I was so happy that the project had worked out and hoped that children and staff alike would be able to make good use of the new building. The therapies offered by this not-for-profit organization would be as innovative as the building and become one of America’s most comprehensive programs for the victims of abuse. Although I wasn’t sure at first, Barbara Kaplan persuaded me to lend my name to the building, which would be known as the Barbara Sinatra Children’s Center. But not long after work had started on the site, she and her husband moved away, leaving me in sole charge. I couldn’t possibly walk away from a project for which I had become the figurehead.
The center now has around twenty staff annually treating as many as nine hundred children aged between four and eighteen. Funded by more art auctions, galas, and charity golf tournaments than I care to remember, it helps victims of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse or neglect who are referred to us via individuals, the criminal justice system, child protective agencies, churches, and schools. Some have symptoms of depression or anxiety, are self-harming or unusually quiet. Others are more vocal about what has happened. Our pledge is that no child should ever be turned away, regardless of financial status—this key part of our mission statement was Frank’s idea. As well as long-term counseling, the focus is on prevention and education to break the cycle of abuse. Our staff produce pamphlets and videos, host forums, and attend conferences, all aimed at prevention as well as treatment.
When we opened, we attempted to treat the perpetrators as well as the victims, but that approach didn’t work out, so we changed the policy to focus solely on the victims. Frank had his own ideas about how to deal with those who abused children. “You can talk to them all you want,” he told me, “but let me teach them and they’ll never do it again.” As I rather foolishly announced at the time, “My husband is from a totally different school. He wants to round up all the men and break their legs. So, he’s not allowed in.”
The center offers tranquillity and safety to victims—perhaps for the first time in their lives. It is a place of trust, where the healing process can begin. The cheerful entry hall has an inviting play area with giant stuffed animals and several of Frank’s most brightly colored paintings. There is another large open-plan area decorated in rainbow colors with an atrium and glass doors leading into private courtyards planted with cacti and other desert plants. The whole atmosphere is of love and warmth. Even the forensic examination room is nonintrusive, with nursery murals on the walls and ceiling enhanced by soft lighting. Special puppets and toy bears are used to help children explain where and how they were touched. There’s an interview room with a wall of mirrored glass, where children can be filmed talking with police officers and therapists. Their evidence is then given via video links in court so they aren’t forced to face the perpetrators. We worked on changing that law in California, and Sammy Davis was a great advocate. He invited Willie Brown, the speaker of the state assembly, to a cocktail party at his house and let me badger him about the appalling legal situation for abused children. The bill that protected the victims from a further ordeal was passed soon afterward.
My favorite room is a small soundproof space, padded and lined with wipe-clean plastic. The victims can go in there and draw pictures of their abusers on the walls with marker pens before taking a giant paddle and beating them as hard as they like. They can scream and yell and get rid of all their hostility. Every home should have one. I only wished mine had!
As well as helping the victims express their feelings, we work on building their self-esteem so they can move beyond their experiences. That is where my time running the Barbara Blakeley School of Modeling and Charm really came into play. The center has plenty of therapists to help the children from the inside out, but it was my idea to give them confidence from the outside too. In a special auditorium lined with pivoted mirrors, young girls are encouraged to dress up in new clothes and shoes donated by local fashion stores. Once they’ve been pampered by beauticians who fix their hair and do their makeup, they are persuaded to turn the mirrors around and study their reflections. At first many of them don’t even want to look. To see themselves looking lovely is a shock—like hearing your voice on tape for the first time; it isn’t at all as you hear it in your head.
Many of these girls think of themselves as cheap, ugly, or guilty of compliance in their own abuse. They feel soiled by their experiences and can’t believe how different they look with just a little attention to detail. Seeing their reactions is like watching flowers opening. Suddenly, they lift their heads and put their shoulders back and learn how to carry themselves. Smiles tug at their lips as they finally begin to see their own worth. I knew from mentoring so many young pupils that a sense of self-worth can change everything, and it was wonderful to be able to bring my experiences as the twenty-one-year-old proprietress of a modeling school to these children thirty years later. Just as I had persuaded stores to donate clothes to the models in Long Beach, I cajoled JCPenney and Target to give garments so that each child gets to keep one outfit. For those who feel up to participating, a special fashion show is organized for friends, staff, and family on “graduation day.” A child who may have arrived at the center physically or emotionally battered, head low and voice muted, can often be seen months later strutting on a catwalk, turning and posing, confident, grinning, and reborn.
