My Days

by Marion Ross

  As the final months of 1984 trickled down, I kept thinking about what I wanted to do next. I let the holidays pass and was then off to work again. I had done a few guest roles on shows like Night Court, MacGyver and Burke’s Law, which was a revival of the 1960s series. But there was one thing that kept tugging at me: the stage. And so, with the kids gone and the house empty, I once again returned to my refuge: the Old Globe. I ended up doing a few shows there, and for other companies, as well, maybe a half dozen or more. During that time, I also returned to Broadway, where I costarred with Jean Stapleton in Arsenic and Old Lace.

  During that time, I did date a few men, but by that time I was far worldlier and wiser than the young woman who all those years ago ran off to get married on a romantic whim. After Effie and I divorced, I really threw myself into fending for myself and my children, and then Happy Days hit. Once our divorce was final, I saw Effie only on rare occasions, such as at a few milestone events, like Ellen’s first wedding. When we did see one another, we were always cordial, but seeing him was always a reminder to me that I was far better off not having a man in my life. It was for that reason that I rarely gave any of my postdivorce suitors much of a chance. All I had to see was one tiny flaw—a bit too much to drink at dinner one evening, a less-than-polite quip to someone who approached me for an autograph, or even the briefest flash of temper—and I was done with them.

  To say my dating was casual would be an understatement. The more accurate term would be “almost nonexistent.” I was just not interested in a man coming into my life and invading the relationships I had with Jim, Ellen and my friends. I just didn’t need that, although, while I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to myself, for the most part, I was lonely.

  I was turning sixty that year, and there were times I would think about facing the rest of my life alone, without anyone really special to share things with. I had achieved my lifelong dream, had built a wonderful career for myself, had raised two beautiful children, had the greatest friends a person could ever hope for, and had bought, decorated, and remodeled houses. I was proud of what I had accomplished and was living my life as a big, brave and strong woman, and yet that old loneliness thing kept nagging me.

  And then, in 1988, in the middle of a writers’ strike that brought every film and television actor’s work to a complete standstill, I attended a play at the La Mirada Theatre, located down near Disneyland. I went with a group of friends who were joined by another group of friends, and as we sat having dinner that evening, I found myself seated next to a man who had no idea who I was. It is, perhaps, a sixth sense that people who are famous and in the public eye develop. You become so accustomed to complete strangers knowing who you are, and in some cases, knowing so much about you, that when you encounter someone who has no clue who you are, you are very attuned to it, and I was attuned to the fact that the gentleman seated next to me was one of those encounters.

  Although we were seated next to one another, we had not been formally introduced, but once we were—and I know this will sound corny—I felt some sort of a jolt hit me. Instead of shaking hands, we embraced. He just held out his arms, and I fell into them—the arms of Paul Michael.

  As the evening went by, we learned we were both actors. He began his career back in the 1950s, doing operas, and he appeared with Judy Holliday in the Broadway musical Bells Are Ringing in 1956. From there he went on to do quite a bit of theater work: the title role in the musical Zorba (a role he was born to play), Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, and the barber in Man of La Mancha. He also appeared in a few feature films and many television shows, including in the role of the king of the Gypsies, Johnny Romano, on the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows.

  Before the night was over, I also ferreted out that he was originally from Providence, Rhode Island, had served as a sergeant in the U.S. Army in the South Pacific during World War II, had earned a degree in English literature from Brown University, had grown children and, most importantly, was single. When I told him about my background, he seemed to be rather nonplussed about Happy Days in a way I found to be charming. It’s always a healthy thing to get knocked down a peg or two whenever you start thinking the whole world knows who you are, you know.

  During our first meeting, there was clearly a two-sided flirtation at play, and that intensified when, shortly thereafter, we did a play together called The Whole Half, in which I played a stately widow and Paul played an uncouth plumber. Well, before the run of that play was over, I just thought Paul was a great guy—the cat’s pajamas, as my mother used to say. He would make me laugh like no one else I had ever met. He had this quirky and charming sense of humor, which I was very attracted to. I was also attracted to him physically.

  Paul was Lebanese, with blue-gray eyes and a beaming smile. He was a real man’s man—big, strong, hairy, and just oozing with sex appeal. He was also very talented, smart and charming, and he was a great cook. He was so many things that I wasn’t. I have always been a bit reserved, cautious, thrifty and prudent. He had a big personality. He was gregarious—always joking around—and had this wonderful devil-may-care attitude toward things.

  I could make it work with a man like that, I remember thinking not long after we met. That was not just the romantic longings of a sixty-year-old woman; it was also a testament to where I was in life as a person. There was a time when a man like Paul would have been too much of a man for me. But I was in a good place. I was strong, sure of myself, and ready for a guy like him.

  When the play we were doing ended, I was worried that I might not see him again. I remember sharing that concern with my assistant, who, after some coaxing, convinced me to call him and invite him to my home. From that time on, Paul and I were inseparable. I decided to do a one-woman show as the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, called A Lovely Light, down in San Diego. Paul went with me, and we stayed at this little hotel, where our romance flourished. Everything about him charmed me. We would get into the car, and I would say, “Do you love me?” He would look at me with those eyes of his and say, “I love you more than when we got into the car!” We began building a relationship the likes of which I had never had or thought I would have. He was my soul mate, and every day with him was romantic, adventurous and fun.

