by Wendy Walker
I left work early and gathered my roommates together to tell them that I would be Joe Kennedy’s dinner date that very night at Hickory Hill for a dinner given by Ethel Kennedy to honor Don Klosterman. I did the research to find out who Klosterman was but God only knew who else would be at the dinner and I had no money (thanks to my work at the gallery) and no decent clothes. When I put my head together with my roommates, Torrey and Cynthia, we decided that the nicest dress that any of us owned was rolled up in a ball on its way to the cleaners. I pulled the gray knit dress out of Torrey’s car and I ran an iron over it. It was dowdy and conservative and it would have to do.
Then I called my mom. “Ethel Kennedy just asked me to go to Hickory Hill, that huge house in McLean, Virginia,” I told her. “I’m supposed to be Joe Kennedy’s dinner partner. She’s sending a car for me.”
“I don’t want you getting into a car with a strange man,” Mom said protectively. “You don’t know those boys and I don’t want you driving around with them.”
“Mrs. Kennedy is sending a woman to pick me up,” I assured her. “Her name is Caroline Croft.”
That seemed to placate my mother. As I got ready for my big night, she told the rest of the family and one sister after another called me with advice.
“What are you going to wear?” said Peggy.
“How will you do your hair? You have to look really good,” said Terry.
My third sister, Mary, being a little more scholarly than the rest of us, said, “Let me tell you about Joe Kennedy.” She gave me a rundown, offering me all the information she had on this man, next to whom I would be sitting at dinner.
I was too nervous and excited to listen well. Why had Ethel Kennedy called me? When I finally stared into the mirror, with the addition of a string of very small pearls, a headband, and conservative heels, I looked like Alice in Wonderland as a matron: dumpy and all dressed up for a dinner party, looking the best I could considering what I had to work with.
I thought about the dinner ahead of me and how poorly prepared I felt. But I had earned this invitation and there was a reason. I had been funny and engaging when I met Ethel, serving her and making sure she had what she wanted. And she had considered me someone interesting enough to invite to dinner. Now, I was as ready as I would ever be when the lovely Caroline Croft arrived to pick me up in her long pastel silk shirt with flowing silk pants that looked somewhat like a caftan. I immediately decided she was the coolest person I had ever met. After all, she had worked for Senator Ted Kennedy for years. Now, she was executive director of the Robert F. Kennedy Foundation for which she coordinated fund-raisers. She actually managed to put me somewhat at ease, even though I knew I looked like a twenty-four-year-old dweeb. She was very kind to me and eventually, she ended up becoming a friend.
Of course I was in awe when we pulled up in front of Hickory Hill at dusk. I gazed at the sweeping grounds that I had seen only in photographs, swallowed hard, and entered through the front door to be greeted by Ethel Kennedy herself. After a moment of small talk, she introduced me to her son Joe, who was wearing a pair of nice dress pants and a blue jean shirt. He was close to my age and had a friendly face with a big Ken doll smile and a warm personality. He was a really nice guy and when he took a look at me, I could only imagine what he was thinking since I was clearly overdressed for the occasion as I stood there looking like a religious Barbie doll.
I wanted to retreat into a corner. I felt so out of place and awkward, but instead, I had a good time engaging with people in some great conversations. No sitting in the corner and just watching, I reminded myself. I needed to be interesting and interested. As a result, the evening was fun and I would discover later that this was just the kind of party that Ethel loved throwing. She was happiest when her house was filled with children, dogs, and appetizing smells from the kitchen. Wonderful historical paintings covered the walls in this beautiful colonial home, and Joe made lively dinner conversation and treated me with respect.
I scanned the dinner guests to see humorist and satirist Art Buchwald, Vernon Jordan, and Don Klosterman for whom the party was being thrown, and diverse Washington notables—a fun and rowdy group. I realized that Ethel had invited me because when we met she pegged me as an interesting person. Since she wanted some nice girls to attend her party that was overrun with men, she had called me, feeling that I would fit in. I was age-appropriate for Joe, but really, I was desperately out of my league with him and I knew it.