Of course, no amount of makeup or clothing can heal the deepest emotional or physical scars, and many children we try to help leave as scarred and damaged as when they arrived. A few return to their families only to be abused further. Others grow up and meet or marry abusers, and so the cycle goes on. But from the letters, cards, and follow-up testimonials we receive, we do believe that we are winning.
I think of all the things we manage to achieve with these children, it was the artwork they are encouraged to do which most impressed Frank. The pictures victims draw when they first come into the center are almost always bleak scenes of sinister shapes and angry faces. Some show cigarettes, drugs, or bottles of booze. The artwork they produce toward the end of their therapy couldn’t be more contrasting. Those pictures are usually gaily colored images of rainbows and birds flying, hearts, waggy-tailed dogs, butterflies, and blue skies. Sometimes the children scribble their wishes for the future in the margins, revealing their hopes to train as beauticians or models, be teachers, or become counselors. Through art and play as well as the center’s invaluable Image Enhancement and Self-Esteem Program, along with its Aunt-Uncle, Grandchild-Grandparent clubs, we try to give the victims the tools to help them overcome their traumas.
Our experiences at the children’s center taught Frank and me so much. Some of the horror stories we heard from the children and their families shocked us to the core. The courage of these kids in the face of overwhelming odds taught us both about humility. Their humor in spite of their inner turmoil has been inspirational.
This project, which started as a passing interest for me, has grown into an all-consuming part of my life that, to this day, takes up a great deal of my time and energy. It challenges me in other ways too, because the worst fear I ever had was making speeches, and I was suddenly thrust into a position where I had to make them frequently. It took me a long time and a lot of knee shaking to overcome that fear, but the actress Jill St. John helped me enormously. “When you get up to the microphone, Barbara, stop and take a big, deep breath,” she told me. “Hold it for a while, look around, and then you can begin.” That helped me a lot, along with the thought that beating my fear was nothing compared to what these children had to beat.
To continue to raise money and awareness for the center, I have shamelessly enlisted the help of friends and family. I’ve even done the odd commercial, when Frank and I did a photo shoot for Revlon after the company agreed to support our cause. When we became Revlon’s first so-called Unforgettable Couple, glossy photos of us appeared worldwide on billboards and in magazines. Our friends Alice Faye, Gregory Peck, and Dick Van Dyke have all presented videos
about the work of the center. The latest is called A Safe Place. Sammy Davis, Jr., was wonderful with the children and helped us in all sorts of useful ways, as did Kirk and Anne Douglas. R. J. Wagner and Jill St. John have done incredible things for the center. It was Jill who came up with the idea of the Aunts Club, in which friends of the center pay a monthly donation to support a child. (Helene Galen, our new president, had started the Uncles Club.) R. J. even befriended one teenager whose progress he has personally supported ever since without fanfare or accolade—just simple, caring concern.
Casting around for further inspiration to get people involved, I came up with the idea of a celebrity cookbook. Dinah Shore had had so much success with hers, entitled Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah, which stemmed from the cooking segment on her TV show. She asked her friends for recipes to publish, although mine for a tuna boat, featuring tuna, chili peppers, and cheese served inside a scooped-out bread roll, never made it. Already criticized at home for being “the worst cook in the house,” I was teed off.
For my Sinatra Celebrity Cookbook: Barbara, Frank & Friends, my husband became a willing tester of recipes and volunteered several of his signature dishes, including his marinara and clam sauces, eggplant parmigiana, “Blue Eyes” Italian chicken, his delicious potato and onion dish, and—of course—his late-night fettuccine special. He and Jilly never let up claiming that I couldn’t cook, but I still think I make the best chili and beans. (I put vinegar in mine, which gives it a sharper taste and takes out some of the heat.) Undaunted, I published my recipe for pasta fagioli, which I always claimed was better than Frank’s. Rashly, he made me test that claim one day. He insisted that we each had to make our own version and offer a blind tasting to our guests. I am pleased to report that mine won.
