Authors: Barbara Walters

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #Editors; Journalists; Publishers, #Personal Memoirs, #Fiction

Audition (103 page)

Then there is Bryant Renfroe, whom I have also written about. Bryant has been styling, cutting, and coloring my hair now for twenty-three years (sorry that you had to find out I am not a natural blond). When I travel I am contractually permitted to take with me one person, supposedly an assistant, but more often than not, I take Bryant. He is not just a great traveling companion, but the producers welcome him because Bryant is also a whiz at dealing with airline reservations and is a superwhiz when it comes to computers. In flight he often calls up on his computer many of the videos I need to see, and I am able to watch a lot of material I might otherwise have missed. For example, in September 2006, on our endless trip to Australia, where, as I’ve said, I interviewed Terri Irwin, Bryant had on his computer the whole memorial service for her husband that I had not had time to view and needed to see before doing the interview. Bryant also gives me the latest news which he reads on his BlackBerry. He jokingly says, “I am strong like bull,” so let me tell you that he also helps me put my carry-on into the overhead compartment. All that and he cuts my bangs.

Monica, Monique, Lori, Bryant—invaluable as coworkers and friends.

Then at home sweet home, which wouldn’t be sweet without my beloved Icodel Tomlinson, thirty-four years of running our home with the loveliest smile you have ever seen. Icodel is an angel on earth and my trusted confidante. I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t remind you of another resident in our home. Well, actually Icodel says she is really one-half dog and one-half person. I am talking about Cha Cha, my honey-colored Havanese. My home is a place of serenity except for the rare occasions when Cha Cha feels she must bark.

After all these digressions I returned to New York in time for New Year’s and spent a glamorous but cozy New Year’s Eve at the home of Sir Howard Stringer, now the chairman and CEO of Sony Corporation, and his wife, Dr. Jennifer Patterson. Sir Howard (before he was knighted by the Queen), you may remember, was the man at CBS who offered me the big contract to leave ABC. Even though I turned him down, we liked each other so much that we became good friends. His wife, Jennifer, is a delight, very smart and very funny. This was the second New Year’s I spent with them and other mutual friends, including two wonderful writers, Nora Ephron and her husband, Nick Pileggi. We drank champagne, toasted one another, and watched the fireworks from their terrace. This year they had a new guest, Queen Noor of Jordan, the widow of King Hussein. Queen or not, she had no other plans for New Year’s Eve. She arrived looking gorgeous in a slinky white evening gown, hardly the picture of the grandmother she had recently become. I had done the very first interview with the young American-born queen and her husband when they married back in 1978. I had also done the first television interview with her after the death of her distinguished and long-reigning husband. More firsts to think about. More memories. My long-ago reporting on peace between Israel and Egypt seems like something that happened in another century. Come to think of it, it was.

At midnight Howard and Jennifer turned on the television so we could all watch the ball drop in Times Square. Times Square is on Forty-second Street and Broadway. Just six blocks away is the street sign that reads “Lou Walters Way.” People who pass the sign may be puzzled as to who Lou Walters was and why there would be a street named after him. When I see that sign, as I often do, pictures flash through my mind. All those opening nights watching my father’s productions…sitting at his table near the entrance of the club…my father with his “squawk box” on the table so he can give directions backstage…my mother all dressed up, and my sister, so eager to go backstage, where she feels most at home. The columnists come up to the table and clasp my father’s hand. “Great show, Lou,” they say. And I am there, serious, shy. On New Year’s Eve, as on Thanksgiving, birthdays, any celebration—there we all are. I still dream about my family. Sometimes sweet dreams, sometimes sad. But we were indeed a family and what I am is what they helped me to become. I look up at that sign when I chance to pass it and smile.

I “
RETIRED
”
FROM
20/20
, but I did not, as many thought, retire from television. I am still working every day, what with
The View
and the
Specials.
Moreover, I have a new venture: radio. I now do a weekly live program on Sirius satellite radio with Bill Geddie. We take phone calls from listeners, discuss hot topics, argue, agree, and just have a swell time. It is fun to work with Bill, whose opinions are just different enough from mine to make for lively discussions. I don’t need to put on makeup or get my hair done for Sirius, and I expect to be doing radio until my dotage. Sirius also is airing almost all the interviews I did for my
Specials
over the past thirty years. Listeners seem to enjoy hearing them as much as they used to enjoy viewing them.

I particularly liked doing the
Special
this year that I told you about, called
How to Live to Be 150
. It was cutting-edge science, including the latest in stem-cell research and a drug that now fights aging in mice and may in the future work on humans. Mind-boggling! As part of the
Special
I interviewed half a dozen on-the-ball men and women who were each 100 years old or older. My favorite was 101-year-old Dorothy, who came with her 94-year-old boyfriend. Dorothy told me that she is happier now than she has ever been. She had been married, she said, for forty-six years before her husband died, but it was a bad marriage and finally she had found true love. So there you are. It really is never too late.

