Chapter Four
Until 1966 the only knowledge I had of Ethel Waters was from hearing and seeing her on a Billy Graham telecast. My little world in Correctionville, Iowa, did not include the arts, or music of artists of Waters' calibre. Her movies and plays had never reached my hometown.
When I graduated from high school, my dreams were big as I left family and friends to make it on my own in the metropolis of Minneapolis. After graduation from business college, I obtained a job at the Billy Graham headquarters. There I was a bashful secretary among hundreds of other employees, easily impressed by any dignitaries that visited the office.
It seemed amazing to me, and one of God's mysterious ways of working, that I, who had never traveled beyond our neighboring states, was selected to work in crusades all across the country from California to New York. It was exciting to see our great United States. It was even more exciting when I was singled out to transfer to Atlanta, Georgia, to work in the Team office there.
It was while I was working at Billy Graham's crusade in
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Greenville, South Carolina, that I got the chance to meet Ethel Waters in person. The theatrical accomplishments of this talented woman were so far removed from my experience that I could hardly appreciate them. I was, however, awed to meet this singer who was thrilling the crusade audiences night after night. The kindness and loving concern she showed to this shy country gal, even in our first brief meeting, left me with a warm feeling.
At the conclusion of the ten-day crusade, I was assigned to take Ethel to the airport. I was excited but also worried — how would this lady of 280 pounds fit into my little green Corvair? I also wondered how a woman of her stature would feel being seen riding in my old jalopy, because I assumed she was used to riding in limousines and fancy chauffeured cars. After all, she lived in the Hollywood area, and wasn't that how famous people lived?
Climbing into the front seat and without an inch to spare, she settled into my car. (The front seat was as far back as it would go and I had to stretch to reach the pedals.) She chuckled and didn't seem to mind a bit that we weren't riding in style. In fact, quite the contrary, she seemed grateful for the transportation. Somehow I sensed she knew that my taking her to the airport was the thrill of my lifetime, and the pleasure this gave her was worth the discomfort.
At the airport, I timidly asked if I might take her picture.
"Sure," she replied and graciously posed for me and my instamatic in front of the Greenville/Spartanburg Airport. The hug she gave me as she left was tender and caring, making me feel like a princess.
From that first encounter I was adopted into her "family." Although Mom had been married several times, she never had children of her own. If she took a liking to you, you automatically were one of her "babies." The list ranged from former President Richard Nixon, Julie Harris, Ruth and Billy Graham, Sammy Davis, Jr., Carol Channing, Grady Wilson
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and Cliff Barrows, on to her faithful mailman Ernie Chavez, to housewives, secretaries, servicemen, etc. However, for some reason there were those who never became part of the family. If Ethel thought someone was using her for their own good or "cashing in on her name," she could take an instant dislike to that person. She detested "freeloaders" and could spot a phony a mile away. "I know rabbits and rabbits' habits," she used to say. She had people all figured out.
I continued to cross paths with Ethel at various crusades from London to Los Angeles.
In the fall of 1969 I left my work with the Billy Graham Crusades to devote full time to interior design school in Los Angeles. That Christmas I called Ethel to wish her a "Merry Christmas." She asked if I would have any spare time to help with a few projects. "Sure," I said, "But not until after the holidays and school finals."
When things settled down in the new year, I finally got around to calling her, only to get a recording. "This number is no longer in service and there is no new number." I thought I had come to a dead end since I knew she had an unlisted number.
When I was asked to return to temporary work at the Billy Graham Crusade in New York City in the summer of 1970, Ethel was there to sing at the Shea stadium meetings, so we were united once again.
She seemed delighted to see me and gave me her new unlisted phone number. She had moved from her large home in Los Angeles into an apartment at the Bunker Hill Towers. When we returned to Los Angeles, I kept my promise and called to make a date when I could come to help her with her work. I had no idea what lay ahead.
On a hot July afternoon, I parked my car at the downtown skyscraper and timidly told the doorman, "Ethel Waters is expecting me."
