Funnily enough, he ran away. A tortoise on the lam!
My parents had enough on their plates, without the pets that I was always finding and wanting to live with us. In Melbourne, people would dump animals on the university grounds, figuring they could survive in that place of trees, plants and open-hearted young people who might take them in.
I’d find poor, sweet greyhounds that were considered by the trainers no use to anyone after their racing careers. They had been dumped at Ormond. I’d sneak them food and water, and spend time with them. I’m very happy to know now that there are organisations that rehabilitate these beautiful dogs. I’d also remove tiny kittens from paper bags in rubbish bins where people had literally thrown them away. I’d rescue seven or eight and then take them all to the local RSPCA, hoping and praying that they would find homes where they would be well taken care of and loved.
When my mother made friends with the Dattners family in Eltham who had ponies at their home, I held my breath. ‘Bring Olivia around on the weekends so she can play with the horses,’ they said, and my heart soared. I had no idea what I was doing, but I loved each pony as if it were my own. I didn’t know how to put tack on and it took me an hour to figure it out each time. I didn’t care. I’d ride and play with them while imagining that I could keep each one.
I remember once seeing a guy being abusive to a horse behind a cart. I was only seven, but I raced right up, grabbed the reins and yelled at him.
That’s how I always felt about animals. Some humans brand animals as stupid but I don’t agree. They have feelings, just like us, and are very sensitive. I believe they have their own language, and it’s just that we don’t understand it. But it doesn’t mean they’re stupid.
I love their company, presence and loyalty and don’t feel right unless I have an animal in my life. I simply try to make them safe, comfortable and happy. No one is happier to see me at the end of a long tour than Raven! (Well, maybe John.)
I love taking care of my animals. That’s a good life to me. When I’m not travelling or on the road, I love to get up early and feel the crisp morning air and watch the beautiful California sky. I listen to my rooster crow and then walk across the dewy grounds. Raven is ready to play ball, but we have chores to do first. We go to the barn, feed the horses and then the chickens. I’m a country girl at heart.
The loss of a pet can be as powerful as the loss of any member of your family. I know this from going through it myself and from watching friends who have lost animals and who struggle to function for a long time. Whether it’s a pet or a person, grief has no use-by date. Grief goes on, and you carry it around with you. I have a song called ‘Stone in My Pocket’ about this subject. Sometimes grief for a person or a pet feels like you’re carrying a boulder around, and at other times it feels like a grain of sand that’s always in your pocket.
I will always remember the beautiful animals that have graced my life and I have loved each one as my family.
The love lives on.
Trust yourself. You know all the answers.
Trust yourself. You know what is right.
I can’t believe that I’ve now been touring for almost five decades. I always say that I love to sing because it’s the only thing I’m good at (well, I guess that’s a matter of opinion) – but thank goodness I found my passion. I can’t imagine any other sort of life.
It’s true that touring can be gruelling, but it’s still so exhilarating. These days I use buses as much as possible to get from point A to point B. What’s tiring is all the packing and unpacking and the time spent in airports. If you use a bus, you can avoid a lot of the stress and travel all night long before waking up in a new environment. That’s always fun and I still love that part of it.
I have a great time with John and my band on the bus. We watch movies and unwind as the miles slip by. Some of the most beautiful times are when John and I wake up early to see the sun rising in different parts of the country.
As for the shows, I’m still a little anxious just before I step on to the stage. I’ve learned to embrace that feeling, though, to handle it and turn the fear into excitement. Change your thoughts, change your life.
One thing that has changed is that in the ‘old days’, audiences used to call for an encore by grabbing their lighters and waving the flame in the air. It was such a beautiful image to see those dots of fire in the blackness. Cut to 2018. Audiences now use their cell phone flashlights and wave them overhead instead. It’s still a magical moment.
When I was younger, I used to write the words to some of the songs on my hand because I was so nervous about forgetting something. I was worried about that for years, so the best invention for me was the onstage monitors that show you the lyrics. I don’t look at them that often, but if I have a moment of, ‘Ooooh, what’s that . . .’ I can just look down and it’s there. I know all the songs backwards and forwards, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be a moment where your mind goes blank. In the old days, before the autocue, there were a few times when I messed up, looked at the audience and said, ‘Oops, I forgot where I am!’
But it was always okay. The audience loved it. And anyway, they knew every word.
I’ve learned that the fear is always worse than the reality.
When I look back on a life of live performances, it has been extraordinary. There were shows that were outdoors and either very hot or terribly cold. I’ve been sick on stage, or in incredible pain. But something always comes over me. I step out on stage and there’s that rush of adrenalin. It just takes over and sweeps me away.
Once, when I was young, Pat and I were doing a show in London and she was sick as a dog throwing up backstage. We had no choice but to walk out onto the stage, though, and I waited for the inevitable – which never happened. Pat got that adrenalin rush, performed flawlessly, and didn’t get sick again until the second after the last curtain call.
That’s the life of a performer.
