Kick-Ass Kinda Girl

by Kathi Koll

  Don took the bait. After a few pleasantries he asked, “Isn’t your birthday coming up? December seventh, right?”

  “Wow. Yes, it is.” I was surprised he knew the date, but then again, a lot of people remember my birthday; it’s on Pearl Harbor Day, the “day that will live in infamy.”

  “What are you doing for your birthday?”

  “Well, I celebrated it over Thanksgiving with my family, so I haven’t made plans yet.”

  “If you’re free, how about going to the White House with me?” he suggested. All I could think was, the White House? There’s a restaurant in Laguna Beach called The White House, so my first reaction was to ask which one, but I didn’t want him to think the only reason I wanted to go with him was to go to that White House. “I’m on the board of trustees of The Kennedy Center, and the seventh is the weekend of The Honors. I’ve asked another couple from New York to join me, and I think it would be fun if you could come too. You’ll have your own room, and you can do whatever you want throughout the weekend. I know my friend’s wife wants to shop, but don’t feel like you have to do what she wants to do. It’s your choice. Other than the Honors, there will be a dinner at the State Department and reception at the White House.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to sound cool but feeling nervous and excited. “Can I check a few things out and call you back?” It was December third, and he was talking about the seventh.

  I immediately called my son, Kevin and said, “You’re not going to believe this, but Mr. Koll has invited me to the White House. What should I do?”

  “Mom, you’ve got to go. You might not ever have the chance to go to the White House again.”

  That was that. I called Don back after a couple of hours and accepted. He sounded so excited, and I loved his enthusiasm.

  I asked Don years later why he chose such a spectacular evening for our first date. He told me he had been thinking about asking me out and wanted to invite me to something he thought I wouldn’t turn down, saying, “You know, guys don’t like rejection.”

  I didn’t lose time suggesting what I wanted to do. Shopping was out of the question. Why shop in DC when I live in Southern California, which has every store imaginable? “Don, what I’d really like to do is see some of the sights I haven’t seen since I was on a seventh grade trip with my brother Don.”

  Before I knew it, I was in Washington sitting in the back of a limousine with Don on the way to Mt. Vernon and all the other sights on my wish list. He planned every minute of the weekend with me in mind. He was on a mission, and I felt like Cinderella going to the ball. As we arrived at different spots, there weren’t many tourists around since it was winter. It was freezing cold, but the snow flurries felt good hitting my face. My favorite spot on the trip with my brother had been Woodlawn Plantation, and there I was years later driving right up to the front door, this time with Don and feeling like an invited guest instead of a tourist. The plantation was decorated for Christmas and looked like it was straight out of a Currier and Ives poster.

  On the way back to DC, Don suggested we have lunch in Arlington, Virginia. As we walked down the main street lined with quaint little stores, he took my hand and led me into a charming little restaurant. My mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts. He was a friend. Was this more than a friendship? I was getting nervous again, but loving the attention and feeling like a princess.

  As we returned to the hotel, Don said, “I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour, and we’ll go on to the White House. I can only take one guest, so the others will meet us at The Kennedy Center.”

  I was a wreck getting dressed. Will I look OK? Is my dress right? Hair up? Hair down? It’s been so long now, I don’t even remember what I wore or what my hair looked like. What I do remember was walking out of the elevator, and there was Don, standing in front of the Christmas tree in his tux. He looked so handsome, and oddly enough, as he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, it was how good he smelled that struck me. It was the same smell that sent me into orbit until the day he died.

  We arrived at the West Portico of the White House. Back in those days, one didn’t have to walk for blocks and go through the intricate screening like today. I had butterflies dancing in my stomach as we walked through the large double doors. I must be dreaming. I’m in the White House for a party, I thought.

  This was December of 1997, and Bill Clinton was President. I marveled at the long hallway lined with a collage of recent photos of the president’s family and events with world leaders. As we reached the end of the hall, and right on cue, a voice announced, “Mrs. Kathi Smith and Mr. Donald Koll.” I think Don was enjoying watching my excitement more than he was being at the White House. He had been there many times before, but the fun he was having that night was watching and imagining through my eyes the joy of being there for the first time.

  We walked up a long stairway that led to a small vestibule. As we turned the corner, there we were in the main entrance hall of the White House. The Marine Band, dressed in vibrant red jackets with shiny gold buttons, was playing glorious Christmas music. Guests were roaming through the White House rooms, drinks in hand. Christmas trees were lining the long hall connecting the East Room to the West Room with sparkling decorations throwing off glowing winks as they twinkled softly in the White House lights. A couple was standing next to me taking turns photographing one another. I quietly asked if they’d like me to take their picture together. They were so grateful—then I realized it was the actor Michael York and his wife, Pat.

  It was all so surreal. We walked into one room and there was a life-size painting of George Washington looking down at us. President after president everywhere I turned. My favorite portrait, though, was the one of Jackie Kennedy. I had always admired her not only for the grace and intelligence she projected as First Lady but also for the independent spirit she showed throughout her life. She never talked or tried to defend herself. She was just right and didn’t need anyone else’s validation.

