Not Young, Still Restless

by Jeanne Cooper

  When Edith passed away, Jack went to live with his son and daughter-in-law, Chris and Dianne, in Stallion Springs, California, in their beautiful house by a golf course. Chris and Dianne took wonderful care of him, and the three of them loved traveling together until Jack began struggling with a nasty recurring staph infection. He was back and forth to the hospital God knows how many times. Finally one day, when his doctor wanted to check him in yet again, Jack said, “No more. I’m done. I’m staying right here.” He was eighty-three when he quietly, peacefully passed away at home.

  I love the arrangement he and Edith made in their last years together: Edith was cremated when she died, and her ashes were set aside. When Jack died he was cremated as well, so that their ashes could be placed together on a rock beside the river in Oregon where they’d built a house, and the wind and the water could take them away, setting their spirits free to soar.

  And then there’s my sister, Evelyn, now eighty-seven years old. I hardly know where to start.

  Evelyn is, without a doubt, one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. She and her husband lived all over the world, and when she was widowed five years ago, she began living part of the year with her son, Roy, and his wife and part of the year with me. (She’s a self-described nomad, so staying with either of us full-time makes her feel too confined.) It makes me laugh to think of the incredulity on our parents’ faces if they knew the two of us were spending months at a time in the same house together, and they wouldn’t be wrong. We drive each other crazy. We also adore each other. We would take a bullet for each other, although Evelyn would demand an explanation first.

  We were born and raised in the same household, and all my life I’ve wondered if one of us might be adopted. If it weren’t such ancient history, I would tell you about how she used to get me in trouble when we were little girls and forced to take baths together; every single time she would suddenly yell, “Jeanne! Stop hitting me!” when I hadn’t laid a hand on her, so that I would get punished for no reason . . . or how she could be counted on to get a convenient stomachache when there were chores to be done. To be fair, when I remind her of those incidents today she looks at me with Oscar-worthy innocence and says, “Jeanne, I don’t know where you get these stories.” Maybe I just made them up. And maybe there’s life on Uranus.

  Where Evelyn’s Oklahoma twang came from I’ll never understand, since I never had a trace of an accent. Nor can I make any sense of some of the nicknames she comes up with for friends of ours. Calling Peter Bergman “Mr. Military Man” I get, inspired as it was by his perfect posture, his perfect diction, and his impeccable manners. But one night, suddenly blanking on Lindsay’s first name, she came out with, “You know. Spinelli.” To this day she has no idea what brought it on, and to this day Lindsay happily answers to “Spinelli” when she’s talking to Evelyn, probably because she loves her, as do all my colleagues. In fact, at Y&R parties, everyone used to greet me with some version of “Jeanne! There you are! Come sit with us!” Since they met my sister, what I now hear is “Jeanne! Where’s Evelyn?”

  She’s stubborn (I don’t know where she gets that), she spoils my dogs rotten (unlike me, who would never dream of such a thing), and she always has to be right . . . which, of course, is ridiculous, since I’m the one who’s always right.

  She also doesn’t have a trace of phoniness or pretense in her, loves simplicity, and would much rather read a book or watch a football game on TV than go to a party, and during my recent viral infection that kept me in bed for two months (and God bless you, Michael Learned, for filling in for me so beautifully on Y&R until I was back on my feet), she was the best sister, friend, drill sergeant, message service, protector, and caretaker anyone could ever hope for.

  She happens to be traveling with her son and daughter-in-law for a few weeks at the moment. I’m telling you, the woman exasperates to my wit’s end . . . and I miss her terribly and can’t wait for her to come home.

  Evelyn, I love you with all my heart, and I wouldn’t trade you for any other sister on earth. But let’s not talk it to death.

  On May 31, 2008, Harry Bernsen died of pneumonia at the age of eighty-two. His health had been failing for a couple of years, and he’d finally checked in to a Motion Picture & Television Fund health center several months before he passed away.

