Posts Tagged ‘Alan Duke’

The Dukes’ European Vacation

Thursday, July 10th, 2014

IMGmy family in the south of france

My mother showed up on the playground at school to deliver some of the best news in all of my ten years.   We would be visiting my dad, her ex-husband, and we’d be traveling as a family on a six -week, four-country tour of Europe.

Her enthusiasm was infectious and I was jumping up and down for joy. Or, was I just relieved that my brother and I wouldn’t have to attend the dreaded summer school we were registered for? I kept jumping.

Enter an up-until-then-offstage character: Granny. Before this moment in time, I have no recollection of my mother’s mother, Granny. Suddenly, she was needed for some long overdue babysitting — only this would be for our three cats. I would understand when I became an adult the need to drop off my animals at my own mother’s house when I went off to Europe, but that isn’t part of this story.

My mother went straight to the fabric store and set to work sewing our summer European wardrobe.   She made two stunning chocolate brown lace dresses lined in silk of the same color. One for her, one for me.   A white eyelet dress for me. A few other matching dresses for both of us. A gold brocade jacket for herself.   Evelyn Duke, more excited than I had ever witnessed her, meticulously packed us up for the adventure of our – and especially her — lifetime. I had been missing my dad and it was the most devastating loss of my then short life. He went off to London to produce a play. I’d stare longingly at his framed photo over my bed in our ghetto apartment on Olympic in Beverly Hills. The slums. I stared into his dancing green eyes and cried. Finally, I would be reunited with the love of my life. (more…)

Letter to a Big Brother

Wednesday, April 10th, 2013

Alan and I_2

 Alan,

Thank you for everything.  Let me start at the beginning.  When I was just a wee thing (well, maybe I’m still a wee thing), at a barely verbal age, you taught me, your puppet, this trick and we took the act on the road, performing it for any visitor.

Alan: What’s 2 + 2? 

Fredde: 4.  

Alan: What’s 4+4? 

Fredde: 8. 

Alan: 8+8?

Fredde: 16.

Alan: 16+16? 

Fredde:  32. 

Alan: 32+32? 

Fredde:  64. 

And magically Alan, you made me appear to be a genius.  Which was a far stretch — because genius, I would never be.  You were my very smart older brother and I was your academically-challenged little sister.  You carried the heavy burden very early in life of having to take care of me.  And, look at the job you did! (more…)

Burying the Hatchet

Wednesday, April 11th, 2012

From left: Billy Vera, Alan and Kris Duke, Rita Coolidge

I cannot trace the exact moment, but somehow we started off on the wrong foot.  And like a big wave, our discontent swelled over time, neither of us knowing the origin of it.  We had both dug our heels in the sand.

When my sister-in-law, Kris, turned the big 4-0, my brother threw her a party.  A really big one.  Kris had always been a fan of Rita Coolidge, so naturally, Alan booked Rita for a private concert to honor his wife.  He went all out.

As the big day approached, my one-day-to-be-husband urged, “You should really get along with Kris.”  I agreed.  I thought it was time to bury the hatchet.

So I did.

I went to a hardware store and bought a hatchet.  I also purchased a beautiful gift bag that I filled with sand.  Actually, cat litter.  Where else can you get sand?  And I buried that hatchet. (more…)

340 South Roxbury Drive

Saturday, February 11th, 2012

 

me and my mom at our beach house

In our family, life is six degrees of feline separation.

I often tell people I was meant to grow up in Malibu.  That is where we lived — right on the beach – but my mom’s cat Jezebel was killed by a car, and that incident turned my life around.

My mother decided it wasn’t safe on the highway (PCH) and we moved to the house on Roxbury Drive, Beverly Hills.  The year was 1955.   The former owners sold it to us with one perfect provision: the cat comes with the house.  What are the chances of this?  We move because a cat gets killed and instantly we have this new one.  Hangover, who came with his name, was a rather large, slightly feral black & white street boy.  The name, in the lore of our family (and from what the previous owners told us), came from this big-ass cat’s habit of hanging over the sides of trees that he climbed.  He was not a drunk.  He was really frisky, almost unsafe for a small child.

Hangover the cat!!!

On days when I was sick at home, Sheriff John would be playing on the TV, but I wouldn’t be watching — because I was too busy forcing Hangover’s paws to crayon  pictures with me getting scratched by the real leader of our family.  He kept me/us in line.  He was also the first creature I would love. (more…)

My Best Christmas was Chanukah

Tuesday, December 20th, 2011


I was never walked into a temple.  Never.  Not by my dad, the Jew.  I thought being Jewish meant eating lox, bagel & cream cheese in a deli.  Because that’s what my dad, the non-religious Jew told me.  When we ate at Nate n’ Al’s, he would announce loudly as he seemed to be pointing to the food, “We’re Jews!!!”