  He eventually moved to the Happy Days Farm with me and quickly became the resident chef. He loved to cook, and he would go to the market and buy all these groceries and make every kind of food you can imagine, from Lebanese to Asian. He loved the process of creating a meal, and he was a sensual eater. He savored food as he savored everything in life. He loved to cook so much that you would think that by being with him, I would have learned to cook, but that didn’t happen. He never wanted me in the kitchen. That was his domain, and he was the master of it.

  As the years went by, our love grew. We did more theater work together, and he never minded that I always got top billing and the big entrance and the curtain call applause. He also never minded when we would be out and fans would come up to me and ask for an autograph and gush over how much they loved Happy Days and Mrs. C. He was very secure with himself and proud of me. He didn’t mind in the least that I got more attention, and within our circle of friends, it wasn’t long before he was getting far more attention than me. He just had such a big dominating personality that couldn’t be kept in the background.

  I know there were some people who were surprised over my relationship with Paul, but I wasn’t. I felt that I had been through a lot in my personal life and that I deserved love—that I deserved him. I don’t think a day went by that, at some point, I didn’t look over at him and think, This is perfect! It’s just so perfect!

  Here I was, this woman in her sixties, having a hot romance. It was a whirlwind of eating, laughing, traveling, sharing so many wonderful experiences, and being happy like I had never been happy in my life. Paul and I began posing for pictures during our travels, which we would use for our annual holiday card. We would hold up this sign we carried with us that said SEASON’S GREETING
S, and it got to the point where all our friends would wait in anticipation for our card. We were like a couple of kids in love. He made me feel like a young girl, and I remember my son, Jim, would roll his eyes because I just couldn’t keep my hands off Paul, even when the family was visiting. “My gosh!” Jim would say. “You two are going to burn down the house!”

  It may have taken until I was in my seventh and eighth decades, but my life in the 1990s and early 2000s was truly my happiest days. Not only was I sharing every day with the love of my life, but I also had the opportunity to do what I consider to be some of my finest acting work.

  In 1991 producer Gary Goldberg, who had created Family Ties, was given the green light by CBS to move forward with a new show, Brooklyn Bridge, his semiautobiographical sitcom about a Jewish family living in 1950s Brooklyn. I didn’t know Goldberg, but Henry Winkler did, and he was the one who told me about the series. He also told Goldberg that he thought I would be great as the obstinate, iron-willed Jewish matriarch Sophie Berger.

  I was more than intrigued with the role, and after my people had talked to their people, as they say in the television biz, I was asked to come in and read for the role. I was well aware that my name immediately conjured up the image of the all-American mom, and I knew I would have a hurdle in convincing the producers and the network that audiences would buy Marion Ross as a Jewish woman. To prepare for my audition, I made myself a little costume and brushed up on a dialect I thought would fit the character.

  As was the case with so many auditions I had been on since I was a young woman, this one was at Paramount. When I arrived on the lot, I was directed to a room, where, in front of a group of men I didn’t know, I took a deep breath and, in this little accent I had invented, began my reading.

  A few moments in, someone said, “Okay, the accent is too heavily Russian, so we’ll have to hire a dialect coach for you.”

  I was taken aback. I had been told that the producers were far from being sold on me and that, in fact, I would really have to step up to the plate if I were to change some minds. And now someone was saying they would be hiring a dialect coach for me. Does that mean I got the job? I thought to myself.

  What I ultimately learned was that they were still looking at other actresses but thought it was worth me coming in for another audition after working with the coach. That made me feel good. It meant that at least they were serious about me, and I wanted this role so badly.

  A few days after my audition, I got a call telling me a dialect coach had been secured and she would be calling to arrange a time to work with me. Her name, I was told, was Jessica Drake.

  “Jessica Drake,” I said. “That’s funny. I know a Jessica Drake who is the daughter of the character actor Ken Drake and my old friend Sylvie Drake, who I had acted with when we were in our twenties and was the theater critic for the Los Angeles Times.”

  “Yes. That’s her,” the voice on the other end of the phone told me.

  “What!” I replied. “That won’t work! I need an older woman, preferably a Jewish one.”

  “Don’t worry,” I was told. “Jessica is a real professional.”

  I was still picturing Jessica as this little girl I had met years earlier, and so I was surprised when this beautiful woman showed up at my door, claiming to be her. We hit it off well, and she was in fact a real pro. She would read my lines into a tape recorder with the right dialect and then have me listen to the tape over and over and then mimic her.

  Armed with my new accent, I again auditioned . . . and again . . . and again. The producers just couldn’t seem to make up their mind, and they kept bringing in other actresses to read, mostly Jewish actresses from New York. I had never worked so hard for a part, not even when I was an unknown, and it seemed like every time I got discouraged and was about to give up on getting it, I would get a call to come in for another reading.

