Atlanta figured in my mother’s side of the family too, after a lengthy detour in the Midwest. Her mom, Clara Frohsin （Nana to us, pronounced “Nah-nah,” the French way）， married Bert Hene, a successful architect and contractor primarily in a neighborhood of Omaha called Happy Hollow. They raised my mother and her younger brother, Buddy, like high-class nomads, occupying the fancy homes Bert built and moving on when they were sold （a particular point of family pride: my grandfather built the boyhood home of the future Oracle of Omaha, Warren Buffett）。 When Bert died of a heart attack at 58, Nana joined her brothers Leon and Lewis in Atlanta, where they had opened a pair of high-end women’s clothing boutiques.
As a child, I loved when Nana came to visit. The minute she arrived, she’d unzip her sky-blue Skylark suitcase and start pulling out gifts—cute outfits and stuffed animals wrapped in tissue for the girls; sugared jelly candies shaped like orange slices for Johnny. I’d sit on her bed and chatter away while she got dressed, rolling a nylon stocking up each shapely leg and attaching it to the snaps dangling from her girdle （that medieval precursor to Spanx）。 Then she’d step into some formfitting dress （the lavender ultra-suede was my favorite） plus heels. Always heels. Even her slippers had kitten heels. Nana was so accustomed to her calf-flattering heels that when she was barefoot, she walked on the balls of her feet.
We’d play gin at the kitchen table. Nana would have a tissue tucked under her sleeve at the wrist or in her cleavage. She’d hold a Tareyton between her lips, the ever-lengthening ash threatening to dump on the floor, the cards, my head. Sometimes she’d tap it into an ashtray shaped like a cast-iron kettle on three little legs that now lives in my kitchen. （In seventh grade, I’d retrieve the butts and smoke them in the woods behind my elementary school with my friend Betsy.）
By the time Nana was in her eighties and started complaining about all the cats she was seeing under her bed, she was moved to a nursing home. Now that I was living in Atlanta, I visited often, playing the piano for her and the other residents, then giving my mom a full report.
AS AN ASSOCIATE producer on Take Two, my job included thinking of teases for upcoming segments, like cooking demonstrations with British chef Graham Kerr. One time, the recipe involved onions, and because President Reagan had just delivered his State of the Union address, I came up with “Next…the state of the onion.”
“I love that!” said one of the middle-aged bookers, which put a little pep in my step.
But I was always on the hunt for opportunities to report. To get past my disastrous debut at the White House, I paid a visit to a voice coach. It was kind of a revelation—she told me not to project from my throat, which resulted in a high-pitched nasal sound, but to relax my belly and speak from my diaphragm. My tone instantly got lower and my voice more mellifluous, but it veered dangerously close to James Earl Jones territory. It would take me another few years to find just the right register.
I also had to learn the craft of interviewing: how to put people at ease, ask the right questions （nothing that could be answered “Yes” or “No”）， act interested （99 percent of the time, I was）， listen carefully （but never nod as if I’m agreeing）， recognize a sound bite, and write to the pictures.
Don and Chris knew how much I wanted to be on-air and happily supplied the training wheels. They sent me to interview Ray Charles, Liberace （we played a duet of “Heart and Soul”）， and newcomer Boy George as well as former Alabama governor and segregationist George Wallace. I did a story on the outlet malls in Reading, Pennsylvania, putting together a montage of bargain-hunters to the tune of the “William Tell Overture.” When I showed it to Don, he pointed out that the editing wasn’t in sync with the music. I’d never make that mistake again.
I started dating the show’s director, Guy Pepper. Raven-haired, bearded, and newly separated from his CNN anchor wife, he was not my usual straight-arrow preppy type. But he was so clever and quick （he called me Katrina）， and we had a blast soaking up all things Southern: grits and biscuits at the Silver Skillet, horseback riding in Dahlonega （we were almost thrown when our horses got spooked）， the laser-light show at Stone Mountain. For me, it was a fun, 20-something extended fling—which reminds me of the time I flung several shoes at Guy when I thought he was cheating on me.
Taking Take Two on the road always felt like the big time. We went to Dallas–Fort Worth and I did a feature on Billy Bob’s Texas, the massive honky-tonk. I headed home on Christmas Day. Wandering the deserted airport, wearing the black cowboy hat Billy Bob had given me, I remember missing my parents terribly but thinking it was all for a good cause—i.e., my career.