I sang with my friend Cindy Lou Carlson in her church for the Christmas pageant.  Those rehearsals alone put me in a church more times than I was ever in a temple — at least until my kids and step-kids became B’nai Mitzvah.

I’m assuming my mom was some sort of Christian, but your guess is as good as mine.  She never walked us into a church and never spoke of any religion.  So, there you go, two parents – one gentile, one Jewish — who offered zero religious guidance.  We called ourselves half-and-half.  This was pretty commonplace in Beverly Hills, though each family would often choose a side and go to temple or church.  Christmas or Chanukah.

We celebrated Christmas, tree and all.  Show business was up and down and some years we had big-time gifts.  The trees were bigger in those years.  At other times we might have skimpy trees with few gifts.

One year, I scored.  We all scored.  My dad had a friend who had a TV show and he finagled a bunch of freebie popular toys of the day for us.  I coveted Patty Play Pal.  She’s all I ever wanted.  I wonder if there were Chatty Cathy people and Patty Play Pal people.  I just dug how big that doll seemed.  I was little, so for me she was huge.  That year, my mother got her new hi-fi and played it continuously Christmas day.    Holiday paper and ribbon were strewn about as Bobby Darin belted “Mack the Knife.”  And I got my big-ass doll — a new friend in my wonderful fantasy-filled life.  My brother got shit he wanted.  We had pogo sticks and stilts.  We were a very happy family with a house filled-to-the-brim with every hot toy and gadget.

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D, D & B and ME

Wednesday, November 16th, 2011

Dino, Desi & Billy were the Hansen or Justin Bieber of our day. It was the mid-to-late 60’s and the Beatles had hit the States and our hearts. But of course there was room to love other boys. And D, D & B were our homeboys. They were in our orbit; lived on our blocks, frequented the same restaurants. AND, they were CUTE!!!!! Oh, my God, they were — in Paris Hilton’s word — HOT!!!!!!!

About a year into Beatlemania, Dino, Desi & Billy formed their band. They became teenage heartthrobs across the country and were featured in all the popular teen magazines.

At about the time D, D & B were famous, Billy played on my brother Alan’s baseball team. Pony League games. I will never forget them … because they were long fuckin days for a bored little sister. Sitting in those bleachers was tedious. But there were some really cute boys on those teams, like Billy (Alan Harris and Steve Fine). My dad and Billy’s dad became friends in those bleachers. Both were older dads. They seemed to have a lot in common and we were invited to dinner at the Hinsches’. My dad formed his own friendships with Dino, Desi & Billy, and his whole life called Dean, “little Dean” and Desi, “little Desi” to distinguish them from their fathers – Dean Martin and Desi Arnaz.

Just as our dads formed a lifelong friendship, so did Billy and I. When I remarried , my brother Alan and his wife Kris threw us a small wedding party. Billy had been in the Beach Boys for years, so I asked him to give me a special present and sing “God Only Knows.” When he did there was not a dry eye in the house.

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Little Drummer Girl

Thursday, April 7th, 2011

Fredrica Duke, Little Drummer Girl


I have a favorite sound, not that you asked. And no, it isn’t the obvious one, crashing waves. Nope. That’s my second choice.

I once went to Orange County with my husband to see a friend who was a famous jazz singer. She gave us free passes, we couldn’t resist. As we approached “will call” to retrieve our tickets, I overheard the orchestra tuning up. This was years ago. I looked at my husband and announced, “That is my favorite sound. So, if ever we are on The Newlywed Game and they ask you my favorite sound, that is what it is, please remember.” I doubt that he made a mental note of it, so we won’t be winning any game shows.

I have a prized possession – a note I wrote to my daddy when I was little. The note says that my grades are good enough to get into orchestra. Proudest moment of my life, and I needed to share the good news with my dad who was in London producing a play (and turning down an unknown band called the Beatles who wanted to come to the States). I looked forward to that day — being in the orchestra — my entire school life. I would watch the elegant older girls clutching their violins and dream of the day that that would be me.