When I step on stage now, there’s more than that rush of exhilaration for me. I feel more of a connection to the people who sit in those seats and have spent time with me for years. Perhaps they’ve played a favourite song of mine hundreds of times or they’ve been cleaning their house singing ‘You’re the One That I Want’ at the top of their lungs. Or maybe they’ve driven far to see me live. We’re in this together. I feel such a connection to my loyal fans.
Do I have groupies? Yes, but I don’t like that word, or ‘fans’, for that matter. I prefer ‘admirers’. I have wonderful and polite people who have followed me since the start. I did have one admirer years ago who met me after a show at one of my meet and greets. He had a t-shirt on with over fifty pictures of me pinned to it and a ‘Physical’ headband hanging from his belt. When I hugged him, he started crying hard. Hopelessly devoted indeed. I was so touched.
Another time, I was in a ladies loo and a fan stuck a piece of paper under the door with a pen. From the other stall, I heard, ‘When you’re finished, would you mind signing this?’
I was amused and said, ‘After you wash your hands, perhaps.’
I never mind.
The year 1998 marked the twentieth anniversary of Grease – and 2018 is the fortieth! That seems unbelievable to me. When we reached the big two-oh, there were 300 people with us celebrating at the Paramount lot in Los Angeles. I came to say a few words and then John Travolta and I sang and danced our famous duets.
My mum always said time moves faster and faster as you age – and it’s true. Twenty years seemed like a blip of time. Here we were in our leather jackets and ‘Grease’ was the word again. It felt like no time had passed at all and suddenly Grease was back in the theatres, which was so much fun. The same thing is going on right now for the fortieth anniversary.
The fan theories about what it all means make me laugh. I’ve heard (based on the movie’s ending with us driving up into the clouds) that Sandy as a character really died in the beginning and the movie was about us in heaven. If that’s true,
then I guess we were in the first zombie movie!
But we looked pretty good for zombies.
A few decades after release, I even appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show with my famous tiny black pants. ‘A body was in here! Look at this!’ Oprah marvelled.
‘And to think it was mine,’ I shot back, laughing.
I didn’t really know what to expect when I was offered a Las Vegas residency five years ago. The deal was that I would do about a hundred shows in Sin City during a year. It would be a brisk pace to say the least, but I love to stay busy. It was also exciting to see my face on a giant billboard next to long-time friends Donny and Marie Osmond, and opposite Reba, Rod, Elton and Mariah.
I’m not sure how it happened, but one great year soon turned into three. I found myself really enjoying the experience of living in the desert with John and staying in one place.
I loved the stage, the Vegas crowds, and with my wonderful band, the fact that the sound was the same every night (and perfect).
The Vegas residency also meant that John and I could rent a house, bring our dog and cat, and sleep in the same bed every night.
It was a normal life of going to a ‘job’ at night and spending our days working out and doing supermarket runs, or going to the movies, or taking a hike through the majestic Red Rock Canyon. You knew where your things were, which is so unlike being on the road. It was so nice to actually unpack my suitcase and hang up my clothes. It sounds silly, but those little things make a difference.
The admirers were loyal, too – and they came back time and time again. The show was called Summer Nights and it really was a journey of my biggest hits, with a few standards thrown in too. I love giving an audience exactly what they want and the Vegas shows were centred around having a really good time. It’s also wonderful to spend time with people who know and love my music. I always feel fortunate that, after all of these years, they’re still sitting in those seats hoping that I sing ‘Sam’ or ‘Please Mr Please’.
I was determined that the ninety-minute show would feature all the hits. I remember as an aspiring singer going to see a famous artist who shall remain nameless, and she didn’t want to do her most famous songs. I was terribly disappointed, and vowed, ‘If I’m ever lucky enough to make it, I must remember to perform the songs that people want to hear.’
I’ve always kept that in mind and it worked.
It was a simple show. I had to convince the powers that I didn’t want dancers, bells and whistles. That’s really not me.
I’m so grateful that my voice is as strong as ever thanks to sessions for the last twelve years with my vocal coach, Steve Real. His wife, Martha, also takes wonderful care of me on the road. Steve has helped me keep my instrument in the best shape possible.
The admirer reaction has been so touching to me. One man wrote that he saw the Vegas show sixty-five times and he always signed up for the meet and greet afterwards. At one of those after-show sessions, he even proposed to his boyfriend on one knee in front of me.
I wished them a lifetime of happiness!
It was often tiring to do a meet and greet each night after the show, but what kept me going is that all the money went to the ONJ Centre, which made any fatigue seem unimportant.
Almost every night, someone would pull me aside and tell me, ‘Olivia, I’m going through cancer right now.’ Conversations like this always touch the deepest part of my heart and reinforce that we’re all connected. I’ll spend a few minutes with that person trying to offer a little support. It makes me feel good to help people.
Remember, we’re all in this together.
Now, let’s go back to the cinema for a moment.
