maintain your traveling home. Good stuff.” Plus Dad could loosen the reins on me a bit. Wherever I was, it couldn’t be too far off. He and Barbara read or played backgammon on one of the various decks while I swam, played shuffleboard, or otherwise skulked about the ship with various new pals. Kirk and his children cruised Alaska with us. It was such a hit that Dad’s pal Charlie Rich (Uncle Charlie) joined us the following year, and then Auntie Sylvia a few years down the line. We traversed Sitka, Juneau, Ketchikan, and Glacier Bay. This was back in the day when major glaciers abounded. Dad was his usual shutterbug self, but magically Kirk isn’t in any of the pictures. Literally, not one. We ate together, went to shows together … communed. How does one entirely avoid being photographed on a two-week cruise? Kirk was always on the quiet side. Shy? Not really. The type that sits back and takes it all in with his eyes. Kirk says only what needs to be said. Zero small talk. That meshed just fine with Dad.

  Our vacations were generally to the same spots. Not necessarily because they were his favorites but because he was comfortable in them. Comfortable meant being with friends. Surroundings, although notably beautiful, were secondary. Privacy was important, quiet was essential, and happy companionship was key.

  WESTHAMPTON—PALM TREE MAGIC

  1972 · ZEILER HOME · WESTHAMPTON, NEW YORK

  Dad, Aunt Mickey, Jennifer, and others enjoy a barbecue picnic lunch on the front lawn. Dad Polaroids the goings-on.

  CG: When I was little she looked exactly like me … and our eyes…

  Aunt Mickey: Jennifer has your elegance and charm. Very unique. But physically she looks like her mom.

  CG: No. When I was a child I looked exactly like that.

  Norman and Mickey Zeiler’s place was an annual home away from home in the seventies. Norman was a New York buddy who ran Bill Blass clothing. Uncle Norman hooked Dad up with wholesale shopping. As Barbara Sinatra recalled, “You know, your father had interesting friends. He had friends from all walks of life. I remember I was shopping on Seventh Avenue in New York one time and I came out of one of the big buildings and there’s a big black van with black windows and everything and I hear someone say, ‘Barbara, Barbara.’ And they slid the door open and it’s your father. He’s shopping too.” Uncle Norman taught Dad the fashion manufacturing business. This trickled down to no designer jeans for Jennifer. “Are you kidding me? They make those blue jeans in the very same Hong Kong factory as say … Gap jeans. They all cost about twelve cents to put together and then mark ’em up all down the line until the ridiculous designer comes along and slaps on a whopping five hundred percent to put their name on you. Forget it! Forty dollars for jeans is unheard of. We’ll go to the Gap and get you the good as the rest of them twenty-dollar jeans. You’ll look a hell of a lot smarter, too.” Dad and Uncle Norman drank martinis, talked political economics, and shared heartwarming laughs. Most important, Uncle Norman and Aunt Mickey had a pool, so I could splash about from dawn to dusk.

  My turtles apparently had extra legs.

  During one of our many summer stays in the Hamptons, I was seized with intense pangs of longing for my turtles. I simply had to find them a gift. New plastic palm trees were in order immediately. Well … Westhampton wasn’t exactly booming at the time. After warning me of probable disappointment, Dad obliged and we took The Jenny, my namesake outboard motorboat, into town. Dad’s Walter Eckland names a similar boat Jenny for a silent little British girl in the film Father Goose. Uncle Norman saw the movie and found the coincidence charming enough to follow suit. As Dad docked Jenny, I bolted down the short pier toward the alley. The only stores at the local dock were a gas station and hardware store, and the alley running between the two. Waiting for Dad to tie up Jenny, I spied a little brown bag alongside the alley. As I ran ahead and merrily snatched it up, he called, “Darling don’t touch that—it could be—” Too late. My newly opened bag contained a set of perfect plastic palm trees. “Daddy, look! For my turtles!” His knees practically buckled. No, Dad hadn’t somehow stealthily planted the gift. He stopped dead in his tracks, agog and wide-eyed with a true double take. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s magic.” My first lesson in synchronicity. Dad told the story for years.

  I can still feel the perfect ease of our Hamptons summer days, swimming, boating, tennis, reading, and backgammon by the pool with burgers. Divine. Circa 1973.

