Tag: memories

Speaking of Valley of the Dolls

Johnnie was talking about the fun of reading Jacqueline Susann and watching the wonderfully dreadful movie Valley of the Dolls. Years ago, when I was prescribed my first Vicodin, Tim would often start humming the theme song to me. Eventually, the guys imitated me crying for “my dolls” whenever the V word was mentioned.

Even before that: On the trip that Jim, Steve, and Tim made to Houston in 1999, I inflicted the usual endless photo shoots on them. One afternoon they were sitting on the bed and I was snapping away when one of us said, “You know, this looks like–” and someone else finished, “Valley of the Dolls?” And I said, “Hey, why don’t y’all–” and BEFORE I COULD FINISH THE QUESTION, this is what happened:

It remains one of my all-time favorite photos.

Steve has worked for the same company FOREVER and he’s lived in his apartment in San Diego almost that long. Periodically, he pretends that he’s going to buy his own place, and Jim always says, “Don’t listen to him. They’ll have to dynamite him out of that apartment in forty years.”

It could have happened that way… But his company offered him a promotion that meant a move to Denver. He’s already been there once, trying to learn to breathe above sea level, and Sunday he starts the drive on his second trip there. There’ll be one more return to San Diego to empty out the Eternal Apartment, then he’ll be settling in to his new place in Denver.

When he sent photos of the apartment he hoped to get, I noticed that it seemed a little familiar. No, he didn’t find another hovel apartment like the one in San Diego. Steve said he wants this apartment because, among other reasons, it makes him think of our house at The Compound. It was also built in the 1920s, but it was originally a hotel. When it was converted to apartments, the renovators kept many of the features that are similar to those in my house. It makes me happy to know that Steve thinks his new place has a little feeling of home because it reminds him of being here.

As you start your drive tomorrow, Steve, may it be in the spirit of Miss Dionne Warwick singing, “Gotta get off, gonna get–need to get–on where I’m bound.”

For any of the rest of you who need a blast from the campy past, here it is.

Farewell to the Dowager Doberman

I have loved teasing you about your age, accusing you of being anywhere from 200 to 857 years old. But I admired you for hanging in there without trying to convince us you were 35. Sometimes it was a lot of work for you to drag your stiff old self out of those cozy blankets and do your part in guarding Green Acres and The Compound, but you did it. You suffered through the occasional indignity like diapers with a look that clearly said, You humans; what foolishness will you think of next? And even though you were never a cuddly dog, and there were some things that made you timid, you were always ready to stand still for a pat on the head and an ear scratch.

You were loyal and loving to Craig, and when he died last year, because your own health had been failing, most of us thought you’d soon follow. You stayed behind for more than a year, maybe because you knew you needed to teach some manners to those pups Sue and Minute, but also because you still had love and comfort to give to Lynne. You understood what Laura asked from you, and you will be missed by her and Jess, who you helped take from childhood to the fine man he is today. You were his friend for fifteen years!

You were unfailingly kind to Margot and Guinness, for which I will always be grateful. And you let Seig and Rex know that it’s best not to annoy a female of a certain age because nobody can quite put you in your place like a tough old broad.

We were happy to offer you River’s crate so you could have a safe place to sleep. Tim was glad to take care of you when Lynne traveled. (He told us how, when you thought no one was looking, you sometimes summoned up your inner puppy and played well with others.) And Margot was delighted to sneak onto your pillow whenever she found it empty during your visits to The Compound.

I personally will always think of you under Lynne’s oversized, glass-topped coffee table, where you could keep an eye on everything and feel safe from the frisky dogs and many feet to be found in a home that is always open with warmth and welcome to friends and neighbors. I will think of feeding you by hand whenever I had the care of you. Yeah, I knew you were pulling a fast one on me, but I loved those quiet minutes just the two of us spent together, me talking, you listening and offering wisdom in a way dogs can.

Goodbye, Greta. I celebrate your living and the best of the spirit in you. I take comfort that you’re out of pain and “now you’re sleeping peaceful.”


Greta, Craig’s Dog
Companion to Lynne, Jess, Laura, Sparky, Minute, Seig, and Sue
Run free with Heidi, Hershey, Bubba, Pete, Stevie, and River

A roundabout way to say happy birthday

I’ve been married twice to dark-haired men with brown eyes. And in my past are some green- and blue-eyed blonds. But the alluring combination that I often use for the men I write are those with dark hair and blue eyes. I think I’m drawn to this combination because when I was three or four, I fell in love for the first time with the man I assured everyone I was going to grow up and marry. He had wonderful Elvis-blue eyes and dark hair and his name was Charles. Unfortunately, he was quite a bit older, not to mention that he married my cousin Rachel, who I adored.

The second man with dark hair and blue eyes that I fell in love with was Ricky Nelson. He first came into America’s homes via our televisions before I was even born and was a married father by the time I knew who he was. But this was the man who Life magazine coined the term “teen idol” to describe, and whether I was watching him on syndicated episodes of Ozzie and Harriet or sitting riveted to the TV whenever he appeared on any show, he was definitely an idol of mine. I dreamed that I was the Mary Lou who made this “Teenage Idol” say goodbye to his heart. I wanted to keep every place this “Travelin’ Man” went from being a “Lonesome Town.”

In 1970, Ricky Nelson covered one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “She Belongs to Me.” I like Ricky’s version best (and it was banned on some of our North Alabama radio stations because they thought it was dirty and might put ideas in young girls’ heads–as if looking at Ricky wouldn’t do that for me anyway).

So, Miss Shannon, if you are into downloading music from iTunes or some other online source, then may I suggest that you get yourself a copy of the late Ricky Nelson singing “She Belongs to Me,” because I hereby dedicate this song to you on your birthday, and I sang it along with Ricky earlier and sent you good wishes.

If you know the lyrics, you’ll understand why.

Salute. =)

Photo Friday, No. 54

This week’s Photo Friday theme: Vacation.

About this photo:

April of 2001 in Houston was the first time that the four writers who make up the Timothy James Beck team were all together in the same place after having known each other for nearly four years. We did work that week–we were asked to write a sitcom script–but It Had to Be You was already with the publisher and we hadn’t yet firmed up He’s the One, so it was also a vacation. We laughed in a way that we’d never be able to laugh again when we were all together, because that fall, everything would change.

I love all the photos from that Texas gathering, but this one of Timothy Forry, taken while we were all goofing off at Niko Niko’s, is one of my favorites because he’s giving me a little attitude.