“You listen, boy. In people’s heads, dey makes people bigger and better den dey are. Peoples dey never even met. Dey got to earn yer respect. You just as big, boy. You remember dat.”
Fred’s family showed up during our lunch break. His wife was aloof, not friendly to anybody, and his daughter, who was even more beautiful than her pictures, hardly looked at me when we were introduced. Suddenly, she wasn’t so beautiful. I thought about what Willie said to me. Who the hell was she to try and make me feel small? What had she done to make her special? She was a spoiled brat. I pushed her out of my head and placed her into my mental dumpster. Then I went back to work.
What’s interesting was that something noticeably changed in me after I did this, because soon she actually looked around and found me cleaning up the appliance section and tried to be nice. Was it a classic case of “you want what you can’t have”? I can tell you it was pretty clear that she definitely wasn’t used to a janitor who couldn’t care less about her. I saw her much differently after thinking over what Willie had said, and I showed her that I had better things to do with my time than talk to the boss’s daughter . . . like wiping off refrigerators. “You just as big, boy. You remember dat.”
* * *
Singing on Happy Days opened up many great opportunities for me. One in particular started with a phone call from my agent. Susan Ford, the President’s daughter, was being crowned queen of the International Azalea Festival in Norfolk, Virginia. She had requested that I sing “America the Beautiful” at her coronation. Blown away, I said, “Yeah!”
This would be so much better than singing to a bulldog!
I arrived in Norfolk, Virginia, and was immediately whisked away to an orchestra rehearsal at the event location—a magnificent ballroom in one of the finer area hotels. Everyone involved was terrific and the rehearsal went perfectly. On my way out, one of the volunteers asked if I’d like to meet the President’s daughter. She had just finished a final fitting for her gown.
“Absolutely,” I said. “She’s the reason I’m here.”
We walked into an adjoining room, and there was Susan Ford, looking beautiful, talking with a couple of girlfriends. We were introduced, and all she said was “Hi” before turning back to her friends. Her tone was cold and curt.
Instantly, I flashed back to the day that I met Fred’s daughter. President’s daughter or not, Susan Ford didn’t earn my respect. So without uttering a word, I turned and walked out. Tracking down the chairman, I said, in no uncertain terms, that if he wanted me to attend the event and sing, he’d have to change the seating arrangements. There was no way that I’d be sitting in close proximity to Susan Ford.
After some considerable arguing, he finally agreed.
The event was spectacular, black-tie elegant. After the coronation, I sang, and then the room full of dignitaries was seated for dinner. I was sitting at least five tables away from Susan Ford, and I avoided eye contact with her all evening. The orchestra played through dinner and then, before dessert, a few couples got up to dance. I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Would you please dance with me?” It was Susan. “These people are driving me nuts.”
She appeared to be sincere so I said, “Sure.”
“I’m really sorry that I was so rude to you,” she whispered. “Something happened and I was upset. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
She earned my respect in that moment by being straight up and honest.
It turned out that Susan Ford had a great personality and was a lot of fun; we became inseparable for the rest of the evening. After taking a walk around the pristine hotel grounds (followed closely by the secret service) I said goodnight at the front door of her suite. We shared a tender kiss, and I departed. I wasn’t thinking, “I just kissed the President of the United States’ daughter.” I was thinking about a girl who I felt was really great.
I went back home, and back to work. An official invitation from the White House arrived in the mail. An afternoon tea reception was being hosted by Betty Ford and her daughter, Susan, to thank the executive committee of the Azalea Festival. Interesting, I thought. Especially because I was never on any committee . . .
I was working the day before the event, and had to fly a red-eye to Washington. It was a turbulent flight. After we landed I was driven to a nice Embassy Suites, where I slept a few hours before it was time to get ready. Still a bit out of sorts from the rough flight and a lack of sleep, I was picked up and driven to the White House.
After checking in I was escorted—with other festival folks—to the famous East Room. Waiting for us were tuxedoed helpers offering delicious iced tea and tiny sandwiches. After a few minutes, we were asked to form a receiving line. Looking up, I saw the First Lady and Susan glide down a beautiful staircase. Then they walked down the line to thank each person individually.
Reaching me, Betty Ford greeted me by name, shared how much Susan had liked my singing, and mentioned how nice I was to her. I couldn’t believe that the First Lady even knew my name. Susan then walked up with mischief in her eyes.
“Nice place ya’ got here,” I said.
“Well, you’ll just have to see more of it,” she responded before moving on.
Both Susan and her mother departed soon after thanking the final guest. One of the White House staff announced that the First Lady had granted all of us a special VIP tour of the White House that would include Lincoln’s Bedroom. The tour was long, and I was so exhausted by the time we reached that bedroom that I had to sit in a chair as the guide spoke about its history. All I could think about was my hotel bed and sleep. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A Secret Service agent said, “Susan would like to see you. Please follow me, sir.”
Bam! My adrenaline kicked in and instantaneously I was wide awake.
I followed him to the elevator that takes you up to the family residence. A kind, older gentleman was at the controls. He said he’d been working that elevator for thirty-five years. He took us up to the third floor. Then the agent and I walked down a short corridor. Stopping, the Secret Service guy pointed to a room. “Susan’s inside, sir.”
