Friends, family meant more than stardom
/The Boston Globe
Beverly Beckham
I should have called her when I heard she was sick.
But I didn't. The telephone wasn't part of our friendship, unless we were in each other's neighborhood. Then we'd dial up and say, "I'm here." And drop what we were doing and get together.
Mostly, Beverly Garland and I communicated in e-mails, and even those were sporadic. She lived on the West Coast and I live here in the East. It was a yearly convention that initially brought us together. When we stopped attending the conventions, I'd call her when I was in LA, and she'd call me when she was in Boston. But over the last few years we lost touch.
The last time I saw her was in 2002. I was in LA to be with my daughter Julie, who was going on the "Dr. Phil" show. I phoned from Nordstrom's. "You're at Nordstrom's? You're down the street?" she yelled, then laughed her big, throaty, movie-star laugh. And came racing, breaking all the speed limits, because she knew that left on my own I'd buy something navy or black with long sleeves and a white Peter Pan collar, something totally inappropriate for TV. And even though I was only going to be in the audience, I wanted to look nice.
I bought two sweaters that day, one red, one black. She made me buy the red one. And she made me promise to wear it.
We had lunch afterward, with her son, James. Her motherly pride showed, and I learned what James was up to and that her daughter, Carrington, had two children, Tula and Beau. It was an ordinary California day: sunshine, white wine, two friends, one son, all happy together. Only it was the last time and we didn't know.
She used to send me books. She and her late husband, Fillmore Crank, were readers and there were books everywhere in her house, on shelves, on tables. New, shiny hard-covers. When they found one that they both thought I would like, it would appear in my mail with a short note.
She had beautiful handwriting. She told me how she practiced and practiced until it was habit - the flow and the flourish, the clean lines, the easy-to-decipher script - because she had dreams when she was young of being a famous actress and of people asking for her autograph. It was important that her signature be worthy of their request.
And it was. Every December I recognized her flawless penmanship on the Christmas card she sent, a big card with gold trim, which, every year arrived on Dec. 1 or 2.
Except this year. It never came. How did I not notice?
She died Dec. 5. Her obituary said she was 82. I thought she was 10 years younger; everyone did. She never told us we were wrong.
When my father learned that I had met Beverly Garland, this man who was not impressed with anything was impressed. He'd had a thing for her since she played Casey Jones, a woman police officer in the television series "Decoy." She sent him a signed picture, which he framed. When my husband and I flew to LA to celebrate the unveiling of her star on Hollywood Boulevard, my father, who was never jealous, was.
It's not easy being an actress; you have to get used to rejection. This is what she told my daughter Julie, also an actress, nearly 20 years ago. Acting can be your job but it can't be your life, she said. It's a tough profession that requires thick skin.
She loved the spotlight and she loved being a star. But my friend, Beverly Garland, loved her husband, her children, her friends and her real life more.