  It’s an understatement to say we weren’t close then. We certainly weren’t friends. We saw each other rarely, when family functions dictated. It would be hypocritical for me to say that his death saddened me, but he was my children’s father, and I was proud of them for taking such good, loving care of him right to the end.

  Harry asked that his body be cremated and that there be no public memorial service. Instead, there was a very nice private gathering at Corbin’s house for family, close friends, and a handful of Harry’s former clients. A podium was set up in the backyard with a life-sized, full-length cardboard photo of Harry placed a short distance away, facing the crowd, as if he were supervising the several speakers who stepped up to say a few words. And I must say, those who spoke managed to be both kind and honest, acknowledging that there were areas in which Harry was certainly talented, and revealing that (to my surprise) he’d been very attentive toward contemporaries of his who were retired and in failing health, checking up on them and visiting them when he could. Who knew? Good for him.

  Then it was my turn.

  I’m sure there were a few cringes among my children as I walked to the podium, but I’d already promised myself that I was going to say what I had to say without insincerity but also without (deliberately) embarrassing Corbin, Collin, and Caren.

  I started by pointing out that my knowledge of Harry had been unique, that I’d known him differently and more intimately than anyone else, for better or worse, so while yes, there had been some good times—I came up with a few—and yes, I would be eternally grateful to him for the three children no other man on this earth could have given me, I had to admit that, for the most part, I’d found him to be pretty unbearable.

  Suddenly, a breeze swept through Corbin’s backyard during one of my less-than-flattering stories (I’m not sure which). But in the middle of the story that breeze blew Cardboard Harry over on top of me, bonking me right in the back of the head. During the inevitable laughter I turned and said, “Harry, you know perfectly well I’m not making this up, now leave me alone.”

  Corbin stood Harry back up again, but I lost track of the number of times he blew into me again during my “tribute.” I swear to you, he didn’t fall over on anyone else but me that entire afternoon. Coincidence? I highly doubt it.

  Harry’s ashes were divided evenly among Corbin, Collin, and Caren to be scattered in places he’d specifically requested. Wherever they are, and wherever he is, thank you one more time, Harry, for these magnificent children, and . . . I’ll just leave it at that.

  The biggest hole in my heart was left by Bill Bell’s death on April 29, 2005. It was an incalculable loss to daytime television, but it was a deeply personal loss to me as well. He was my boss, my friend, my favorite sparring partner. He saved my life, tough-loved me into sobriety, and refused to settle for anything less than my best, sometimes giving me a “nudge” at the top of his lungs (and mine). I couldn’t imagine saying good-bye, so in a way I never have—to this day, when I have a tough storyline and difficult scenes to tackle, I tap into that depth he demanded and sail through them. Sometimes it’s all I can do, when the director yells, “Cut!” not to take a moment to glance upward and say, “How’d you like that one, pal?”

  Bill had actually left The Young and the Restless in 1998 when he felt his health was declining enough to compromise the quality of his work. My great friend Kay Alden, who’d been writing for the show at Bill’s direction since 1974, took over as head writer while Bill slowly, surely, and tragically slipped into the cruel abyss of Alzheimer’s disease. I think we all started grieving for him years before he passed away, when that obscene illness took his mind, his
memory, and his essence from us. Lee, Bill Jr., Lauralee, and Bradley handled it with their usual devotion and grace, and as you know if you’ve ever known and loved an Alzheimer’s victim, it’s impossible not to be happy for them when their body finally gives out and sets them free.

  The flags at CBS flew at half-mast in Bill’s honor and production shut down on both of his shows, The Young and the Restless and The Bold and the Beautiful, so that we could all attend the funeral at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills and then head on to the Beverly Hills Hotel for a beautiful reception. It was exactly what it should have been—a celebration of his life, his love, and his legacy, with equal parts tears and laughter. And what finer tribute is there to anyone than the fact that all these years later Bill Bell is still an inspiration to everyone who knew him?