He graciously opened the door, and I sank to my ankles in the plush
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rust carpeting in the lobby. Surveying the surroundings as I waited for the elevator, I noticed the elaborate chandelier, the brightly colored oil paintings and a wall of mirrors.
A tingle of excitement welled up in me as I rode up to the fifteenth floor. I rang the bell at #1502 and was promptly greeted by a familiar friendly "hi." I was immediately at ease with this woman whose love just seemed to radiate everywhere.
She ushered me into her living room with its green shag carpeting. Since I was studying interior design, I was intrigued by the aqua Queen Anne chair, the Victorian sofa flanked by identical gold chairs with carved wood, and the antique carved coffee table with the glass top. The walls were lined with awards she had received through the years. I was amused at the scores of pictures and paintings of herself on every wall and available shelf space. Even the centers of her telephone dials were covered by pictures of her. "That's so no one visiting me can ask to use my phone and find out my number." {webmaster's note: the phone companies used to print your phone number on this round spot in the middle of the dialer}
For years to come, whenever I was at a loss as to what to give her as a birthday or Christmas gift, any picture of her blown up to 8 x 10 and framed was a sure winner.
A baby grand piano, littered with mail, was in the corner of the tiny apartment. Ethel admitted she couldn't play it and couldn't even read a note of music. In fact, she picked up a piece of sheet music and asked if I could tell her what key it was in. (My flute lessons in high school paid off at that moment.)
Ethel took a seat in her black leather swivel chair next to the window. (Later I was to realize Ethel spent most of her waking hours in this chair, listening to her portable TV and the radio, often both at the same time!) I sat opposite her and was enthralled at the view. Her apartment overlooked the beautiful Los Angeles Music Center and the busy web of
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highways that make up the interchange of the Pasadena, Hollywood and San Bernardino Freeways, with the mountains in the background. The hustle and the bustle of the busy world beneath her was a sharp contrast to the peace and tranquility in her little three-room "nest," as she called it.
As we chatted away, Ethel pulled out from a nearby shelf boxes containing thousands of Christmas, Easter, Valentine, Mother's Day and birthday cards from her fans and friends. She had saved these over many years, and they were just too meaningful and beautiful for her to part with them. She asked if I could find a use for them. She knew that pasted into scrapbooks together with the fact that they had belonged to her, they would bring joy to patients in hospitals and retirement centers. She loved receiving fan mail, and in later years, when it became necessary for me to read her mail to her because her eyesight was so bad, she would be deeply moved by the homage people paid to her. Often I would see tears in her eyes as she heard the accolades given to her. Sometimes she would ask me to read the letters twice. "Isn't that just beautiful?" she would say. "They don't have to take the time to write me such nice things."
Knowing that she hated the word black when referring to her race, I would often change black to Negro when I read the letters. Once she stopped me short. "Twila, did that say black or Negro?" she asked. I had to admit I had changed it, which only led me to the conclusion that some way she was reading those letters before I read them to her.
She would stack the mail on the little table by the window, and on Saturday morning visits I would sort through it. Some of her mail would be forwarded from her agent, Sid Levee, and some would be sent from the Billy Graham Association in Minneapolis.
One man tried a unique approach. He sent a letter to her in care of Mr. Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States, 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., Washington, D.C. It worked!
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She got it! This really amused Ethel. She thought the man was clever to use such an idea, but refused to make it known as she didn't want others to try it and make a nuisance of themselves and trouble her "precious child, the President."
Besides the usual requests for autographs, which she generally ignored unless she received a stamped envelope, Ethel got requests for pictures and personal possessions for charity auctions. She was deeply touched by a beautiful letter from a Mrs. Parker asking for a thimble for a collection. Ethel, in a rare mood, pointed to her sewing box and asked me to look for one. I found two and she chose one to send.
The thank-you from Mrs. Parker said, "You really are a dear! Today when I opened the letter which included the thimble, I cried. I could not hold back the tears. I always cry when I'm overjoyed and happy. I was so elated. Words are inadequate to express my thanks and appreciation to you. I shall cherish the thimble but will always cherish your beautiful life."