Toward the end of the evening, when people were starting to leave, I began to say my good-byes. I could hardy wait to get back home where my roommates were having a party to celebrate my dinner with the Kennedy clan. They were waiting for me to give them the scoop about the people who were there, the food, the decor, and of course, Joe. I politely thanked him for the evening and just as I was about to leave with Caroline, Joe said, “You don’t really want to leave right now, do you?”
I was taken aback. Was he asking me to stay? Did he like me enough to want to spend more time with me?
“Why don’t you stay for a while,” he said, “and I’ll take you home a little later?”
I considered my options. There was a group of people waiting for me back home, drinking beer and impatient to hear about my evening. I could play it safe and go home right then with very little to report about the night. Or I could stick around, have Joe Kennedy drive me home, and arrive with a terrific story.
I went for the story and I stayed for another hour while Joe walked me around the house and showed me the back rooms with photographs that were legendary. He was altogether charming, he was a perfect gentleman, and I was glad I had stayed behind. I soaked in all the historical references from my in-depth tour, but little did I know that in the not too distant future, I would be in Ethel’s employ and Hickory Hill would be a place where I would report to work each day. But I get ahead of myself.
On that night, when the last people were leaving, Joe escorted me to a white convertible, opened my door for me, and went around the car to get into the driver’s seat. “Oh, my gosh,” he said, “I didn’t realize I was so low on gas.”
The sirens went off in my head. Oh, God, I thought, I’m in trouble now. Reminders of Paris flashed through my mind, but Joe managed to get me back to my little townhouse without getting stuck in the middle of the Georgetown Parkway. He parked in front of my house and when I reached over to hug him good-bye, the next thing I knew, he kissed me. I kissed him back. He was a great kisser, and we steamed up the car windows for a while. Suddenly, he said, “Don’t you want to invite me in?”
I had never wanted anything more, but I couldn’t invite Joe Kennedy up to my house where my friends were having a Wendy Went to the Kennedys’ for Dinner party. It would look so lame. Instead, I kissed him one more time, thanked him, and reluctantly headed toward my apartment. When I turned to catch a glimpse of the back of his car disappearing down the street, I noticed something lying on the road. I walked back to find Joe’s navy blazer that had fallen out of the car when I got out. I picked it up and thought, “This is a great souvenir of one of the most amazing nights of my life.”
When I finally got inside, blazer in hand, my friends were all over me, wanting to know every little detail of what we ate, who was there, and how I liked Joe. I told them how the people looked, what they wore, what was served, and how queer my clothes were. When I finally got into bed, I looked at the navy blazer sitting on the chair beside my bed. I decided I would frame it with the caption, “I had one date with Joe Kennedy and all I got was this lousy blazer.” Then I laughed myself to sleep.
Now I had a great albeit a bit embarrassing story to tell, but little did I know, it wasn’t over. The night after the dinner party at Hickory Hill, I got back from the gallery and ate a light supper with my roommates. Three of us girls were hanging out in the living room and I had on a horrible flannel nightgown with lace around the neck, granny-style. We were enjoying a relaxing evening, knitting, crocheting, and gossiping about
men. A total loser kind of night…
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I jumped up and threw the door open to see Joe Kennedy standing there, smiling at me. “Hi,” he said, “sorry to bother you, but did you find my blazer? I think it fell out of the car when I was dropping you off.”
“Yeah,” I said, returning his smile in spite of myself. “I found it in the street. Just wait a minute.” I took off toward my bedroom, granny gown and all, got the blazer I was going to frame, and handed it to him.
“Thanks so much,” he said, turned around, and he was gone.
I closed the door and headed back to the couch, picked up my knitting and thought, First it was the Alice in Wonderland gray knit with the pearls, and now I’m in the mother of all granny nightgowns. Too bad Joe Kennedy will never know how way cool I really am.
