by Luis Fuerte
Broguiere’s Farm Fresh Dairy.
Ray said that when Huell called him up one day and said he’d like to do a shoot at the dairy, he thought one of his friends was pulling a prank on him. It turns out someone had called Huell and told him about the dairy and its famous chocolate milk and seasonal eggnog. It took some time, but Huell finally convinced Ray that he was the genuine article, and they agreed on a day for the shoot.
Huell and I toured the operation to plot setups and places to shoot. He was introduced to the rich, creamy chocolate milk and was hooked, drinking bottles of it between takes. He really got into the spirit of the shoot, signing autographs for delivery drivers and carrying milk to customers waiting in their cars. In the camera’s viewfinder, I saw the astonished looks on customers’ faces as they pointed and mouthed, “Hey, that’s Huell Howser!” as he cheerfully walked out with their order.
One lady called her son and told him that Huell Howser was serving her at the dairy. He didn’t believe her and hung up. Huell being Huell, asked for her phone and called the son back. He said, “Your mom is telling the truth. I’m Huell Howser, and you’d better believe your mother!”
Before the first Broguiere’s show went on the air, Huell once again offered his sage advice, urging Ray to prepare for a lot of new customers. Sure enough, the very next day the place was overrun, with cars lined up for blocks.
Our second Broguiere’s shoot took place during the holidays. Huell wanted to see how the dairy made its famous eggnog, so Ray took him through the process. The eggnog had a great reputation, much like the company’s chocolate milk, but it was available only toward the end of the year. Huell thoroughly enjoyed the many bottles he drank between setups.
The third time we shot an episode at the dairy, Ray presented Huell with a special milk bottle he’d had made with Huell’s picture on it. He joked that the bottle would make Huell famous and keep him from ever getting lost—but really, it was to thank him for his friendship and what he’d done for the dairy. Huell was excited and touched, and almost at a loss for words when he saw the bottle—and I rarely saw the man at a loss for words.
Huell often visited the dairy on his own, calling Ray to say he was getting off the freeway and asking for directions, as if he’d never been there. They really enjoyed each other’s company, and Huell always had fun helping at the dairy and surprising customers when he served them their order. Ray said Huell even talked with him about retiring from television about two to three years before he passed away, saying that everything comes to an end.
Toward the end of 2012, Ray said that Huell had stopped dropping by, and they talked only by phone occasionally. One day in December, Huell’s close friend Ryan Morris came by the dairy, saying that Huell would like some eggnog and chocolate milk in the bottles with Huell’s picture on them. Ray asked how Huell was and why he hadn’t come by for a long time, and Ryan deflected the question and said he’d be in touch later. (As I discuss later in this book, Huell was extremely private about his personal life, and his health.) A couple of weeks later, Ryan called Ray at 6 a.m. to tell him that Huell had died of prostate cancer. Ray’s name was on a short list that Huell had made of people he wanted notified when he died. Truly, he was Huell’s friend.
Broguiere’s Dairy is still a popular destination for Huell’s fans. To this day, whenever one of Huell’s programs featuring his dairy goes on the air, Ray’s business is crowded the next day with people looking to experience all that Huell enjoyed.
PLEDGE DRIVES
California’s Gold produced a lot of donations for KCET during its regular pledge drives. Part of PBS at that time, the station depended heavily on viewer donations to fund production of its many wonderful programs. Whenever the station had pledge drives featuring California’s Gold episodes, Huell was invited to host the evening in the studio. His Tennessee accent, boyish charm, legendary exuberance, and imposing stature made him irresistible to viewers.
When he encouraged viewers to call to show their support for KCET’s programs, the sound of ringing phones would flood the background. Every volunteer, like the late, much-beloved Dorothy Kemps, would be answering calls to take pledges, calling for runners to take their handwritten pledge slips for verification before getting right back on the phone to take another pledge. When Huell was on the air, the stage was always filled with noise, action, and excitement, all to raise money for a great cause.