  Finally, I had enough. I had allowed my emotions to get out of hand in regard to getting this role, and I was fed up with the roller-coaster ride of it all. I told Paul, Jim, Ellen and Gwen that I was finished—that there would be no more auditions. I just let it go and did what I do: moved on.

  Then, one evening, we were eating dinner out on the patio and the phone rang. Paul went to answer it and then came out and told me it was Gary Goldberg for me. I took the phone and said, “Yes. I see. Okay. Yes,” and then I started to cry. Paul was looking at me with this concerned expression, and when I hung up, I said those three beautiful words every actor loves to say: “I got it!” Gary had told me he had just gotten back from a meeting with the CBS executives in New York and had gotten what he went in asking for: that sweet mother from Happy Days to play Sophie.

  I was elated. It was a role I wanted so badly—one that I had really fought for. From the moment I hung up with Gary, I began immersing myself in all things Jewish. Paul and I became regulars at Canter’s, the famous Jewish delicatessen and restaurant down by CBS Television City in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles. We would sit at one of their tables, and while we were eating, I would study their menu, ask the servers questions about dishes I wasn’t familiar with, talk to other diners, and intensely watch people. I just sopped it all up like the last few drops in the bowls of matzo ball soup we became accustomed to devouring.

  Although I knew the role of Sophie would be challenging (which is why I wanted it), when we actually began work on Brooklyn Bridge, I found it to be easier than I had expected. To a large extent, that was due to our wonderful director, Sam Weisman. Every actor knows that working with a talented director makes all the difference in the world, and Sam was as good as they get. He was playful, and he would let me try different things and then pull me aside and whisper a couple of words only to me about what he thought had worked and what he thought we could do differently. He was just marvelous!

  I had loved every moment of work I put in on Happy Days, but doing Brooklyn Bridge was a totally different experience—a very emotional one. I came to love Sophie, and doing that role would sometimes strike me with such strong feelings that I would cry. Sophie just touched something deep down in my core—in my spirit. That didn’t happen with any other role I had ever played. I felt so fortunate that I got to play her and to be a part of what I thought was a beautifully done show. There is no doubting the fact that I had much more of an emotional attachment to Sophie than I ever did to Mrs. C, or any other character I have ever played. I will, of course, be forever grateful that I got to portray both of those wonderful women, but to me, on a very deep and personal level, I loved Sophie more than any other.

  Although Brooklyn Bridge was a masterfully done show, it was, unfortunately, never a ratings winner and was canceled after two seasons. I hated to see that show go, but it opened the door for me to get a role I otherwise would have probably never been considered for, in the 1996 Lifetime film Hidden in Silence, which told the real-life story of a Catholic woman who sheltered Jews from the Nazis in her home during World War II.

  Having had the opportunity to appear in that film, and to play Sophie in Brooklyn Bridge, meant the world to me. I had wanted to prove that I was more than just Mrs. C—that I could be viewed as a serious and respected actor—and Brooklyn Bridge and Hidden in Silence put me in that class.

  As the last few years of the twentieth century slipped by, I continued working on a very regular basis. While I did a role in the feature film The Evening Star, which starred Shirley MacLaine and was the sequel to Terms of Endearment, most of my work was in television. As the new century came in, I did roles on numerous shows, including Touched by an Angel, That ’70s Show, Gilmore Girls, Brothers & Sisters and Two and a Half Men. After Drew Carey told the producers of his show he could imagine only one person playing the role of his mother—me!—I took on that role on The Drew Carey Show. I also made a foray into what was somewhat uncharted territory for me—animation—by providing the voice of SpongeBob SquarePants’s grandmother. And I also continued to perform in my highly charted world of theater, includin
g an Old Globe performance of Joe DiPietro’s play Over the River and Through the Woods, which I did with Paul.

  When I look back at that time, it seems like I worked a lot during the first decade of the 2000s, and when I wasn’t working, Paul and I ate and traveled and laughed and had such a marvelous time living our lives together that if I could have hit a pause button at any one time in my life—to make one moment last forever—that would have been it.

  During that time, I knew Paul had some health issues. He had been in and out of the hospital a few times and had had heart bypass surgery, which was a great success. But in spite of that, he always seemed healthy to me, and he certainly never let any ailment hold him back from his enjoyment of life. When he would go to see his doctors, he would always just brush off those visits as no big deal, saying they were nothing but routine checkups to make sure everything was still working as it was supposed to. Having been extremely blessed with good health all my life, I never really gave it much thought when his doctor’s appointments became more frequent. He looked great, ate with the same gusto as always, and seemed to me to be the picture of health for a man in his eighties.

  In early July of 2011, I was scheduled to ride in a Fourth of July parade in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, a beach community in San Diego County. As we prepared to drive down to Cardiff, Paul didn’t seem himself. He was irritable and said he didn’t feel like going. He did end up accompanying me, but he was rather crabby during the drive down, and by the next day, when we went to a beach party that had been arranged by the parade’s organizers, he was really not himself at all. At the party they had tables set up in the sand, very close to the water, and he was making this totally out-of-character fuss about his shoes getting wet.