  “Follow me,” Don calmly said as we walked by the intricate gingerbread replica of the White House. “We’re going to meet the president.” A line was gathering, and Don knew not to linger but to get in place for the opportunity to be introduced. “Kathi, when you meet the president, say something he wants to hear so he’ll talk to you. Otherwise you’ll get a quick ‘How do you do?’ and that will be that.” As I stood patiently in line, I couldn’t help but think, If the president talks to me then Don will be impressed. It wasn’t about the president; it was about Don.

  We walked through doors so brilliantly varnished I could faintly see my reflection in them as we entered the Blue Room. There was the President of the United States. The most powerful man in the world. My first thought was that he’s much better-looking in person than on the television. He greeted us warmly, first shaking hands with Don then me. He didn’t let go of my hand. He talked to me and looked into my eyes as if I was the only person in the world. Oh my. His charisma was incredible. I’d dare anyone—Republican or Democrat—not to have been completely charmed.

  “Mr. President, my daughter has a friend at Stanford who knows your daughter, Chelsea, and I hear she’s a wonderful girl.” He politely thanked me, but I immediately figured out he had heard this line before. That little thought in the back of my mind kept reminding me that Don would be impressed if the president said more than two words to me. “Mr. President, I think we might have a friend in common.” He was still holding my hand and now massaging my arm.

  I’m sure Don was thinking, “Who in the world would she know that he would know?”

  When I mentioned my friend’s name, the president was surprised and said, “How do you know her?”

  “How do you know her?” I quickly answered. I was questioning the president? I didn’t mean to, but he was touching my arm, which made him seem like just a normal guy, not the President of the United States.

  “I went all through grammar school with her,” he said, “through high school with
her. We were in carpool together. As a matter of fact, she was here for her birthday a couple of months ago.”

  “How do you spell her name?” It was a test because her name has an unusual spelling. I was thinking of anything to drag the conversation on, and it was working.

  “L-E-Z-A-H,” he immediately spelled.

  “You do know her.”

  About that time, two men standing behind him motioned for us to move along. We did so, but the president didn’t let go of my hand and stepped right in front of Don. He was trying to hide his “where does this guy think he’s going?” face, but Don later told me he felt like punching him for flirting with his date but figured he’d be thrown in jail if he did so. One of the men put their hands on the president’s shoulders and guided him back to his spot next to the Christmas tree.

  “By the way,” I said, looking back, “Lezah told me that ‘Billy’ told her he was going to be president one day.”

  “That’s her story,” he answered with a not-so-convincing smile on his face. “You’ve got to tell Hillary you know the Stingers.”

  The First Lady was watching all of this with a questioning expression. Don and I were introduced, and I mentioned our mutual friends. I noticing the surprised look on Don’s and her faces and explained, “Well, many years ago I lived in Springfield, Missouri, where they live.” I turned to the First Lady and added, “As a matter of fact, I recall you speaking at—”

  “Stop, don’t say any more,” Mrs. Clinton said. “Were you at the Junior League when I spoke?” How could she have remembered that? It had been years.

  Don and I walked out of the room, the doors closed, and we started laughing so hard we could barely stay standing. “If you can bullshit with the president,” Don said, “you can bullshit with anyone.”

  We had arrived by limo, but apparently we were to leave by bus. “By bus? Like we’re going to camp? Will we be singing ‘100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall’?” I teased.

  “What kind of song is that? Kathi, don’t start anything. There will be very important people on the bus—actors, supreme court justices, senators—”

  “Don’t worry,” I laughed. “I won’t start anything. I’m just having fun teasing you.”

  After the president paid tribute to each honoree with fun tidbits and stories of their accomplishments, he bestowed upon each one of them a large gold medallion hanging by a long ribbon of rainbow colors. The room broke out in applause, the Marine Band struck up more glorious music, and we strolled out of the White House caught up in the magic of the evening.

  It was time for us all to get on the busses. The one we were escorted to was almost full, so we had to walk past all the “important people” to find a place in the back. As we walked down the aisle I spotted Bruce Springsteen.

  “You’re perfect.” I couldn’t help myself. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “You can lead our camp songs.” He immediately started singing “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Don just shook his head in disbelief.

  Arriving at The Kennedy Center was exciting in itself. As the busses rolled up, hundreds of people were waiting, vying to get a glimpse of who would appear. We followed the group down the Red Carpet with another crowd of fans lined up on both sides. No one paid any attention to us, but it was exciting to be a part of all the hoopla and enjoy our fifteen minutes of fame, as Andy Warhol would say.

  The honorees that year were Charlton Heston, Lauren Bacall, Bob Dylan, Jessye Norman, and Edward Villella. Walter Cronkite was the Master of Ceremonies, and there were a slew of famous guests on stage introducing the performers paying special tribute to the honorees. Watching the president and First Lady take their places in the Presidential Box while “Hail to the Chief” played was magical. The show is recorded each year and televised around Christmastime, but there will never be one as exciting as that one— my first date with Don.

