Good Stuff Page 9

  As far as dating goes, neither of my parents was big on the sport. Dad was always a family guy; it just took him a lot of figuring. Five wives. I’ve heard it said that jazz is just a note away from chaos. So, if missing the mark, one may be exquisitely close. It’s amazing that Dad never lost faith in the institution of marriage. He was a relationship guy. He liked the day-to-days. I know he dated a bit when I was growing up, but seldom at best.

  When Mom dated, I always knew and occasionally put up quite a stink. Poor Milos Forman. In that scathing adolescent way, I hated him. Mom and Milos dated for a while. One night they invited me to dinner. Mom was paying attention to her date. This guy, this hairy guy, was flirting with my mom right before my eyes. Who cares if he directed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? I threw a silent temper tantrum by lying down in the booth. Mom quickly escorted me to the car, where I spent the remainder of the meal. At least I didn’t have to watch some flirty adult mess unfold.

  Willie joined us for our photo with the president. The Indian silk dress I wore was one of Dad’s favorites. I believe this was taken in Century City, California, in 1974 or 1975.

  Until about the age of twelve, nannies were a built-in piece of the household at Mom’s and Dad’s. Mom had a revolving door of “housekeeper, cook, nanny” women. Oddly, I don’t remember any of them too well. They melded into one nanny figure who lived in a room just outside the house. Mom’s work schedule was necessarily erratic. Someone had to “be there” for Jennifer. So, if Mom was off at an appointment, nanny woman was there. As far as I remember, Dad had a total of two nannies at 9966. Mom fired the first, Mimi, when she discovered Mimi’s hidden gun. Literally. Mimi hid a gun in her purse. Not ideal for tending to an infant. So even when Mom wasn’t there all the time, she kept watch, knew the score, and took care of business if need be. Thereafter, Dad hired the second, and only other, nanny, directly from Mom. Mom fired Willie and Dad hired her. Well, I liked Willie. So what if she wasn’t a good housekeeper?

  Willie Watson. “Don’t you pay them no never mind. You pay attention to your business and let them take care of theirs. Easy as that.” My best nanny of all time, by far. Pure, wise, simple, kind, and funny. Who could entertain a thought while catching a whiff of that mouthwatering-to-this-day chocolate cake? Willie had that Southern way of running the show without calling attention to the fact that she was running the show. Willie’s eyes smiled when her mouth couldn’t. Willie was no meek, take-orders type. Even when she seemed to comply, she did it her way in the end. After Barbara came to live with us, Willie had to go. Sadly, we lost our need for Willie. There just wasn’t room enough for two women to run the show at 9966. Willie was the only “help” that managed to penetrate into the inner sanctum. Willie was, for many years, family.

  Mom and Dad espoused polar opposite educational paradigms. A great deal of work went into choosing my grammar schools. True to form, Dad favored a highly disciplined, scholastically oriented program like that at Buckley, where I was made to curtsy and wear a proper uniform. Mom went with the more free-to-be, artistic, creative learning approaches such as Carden Malibu, where there were horses in the backyard and my jeans got dirty. Both of my parents were independent, driven, successful, talented, happy artists. Neither understood where my fondness for further education began. Mom regarded my algebra the way one might eyeball a new breed of animal—“What is that?”

  Dad “homeschooled” me in life seven days a week. Though I attended kindergarten, grammar school, grade school, and the lot, Dad was there to daily supplement the curriculum. Essentially, he passed down a healthy curiosity for life and a love of learning. Dad educated through play. “How do you spell ‘Nixon,’ darling? N-I-X-O-N. And who do you think our next president will be, darling?” “Ford.” “You know dear, I think you’re right.” I was well versed in politics by the age of six.