  PALM SPRINGS AND HORSEBACK RIDING

  Our number-one weekend getaway was to Uncle Charlie’s Palm Springs estate. Uncle Charlie was a staple in our life. Kewpie was maybe five feet tall, bald as they come, with a year-round tan (sometimes orange out of the Coppertone bottle—which Dad heckled him for) and a heart that never stopped giving. Dad and Kirk met through Kewpie in the early seventies. Uncle Charlie lived in a Spanish adobe on several acres of manicured, palm-tree-lined property. I learned to drive a golf cart and play putt-putt on that lawn. We stayed in the pool house, near the good-for-guppy-hunting pond and gorgeous rose gardens. And there, just a few miles away, we discovered Smoke Tree.

  From age six on I rode with Dad at Smoke Tree Stables. Smoke Tree was a unique rental barn in that they set you free. You could mount up with a group of pals and canter over an expanse of desert without a guide. Freedom and togetherness. Dad believed in horseback riding. Dad and Quincy had a unique spin on the usefulness of the sport. One of Quincy’s young daughters loved horses. “It’s great,” he said, “it keeps her away from guys.” Dad shared a similar, he thought Freudian, philosophy. “Girls are into horses until they discover boys.… It’s all about having something between the legs.” Dad! Is that why you taught me to ride? Forestall my interest in the opposite sex? Nice try. Dad put me on a horse when I was eight months old. Nothing like planning. Mom and my nurse, Beulah, stood alongside as I rode a pony on the beach in England. When I reached the ripe age of one, Dad placed me atop a thirty-three-year-old chestnut gelding. Relatively little chance for a mishap there. Start slow, start slow.

  Palm Springs was all play. Even the two-hour drive time to and fro. In those days there were no handheld computer games, video- monitored seats, or cell phones. Imagination was necessary. So Dad stocked the Cadillac with word scrambles and hangman, and we concocted distance games. I chose a landmark ahead—a street sign, a bridge, a 76 station, and so on, and closed my eyes until the guesstimated goal. Mundane, yes, but at least it kept me occupied. Once there, Uncle Charlie’s was a desert Disneyland. We rode horses in the morning, swam, played poolside games, and putt-putt golfed all day long. Dad held the backgammon title. Occasionally I pulled off a win, but only through sheer luck of the die. Dad knew the odds of particular rolls, and the quick, stock moves. A six-one roll closes out the spot next to your home board, and so on. Dinner was time for word games. “In my basket” was a favorite. Each person places an imaginary item “in my basket.” Concentration. Miss the order of objects, you’re eliminated. Another favorite, “Loves coffee and hates tea,” went something like this … I know a woman who loves pound cake and fries, but can’t bear the thought of peanut butter. And it’s all because she loves coffee and hates tea. Loves the peach but hates the tree. Loves cars but can’t stand automobiles. For “Loves coffee” we needed a fresh guest each time. Once you’re onto the secret, it’s cake. We played silly games constantly. How the adults tolerated it, I’m not sure, but Uncle Charlie’s place was my adolescent wonderland.

  The guesthouse and seldom vacant pool at Uncle Charlie’s Palm Springs home, 1970s.

  MONACO … PALATIAL A
BANDON

  Dad loved Monaco. What’s not to love? Owing to his close friendship with Prince Rainier and Princess Grace, we stayed at the palace. We dined in the private quarters, with Rainier, Grace, and some combination of Caroline, Albert, and Stephanie, depending on who had what plan which night. We ate loup de mer, cocktailed on the terrace overlooking the Med, rode in limousines over the cobblestone streets, and somewhat let our guards down together.

  The level of palatial luxury was off the charts. During one visit, while we were greeted after arriving from the airport, having a cup of tea with the royal family, our bags were sent to our rooms and unpacked. This led to a good gaffe. In those years, Norma Kamali’s shoulder pads were all the rage. My soft black tie-around-the-waist jacket had shoulder pads virtually up to my ears. Hip. The shoulder pads were removable, so they could be placed in other flat shouldered garments as well. Well … my jacket was hanging in the closet, but no pads. The next day I discovered my bikini had never looked so good.

