Diplomacy and Diamonds

by Joanne King Herring

  “Yes,” she said, “both are lovely, but I prefer this one,” indicating the false stone.

  Hmm! Did she know the difference? Maybe this was her way of telling me.

  Another star, John Wayne, I liked immensely. After the show, he invited me to dinner. There wasn’t a flicker of romance, just dinner. As we tried to talk, fawning people kept coming up to him for autographs. Finally, he got tired of it, and when a woman approached, he said, “Lady, my hair comes off and my teeth come out. Now, get lost.”

  John Wayne was a real patriot in a world of pacifists, and through his movies he tried to convey the imminent threat of communism, an act of courage in the Hollywood of the sixties and seventies.

  Then there was David Niven, the dapper, elegant actor who played the jewel thief Sir Charles Lytton in the first Pink Panther. We were at the Mount Kenya Safari Club in Africa, and his daughter had broken her leg riding one of the club’s horses. As we stood at the railing, looking at the horses, he said, “Her broken leg is ruining my vacation. I think I’m going to shoot her. That’s what they do with horses.” He always had some funny quip. He and Tom Hanks shared the same qualities. They both put themselves out to make others happy.

  Clint Eastwood is intelligent and, like John Wayne, saw the communist threat and tried to show the communists’ intentions in the movie Firefox. People were not ready to hear his message, however. The movie, though great, bombed at the box office. Eastwood himself was exactly like he is on-screen: laid back, laconic, and a trifle bored.

  A lot of the stars I met were good-looking guys, but George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s… Whoa, Nellie! Even Audrey Hepburn looked a little dazed by him.

  Actors think with their emotions because that’s what they’re called upon to do every day. They react emotionally rather than basing their opinions on the in-depth study needed to fully understand the complex forces behind the real horrors unfolding around us daily. They look at the world and judge it emotionally. Real knowledge comes from those who go out and get involved.

  Being on television and later being portrayed in Charlie Wilson’s War has occasionally led to some rather strange encounters. Once, artist Andy Warhol invited me as his special guest to a “happening” at his house. He picked me up himself in his stretch limousine—white, to match his hair. When we arrived, a crowd waited in anticipation.

  Guess what “happened” at the happening?

  Andy went to the top of the stairs, hoisted a box of blocks… then tossed them down the steps.

  “Ooh!”

  Men clutched their chests.

  Women swooned.

  “Such art!”

  “Such spirituality.”

  I still have an actual Campbell’s soup can that he autographed for me.

  On another occasion, Ahmet Ertegun, founder and president of Atlantic Records, invited me to dine with members of a band he had signed.

  “Who in the world are these strange people? Why am I here?” I thought. I had never heard of these funny young guys. The long-haired, curly-headed blond one looked just like a sheep who needed shearing. Later I told my son Robin about this bizarre dinner I had had.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Something Zeppelin,” I replied.

  “Mother, that’s Led Zeppelin! They’re the most popular rock group of all time. They never give interviews! You had probably the best dinner invitation in the United States that night!”

  That wasn’t the only time I had a mix-up with musicians. In 2008, I asked my dear friend Posey Parker to help me remember the name of a group I was supposed to meet that night. “It’s some kind of bird.”

  Posey paused. “You don’t mean… the Eagles?”

  “That’s it!” I cried. I left an event where I was the honoree to meet the charming Glenn Frey, who had asked me to meet him backstage when he performed in Houston. I learned he lives down the street from Tom Hanks. At one time, their kids carpooled together.

  When I met Margaret Thatcher, I had carefully thought out my opening sentence. After all, it had worked for Sinatra. I confidently waltzed up to her.

  “Mrs. Thatcher, how does it feel to have changed the world?” I asked.

  She gave me the most withering look, then said, “Mr. Reagan, Mr. Gorbachev, and I changed the world.” She then turned her back on me in front of everybody. I dissolved into a puddle.

  What I should have said was, “Mrs. Thatcher, you have stood tall, no matter how rough the seas, and your country’s fortunes reflect it.” That, she would have liked.

  Later I was with her in Gstaad and we had a marvelous time. Thank goodness she didn’t remember our first encounter! She is kind, and she really listens with interest when you say meaningful things.

  I continued to have movie stars on my show for fun. It was the professors, historians, writers, scientists, and smart, dedicated politicians who expanded the minds of the audience as well as my own.

  My ratings soared! This type of show had a place, and people really liked it. Even though it was local, it had the ratings of a national show. It became the sixth-highest-rated show in the United States, attracting attention throughout the country and even internationally.

  While my TV career was getting better, my home life remained mired in financial difficulty. Despite the income from my television show, we struggled.

  In the Rivercrest neighborhood, our ballrooms still glowed. Everybody knew we were “broke” by their standards but no one knew what to do to help. So they avoided mentioning our financial troubles and kept right on inviting us to their gatherings and pretending nothing was wrong. I was and remain touched at this show of friendship. Really, at the time, that was the best thing they could have done for us.