  WHEN IT CAME TIME for college, while excited about my commitment, Mom and Dad never mandated any prescribed course of action. Their prerogative was my happiness. Dad’s view was “If you know what you want to do with your life, get out there and do it. There’s nothing that compares with on-the-job training. No school like the school of hard knocks. Otherwise, college will buy you some time, and there are some fascinating courses.… I wish I could enroll.” Dad was intrigued by formal education, but his route to learning was life. Dad got kicked out of grade school for jumping the fence to the girls’ locker room. Mom served two years of college before beelining to Los Angeles and acting. If I wanted a jump start, it would come from my own passions, not pressure from home. Mom and Dad both happily accepted my choice of Stanford. They were proud of me for sticking with my education, wherever it might lead. I liked the idea of law.… Mom thought it sounded neat, dramatic! She could see me on the courtroom floor, pleading someone’s case. Dad’s dream scenario envisioned me as composer and mother. Stay-at-home work. Funnily enough, neither parent wanted me to act. It’s the old do as I say, not as I do conundrum. Well, they were both happy with their careers. So, challenging or not, eventually my passions won out and drove me to acting, too.

  This note referenced either my phone bill or quarterly income taxes. By age twelve, I was given an account and directives to mail the necessary checks on time. Circa 1978.

  Most of my childhood with Mom and Dad was spent as an only child living with a single parent. It was either me and Mom or me and Dad. Lots of intimate time. Lots of discussion. Lots of silence and watching and really knowing another individual. It was difficult for anyone else to forge their way into that bond. So many years of quiet togetherness, of staring one person in the face.… I had a chance to know both of my parents in a unique way. No siblings running around, vying for attention. Mom could fly me around on her legs until I begged for release. “Nope,” she’d say. “I’m going to send your dinner up there. Lamb chops in the air.” No one else to push me from my pedestal. Dad and I could revel in “Pippy and Tippy” (our make believe birds) bedtime stories that were ours and ours alone. No third voice to chime in. Until the age of twelve, no major partners for either parent. Boyfriends and girlfriends, sure. But they were peripheral to our bond. We were the glue. I had plenty of friends, but my parents were my main buddies. They were my touchstones. I identified with Mom and Dad first. My formative experience of family is me and my parent. Two of us.

  Dad’s favorite photo of me, circa 1970. Having found some upholstery fabric lying about at 9966, I “made” a dress.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Beautiful English Woman in Dad’s Jennifer-Blue Cadillac

  When I was about ten or so, Dad went to the Cadillac dealership to pick out a car and discovered the color Jennifer Blue. Now, as far as Cadillacs were concerned, Dad had a preference for white. Not this time. Dad drove a sky blue Cadillac for as many years as they made the color. He would excitedly announce to everyone within earshot, “It’s Jennifer blue. It was listed next to all the other normal colors, pure white, crimson red, emerald green, and Jennifer blue!” Now here’s a man who tailored his look. Style was in his bones. Simple. Classic. Less is more. And here he is driving a car that’s sky blue. He enjoyed the meaning he derived from it.

  When I met Barbara, she was sitting alongside Dad in the front seat of that same Jennifer-blue car. Barbara and Dad were waiting at the door of Mom’s house at 98 Malibu Colony. It was Dad’s weekend with me. I supposed since Barbara was in the front it meant I should sit in the back. Hmm. She seemed a little uptight. We had a two-hour drive to Palm Springs ahead of us … this could be bad. What I don’t remember is Dad introducing the idea of Barbara. Presumably he alerted me to the fact that a new friend would be joining us for our weekend excursion to Uncle Charlie’s. Did he say “friend”? “Girlfriend”? Hmm. Whatever the pretext, from the start, somehow, this one was different from his other “friends.” For one, she was sitting in my seat. Unheard of.

  Barbara recalls us hitting it off right away. She was quite nervous to meet me. I was the apple of her man’s eye; it
was important that things went smoothly between us. I was wary for different reasons. Dad was paying special attention to her. He watched after her the way he watched after me. That was annoying. She made him smile. Laugh even. Uh-oh. What could this mean? It’s all over my face in some of the earliest photos of Barbara and me. I’m almost scowling. Sneering. As if to say, “Sure, I’ll pose here and pretend we’re best friends for you, Dad … yeah right.” Something about the way he looked at her. There was admiration in it. Yeah, she was pretty, but that was icing. This woman had integrity, wit, style, elegance, all the social graces, and she was … sensible. Feminine, but no frills. Oh boy, this one would be challenging. I’d met only a couple of other girlfriends and they didn’t compare to this one at all.