In the dedication of our cookbook, Frank was far kinder about my cooking than he ever was at home. He also wrote warmly of his memories of Marty and Dolly.
My pop would stand at the stove cooking the greatest pasta sauce any young Italian boy could hope for. One time, I called in at the last minute and my pop cooked an Italian meal for the entire Tommy Dorsey orchestra. Some of the sax players had to eat in the hallway but they still loved the meal. Now that I’m an adult, two of my favorite things to do are to cook and to eat; occasionally I do both … and always with a beverage!
Fortunately, I met the love of my life, a gorgeous young woman by the name of Barbara Ann. That’s when I really began to appreciate all the finer things in life, including those that came out of the kitchen. Barbara’s talents as a good cook extend to her graciousness as a hostess by making guests feel completely wonderful and welcome. The best recipe is a well-prepared meal, fine wine, and good conversation with people you know. With these ingredients you can’t miss. Barbara and I have had high tea with Anwar and Jehan Sadat in their Cairo home; sipped cocktails with Don Rickles and Bruce Springsteen at La Dolce Vita; gathered our road family after a concert for supper at an out-of-the-way Italian joint—these types of occasions are always quite special. As you sample the recipes in this book, Barbara and I hope you experience the same warmth with your loved ones and friends that we do with ours.
Printed between sketches of food by some of the children at the center and a few lighthearted anecdotes from Frank, the list of people who volunteered recipes for our book reads like the index of Who’s Who. Most of our Palm Springs, Washington, and Hollywood friends willingly contributed, as well as the chefs of our favorite restaurants around the world. Aside from Presidents Reagan, Bush Senior, Clinton, and Ford, we printed recipes from Clint Eastwood (spaghetti Western), Johnny Cash (old iron-pot, family-style chili—for which he said you could use snake meat), Sidney Poitier (the sweetest guy in the world, who gave us his recipe for sautéed broccoli), Neil Diamond (his mother’s beef pot roast), Cher (tuna pasta), Farrah Fawcett (her mother’s pecan pie), Gene Kelly (potato sandwich), Whoopi Goldberg (Jewish American Princess fried chicken), Jack Lemmon (broiled shrimp), Joan Collins (pasta primavera), and Oprah Winfrey (Oprah’s potatoes).
My son, Bobby, who’s a terrific cook, gave his recipe for linguine alla puttanesca, or “hooker’s sauce,” and Katharine Hepburn gave us hers for lace cookies. Julio Iglesias gave up his secret for paella Valenciana, which his father always claimed was what turned him into a great singer. Andy Williams divulged his mother’s recipe for rhubarb shortcake, given to him by her on his wedding day. Paul Newman gave us his Italian baked scrod, Dean Martin his delicious caviar-potato appetizers, and Elizabeth Taylor offered her spicy chicken. Frank teased that it was just as well Elizabeth’s recipe didn’t call for carrots, “because when that lady asks for carats, it could cost you half a mil!”
The recipes came in one by one, on index cards, scrawled longhand on scraps of paper, via telegram, or typed out neatly. Probably the funniest was George Burns’s offering for scrambled-scrambled eggs. He wrote:
I haven’t cooked in the last 70 years but I think I still remember how to make scrambled eggs. I’m pretty sure you use eggs; put them in a pan (it’s better if you break them first). Make sure you move the shells to one side, and then let them cook for about 3 minutes. When it’s done, forget the eggs and eat the shells.
The director and producer Freddy De Cordova suggested sardines à la Fred, which went:
Carefully open can of sardines. Pour contents on cold plate. Surround sardines with saltines. Open cold bottle of beer. Pour beer in a glass. Combine sardines with saltines. Wash down with beer. Repeat procedure as required. Serves 1.
Sharon Stone’s recipe for pomme du jour read:
Walk to the refrigerator. Open the door. Open the fruit drawer. Take out an apple. Eat it.
