SOME OUTLAWS AND OTHERS I HAVE KNOWN

by: Kerry Ross Boren

There are many rewards in being a writer and historian which transcends the nominal financial success, or the need to earn a living. A true writer writes not for profit, but as an extension of himself-or herself: an inexplicable drive to create, extend, preserve, and to illuminate that which he, or she, experiences or observes. The old adage here applies: "A writer is not what I am-it is who I am." As a published writer since the age of twelve, I am the sum-total of all my experiences, all that I have observed, and a reflection of all those people I have encountered along the way, both good and bad.

I have had the good fortune, as a writer, to have met and associated with some of the most interesting and amazing characters who ever graced the stage of life. I have interviewed, worked with, corresponded with, and considered as friends some special people I should never have otherwise been privileged to know. I have laughed with them, cried with them, loved and lied with them, and have had my life enriched by the experience.

In the vignettes which follow, I would like to share a few of these characters with you. Some of the characters will be familiar to you; some will not. Some of them are likable; a few of them are scoundrels; some other are likable scoundrels. All of them were my friends, whether they knew it or not.

THE DUKE

In 1960, at the age of nineteen, I left Utah for California in a '54 Ford, stars in my eyes, and fifty dollars in my pocket. I was going to become an actor! Within a week my car had been impounded, my money was gone, and the stars were obscured by clouds of stark reality. But I was in Hollywood, and I was determined to succeed at all costs, so I did what many struggling young actors have done before and since--I found a job to sustain me while I waited to be discovered. I worked as a bellboy at the Paramount Hotel, adjacent to Paramount Studios, and attended an acting class at Desilu Studios, a few blocks away on Western Avenue.

My agent, Harrison Lewis, recommended that I pay a $250 fee to accompany my acting class on location to a film set in the Mojave Desert east of Los Angeles to gain some on-the-job experience. With no idea what movie was being filmed, or who the actors were, about twenty of us boarded a bus and set out for the hot desert location.

It was like emerging into another world to step down from the air-conditioned bus into the middle of a false-fronted town full of horses, wagons, stagecoaches and costumed extras. There were cameras everywhere-on dollys, on booms, even mounted in the beds of trucks and on rooftops. Men in business suits were shaking hands with cowboys and gunfighters and flirting

with saloon-girls dressed in red satin shorties. The air tingled with excitement and mingled with clouds of dust, which a water-truck vainly attempted to keep under control.

When at last someone shouted "Quiet on the Set!" through a megaphone, the world of the present and the world of the past parted magically, as everyone withdrew from the set except the actors. Our little group of aspirants attempted to shoulder their way through spectators and crew to watch the action which, after all, was what we had paid a fee to do, but apparently no one had informed the film crew, who kept us at a distance. I attempted to jostle my way to where I could see, but a surly sound engineer warned me back, and try as I did, I could find no crack in the wall of flesh through which to observe the action.

Frustrated, I shoved my hands in my pockets and wandered off down the street in the opposite direction, kicking at tumbleweeds. On the far end of the town's main street, there was a knot of people gathered behind a ribbon barrier; ignoring the sign which read "Only Authorized Personnel Beyond This Point"-after all, I had paid a fee, which in my mind was some kind of authorization-I walked into the throng, which proved to be a second unit film crew.

There was not a crowd of spectators to contend with here as that was at the other location, so I found myself in the midst of the action, wondering why this was a closed set. Cameras were set up in front of a makeshift saloon, focused on the two swinging-wing doors. Suddenly, the director shouted "Action !" and through the doors walked the tallest, most commanding figure I had ever seen. At first I failed to recognize him, but when he walked toward the camera, in my general direction, his famous swagger gave him away-it was none other than John Wayne, the Duke himself!

Undoubtedly my mouth was dropped open ... I vaguely recall the taste of dust. The Duke began to deliver his lines, then hesitated. The director screamed "Cut ! Stop the cameras." John Wayne stepped down from the board sidewalk and headed straight toward me, looming ever larger as he came. I had often enough seen him fifteen-feet tall on the screen, and he seemed as large in life, being nearly 6'5".

