Love, Ellen: A Mother/Daughter Journey (17 page)

There really was no specific reason for feeling “not myself’ that Sunday—nothing I could put my finger on. And yet, as I made my way to a seat in one of the pews close to the front, another wave of this inexplicable sadness hit me. Trying to fend off the tears, I sat down, hoping that the mass would start soon and help me feel better.

In Shreveport, I attended an Episcopal church regularly, although I frequently visited this Catholic church because of the priest, Father Clayton, who gave wonderful, thought-provoking sermons. This Sunday, Father Clayton spoke as passionately as always. But somehow his words failed to lift my spirits. Only once before—a few years earlier—had I felt like this.

That was on a cold night when B. and I were in the car, on our way out for dinner and a movie. I suddenly became overwhelmed. I started crying tears of I-don’t-know-what—frustration, pent-up anger, sadness. The more I tried to stop, the more I cried. B. muttered something about my having really lost my mind this time. We had to turn around and go home.

My anguished feelings then and at mass this Sunday came from the same source. My life was a lie. My marriage was a pretense. As I sat in church and grasped this stark truth, I came face to face with my own shame. Why couldn’t I find the strength to do what I knew I had to do?

With Vance and Ellen so far away, I missed them more than ever. Of course, I knew they loved me and missed me too, but they had their own lives to live. I couldn’t change my life for them; I had to learn to do it for myself.

As painful as this experience was, it was a turning point that allowed me to make a vital decision—even though it would take me a few more years to act on it with finality. And as I look back at that dark, dark day over a dozen years ago, I realize that I went to that low point for a reason. I was being given a message that it was really time to reevaluate my life and do something, finally, to change it.

Slowly, with stumbling baby steps—learning to walk all over again—that’s what I was getting ready to do.

Ironically, later on when I did leave and was really alone, I always remembered that day in church and that desolate feeling. I’ve never, ever, before or since, felt as lonely as I did then.

“M
OTHER
,” E
LLEN’S BREATHLESS
voice whispered dramatically over the telephone, “are you sitting down?”

I sat down. “I’m sitting,” I said, waiting to hear the big news.

These days, whether it was good or bad, Ellen’s news was always big—even if she was just calling to tell me that she had the “most awful, terrible, horrible cramps.” It was November of 1986 and over the past several months, the news had been mostly great, including being hired by Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

But after I made a quick trip to Los Angeles a few months earlier, Ellen had been so sad when I left to go back that she had seemed very down on her whole Hollywood experience. Around that time she wrote to me: “I wanna get out of the business. … It’s tough, Mama! I need a break soon.”

Well, I crossed my fingers. Maybe this was it. After a prolonged silence, I said in my own dramatic whisper, “The suspense is killing me. What is it?”

Then Ellen’s voice changed as she sang out, “November eighteenth, I’m doing the
Tonight Show!
This is it! Johnny Carson!”

I jumped up, delighted, echoing her excitement with my own, telling her how thrilled I was.

“Now the hard part is going in front of Johnny and the cameras and millions of viewers and not fainting dead away on the spot!”

After assuring her that I knew she would be absolutely great, I let her know that the whole family would be glued to the television that night.

Ellen and I immediately got busy notifying everyone. El soon received the following from Noni:

I should note that I’d previously heard my mother’s “whisper” in church. I was with her once when she spotted a friend, Joanne, sitting three rows ahead of us, vigorously fanning herself. Mother “whispered” to me, “Joanne’s going through the change.” I think that one got passed around as well.

Well, the big day arrived; but before we all sat down in front of our respective television sets, El called gloomily to say that she had been bumped at the last minute. The good news was that they had rescheduled her for Friday, November 28—Thanksgiving weekend.

B. and I drove down to Baytown, Texas, to Audrey and Bob’s house while Mother and Helen flew over from New Orleans. We all had a wonderful Thanksgiving together, and the next night we gathered, somewhat nervously, to watch El’s significant first appearance.

From the moment I saw her walk out, poised, smiling, focused, I knew she could do no wrong. She got the audience laughing by talking about how mean her parents were to her when she was a kid: “Yeah, I remember one day when I was walking home from kindergarten. At least, they
told
me it was kindergarten. … I found out later Ed been working in a factory for two years.”

The audience roared, and they roared harder as Ellen said what a healthy, fit family she came from: “When my grandmother was sixty years old she started walking five miles a day. She’s ninety-seven now and we don’t know where the hell she is.”

By the time El got into her Phone Call with God, she was being applauded on every line. Amazing.

Then something even more amazing happened. After she finished, to thunderous applause, the camera cut over to Johnny. He too was applauding and on his face was the most delighted expression. He raised his hand as if to give her a thumbs-up but suddenly he beckoned her over. Unheard of! Rarely were any comics asked to sit on the panel with Johnny after their first appearance. And never before had any comedienne been “paneled” by Johnny after her debut. So when the camera cut back to Ellen, she stood there with an expression that almost said, “Who, me?” Realizing that he meant her, she floated over, smiling radiantly.

The second her part ended, I leaped to my feet and screamed—overjoyed at how great she was. A few minutes later the phone rang, and it was Ellen to ask how we liked it and just share the special moment with us. Together, we relived the experience, talking about the whole thing from beginning to end.

This appearance proved to be one of the most important breaks of Ellen’s career. Within the next six months she had four more appearances on the
Tonight Show.
She was a sensation—better and better each time, hilarious, infectiously likable, and smart. Everyone in TV-land started touting the newcomer Ellen DeGeneres as a blue-eyed blonde with brains.