  I was used to getting all the attention, girlfriend or no. It was the first time I wanted to wear high heels in my life. I suppose I fixated on the heels as the defining difference between us. Barbara probably received attention because she wore adult sexy stuff. Attack the issue from the gross superficial level. At least it would minimize the differences. Well, I was twelve. Heels weren’t an option. One inch max. I’d salivate at the sight of corkies in the shoe store window. The poor salesmen. I must’ve tried them on twenty or thirty times. I would strut around in a circle dreamily playing grown-up, attention-getting sexy woman for five minutes in the Malibu shoe store. Barbara’s moving in with us was another first. Only two women had spent the night before this … but live with us? It was a graceful, natural transition. Now I could play sexy high heel lady in her closet, with her miraculous shoe collection—just don’t let Dad catch us!

  Dad met Barbara in London. She worked in public relations at the Royal Lancaster Hotel. Though he asked her to lunch immediately, it took Barbara quite a while to notice his attraction. The forty-six-year age gap threw her off the scent. Much to Dad’s dismay she had a boyfriend, and when asked, she’d happily speak of him. Slowly but surely my father’s persistence won her over.

  The real pisser was that Barbara genuinely won me over. Even if she was a bit “English,” proper and reserved. She was still fun. Silly fun. We’d create our own waltzes. Rascal fun. She’d fart in a public place and play it off as mine, aghast with “Jennifer!” Smart fun. She’d pander to the annoying tourists in our driveway. Barbara even told dirty jokes. With her ever so perfect accent, the foulest of language sounded docile. Damn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dad and Barbara

  1970 · DAD’S BEDROOM AT 9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE

  Dad and I play make-believe. We’re going to a party.

  JG: Anni-re-versary party.

  CG: Anni-re-versary? What’s that?

  JG: It means a wedding.

  CG: Oh.

  JG: It’s a party in the snow. With bears.

  Jennifer makes car sounds. We’re driving to the party.

  JG: Grrrrrrr … grrrrrrr … I’m the bear.

  We play for a while. Go to many different parties…

  CG: I’m tired of parties. I want to stay home and read a book.

  Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do … I’m half crazy all for the love of you. It won’t be a stylish marriage. I can’t afford a carriage. But you’d look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.

  Okay, Dad wasn’t big into bicycling anymore, and he could afford a carriage … but the tone still fits. Whatever physical magic they had, with Dad and Barbara it was friendship first. They were constantly together. When they met, Barbara was forging a promising career. My father cherished his time with Barbara and urged her to quit work. Eventually, happily for both of them, she succumbed. They had nine precious uninterrupted years together.

  Prior to proposing marriage to Barbara, my father proposed his proposal to me. He literally asked my approval to marry. Dad flew up to Santa Catalina School for girls for a talk on the lawn. On a sunny, cool, crisp northern California afternoon we sat on the grass together and Dad let it all out. He needed to know my feelings. Would I be happy if they married? Would I resent her? Would I feel safe at home? Would I still know that he loved me and that nothing could ever come between us? Would I still want to visit? My room would always be my room. What did I think? Did I love her, too? Did I approve of his choice? My mother would always be my mother, but Barbara could be a good friend to me. Well. Shiver me timbers. Hell yes. “Yes, Dad. Marry her. Be happy together. I’m thrilled for you.” “You know this will affect your inheritance, darling. You’ll receive far less money if I marry Barbara. You’ll split everything, but I’ll give the house, which is worth quite a bit of money, to her.” “Okay, Dad.” What did the money mean to me at the time? Really. I’d always have plenty. Dad would be happy. They would be happy together. Their happy relationship benefited me, as well. When I was a child, my father’s peace of mind was paramount to me. When the time came to venture off to college, knowing Barbara was by his side gave me the courage to spread my wings. I could leave the nest and know that he was well loved. Fly off on my own and know that someone would be there to make him smile and to care for him, every day and night, and I could at last relax. My dad was in love. Yes, Dad! Merrily marry Barbara!