As he ambled forward, he bellowed out some kind of explanation to the director for forgetting his lines, but his eyes were fixed directly on me, burning holes in my resolve to stand my ground. All sorts of fears were mounting in my mind as he approached: did he know I was an intruder on the set? I quickly prepared a mental argument. I was with a class ... I had paid a fee ... I had a right to be there ! Now he was standing right in front of me, towering over me, looking down at me with that look that had dispatched a thousand Indians on the big screen. Don't shoot me, Mr. Wayne ! Did I actually say it out loud? No, thank God. I had only been thinking it loudly.

As I looked up timidly into his stern square face, his booming voice made me jump, startled. "Are you the script boy?" he asked.

"N-no ... no sir, I'm not," I stammered.

"Wal, kid, you are now," he said, never smiling. "The last long-haired hippie son-of-abitch they gave me never could be found when he was needed. You dependable, kid?"

"Yes sir," I said quickly. He had me so buffaloed, at that moment I would have been anything he wanted me to be. He started to walk away, stopped, half turned in my direction, then asked, "Where you from, kid?"

"Utah, Mr. Wayne."

"Utah? Are you a Mormon?" I wasn't certain what to reply and I did so much want to please him with my answer-he was big[ Finally, I decided the truth would be the safest choice, and admitted that I was.

"I've got a lot of good Mormon friends up there in Utah, around Kanab and St. George. Only people I ever hire to run my ranch in Colorado are Mormons. Damn good dependable workers, Mormons. Wouldn't invite one to a party, though. I don't like to drink alone ! Oh ... and kid? Don't call me mister. My friends call me Duke." He smiled and-I swear it-The sun just then came out from behind a cloud.

I worked for the Duke for nearly a year, off and on, first as a script boy-a glorified term for gopher-and later as a script editor and consultant. The latter job mostly entailed changing lines in the script for last minute filming, and offering advice (only when it was asked for) on how a scene might be filmed differently than written in the script. I learned a great deal during this period, not only about making movies and writing scripts, but about the man whose fans called John Wayne, but whom I called the Duke.

His real name was Marion Mitchell Morrison. "I got in a lot of fights over that damned name 'Marion'," he admitted, "so I took the name 'Duke', after my dog." He didn't assume the stage name "John Wayne" until 1929.

The Duke could be very intimidating until one came to realize that it was simply his nature to be abrupt and opinionated. He disliked hippies, long hair, and anything remotely anti-American. He could become downright belligerent and animated on the topics of politics and religion, and was fiercely patriotic. He had little patience for anyone who spoke out in protest against the United States-and the sixties were years of protest-and wasted no opportunity to let his views be heard.

One day while driving back to Los Angeles from San Diego, we pulled into a Safeway store at San Juan Capistrano. To avoid crowds of autograph hounds which would invariably overwhelm him, he sent me into the store to purchase several items while he remained in the car--one of his several station wagons, which afforded more space for his tall frame.

When I emerged from the store after only several minutes, I found the car surrounded by half a dozen irate people, arguing loudly with the Duke through his open window. I learned

afterwards that a panhandler had approached him for a handout, and the Duke had told him emphatically to "get a job". Soon his friends had joined in the argument, and just as I returned, the Duke was stepping out of the station wagon, saying, "if you don't like this damned country, why don't you go someplace where laziness is condoned?"

An understanding of the Duke's heritage helps better understand his strong personal views, for he was as tough off-screen as he was on, and this primarily due to the values instilled in him by his family.

Marion Mitchell Morrison was born on May 26, 1907, at Winterset, Iowa, the son of Clyde Leonard Morrison and Mary Alberta Brown. He was at first named Marion Robert Morrison in honor of his paternal grandfather Marion Mitchell Morrison and his maternal grandfather, Robert Emmett Brown, but when his brother was born and named Robert Emmett Morrison, the Duke's name was changed from Robert to Mitchell.