As the in-between person, I was thrilled to see Ethel happy for Mrs. Parker's words of praise, and a seemingly insignificant object leaving a beautiful impression on a fan.
Ethel also got beautiful letters from young people. A twelve-year-old boy, Scott, was infatuated by her. He had bought all her books and albums, and corresponded regularly with her. I was amused as he added a P.S. on the outside of one envelope.
"Miss Waters, you know what? Well, I went to the fish market and I got a black goldfish, named it Sweet Mama Stringbean."
This was the world of Ethel Waters. On one hand, she had a vast family of fans and well-wishers throughout the world. On the other hand, here was a woman often staying for days in her small apartment, living one of the loneliest and set-apart lives I'd ever seen.
As my first visit to Ethel's apartment progressed, she asked if
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I could sew. I answered in the affirmative, thinking she just wanted me to sew a torn seam or hem a dress for her. When she walked over to the coffee table and picked up three pieces of fabric, I gulped, trying to think of something nice to say about the gaudy orange and beige floral prints. To my amazement, Ethel asked if I would make her a dress from one of the pieces of material. I hemmed and hawed around, not having too much confidence in my sewing, since I had only sewn clothes for myself. Here was a lady who at one time had spent small fortunes on gowns and had famous designer dresses, and she was asking me to make a dress for her?
"Oh, Twila, you can do it," she urged. "You won't have any problem making a simple shift dress, sleeveless and with pockets."
"Well," I hesitated, "I guess I can try. I'll have to have the pattern for it."
"You can make it exactly like this one," Ethel said as she slipped off the dress she was wearing and handed it to me.
Even though this wise woman did not have much formal schooling, she knew psychology! She convinced me I could do it if I tried. I wasn't about to let her down.
I left her apartment that afternoon with the fabric in one hand and her, "His Eye Is on the Sparrow," in the other. It wasn't until I finished reading that book that I began to understand a little about the complex Ethel Waters.
Up to that point I had no idea of the struggle and suffering she had endured growing up in the slums. It was beyond my comprehension what it was like to be a Negro and have to fight to be accepted, let alone be respected and admired by white people. I had never known vast fortunes and what it was like to lose one. I came to understand why Ethel could not trust everybody and how she longed to be loved for herself.
Back in my apartment, I measured and figured and came up with
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a paper tissue pattern. My nerves were on edge as I took that first scissor snip into the material. I didn't have a clue as to how I could ever replace the fabric if things went wrong. Consequently, I made sure there was plenty of seam allowance. My roommate nicknamed me "Omar, the tentmaker" as I cut and sewed the largest dress I had ever made.
The next week I took the dress back to Ethel's for a fitting, and held my breath as she tried it on. So far so good. It was what she wanted, and with a dart here and a tuck there it would fit.
This taught me a great lesson — one of the many I was to learn from this wise teacher. My sewing was not that great and I knew without a doubt many people could have done a much better job. However, because I was willing to do my best, the job was accomplished.
I made several other dresses for Ethel, but the real challenge came when she couldn't part with the beautiful paisley print of the lining of a worn-out raincoat. "It will make a real sharp outfit," she convinced me. You can imagine my delight when I saw her interviewed by Merv Griffin on TV wearing that creation.
Oh, yes, I learned also to make the matching hats. These were a trademark with Ethel, but the real reason she never appeared in public without one of her scarves was that she was going bald on top and she wanted to hide the fact.
As the months wore on, Ethel became more and more like a real mother to me. "Mom" was what she was in fact rather than just a name I called her. Regardless of the difference in color, I was the daughter she never had. I had grown to love her deeply. Almost every Saturday morning I would trek downtown and be greeted cheerfully by the doorman who had come to expect my weekly visit with her.