He left and I walked into the famous solarium! Built by President Taft, it was the same room where President Nixon told his family that he was resigning. It had been turned into a hangout for the Ford kids. Susan ran up to me and gave me a beer. “Told you you’d see more of this place.”
I thought she looked great in jeans and a T-shirt. A few of her girlfriends were there with her. The solarium has huge windows overlooking the expansive White House lawn. I could see Liberty, the President’s golden retriever, running around, and tourists looking through the fence. I had a sudden urge to call my best friend, Jeff Schredder, and let him guess where I was. This was 1975, though, and cell phones were not invented yet, never mind texting. All we had were answering machines, and Jeff didn’t even have that convenience. I called him from a landline but his phone just kept ringing and ringing. Jeff never did answer his first (and only) call from the White House residence.
Susan’s friends were nice and we had a great time hanging out and talking. I was feeling tired again, so I told Susan that I’d need to be getting back to my hotel.
“No way,” she said. “I’m kidnapping you to a Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes concert.”
Again, I was jolted awake. I freshened up in her bathroom, where I was gifted with a brand new White House toothbrush and used some of her personal toothpaste. I was a bit surprised at the lack of luxuries in the personal residence. Her bedroom appeared a little old-fashioned, and the aged bathroom had basic Holiday Inn type towels. Even the redone solarium had antiquated, lived-in furniture and a small, outdated kitchen. Not everything was as grand as I’d imagined it, but when we left the White House—talk about intimidating! Susan and I were seated in an official limousine, while numerous other black vehicles were positioned in front of and behind us,
all filled with agents.
Driving through Washington on a date with the President’s daughter was simply unreal. When we reached the venue, Susan and I were separated and taken to different entrances. We met again at our seats.
The concert was great. When it ended, Susan suggested that we get something to eat. To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I insisted that I pay. I had only $5 in my pocket. So the President’s daughter, the entire Secret Service detail and I got in line at Roy Rogers Roast Beef in Georgetown. Susan was a great sport about it and our bill came in just under my limit. Famished, we downed the sandwiches and fries.
At the end of the night the entire entourage drove to my hotel. Susan walked with me, alone, to the entrance. I told her it was a magical night. She gave me a warm hug and a kiss that I’ll never forget. She then turned and walked back to the open door of the waiting limo. Watching the caravan drive off, I wasn’t sleepy anymore; in fact, I’d never felt more alive.
Uncle Hank’s Heimlich Maneuver
“You give back, dat’s how it’s ’posed to be.”
My responsibilities as an assistant janitor went beyond cleaning. One Saturday afternoon, Willie and I were delivering a dining room set to a large home in an upscale Burbank neighborhood. The lady of the household met us at the door and graciously showed us where to set up her new furniture. Carrying everything inside, we noticed a children’s party going on in the expansive backyard. It turned out that she and her husband had adopted disabled twins. They had welcomed the pair into their family at three years of age; this was their seventh birthday. The couple also had two biological teenagers, and they were supervising the fun along with their mom and dad. The family’s love, patience, and connection with each other were awe-inspiring to me. It was obvious that their considerable earthly goods had not corrupted their large hearts. Watching the children from the dining room window, tears started running down Willie’s cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I’d never seen him upset like that.
Wiping his tears he said, “I had an older sister dat was born like dose kids . . . name was Maggie . . . loved her so much.” He broke down, not able to control his sobbing. “One day I gets home and she gone. My mom cryin’ hard, my dad sayin’ couldn’t afford her no mo’. Never saw her again.” He took a step closer to me. “You promise me, boy, you promise dat you gonna help people. You gonna be able to do dat. Like dey rich people here, you give back, dat’s how it’s ’posed to be . . . you always give back, boy, so nobody lose der family.”
We all experience moments in life that can define us if we allow them to, and that moment with Willie was mine. I promised him that I would always give back. I was a kid, but I instinctively knew that he didn’t just mean money; he was asking me to be aware of others. He was asking me to step outside of myself so that I could help people in their moment of need—from opening a door, to saving a life—whatever that moment of connection called out for. I promised him that I would always give back. I meant it, and it turned out that Willie’s wisdom saved many lives.
The same year that Happy Days premiered, the Heimlich maneuver was gaining regional attention. Dr. Henry Heimlich is my uncle—actually second cousin, but we are close, and I’ve always called him Uncle Hank. He created things to improve people’s lives, and invented new medical devices—the Heimlich Chest Valve, the Micro Trach, and a portable iron lung (created with Neil Armstrong, yes, the first man on the moon)— in addition to the Heimlich maneuver. When we visited each other, we would have long discussions about the importance of alternative medicine. His wife, Jane Murray Heimlich (daughter of Arthur and Kathryn Murray of ballroom dance acclaim), authored What Your Doctor Doesn’t Tell You. A pioneer in alternative therapy, she had a huge influence on Uncle Hank. She convinced him that there are effective ways to achieve better long-term health without unwarranted, expensive prescription drugs and surgical procedures recommended by profit-driven companies and individuals. She had long insisted that drug companies, food manufacturers, chemical companies, and uninformed doctors were causing unnecessary illnesses, and that unless the American people took charge of their own health, ate the right foods, exercised regularly, and stopped depending on quick-fix pills, our entire health care system would fail. Jane was right, and today our system is in a crisis mode.