The Duke was descended from Irish, Scottish and English stock. His great grandfather, Robert Morrison, born November 29, 1780, in County Antrim, Ireland, was son of John Morrison and Nancy Scrogges, both of Scottish descent. Robert Morrison joined the United Irishmen in a plot against the English crown, was named as a traitor, and at the age of nineteen fled to New York. A weaver by trade, he headed south to the textile mills, then moved to Kentucky to join the Reformed Presbyterian Church, where he met Mary Mitchell; they were married on November 7, 1803. On that same day they moved to Church Fork, Ohio, just across the Kentucky border, cleared some forest land and began to farm.

Mary Mitchell Morrison died after the birth of her sixth child in 1813. Leaving his children with relatives, Robert joined a cavalry unit as an officer in the War of 1812. He saw no action against the British, but fought numerous skirmishes against the Indians who had sided with the English. In 1817 he was appointed Brigadier General in the Ohio militia, was elected a Representative of the Ohio Legislature, and served four consecutive terms of one year each, before becoming disillusioned with politics. He remarried, fathered 15 children, and died February 10, 1863.

James Morrison, born September 21, 1811, a son of Robert and Mary, was a farmer at Cherry Fork. He married Martha Purdy Ewing on February 18, 1836, and among their children was Marion Mitchell Morrison, born January 20, 1845, who moved with his father to Monmouth, Illinois, in 1861. Marion entered the Civil War on August 7, 1862, as chaplain of the 9th Illinois Regiment of Union forces. He was killed February 3, 1863, during the defense of Fort Donelson, Tennessee.

Duke's grandfather, Marion Mitchell Morrison, entered the Civil War in 1864 at the age of 19, also in the Union forces, and was wounded and left for dead at Pine Bluff, Tennessee. He lay on the battlefield for two days and nights before being discovered, barely alive. After his

recovery he returned to Monmouth and married, November 4, 1869, to Weltha Chase Parsons, and had four children: George, Guy, Clyde and Pearle.

The Duke's father, Clyde Leonard, born August 20, 1884, was only three when his parents moved to Indianola, Warren County, Iowa, and later to Des Moines. Duke's grandmother Weltha died in 1909 and his grandfather, Marion, left for California.

Clyde had been raised on the farm at Indianola. In the fall of 1901, at the age of 17, he enrolled in a mechanical engineering workshop at Iowa State University, at Ames, Iowa. When his parents moved to Des Moines in 1903, Clyde moved to Waterloo, Iowa, where he met Mary Alberta Brown, the Duke's mother. She was born in Lincoln, Nebraska, of English and Irish extraction. Clyde and Mary (called Molly) were married September 29, 1905 in Knoxville, Iowa, and settled in Winterset the same year. Marion Mitchell Morrison-the Duke-was born there in 1907.

When the Duke was still a boy, the family moved to California. He graduated from Glendale High School in 1925 at the top of his class. He was an honor student, a member of the Honor Society of Latin Students, sportswriter for the student newspaper, actor or propman in school plays, and an orator representing his school in a statewide Shakespearean contest.

In September 1925, the Duke enrolled as a pre-law student at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles on a two year football scholarship, and joined the Sigma Chi. His parents separated in March or April of 1926, and filed for divorce on May Ist-it was finalized February 15, 1929.

Left without a home, during the summer break of 1926, the Duke worked full time for William Fox Studios on Western Avenue in Hollywood, the job having been arranged through the university's athletic department by Tom Mix, the biggest western movie star in the country, who was under contract to Fox at the time, and a big USC football fan.

"When Tom Mix gave two of us football players a tour of his studio bungalow," the Duke told me, "I was hooked. He had living quarters, dressing rooms, a private gym and steam room-and gold plated faucets in the bath !" Mix promised the boys minor parts in his new movie.

When his football scholarship ended in June 1927, the Duke returned to Fox, working as a propman at $35 a week. He met director John Ford when he worked on the sets of three of his movies-"Mother Machree", "Four Sons", and "Hangman's House"-all released in 1928. He took an apartment on the corner of Western and Fountain Avenues-not far from where I lived in 1960.