  I didn’t want the evening to end, and luckily we still had the dinner to go to.

  We walked hand in hand into the foyer of The Kennedy Center, now filled with exquisitely decorated dining tables. The band was playing favorite musical pieces of each honoree, and some of them were even dancing on the small dance floor. Ladies in their gowns and men in their tuxes were sitting on the steps that led from the theater, just watching this illustrious group. The hall was filled with champagne toasts and laughter echoing from one end to the other.

  We found our table, and to my utter surprise, I was seated next to Colin Powell. Vanessa Redgrave was seated on his other side. Some of the men at the table started quizzing him about his presidential aspirations, which was obviously a question he was not interested in engaging in. I overheard him mention India to Vanessa Redgrave and thought, Ah ha. If Colin Powell talks to me, then Don will be impressed. I had just been to India with my daughter Jennifer, so I easily became a part of their conversation.

  Changing the subject on India, I said, “General Powell, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you dance with Princess Diana?” He seemed to be stunned I knew. She had just passed away a few months earlier, and a distinct sadness crossed his face.

  “How did you know that? I don’t think there were any pictures published.”

  “I think I read about it in People Magazine,” I answered. “What was it like?”

  “It was the day of my life.” He looked me straight in the eyes as he recounted the deeply personal memory. “I received a phone call saying Princess Diana was being honored at an event and needed someone to dance with. I was chosen. I guess so-and-so was too short, another guy was out of the country, so for whatever reason, I was chosen. The day started with me sitting next to her at lunch. I mentioned I was going to dance with her that evening, which she seemed to be aware of. ‘The problem,’ I told her, ‘is that I can’t dance. I have two left feet and will probably step all over you.’ Before I knew it, someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to follow them. I was led to a small room where the princess was standing with outstretched arms. She said, ‘I think you need a dance class.’ All of a sudden my left hand was locked into hers and my right hand was around her waist. She was saying, ‘One to the left, two to the right, back step.’ Princess Diana was teaching me how to dance. As she was walking out of the room, she mentioned, ‘I probably ought to let you know that the dress I’m wearing tonight is backless, and when I say backless, I mean backless.’ I asked what to do with my hand, and she looked back at me over her shoulder and said, ‘That’s for you to figure out.’”

  “Amazing. What happened next?” I asked.

  “Well, I was so nervous I went home and shot a few hoops in my driveway.” Princess Diana had turned one of the most powerful men in the world into a fourteen-year-old marshmallow.

  “Well, tell me more,” I quizzed as I realized the entire table of twelve was listening to our one-on-one conversation. Even Don smiled at me, seeming to say, Well, if she can bullshit with the president, she can bullshit with the general. “Tell me about the evening. Did you dance with her?”

  “I was so nervous that I realized my hands were cold,” he laughed, “so I put them both between my knees and rubbed them together to warm them up.”

  “Oh no. Then what did you do?”

  “Well, the only thing I could do. I wiped them off on the white tablecloth.”

  “Did you really dance with her alone in front of a room full of people?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you do with your hand?”

  “Right for the Royal Back,” he answered, smiling ear to ear.

  In a blink of time my trip was over. Cinderella was home, but in possession of both slippers, and just like Cinderella, I had a huge crush on the handsome prince.

  Coming off of the DC weekend was an insurmountable task in itself. It was the beginning of a life that made me squint my eyes hard and wonder, How was I so lucky? It was a life most people dream of, and I was the fortunate girl to live it—both in good times and in bad.

  Soon after our weekend in D
C, my telephone rang (what a novel thought today, a phone call, not a text), and it was Don on the other end. “Kathi, I loved every minute of the weekend. Thank you for making it.” He was thanking me? He had beaten me to the punch. Little old-fashion me had just sent him a handwritten thank-you note. He wasn’t wasting any time. “How about visiting me in Aspen over Christmas vacation? I’ve been invited to a few fun parties and it would be great if you could join me.”

  I was so nervous he was asking me to once again go somewhere out of the neighborhood. “I’d love to,” I said, “but my family will be with me over the holidays, and I really wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving them.” He understood, and we were both a little bummed I couldn’t make it, but I felt it wouldn’t be right to change my plans with my kids.

  The day after Don’s call was a rainy Sunday afternoon, and my son, Kevin, and I had decided to go to the latest James Bond movie. “Mr. Koll asked me to Washington, now Aspen; why can’t he just ask me to a movie in our neighborhood?”

  “Mom, why don’t you just call him and see if he’d like to join us?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m scared.”

  “No, Mom, you can do it. It’s no big deal, just call him.”

  I took a deep breath and did it.

  “Wow,” I told Kevin. “That was pretty easy. He said yes. He’s on his way.”

  Newport Beach was abuzz with Kathi & Don stories, Washington being the tipping of the scale. Our romance was probably a little slower than the town gossip, but that was OK. It was at our pace, and was fast enough for me to barely grasp. I was living in a world of emotions. I was going through a divorce, and at the same time, Don had come into my life. All sorts of emotions were hitting me like a hurricane.