I have had more jobs than years lived, I think. One of these days I need to take a walk down memory lane and write them all down.

I was thinking about one of them the other day. I had a paid summer internship at a television station in Sacramento, California where I was assigned the role of researcher for a live, daily, one-hour talk show called Finnerty & Company. The host, Jim Finnerty was a relaxed fellow, funny and smart. I was a plaid wearing country boy who was unlike most of those at the television station. I remember the first time I used the Men’s Room and there was a couple of on camera types putting on makeup and lipstick just before going on air. They were actually discussing a “foundation” they had recently discovered. This was all very different for a guy who was carrying kindling in the back seat of his Ford Fairlane as he was already building up the woodpile for next winter’s fury.

Being one of the three student researchers – one of the others being the station owner’s daughter and the other one being the granddaughter of baseball legend and former Marilyn Monroe’s husband, Joe DiMaggio (both interns were really nice people to work with) – my task was to research the topic and guests for every 3rd show that summer which included hosting the guest. One of my first celebrity guests was the actor Van Johnson who was performing in a play at Sacramento’s Music Circus.

Now one of my non-abilities is detecting if a guy is gay. In fact, with a couple of my friends who are gay, I used play a little game with them when someone new came around. I called it “Gay or Just Really, Really Nice?” I know, I know, why not both? I guess I just wanted to keep it simple. Anyway, my first celebrity guest was really, really nice to me and even invited me to be his personal guest that night at the play. However, I had kindling to get home for the wood pile and I said I couldn’t make it, but “Gee Whiz, thanks!” The next day my co-workers asked me, “You know Van Johnson was hitting on you, right?” No, me and my plaid shirt was not aware of that.

The next big guest to come along, but thank God he wasn’t mine, was the Reverend Billy Graham. With me being raised a Southern Baptist, I am sure he would have cracked me like an egg. He would have looked deep into my sinful eyes and perhaps asked why I was giving off those vibes to gay Hollywood screen legends? He was holding one of his Billy Graham Revivals in Sacramento that summer.

One day, one of the show’s regular guest was a make up artist and she was going to do a make over or something like that which included a neck and shoulder massage. Jim Finnerty, the show’s host, decided I would be the perfect person for her to work her craft on… on live tv. I am very glad that this was all before the internet and one cannot find that particular show on Youtube. I did continue to wear my country boy attire. I don’t make over very easy, I guess.

Now all of that is to tell you this:

My next celebrity guest was the widow of Bing Crosby, Olive Kathryn Crosby. She wisely used her middle name professionally.

Of course, I was very much aware of Mrs. Crosby. Every December, she and her family shared their love of Christmas and song with American television viewers, millions of us actually and Bing Crosby was a very big deal in many ways.

Kathryn was promoting her new book with a rather unimaginative title, “My Life With Bing” and this is how I came to find myself alone with Kathryn Crosby in a little room, the “green room,” she on one side of the table, me on the other, with nothing and I mean nothing in common to talk about. She did not strike me as a woman who would be interested in discussing my great find of very dry cedar kindling. Her tight lipped smile could have been interpreted as either a willingness to endure a few minutes with the plaid people or restraining an urge to express her utter disgust of being in my presence in such a small room.

I was digging deep trying to find a conversation on ramp. When I was heading into the room to meet Kathryn Crosby, one of the nerdy technician types in the control room grabbed me and said, “Man, you gotta ask her about that poem she read at Bing’s funeral.” He was very serious about it. So with nothing left in my grab bag of small talk, I asked, “Mrs. Crosby, can you tell me about the poem you read at Bing’s funeral?” (Yes, I did say ‘Bing’ as if he and I were fishing companions.)

Suddenly Kathryn’s expression changed and it didn’t look like a positive one for our relationship. She stared at me, no she stared right through me to the point I was wishing she was Billy Graham instead of the woman who was about to let the insolent, kindling gathering kid really hear what she thought of him.

One thing about Kathryn Crosby was she knew a lot more about makeup than those two reporters in the Men’s Room. Her face looked like a porcelain doll and that doll was still staring/glaring at me.

Suddenly, she began to recite the poem.

“”Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;“

She was now staring at me differently than before.

“Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things“

Her eyes were glistening as tears started to form.

 “You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,“

At this point I was very impressed as she is doing this all from memory. At her age, I couldn’t remember a five item shopping list. But, the tears were really flowing down her cheeks.

“I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air….“

Then I realized I got problems. The tears created mini-canyons on her face and her eyes were reddening. Yet, she continued.

“Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.“

I was not familiar with the poem so I had no idea how long it might be, but I knew it was almost time for her to go on live television and she did look her best. Her face, due to the thick makeup and the tears, resembled a jigsaw puzzle. Honestly, the only thing my little intern brain could think of was “Oh, shit.”

“Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
– Put out my hand, and touched the face of God” (High Flight, John Gillespie Magee Jr)

Then there was silence. We just stared at each other and then she looked downward to her hands on her lap.

I said, “That was beautiful. Thank you.” I thought, “She is not beautiful right now, she’s a mess” and then a knock on the door as it opened and the floor manager said “Mrs. Crosby, you’re on.”

The floor manager looked at her and then looked at me with questions written all over his face. I nodded my head sideways, shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Beats me.”

What amazed me was how quickly they got her makeup fixed and she went on the show quite put together as she happily promoted her book.

The show must go on they say.

(That was a very competitive and prestigious internship I had been granted and I loved the experience, but something told me that was not the path for me nor for my young family.)