During the Spring of 1929 he was assigned to John Ford's "Salute"--Ford's first all-talking picture, which was released that August. After next propping for director James Tingling's "Word's & Music", in the winter of 1929, he did the stunt work for Ford's "Men Without

Women". This was followed by "A Rough Romance" and "Cheer Up and Smile", all filmed on location.

In the early autumn of 1929, director Raoul Walsh noticed him. Walsh told him to let his hair grow for a few weeks, then to report to his officer to star in "The Big Trail". In a history book of the Revolutionary War, Walsh found the name Mad Anthony Wayne-changing Anthony to John Walsh named his new star "John Wayne".

The Duke took his work seriously. Veteran stuntman Jack Padgin taught him to ride horses, lariat, the use of sidearms and rifles. Steve Clemente taught him to handle and throw a Bowie knife.

"The Big Trail" was released in 1930. As a contract actor, John Wayne was put up for membership in the "Thalians"-an organization of young actors and actresses who had a beach house at Santa Monica; he also joined the Hollywood Athletic Club. "The Big Trail" was about the first mass migration of pioneers over the Oregon Trail. Fox Studios dropped his contract and the Duke went to work for Harry Cohn at Columbia Studies at Sunset and Gower.

In filming "Shadow of the Eagle", Duke first met and worked with one of the two men who would most effect his life (the other was Harry Carey)-Enos Edward "Yakima" Canutt. "Yak" was raised on a ranch in the Snake River country of the northwest. He was a former rodeo champion and one of the best stuntmen and stunt coordinators in the movie business; he perfected the "leg-on-the-horses-and-drag-beneath-the-stagecoach" routine so popular in the early westerns. He received his nickname by associating with two rodeo buddies from Yakima, Washington. Canutt was brought to Hollywood as an actor in 1923 by an independent film producer named Ben Wilson. I never met Yakima Canutt in person-regrettable-but in later years the Duke supplied me with his address and phone number, and I had many interviews with him on early western film actors, notably Utah's own Art Acord.

In 1926 the Duke met 17 year-old Josephine Saenz, and they courted during the following seven years that his career grew. She was born in Texas, her parents were born in Spain (the Duke had a life-long passion for the Latin culture), and on June 24, 1933, they were married in the gardens of a Bel-Air estate owned by Actress Loretta Young.

By 1939 John Wayne was earning $100,000 a picture, when he was billed to make the motion picture which made him a star-John Ford's "Stagecoach". The movie was filmed primarily around Kanab and in Monument Valley, Utah. Another old friend of mine-Cowboy Joe Marsters-worked together with a friend of his, Slim Pickens, to do the stunt work for the film. Joe gave me a photograph of himself with the Duke, which I still have. For John Wayne, although the movie won him fame, it was not his favorite (his favorite was "The Long Voyage Home") because the irascible John Ford berated and criticized him in front of people on the set. In speaking with me about Ford, the Duke said: "Ford was the best director in the business at

that time, and you could work for him-if you had iron britches to keep him from chewing your ass out !"

By the year I was born-1941-the Duke's marriage to Josle was failing. Howard Hughes flew him to Mexico and he brought back his next love, "Esperanza Diaz Ceballos'!-the Duke called her "Chata." He lived with her and her mother in an apartment in West Los Angeles. Chata had her marriage annulled to Eugene Morrison-one of the Duke's relatives-in 1943, but Josie refused to divorce John Wayne; she was extremely jealous of him. Josie finally relented to the divorce on December 25, 1945, and on January 17, 1946, John Wayne married Chata Ceballos. Theirs was a stormy marriage.

By the time of his second marriage, the Duke renewed his contract with Republic Pictures for five years, at an average gross of $200,000 a picture. He established himself as an independent producer with Wayne-Fellows Productions, in association with Robert Fellows, a former RKO write r-producer. Later he formed his own company-Batjac Productions (who issued my paycheck).

