Jeannie Out Of The Bottle (2 page)

Larry himself has made no secret about the fact that he was taking drugs and drinking too much through many of the I Dream of Jeannie years and that he has regrets about how that impacted him. And I, of all people, know that I can’t afford to be judgmental about the lure of drugs and the dreadful repercussions of taking them.

But this is one of my more startling memories of Larry while filming I Dream of Jeannie. Jeannie blink: Sally Field is filming The Flying Nun on the next sound stage, and one morning a group of elderly nuns pay a visit to the set. Afterward, someone comes up with the bright idea of bringing them over to the I Dream of Jeannie set for a visit as well.

So here they are, about ten of them: sweet, gentle, and demure in their black-and-white habits, their hands folded, their eyes bright with anticipation at the thought of visiting another Hollywood set and meeting all of us. Larry takes one look at the nuns, grabs an axe (which one of the technicians happens to have in the studio that day), and swings it around his head so ferociously that he could easily have killed someone. As he swings it, he lets out a torrent that includes every single foul swear word I’ve ever heard, and some I haven’t—right in the stunned nuns’ faces. If that isn’t enough, he starts hacking at the cables frenetically until someone grabs the axe, frog-marches Larry off the set, then escorts the shaken nuns out of the building. It’s hardly surprising that no visitors were ever allowed on the I Dream of Jeannie set again.

Sally and I were often in makeup at the same time. When I was rehearsing my Las Vegas nightclub act while I was working on I Dream of Jeannie, I used to arrive at the makeup department at six in the morning, with my little tape recorder with a tape of all my music in it, and learn my songs for my act while the makeup artist was applying my makeup.

Recently, in an interview, Sally let slip, “The only uncomfortable thing about doing The Flying Nun was, my God, Barbara Eden singing all the time in the makeup room at 6 AM and never stopping!”

Sorry, Sally! If only I’d known, I’d have practiced in the shower instead.

But back to Larry. After Sidney Sheldon suggested that Larry see a therapist and he agreed, the therapist was frequently on the set during filming of I Dream of Jeannie, in case he was needed. But even he didn’t seem able to put the brakes on Larry. Consequently, Larry’s dramatics escalated, and—now that we live in an X-rated age—could most likely become the basis of a terrific comedy series themselves.

In fact, you could devote a whole episode to the time when Sammy Davis Jr. guested in “The Greatest Entertainer in the World” and ended up threatening to kill Larry, and another to the time we filmed “The Second Greatest Con Artist in the World” in Hawaii with Milton Berle.

But there is one episode that I don’t think would actually make it onto the air even today: the time when Larry, in frustration and anger at what he saw as the show’s shortcomings and the second-string status of his character, Major Tony Nelson, relieved himself all over the I Dream of Jeannie set.

I’ll be sharing more of Larry’s tantrums in the rest of the book, no holds barred. But working with Larry was still a walk in the park in comparison to many other things that happened to me throughout the years, particularly in my private life—my stillborn son; two divorces; the death of Matthew, my only child, when he was thirty-five and on the threshold of marriage; and the loss of my beloved mother.

Through it all, my mother’s voice has always echoed in my mind: Rise above it, Barbara Jean, rise above it! I’ve tried as hard as I can to do so. Sometimes I’ve triumphed and risen above whatever life has flung at me, but other times I’ve failed dismally, floundered, and been utterly swamped. This is the story of all those times, good and bad, better and worse, exactly how they happened, exactly how I coped, and exactly how I didn’t.

WHENEVER I HEAR the blare of a foghorn or see a picture of a mermaid or a young couple madly in love, I feel as if I’ve been Jeannie-blinked back into my childhood, happy and secure.

The foghorn, you see, reminds me of San Francisco, where I grew up. The mermaid reminds me of Dolfina, the famous “Girl in the Fishbowl” always on display at the Bal Tabarin restaurant in North Beach, where my parents often used to bring me when I was very young, simply because they couldn’t afford a babysitter and had to cart me everywhere with them.

