Unsinkable

by Debbie Reynolds

  I wrapped the bag with Lillian’s ashes in a Chanel scarf and drove to her former home without knowing what I was going to do or say when I got there. I pulled into the driveway, walked up to the front door with Lillian under my arm, and rang the bell. A lovely young woman answered. (I later learned that her name was Mrs. Peterson. She was a daughter of a prominent Chicago family and married to a fitness guru named Gunnar Peterson.)

  I could tell she was surprised to find Debbie Reynolds on her doorstep. She was very gracious as I explained that my friend had lived in the house many years ago and wanted to be scattered among the roses in the backyard. She told me that they had taken out the rosebushes, but I was welcome to look around. As we walked to the garden, I asked her for a spoon. She went inside the house and brought me back a wooden mixing spoon. Then she left me alone in the garden with my dear friend’s ashes.

  I unwrapped the scarf, opened the bag, and spread Lillian’s ashes all around where the rose garden once stood. I kept some of the ashes, which I now have in a beautiful Chinese vase of Lillian’s that I keep in my bedroom. When I’m buried, part of her will go with me. The kids can keep the vase.

  When one gets to be my age, it’s easy to have regrets. As Frank Sinatra sang, “Regrets, I’ve had a few—but then again, too few to mention.” Well, I must mention a few.

  I can’t regret Eddie Fisher. When we first married, I loved him dearly, and we had two beautiful children who are the joys of my life. And he’s given me a source of jokes for the past fifty years. Thanks, Eddie.

  Even though Harry Karl took us to the depths of despair with his gambling and cheating, he was the best husband he knew how to be.

  My third marriage was regrettable, but it’s over, and I thank God for giving me the strength to get through that ordeal.

  My biggest disappointment in this life has been not being able to create a museum for the collection that I built and loved and protected for fifty years. I know that I gave it everything I possibly could. I spent decades and lots of money gathering and trying to preserve our entertainment history. But it didn’t happen. Hopefully my efforts gave value to the pieces I sold to collectors and fans. The motion picture memorabilia I owned were always treasures to me; now others will have to protect them. I held a second auction in December 2011, but it wasn’t as successful as the first one. Lightning never strikes twice, so I wasn’t surprised that there wasn’t as much excitement for the second sale as the first one created. It was hard to part with all the costumes and props, as I had such a personal connection to each piece. Every costume I bought over the years had been worn by someone who was either my friend or an actor I admire. I have trouble watching old movies now because it pains me to see “my” costumes onscreen, knowing that they belong to someone else and aren’t in a Hollywood museum. I hope someday it feels better. It was time to let go.

  My home is filled with mementos of my friends and family, things that bring back happy memories. Pictures of the great friends I’ve worked with through the years. I have Harold Lloyd’s piano in my living room, right near chairs that belonged to Ann Miller. Agnes Moorehead’s lamps are on either side of my sofa. The Maltese Falcon sits on my mantelpiece, next to Eva Gabor’s blackamoor lamps from her living room. Phyllis Diller gave me several of the oil paintings she’d done, as well as a turban with earrings attached to it and a lot of silly pairs of slippers. Everything around me has a story of someone I love that makes me feel their presence. I like ghosts and I like stories. I feel surrounded by their love and happy with the friendships that we shared.

  There’s an Irish proverb that says, “May the road always rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back.”

  I wish that for you—and to be sure that the wind at your back isn’t your own, here’s my recipe for beans, which has been in my family for generations.

  Growing up in El Paso, beans were the staple of our diet. We were so poor that we were all crammed in a small house together. This bean recipe makes them digestible without giving you gas, so you can spend quality time with your family.

  Reynolds Family Bean Recipe

  2 cups dried pinto beans

  1 Tbsp baking soda

  pinch of seasoned salt

  1 Tbsp castor oil

  1 half onion, chopped (optional)

  chili powder to taste

  small can of baby chili peppers

  Soak the pinto beans overnight in water with the baking soda, seasoned salt, and castor oil. The next day, drain the beans and rinse with clear water. Cover the beans with water and put them in a slow cooker. If you like, you can add chopped white onion for flavor. I like to add some chili powder and diced baby chili peppers. It’s very simple. The baking soda and castor oil keep you from tooting your own horn.