In 1953 the Duke divorced Chata; On November 1, 1954, the date the divorce was final, he married, in Hawaii, Pilar Weldy, a native of Peru. She was 26, the Duke 47. He was married to Pilar when I first met him, but he separated from her in 1973, and began a love affair with his secretary, Pat Stacy, a 32 year-old divorcee from Louisiana; Pat and Duke were lovers until his death. During the mid-seventies, I established a correspondence with Pat concerning some of my works, and I found her to be a sweet and wonderful person.

At this time I was researching the life of Art Acord, silent film western actor and a rival of Tom Mix. I was corresponding with the Duke, who supplied me with information on Acord, and additionally, wrote the introduction to my proposed book, in which he recalled how he had sent his personal nurse to Mexico in 1939 to bring back the body of Art Acord-who had been murdered in a hotel room in Chihuahua-for burial in Forest Lawn. During these years, he never failed to respond to my letters, either personally or through Pat.

Then one day in 1975 1 received a telephone call from a newspaper reporter friend of mine from Southern California. He begged me to arrange an interview with the Duke for his paper, and finally I relented and made an appointment. The Duke had been ill, but if we would keep the interview brief and restricted to just the two of us, the Duke would be happy to see me again. I hadn't seen him personally since 1960-some fifteen years earlier.

My friend and I arrived at the Duke's large Bel-Air home at about two o'clock in the afternoon, and were escorted into the long, well-furnished living room area by Pat Stacy, who informed us that the Duke would join us shortly. After visiting with us briefly, she graciously excused herself and left us to await the Duke's arrival.

The Duke's home was a surprise. One expected to see a western motif, but except for the living room, where there were western sculptures and Indian blankets on the furniture, the house was decorated in modern and provincial. A huge fi replace-co m posed of stones brought from various film locations-occupied one wall of the room, and along the top of the mantelpiece was a long row of Kachina dolls which he had collected from the Hopi Indians of Arizona. My friend Bill, the reporter, was standing near the mantel, admiring the collection, when a voice boomed out behind us: "There ain't no truth to the rumor that I killed and stuffed those Indians !" The Duke had entered the room.

It was good to see him again; but he had changed. Of course, he was 68 now, and had lost a lung to cancer and had to rest between sentences when talking and few of his fans realized that he had worn a hairpiece for years. But he was still the Duke in spirit, and would remain so until the end.

On April 3, 1978, John Wayne had an operation on his heart for a defective mitral valve. The operation was successful, but on January 12, 1979, he underwent another operation for a cancerous stomach.

The Duke died at 5:23 p.m., June 11, 1980.

1 was enroute to Central America when John Wayne died, and didn't learn of it until I returned. There was a notice in the mail from Pat Stacy. It stated that the Duke's funeral was held at 5:45 a.m., June 15, at Our Lady Queens of Angels, in Newport Beach. He was buried at Pacific View Memorial Park in Newport Bach, in an unmarked grave.

The Duke was survived by Josie and Pilar, 7 children and 21 grandchildren. His will left a legacy of 17 million dollars. He left Batjac Productions to his son Michael; he left a legacy of $30,000 to Pat Stacy: and he left me a legacy of memories.

MAE WEST

While in California during the early sixties, I attended an acting workshop at Desilu Studios, sponsored and sometimes taught by Lucille Ball. In addition to regular rehearsals and studying methods, our class occasionally took field trips to movie sets, studios, and stock theater. We were encouraged to saturate ourselves with every conceivable experience connected to the acting field. Frequently we were treated to visits from prominent actors, directors and other professionals who gave us the benefit of their experience through lectures and demonstrations.

However, the most memorable experience occurred when our instructor suggested that one of our group should make a telephone call to actress Mae West, who, throughout her life, kept her name and telephone number listed in the Los Angeles directory. Miss West was nearly 70 and it was deemed appropriate that only one call should be placed to her, so as not to overly impose on her privacy. Our instructor "volunteered" me to make the call.