  We visited Monaco’s annual circus festival three or four times. The best acts from around the world converged. Trapeze artists, dancing bears, clown acts, aerial artists, Russian dancers, tigers, elephants, the whole nine yards. Dad was one of the judges, so we sat front row center, in the same box with Rainier and Grace. At this time I’m nine, ten, eleven, and the circus is a favorite outing. Dad is seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, and he’s equally awed by it all. His adolescent septuagenarian face lit up watching men fly through the air. He would gasp with relief as grasping hands snatched the aerialists to safety. He’d show me the grip: “It’s wrist to wrist, darling, hands can slip.” Hmm, I’d think … remember that for future something or other. He photographed damn near every act. It was fun to sit next to Dad at the circus. He’d smile till he cried. Did it remind him of his youth with the Pender Troupe? He spoke of it occasionally: “Darling, the floor was all wood, and to open the show I would run out … I had to practice this many times when the stage was fully lit, because come performance time the lights were out and I had to find a specific point in the floor to dive in.… You see there was an invisible trapdoor in the floorboards, so out I run with “Let the show begin,” and boom! I dive straight through the wooden floor! I gave the audience quite a gasp.” He liked to brag about his limber stilt-walking as well.

  After the circus we’d go back to the palace “disco room,” where everyone unleashed and unwound from the night’s festivities. The disco room was a tiny little pub-ish feeling bar downstairs with a jukebox so the kids could play music and dance around. Sometimes Princess Stephanie and I wandered off to play Operation in her room. The game’s object is to gently maneuver tweezers to remove bones from a magnetic patient.

  Funny, I still remember my concern about leaving school for those trips. I’d be gone a good week and a half or so and we arranged that I could take my lessons with me. But what new songs might I miss on 93 KHJ? What if my friends were on an entirely new page and I missed a crucial moment? Zeppelin might fall from favor and I wouldn’t know it.

  Chapter Seven

  Smart Women

  Dad worked with most of the most spectacular women of his day. He was accustomed to sharing ideas and banter with the ladies, on-screen and off. While he didn’t maintain day-to-day friendships with his costars, he did find a few amazing women to pal around with. Dad appreciated women with business acumen. One of his nearest and dearest friends was Madame Sylvia Wu. Sylvia created Madame Wu’s Garden, our most frequented restaurant. Dad met Sylvia just after she stuck her toe in the water with a small place in Santa Monica. Dad was smitten. Madame Wu credited Dad with initiating her ascent in the landscape of L.A. cuisine. Word of Dad’s patronage spread and Madame Wu’s received media attention. Soon, Madame Wu had a following. All the stars, politicians, and muckety-mucks ate at Madame Wu’s Garden. Her restaurant was elegant, comfortable, and gave the illusion of privacy. Booths had space between them. You’d never bump elbows with the group next door. It provided the rare experience of being out and maintaining boundaries. Madame Wu lures you in with her sophisticated, gentle demeanor and then polishes you off with her savory cuisine. Happily, Sylvia is now auntie to me. This woman has business in her bones. At a recent lunch I asked Auntie Sylvia where she garnered her savvy. She gave a sweet shrug—“I don’t know.” Dad must’ve smelled it in her. At ninety-four, she’s as elegant as ever. For the past thirty and then some years I’d swear she’s flawless. She wears her jet-black hair scooped into a large bun and consistently dons her signature Chinese silks, pearls, and large- frame glasses. Her eyes dance with curiosity and, while conservative to the core, her minxlike bearing intimates serious fun. How she gets away with her candor, I’ll never know. She’s craftier than a Southern belle. Auntie Sylvia once informed my charming, handsome beau and me that we weren’t suited for marriage and all the while made it sound like a compliment. Perhaps it was. Auntie Sylvia is a total knockout.

  Where Auntie Sylvia is all about charm, Aunt Marje the stalwart is all about the unpolished facts. In-your-face style. Aunt Marje came from a racing family. She eventually held controlling interest in Hollywood Park racetrack and managed almost every inch of it herself. CEO overtime. Delegation was heretical. Aunt Marje was and is one tough cookie. I know because after college she put me to work at the track. She started me with an entry level job in the Operations Department. Carrying my father’s crocodile briefcase was perhaps over the top. No one so much as dotted an “i” without her permission. Racing is Aunt Marje’s lifeblood, from the liniment to the racing forms.