My uncle looked beyond quick fixes: He researched the history of a disease, examined past cures, and then invented a more natural way to proceed that wouldn’t cause the patient more problems. His results were impressive, but were challenged by large pharmaceutical and chemical companies, as well as the highly influential American Red Cross and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), both of which were subject to intense lobbying by these companies. Why? Because Uncle Hank was threatening the companies’ bottom lines and stock values. Today, even at ninety-two years old, Hank refuses to back down. He is constantly confronting the demons he perceives behind our country’s broken health care system.
Not long after the band became a regular part of Happy Days, my Uncle Hank flew out to Los Angeles for meetings that would educate people about the importance and effectiveness of the Heimlich maneuver. He stopped by the set to visit me, and he complained about how hard it was to bring serious attention to the maneuver. As incredible as it may seem now, at the time the Red Cross was a major hurdle; they insisted that a slap on the back was the correct method to dislodge food in a choking victim and made sure that this was the message the media conveyed.
As Hank and I chatted, I received a set call from The Merv Griffin Show. I had appeared on the show a few weeks earlier, and they told me they’d ask me back. Now they were in a bit of a bind—someone had dropped out at the last minute and they wanted to know if I’d be available again that night. I looked over at Hank, and Willie’s words echoed back, “You give back, boy, so nobody lose der family.” Instantly, everything connected and I hatched a plan.
I said that I’d do the show, but first I made sure that Hank was available, and that he could meet me there. I hurried home to shower and grab the charts of the song that I’d be singing on the program. Hank met me at the theater, and was then seated in the audience. I looked all over for Merv, but he was busy, and then the show started and I still hadn’t had a chance to speak with him about what I wanted to do for my uncle. I was running out of time—and then the magic happened. After I sang my tune there was a commercial break and I was moved over to the panel to be interviewed by Merv. I had no more than 30 seconds to plead my case, so I quickly told him about Hank and the maneuver.
God bless Merv—he’d heard about it from somewhere, and seconds later, when the break was over, spontaneously, without his director, Dick Carson (yes, Johnny Carson’s brother) having any warning, he introduced Hank in the audience and began asking him questions about the Heimlich maneuver. He then invited Hank up on stage to demonstrate the maneuver on him. This act of generosity brought the Heimlich maneuver to the attention of millions of people. In just a few seconds, Merv Griffin opened people’s eyes and the Heimlich maneuver was on its way to opening their airways when needed. Merv’s attention became the catalyst for saving thousands of lives, including former President Ronald Reagan, Cher, Elizabeth Taylor, Goldie Hawn, Walter Matthau, Carrie Fisher, and Jack Lemmon. Years later, in 1985, U.S. Surgeon General Dr. C. Everett Koop endorsed the Heimlich maneuver as the only safe method to use on a choking victim.
Thousands of people’s lives have been saved since that Merv Griffin episode. Thousands continue to be saved, and will be in the future. Would I have thought to invite my uncle to sit in Merv’s audience on my own? Not if I hadn’t listened to the wisdom of a “simple” alcoholic janitor who loved and missed his disabled sister.
“You promise me, boy, you promise dat you gonna help people. You gonna be able to do dat. Like dey rich people here, you give back, dat’s how it’s ’posed to be . . . you always give back, boy, so nobody lose der family.”
Bette Davis, a Lost Legend
“He run from hisself. Don’t never run from yerself, boy.”
One Sunday, I was at work dusting off some sofas in the furniture section when a murmur of excitement traveled through Leonard’s. “One of the stars of Hogan’s Heroes is looking at washers and dryers!” people whispered. In minutes, he disrupted the whole store by bringing everyone’s attention to himself. Then, he turned down autograph requests. He made a scene with Howard, the appliance salesman, by insisting that he get what he wanted for free because of who he was. “Do you know who I am?” he said more than once. When Howard refused, he insisted on speaking with the owner, Fred.
To Fred’s credit, he diplomatically informed the self-involved star that he would have to pay like everyone else.
“Dat’s a sad man. He don’t know who he is,” Willie said to me, observing the situation.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was just a kid; it would be many years before I would truly understand what Willie meant, and just how insightful he was.
“He run from hisself. Don’t never run from yerself, boy.”
The star blustered for a few more minutes, and when a large enough crowd had gathered to stare, he stormed out of the store, making sure that it was a grand exit.
Fifteen years later, one of the most famous actresses in history would pull the same crap on me.
Almost from the beginning of Happy Days, my goal was to transition into production. I felt limited as an actor and singer, but not behind the camera. Ron Howard said that I was a natural producer, and that I should find stories that I wanted to tell. I took his advice, and for years I optioned and/or created stories. I was able to get development deals with the networks—but I never received the go-ahead to film. Truthfully, it was getting beyond discouraging.
Singing to a Bulldog Page 5