I brought home the application for orchestra. There were a few questions on the form and I enlisted my brother Alan’s help. He asked me what instrument I wished to play. I said, as if there were any other answer, violin. He then said, “Okay, second choice.” I again said “violin.” He said “No, Fredde, they need a SECOND choice, what other instrument might you want to learn?” “Nothing Alan, I only want to learn to play the violin. Just put that and let me turn it in tomorrow, that’s good, thanks,” I said, as I tried to pry the paperwork from his hands. He refused to accept this as an answer because he goes by the rules. I kept insisting, “I ONLY want to play the violin and no other instrument — don’t even write one down.” Now it was a battle. “Listen,” Alan said, “the bells could be fun, you might find them easy since you already play a bit of piano? So, how about those bells?” “Okay, sure,” I reluctantly gave in just to get him off my back, and he filled out the rest of the form. (more…)

Little Mermaid

Saturday, March 5th, 2011

me, always swimming

As a little girl, I loved to swim, still do. Just about any chance I got to go swimming, I would. I dreamed of having my own pool. My bigger dreams were to be an Olympian swimmer and also to swim the English Channel.

Pools and water became an obsession as well as a love. I would look into my backyard and fantasize a swimming pool. It never appeared. My dad always lived in an apartment building with a pool so there was usually a place for me to swim. When I was older and using his for exercise, I would have to share it with his elderly neighbors. They could get nasty and it was tricky navigating around their crankiness. Some of them became my new best friends in life … as long as we stayed in our own lanes.

When I saw the David Hockney series of pools, I totally understood how the swimming pool was his muse.

David Hockney's A Bigger Splash, 1967

When I was a freshman in high school and was forced to swim, I often lied and said I had my period, which in fact I really didn’t get until my sophomore year. I felt more comfortable and relaxed holding my breath under water than just about anywhere else. I wasn’t really aware of how therapeutic it was, but swimming under water there put me in a serene state, one I have never found again.

I went to a high school that housed one of the most famous pools in the world. Beverly Hills High School has an Olympic-size swimming pool with a hardwood floor that closes over it to become a basketball court. Mesmerizing. You’ve probably seen it in Frank Capra’s Christmas classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” which was filmed on location there. Remember James Stewart & Donna Reed falling into the pool in their dance clothes? Well, I won swim contests in that pool during lazy summers. And not just won, but set some serious records. (more…)

Where the Boys Are

Saturday, February 26th, 2011

from left, me, Bettsie, me with Diana, right, me thinking about Sol

What a motley group of misfits we were. Putzing around, morning till night, each new day a Groundhog Day repeat of the one before. There was Sol, my soul mate, though he didn’t know it. Skinny kid, a year older than me; a little boy who wouldn’t reach puberty till late, like me. Tons of freckles, also like me. A bit of a trouble maker (me? not so much). There was Doug, way into puberty, hairy and all, and at a young age. Man-like, deep voice, with a bark bigger than his bite. Other kids feared him. Danny, very scary, very hairy, already a bit of a perv at 11 or 12. Dave and Bill were older, or seemed so much older that I didn’t really know why they were hanging around with us. And they sure didn’t seem like they were from Beverly Hills — but I’m not sure any of us did. Many of us were from the “the slums of Beverly Hills,” where our parents moved us for a better education. Some education: playing poker in Roxbury Park.

Most of us were free floaters; lost kids. Kids with parents who didn’t know or didn’t care where their children were. And if they cared, they thought we were at the Teen Center and under some sort of supervision. That could not be farther from the truth. There was gambling, sex and eventually drugs. Again, not me. Not me… yet.

It was an alpha male group and we girls were mainly considered a nuisance. The boys played cards all day, placing big, Vegas-style bets in public. This was a serious pastime and girls were not really allowed. We would foist ourselves on them, standing behind one or another and praying for our guy to win. That’s when we would momentarily be noticed and the boy might say, “Stay there Fredde, you’re good luck for me today.” Ah, the power of that. I was needed and important. I was 12 years old. Stolen moments in the Boys Club.

my brother Alan in hat, Sol looking at camera, Doug to right

My best friend Susie had a pool table so I spent hours practicing my game. Then, I would show up at the Teen Center and strut my new shots. In order to play with the boys, you needed the skill and I was beginning to hold my own. This is also where I became fiercely competitive and not bad at all at ping-pong. The boys were sometimes brutal on Diana, a devoted friend since age 5. She wasn’t quite as skillful at dodging their abuse as I was. And she taunted them more than I did. We were both teased mercilessly for being flat-chested.

Susie was the eternal tomboy, who didn’t quite “get” my fascination with the boys. She had some great toys in her house. Besides the pool table, there were also slot machines. Her dad was friends with all the famous race car drivers because he made parts for their cars. I used these masculine toys as bait to get the gang over to Susie’s house. That was always a real accomplishment, one that went totally unnoticed by Susie, who often feigned disinterest. And to be truthful, the boys weren’t there for me either. They came just to play with the toys. But, the excitement of it all made me dream of more boy-filled nights. (more…)