  The older I get, the more true it becomes that the word “family” isn’t limited to a shared bloodline, so I’m not just speaking figuratively when I say that I continue to treasure the Bells as part of my family. Lee in particular never ceases to amaze me. She still comes to the office a few days a week with her constant companion Joy, a cinnamon-colored miniature poodle who pretty much owns CBS and everyone who works there. She loves to travel and entertain, and she completely outdid herself for my eightieth birthday party. Seventy of us gathered at her house for a perfect evening of friendship, dinner, live music by my pal, singer-songwriter Billy Vera (including his classic “At This Moment”), and a cake that thankfully did not have eighty lit candles on it. I remember at one point looking over at Lee’s three children and my three as well, all of whom have children of their own now, and marveling at how far she and I have come since we first met in 1973—I was the newly signed cast member of Y&R, and she was the toast of Chicago, the Emmy-winning hostess of The Lee Phillip Show. We’ve both been through a whole lot of joy, a whole lot of crises, and a whole lot of sadness over all these years, and I’m so very grateful that we’ve been through it together with, God willing, a long way still to go.

  For a woman who didn’t form many especially deep family attachments as a child, I’m blessed with more than my fair share of them now. My children and grandchildren and I live within about ten minutes of one another. We’re all very close and very involved in one another’s lives. When something happens to one of us, good or bad, it happens to all of us, and we see it through together.

  I know this arrangement wouldn’t work well for every family. In fact, I’m sure I just saw some of you shudder at the mere thought of it. But it works for us, thank God, and not a day goes by when I don’t marvel at it, not only on my own behalf but also on behalf of my grandchildren. The cousins couldn’t be closer if they were brothers and sisters, which is a tribute to them and to their parents, who’ve always embraced one another’s children as if they were their own. And I like to think that my heartfelt desire to really know each and every one of them and invite them to really know me had something to do with it.

  My family is typically described in the press as “three children and eight grandchildren”—perfectly factual, but it reduces them to a bunch of stick figures. That’s not nearly good enough for my book, not for the eleven amazing people who make up the core of my life.

  So please indulge me while I do some blatant, unapologetic bragging.

  There’s no doubt about it, Corbin is the busiest member of the family. I can’t keep up with him. I’ve long since stopped trying.

  At the heart of his life are his wife, Amanda Pays, and their four sons (you’ll be hearing about them shortly). Corbin and Amanda will be celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in 2013, and there are no finer, more hands-on and devoted parents. Theirs is a happy home full of laughter and creativity and a whole lot of mutual involvement and support.

  Corbin’s “day job” is his role as Henry Spencer on the USA Network series Psych, which is shooting its sixth season in Vancouver. But in his “spare time” (I’m kidding), he’s making great use of his bachelor’s degree in theater arts and his master’s degree in playwriting, both from UCLA, by writing, directing, producing, and often acting in a series of independent films, not just to exercise his considerable talent but also to express the fact that, personally and professionally, he’s, if you’ll pardon the cliché, come of age. He’s always been an overachiever, but he’s finding peace now, in his spiritual center, in the quiet pleasure of simplicity and in his desire to give back as a way of expressing his gratitude for all he’s been given.

  His films have nothing to do with sex and violence, and everything to do with making changes through personal involvement and taking responsibility for the course of our own lives. They celebrate basic values and the power of a united community. They acknowledge how essential hope is to the human spirit. They’re respectful, they’re decent, and they’re contagiously inspiring.

  Rust, for example, which was released in 2010, was inspired by Harry’s death and the journey it triggered in Corbin to explore his relationship with God and Christ—as he puts it, not a relationship he’d abandoned but more like a muscle he hadn’t flexed in a while. He dramatized that journey in the film, which is the story of a pastor in his midfifties who has a “midlife crisis of faith,” and it’s been thrilling to watch him go through the rediscovery of that faith both on-screen and off.