At first, Mother acted very pleased about her granddaughter’s success. But it soon became apparent that Noni’s feelings were hurt because of Ellen’s bit about her grandmother taking up walking. One day, on a visit, she blurted out to me, “I wish Ellen would leave me out of her act.”

“Mother,” I replied, as lovingly and carefully as I could, “she’s not really talking about you. It’s just a funny grandmother image. You know that when El talks about what mean parents she had, she’s not talking about us. People know that.”

I went on and on, trying to explain. Mother wouldn’t buy it. In the meantime, Ellen’s feelings were hurt too. She complained to me that instead of the simple congratulations she wanted from her grandmother, Noni was being harsh and critical.

I tried to give El advice about making her peace with Mother, and the incident blew over, fortunately. But a comment Ellen had made about family and unconditional love really got me thinking. After the blowup, I wrote the following to Ellen:

“I’m tired of my life being so fragmented,” I had written to Ellen. These words came to mind in midflight between Shreveport and Dallas. I was off to meet Ellen, who was performing in Dallas at the Improv. She was now headlining there on a regular basis. It was May 14, 1988, the beginning of a much-needed week’s vacation.

Although El had sent me information about job opportunities in Los Angeles, as I had asked her, I just wasn’t ready to take that plunge. Instead, after proudly earning my master’s degree in communication disorders at the end of 1986, I played it safe and stayed put. As I had no trouble finding work, I soon began my professional experience as a speech pathologist employed by the Shreveport and nearby Bossier City school systems. For the first time in my life, I experienced job satisfaction. I loved what I was doing and saw that I was having a positive impact on the lives of others.

But the fragmentation of my life became worse. To the outside world, I was a happy, working, thriving member of society, married, with two grown kids who were doing well for themselves in very tough fields. But none of this jibed with the struggle that was going on inside me—the fact that I was stuck in my marriage, wanting to move on yet unable to budge.

I stared out the window, watching the clouds go by, allowing my restless thoughts to float away for the time being, so that I could enjoy my vacation and have some fun. This was, after all, the week of my birthday and part of the trip was a gift from my favorite daughter.

It was a real joy—from beginning almost to the very end.

After two nights of watching Ellen dazzle packed houses in Dallas, I flew with her to Los Angeles. Ellen was now living in West Hollywood, a marked improvement from her first digs on Normandie, and single for the time being. Vance, who was living nearby, met us for lunch in the neighborhood.

More handsome than ever, Vance told me just enough about a new romance to let me know it could be serious. He also talked about his various new projects, including a contract as a music writer for a record label as well as some comedy and dramatic writing for television, which later would include a series called
Eerie, Indiana,
and then a steady succession of different shows.

In addition, Vance told me over lunch, he was starting to get more into visual arts too.

“You should see his paintings,” Ellen raved. “They’re incredible.”

Then Vance remembered that Ellen was being featured in the new issue of
US Magazine,
and we made a dash to a newsstand to buy it. It included lots of praise and a great picture, and we were a happy trio as we stood there reading it together.

The rest of my stay was a whirlwind of delicious meals, sight-seeing, and people-watching. L.A. really did seem to be the place where the beautiful people lived. I had never seen so many good-looking, well-dressed individuals. Even the waiters and waitresses looked like stars.

For the culmination of my vacation, Ellen was taking me with her as she flew from Los Angeles to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, where she was scheduled to open for the Pointer Sisters. The job paid several thousand dollars—a lot of money at that time—which was why Ellen was insistent on making a big deal of it and treating me to the flight. Feeling really flush from all this money she was getting ready to earn, she was spending very freely before we even left L.A. I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea.

In fact, a few hours before leaving for the airport, Ellen needed to pack and asked me to go out and buy a set of flatware for her that she had seen earlier and absolutely loved. It was beautiful flatware but very expensive. “Buy it when you come back home,” I admonished her.

El was quite put out with me at the time. Later she was relieved.

After a nice flight to Pennsylvania, we were driven to the Valley Forge Radisson, where we settled into Ellen’s lovely, large suite which had a huge Jacuzzi bathtub in which I spent a restful hour the next morning.

That evening, a limousine picked us up and whisked us over to the theater.

I accompanied El to her dressing room and then up to the stage, where she checked everything out before the audience began to arrive.

As performance time drew near, El introduced me to two of the three Pointer Sisters. Then, as performance time drew very, very near, Ellen was notified that the third sister had suddenly been taken ill and was going to the hospital.

“So what does that mean?” I asked Ellen, as she gave me the news.

“It means the show is canceled,” she said, smiling, though not amused.

“Which means … ?” I didn’t even have to ask.

Ellen just nodded glumly. “Right,” she said, “which means I don’t get paid.”

The only positive thought I could muster was that at least she hadn’t bought the flatware.

We got back in the limo and drove away in grim silence as hundreds of people were arriving, parking, and getting ready to go in—and hear the bad news.

With this turn of events, I decided to fly directly home, and to insist on paying my own way. Ellen didn’t argue much.

Moral of the story. Show business is full of little bumps along the road, and some very large potholes.

O
NE OF THE
bright spots in my life in the late 1980s was Kerri Remmel, the owner and director of a private speech therapy clinic in Shreveport. Kerri was—and is—a remarkable speech pathologist, teacher, and, eventually, good friend.