Perhaps not surprisingly with such an illustrious cast, the book sold very well and went to a second printing, which was fantastic. I’m not sure how well it would do these days, as everyone is on a diet and this is most definitely not a diet book, but it raised a lot of money and even more laughs.
Aside from selling the cookbook, I help organize a variety of fund-raising events for the children’s center—from fashion shows to gala dinners, polo matches to tennis tournaments—but the chief focus of my attention has become the three-day Frank Sinatra Celebrity Invitational Golf Tournament in Palm Springs every February. Now in its twenty-third year, it has featured some of the world’s finest celebrity players. Originally billed as “Frank’s little party in the desert” and attended by everyone from Perry Como and Sammy Davis to Angie Dickinson and Kenny Rogers, it has earned millions. There are luncheons and a fashion show, pasta dinners, cocktail parties, and auctions. Our guests have included friends like Dennis Quaid and Jack Lemmon with his wife, Felicia, Eydie Gorme and Steve Lawrence, Frank Jr. and Wayne Newton. Those who play golf every year include the television stars Dennis Farina and Joe Mantegna. The highlight is a black-tie gala at which a top celebrity performs. I have been fortunate enough to have Tony Bennett, Julio Iglesias, Quincy Jones, Smokey Robinson, and Barry Manilow perform for us in the past. In 2011, it was the wonderful Tony Orlando. On the final day of the tournament, I host an open house at the children’s center for people to come and see where and how the money is spent.
In recent years, the tournament has barely broken even, but in 2010 we moved to the Eagle Falls Golf Course and Fantasy Springs Resort and Casino in Indio, California, which was a huge success. R. J. Wagner and Dick Van Dyke were the cohosts, and the players included Pat Boone, Tom Dreesen, and Elke Sommer. At the gala dinner, I honored “Saint” Wallis Annenberg in a special presentation and speech. Walter Annenberg’s daughter has picked up his philanthropic baton and done so much more. I was thrilled when she donated $500,000 to the center. Eagle Falls is owned by the Cabazon Band of Mission Indians. Their involvement came about after Frank opened the new theater at the Foxwoods Resort Casino in Connecticut, one of the biggest in the country, run by the Mashantucket Pequot tribe. Afterward, the tribe sent a delegation to visit the children’s center and then persuaded the Native Americans in the Palm Sp
rings area to support us as well. The ripple effect of Frank’s good deeds rolls on.
Three years after the children’s center opened, the legendary New York Friars Club honored me for my work and for the educational forums on child abuse that I helped set up. Their tribute at the Waldorf was quite the star-studded affair, so I wore quite the gown for it—a dress with enormous pink fabric roses on a green bodice. It was almost as big as a voluminous silk taffeta coat I wore once, which, by the time I’d settled into the backseat of a limousine, left no room for Frank! The “roast” they gave me, hosted by my husband the “Abbott,” and attended by my family and friends, was hysterical. Everything from my cooking ability to my humble roots and my penchant for nice rocks came under fire while I sat on a dais and listened to tributes and wisecracks, testimonials and insults in equal measure. Dionne Warwick sang “That’s What Friends Are For.” Frank and Liza performed for me in an event that he’d personally organized. I had the night of my life.
It wasn’t my first experience of a Friars Club roast. Not long after we were married, I’d sat in on the roast given to Frank at the MGM Grand in Vegas, which had to be one of the funniest ever. Telly Savalas, Orson Welles, Don Rickles, Red Buttons, Rich Little, Dean Martin, George Burns, Gene Kelly, and Jimmy Stewart were among the many speakers invited to get a rise out of Frank, who had tears of laughter streaming down his face. Rickles slapped Dean across the face and yelled, “It’s morning!” then he pointed me out in the audience as “Frank’s new wife—the one with the diamond on her nose!” I laughed until my ribs ached.
My biggest challenge now is how to keep the children’s center going after I am gone. To do so I need to find younger blood, which isn’t that easy in a town largely for retired people. I only hope that I can find the right individuals to pass the baton on to. What I began all those years ago and what Frank wholeheartedly supported has helped so many children recover from the most heinous of crimes and has given them the opportunity to go out into the world with a restored sense of trust and purpose. Long may it continue.
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