Chapter Five
Because of her size, Ethel didn't get out much, and because she didn't trust a lot of people, she didn't have many visitors. So she looked forward to what became my weekly visits, and began to depend on them.
Although I dearly loved Ethel, there were times when I really begrudged spending every Saturday morning with her. While my friends were going to the beach or having brunches, I was trekking down to the Bunker Hill Towers. I longed for a Saturday to sleep late, but I gave up that luxury because I felt a deep sense of responsibility to this lady who counted on me.
When I'd get to Ethel's apartment and see how eagerly she greeted me, I would feel guilty for resenting spending time with her. "Twila," she painfully admitted to me once, "some days I sit here all day long and have no one to talk to unless you call."
And there was something relaxing and soothing about her "little nest." Often I would forget about my hectic schedule and the world racing by as I sat across from her in my little chair by the window.
Some days it was like history unfolding before me. She would
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reminisce about her childhood and how she got started in show business. I heard about the Jim Crow cars on the railroad and how when she would reach St. Louis she would have to move to the back of the train. She could chuckle now about having to eat her lunch in her car since the restaurant refused to serve a colored person.
"I know what I'm talking about," she would say in discussing some news item. She always kept abreast of the local and national news and was quick to debate anyone she could on current affairs. She held very strong opinions about most subjects. I could never win an argument with her, so I learned to nod my agreement and disagree silently. But as time went by, I discovered she was generally right. With her uncanny sixth sense, she could read between the lines.
Judging from the fan mail Ethel received, there were a number of people who would have loved to fill my shoes. It was a privilege to be "her baby girl," although many times I didn't feel so privileged.
I dreaded grocery shopping for her. She would see new products mentioned on TV and decide she had to have them. It might be a new brand of toilet cleaner or maybe it was a frozen cake. Whatever it was, it had to be the exact size and same brand — absolutely so substitutes! Often I had to go to at least three markets to find the right item.
When I would goof and bring the wrong thing, she couldn't seem to understand. "You should remember which kind it was. You got it for me the last time," she would say, not remembering that "the last time" may have been six months ago. then she started saving boxes and wrappers so would be sure to get the right item.
If I would forget to bring something she'd asked me to get, I would get a scolding. "Twila," she'd say, "you're young. You should have remembered to do that." Her own memory had always been fantastic.
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But along with the scoldings, I got undeserved praise. We were being driven to the airport to return to Los Angeles from a crusade when another passenger in the car asked exactly what I did for World Wide Pictures. "Oh, I just type letters, answer the phones and stuff," I casually answered. "Don't let her tell you that," Ethel blurted to the passenger. "When Bill Brown isn't around she runs that place. When they need someone to work in another city, they send for Twila. She's a big shot." I was speechless as I suddenly discovered my job was so important.
Ethel was always interested in what I was doing. "Well, kiddo, what are you up to today?" she would ask. "Any big dates tonight?"
If I happened to mention I was having a special friend for dinner that night, it was not unusual for her to reach into her pocketbook and pull out a five- or ten-dollar bill. "Here, have this one on me," she would say.
We joked that I couldn't introduce her to my boyfriends because she was too much competition for me. "Yeah, I'm a sex symbol," she would say, laughing. If a beau did meet her, she would always insist upon some "sugar" before he left. They were always eager to give her a hug and kiss — she had that special charm.
Ethel and I shared a love for beautiful clothes. "That's a sharp outfit, kiddo," she would say when I arrived. "Is it new?" If she thought my dress was too short or my blue jeans too tight, she would tell me that too.
Ernie, Ethel's faithful mailman and friend, would often arrive with the mail during my Saturday visits. He, too, had his weekly chores — watering and caring for her dearly loved plants.
One Saturday I was telling Ethel about the minor car accident I had been in. I was upset because it wasn't my fault, but because the other driver didn't have insurance I would
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have to pay $100 deductible. She knew this would be a strain for me.
"Well, I'm going to pay that," Ethel insisted.
"Oh, no, you don't need to do that," I said, embarrassed. I didn't want her to think I was telling her about it because I was hinting for the money.
"Well, I'm going to," she declared. "That's what moms are for."
At that moment I realized how important it was for her to be my Mom. It made her feel needed and it was a tremendous financial boost for me, so we both were winners.
One Saturday I announced to Ethel that my roommate and I were each going to get your own apartment. Because of the rising price of gasoline we felt it wiser if we were each closer to our offices. Since I had never had an unfurnished apartment before, Ethel wanted to help furnish my little abode.
On my next visit, Ethel had boxes of appliances and kitchen items packed for me. I fell heir to an electric coffee-pot, an electric fry pan, an egg poacher ("Twila, the way you like to cook and entertain, I can't imagine that you've never fixed poached eggs!"), a vacuum cleaner, bath towels (marked HIS and HERS), and a transparent 8 x 10 color photograph of Billy Graham equipped with a light and electrical cord. Unfortunately, I never found a place for that!