  I called my old beau’s father, H.H. Coffield, in Dallas, who long before had decided he had made a mistake in not wanting his son Pete to marry me. (Mr. Coffield flew me in his plane to all his parties, paid for some of mine, and invited me to sit next to President Lyndon B. Johnson at an event.)

  Mr. Coffield had a storybook ranch with outrageous hunting accommodations. The enclosed glass deer blinds were carpeted and included a hidden bar, La-Z-Boy seats, cognac, and copies of the Wall Street Journal.

  Later, many of my European aristocratic friends came to Texas as my guests and “hunted” there at one of the private shoots that Mr. Coffield allowed me to have. Fashion icon Hubert Guerrand-Hermès of Paris came out, covered from chest to ankle in a natty suit of shining aluminum. Hubert had heard about coyotes, wolves, scorpions, and other denizens of the desert. Fearful of rattlesnakes, he had the designers at Hermès create a proper Wild West shooting costume.

  “Hubert, you look just like the Tin Woodman of Oz,” I said. “What on earth are you going to do in that?”

  A known wit, he replied, “I am going to shoot. When the rest of you are writhing in pain, dying from the venom of those infamous snakes, I shall not mourn you!”

  But these light moments came later. At the moment, the problem was lack of money. I thought, “How can we save on groceries?” I called on Mr. Coffield to help me with my cost-cutting measures, although he did not know my reasons. Meat was expensive, and I said, “Mr. Coffield, I just love venison. Do you think I might have a deer from the ranch?”

  “Certainly, honey,” he responded. “Would you like some doves and quail too?”

  My mouth watered (I love quail), but I did not want to expose our lowly state so I refused. One must keep one’s pride.

  “No, I just have a yearning for some venison,” I replied. “It is such a delicacy.” In Texas, at the time, venison was considered trash. Nobody would serve it except made into sausage, which is no delicacy. I shall never forget the look on my Beau’s face when he first tasted the venison I received from Mr. Coffield. Head bowed, aqua eyes brimming, he asked, “Mommy, you really want me to eat this?”

  “Yes!” I said. And he did. The year before we had flown around the world first-class. But venison was all we ate that wi
nter. We had it grilled, stewed, ground, and baked—and it always tasted like gamey dead deer! I hate venison.

  Years later, the French deputy minister of foreign affairs had a dinner in my honor at Maxim’s in Paris. He proudly announced that he had managed, at great expense and effort, to get the chef to procure venison! “How marvelous,” I murmured. I almost threw up in memoriam.

  Our financial reality continued to be bleak. We couldn’t pay the bills. I even had the boys brushing their teeth with soda powder. But reality set in. The house, my dream come true, had to be sold. I realized that I had done many things to satisfy my own desires, but we could no longer afford to keep it. So I gave it to God willingly.

  One day, I walked outside and looked at my dream house, the house where my husband had indulged my every whim. It was beautiful and I loved it. But it had become a great burden. We didn’t own it. It owned us. It cost a fortune to maintain. The roof had begun to leak. The huge hundred-thousand-gallon swimming pool was cracking.

  The house was almost like a metaphor for our lives during this time. On the surface, we seemed to have it all. And that’s what readers of the “Fairy Tale” article and my television viewers thought. But underneath, our once privileged existence was in dire need of repair.

  “Lord,” I said, referring to the house, “I give it up. I regret the sacrifices we have made trying to keep it. We have had great happiness here,” I continued, “but take it. I give You this idol and any others I might not be aware of; I give You my life totally. Thank You for my family and for keeping them safe, and take the house, Lord. I give it up unreservedly.”

  I walked inside, enjoying the rainbow of light cast by prisms from the door transom made of antique diamond-cut crystal. I looked at Madame de Pompadour’s eight-foot Baccarat crystal chandelier. I thought of the Sèvres dining services, usually seen only in the cabinets of the vastly rich or in museums. I remembered the three men who came to apply gold leaf to the many carvings of the master carver who spent three years working eight hours a day, seven days a week. I recalled acquiring the furniture and treasures I had coveted. Now the famous auction house Sotheby’s coveted them.

  After my rededication to the Lord, all of this materialistic wealth seemed unimportant. I looked at it all and laughed. I walked dry-eyed into the future, prepared to begin a more modest way of coping beyond even the steps we had taken so far. I was ready to give up even the outward appearance of our “glamorous” life that the “Fairy Tale” reporter Beverly Maurice had written about.

  The glitter and the gold of my former life held no meaning for me now. I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I had given God my promise and I meant to keep it. I had no regrets.

  Sometimes in life we can be crumpled like worn socks. But when we put on shoes, no one sees the holes. I had been walking in the worn socks of my life, struggling over money. But now I was willing to give up the privileges and anything else He wanted me to do. I waited for God’s guidance into my new, simplified life. I was a new person—and completely ready to be one!

  God laughed. He had other plans for me. He always does, and they are always good. He threw me almost daily into the company of some of the most sought-after people in the world, an intoxicating mix of international players. God does indeed move in mysterious ways.

  I was prepared to lose the house and everything in it. But the house was ultimately saved for me. That which I had surrendered was to be brought back.