BE SOMEONE OTHERS WANT TO BE AROUND
We’re all attracted to people who are lively, stimulating, and fun to be with—the ones who see the glass half full. Don’t you like being with someone who makes you laugh, treats others with kindness, and is funny and engaging? This kind of person is doing things in life as opposed to people who are not, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell the difference.
Close your eyes right now, and think about two people you love to be around. Now think of two people you would not want to sit beside at a dinner party. We all know the type—they talk only about themselves, their energy is negative, and all they do is tell you about their problems. Do you want to be that kind of person, the one who gets your place card switched at a dinner party because no one wants to sit next to a complainer? Wouldn’t you rather be the one whose place card gets switched because everyone wants you at their table?
When I was in the most painful part of my divorce, I spoke with Arianna Huffington, politico and founder of the Huffington Post. Having just survived a public divorce of her own, she told me, “People don’t want to hear about my pain. So I don’t talk about it.”
I got the same lesson from Nancy Reagan when Larry and I had dinner with her one evening after her husband had passed away.
Larry asked her, “How are you doing?”
“I don’t talk about it,” she said.
“Why not?” Larry said.
“Because no one wants to hear about someone else’s sorrow,” she said.
So this was even true for Nancy Reagan who was talking about a president? Apparently so.
The key to being an interesting person is to stop complaining, step outside yourself, and be interested in others. Here are some basic rules that will work in your favor:
• When someone comes to your table, stand up and show your respect, whether they are older or younger.
• Remember what your mother taught you and listen well.
• Look people directly in the eye if you expect them to remember you.
• Shake someone’s hand and let them know you’re happy to see them.
• Smile.
My boyfriend, Randy, is a master at making people happy. He was trained to do this when he worked with the pharmaceutical company Eli Lilly, and it stuck. Today, he treats others with so much interest and kindness, no one ever wants him to leave, including me! The point is that when you make someone feel good about themselves, they will remember you and the fact that you have good energy. In a spiritual sense, that’s what it’s all about. Good energy attracts good energy. But you have to be real about it and not just pay other people lip service. Being available, interested, and interesting is a lifestyle, not a momentary action.
Do you know anyone in your life who says all the right stuff, who “acts” interested, maybe they remember your kid’s name and they ask about you, but you know they really don’t care? They’re acting nice but the energy behind their actions doesn’t lie. You can tell the difference when someone is truly engaged and when someone pretends to care, while in truth they’re thinking only about themselves and what they can get from you.
I recently attended a seminar near San Diego at the Chopra Center for Wellbeing in Carlsbad, California. The seminar was entitled Sages and Scientists, and many scientists and philosophers spoke over the three days. There was a great deal of valuable information given out, but in my opinion the best advice of the weekend came from one scholar who got up toward the end and said very simply, “Be nice. You know, the Golden Rule!”
This does not exclude being strong, forceful, or creative. We can be nice, too, and that will make you feel better about yourself. If you run into a jerk in your life, you don’t have to be one, too. Why drop to a level of negativity and rudeness that will hurt everyone involved, including you? As Sun-tzu says about the art of war, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” I would add, “And be nice to all of them.”
CHAPTER 3
Details Matter: They Are Everything
I was still working at the art gallery when I got a call from a woman I didn’t know named Suzy Wills. “Is this Wendy?” she asked in a fast-paced voice.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“I work for Ethel Kennedy,” Suzy said, “and she was wondering if you were interested in becoming her private secretary. She needs someone to basically run her life. You know, make calls, set up meetings, help her with social events, carry out her correspondences, things like that.”
Suzy went on to inform me that Ethel, a woman of about fifty, was extremely active and extraordinarily focused on details. I recalled her high energy level when I had waited on her at Brooks Brothers and at the dinner I had attended at her home. She got loads of phone calls every day, Suzy explained, and she was very busy with her huge family and running her charity—a humanitarian foundation dedicated to the memory of her late husband, Robert F. Kennedy, gunned down by an assassin’s bullet on June 5, 1968. Ethel had been forty years old at the time. Now, in 1978, ten years later, was I interested in the position?