  When I’m not around the house eating my favorite Mexican foods, I’m usually on the road. But last September, when I was finishing this book, I was almost finished myself.

  I was performing in Branson, Missouri, when a new pill I was taking caused a reaction with my other medications. Suddenly my feet became very swollen. I couldn’t fit into my stage shoes, so I borrowed a pair from one of the Lennon Sisters, who happened to be playing in the same hotel.

  Once I got home, I was in real trouble. My feet were still swollen and I had difficulty breathing. I was exhausted. It was really scary.

  I was admitted to the hospital, where I found out my kidneys had almost failed. After about a week there, I was allowed to go home, provided that I cancel all appearances for the rest of the year. I settled in and obeyed the doctor’s orders, hoping to regain my health. One day I was minding my own business when I started talking to people in jibberish. I knew what I wanted to say but it didn’t come out right. I could understand everyone but I couldn’t say what I meant. I’d had incidents like this before that frightened me. They seemed to be connected, but this one felt different.

  Back to the hospital to find out what was wrong.

  P.S. I’d had a TIA. That stands for transient ischemic attack—a kind of mini-stroke—brought on in my case by high blood pressure.

  Thankfully, it passed. After a few months’ rest, I’m on the mend, taking good care of myself and looking forward to doing my show again.

  Work is important to me. I love performing for audiences. Their warmth and applause make everything worthwhile. I thank all of you who have come to see me over the years. We’ve had some fun, and I plan on entertaining you as long as I can—which, looking at my watch, could be another twenty minutes.

  I’ve been an actress for most of the past sixty-five years. Thanks to the studio system, I got to play many wonderful roles while I studied with the best teachers in the world. So many people nurtured my talent and made me look good on film. As I learned and grew as an actress, I appreciated this education. My love of film started when I was very young. I used my babysitting money to go to the movies when they cost less than fifty cents for a Saturday matinee.

  Now I’d like to take you back to the days when I was a teenager who was lucky enough to be signed by the great Warner Brothers studio. If we were sitting together, sharing a glass of wine or four and having a good chat, you might like to ask me about the movies I’ve made. The following stories let you see what it was like for me to make more than fifty films. I’ve shared the stage with so many terrific people. And some not-so-terrific people too.

  Let’s start when I was a young girl in Burbank, California. . . .

  MISS BURBANK 1948

  RIGHT AROUND MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, I heard about a contest for Miss Burbank. You had to be sixteen to enter, and every contestant received a free blouse and a scarf. Wow! That was a big deal.

  So I signed up, intending not to compete. I just wanted the blouse and scarf, and I knew I wouldn’t win because I was too short. Aren’t all beauty contest winners tall? My mother told me that if I was going to take the blouse and scarf, I had to earn them—and that meant showing up. Daddy agreed.

  I wore a second
hand Cole bathing suit with a hole in the seat to the contest. Jerry Odens, a friend of mine from school, drove me to the Olive Recreation Center in Burbank and lent me his record player. I dragged it onstage and then lip-synced to “I’m Just a Square in the Social Circle,” that Betty Hutton sings in the 1945 movie The Stork Club, dancing and mugging just like when I did it in the Girl Scouts. My brother and his buddies sat in the back and laughed and laughed, sure that I would never win. When I did, I fooled them and myself—but not Jerry. What a friend.

  In those days the studios were looking everywhere for talent. Solly Baiano, the talent scout from Warner Brothers, and Al Trescone from MGM were in the audience. They were both interested in me and flipped a coin. Solly won. The contest was in May. The following July the Los Angeles Times ran an article with the headline GIRL WANTS BLOUSE—GETS FILM CONTRACT. Jack Warner had seen my screen test and told Solly to sign me for seven years at $60 a week, with a raise to $75 after six months. That was more than my father made! The article talked about my plans to continue high school and get dramatic training at Warner Brothers. Because I was a minor, the court in Los Angeles ordered that 20 percent of my earnings had to be invested in government savings bonds.