I also enjoyed for the same
Special
—well, “enjoyed” isn’t exactly the right word—speeding at 150 miles an hour with Paul Newman at the wheel of his race car. I held on for dear life as we careened around two laps of the track. Later in the day, Paul, who is now eighty-three, came in first in his race, beating guys half his age. I’m not sure he will still be racing if or when he is one hundred, but let me tell you, even though it embarrasses him, he still has those great blue eyes. I’ve done several interviews over the past thirty years with Newman, and at the end of this one, we clasped our arms around each other, admitting we were both getting to be ancient and it wasn’t so terrible after all.

So now there is the question of when to truly retire. Let me tell you a final story.

Last New Year’s, before I went out to celebrate, I watched my very dear friend Beverly Sills host a program on public television called
Great Performances.
Few people have delivered greater performances than Beverly, who was one of the world’s most acclaimed operatic sopranos. She was a relatively new friend; I had only known her for about thirty years. After Beverly made the decision to end her operatic career, she went on to become the general director of the New York City Opera, then chair of Lincoln Center, and still later chair of the Metropolitan Opera. When she left the New York City Opera, her husband, Peter, gave her a gold ring with an engraved inscription. When I decided to leave
20/20
, Beverly gave me the ring. She said I should pay attention to what was inscribed. The ring says, “I did that already.”

Sadly my darling Beverly died of cancer in July 2007. In September, I spoke at the memorial service the Metropolitan Opera held for her. Thousands of people filled the opera house, up to the highest tier. To me the most important person there was Beverly’s daughter, Muffy. Muffy was born totally deaf and has never heard her mother sing. But Muffy is an amazing woman, smart and sensitive, with Beverly’s sense of humor. She is truly her mother’s daughter. We stay in close touch and share our love of her remarkable mother. I miss Beverly every day.

Memories. Memories. Mine are mostly good. The ghosts have receded, but occasionally they come to the fore. I recently gave a dinner party, and, as is sometimes my custom, at the end of the meal I introduced a question for each guest to answer in turn. The question I posed was, “Looking back at your life, what do you regret the most?” When Sarah Simms Rosenthal, whose husband, Dr. Mitchell Rosenthal, had been so helpful with Jackie, answered, “I regret not having been with my mother when she died,” tears stung my eyes. I, too, still regret not having been with my mother at the end. But no one can undo the past.

This is the most important thing: I am probably happier and more at peace than I have ever been. I know I had a fantastic career. I know I traveled everywhere and met almost every important person there was to meet. I achieved more than I could ever have imagined.

My colleague Don Hewitt repeatedly tells me that he and I lived through the golden age of television news. Perhaps he is right. But I don’t want to spend my days looking back. I do know this, however: In this time of instant Internet news, cell phones that take videos, and a profusion of blogs where everyone is a reporter, there will be little chance for any single person to have the kind of career that I’ve had. If I was, perhaps, atop of the game, I also had the advantage of being ahead the game. How lucky I was. How lucky!

Perhaps I have made it a little easier for some of the women who followed in my footsteps—maybe even for some in other careers. Television is no longer a man’s world. Perhaps, too, I helped to change that. If so, I am very grateful. I am blessed seven times over. And there are even some days when I think I deserve it. But I also think it may possibly be time for me to finally say, “I did that already.”

It is time to stop auditioning.

Except for this book.

Acknowledgments

F
IRST AND FOREMOST
there is Linda Bird Francke. This book would not have been written without her. Much of the historical material, which I had forgotten, is Linda’s. But that is not all. We worked so well together that we began to refer to ourselves as “the other.” The only reason I regret this book being finished is because I miss Linda.

Morton Janklow is not just my brilliant agent but he and his wife, Linda, have been dear friends for so many years. He guided me through negotiations and has been there for me from day one.

Betsy Shuller is the best researcher and fact-checker one could have. She is organized and efficient and an adorable person.

Peter Gethers is a wise, clear-eyed editor whose advice was to change little and encourage a great deal. Both were appreciated.

I must thank Sonny Mehta, the editor in chief and president of Alfred A. Knopf, for publishing my book.

Then there is George Pineda. There are no proper words to describe what George Pineda means in my life. He runs so many aspects of my day-to-day world in the most unassuming way. He will probably hate my even crediting him now as he is so discreet in his ways. But it is George who coordinated everything, including the computer, which would have driven me mad, mad, mad without his help. The sentence in my life which everyone knows is, “When in doubt, ask George.”

Vartan Gregorian has been telling me for so many years to write a book. Now I have, and Vartan read every page, giving me solid and valuable advice. Thank you, Vartan.

My daughter, Jacqueline Danforth, read and bravely okayed the important and very personal chapter about her.

The following people generously gave me their time and insight: David Westin, Phyllis McGrady, Bill Safire, Sam Donaldson, Lou Weiss, Richard Wald, Herb Schlosser, and my wonderful producers at ABC, chief among them Bill Geddie, Martin Clancy, Katie Thomson, David Sloan, Alan Goldberg, Karen Burnes, and Brad LaRosa. Thanks also to Sheelagh McNeill at the ABC News Research Center.

And deep gratitude to my friends who have heard me talking endlessly about this book and never shut me up.

Finally, and most important, thanks to all those viewers who have been with me at one time or another, over the years. It is your loyalty for which I am most grateful.

PHOTOGRAPHIC CREDITS