Larry Hagman - Hello Darlin' Read online

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  Copyright © 2001 by Majlar Productions, Inc. f/s/o Larry Hagman

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hagman, Larry.

  Hello darlin’: tall (and absolutely true) tales about my life / Larry Hagman.

  p. cm.

  1. Hagman, Larry. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. I. Title: Hello darlin’. II. Title.

  PN2287.H17 A3 2001

  791.45′028′092—dc21

  [B] 2001049498

  ISBN 0-7432-2181-8

  eISBN: 978-0-743-22509-0

  ISBN: 978-0-743-22181-8

  http://www.Simonspeakers.com

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

  I want to thank first of all Maj Irene Axelsson Hagman, my beautiful wife of forty-seven years. Without her cooperation, cajoling, and her memory I would never have gotten this book out. With all my love and affection, thanks.

  To Todd Gold, who has written many articles about me and was my collaborator on this endeavor and great friend and ally.

  And Teri Prather, my assistant, who had to put up with all kinds of nonsense from me during the writing of this book.

  And of course, to my liver donor, without whose really, really, really important contribution I would not be here to write this book.

  Hello Darlin’

  Introduction

  Everyone has a moment when life pulls a U-turn. Mine occurred in Weatherford, Texas.

  It was the summer after my senior year of high school. I was seventeen years old. Two years earlier, I’d left a comfortable liberal school or rich kids in bucolic Vermont to be with my dad, a prominent lawyer in the small Texas town. I’d said I wanted to work as a cowboy. That time had finally come. I had my hat, my jeans, my boots … everything but a job.

  My dad got me work in the machine shop at the Antelope Tool Company, a stultifyingly hot Quonset hut where I made a tool used in oil drilling that a machine behind me spit out at a rate a hundred times faster than I could make them by hand. Then I switched to unloading 100-pound cement bags from railroad boxcars under the fiery August sun, until the company’s owner transferred me to his house—theoretically a promotion—where I was put to work digging ditches for sewer lines and a hole for his swimming pool.

  But that was the toughest of all the jobs, and probably as close to hell as I’e ever been. Shovels and picks were useless against the hard ground. Every few feet, we had to blast it with dynamite. One sweltering afternoon, as I leaned unsteadily against my shovel at the bottom of a ten-foot hole where guys much older and tougher than me were passing out from the heat and the dynamite fumes, I had an epiphany. The only horses I’d seen all summer were in the local rodeo. The hell with trying to be a cowboy.

  “I think I want to be an actor,” I told my dad.

  Soon I was standing on my mother’s doorstep in New York. My mother was Broadway star Mary Martin. It’s hard to imagine anyone not knowing who my mother was, but nowadays, eight years after her death, I’ll meet young people up to twenty-five or thirty who have no idea of the Mary Martin of South Pacific or The Sound of Music. But mention Peter Pan and their eyes light up. They can tell me how old they were and where they were when they watched it. When I tell them that Peter Pan was my mother, they light up but then look incredulous. One eighteen-year-old girl said, “That’s impossible. Peter was a boy. And anyhow, he never grew up.”

  Such is the power of TV, and unfortunately they show Peter Pan very seldom now. So perhaps there will be many more children who will miss her extraordinary performance. Four of my granddaughters were watching the cartoon version of Peter Pan and halfway through, one of them asked, “When does the real Peter Pan come on?”

  The real Peter Pan worked some of her magic to get me started. She also gave me some advice:

  “Always know your lines. Hang up your own clothes. And try to be reasonably sober.”

  * * *

  In this book I’m going to describe how I did my best. A lot already has been said about me. I’ve been described as the Mad Monk of Malibu, the kooky actor in the caftan who led flag parades up and down the beach, didn’t speak on Sundays, and occasionally roared up to the grocery store on a Harley while dressed in a yellow chicken suit. It’s also no secret that I’m a recovering alcoholic whose life has been prolonged by a liver transplant.

  It’s all true, but there’s more to say, lots more. Some of it’s funny, some of it’s serious, and some contains the wisdom that comes from discovering that having it all doesn’t mean you actually have it all. In writing this book, I decided to throw all that mumbo in the gumbo, to stir in the stories, the little-known details, and the lessons I’ve learned, and I wanted to do it before I couldn’t remember it anymore or we destroy the planet, whichever comes first.

  I’m often asked how my liver transplant operation changed my life. Aside from saving it, nothing changed. It confirmed what I’ve always tried to do—live my life as fully as possible before the clock runs out. My happiness comes from being a husband, father, and grandfather of five, not from stardom, which is a fluke. I starred in two very successful television series. When people ask for my secret, I tell them it’s been 20 percent hard work, 80 percent luck. I think a lot of life comes down to that. If you push too hard for something, it seems to retreat. If you hold on to something too tightly, it manages to slip away.

  So little is in our control. I was once asked what were the three luckiest things that happened in my life, and I said, “Being born white, in the U.S.A., and in the twentieth century.” Even with all the luck in the world, you can’t ignore fate. Sometimes fate requires you to need a liver transplant. Other times all you need is a sense of humor. The other day I was in a restaurant and two young girls, fifteen or sixteen, came up to my table and asked if I was the guy who played Major Nelson in I Dream of Jeannie. When I said yes, one of them said, “You used to be really hot.”

