Chapter Seven
"Balls, picnics and festivals," Ethel exclaimed as she pried herself from my little white Datsun 240Z. She had asked when she was going to get a ride in my new sports car, and this trip to the airport was her first experience.
"Nothin' like exposing my southern hemisphere," she muttered as the colored porter helped her out.
I laughed. What a good sport she was at seventy-eight!
Ethel Waters was on her way to sing at another Billy Graham Crusade. She saved every ounce of strength she could so that whenever and wherever Cliff Barrows asked her to go, she would be ready. Deep down she believed she was the "big draw" at the crusades. She didn't like music with a beat and didn't like the way the younger generation was "swinging" with gospel music. They were doing rock music — not Christian music. She didn't like churches or so called "Christian organizations" where "Jesus went through on stilts." She believed in the straightforward gospel message.
I kissed her goodbye and said, "I love you."
"I know it," she replied. Then the porter whisked her off in a wheelchair with her luggage piled on her lap. She never
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trusted the airlines to check her baggage through to her destination.
As I drove away from the airport I wondered if she would return alive. She had so many physical problems that she was a walking miracle.
I remembered back to the time I discovered that her lunch that day had been a package of doughnuts. "I don't have the strength to stand in my kitchen and fix a salad," she had told me. "I'm not steady with a knife and I'm afraid of cutting myself."
It was no wonder she was getting weak from that kind of diet.
In order to get the proper care she needed, I finally talked her into staying at a convalescent hospital, although it meant she would be sidelined from several crusades. One near my office met with her approval.
I helped her pack her bags. From her safety deposit box in the bank, she took out travelers checks dating back to the 1950s which would pay for her three-month stay. At the hospital she settled into a tiny private room.
Some doctors and nurses were immediately adopted into her "family"; others she only grunted at when they entered her room. Her "babies" were rewarded with a copy of To Me It's Wonderful, her second book published in 1972, and those who were extra special were given a bonus of her "Sparrow" album. Many of the nurses, though, she felt only came into her room because they wanted a chance to see and meet Ethel Waters. Their concern for her well-being was taken as an annoyance.
Ethel demanded privacy. When one elderly gentleman resident entered her room my mistake looking for his own room, she was extremely upset over the intrusion.
She phoned me at my office, "Twi, I have a favor to ask of you. Now don't you dare laugh," she begged me. I couldn't imagine what it was she needed.
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"I want you to bring me a broom handle so I can poke people who have no business comin' in my room," she said. I couldn't help laughing as I pictured this scene, but Ethel was serious.
I went to our maintenance man at the studio for help. "John, where am I going to get a long stick?" I asked. He found a long dowell for me and made sure it had a rounded end.
My next problem was how to get it into her hospital room. However, the old adage, "If you act like you know what you're doing, no one will question you," worked for me. I walked down the long hospital corridor to her room as if I always carried a stick. No one stopped me. Once again Ethel was glad she could count on me.
Thank goodness she never attempted to use that stick, but it soothed her mind knowing it was by her side.
By choice, Ethel had few visitors during this hospital stay. "Don't tell people where I am," she insisted. It wasn't always easy to tell her friends she didn't want to be bothered. Every day on lunch hour I would stop by to let her know I cared. Often I would have to run down to the Bunker Hill Towers to get books, albums, her mail, or forgotten items she thought she needed. I would sometimes stop at a grocery store to buy her crackers or fruit when she complained about the meals. Even though the time I spend with her seemed a handicap to my independent nature, I took the responsibility seriously.
One day she asked Bill and Joan Brown if they would buy a wedding gift for a special friend of hers. "Twila is too scatterbrained to do it," she told Bill. When I first heard her description of me I thought it was humorous. But the more I thought about it the more it hurt — my best wasn't good enough.
Ethel never liked it when her bullheadedness was challenged by someone. Bill Brown recalls an incident when he
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and Cliff Barrows visited Ethel in the convalescent home.
A couple of nights before, Ethel had fallen while walking to the bathroom. I suggested she get one of those aluminum walkers older people hold in front of them to steady them for each step. Ethel's pride caused her to reject my suggestion and with a sanctimonious tone, she replied, "I don't need no walker. The Lord is here to guide my footsteps." When I asked her where her Lord was the night she had fallen, she gave no answer. Smiling I repeated the question. "Where was your Lord when you fell?"
"I heard you the first time, you little snip," she retorted.
The rest and good food Ethel received at the convalescent home put her back on her feet, and she was able to go back to her apartment at the Bunker Hill Towers. Through one of her nurses, she found a maid to come by daily and help with the cooking and cleaning. Ethel thanked the good Lord that he had provided her with a place to recuperate but rejoiced even more at being able to go back home.
Shortly after she returned home she had an ophthalmologist check her blurred vision. He confirmed that she had cataracts on both eyes — a result of uncontrolled diabetes.
So it was back to a hospital — Hollywood Presbyterian — for cataract surgery. She demanded no publicity or fanfare as she checked in. The surgery went smoothly and Ethel picked and chose new friends among the doctors and nurses during her three-day stay.
