Fortunate Son

by John Fogerty

  So I went home to my aunt and uncle’s and called the Universal Hotel. I remember looking it up in the phone book, and there were two hotels by that name—I figured it must be the nicer one of the two. So I called the hotel and just asked for John Fogerty—what did I know? Well, they put me right through and he picked up the phone! Now I know how rare that is, since he never answers the phone—even today!

  John: The hotel had quite specific instructions not to let any phone calls for John Fogerty come through. So I pick up the phone and hear, “Hi, John, this is Julie,” and I literally fell down on the floor, laughing. She said, “Why are you laughing?” I said, “I was sitting here, feeling really lonely and forlorn, about ready to tie one end of a rope around my ankle and the other to a big rock and toss it off a pier. And just sink to the bottom. And there you are!”

  Julie: John came to visit me on New Year’s Eve, 1986. He had been trying to reach me where I worked. My coworkers had been telling me, “Someone keeps calling you. Someone with a very soft voice.” Funny. I really didn’t put together who this was until after we connected on the phone.

  So he came to visit, pulling up in a subcompact budget rental car. I wasn’t expecting a limo, but that was a bit funny and cute. John wiped out on the ice—being a California boy, he wasn’t used to the weather. It was winter and he had on Reebok tennis shoes with peach socks. My friends and I were all in our twenties, and they were looking at me like, “Huh!? Who is this guy? You mean the rock star John Fogerty?” I wasn’t too sure about the whole thing. John was in his forties and I was just a twenty-six-year-old girl. He was kind of funny, kind of cute. (I felt so sweet towards John and his innocent, non–rock star self. He was just so John, and this has been the man I have loved for over twenty-five years now.)

  After spending time with him I’d see so many things in him that I’d never seen in anyone I dated. He just wanted to know everything about where I was from, South Bend. He wanted to know all about the Saint Joseph River—I had driven past that river my whole life and not paid much attention. The Studebaker automobile factory had been in South Bend, and my grandfather had sold them. This just fascinated John, and he’d go off to the Studebaker museum and get all the books on the subject. John found so much beauty in simple things. We’d have so much fun together. We’d head to Chicago quite a bit. He took me to ball games, blues clubs, dinners in the city. Some of the blues clubs were in rough neighborhoods, and I was the only girl most of the time—this little blond girl stood out for sure. Looking back, it was a great thing to have done and experienced, even if it wasn’t on my list of things to do while in Chicago! It was just so fun with John.

  We took Lyndsay to see Cinderella. John and I had been dating for eight or nine months. I knew he really cared for me and we were getting closer and closer. I was just sitting there watching this beautiful love story with my daughter. The relationship with John was new—we were just getting to know each other. Cinderella was trying on the glass slipper and I suddenly felt my chair shaking. I looked over and saw John sobbing. I was just so overwhelmed with his reaction. How sweet and beautiful this was. It just melted my heart.

  John: The story of Cinderella is very important in the journey of John and Julie. When I was young, like many people I thought the idea of finding and marrying a beautiful princess was the best thing that could happen in life. As I grew older—again, like many people—I began to hear the superficial wisdom that this was unrealistic and delusional and that a real-world marriage would probably be somewhat less than the fairy-tale version. As all of the horrible, nightmarish results of my musical career began to drown me, I became massively unhappy.… I seriously wonder if even the best marriage in the whole world could have survived those torturous years.

  During the time leading up to my decision to leave Martha, I began to wonder if that long-lost fairy tale could actually come true. I knew I wasn’t happy and that I wasn’t making Martha happy. When I just looked at that head-on, it seemed that I was supposed to figure this out, to do something about it, to make a choice. I decided that it was worth a try, this notion of fairy-tale happiness. When I was gathering up the strength to actually leave, I said to myself, I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s got to be better than this. What that really meant was this thought: I know I don’t have it now, but I’m going to take the chance that out there somewhere I might find unconditional love…

  Well, I found it. Julie is my fairy-tale princess, and it will always be that way for the rest of eternity. Unquestionably, this marriage, this union, was meant to be, and I feel that with every fiber in my consciousness. So when I see the story of Cinderella, I always break down and cry.