I have loved Doris Day since I watched her in those wonderful Doris Day/Rock Hudson musicals when I was young. I loved her voice and the spunky characters she portrayed in her films. Her song – ‘Que Sera, Sera’ – was the one I sang all the time growing up, and I still remember the words! When I read her autobiography, I felt a kinship with Doris that went beyond music and movies, as she focused on her love of animals and the hardships she faced and triumphed over in her life. At the time, I seriously inquired to see if I could play Doris in a movie based on her life.
It turns out Doris wasn’t interested in having her life portrayed on the screen by me or anyone else. Funny, but I found myself in the same position these last few years, so I totally understand! However, I have acquiesced now and I am used to the idea.
I must say, though, it was a strange feeling to hear that they were planning to make my life into a miniseries. I thought, Hang on. Don’t those things happen after you’re gone?
Delta Goodrem, who played me in the unauthorised TV movie of my life, is a dear friend, and a talented and beautiful singer/songwriter. She was the perfect person to play me in the Australian production. The fact that Delta has also been on the cancer journey and is a fellow thriver sets her level of compassion and empathy in line with mine.
As I write these words, I haven’t seen the movie, and I had nothing to do with its storyline or production. My worry was that the facts of my life were correct, and that the other people in my life were portrayed kindly and fairly. It’s not their fault that they were in the public eye because of me.
I’ve directed that my proceeds from the film go to my Cancer Wellness & Research Centre.
I hope I can watch it one day.
We learn how to thrive and then live on.
In 2013 John and I moved from Florida back to California where we took a temporary house to be near Chloe. My sister Rona helped me move. A month later, she was going to come up to the house again to see how I was putting things together. Rona was always a great decorator and I needed her input.
I called her the morning she was meant to visit – she was supposed to be driven to my house by my assistant, Dana, but strangely, she hadn’t turned up at the meeting point. I was already a little worried, when Rona asked me if it was morning yet. It was 10 a.m. and she seemed very confused. She didn’t remember that she was coming over, even though we had spoken about it the day before.
I was concerned and called her best friend Maria, who told me she had also received a very confusing phone call from Rona that morning. ‘Can you go check on her?’ I asked.
When Maria went over there, she found Rona in an odd state and took her to the ER. Maria called me a few hours later and said I should come to LA immediately. Apparently, the doctors were giving Rona some brain tests because my sister seemed to be in another world.
A three-hour drive later, I found my sister in the hospital in a jolly mood. She thought the IV was a champagne cocktail.
The doctor took me aside in the hallway. ‘We found a mass in her brain,’ he said.
This was the beginning of a very painful and difficult six weeks.
It was a terrible shock to us when Rona was diagnosed with a very aggressive brain tumour at age seventy-two. She was a very healthy, fit person who exercised every day and ate extremely well. And suddenly, almost overnight, she was quite ill and not making sense anymore.
One of my last memories of my wild-child sister is of her sitting up in bed at St Joseph’s Hospital looking so beautiful and acting very cheerful despite the circumstances, which fortunately she didn’t really understand. She would tell people, ‘I have a brain tumour, but don’t worry. I’ll get over it.’
After doctors did a biopsy of her tumour, we heard the chances of survival weren’t good, and the treatment would be aggressive and difficult. I knew my sister’s wishes. She had told me what to do in dire circumstances like these. I knew she wouldn’t have wanted to have brain surgery that could render her with a wide variety of God-only-knows-what problems. Maria told me that Rona had also expressed to her that she never wanted chemo or surgery.
We took my sister home.
My nieces and nephews live in Australia and I brought them over to be with their mother during this final time. The beauty of this was that the kids got to be together with Rona and to s
upport each other.
Those were very special days, full of laughter and family including Rona’s children: Emerson, a racecar driver and entrepreneur; Tottie, a singer, actress, wedding minister and goodwill ambassador for the ONJ Centre; Brett, a photographer and fine musician (we recorded the album Hotel Sessions together), and Fiona, a yoga and fitness instructor.
Brett brought his guitar and sang to her, which was so moving and Rona loved it. And, amazingly, my brave sister kept us laughing. She was quite happy eating Tottie and Fiona’s meals while Layla, her granddaughter, massaged her feet. Of course, my beautiful Chloe was there to support her auntie, me and all of us.
The rest was quite peaceful thanks to wonderful hospice services.
I put off my Vegas start date to take care of her. Rona passed after six weeks, on 24 May 2013 in Los Angeles, which was 25 May in Australia – our mother Irene’s birthday. It was curious, as our father had died on our brother’s birthday, 3 July.
Shortly after Rona died, Maria, who is a devout Tibetan Buddhist, arrived. We stood around her bed and John recited The Lord’s Prayer. Maria and I put our hands over her body and felt an amazing energy. Our hands kept going up and up until the energy quickly subsided and seemed to fly out the open window on that gorgeous spring day. Maria later told me that her Buddhist teacher had told her that Rona would leave on a wind horse. It gave me a shiver because I believe that she did.
Don't Stop Believin' Page 24