Eager to be on her way home, Ethel had her overnight bag on her lap as a nurse pushed Ethel's wheelchair down the corridor and into the elevator. I walked along beside. "This is my baby girl," Ethel chirped to the nurse. Another passenger on the elevator looked at Ethel Waters and then at me. Even though Ethel had just come through eye surgery she didn't miss that passenger's quizzical look. "By proxy, of course,"
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she added and let out one of her hearty whoops of laughter.
Ethel had missed several crusades because of her poor health. She was excited as a child with a new toy when Cliff Barrows asked her if she was up to singing at the St. Louis crusade. Knowing her health was still a little shaky, I was asked to accompany her. Ethel was glad to have a travel companion, and I was glad for the opportunity to see old crusade friends again.
With first-class tickets in hand, we were dropped off at the Los Angeles airport. The porters, as usual, were glad to see Ethel — not only because of the generous tips she gave them ("They expect it of me," she said) but because they genuinely loved her. She always had a kiss and hug for each one.
It was a privilege for the porters to get her to the right gate and put her on the plane before the other passengers. She preferred a particular seat — second row, aisle seat, right hand side — which I automatically learned to request when making reservations.
Passengers on the plane would often recognize her as they boarded and would whisper to their friends, "Look . . . there's Ethel Waters!" some would recognize her but couldn't think of her name. It would be a bumpy ride if someone mistakenly called her Mahalia Jackson or dared to ask her name. Some just had to touch her. Others would say "I'll never forget your performance in Member of the Wedding — or Cabin in the Sky." I would burst with pride as I heard the accolades given her.
It was not unusual for a stewardess to come by and ask to take a picture for a shy passenger or request an autograph. Since her eyesight had failed, Ethel refused to oblige, as it was a struggle for her to sign her name. If she did it for one person she would have to do it for all.
On that first flight with Ethel, she reminisced of the time years ago when she was too fat to get a seatbelt around her. She had asked the stewardess for an extension for the belt, but there was none on board. The stewardess went to the
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cockpit to tell the pilot the problem. He told the stewardess to assure Ethel he would do his best at an easy take-off and landing. "And that's the truth," she exclaimed as we both roared over the incident.
As we checked into our hotel in St. Louis, we discovered a mix-up on our connecting rooms. The only way they could accommodate us was two single rooms on different floors or one big double room.
Those huge brown eyes of Ethels' pierced my soul as she said, "Oh, Twi, we could share, couldn't we?" That pleading look got to me. I agreed, although I remembered that dreadful night I spent with her at the Century Plaza suite and didn't sleep a wink. Her snoring was still vivid in my memory. Then too, I wished I had brought along a flannel nightgown. She insisted on keeping her room so cool. "I have to because of my heart," she half apologized.
As we settled into our room, she said, "You can't imagine the loneliness of being confined to the four walls of a hotel room. People can love you from a distance," she said. She went on to tell me how night after night people expressed their love and appreciation for her acting performance in a Broadway show. When the curtain calls were over, she would hail a cab and go back to her hotel room alone. "One time I received seventeen curtain calls," she laughed as she said, "and the rope puller collapsed from exhaustion." Yet that night there was no one waiting to love her, the Ethel Waters who needed to be loved for herself. "I cried myself to sleep that night," she recollected.
I was glad I had agreed to share that room with her. Selfishly I still wondered how I was going to sleep while she snored.
Just knowing I was close at hand was good enough for Ethel. "You don't have to stay with me all the time," she remarked as she turned on the TV set. I excused myself to wait in the lobby for crusade friends.
Tedd Smith came in, and I casually mentioned my problem
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to him. He, in turn, told Grady Wilson my story. "I have some sleeping pills and ear plugs," Dr. Wilson said as he took off for his room.
He returned to the lobby with two sleeping tablets, one ear plug and a pencil eraser for the other plug. He had lost the other plug down the sink drain while cleaning it with Listerine! However, I thanked God for friends and favors as I got a peaceful night of sleep.
The St. Louis audience enthusiastically welcomed Ethel to their crusade. She was glad to sing again about the Jesus she loved so much. She received four standing ovations, but because of her bad eyesight was completely unaware of it until I told her on our way back to the hotel.
"Did I sound okay? Did I say the right things?" she questioned me as we left the arena that night. "I never plan what I'm gonna say," she continued. I was surprised at the seemingly contradictory attitude of the woman who always displayed confidence.
I assured her she was as great as ever. The people had loved her. That's what she needed to hear.
On the plane coming back to Los Angeles, we sat behind a prominent actor. Ethel immediately recognized him for his television roles. She complimented him on his masterful acting ability.
This show business guy was intrigued by Ethel. He kept turning around in his seat asking her questions. "What were you doing in St. Louis? Have you written any books recently? Have you made any new albums?"
Ethel told him about her book recently published. She assured him I would see that he got an autographed copy along with several of her albums.
Several times I called the handsome bachelor to work out a time and place to deliver the goods. He called me several times, but we just couldn't get our schedules to coincide.
