Life Is Not a Stage Florence Henderson (13 ebook reader .txt) 📖

at the time, so necessity was the mother of invention. It was a shining example of that sense of unpredictability that has walked along with me like a shadow. Even to this day, I seem to always pop up where I’m least expected. It has kept things interesting to say the least.

The most bizarre Carson appearance I ever made was on December 17, 1969. Over forty million Americans tuned in to the show that night to witness the nuptials of Tiny Tim and Miss Vicki. For those of you not around during that time period, I’ll tell you about him. For those who were, no description is necessary because he was unforgettable. He rose to fame playing his ukulele and singing in his signature falsetto/vibrato “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” I have no doubt that if he had come around thirty years later, he would have fit in and found an audience on a show like American Idol, because he was such a quirky performance artist. He was a sweet man to meet him in person, but he had some strange ideas. One day, I was talking on the phone to Babby, who at the time was working for an advertising agency in New York. “You’re not going to believe this,” she interrupted suddenly. “There’s a man here in the lobby with long brown hair and a white face [makeup] going around kissing all the pictures on the wall.” That was Tiny Tim. Legend has it that he was so enamored of the fact that he could get free room service when he played Las Vegas that he hoarded the food under his bed. For his wedding to Miss Vicki, I was asked to sing an appropriate song for the occasion. I came out bedecked in a beautiful gown and sang “My Love,” Petula Clark’s hit song from a few years before. Afterwards, I sat on the panel for the rest of the show. From time to time, Johnny turned his head to make eye contact with me, flashing an expression of disbelief.

Of all the television appearances I did during this time, the one that stands out the most was an appearance on Ed Sullivan on September 24, 1967, and for a tragic reason. The day before the show, I was rehearsing with the orchestra a medley from The Sound of Music with a conductor I adored and used frequently for live performances named Irving Actman. Irving was a frequent collaborator with lyricist Frank Loesser and had conducted Guys and Dolls for him. He was a smoker, and I knew he had a heart condition, so I was on his case about that whenever I saw him light up.

We rehearsed the medley a couple of times and took a break.

“I’m going to run across the street and get some coffee,” he said. “Do you want some?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll go get my own.” As I crossed the street, he was coming back the opposite way, cigarette dangling from his mouth and in a hurry to get back. I yelled at him, “Irving, throw away that cigarette!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said.

We started rehearsing again. Irving went up on his podium, and I took my usual position right beside him. He raised his hand as he did normally to start conducting, but the hand suddenly reached up to grab his head. A second later, he collapsed at my feet. One of the musicians rushed over and gave him mouth-to-mouth. Minutes later, the paramedics came and tried everything to bring him back, beating on his chest and almost kicking him to try to get him going. But he was gone. He had grown to become almost like a father figure to me, and just like that he was gone.

I was devastated, and I told my manager at the time, Ken Greengrass, that there was no way I could possibly do the show the next day. He kept talking to me and talking to me. “This would be the best thing for Irving if you would go on,” he told me. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. The audience knew nothing about what had happened the day before, but they must have felt the outpouring of intensity from both the orchestra and me and were enthusiastic. It was a showstopper. Irving once confided to me when we were out on the road, “I hope I don’t die alone in a hotel room.” I promised him he wouldn’t. I know it is a cliché, but there is something to be said for dying doing exactly what you love doing the most. As shocking as the experience was, I’m so glad I was with him and he wasn’t alone in a hotel room.

Irving and I had been on the road together not long before he passed away. Ken Greengrass had told me, “You really need to have an act and go out.” Ken was also Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé’s manager at the time, and he had seen how playing clubs became a whole industry for them. He was surprised I hadn’t done it sooner. My agent Sandy Gallin, who would soon succeed Ken as my personal manager, completed the process and got me into the big Las Vegas types of engagements. As Dolly Parton, Mac Davis, and others would soon find out, Sandy was a brilliant manager who really hustled for his clients.

What was the big deal about going out with your own act? It’s about the closest thing you can do to going out on the stage completely naked. There is absolutely nowhere to hide. If you’re performing a role in the theater, the audience may like you even if they think the rest of the production leaves something to be desired. But headlining your own act, the buck stops with you. It is your opportunity to display all your talents, along with sharing who you are more intimately—your thoughts, your personality, your humor, and your more serious