The instructor placed the call, and explained to Miss West the purpose, and obtained her permission for me to ask her a few questions about herself and the motion picture business. I was forewarned that his remarkable woman had a reputation for bold frankness, but no warning could have sufficiently prepared a shy country boy such as I for this memorable conversation.

"Hello...Miss West?"

"Ummmm...speaking."

"I'd like to ask you a few questions if I may."

"You certainly may, my boy; but ... ummmm ... from the sound of your voice, the answer will be yes." The call was on a speaker, so that the whole class could hear; They all laughed, and I blushed greatly.

"I know it's not proper to ask a lady her age," I ventured, "but could you tell me when you were born?" That was the latent historian in me provoking me to ask such a question.

"Ummmm ... well, I'm no lady, so I suppose it won't hurt to tell you. I was born April 17, 1893, in Brookly. You've heard of Brooklyn-that's the worm-hole in the Big Apple."

I learned that her father was John West, of a long line of John Wests originally from Long Garden, Buckinghamshire, England; the first John West came to America in the 1700's.

"Ummmm ... I've been told that I'm related to the West who was Lord Delaware in England," she said. "The state of Delaware is named for him; if I thought there was anything in Delaware worth owning, I might lay claim to it."

Mae's father was known as "Battling Jack West," boxing champion of Brooklyn, New York. He gave up the ring to operate a livery stable of carriages, surreys and coaches for hire. He eventually became a private detective and dabbled in real estate.

Mae's mother, Matilda Delker Doelger, born in Bavaria, Germany. in a town near the Black Forest, came to America in 1882 with three sisters and two brothers. Mae's grandfather was Jacob Doelger, first cousin to Peter Doelger, founder of the famous New York Breweries by that name. Mae had a sister Beverly and a brother John Edwin.

As a child, Mae had a definite mind of her own, was obstinate about having her own way, was insulted easily, and would never bend to pick up things-ever. She made her stage debut at the age of 5 or 6, at the Royal Theater on Fulton Street, in Brooklyn. She refused to bend to pick up the money thrown to her on stage-her father's friends had to do it. By the age of 7 she was outclassing everyone, and even by this tender age she was attracted to men. She developed her unusual speech, not because of its sexual overtones, as often supposed, but due to her liking the rhythm of syllables, and she often reversed the natural word order of her speech.

From the age of 8 to 11 she played the moonshiner's daughter in a grim drama of the Kentucky hills. She had private tutors and a French teacher until age 13, then stopped her

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education. She dislike cigars and cigarettes all her life, and sent anyone who used them around her packing.

She dated Joe Schenck, a rag-time piano player; he was 19, she 15. He later hooked us with Gus Van to form the celebrated Van & Schenck, Vaudeville headliners. Her next boyfriend was Otto North, a young prizefighter, who was also a member of the street gang "Eagles Nest" and fought with the "Red Hooks." She knew Buster Keaton and Fred and Adele Astair in vaudeville. She teamed up with Frank Wallace and later married him, reluctantly, on April 11, 1911. She did it in secret, in Wisconsin, lying about her age of 18-she was 17, he was 21. She got him a job with Zeigfeld's Follies for a 40-week tour, and out of her life.

With Frank Bohm as her agent, she worked Vaudeville from 1912 to 1916. At this time she had a lover, a certain Mr. D. (she wouldn't disclose his identity) who one night threatened to punch a man who had escorted Mae to the theater-the man he threatened was James J. Corbett, World heavyweight Boxing Champion.

On August 15, 1921, Mae West opened in New York at the New Century Roof, as a sole woman star act. On the opening night, Jack Dempsey, then World Heavyweight Champion, and his manager, Jack Kearns, attended the performance and visited her backstage afterwards. She did a screen test with Dempsey that week with Pathe Studios on 168th Street; it was called "Daredevil Jack." It never made it as a picture.

Mae wrote many plays. She wrote about a Montreal prostitute named Margie La Mont, and the obstacles she had to overcome to reform. Another play was simply entitled "Sex" and another one was called "The Drag," about homosexuality, because of her introduction to a Mr. Dupont who was bisexual.

