B00C4I7LJE EBOK
Authors: Robin Skone-Palmer
Robin Skone-Palmer has written a book—it is FABULOUS!
—Phyllis Diller
I laughed a lot. What a wonderful, insightful, bright observation of a another time and place. You are kind and fair. Thank you for your service to my mother.
—Perry Diller
BEYOND THE SPOTLIGHT
On the Road With Phyllis Diller
Robin Skone-Palmer
San Diego
Copyright © 2013 by Robin Skone-Palmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Wigeon Publishing, LLC
San Diego, California
www.WigeonPublishing.com
Publication Date: April 1, 2013
ISBN-10: 0985972874
ISBN-13: 978-0-9859728-7-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013934392
Cover by Tim Brittain
Cover photo courtesy of the Phyllis Diller estate. All rights reserved.
Back cover photos, courtesy of Ingrid Chapman. All rights reserved.
To my brother, John
(Skonie to the rest of the world)
who never lost faith in me.
He read the original manuscript many years ago and would be thrilled to see it now as a real, live, published book.
Thanks, big brother.
Contents
Author’s Note
Phyllis Diller was unlike anybody I’d met before—not because she was a celebrity, but because of her determination, her drive, her absolute faith in herself, and her firm belief that she could be and do anything she set her mind to. She was like a force of nature—unstoppable and at times overwhelming.
Phyllis was never a quitter. Even after she retired from the stage, she continued to work, turning her talent to painting. She sold her paintings at auctions and to collectors and donated many to charitable events. The last time I was in her house, just a year before she died, she invited me to view her studio, which was filled with canvases both large and small. She had set up the room with easels that held an assortment of works-in-progress, and tables that were covered with brushes and paints. Phyllis had stacked canvases, some finished, some not, against the walls. One large painting that she called
Buttons
stood on the easel by the door. Her paintings lined the upstairs hallway leading to what had once been my office.
After Phyllis died, I read the comments attached to the obituaries in both the
New York Times
and the
Los Angeles Times
. I was struck by how many people had sweet memories of Phyllis and stories to share and the love for her that poured forth. Phyllis was indeed an American icon. I started to add my own comments but soon realized I would need a book to record my thoughts. Then I reminded myself that I had already done that.
During the time I worked for Phyllis, she often said, “Robin, you should write a book.” Several years later, I did. I sent it to her. She read it and wrote an endorsement, but as anyone who has ever tried to get a book published knows, it is difficult. For many years, this manuscript has languished in the bottom drawer of my dresser under a pile of socks.
When I worked for Phyllis, people often asked me, “What’s Phyllis Diller really like?” Now that Phyllis has left us, I wanted to share the “real Phyllis Diller” with her fans and admirers. I hope you enjoy reading about her life offstage and are as impressed with this remarkable woman as are those of us who worked with her. She truly was one of a kind.
1
A
high wall surrounded the mansion on South Rockingham Avenue in Brentwood. A small plaque by the curb displayed the house number. I checked the address I’d scrawled on a piece of scratch paper.
Yes, this is the place.
The gate stood open and I pulled my secondhand Volkswagen onto the beautifully patterned brick forecourt and parked a safe distance from a sleek gray Jaguar. I looked at my watch and saw that in spite of getting lost on the meandering streets of Brentwood, I was pretty close to on time.
I clutched my résumé in one hand and checked my makeup in the rearview mirror. As I walked down the path toward the front door, I glimpsed a sporty convertible and a Rolls Royce under a carport off to the side.
Strange that the house didn’t face the street—rather, it looked south toward a large green lawn surrounded by manicured bushes and very tall trees. To the west I could see only trees but knew I was atop a bluff a couple of miles from the Pacific Ocean. Perhaps if the trees weren’t there, I could actually see the water. I took a few deep breaths and inhaled the tangy salt air. A nice change from smoggy Los Angeles. I tried to be calm, not to think about the fact that I could be walking into a life-changing experience.
For the past few months I’d been working at a series of temporary jobs. Prior to that, I had spent five years as a secretary for the U.S. Department of State in the Foreign Service, first at the American Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa, then at the Embassy in London.
Ah, yes, London in the swingin’ ’60s.
I’d spent a total of five years overseas and at the age of twenty-eight decided I didn’t want to live in foreign countries all my life. In the Foreign Service, popular wisdom says that if you stay for more than two tours, you will never be able to leave. Living abroad on an American salary is living royally. I knew I would have a hard time giving up all of those advantages—the maids, the travel, the money to buy designer clothes, and so much more, but I loved America and Americans. I was colossally homesick, and in 1970 I bid the Foreign Service good-bye and came back to live with my parents in North Hollywood, California. This had not been an easy decision, and one of my great fears was that I would never have a job as exciting as the one I had just left. The idea of being stuck in some dead-end job in, say, an insurance company, gave me the heebie-jeebies. The irony was that at the time I was filling in for the executive secretary to the vice president of a large insurance company.
Thank heaven the man I worked for could tell I didn’t fit in.
“You need to get a really good job,” he said one day. I agreed, but what? “I’d like to put you in touch with the employment agency we use. They’re very good, and I’m sure they can find you something you like.”
I hoped he was right.
The lady at the employment agency was nice, thorough, and said she’d call me when something turned up. She called the next morning.
“Do you still have your passport?” she asked.
“Yes,” I assured her, although it wasn’t the whole truth, but I didn’t think I needed to bother this nice lady with silly details.
“I have a job with someone who travels a lot. She’s leaving for London next week and her secretary just quit. I think you’d be perfect.”
I nearly dropped the phone. I swear my heart skipped a beat.
“Can you go this afternoon for an interview?”
“Yes! Yes! Absolutely. Of course!”
“It’s close to where you are now, in Brentwood.” She gave me directions to the house. “When you get there, ask for Phyllis Diller.”
2
I
stood between tall white pillars on a small front porch edged with bowls of colorful flowers. I could hear door chimes echoing inside. A petite lady with blond hair opened the door. She looked decidedly nervous. Could this be Phyllis Diller? I’d not had a television for the past five years, so I wasn’t quite sure what a Phyllis Diller was, but I had heard the name. Some kind of celebrity, for sure.