My grandmother had a certain way of speaking. I wish you could hear it. Every word was an overdone drama and to boot, she had all of these cute sayings, as well.

While my brother and I were tasting Pate and crackers for the first time, she would start, “You mean to tell me, you never tasted pate before?” (She would say it with such an air, as to say, it was impossible that all six year old American children did not have pate and crackers everyday of their lives!) I’ve been hooked on pate ever since. (In fact, over a decade later, one of my college roommates remarked upon my pate-habit and how rare, old-fashioned and charming it was that I ate it~ and I thought everyone must eat it!) Of course my brother, Jeff, four years old at the time, had to grow into his habit. When my grandmother, after our first sample, said, “Isn’t it delicious-luscious?” I, naturally, agreed and my brother made a face.

It was the same when she introduced us to classical music (an absolute passion of hers!) “Isn’t it beautiful!” she exclaimed to the two of us, driving along with her in the front seat of her giant Cadillac. I agreed and fell asleep to the classical station every night after that. My brother pulled a face to me, thinking she did not see, but when I turned to see my grandmother’s face and I knew she did see it.

She saw everything. Sometimes, I thought she must have ex-ray vision, special powers or have the whole house secretly bugged. When we would stay with her during the summers, she would come into my room the instant I attempted to sneak away from my mandatory nap. The instant! Whereby, she would exclaim my name with such disdain, that I felt instantly paralyzed with shame.

So, I said to my brother, “What? It is beautiful, Jeff.” I said his name with the same disdain my grandmother had had with mine the day before.

We were on our way to a store that was special to me and her. We were on our way to the store where they sold miniatures. Of course, my grandmother called them, “Meen-ee-ah-churz!” It was fun to go shopping with her. She was a very generous person. (As opposed to my grandfather, who was so cheap that if he actually gave you a gift, he was know to ask for it back a few minutes later~ and sometimes he wasn’t even kidding! He once did this to my mother with a Christmas present– furnishings from Europe. I once told him that I loved him and he said, “You only love me for my money! I said, innocently, “Why would I love you for money? You’ve never given me anything.” It was true, not a Christmas present or a birthday present. He soon gave me diamond earrings that he let me keep! LOL!) She bought me some miniatures, I still have some of them, even to this day. My brother was an avid coin collector, so my grandmother bought him coins…

…Then she took us to buy some supplies to make scrap books, which we worked on all afternoon, on the floor by her bed, where she played backgammon with Grandpa. When he would get a good roll, she would gleefully yell, “Oh, you wicked!” She would teasingly complain to me and my brother, after he won, that every time she won, he never paid-up and every time he won he made her pay. (This was actually true, but she had a good humor about it.) “Oh, you wicked Pampa!” she would exclaim in mock disdain. When she wasn’t calling him the wicked Pampa, when she needed her martini, for example, she referred to him as Dad. (Although she had the absolute cutest way of saying it, I read in a psychology magazine that this was a big no-no~ which is a real bummer because I had planned on calling my man “Dad” also.) “Dad, would you bring me a little nightcap, please,” she would say in a voice as sweet as a bird’s. Then, if it was the proper time of evening ~ that being four o’clock, Shawnie-dog, my grandparents golden retriever, would follow my grandfather down the back staircase (or “the secret passage” as me and my brother called it), which connected my grandparent’s bedroom to the kitchen, where grandpa mixed himself a Jack Daniel’s old-fashioned and made my grandmother’s martini, very dry.

Although, I later grew to understand why there was such great animosity in my family towards my grandfather, at this time in my life, I worshiped him. He was incredibly handsome and more charming than the devil himself. And, if you could have listened to his stories, you would know why I was my Grandfather’s best and favorite audience. He was the greatest story-teller I have ever known, but like all great story-tellers, he threw in some fibs here and there. For instance, when he would talk of his romantic escapades, he would always begin… “Before I met your Mother…” (I am not sure whether he confused me for his child~ he had seven, after all!~ or whether he had told the stories for so long that it was just habit, but he often addressed me as his own child. It endeared me even more to him. Indeed, there were many times I had wished my grandparents were my real parents. So, I loved when he made these little errors.) When he said this, it was my grandma’s cue to roll her eyes.

This time it was the Ava Garner story. That one really got my grandma ruffled ~ for years she would not have the name mentioned in the house~ which I now realize is exactly what he wanted to do, ruffle her, but to me, at the time, it was an irresistible story. Years later, I read Ava Garner’s autobiography and I recognized the story he had told me. She changed his name to protect the family, but I recognized him immediately. I won’t re-tell the story, but let’s just say, if Howard Hughes did not have a thing for Ava Garner, I might not be here. He told so many stories about different women, some famous like Garner, some not, that I now know why my grandma would get so angered when he would ask her a certain detail, like the girl’s name, for instance. She would give him a deadpan look and sarcastically say, “Paul, why are you asking me? It was before I met you, remember?!”

Though, I realize how cruel my grandfather was, now, to tell these stories about his many affairs in front of my grandmother and the whole family, at the time I was entranced with his many, glamorous Hollywood stories, and I still am grateful for them.

I am sure there were many a night, my grandmother wished she’d never walked into the party where she met Mr. Paul Brinkman. By grandpa’s account, when she walked through the door of that party, he exclaimed, “WOW!” rather loudly and dropped his drink on the floor. His date was not pleased and she slapped him in the face. He would receive a similar reaction from his new mother-in-law, months later, for Loretta Crain, my great grandmother, was unhappy with my grandparent’s marriage and was the source of many marital problems between my grandparents until the day she died.