Among all the worthy programs that KCET was airing at that time, the California’s Gold marathons generated some of the largest donation pledges. I shot those pledge-drive shows myself, a new experience for me, but I soon got into the swing of things. It felt great to see the programs that I’d shot for Huell bring in money to support the station.
Funnily enough, some viewers would call in asking for Louie, Huell’s cameraman. There I was, manning a studio camera while they called in, hearing callers asking for me personally. One night, a viewer actually called to pledge $500 if Huell would put me on camera.
I leaned away from the camera viewfinder and shook my head no. California’s Gold was Huell’s show—he was the face of it, and I didn’t want to take anything away from him. Besides, I think my refusal to be on camera added a little spice to the show. I mean, people were probably thinking, who is this guy Louie who gets mentioned all the time? The mystique was built into the show, like Carlton the doorman in the TV comedy Rhoda—the man you heard on the intercom but never saw.
I liked staying behind the camera for those pledge drives, but if you had told me back then that KCET would one day be organizing a pledge drive for the station featuring book about Huell and me—with my name on the cover, no less—I would have laughed in your face.
But I guess the joke is on me.
LEAVING CALIFORNIA’S GOLD
I turned forty-nine the year I began shooting California’s Gold for Huell. I wasn’t a young man at the time, but I was a long-distance swimmer and I ran to keep myself in shape. I was strong and felt young, and I thought I could go on forever.
Time, however, has a way of putting you in your place.
It was in my tenth year shooting California’s Gold and Huell’s other shows that I began to feel that I couldn’t continue to shoot. I was fifty-nine, and the weight and methods of maneuvering the camera were getting to me. I ached, and I was growing tired of the camera gear and constant travel. I enjoyed the shoots with Huell, but being on the road was beating me up, especially the ten-day road trips we made two to three times a year.
At home, things were different, too. The strain on my marriage was telling. I’d come home after a long trip and feel as if I had to get reacquainted with my wife and kids—even feeling like a stranger at times. One day, I accepted something I’d known deep down for a long time: my marriage was over.
I was heartbroken. Ending a long marriage was the most difficult thing I ever had to do. There were all those good years and good times, and our wonderful kids. You add it all up again and again, and you cry over it and still wonder why you’re where you are. There’s the deep pain of being estranged from your children when you finally walk away. I love my kids, and I missed them.
So when I finally told Huell I was done, I meant it. I remember it clearly: He was driving the Explorer on the way home from a shoot up north, where he loved to do shows. I had been thinking about how to tell him I wanted out. Ten years of a wonderfully successful run is hard to quit—I mean, you don’t get off a winning horse, do you? We’d become a seasoned shooting team, and there were so many more shows to shoot.
I said, “Huell, I’m thinking about retiring from the show. I’m tired of traveling and carrying all that gear. I’m not a kid anymore, and my body’s beat. I think it’s time for you to start looking for another cameraman.” My words caught him completely by surprise. As if he’d only heard that I wanted out, he looked at me and asked, “Louie, why do you want to leave?”
“Huell, I’m tired. I’m tired of traveling, of going in and out of airports. I don’
t want to do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore.”
Huell drove on, saying nothing for some time, his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead.
At last he said, “I hate to see you go.”
“Me too, Huell. I’ve also been giving some thought to retiring from the station, slowing down, enjoying life.”
Again, he grew quiet. Then he thanked me for the shoot we had just done. As we approached KCET’S Sunset Boulevard entrance, I said I’d give him six months to find another cameraman. I couldn’t just hang my friend out to dry.
He said that should be enough to find someone, and he thanked me for giving him the extra time.
At the station, I started unloading the gear from the car, and Huell walked into the office to check his messages. He came out, reached for my hand, and shook it.
“Thank you for everything, Louie,” he said. Then he walked away.
Five months passed, and no progress was made on hiring a new camera operator. I asked Huell why no one had been brought in to replace me.