  They made a new version of Cinderella with live actors, and I went to see it with Julie and our daughter Kelsy. I had thought that nothing could touch the way I feel about the original Disney animated version, but about two minutes into this new version, I knew I was in trouble. I said to Julie, “I don’t think I’m gonna make it through this one” (without breaking down)!

  I made it to the end, and it was beautiful. There are so many—too many—moments for me to describe, so I will try to let one beautiful scene explain my feelings. The moment when the handsome prince puts the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot, thus identifying that he has found his true love, is everything. The whole universe, the meaning of life. Of course, I lost it right there, broke down (again) and cried. In the car on the way home, I finally blundered into the words I’d been searching for to explain my heart. Referring to that moment, I said to Julie (and Kelsy), “I’m just so grateful for my life.”

  I started traveling east to South Bend more and more. And more. Pretty soon I was hardly leaving at all. By that New Year’s of 1986, I knew that Julie was the one. But we didn’t move in together. I’d been in a marriage for a long time and was a little scared of any kind of permanent relationship. Something in my brain was telling me to proceed cautiously. I was like a penniless prospector who had found the biggest gold nugget of all time—I didn’t know quite what to do now that I had the bounty in my hands. I just knew I didn’t want to lose it! Somehow I realized that this relationship was the holy grail, my salvation.

  I had also promised myself that I was going to live out all my bachelor fantasies and be a Hollywood swinger like Errol Flynn, going to parties with a different babe on my arm every night, partying all the time. I had told myself, Yeah, now that I’m single, that’s what I’m gonna do! Even had me a brand-new blue Corvette!

  So, trying to be a wise man, I said to Julie, “Let’s be apart for a year”—meaning let’s date, but not cohabitate. Probably six minutes into this situation I knew: this ain’t what I was meant to do. I was just a raging failure at all of it. Certainly I partied—a lot of it by myself! I was drinking alcohol like water again and I was not happy. I dated a bit, went to a couple of parties. I was utterly miserable—and miserable being away from Julie. From the moment I met Julie, my life had begun to get better. Instantly, just like that. So all this bachelor stuff was suddenly meaningless.

  But I was afraid to say I loved her. We were having dinner at this fancy restaurant in South Bend, Tippecanoe Place, inside the old Studebaker mansion, and I said out loud, “Well, I don’t know about marriage…” Her eyes got real big. It’s a look I’ve come to cherish. I’d said a word we’d been careful not to talk about.

  On another night separate from all those, I held her real close and said something like, “I really, really, really like you.” She knew what I meant to say and thought it was cute, but she also knew I was afraid to admit my feelings. Of course I loved her, so that became a joke between us. At some point during the televised concert for the Vietnam vets on July 4, 1987, I went to the mic and said, “Really, really, really.” Julie wasn’t there and that was my little message to her.

  Julie: On these visits to Indiana, I would take John to Coverdale Lake in Union, Michigan, to visit my grandparents. I was very close to them and spent much of my childhood at th
e lake with them. My grandparents had an amazing marriage and life. They looked out for each other and loved each other so much. They had a beautiful, pristine home on the lake—“perfect” is the only word that describes that place.

  John had bonded with my grandfather. He really enjoyed spending time there with him and my family. Grandpa played guitar and wrote songs from time to time. John really noticed how Grandpa treated Grandma. So much respect and love. As our relationship grew, John would say to friends (about me), “The better I treat her, the better my life becomes.”

  John: Grandpa Ray was probably the best man I have ever met. I could just tell that the relationship between Julie and her grandpa was really special. Ray was kind and wise and dignified. Calm. You know how people who are just comfortable with themselves can’t be hurried or rattled by anything? That was Ray.