  The road to Warner Brothers was not easy. My family were members of the Church of the Nazarene and very religious. Our minister didn’t approve of the movies or the sinners who worked in them. Daddy and Mother made a trip to Warner’s so they could decide for themselves whether to let me work there. When they saw all the carpenters, truck drivers, painters, and other “regular” folks doing the many jobs it took to make a film and run Warner’s, they were satisfied that more than the Devil’s work was being done at the studio.

  So there I was, riding my bike the few blocks from our house to the studio and then, after work, taking the bus between Warner Brothers and my high school. Pretty amazing stuff for a sixteen-year-old kid.

  Warner Brothers was always buzzing with activity. Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas, Bette Davis, and Olivia de Havilland were the big stars on the lot. I loved seeing Jimmy Cagney because we were about the same height. Humphrey Bogart and Errol Flynn made their classic films there.

  My classroom at Warner’s was right next to the gym where Mushy Callahan was training Douglas to play a prizefighter in The Champion. I used to sneak in to watch the real, retired champion teach the actor how to box. It was very exciting. Boy, did they have great bodies. Mae West would have loved their pecs.

  Jack Warner was the head of the studio. He was ever so dapper, with a thin, perfectly trimmed mustache. A small white fence surrounded the circular driveway outside his office. I’d wait there every day to see him arrive in his big Rolls-Royce, hiding behind the fence and watching all the activity as Mr. Warner got out of his car. Two guards were always there to walk him into his building.

  One day Mr. Warner spotted me.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  On the lot at Warner Brothers. This was the first day of my new life—new name, new career. Photofest

  “Hi, Mr. Warner,” I greeted him. “I’m your new contract player.”

  “Really? What’s your name?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said.

  He looked down at me quizzically. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, my name is Mary Frances Reynolds. But they think Mary’s too plain, and Frances is a talking mule.”

  William Orr, one of Mr. Warner’s executives and his son-in-law, takes credit for renaming me Debbie. Delmer Daves, a writer-producer at the studio, had a new baby named Debbie. Mr. Orr thought this was a cute name that suited me. For years afterward, I only answered to “Frannie” or “Mary Frances” because I didn’t identify with my new name. Mr. Warner usually referred to me as “the kid.” I put up a fight when they wanted to change my last name. Reynolds was Daddy’s name, and I insisted on keeping it.

  The next three pages are from my assignment at John Burroughs High School in Burbank, California, in 1948. It’s my essay on what it’s like to be a movie starlet.

  June Bride

  (WARNER BROTHERS, 1948)

  My debut was a bit part in this romantic comedy starring Bette Davis and Robert Montgomery. I play the girlfriend of one of the characters in attendance at the wedding at the end of the movie. The most thrilling thing for me was that I got to meet Bette Davis during the filming of that scene.

  I have trouble finding myself in this film today. I didn’t get a credit, which was fine because they hadn’t changed my name yet.

  One day I climbed up into the rafters of the soundstage to watch Bette Davis and Robert Montgomery film a love scene in front of a fireplace. She was lying down as he leaned over to kiss her. Suddenly Davis’s eyes opened and looked right into mine. She stopped kissing and screamed, “Who the hell is that? What’s that up there?”

  “Beat it, kid,” the lighting man next to me muttered.

  Terrified, I scrambled down the ladder and ran to my ballet classroom, behind the stage where they were shooting the scene, and hid there until I was sure that things had quieted down.

  My dance teacher, Buddy, came in and found me hiding. Buddy was a sweet man—underline sweet (he wore pink ballet slippers while he taught me)—and told me that I wasn’t supposed to be on a closed set.

  I was just grateful that Bette Davis wasn’t armed.