And you know what Huell did? The most underhanded, dirtiest thing he could do: offer me more money to stay for six months longer. And even worse, I took it.
At the end of the second six months, he repeated his unconscionable act and offered me even more money. And what do you know—I took that, too.
But the third time the offer came around from Huell (and it did—all kidding aside, I was grateful), no amount of money could override my exhaustion from all that traveling and carrying the camera. I was weary, deep into my bones. And something happened while I was shooting the last California’s Gold show of the year 2000 that told me it was really and finally time to hang up my gloves.
We were shooting a show in San Francisco called “Emperor and President,” and Huell was interviewing someone outdoors. He began walking with the man, and I followed him as I always had, instinctively knowing his every move. He stopped and turned his back to the camera while continuing the interview. At this point, he expected me to circle him as I had done a thousand times before, walking the camera around so I’d end up shooting him from the front. But this time, I kept the camera rolling and didn’t move.
I looked at that shot later. It’s probably something that most viewers wouldn’t even notice, but it said to me that I had lost something that was critical to the look of the show.
After that shoot, I told Huell again that he better find someone soon, because when the next shoot came up, he wouldn’t have a cameraman. So that’s what he did.
HUELL’S ILLNESS
In December of 2011, my wife, Gloria, and I attended the Annual Engineers Christmas Potluck in the Little Theater at the KCET studios. I had met Gloria at my doctor’s office, where she was a nurse, and we fell in love and were married in August of 2004. A few months after our marriage, I retired from KCET, my thirty-two-year career at the studio behind me.
I always looked forward to the potluck, to sit and eat with old friends and talk about what was going on in their lives and at the lot. I was still interested in talking about productions, and I liked to reminisce about KCET’s “Golden Age,” when we all worked on those creative productions that stretched our abilities and imaginations.
But things were different this time. My former colleagues didn’t want to talk about production or the old days. The big topic of the day was the recent sale of the studio lot to the Church of Scientology. The engineers were worried, uncertain of their futures as employees and fearing that the station would downsize and move to a smaller location where they wouldn’t be needed. There was a lot of unhappiness on this usually cheerful occasion.
As she mingled at the party, Gloria overheard someone mentioning that Huell wasn’t well. Without telling me what she’d heard, she suggested we visit Huell at the office after lunch. I thought that was a great idea, as I hadn’t seen him in some time.
We said our goodbyes to our friends and wished them luck, then walked the short distance to the administration building. Just as we arrived at the first floor, the elevator doors began to open—and there in the middle of the elevator appeared Harry Pallenberg, one of Huell’s producers. His arms were full of boxes. I was pleasantly surprised to see him, and after we said our hellos, he nodded at the boxes and said they were moving out of their offices.
“Huell’s closing everything down. He got an office off the lot, and he’s shutting down the KCET offices.”
That made sense, because the studios had been sold and Scientology was moving in. I asked Harry if he was going to work with Huell in the new offices, and he said no. That didn’t make sense—he’d been with Huell for years. I told Harry I was sorry to see him go, then got in the elevator with Gloria to make our way to Huell’s office.
Phil Noyes, Huell’s longtime senior producer, was in the office, along with the production coordinator, Ryan Morris. Phil was packing boxes, and Ryan was typing away at the computer. Phil greeted me warmly, and then quickly said, “We’ve been terminated. Huell got another office in Hollywood.”
I was stunned. I noticed that Phil said “we,” meaning he was being let go, too. Phil had been with Huell as his senior producer for almost twenty years. Why lay off both Phil and Harry simply because the office was being moved off the lot? Who would produce Huell’s shows?
I asked if I really understood what he’d said, that he was not going to go with Huell to the new office. He said, “No, we’re done. It’s over.”
Gloria asked about Huell, saying that she’d heard he was ill. “Yes, he’s not well,” he said. “If you want to know anything more about that, you’ll have to ask Ryan.”