  He had a little pier on his property that sat on the lake, and he invited me fishing. So we rigged up a pole for me. We were just two dudes in two chairs sitting there looking at the lake. The women are up in the house. And I catch a little bitty sunfish. Ray says, “There’s a big bass down there I’ve been tryin’ to catch for days! Let’s use your fish for bait.” So we rig that fish as bait, and lo and behold, I bring in the bass.

  Now, Julie had dated other guys, and her sisters had too. I don’t know if Ray had any use for a lot of ’em. But at that moment I was in the club. We went in the garage and Ray cleaned the fish, and then gave me his special knife that he’d used for years. When he handed me the knife, man, it was like he was giving me the keys to the kingdom—“John, you’re all right. You can be with Julie. You’re accepted.” That was really important to me.

  Julie: John reached out so fast and so hard. It was very sweet. He’d call me up at work from Los Angeles all the time and send me flowers. One time John called while I was at work and asked me to marry him. I wasn’t sure if he was drinking, or what was going on. He had been drinking quite a bit then. I didn’t know what to say to him. I was unsure of what was happening, but I felt that maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to be doing this on the telephone! I told him to call back when he wasn’t drinking. John claimed he wasn’t. He would not hang up until I answered him. Finally I exclaimed, “Yes!,” although I was unsure of what I was actually committing to at the time. John later proposed in a very romantic way.

  Finally he asked me to move to California. He did not want to be apart anymore. Lyndsay and I moved in, in early December of 1987.

  John had a place in Beverly Hills. I remember walking in and seeing this beautiful house. He’d hired a designer to help him with his pad, and it was really nicely decorated. Everything was white—white carpets, white sofas. I remember thinking how it didn’t feel like anyone lived there, since everything was so perfect. It looked like an art gallery. I looked at that new white everything and wondered how a three-year-old was going to do in this house.

  I didn’t quite feel at home. It was very quiet, and lonely. It was difficult. We didn’t go out much, and the place felt pretty dead. It was very different than what I was used to—I missed my family and my friends. John didn’t have any friends or family around. He’d sometimes stay up all night and drink quite heavily, sometimes for days. John was drinking to check out, gallons of it. Like pouring gasoline down your body to burn it up, to fade away. He would share so many painful things with me, so many things that I could not understand. I was only twenty-seven but I wondered why he had no family or friends who cared—no one. Not one.

  Sometimes John would sit and not say much at all. He was so kind to me and very loving, but he didn’t have much life in him. Just a depressed man sitting in a chair. Not talking, not happy. My family is a pretty crazy bunch. I’d take him to visit and he’d sit there for hours, not say a word, not mingle, nothing. They always thought that he didn’t like them. He couldn’t smile a lot. He just wasn’t feeling good.

  Music wasn’t even his friend. It was so much of who he was, and yet he wasn’t able to create. John just did not have music in his life anymore. I would try to encourage him, but this was a man who wouldn’t let me turn on the radio—when I did he’d turn it off, call it noise. He had no interest.

  The music he’d created had caused so much trouble for him. There were so many lawsuits, so many battles he had to fight. Every time he turned around there was another lawsuit or negative thing to deal with. He’d lost who he was.

  John would find other distractions, like being a pilot. He’d immerse himself in flight training and reading about flying an airplane and whatnot. Then he was into the computer world, so he’d read computer manuals all night. These distractions kept his mind active. But I knew it was really killing him inside.

  I’d escape to my family and friends, because I led a pretty social life back in Indiana. And John would be back in California by himself reading books. I was getting ulcers and not feeling well at all. At one point John told me he couldn’t stand to bring me into all of this and that he couldn’t have a relationship anymore. I think he knew he was so messed up, he was hurting me and didn’t want me to go down with him. I was heartbroken, but I knew that he was probably right. Interestingly enough, this was happening in Indianapolis, where it had all started. Sadly, it was going to end there.