She took "Sex" on the road to Chicago, Detroit and elsewhere. In New York she was fined $500 and sentenced to a brief term in jail at Welfare Island, spending a few hours in Tombs prison prior to transportation. The warden asked her to write an article for Liberty Magazine.

Mae met a Frenchman, and they became passionate lovers. When she played at Chicago, Judge Francis Borelli and family always attended; so did a gang lord, until he was shot down. During 1928 and 1929 she was having an affair with a man named Ted Dinjo.

When she experienced pains in her side, her attorney-manager, James A. Timony, introduced a Yogi healer to her-Sri Deva Ram Sukul, President and Director of the Yoga Institute of America. Mae was also intrigued by criminology, psychology and psychiatry. In St. Louis she met Dr. Elbert J. Lee, a psychiatrist who was director of mental institutions for the state of New York, and later became a Missouri State Senator. Said Mae: "Somehow it seemed appropriate that he should go from one mental institution to another." She visited his mental institutions, and studied case histories. She also visited prisons and spoke with inmates. On the telephone she told me:

"Ummmm ... I visited the poor unfortunate boys in prison, and when they got out, bless their ... ummmm ... little hearts, they returned the favor. I helped more men to violate their paroles than Al Capone."

Mae also wrote a book called "Babe Gordon," but the title was changed to "The Constant Sinner." It was the story of an amoral lady of pleasure, whose career took her from the dives of Harlem to the society circles of New York and Paris. In 1930, J.J. Shubert induced her to take her book on a tour as a show.

In 1932 Mae's business representative, William Morris, Jr., approached her in regards to doing a picture based upon a Cosmopolitan article by Louis Bromfield. She left New York on June 16. Her first picture was "Night After Night." She re-wrote the script.

Mae knew people from every walk of life. She was acquainted with Sir Ibrahim, Sultan of Johore-the third richest man in the world. She entertained Viscount and Lady Byng, who invited her to attend King George's jubilee in London. Mae wrote to the King: "Sorry George-too busy." Her other acquaintances included: Mrs. Reginald Vanderbilt and Lady Furness (sisters); Elliott Roosevelt, the President's playboy son; Gaylord Hauser, the health food diet expert: Jimmy Braddock, then World Heavyweight Champion; she became romantically involved with Vincent Lopez, World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion.

In 1938, while filming "My Little Chickadee" with W.C. Fields, Mae was visited by Ralph Capone and another of Al's brothers, who dropped by the studio "just to say hello." She had met the Capones ten years earlier when she had first played Diamond Lil in Chicago; they were fans of hers. Ralph said: "We are just passing through Los Angeles on our way to visit Al. He is in the new Federal prison at San Pedro. He's been transferred there from Alcatraz, where he's serving a 12 year Federal rap Uncle Whiskers hung on him."

Not until 1935 did Mae's secret marriage to Frank Wallace become revealed to the world. In 1942, Wallace sued for $1,000 maintenance, but the case was thrown out of court. Mae filed for divorce and it was granted.

"The judge was ... ummmm ... kinda cute," Mae told me. "He told me he would ... ummmm ... hold me in contempt of court. I said, 'I've been held in many ways, your honor, but never in contempt."

I asked Miss West about her famous line "Why don't you come up and see me sometime?" and she informed me that she had never said it, though it was frequently attributed to her. "I have often been misquoted by reporters," she lamented. She recounted a story about a certain reporter who constantly harassed her in an attempt to get an "exclusive." She consistently denied him an interview-"one of the few men I ever said 'no' to"-so he began to follow her, looking for a sensational story about one of her affairs.

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Mae was going to the home of Liberace several times a month, where the renowned and flamboyant pianist was teaching her some musical pieces on the piano, and on his gold-plated Wurlitzer organ. The reporter followed her, then approached her at a public gathering where she could not avoid him, and asked her pointedly: "Miss West, why do you visit Liberace at his home on a regular basis? Is there something going on between the two of you?"