I looked over at Ryan, who nodded in agreement. Just then, Harry came back to the office with the dolly, and he and Phil continued packing the many files, research materials, and objects they had accumulated—the representation of almost twenty years of work.
It seemed like Phil wanted to tell me more about Huell’s illness, but he felt like he had to hold back, even though Huell and I had worked together as friends for so many years. But although the world saw Huell as a gregarious, exuberant friend, he was actually an extremely private man. He didn’t want anyone knowing what was wrong with him, and the few people who did know, like Ryan, who was also a close friend of Huell’s, honored his wishes.
As we stood there watching them pack, Phil said there was still a lot of work to be done on the productions—unfinished shows that needed narration and editing.
I said, “This is a complete surprise. I expected the show to go on forever. There are so many things still left to shoot.”
He looked at me wistfully and said, “Yeah, I thought forever, too.”
That was it. California’s Gold, Visiting with Huell Howser, and all his other programs were done. No more trips to the far reaches of California to discover its wonders, no more shoots around Southern California to visit places that Huell thought you should see, and no more meeting people who had fascinating stories to tell.
As I shook their hands, I wished Phil and Harry luck and told them to call me if they needed anything. I asked Ryan about having lunch with Huell, and he said he’d ask Huell and get back to me. I wanted to ask more questions, but the unsettling atmosphere in the room quieted me. Ryan was clearly respecting Huell’s wish for privacy.
Then Ryan said something that made me smile despite all that gloom. “Louie, we still get letters and emails asking about you and how you’re doing.”
I was pleased to hear that viewers still remembered me and thought enough about my work to write. I guess Huell’s, “Louie, take a look at this!” catchphrase had stuck. I thanked him for his kindness and shook his hand again, bidding them all goodbye. Gloria and I walked away from the sad, emptying offices.
On the way to the car, I looked around the two former movie studios where I’d learned so much about television production and where I’d honed my craft. A feeling of deep loss swept over me. The two things that had been a big part of my career and life had come to an end: the shows Huell h
ad created that I’d had the privilege of working on, and the KCET television lot. I looked forward to hearing from Ryan to help make some sense of all this, and hoped that, maybe over lunch, Huell and I could talk about all the questions that were left unanswered.
That lunch, however, didn’t happen. Apparently Huell was quite ill and wasn’t seeing people. Several months later, I did receive a call about him, but it wasn’t from Ryan. It was from Ed Dahkaski, a good friend for over forty years since our days in college. I was happy to hear from him, as we hadn’t talked for some time. I assumed he just wanted to catch up. But after we said our hellos, I instantly detected the concern in his voice. He asked why I hadn’t attended KVCR’s fiftieth-year broadcast celebration the week prior at the station’s studio. Before I could answer his question with my own questions, beginning with, “What the hell celebration at KVCR are you talking about?” he said Huell had been there.
I shot back, “Huell was where? What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about it!” This was the first I’d heard about the gathering to celebrate the station’s golden anniversary. He said it had been a big happening, and he wondered why I didn’t show. I told him no one from the station had tried to contact me. I felt hurt and disappointed and angry that I didn’t have the chance to go and see Huell. (The station later apologized and said they’d emailed an invitation, which I’d never received—thanks, technology!)
Ed said, with hesitation in his voice, “He didn’t look good, Luis, Huell didn’t look good.” He didn’t know what was going on with Huell, but he could tell he wasn’t well. And, of course, I hadn’t been there to talk with Huell myself.
I thanked Ed for letting me know and hung up. I sat back in my chair and thought about Huell, wondering what was wrong, wondering what I could do. I called Ryan at the number he’d given me when we last saw each other and asked if I could see Huell. He was polite, but he was even firmer and more protective than the last time we talked. Huell was not seeing anyone, because he was too ill. I asked what was wrong with him, and Ryan merely replied that Huell was very sick, and he really couldn’t say any more.