  The Daughter of Rosie O’Grady

  (WARNER BROTHERS, 1950)

  Months passed after I made June Bride, and it seemed that Warner’s didn’t know what to do with me. Then they put me on hiatus, which was fine with me. I was still planning to become a gym teacher. I got a job at J. C. Penney selling girls’ blouses during the Christmas season. One day Warner’s called my home to say I was wanted at a luncheon for their starlets. Mother told them I was at work. So they scoured the studio and called her back when they couldn’t find me. She told them about my job, and they were furious. They sent a car to pick me up at the store.

  Not long after that, one of the studio’s acting coaches, Sophie Rosenstein, told me that they’d written a part for me into The Daughter of Rosie O’Grady, a musical set in 1898. My guess is it was because I was under contract and the movie was already scheduled. I play June Haver’s little sister. June plays the daughter who wants to be in vaudeville against her father’s wishes.

  June Haver was then dating a very successful young dentist, who died suddenly. It was a great tragedy for her. At the end of filming, she decided to enter a convent. Sister June was all set to take her vows when she met an actor named Fred MacMurray at an event. Fred fell for her in a big way and informed June that the only vow she was going to take was a marriage vow with him. Fred was a widower at that time with young children. When they married, they adopted beautiful twin girls.

  Gordon MacRae plays legendary vaudeville producer Tony Pastor. One day Gordon came into my little dressing room on the set while I was in the middle of a class with my studio tutor, Lois Horne, and put his arm around me. I didn’t think anything about it.

  But Miss Horne did. “Don’t you touch her,” she shouted. “You don’t talk to sixteen-year-olds in a dressing room. Certainly not alone. Not without a chaperone. Now get back to your singing.”

  And she threw Gordon out on his ass.

  Gordon was stunned. I’m sure he had no intention of doing anything inappropriate, certainly not in the middle of a studio set. And I was embarrassed. Gordon was a favorite with the ladies, but he knew better than to make a move on this little Girl Scout. And if he had tried anything, I knew that I could easily have slugged him myself. I didn’t need Miss Horne to take care of him.

  Our director, David Butler, treated me well. A heavyset, happy man, he took a liking to me. He wrote me into scenes and spent time teaching me film techniques.

  Sophie Rosenstein taught me how to be as natural as possible on film. That meant acting naturally—in this case, simple and sweet, as that was my age. They put me in a lot of flowered period frocks. Sophie was a small woman who d
ressed impeccably. I thought she was rather plain, but everyone loved her. She later married the handsome actor Gig Young. Nice work, Sophie.

  S. Z. Sakall plays a friend of the O’Grady family, and he was my favorite on this shoot. We had such a good time. From him I learned how to grab both sides of my face in shock or surprise. Doris Day also copied this move, as did Sandra Bullock, decades later. No one would look at the three of us and think we were all influenced by “Cuddles” Sakall.

  Lois Horne taught me about setting a table, as I had no experience in social graces. Lois was from a wealthy Oklahoma family. She taught me an appreciation for antiques, that ornamental carvings on the side of an end table are works of art. I had a lot to learn.

  A few years later, when I was filming Singin’ in the Rain, I stayed at Lois’s place in Culver City, a short distance from the MGM studio, when I was too tired to make the trip home to Burbank.

  The Daughter of Rosie O’Grady was shot in the beginning of 1949. After two films at Warner Brothers, it was obvious that the studio would be cutting back on the production of musicxals. Warner’s had closed the music and dance departments. It became clear that my contract wouldn’t be renewed. Solly Baiano, the scout who’d won me in a coin toss, continued to look after me. He drove me to audition for producers at MGM.

  I’ll never forget riding to MGM Studios in Solly’s new Cadillac. I felt like a movie star. I was to audition for the Helen Kane role in the upcoming film Three Little Words. Solly drove me to Jack Cummings’s office, where four important men proceeded to stare at me. I had never been in a room with that many older and very important men before. Jack Cummings stood by the fireplace and asked me if I could sing a song for him.