Unto Each Life … a Little Rain

There has recently been widespread reporting on the wild and wooly winter weather that has crisscrossed the nation. The other day found Washington, D.C. basking in 82 degrees while ice and snow fell on random places in the west: the beaches of Brookings, Oregon; the Grapevine section of the 5 freeway just north of Los Angeles; and yes, inexplicably atop the Hollywood sign.

Living in Texas for ten years, I had grown accustomed to crazy weather. Storms moved in so quickly across its vast expanse that temperatures could drop by as much as sixty degrees overnight. I quite liked the impulsiveness of nature in that part of the country: the thundering downpours, an unexpected sighting of my breath as first Democracy (my wolfdog) and then Roxy and I walked and walked. The problem is not the crazy weather there, but the crazy people in leadership who refuse to govern, often leaving the citizens without essential services when it hits. Leaving them exposed … leaving them literally in the cold and dark. It once happened to me for five days running.

“Snowmageddon”, we called it. It was not fun.

On Saturday there was a break in the crazy weather here in L.A. (which no one is accustomed to), so I ran out to pick up supplies. My nephews were coming over for steaks and a game of Liverpool in the continued celebration of my birthday. It is a high compliment that those two gorgeous, talented young guys agreed to join their old auntie on a hot Saturday night, but then it wasn’t actually hot … freezing is more like it. Still, I appreciated the effort. They are good men.

I was coming out of Bristol Farms, a lovely high-end grocer, when it began to hail in earnest. Great quarter-sized pelts began hurling sideways though the formerly–as in, just moments ago–blue skies.

“Oh dear,” said an elderly gentleman who was looking out at the blizzarding parking lot.

He was clutching his bag of groceries (this is a one-bag store; two bags will put you in the poor house) and wore a grey sweatshirt with a grey scarf wound around his head and throat.

“This is wild,” I remarked, sharing his gaze at the scene.

“I’ve walked here,” he said in distress. “Thought it was going to be clear for a bit and, you know, I could stretch my legs.”

“Well, you can’t walk back. Not in this. Please, let me drive you, sir. My car is just outside.”

“Oh, would you?” he asked, gratefully.

“Of course! Come on, let's make a dash for it.”

We raced around the corner to my car and jumped in. When I took my hood off, he said:

“I know you. I’m sure that I do!”

I took a closer look at him.

“I know you too, but I don’t know why.”

“I’m Jeffrey. I used to work with dear Mary Frann.”

“Oh, gosh that’s it! I remember now!”

We reminisced about Mary Frann and commented on the remarkable weather. He was so animated that we drove past his apartment twice before he finally guided me to the building. We exchanged numbers and promised to stay in touch. Maybe we will. This town is as socially unpredictable as its recent weather. That takes some getting used to, but I rather like it. Keeps me guessing.

Mary Frann played the wife on the second Bob Newhart show. The one that took place at an inn in the mountains. I didn’t watch it much, but I liked it. It was a funny show. It also featured three brothers named Larry, Darryl, and Darryl, and the deft comedic actor Julia Duffy.

As happens to so many actresses over forty-five, Mary found herself with little to no work after the show ended. This was very hard on her, but she mostly put on a brave face about it. She was a sweet big-hearted lady, and I very much enjoyed her company back when we volunteered together at the L.A. Mission.

Mary died in her sleep at the age of fifty-five. The cause remains a mystery, but her then-boyfriend said at her memorial that the “business” had killed her. Show business can be tough. It can beat you down if you let it, but it cannot in fact kill you. There are laws about that.

Mary Frann was sweet and funny, and–however it happened–she died too young.

If show business is fixing to kill you, please just quit it. The world will keep turning without your star turn. Go somewhere affordable and find some way to be happy. Life is long if you are lucky. Be lucky.

Los Angeles continues to be unusually cold. Famous for its desert cold nights, the days have been short, dark, and frigid. I have been searching through my closets in vain for some winter hats … a knit cap would come in handy right now, or at the very least some earmuffs. There are some here somewhere, dang it.

This morning Roxy and I went into Beverly Hills on our first foray of the day. The homes there are stately and gorgeous, but it is the trees that leave me gaping, that cause me to just stop and stare. Giant evergreens line one street, towering palms the next. Jacarandas are all about, and roses abound. As usual, there was very little activity on the streets. We sometimes encounter an occasional jogger or maybe a housekeeper or two walking the family dog, but it is otherwise generally quiet.

In Beverly Hills the task of walking the pets is allocated to the help. It always amazes me that people would play so dearly to live in an enchanted neighborhood and never set foot in it. Rich people are a funny lot.

Roxy and I headed home taking Burton Way. It is a beautiful street, lined with pre-war buildings. It has been marred by construction lately, but still offers visual stimulation. We were just ambling about when the sun suddenly broke through the clouds and offered a welcome burst of warmth. As I looked toward the north, I saw the rain-soaked hills which are now vividly green framed by a metallic blue sky. A magical sight. I can close my eyes and conjure it still; it was that striking.

As has been mentioned on several websites and in many publications, I have just turned sixty-four. No point in lying about it, and I wouldn’t anyway. I am almost ten years older now than Mary was when she breathed her last. Show business has been very good to me. It has occasionally hurt my feelings, but it could not kill me if it tried. Something will though, somewhere down the line, so I am soaking up every bit of life that I can. 

As a months-long celebration of my birthday draws to a close, as the yoga mat once again unfurls and the calories begin to be counted, I can honestly say that I am a happy gal. I don’t have everything in life that I wanted, but I am everything that I wanted to be when I grew up. That’s some serious luck right there.

Boy howdy, is it ever. 

On we go …