My favorite story, by far, did not include any woman besides my grandmother. It was the story of Shaw-Shaw, their lioness.

The Shaw Shaw story starts off with my Grandma and Grandpa being at a WILD Hollywood party~ of course, you understand, that all the parties in my grandpa’s stories are WILD and all the women in my grandpa’s stories have “WILD bodies”~ but this party actually had wild animals (or tamed wild animals, anyway) as part of the amusement. Well, they had a super (super was one of my grandma’s favorite words, she said it often and with zeal) time at the party, but as they were leaving, my grandfather witnessed the owner of the animals abusing a baby lioness. My grandfather, although he has hunted all over the world including Russia and Africa, has a tender spot for animals. He was so angered to see the lioness being mistreated by the trainer that he grabbed the trainer by the collar and told him if he did not stop hitting that animal, he was going to kill him. When the trainer asked “Who the hell are you?’ My grandpa, my hero, proceeded to make up one of his famous fibs. He told the trainer that his brother happened to be the head of animal regulation in Los Angeles and that he was taking the lion into his possession. The trainer tried to argue, but my grandpa would not have it. He threatened to have his whole operation shutdown if he did not let him take the animal. My grandparents brought the lioness home to their Hollywood Hills ranch (which if it still existed today would be worth an astronomical fortune!) and named her Shaw-Shaw. Shaw-Shaw was their pet for along time, but when she got big and jumped into their neighbor’s yard a few times, my grandparents were forced to give her to a zoo. The poor lion died shortly after. According to my grandma, poor Shaw-Shaw died of a broken heart. According to my grandpa, she was fed poisoned meat and died.

My grandmother, was, like my grandfather, an animal lover. In my life time, they had several pets together. I already mentioned Shawnie-dog, a male golden-retriever. Later on a female golden-retriever named Samie-dog a.k.a. Samantha, who was actually my Aunt Maria’s dog, joined the family. The whole family wanted Shawnie-dog and Samantha to have puppies. I remember, when I asked my grandma Jeanne why the dogs didn’t have puppies yet, she answered, “Shawnie-dog has been praying very hard. He prays and prays and prays.” (Needless to say, my grandmother is very Catholic.) However, even at six, I suspected that people did not pray to have babies, but after she said this, I was confused for a short time… I figured that people must make love to have babies and dogs must pray. Regardless, Shawnie-dog and Samie-dogs never had puppies, but Sofia, had nine kittens.

Sofia was a beautiful, pure white cat, with one blue eye and another one which was green. This cat was a lady and she was, as grandma put it, “spoilt rotten.” My grandmother loved to spoil and pamper her pets. She would cook scrambled eggs every morning for Teddy, a tiny terrier, she bought after my grandpa shot Shawnie-dog and buried him on the Salsupuedes Ranch~ Shawnie-dog was getting too old to walk and was suffering, so my grandpa “put him out of his misery.” My grandparents had bought two ranches, “The Coast Ranch” in Santa Barbara and the “Salsupeudes Ranch” just outside Lompoc, when they sold their house in Emerald Bay (Laguna Beach, California.) My grandfather eventually moved to The Coast Ranch nest door to Bruce Brown (Endless Summer) and sold the Salsupuedes. In it’s day, the Coast ranch hosted horses, cows, deer, roosters, chickens, sheep and even peacocks~ Once a baby peacock was being singled-out and rejected by the mother. I put it in a box filled with cotton and took it into my room. I slept with it to keep it warm for a night but I had to leave the next day. I called to check on my baby peacock, named “Chicken,” later that week and my grandpa said she was doing fine. I know one thing for sure, my grandpa is tender-hearted (in a way) that he would not have told me anything otherwise~ but my favorite animal, besides Shawnie-dog, was Mr. Squirrel.

Mr. Squirrel lived in the trees at my grandparent’s house on Hilgard Avenue in Westwood, next to a “cheeky” blue jay and just over the rabbit and ginea-pig cages. Every morning around ten, he would start his chatter in the backyard. My grandpa always brought a huge bag of walnuts from a tree off the Salsupuedes Ranch and kept them in his office. Gram Jeanne (as I have called ever since one Christmas long ago… My great-grandmother, Loretta Crain, who would not allow me to call her anything but La-La, was telling me to stop calling my grandma, “Grandma.” La-La was insisting that I should call my grandma, “Jeanne” because calling her grandma made her sound old. My grandma said this was silly. As they were arguing over whether it should be “Grandma or “Jeanne,” I came up with the compromise and it’s been “Gram Jeanne” ever since!) and The Wicked Pampa would talk to Mr. Squirrel as if he were human. Indeed, Mr. Squirrel certainly was one of the family. He would sit up in his tree and argue with “that cheeky jay!” who sometimes stole his breakfast. Then, he would come down and make his way over the brick patio, up the stairs to the sliding glass window, near the breakfast table and he would take a walnut right out of your hand. Sometimes he even came inside the house, then my grandpa would call him a “rascal” and show him his proper place. Once when my grandparents were touring Europe, Mr. Squirrel broke into my grandpa’s office and stole some walnuts. My grandpa was very protective of his office– it was off-limits to anyone but him– he always kept it locked, but Mr. Squirrel made his own private entrance by chewing a hole in the door. The Wicked Pampa was not happy. Mr. Squirrel came around to entertain us for many, many years until after a decade or so his tail began to dwindle and one day he disappeared. I remember, one Christmas my Dad got me a camera, my very first portrait was of Mr. Squirrel running along the top of the side fence.