  And then there’s 25 Hill, which Corbin wrote and directed to help revive the All-American Soap Box Derby when he learned that this great national tradition was in financial trouble and in danger of becoming extinct. The title is a tribute to the former soap box racing hill in Taft, California, where I used to take him as a child. He shot this wonderful movie in Taft, Akron, and Cleveland, using mostly local talent, for release on DVD in 2011. Its theme is about parents and children, and whole communities, creating something positive together for themselves and for one another. To put his money where his mouth is, Corbin’s production company, Team Cherokee Productions, has infused the soap box derby with about $150,000 as well as 10 percent of the film’s proceeds, and he’ll be doing a lot of traveling, especially to cities where derby races are held, to promote 25 Hill and the derby itself. He’s excited about the movie and even more excited about the fact that instead of just talking about it at industry cocktail parties, he saw a family- and community-oriented treasure in need of help, committed himself to doing something about it, accomplished it, and made a difference.

  Yes, I admit it, I’m Corbin Bernsen’s biggest fan as a writer, a director, and an actor. In fact, it delights me when, for example, someone spots him, recognizes him as the iconic Arnie Becker on L.A. Law, and excitedly yells, “Hey, Arnie!” no less than it delights me when someone spots me and excitedly yells, “Mrs. Chancellor!” But what a gratifying joy to be able to say, of much more importance, that I also happen to be his biggest fan as a husband, a father, a provider, a son, and a man.

  If Collin weren’t my son, I would seek him out as a friend.

  He had more options than most:

  He’s tall, blond, and very handsome. When Corbin was living in New York doing the soap opera Ryan’s Hope in the mid-1980s, he was also a model. One day Collin stopped by the modeling agency with Corbin on their way to dinner and the agency recruited him on the spot. “The Bernsen Brothers,” as they were known at Beverly Hills High School, traveled all over the world for modeling jobs, and Collin picked up his share of acting work along the way.

  He’s a natural-born athlete, and had a few NFL scouts keeping an eye on him from as early as eighth grade.

  He’s extremely bright, so much so that, with his parents’ permission, he was going to be observed as a possible candidate for a Rhodes Scholarship. (I signed the paperwork. Harry didn’t. Don’t get me started.)

  He’s artistically gifted with everything from wood to metal to stone to ceramics. He’s created some of the most beautiful furniture, pottery, houses, and sculptures you’ve ever seen. His uncle set him up in the contracting business, with only one reservation when Collin took exceptio
n to the idea of padding his fees: “I’m afraid you’ll never make any real money as a contractor, Collin. You’re too honest.” Collin became an honest contractor and has built a lot of multimillion-dollar homes without getting rich, and even when money is tight he never wishes he’d done it any other way. He’s one of those refreshing people to whom status means nothing—if a choice has to be made, he’d much rather be happy than rich.

  And happiness comes as naturally to him as breathing, which may be the reason that he attracts so many friends of both sexes. It speaks volumes that many of the closest, most active friends in his life date back to elementary school, and that he’s his nieces’ and nephews’ favorite uncle. He’s got a playful streak in him that he’s never outgrown, and trips to the beach or the bowling alley or just plain dinner with Uncle Collin are the most fun there is to be had, for both the kids and for him. Frankly, the rest of us grown-ups have given up even trying to compete.

  He’s also a caretaker, through and through. When he and his wife, Cheryl, were divorced in the early 1990s, Collin became a single parent to their two infant sons, and did it happily and magnificently. On one hand, he’s been a great buddy to them, surfing with them and playing sports with them and taking them on some spectacular father-son trips. On the other hand, he’s demanded that they be responsible, hardworking students, that they live up to their full potential, and that they never forget the importance of family or take for granted the many advantages they’ve been given. The boys have taken more than one trip to downtown L.A. with their father not just to give to the homeless but to talk to them, get to know them, and hear their stories. In fact, it’s become a Thanksgiving tradition for Collin to package up all our leftovers and drive them straight to Skid Row to make sure a few people don’t go to sleep hungry that night. When Harry’s health was declining, Collin was right by his side. When I’m sick, Collin sleeps here at the house, and during my few brief hospital stays over the years, Collin simply pulled a couple of chairs together and spent the night in my room. On the rare occasions when I need full-time care, Collin doesn’t just make the arrangements; he creates a new bedroom if he has to so the caretaker will have a comfortable, private space of her own.