In those far-off years during the Depression, however poor my parents were, they still hadn’t forgotten how to love, how to laugh, and how to dream. They were young and carefree, spent every penny my father earned from his job as a telephone lineman, and understood exactly how to have fun.

At the time, long before my younger sister, Alison, was born, I was my mother’s “onliest only,” as she called me then, and would until her dying day. Like many an only child, I was probably grown-up before my time, and those nights at the Bal Tabarin (which later became Bimbo’s 365 Club), where Rita Hayworth danced in the chorus and Ann Miller was discovered dancing when she was just thirteen, only served to make me more mature and at the same time give me an early love of show business.

So did seeing Bob Hope perform live onstage when I was just four years old. My mother and father took me to his show at a local theater, and I remember how joyful watching Bob made me feel. Little did I know that when I grew up, I would meet him, we’d become friends, and I’d appear onstage with him many, many times myself.

When I was a small child, my dream was to be not an actress but a singer. Each night, when I did the dishes with my mother, Alice, she sang Gilbert and Sullivan ditties or tunes from her father’s favorite Irish operetta, Bohemian Girl, and I joined in. I developed a passion for singing early on in my childhood, which was only further heightened when I sang in the church choir every Sunday.

At the same time, fishing on Fisherman’s Wharf with my father (although the sight of fishermen gutting their fish put me off fish for life—to this day I never eat it), roller-skating along the wharf, and bicyling in Golden Gate Park with him all contributed to making me a bit of a tomboy (which, by the way, I always thought Jeannie was as well).

I’ve always considered myself a California girl and have been proud of it, but in reality I was born in Tuscon, Arizona. And I always relished looking back at my mother’s family history and reconstructing exactly how I ended up being born there.

I still have a remarkable letter she gave to me, which was originally bequeathed to her by her mother. It was written in 1856 by my great-great-great-grandfather, John A. Bills, to my great-great-grandparents, Bilista and William Long, after they were forced to leave New York State and go west because William, a housepainter, was dying of lead poisoning. If I could have, I would have framed it, but it is too old and too fragile, so I keep it in an acid-free envelope. All in all, I think it’s a fascinating historical document (but if you don’t, just skip it).

Ramsey, Illinois 28 Nov. 1856

Dear Daughter,

We rec’d your letter a few days ago and hasten to answer. We were sorry to hear that William was so feeble although it was not all together unexpected. He has been so long sick that we sometimes almost believed that thought he might at last recover—but we feel that even this letter may find you a widow and the children orphans—I sometimes feel as though you would be doubly afflicted situated as you are a stranger almost in a far off country—but it seem you are not discouraged or cast down entirely. We really hope a way will be provided for you and the little ones. Do you still feel that you had rather stay there or would you like to come back and live among your old acquaintances and friends once more.

We have sold out all our things in Troy and moved to the west. We are on a farm in a town called Ramsey it is on the Illinois South Central Railroad. As far south nearly as St. Louis. We have a very nice farm of 1110 acres and so far like it much. Gardner and George are here with us and John in Vandalia 13 miles south of us to work at his trade (dentist). Uncle Loren is out in the northern part of this state with all of his family and they seem and write that they like first rate. Uncle Alanson is still in New York. Alonzo has gone to sea again this time to Calcutta. I suppose he is bound to be a sailor. Iarne and Abner are in stores. Claryou is at home. Samuel and Sarah live in Williamsburg opposite New York. Daniel is a carman, Uncle Luis and Nathan are in (?) on their old places all well. Allen and Ester lived in Albany when we came away—have not heard from them since.