That was only the beginning. She wanted to know, since it was only a one-bedroom apartment, if I had found a hid-a-bed for my living room. She knew I had a lot of out-of-town friends and would need to provide them with a place to sleep. Knowing that was what I needed, I looked and looked but reported back to her that I couldn't find one I liked in my price range.
"You'll be sorry if you don't have a place for your friends to spend the night," she repeatedly told me. "I know you too well."
We finally agreed the answer was a trundle bed. then we were both happy — I got the sofa I wanted and my friends
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also had a bed to sleep in. Then, much to my surprise, she gave me the money to buy the bed.
The next thing I needed, of course, was a dresser. "Would this one work?" Ethel asked pointing to an extra four-drawer dresser with bookcase. "Fantastic!" I replied, and she immediately set to work emptying the drawers.
Ethel always ate her meals on a tray in her favorite chair by the window. Her drop-leaf table and two swivel chairs were just a catch-all that she could get along without. Consequently, my dining room was now furnished.
I also inherited a green hurricane lamp which Ethel knew would go perfectly in my pink and green bedroom. However, as my friend Dave Anderson and I loaded the furniture into the van, we noticed my new possessions included a pink potty chair! She knew it was the right color for my bedroom. I frowned. It was an item I really didn't need, but I didn't have the heart to tell Ethel, so I gratefully accepted it.
The Bunker Hill doorman was curious as he saw us carrying out the furniture. I explained we were furnishing my new apartment.
"Can you use a TV set?" asked the man I had come to know through my frequent visits to the Towers.
"Sure could," I replied since the TV had been owned by my roommate. The next Saturday he brought me an old black and white portable, but part of the agreement was I was not to tell "Miss Waters." He didn't want to be rewarded by her for his good deed.
As Dave and drove to Burbank to unload my new furnishings, I moaned that I didn't know what I was going to do with that pink potty. Dave, with his huge house and sense of imagination, said, "I'll take it."
"It's yours," I told him, wondering what in the world he was going to do with it. He was excited to have a possession of Ethel Waters', and I'll have to admit it looked good in his den filled with a beautiful green plant.
Since decorating my apartment had been a joint effort, I invited
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Ethel to have lunch with me one Saturday. I was anxious for her to see it, although I knew it was an effort for her to leave the comforts of her home.
Ethel preferred plain and simple foods, so I put aside my gourmet cooking and concocted a stew. She liked her food highly seasoned so I spiced it up the best I knew how, and it was a success.
I was nervous about this event. My apartment was full of objects she had given me, but I worried that she would notice the missing pieces.
She was thrilled at my new home. She went from room to room examining the place. "It's so homey," she said, "and decorated with real style."
"Yeah," I reminded her, "Waters style."
As we drove back to her apartment, she confessed to me she had second thoughts about coming. But she had told me she would come and didn't want to go back on her word. She was glad she had made the effort.
Ethel was silent for miles of the journey home which was not unusual. I realized she had been deep in thought when she said "Twila, where in your apartment would you hang that photograph of me that I said you could have?"
For years I had admired a black and white photo that hung above her piano. (It is reproduced as a frontispiece to this book.) She had promised that some day it would be mine.
I admitted I really didn't know.
"It belongs right above your sofa," she said. I gulped. I had not considered hanging it in the most prominent spot in my living room. She immediately sensed we were not thinking on the same level. So that cherished picture hung in her living room until she gave up her apartment. Even then, she gave it to me "on loan" with the understanding that she might ask for it back.
When Ethel learned that my real mom and dad were going to
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visit me from Iowa, she announced that we were to be her guests for lunch. This was another rare occasion and a real treat for my parents, who were anxious to meet this lady I had written home about. The meeting of my two Moms was quite an occasion.
Ethel had seen The Sizzler advertised on TV and their steaks looked very tempting to her, so she decided that's where we'd eat. I chauffeured the four of us around Los Angeles looking for the closest one. As we were eating, I silently chuckled as Ethel nicknamed my dad "Silent Jim."
Before I took my parents on a sightseeing tour, we drove Ethel back home. As we were leaving her apartment, my dad noticed a huge train plaque on her wall, a gift from the Special Train Committee of Tennessee. He admired it and Ethel half-jokingly said, "Who knows, maybe some day you'll fall heir to that." Dad grinned, not knowing whether to take her seriously. Over a year later when she was forced to put her belongings into storage, she said to me, "You get that train off to your dad." I did immediately. When that package arrived in Iowa, Dad was probably the happiest man around.
As in any mother-daughter relationship, Ethel and I had our fights. She would often blame my stubbornness on my German background.
On my arrival one day, I was met at the door with the accusation of "really messing things up." She had received her bank statement and it didn't jibe with her checkbook. It was naturally my fault, since I wrote out most of her checks. It made her nervous filling in the blanks since her eyesight was so bad. It was one of those days that I didn't want to take criticism. I blurted out, "Of course, I make mistakes. I'm only human. I make mistakes in my own checkbook. Maybe you should get somebody else who can do the job better. I'm doing the best I can."
