The Night I was Dissed by Ethel Mertz: A Father’s Day Tale
Yes… that Ethel Mertz. As in Fred and Ethel Mertz. As in Lucy and Ricky Ricardo’s landlords and best friends. Her real name was Vivian Vance and to this newly turned 8-year-old who found solace and peace when I escaped into the black and white world of vintage television, it was as close to nirvana as I could imagine. Of course I wouldn’t have used the word “nirvana” back in 1973, but in retrospect it is the perfect word to describe the hodgepodge of emotions that flooded my young mind in anticipation of the big moment — awe, elation, and the sense that I was the luckiest boy in the world.
The meet and greet had been prearranged; the byproduct of my parents’ friendship with Ruth Bailey, the woman who owned the Cherry County Playhouse, a professional theatre in my hometown of Traverse City, Michigan where Vivian Vance was performing. The Playhouse was housed in a domed venue connected to the “grand” Park Place; a hotel that was the height of elegance when it opened a 10-story tower in 1930. The shows were staged in the round with the actors entering and exiting through the audience. It was pretty heady stuff back then; especially to a young boy just discovering there was a much bigger world than just sports and cub scouts. The Playhouse season, not surprising, coincided with the summer tourist season and consisted of approximately nine plays, each featuring a celebrity working their way up the fame ladder or, as was usually the case, holding on to their past stature with mortgages and taxes to pay. Over the years I saw and often met many of the stars — Broderick Crawford, Dorothy Lamour, Barbara Rush, Robert Reed, Eva Gabor, Marcia Wallace, Joanne Worley, Richard Thomas, Buddy Ebsen, Bob Denver, William Shatner — but it was Ms. Vance that truly captured my imagination.
Seriously, I was going to meet Lucy’s best friend! Would she be popping chocolate in her mouth as some bossy looking lady screamed “Speed her Up!” Would she tell me stories about how great it was to work with Lucy? (Three years later I would be traumatized when I read the book, “Lucy, Ricky, Fred and Ethel” by Bart Andrews and found out that Vivian Vance once told a pregnant Lucille Ball, “I would tell you to go fuck yourself if Desi hadn’t already done it.”) Most of all I wondered if she would see something special in my eyes and suggest I might be perfect to play little Ricky’s best friend in a remake of the series? Ah, the dreams of a very young and precocious gay boy!
It was opening night of her play “Light Up the Sky” by Moss Hart. I remember very little about the show except that Ms. Vance’s character was always playing gin rummy and occasionally saying something very funny. I knew it was funny because the adults around me laughed and, not wanting to seem like I didn’t understand the joke, a half beat later I would deliver my own version of a chortle. As the show ran on, all I could think of was that I would soon be hanging out with Ethel Mertz!
(I should clarify here that I was not a completely delusional young boy and that I did indeed know the difference between between an actor as a distinct human being and the role/s he or she would play. But, and it’s an important distinction, it didn’t stop me from romanticizing those characters and the world they inhabited on my television screen. Who wouldn’t want to live in a stylish NYC apartment, be married to a sexy Cuban bandleader, and have a trusted best friend and confidant like Ethel?)
As was the tradition at the Playhouse, opening night of a new show meant a post-show cocktail reception with the star. It was a perk for the season ticket holders and, of course, it was beyond glamorous. The plan was for me to come down to the reception and meet Ms. Vance there; actually a makeshift conference room in the lower level of the hotel with a couple of bars, highboy tables, and ashtrays everywhere. As my parents walked me into the reception my stomach was in knots. All around me adults were sloshing down cocktails and, most frustrating, blocking my view. Where was she? Was she waiting for me? Did they tell her I would be there?
And then suddenly, as I did my best to dodge lit cigarettes and flying elbows, I saw her. She was sitting in a chair, sipping a glass filled with ice cubes and brown liquid, and very much engrossed in a conversation with a flamboyant lady who, I would soon discover, was Ms. Bailey, the owner of the theatre. My parents noticed them too and before I knew it they had guided me over so that I was within a foot of Ms. Vance. Her chair was angled slightly so that I was facing her side. I watched in amazement as she sipped her drink, waved her hands, and laughed at what appeared to be a private joke. My dad caught Mrs. Bailey’s eye and she quickly turned to us and pulled me closer so that I was now staring directly into Ethel Mertz’s eyes.
“Vivian,” she said, “I want you to meet one of your youngest fans. This is John.”
And then, without skipping a beat, Vivian Vance said, “I didn’t know children were allowed in the theatre?” She stuck out her hand for me to shake, nodded, and then turned back to continue her conversation with Mrs. Bailey.
She actually said — the only thing she said — “I didn’t know children were allowed in the theatre?”
It was the first time in my young life when I knew what it felt like to have your heart fall to the floor. A flood of emotions filled my head — embarrassment, shame, and hurt; a lot of hurt. My parents quickly moved me away and out into the warm, summer night. We drove home in silence and never discussed what happened. But I’m pretty sure they had a conversation later that night and I have no doubt that my mother probably said, “That woman is a bitch.” I know that because my mother always had my back, too.
A few weeks later we were back at the Playhouse, this time to see Kathy Garver — Katherine “Cissy” Davis, the big sister from “Family Affair” — in a play called “Champagne Complex” by Leslie Stevens. It was about a bride-to-be who would drink too much champagne and then start stripping. Seriously! Once again, I don’t remember much about the play but I do remember thinking I had crossed some magical threshold and was one step closer to adulthood. This time my father (it was a solo mission; my mother couldn’t bear to see me disappointed again) decided we should skip the post-show cocktail party and instead we waited in the lobby for Ms. Garver to exit the theatre. It was a wise move and, in retrospect, a brave one. He had already seen his son humiliated once; yet he knew how important it was to me to meet the stars I idolized from afar, and he was going to support me, no matter what.
As I fidgeted nervously, the theatre doors suddenly flew open and out Cissy stepped — dressed in the most beautiful gown I had ever seen and, as if to add one more layer of perfection, it was all framed with a huge boa made of white feathers. My dad greeted her warmly and, repeating the same phrase that had bombed so spectacularly before, said, “Miss Garver, I want you to meet one of your youngest fans, my son, John.” She immediately bent down, gave me a warm hug followed by a kiss on the cheek(!), and said, “How wonderful! Did you like the show?” I’m not sure exactly what I said — I was 10 feet off the ground at that point– but I’m sure I nodded yes. There was some more small talk and then she said goodbye before once again thanking us for coming to the show.
Ethel Mertz made me feel small and embarrassed. Cissy made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. While the lesson may be obvious — it only takes a moment to be kind to another human being; especially a child, and the ramifications can reverberate throughout a lifetime — the real take away for me is how lucky I was to have parents who supported me, never questioned that my interests were very unlike those of most boys my age, and made me sure I always felt loved and valued; Ethel Mertz be damned.
My father has been gone for over 21 years. As time marches on, I realize that more and more of my memories of him are beginning to fade, replaced instead by small snippets that tell a story of who he was as a man and as a father. It’s funny how vivid the memories of Vivian Vance and Kathy Garver are to me almost 45 years later and how I remember those moments not because they were my first blush with fame, but because my father was there; standing beside me, ready to be my anchor no matter the outcome.