I had a letter from Mrs. Harlow sometime since they live in Oroville and she seems to think that they are getting rich again—I hope they may. I suppose Mrs. Alfred Smith is out there as she has sold all her furniture and was calculating to go in a few days when we left Troy the first of July—is she there and what are they about. I wish we could run in and see you and help you in your time of need—but we are a great way apart and it is not likely that I shall ever go to California again—if we had Mary & Willie home we could give them a good chance for school and bread and milk—We have two good cows and make plenty of butter and have lots of cream and milk to eat and use—I suppose they are great children now and hope they are and always will be good children and do all they can to help their mother through life.

Now Bilista I should like to know how you are situated to get a living—can you earn enough to make yourself and children comfortable—do you intend to stay there and work and do all you can to make a living or do you sometimes wish you was back again—I wish you would write me as to how you feel about it—We think this is a good and healthy country—My health and your mother’s is much better than it was in Troy and so far we are not sorry we moved—Please write soon and often and we will write often now that we are settled down once more—Give our respects to Mr. & Mrs. Smith if she is there—and finally give our respects to all our old acquaintances if you see any of them.

Goodbye and may the Lord give you strength to endure whatever you may be called to go through.

Direct your letter “John A Bills, Ramsey-Fayette Co Illinois.”

Your Father John A Bills

Mrs. Bilista A Long

San Francisco

Cal

The Mary mentioned in the letter was my great-grandmother, Mary Dorothea Long, who came west in the covered wagon with her parents, Bilista and William Long, when she was only four years old. After her parents’ untimely deaths, she was raised by nuns in San Francisco.

My great-grandfather, Richard O’Leary, was born in County Cork, Ireland. When he was a child during the potato famine, his parents, hoping to save his life, put him on a ship bound for the New World. That ship turned out to be one of the “coffin boats,” so named because so many children who sailed on them died of starvation or disease during the harsh and unforgiving Atlantic crossing.

Richard O’Leary was one of the lucky ones; he survived. At fifteen years old, still unable to read and write, he took a job building the transcontinental railroad and ended up in Marysville, California, where he met a priest and confided to him that he wanted a wife.

The priest relayed that information to my great-grandmother, Mary, who thought about it for a bit, then informed the priest, “I’ll walk out with him.” So that’s what she did, for just one week, at the end of which she announced to the priest, “I’ll marry him,” and did.

She went on to teach my great-grandfather to read and write, and had nine children along the way as well, one of whom was my maternal grandmother, Frances Elvira O’Leary, who was born in Nevada and went to school there.

Meanwhile, back east in Pennsylvania, my maternal grandfather-to-be, Charles Benjamin Franklin (a distant relative of the great man himself), the son of an Englishwoman, was orphaned at nine after his parents were killed in a carriage accident.

On discovering that young Charles had been left alone in the world, his two maternal aunts sailed from England to America, determined to bring him back home to the old country with them. The aunts realized Charles was happy in his new home and allowed my grandfather to stay. However, later, he ran away from home, apprenticed himself to a ship’s carpenter, and sailed the seven seas.

By the time Charles arrived back in America, he had married, divorced, and along the way become an accomplished carpenter, adept at all branches of the trade, including cabinetry. Finally he turned up in Nevada, where he booked into a small boardinghouse. There, one morning, a beautiful young girl—Frances Elvira O’Leary—served him breakfast.

Although he was entranced by her charms, he nevertheless couldn’t help noticing that she kept rubbing her cheek. Without any preamble, he demanded to know why she hadn’t seen a dentist. She blushed scarlet and shook her head, whereupon he grabbed her arm and declared, “Whether you like it or not, I’m taking you to one.”

He did, and within months, my grandmother, Frances Elvira O’Leary, married Charles Benjamin Franklin in San Francisco. My mother, Alice, the youngest of four children, was born in El Paso. My grandfather became a house builder and would remain so for the rest of his days, building homes in Los Angeles, El Paso, and Tuscon, Arizona, which is where I came in.

During the first two or three years of my life, because money was quite scarce, we lived in Tucson and then El Paso with my grandparents. My earliest memory is of sleeping in one bed with my mother, in the morning watching her get dressed for work, and being overwhelmed by her youth and beauty.