  CHAPTER 10

  King of the Airwaves

  The 1960s and 1970s were a very liberal time. I was a conservative and my TV show reflected that. We conservatives believe a government is like a family. You do not spend what you do not have. The government is not a genie in a bottle, and it cannot grant wishes. The government we deal with daily is not the president. It is our neighbor, the guy at the post office or city hall. Conservatives want to keep control of our money, not turn it over to others, not see it wasted while we struggle. Government is not a magic wand but rather a wizard that restricts and takes away our freedoms, one bad spell at a time. Too many rules and agencies rob us because they are funded by our taxes without giving us an opportunity to determine how the money is spent. I said all that on my TV show.

  At first, viewers screamed, “Get her off the air!” The liberal station manager would then call me in. “Why did you say that?” he’d ask.

  “What did I say? Did I say that?”

  “Don’t do it again!” he’d admonish me.

  I’d wait about a month and do it again. I offended liberal CBS, but what could they do? My ratings proved the people liked conservative thinking. (Years later, when I went off the air, the station got more calls than at any time in its history, saying “Thank goodness someone told the truth!”)

  Bella Abzug and Gloria Steinem came to Houston with great fanfare. These leaders from the Women’s Movement who started the National Women’s Political Caucus complained that the television stations in town had no women representatives.

  “We have Joanne King,” they were told.

  “Oh, she doesn’t count,” they replied. “She’s not like us.”

  They said that—until they met me. Then they did a complete turnaround. We actually became friends. I even introduce Gloria occasionally when she speaks at events. We discussed their objectives to “liberate” women and to see that females got the jobs they deserved. I want that too. We just have different methods.

  They made demands. I made suggestions. I found I achieved more with suggestions than with demands. Intelligent people recognize ability and know in their hearts what is right. Demands will never break the glass ceiling.

  Men of that era were not ready to relinquish their positions or their territory to women. Even today, I still think it works best if they invite you in. If you force them, they can make the job so difficult that you do not achieve the success you’re capable of because they put so many roadblocks in your path.

  I think whatever it is you want to accomplish must always be the man’s idea. The woman’s job is to sell it. Let men fight your battles for you. They will do it.

  On my TV show, I also referred often to God and thanked Him publicly. It shocked people, especially the liberals who had openly declared that He didn’t exist. God was almost a dirty word in the sixties, when “god” was considered the individual.

  My television career brought me many things that were fleetingly wonderful and flattering. For instance, Barbara Walters and I were added to the prestigious Who’s Who organization in the same year. I ended up making more money than anyone else at the station. I had offers to go elsewhere, such as weekend host of the Today show in New York, but Houston paid to keep me. And I wanted them to keep me in Houston because of my family. “Don’t you dare take those boys to live in New York,” my mother would say.

  I had a lot of amazing experiences because of being on television. But my TV career cost me a lot as well. My children used to give me dark glasses for Christmas so people wouldn’t recognize me. We couldn’t go anywhere without people wanting to talk to me. Some would say things like, “Oh, you don’t look as good as you do on television.” They seemed to feel that it was okay to say whatever they wanted to about and to me. I was a frog in a small puddle, but it was similar to what a lot of movie stars go through.

  Julia Roberts told me that she had waited a long time to have her children. They are the real focus of her life. She said, “Now that I have them, I don’t want to do anything after work but be a mother.” She no longer liked to go to parties or do any of the things that she had done previously. She wanted to come home and be with her children. She changed diapers and did all of the things that people don’t think movie stars do. She told me that motherhood was the most fun she had ever had.

  I understood. I always felt very conflicted as a mother and a television personality. They used to joke that I would slide into the seat for the show seconds before it started. The station manager had told me as long as the ratings stayed
up, they didn’t care if I kept regular hours. One day I was so late, I completely missed the show. They had to run something else in its place. I guiltily said to the head newscaster, “I’ll bet you have missed a show too.” He said, “No, but I have had nightmares about it.”

  There were drawbacks to being recognized by the public, some of them serious. Once a woman called the station and said, “I’m going to kill Joanne King!”

  “Why?” the operator asked.

  “Because she’s in bed with my husband!”

  The receptionist said, “I know she’s not because I just saw her. She’s here at the station.”

  But the woman insisted she was going to murder me. The police had an officer follow me everywhere for three weeks, but I was terrified. I couldn’t even open the door for fear this deranged woman might be standing there with a gun, ready to shoot me.

  One night, I was walking through Neiman Marcus with the gun the police chief gave me for protection. Somehow it opened and the shells fell out. The other shoppers and salespeople didn’t even look at me; they just politely walked around me, stepping over the shells, pretending everything was normal. Nothing ever came of the threat, but I was always uneasy.

  I left CBS just before a big party they were giving celebrating my ten successful years. NBC had heard that I was unhappy at CBS because the station manager was having an affair with a woman who wanted my show. NBC offered me a big raise and anything I wanted. The Joanne King Show was my new show in competition with my old one at CBS. I was in competition with myself. Soon my audience moved with me, I regained my ratings, and CBS fired the woman they had hired to replace me and canceled my old show.