  My mother has often regarded Barbara in amazement—“I could never be that.” Mom and Barbara are two such different women. Mom is a “doer” of the first order. A career woman. Barbara loves being married, caring for the nest, the garden, her friends, and her man and not necessarily working. It’s who they are. However different they may be, they share the Steel Magnolia quality. Two beautiful, in their own ways feminine, and powerfully strong women. I lucked out.

  In those awful, the-world-is-an-ugly-place moments, when I’m busy mistaking my darkness for depth, my thoughts have visited the dark side with Barbara. Here’s a piece of that monologue: “He was old. She was young, beautiful, active, strong. Why not be with a young man? Why be stuck in the house with an eighty-something-year-old dude? Even if he was Cary Grant. Did she want fame? She didn’t have to put up with him for long, and then she was financially set for life. Money grubber!” Well. Here’s the rub. I saw her love him. Not Cary Grant the legend, but Cary Grant the sometimes quite difficult to live with man. Barbara “got” him. She shared his precise nature, his attention to detail, and empathized with the man whose scrupulous conscience kept him awake at night. She could actually explain his anxieties to me in ways I’d never before imagined. I watched her lose twenty pounds when he died. We shared the loss of his love and I could feel it on her. And then … we helped each other step out of our black holes, as we continue to now. If Dad were a five-foot-tall, middle-class, eighty-year-old from Poughkeepsie, he wouldn’t have been Cary Grant—the man we happened to love. Look, who wouldn’t want the money—right? Perhaps in typical only-child fashion I should’ve inherited everything! My sincere bet is if Barbara could’ve had him for twenty more years, she’d have gladly pushed for twenty-five. All the flowers, the cards, the hollow flash of fame, the taffeta, the silk and diamonds, the real estate, the prominent connections—terrific stuff as it is, in the face of losing one’s partner … it’s a hill o’ beans.

  Faith in my family, which includes Barbara, takes far more courageous introspection than bowing to the skepticism of vilification. Vilification, which at its root is bleak, undigested self-flagellation. “Barbara must have had ulterior motives” is cagily disguised “I would have been better by his side” thinking, flagellation of the “why didn’t I do more for him? Why wasn’t I always there to meet his every need?” egotistic sort. If I accept that it was okay to go off to school and become a “young woman” leading her own life, then I accept that it was okay for Barbara and Dad to have their life without me. I wasn’t needed the way I used to be. That’s okay. I didn’t leave him at home with a monster, I left him at home with someone who loved him and cared for him in ways I never could or should have. Prior to their marriage, I was closest to Dad. After their marriage, we all shared that bond. For the last several years of his life, Dad needed his companion, mat
e, friend, lover, and partner at his side. Dad needed his Barbara.

  BARBARA AND DAD went the uncommon extra mile for each other. In 1981 Barbara had the excellent good sense to assemble a birthday tape for Dad with messages from pals around the globe. Barbara sent cassette tapes with instructions for each participant to record their own personalized birthday message for Dad. Barbara then compiled these tapes into one grand birthday tape. The endeavor began as a one-time thing, but it was such a tremendous hit that Barbara served it up a second year. Actually, I think a couple of the tapes missed their deadline, providing Barbara the impetus for a follow-up. The roster was impressive.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARY 1981

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARY 1982

  Jennifer

  Jennifer

  Charlie Rich

  George Burns

  Fred de Cordova

  Bobby Altman

  Johnny Carson

  George Steinbrenner

  Glenn & Cynthia Ford

  Cy Coleman

  Roddy Mann

  Walter Cronkite

  Frank & Barbara Sinatra

  Irene Selznick

  Norton & Jennifer Simon

  Cubby & Dana Broccoli

  Gregory & Veronique Peck