  Real life is a roller-coaster, full of spills and thrills. As I see it, I’ve spent much of my life in the business of crowd control. Each night, millions of people are at home staring at a box, and I’m inside it. If they weren’t watching TV, they’d be outside rioting in the streets, breaking windows, and overturning police cars. I help keep them sedated, and at the same time I help sell cars, aspirin, deodorant, and feminine hygiene products. So far I’ve been pretty good at it. Hell, I even take a little credit for helping bring down the Eastern bloc.

  Memories are like money—you can’t take them with you, so you might as well share them. Between the ages often and eighteen, I had a steamer trunk in which I kept all my most valuable possessions. When I struck out on my own to make it as an actor, I left it with a costume designer who had a large apartment in New York City. Ruth Morley was her name. She kept that trunk for me until she died, and then I lost all trace of it. All the stuff I’d collected was gone.

  You don’t have to be a shrink to see that I’ve spent the rest of my life replacing what was in that trunk with lots more shit. I’m a pack rat. Don’t raise the subject with my wife. A few years ago w
e had six homes spread across L.A., Santa Fe, and New York, and she explained it was for all the stuff I’d accumulated. She was only half joking. I can’t throw anything out. I collect hats because I have to. Same with flags and costumes. I have drawers and closets full of memorabilia. I can’t even remember what memories are attached to most of this stuff, but it inspired a lot of stories for this book.

  Chapter One

  For Bob and Melinda Wynn, it was a big night. Maybe the biggest. Bob was a Texas wildcatter who’d made and lost fortunes and at the moment was flush enough for his wife to serve as the chairperson of the Cattle Barons Ball, a cancer fund-raiser that was the hottest ticket among the social elite in Dallas. Bob’s wife, Melinda, was exquisitely beautiful. He wanted the best for her, from diamonds to clothes (like the Bob Mackie gown she’d had made for the evening) to social status, which hosting the ball ensured.

  Like so many of Bob’s endeavors, it appeared to be working. Everyone who was anyone in Dallas was on the grounds outside of Southfork, the epicenter of so much sex, sleaze, and scandal on television’s highest-rated series. It was exciting, like being on a Hollywood set. Even better, a fleet of helicopters swooped in, circling overhead, and then it began to rain money—one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Within moments they knew that each helicopter carried one of the stars from Dallas and that I was in the lead chopper, the guy in the white Stetson who was tossing out handfuls of the one-hundred-dollar bills with my picture on them and the saying “In Hagman We Trust.” As all of us stepped onto the lawn, people cheered and waved. Some shouted, “We love you, J.R.,” and I could feel the atmosphere turn electric. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Bob Wynn grinning.

  But his good mood didn’t last long. As I knew from having lost money in one of his oil deals, Bob’s ventures often had another side, and this grand evening did too—rain. Not long after I arrived, the nighttime sky unleashed a storm of biblical force. It just poured. I was supposed to introduce the night’s entertainment, country music legend Johnny Cash. By the time I arrived backstage, I had mud up to the crotch of my white Western-style tux, the power had gone off, and Johnny was telling Bob why he couldn’t play.

  “There’s a damn good chance me and my band could get electrocuted out there.”

  Bob stepped forward until there wasn’t any space between him and Mr. Cash.

  “Look, you son of a bitch,” he growled, “if you don’t go out there and play, I’m going to blow your head off.”

  I have no doubt he might have done it too. Neither did Cash, who followed my introduction onto the stage, which, in the absence of electrical power, was illuminated by headlights from a bunch of Cadillacs and Rolls-Royces that were hastily moved into a semicircle. The introduction over, I hurried out to the audience, where my chair sunk into the mud. The woman next to me chuckled; hers was even deeper. We spoke briefly. She was from out of state, Cleveland or somewhere.

  When the power was restored, and after a couple of songs, the man seated behind the woman asked the guy in front of her to remove his ten-gallon cowboy hat. It was blocking his view. It was blocking everybody’s view. When his request was ignored, he waited about fifteen seconds, reached over the lady, and knocked the guy’s hat off. She and I exchanged nervous glances as the man slowly turned around, asked for his hat, and put it back on. A few moments later the scene was repeated. But this time, before the hat hit the ground, the guy wheeled around and threw a vicious punch. It missed its target, who ducked, and instead hit the woman square on her forehead.

  She tumbled backward in the mud. I saw a huge goose egg form just above her nose. I thought she was dead.

  Meanwhile, the two men went at each other, fists flying and all that. As security intervened, I noticed Bob Wynn had taken over the microphone. He was asking everyone if they were having a good time. Despite the rain, it seemed like they were—except for the woman lying at my feet. An emergency medical team had rushed over and were working on her. A few minutes passed before she opened her eyes. She looked right at me without any recognition and asked where the hell she was.

  “Dallas,” I said. “Welcome to Dallas, honey.”

  * * *

  My arrival in Texas, though much less violent, would over time lead to moments of real drama.