  I just knew it was probably for the best. It’s hard when you care for someone so much but you don’t know how to fix it for them. I drove the four hours home to northern Indiana. So many emotions came over me on that drive. At first I just cried, and then I started to feel strength from the idea that this was the right decision for all of us. I cared about John so much and worried about what was going to happen to him. I loved John, in spite of all of this.

  As I got closer to my mom’s house, I knew that I had to pull myself together and figure out my life. I was saying exactly those words to myself as I was turning the handle on my mom’s front door. And then, walking up the stairs, I heard the phone ring. It was John. He told me not to go anywhere, that he was coming. John cried to me that he couldn’t live without me—he loved me too much. He arrived in less than three and a half hours, speeding ticket in hand.

  John: It was a blizzard. I was going 105.

  Julie: I remember trying to protect him so many times. John would drink so much in public and—sadly—at home that he could hardly walk, talk, or function. I remember walking him off planes and trying to keep him out of the public eye. In February 1988, John was producing Duke Tumatoe and his band, so we went to a club in Chicago, DeSalvo’s, where he was recording them live. John had been drinking quite a lot and the band wanted him to perform with them. I told him no, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. They fed him so much alcohol onstage that by the end of the performance he was barely able to stand, and his singing was barely recognizable. This was a very sad moment for me.

  John: I was drunk onstage, which really goes against my rules. I was recording Duke Tumatoe at three different venues, and it turned out the engineer hadn’t recorded the vocals at the first venue. So in typical Irish fashion, I was like, “Well, fuck, I guess I’ll get drunk!” I think I did “Susie Q.” We were recording, so I’m the guy who had to listen to what I did. I was lucky I was not living in the Internet age, because this would have been on everybody’s computer. I’m thoroughly ashamed of this. Especially given how many years I fought to respect music and myself. And here I am, the guy that’s not trying. That poor guy who’s too scared to dig to where the real stuff is, too afraid of it. Used to be an artist.

  Julie: I went up and told him it was time to go. I had to practically carry him out of the club. I remember trying to hold him up, and a glass broke and some shards went into my foot. (To this day, it’s in my foot, maybe as a reminder to be grateful for how great things are now.) I couldn’t stop to get the glass out because I had to get him the hell out of there. I remember John falling in the street. This was symbolic of almost giving it up. I picked him up right in the middle of Michigan Avenue and carried him into the hotel. I have no idea how I
did that.

  John: I don’t run away from these memories. I’m not proud of them, and I don’t necessarily want to relive them. I cringe thinking about them. But one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t be in denial. Denial is your enemy. Denial is where you don’t get better. Julie didn’t have an easy time of it. Through any of this, really. I was that broken-down cowboy. Julie kept saying, “If we’re in a relationship, aren’t we supposed to have a relationship?”

  I was a pretty closed guy. I could be very distant, aloof. I honestly didn’t know any better at the time. Obviously that didn’t get better overnight. The transformation took some time. Didn’t get better in the first year, or the second year, or even the third year that we were together. But I was healing. I don’t think it was any one step. It was like a ramp. I could just feel that we belonged together. Every day I just felt a little better, because we were better. The more days that passed with Julie, the more I had the sense that everything was going to be okay—maybe it didn’t feel okay right now, but I could look down the road and know in my heart that it was going to be okay.

  I don’t think I was romantic at all before I met Julie—she made it okay for me to be that way. I was normally such a doofus about these things that what happened really came from left field. It’s pretty romantic, actually.

  We were back in South Bend, and I wanted to go running. Of course, Julie’s ex-husband lived there. She worried about setting him off. I decided to go running anyway. And as I run I’m thinking about Julie being with her girlfriends, and how when they ask about our relationship she’s got nothing to show them. No ring. You know, girls really get excited about “He asked me to marry him… and look at this ring!” It’s a girl thing; it’s romantic. So I finish my run, get dressed, go right down to the mall, and find a jewelry store. And I make a reservation at Tippecanoe Place.