I was amazed at myself for letting off this steam. Evidently these
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thoughts were buried and today they were all surfacing.
Ethel told me to calm down. "We both know I can't get someone else," she said. "But maybe it isn't fair that you come every week. You call me and if I don't have something that's urgent, you wouldn't have to come every Saturday," she told me.
I left that day without the real problem being solved. Later I felt guilty about it. I should have had better control of the situation. After all she had nobody day after day, and these little things were important to her. I knew something could happen to her any day, and I would forever feel terrible if a day like that were our last memories together.
Days went by. I couldn't bring myself to phone and apologize. When I finally called, no mention was made of our squabble. The next Saturday I made my usual trek to see her. The air was cool but neither of us mentioned the incident. Gradually it was forgotten.
Weeks later I learned that I hadn't made the error in her checkbook. It was her tax man. He had written out her federal and state income tax checks. He entered them correctly in her book but had made both checks for the same amount. Several weeks later she received a refund from the state government and never mentioned it to me. Consequently, it was some time before we straightened out the matter.
However, she never apologized for blaming me for that error, nor did I ever mention it to her again.
Ethel did admit to having a short temper. She wrote in To Me It's Wonderful: "People can still hurt me. Jesus never will. I can hurt myself by acting too quick, jumping before I've stopped to listen to His still small voice! Shootin' off with that short tongue. I still do that and before I know it, I've ended up in the woodshed."
Not long after our disagreement, a couple of my friends and I were fortunate to get front row seats at a ladies meeting
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where Ruth Graham was the speaker and Ethel the guest soloist. Over seven thousand ladies attended. Bill Brown escorted Ethel onto the platform and pointed out my special spot.
After several songs — Ethel said she didn't sing but recited musically — she closed with "His Eye Is on the Sparrow." She had sung it thousands of times — over five hundred times in The Member of the Wedding. People never tired of hearing her sing it.
I sing because I'm happy,
I sing because I'm free.
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know . . .
Wait. Here was a new line . . .
Mom knows, Twila,
He watches me.
Had I heard right? Did Ethel really add my name to her favorite hymn? Yes. I had heard right. World Wide Pictures' sound man, Les Kisling, recorded the entire program and gave me a cassette of that special song as a keepsake.
Another favorite keepsake I have from Ethel is a little red ginger jar. Former President Richard Nixon sent it to her from his historic 1972 visit to Red China. I always admired it. If I took anyone to Ethel's apartment, I would point out the little jar to them and give them a history lesson. When Ethel gave up her apartment she said to me, "Twila, I want you to have that because you loved it so much."
I never would have been able to ask her for it. I never could ask for anything she had. I knew how much she detested freeloaders, as she called them. There would be times I deliberately neglected telling her something for fear she would think I was asking for a favor.
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About this time, Doug Oldham contacted me about the possibility of Ethel's appearing with him as a special guest on a new TV show he was hosting. He persuaded me by saying he would make it simple for Ethel by bringing the camera to her apartment, or renting a nearby studio or even taping in a park. It was her decision to do what was most convenient. Ethel would never allow anyone to come to her apartment, so when I told her the choices, she said, "Twila, why can't we do it at your place."
"Sure," I replied while in the back of my mind I was thinking about the cleaning, how small my apartment was, and how hot it could get in the summer.
The appointed Saturday I left my apartment unlocked so that Doug and his crew could set up, while I drove downtown to pick up the guest star. We came back to my place to find it jammed with lights, sound equipment and five men. Doug had thoughtfully brought roses for Ethel and me.
Ethel sat on my love seat and Doug on the ottoman. The microphone was turned on. Doug asked a question and Ethel was off rambling. When she knew she had a captive audience, she was a different person — the actress in her came out and she was "on stage." She went from one subject to another without letting Doug ask a question. As soon as the microphone was turned off, Ethel reverted to her "normal" relaxed self. If only there was a way to record her without her knowing it.
Then there was the time Ethel's agent called her to do a role in the "Own Marshall" TV show. After she read the script and knew she could identify with the part, she agreed to do it, even though it had been years since she had done a dramatic part. She was told her part would only take several hours of shooting time.
I drove her to Universal Studios where we were met by the director and producer and shown to the stage. The lights were blazing, grips and set decorators were scurrying around
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adjusting last minute details. People from the wardrobe and make-up departments came by and were most helpful in seeing that Ethel had what she needed.
Ethel's scene was with Lee Majors, the blonde, blue-eyed co-star of the show. When the director called for a rehearsal on the set, Ethel was terribly frustrated with herself — she couldn't remember her lines. Time after time she would turn the lines around.
Finally the director yelled "cut." Ethel, Lee and I found a corner where we could help her with her lines. I had the copy of the script and was the prompter. Lee was very patient and understanding. Ethel tried so hard.
When Lee stepped away for a few moments, Ethel leaned over to me and whispered, "Twila, I can't concentrate when he's staring at me with those beautiful big blue eyes"!