  At age eleven, with my father’s permission, Aunt Marje arranged for me to learn “real” riding. Aunt Marje hooked us up with Charlie Wittingham, a world-class Thoroughbred trainer, who in turn found me a tireless coach. Mary McGlemere exercised racehorses for a living. This female Rocky rolled straight out of bed to her one-hundred-push-up breakfast. Mary knew and loved horses and had the patience for teaching me to sit a trot, pick a hoof, and ride bareback … all of which Dad filmed. And I learned it on the backstretch of the track. Super cool. There were pros everywhere. Thoroughbred handlers, exercisers, grooms, and trainers. I can still smell the alfalfa. The environment was intoxicating. I was like a wobbly ankled kid with new ice skates. Let ’em all stare … it was a blast.

  From our booth at Madame Wu’s Garden, where we dined on our usual spareribs, egg rolls, duck, iced lychee nuts, and other delights, circa 1971.

  Sadly, I never met Audrey Hepburn. Befittingly, she wrote her congratulations note with a fountain pen, 1966. Their magnificent chemistry on-screen seemed to be quite sweet offscreen as well.

  Aunt Marje didn’t smile for everyone, but she always smiled for Dad (with Barbara).

  Chapter Eight

  Racetrack

  Aunt Marje was Dad’s entrée into the business of horseracing. Dad was enchanted. The racing world reminded him of the studios. Dad studied the workings of the track with the same diligence he’d applied to his career. He knew the bones of the place and delighted at giving new guests a tour. It resounded like a good family story that gets passed down through generations, but with fresh energy in each delivery. He spoke of Hollywood Park as one might delight in a child who’d just been accepted to an Ivy League college. The monologue went something like this: “The track has a subculture all its own. Right up front are the parking lots and their tremendous staff. And the guys are pretty personable … you’ll see. Once inside the main gate you find your tip sheet guys hootin’ their picks for the day. I never follow ’em. Jennifer’s a pretty good handicapper.… You could follow her just as well.” (Cheshire cat grin from me.) “Inside the pay gate is the main pavilion, the ‘dirt’ track, and the turf course, with the infield at center. All of which require upkeep and care. The infield is akin to a golf course in terms of watering needs. Inside the main pavilion is a virtual restaurant row.” Now, here’s where Dad really lost it. The food court was no restaurant row. It was more of a mini mall doughnut spree enviro
nment. Grease galore. But something about it fascinated him. I liken it to the adolescent “new pack of bubble gum” feeling. A whole pack. Imagine all the individually wrapped pieces. All the chewing excitement and the bubbles. I walked a bit taller with a new pack of gum in my pocket. That was Dad at the food court. He turned giddy. The food court was the main attraction of the tour. Sometimes he’d save it for in between the third and fourth race. “In a little while, we’ll go down and I’ll show you the food court!” Sigh. “Look at that, there’s a Mexican joint, a barbecue place, ice cream shop, salad bar … anything you like! And all of those places have to be stocked, managed, and operated. Think of the staff for that alone.” Now, we sat in the Directors’ Lounge, two stories up … the chichi of racing … but Dad dragged all his guests down to see the damn food court. “Up above us takes you to the PR Department and track announcers. You know, it’s a deceptively large place, there are maybe sixty thousand people here today. Let’s check the tote board for attendance. Isn’t it amazing? Computers tally the ever-changing odds on each horse and the infield display board keeps a running tab of favorites and long shots for each race. There are several levels of viewing, each of which has their own group of betting cages and ticketers. There’s the grandstand, the boxes, the Turf Club, and the Directors’ Lounge. Now, what you don’t see, behind the scenes, is the back track. The back track is home to stable boys, exercisers, veterinarians, racehorses, stable ponies, dogs, cats, you name it. The guys are back cheering for their horses.… Take a look through the binoculars. Along with them come the natural provisions of food, shelter, and medical supplies. Quite an enterprise. Isn’t it just the damnedest thing?… Shall we go get an éclair?” Livitup, Dad.