Occasionally I would take Ethel shopping. I loved the attention we received when we were out together. I particularly remember one time we were looking for bedspreads in a
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Sears store. We had gone our separate ways in the bedding department when I heard Ethel say, "Twi, come here and see what you think about this one." When I joined her, the sales clerks gave each other quizzical, confused looks. They knew Ethel Waters, but who was this young white girl she treated like a daughter? It was only at times like this, when I realized that other people had a problem, that I was aware of the difference in the color of our skins.
Ethel's great love was giving. She found her joy living by the Scripture verse, "It is better to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35). Hardly a time went by that I walked out of her apartment without something in my arms. If it wasn't money (gas money as she called it), it was one of her prized possessions. I learned to accept her gifts graciously, knowing how much it meant to her that I was thrilled at getting them. "Could you use this?" she would say as she handed me a box of used wrapping paper and torn ribbons. I received outdated purses, huge vases and baskets for floral arrangements, and odds and ends of dishes. Once she gave me five bowls that to me just looked like old-fashioned dishes. I used them for my breakfast cereal every day for several years before I learned the value of those Limoges bowls.
When Ethel learned that she could trust me completely and rely on me, she wanted to reward me. She took me to her bedroom and said, "I've been thinking about this for a couple of days and have decided I want you to have this." Then opening her closet door she pulled out a flowing beige and yellow negligee someone had given to her. It was beautiful, all chiffon, but at least size Extra Large. She made me promise I wouldn't wear it as a nightgown but would make it into an evening dress for myself. Every now and then I get it out and look it over, but I haven't yet figured a way to make it into a formal dress size 9.
Mom's great love of giving rather than receiving made it extremely difficult on special occasions to come up with a gift idea for her. On one birthday, my roommate, Nancy Moyer, and I
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prepared a gift certificate "Good for one thorough house-cleaning at a mutually convenient time." We couldn't have given her anything that would have pleased her more. Since her health was failing, it was difficult for her to do her regular household chores, and it worried her that the dusting and vacuuming were not getting done. For years after that I heard her tell others, "Those two precious children gave their time to come down and clean my place."
Here was another lesson I learned from the ever-wise Waters. One of the greatest gifts you can give a person, especially an elderly person, is your time.
One Saturday before Mother's Day I wracked my brain trying to figure out what little thing I could take Mom. After a special occasion such as this, I usually went home from her place with flower arrangements or perfume and powder. It was next to impossible to find something she would keep or use. I finally settled upon the idea of a pumpkin pie, one of her favorites, from Marie Callender's. It seemed like a silly gift but one in which I couldn't go wrong. She squealed with delight at the sight and smell of that pie when I walked in the door. Just before leaving her apartment that day, she handed me $5 and said, "Here, take this."
"What's that for?" I asked.
"Well, pies cost money," she replied.
"But," I stammered, "it's your Mother's Day present."
Since I never could win an argument with her, I sheepishly took the money. As usual, I had ended up on the receiving end while she did the giving. I had bought a gift for $1.95 and not only did she pay for her gift but I left with a profit of $3.05.
One of my Saturday chores with her was to help her with a bath. She was afraid to step in a tub of hot water when she was alone because the warm water relaxed her, often causing her to lose strength, and she worried whether she would be able to get out of the tub by herself.
It took a lot of concentration on my part to get the water just the right
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temperature. I didn't like being blamed for getting the water too hot, so on this one morning I tried especially hard to do everything right. Ethel stepped in. The water was perfect! She sat down and let out a yelp. I had been so busy checking the temperature of the water that I failed to see that the lavender bath mat with rows and rows of tiny suction cups was upside down. Kneeling beside the tub I began to laugh as I visualized Mom standing up — the mat attached to her bottom and me pulling it off one suction cup at a time. Ethel was laughing too.
Through gales of laughter she said to me, "Twi, if you ever do this to me again, I'm gonna make you strip and get in here."
By now the tears were streaming down my face as I sat on the floor laughing at the predicament I had gotten her into. "Well," she grunted, "I've heard of turning the other cheek, but when both cheeks get it . . . !"