I didn’t take long to answer. I was making so little money at the gallery, I could barely eat, and I was getting more bored every day. So I listened carefully when Suzy explained what the job would entail. “You’ll be keeping track of what’s going on at the house,” she said. “Ethel needs all her calls, appointments, and phone numbers organized. There are a million details.”
I smiled. I always had excelled in organizing. Maybe this would be a good job for me.
“For example,” Suzy said, “Mrs. Kennedy needs help putting on a charity tennis tournament this summer where pros will play celebrities. It’s a fund-raiser for her late husband’s charity,” Suzy continued. “It’s happening in Forest Hills, New York, in August, and it’ll be televised by ABC. Does that interest you?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“There’s just one thing,” Suzy added.
“What is it?” I asked, ready to hear the caveat that could burst the bubble of my sudden good fortune.
“You’ll have to go to Hyannis and stay at the Kennedy compound for the summer,” said Suzy. “Would that be a problem for you?”
I could hardly believe my ears. Staying at the Kennedy compound for the summer was no problem for me, I assured her.
She filled me in on some more details, like my salary, which would be $15,000 a year. Believe it or not, fifteen was a significant raise from the art gallery pay, and yet I saw the irony in the fact that when I was serving Ethel Kennedy as a customer at Brooks Brothers, I was making $34,000 a year. Now, as her private secretary, handling her personal affairs, my salary would be less than half that much. But compared to the gallery, this was a step up, both in salary and in excitement. I took the job, hung up the phone, and ran to my closet to evaluate my clothes. I had to make sure I had appropriate clothes to work as Ethel Kennedy’s private secretary.
When I got into my light blue Chevy Chevette and drove up to Hickory Hill for my first day of work, I marveled at how much I hadn’t noticed when I’d arrived at dusk for dinner just a few weeks earlier. I pulled into the parking area, got out of my car, and gazed admiringly at the beau
tiful white colonial home with soft blue shutters, glowing in the morning light. At least I was dressed more appropriately than the last time.
When I was shown inside my new workplace, the first thing I saw was Joe sitting all by himself in the dining room, having breakfast. We greeted each other and he said, “I hear you’re going to work for my mom.”
“Yeah, I am.” I was relieved that my awful granny gown was not the last outfit he ever saw me wear.
Joe smiled, wished me good luck, and I was suddenly overwhelmed. Yesterday, I had worked at a mediocre art gallery that hardly saw a customer. Today, at age twenty-three, I was private secretary to Ethel Kennedy, whose name alone was completely daunting. But I had no time to wallow, thank goodness, as a house employee showed me the front room, my headquarters where I would be working for Ethel. I smiled at the decorations and fabrics in pastel peaches and pinks, colors for which my new boss and I clearly shared an affinity. I settled in for my first day and found that the work, although piled high, was pretty straightforward. And did Ethel ever need me!
I began by tackling her Rolodex that was utterly disorganized. I also helped with her concerns about the upkeep of her home. She liked that I was meticulously neat and artistic by nature, and I placed calls to her friends and to celebrities who were part of her latest charity event. How cool was it to get Chevy Chase on the phone and have him call me “dear.” I was having so much fun organizing, and now, there was Chevy Chase. Wow! To me, comedians are more interesting than royalty.
When I had a break, I walked into the backyard to admire the towering old trees and the old Coca-Cola dispenser by the pool where you could get a frosty Coke. Strains of music from an old jukebox wafted across the property, Dolly Parton singing “Here You Come Again,” and the Bee Gees’ hit song “Stayin’ Alive.” There was also a Warhol photo screen print in the pool house of Jane Fonda, who would later marry Ted Turner. Who could predict that I would get to know her when I worked for CNN? It was another clue on the roadmap to my future.