  I was born in Fort Worth, Texas, on September 21, 1931. My mother was seventeen. She had married and become pregnant almost the moment her marriage was consummated. She had no idea about sex. Nor did she have much of a clue about motherhood. It just happened as if it was supposed to, like so many events in life seem when you look back on them.

  But Mom did things her way, and her way was rarely traditional.

  Her father, Preston Martin, was a prominent lawyer in town. Her mother, Juanita Presley, had taught violin at the community college. Mother was born in the family’s modest home. According to her, my grandfather signaled her birth to the neighbors by raising the bedroom curtain, and she liked to say, “Curtains have been going up for me ever since.”

  My mother was a good-looking child. She sang the words to every song the town band played on Saturday nights outside the courthouse. At twelve, she took voice lessons. She would describe herself as the best customer at the Palace, the town’s only movie theater. She began to dream about becoming a performer after seeing Al Jolson sing “Mammy,” and soon she was able to mimic Ruby Keeler, ZaSu Pitts, and other stars of the day.

  “Give me four people and I’m on,” she said. “Give me four hundred and I’m a hundred times more on.”

  * * *

  My father, Ben Hagman, had his own flair. He was a criminal attorney who, at six feet and 240 pounds, commanded a courtroom the way Mother did a stage. He once defended a man who’d gone into a sleazy bar on Jacksboro Highway and taken a shot at the bartender. While he missed the bartender, the bullet went through the bar’s thin metal siding and killed a lady seated in a pickup parked outside.

  Dad got a hurry-up call from the shooter, who’d been arrested on murder charges. Before the cops launched an investigation, my dad went into the bar and pulled two slugs out of the wood in the back bar. Then in court he argued that two or more shots would’ve been murder, but one shot was an accident—at least in Texas it was. As he didn’t inform the court about the two extra slugs, Dad got his client a lesser sentence.

  His family, originally from Sweden, owned lumber mills in Wisconsin before moving to Texas, shortly after the turn of the century. Dad’s mother, Hannah, a Christian Scientist, died of cancer. His father passed away soon after. He had two brothers. One, my uncle Carl, was a retired army officer. The other, my uncle Bill, married a woman named Ruth, and both were so fat they needed special heavy-duty springs in their car.

  My father was nineteen when he met my mother, then fourteen. They didn’t start dating until she was a high school senior. After a hot summer romance, my mother’s parents attempted to lower the flame by sending her to Ward-Belmont, a finishing school in Nashville, Tennessee. Miserable there, she convinced her mother to come get her. For some reason, my grandmother brought Ben along, and then the three of them went to Hopkinsville, Kentucky, where my mother, sixteen, and Ben, twenty-one, got married.

  “How hillbilly can you get?” my mother would say later.

  * * *

  She had a baby at seventeen, but after a couple of months of playing mother, she was miserable. Maybe not miserable, but frustrated.

  Not a big surprise. She was a kid herself—too young to be a wife, too young to be a mother, and too full of ambition to settle down.

  My father joined my grandfather’s law firm, and soon after, my mother opened Mary Hagman’s School of Dance in an old grain loft, and I was handed over to my grandma. I called her Nanny. All of us lived under the same roof, in my grandparents’ new home, a large, rambling, two-story house. My grandmother took care of all of us.

  Weatherford still had the flavor of an old Western town. Horses outnumbered cars, electric lights were new (not all the homes outside
of town had them), and the big thing was watermelon. In front of the courthouse, there was a tin watermelon about fourteen feet long, and outside of town there was another sign that said, “Welcome to Weatherford, Watermelon Capital of the World.” That sign was regularly used for target practice. Every year they had to replace it, and one year they simply changed it to say, “Welcome to Weatherford, Home of Watermelons and Mary Martin.”

  Mother was very proud of that, but she’d joke, “Even in my hometown I can’t get top billing!”

  But that wasn’t true. Everyone in town knew my mother as the talented, energetic dance instructor. I was two when she took the train to California, where she studied at Fanchon and Marco School of the Theater, a school for dancing teachers, in Hollywood. More trips followed. After she brought back new dance moves and the mystique of having seen the movie capital with her own eyes, her classes became more popular than ever.

  Soon she opened a second school and began staging shows that made her name even bigger locally.

  She was able to work so hard because my grandma assumed all the responsibility of raising me. It was as if I were her own child. My mother once took me for a walk and I was attacked by a swarm of bees. Another time I fell off a Shetland pony and broke my collarbone, and when my grandmother found out—three days later—she balled out her daughter, asking, “What’d you do to my Larry?”

  I was always described as a good boy with a sweet disposition. I probably was. I’m still pretty easygoing. I can remember only one serious impropriety as a kid. While playing in the sandbox, I stuck my tongue out at my grandma. She told my grandpa—whom I called Papu—and he locked me in the cellar, a dank room that reeked of homemade wine and provided shelter to rats the size of Pekingese. “Larry, you stuck your tongue out at Grandma. That’s no good.”

  First I heard the lock click. Then the lights went off. Then I started to think about the rats down there. I’d seen my grandpa trap some that were bigger than me—at least they seemed it. I naturally assumed the first sound I heard in the dark was a rat, and it scared the crap out of me. I ran to the door, terrified.