Undaunted, Mae West snapped back without hesitation: "Ummmm ... well, of course there is, big boy. I go to his house regularly because he lets me ... ummmm ... play with his gold organ!''

I asked Miss West her opinion about the U.S. Navy, during the war years, naming their inflatable life vest "the Mae West" in her honor. "Oooo, I was extremely flattered. After all, thousands of sailor boys held me close to their hearts, and ... ummmm ... every one of them depended upon my bosoms for their very livesl"

That conversation, which lasted about half-an-hour or a little longer, has remained indelibly etched upon my mind. As we ended the conversation, I thanked this remarkable, controversial lady for her graciousness. "Ummm..." she said, sensuously, "The pleasure was all mine-but, of course, I've said that to a lot of men." She hung up the phone.

There was protracted silence in the little theater, where the class had listened to the entire conversation on the speaker. Then, one by one, they stood and applauded-a standing ovation. I knew it wasn't for me. It was deservedly for Mae West-another sterling performance ... just being herself.

ALEX HALEY AND THE IRA

In 1973-74 1 had the pleasure of working with Alex Haley, who was then engaged in completing research on his monumental book "Roots", and in establishing, in conjunction with the LDS Church, the first "World's Conference on Records." At the time, I was a volunteer research assistant under the direction of A. William Lund, venerable Church Historian, and in conjunction with Tom Daniels of the Church's Genealogical Department. It was part of my duty to escort Mr. Haley through the archives and familiarize him with the records.

After Mr. Haley left Salt Lake City, we continued to communicate as he prepared his book for publication. He induced me to become contributing editor to "Genealogy Digest," the newsletter/magazine of Haley's "Genealogy Club of America."

During this period, research into my own ancestral roots took serious precedence and I made several important discoveries and contributions, one of which earned me the Bicentennial Award for 1976 from Cambridge University, for genealogical and historical research connected to participants in the American Revolution.

In that same period I made the discovery that I was the last legitimate heir to the throne of Ireland, via my immediate ancestor, William Smith Bryan-"Prince William of Ireland"-who

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was deported to Virginia in 1630 by Cromwell. As the heir of Brian Boru, last King of a unified Ireland, who was slain in 1014 A.D., I filed a proclamation proclaiming myself "Prince Kerry of Ireland," a copy of which hangs in the Hall of Kings in Dublin Castle. I published an article on this topic, together with a copy of the proclamation, in an edition of Haley's "Genealogy Digest," and it created quite a stir. Newspapers, books and magazines picked up on the story, and noted genealogist Jean Westin featured it in her book, "Tracing Your Roots."

Alex Haley was particularly enthusiastic about my discoveries, and encouraged me to develop the article into a full-blown book, which he predicted would rival his own "Roots." His interest was not just superficial; I had assisted him in proving that he, too, had an Irish line-from County Antrim. In fact, it was the family of Andrew Jackson, upon which Haley based his subsequent work, "Queen," the story of his grandmother.

On day, not long after publishing my article on "Prince Kerry of Ireland," I received a mysterious telephone call from Northern Ireland. On the other end of the line was a deep, feminine voice with a decidedly heavy Irish brogue. After inquiring as to the seriousness and authenticity of my royal claim, this mysterious lady identified herself as a member of the Irish Republican Army and wondered if I might not be interested in assuming a more powerful role in Irish politics, "if some strides might be made towards restoration of the Irish monarchy to the throne of a free and united Ireland." I was astounded at the implications of the suggestion.

At the time I was decidedly apathetic, or at least ambivalent, towards the entire thing. I assured my caller that the claim, while totally genuine, had merely been intended as a publicity effort to stimulate genealogical interest for Haley's publication, and that I had never taken it serious.

"If you ever change your mind," she said, "I assure you that we do take it very serious..." While I cannot be certain, I have always been of the firm opinion that my mysterious caller was none other than Bernadette Devlin. At the time, it was somewhat unnerving; but I have since come to recall, as an anecdote, the time I flirted with the I.R.A.

 

 

Kerry Ross Boren