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Ethel learned through the grapevine that this actor had shown a special interest in me. Over the phone one morning she confronted me with the matter. With her quick sense of humor, she said, "Twila, he's too old for you. I could see that with my cataracts. You shoulda been able to see that with your contacts!"
Although her physical limitations made it difficult for her to do the things she once did, the wit and wisdom of Waters was as sharp as ever, and she could laugh at herself. "When I feel myself gettin' short of breath," she once said, "I just keep my big fat mouth shut until I gather some more breath."
I remember at a crusade in Pittsburgh, when Ethel got to the podium to sing, she was laughing with gusto.
Goodness? What's with her? I wondered. Then she explained.
Usually the person sitting next to her on the platform would say, "Holding you up in prayer," when it came time for her to sing. However, just as she got up, Grady Wilson leaned over and said, "Your slip is showing."
"I'm the Christian Phyllis Diller," she said as the packed stadium joined with her in laughter.
As Ethel and I flew to attend the crusade in Albuquerque, she told me of her last visit to this city. She had come to the city by train to do a secular concert. This time she was coming to tell the people about her precious Saviour.
We landed at the airport and began our descent from the airplane before I noticed the two parked cars on the runway. It must be an emergency, I thought, watching the flashing red light on the police car.
Then I spotted Larry Turner, the crusade associate. He was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. This was our official welcome to Albuquerque. Larry had arranged for us to step into the waiting car and be whisked off the runway
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without ever stepping foot in the terminal. Maybe Ethel was accustomed to such VIP treatment. It was a first for me.
"Hi," Ethel would exclaim with a burst of enthusiasm as she greeted the crusade crowd. The Ethel Waters I saw in front of a microphone was a totally different person from the one I saw behind the scenes.
I saw the one who was unsteady on her feet, the lady who stayed in bed all day long to have the strength to walk to the platform. I knew the woman who endured countless pains to be a part of a crusade. It would take her hours to get dressed because she needed to rest between each act of putting on her clothes. Her shoes went on last because often her feet were swollen.
For those few moments before the masses of people, God would grant her boundless energy, a twinkle for her eyes and a grin that stretched from ear to ear and showed the gap between her two front teeth. Her face glowed with God's love when she could talk about her Jesus.
People would come up to Ethel and tell her she was looking better than ever. As they would walk away, she would whisper to me, "Twila, if they only knew how I felt." She hid every pain and never complained.
"Cliffie, my precious son, says, 'Take your time but keep it moving,' " Ethel would tell the crowd and then chuckle as if she had told the whole world Cliff Barrow's secret.
She liked to share God's goodness to her before she sang. Her songs were familiar — "Partners with God," which she coauthored, "To Me It's Wonderful," "I Do, Don't You," "Just A Closer Walk with Thee." But the one the people always wanted to hear was "His Eye Is on the Sparrow" which she did so beautifully with the crusade choir.
Often at the end of the song, she might add, to the beat of the music, "One more time, Teddy, so they get the message," as she sang the last several lines again. In her last few crusades, she changed the last word.... instead of "I know He watches me", it became, "I know He watches we", her way of wrapping loving arms around each person in the audience, identifying them as the objects of God's personal love and care.
Tedd Smith, who accompanied Ethel at the Billy Graham Crusades
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from 1957 to 1976, remembers what it was like to play the piano for her:
Ethel always demanded that her accompaniments be played exactly as they were arranged. As long as she heard this, things were fine. If you ever deviated from what was written, watch out!
It was a usual sight to see Ethel squeezing my arm to steady herself as we walked to the hotel coffee shop. It annoyed Ethel as she tried to eat and strangers would come by and pose with her as a friend took a picture.
Often we found it easier to order room service. I would slowly read the menu to her and let her choose whatever she wanted. Then I would phone in the order. After I finished reading the menu to her in our room in Jackson, Mississippi, she insisted I order first. "Twi, you always wait until after I order and then you get something that looks so much better than mine." From then on, I ordered first and she would get the same thing.
As I traveled with Ethel, I noticed it becoming harder and harder for her to make the effort to get ready for a crusade. She wasn't about to let anybody know, though, as being at a crusade was what was keeping her going. "I might be only able to croak, but this sparrow wants to be heard," she once said.
"Oh, I'm gonna make a sexy corpse," she would tell photographer Russ Busby at every crusade as time after time he captured her famous smile on film.
In the summer of 1976 Cliff Barrows asked Ethel if she was physically able to journey to San Diego in August and sing two nights at the crusade. "I'll be there," she replied. Even if it took her last breath in doing so, Ethel said her main objective in life was to please the Savior.
As I sat in the audience that last night in San Diego, I was amazed
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at her spunk and sparkle, knowing the pain she was enduring. This gifted woman could generate magic to the audience. I emphasized to her how the people loved her as I helped her from the platform to the waiting car.
I don't know if it was a premonition or her woman's intuition, but I remember her telling Lowell Jackson, a staff worker, as he stood by the car, "Well, this is probably my last crusade. So I'll be looking for ya in heaven."
