I had underestimated my mother: not only how giving and selfless she was, but also how tough she was.
I WAS ALLOWED a rare glimpse of a more carefree version of Mom when, in the mid-1960s, CBS sent me to New York on a promotional junket for The Andy Griffith Show—just me, not Andy or Don. Dad was otherwise occupied with Clint, so this became an opportunity—the only opportunity, as it turned out—for me to spend some leisure time with Mom in her favorite city. That’s what she kept saying as we were flying there: “New York is my favorite city in the world!”
The network put us up in the St. Regis, one of the grande-dame hotels along Fifth Avenue. This animated Mom in a way I hadn’t seen before. She told me why: in her and Dad’s scuffling days, she often took walks past the St. Regis, looking longingly at its ornate facade and arched entryways. On these walks, she fantasized about what it would be like to stay at the hotel. Now her fantasy was coming true.
We ordered room-service breakfast, a first for me and a major departure from Mom’s normal, frugality-minded ways. With CBS footing the bill, Mom cut loose. She took me to Sardi’s, the show-business hangout in the Theater District, and delighted in pointing out all the caricatures of famous people on the walls and telling me about each figure. While we were there, I had an in-person celebrity sighting—for a baseball-mad little kid, anyway. Right before my very eyes, sitting at a table eating a steak, was Ford Frick, the commissioner of Major League Baseball. With Mom’s prompting, I introduced myself to Mr. Frick, and he kindly engaged me in some baseball talk. I have no idea if he recognized me as Opie.
* * *
CLINT
Some years later, I, too, enjoyed a one-to-one work trip with Mom. Along with three other child actors—one of whom was Maureen McCormick （Marcia on The Brady Bunch）—I was selected to participate in an NBC special produced by Art Linkletter entitled A Kid’s Eye View of Washington. It was basically an educational travelogue about the nation’s capital, with the four of us as hosts, culminating in a scene where we all met the president in the Oval Office.
Nixon left a lasting impression on me. He had wrinkles upon wrinkles and was sweating profusely. He also had a certain scent, one that I would later come to recognize as the acrid odor of a heavy smoker and drinker. I wasn’t so much scared of him as concerned. To Mom, I raised the question, sotto voce, “Is he sick?” Mom assured me that he was just . . . himself. And then we went to visit the Smithsonian.
* * *
The best part of my New York trip with Mom was the cheapest. She took me to the Horn & Hardart automat in Midtown, which was already a relic of bygone days, a reminder of the times when she and Dad, at their most penurious, could still get a cup of coffee and a slice of pie for a nickel. By the time of our visit, the going rate had risen to fifteen cents. I placed some coins in a slot and pulled out a cheese sandwich that was totally underwhelming—cold and dry, with a limp leaf of lettuce and colorless slice of tomato on top.
But that wasn’t the point. The aura of the place, with its still-packed tables and art deco design, sucked me in, and I understood the pleasure that Mom took in being there. While we were eating, we heard a voice say, “Jean? Jean Speegle?”
This was unusual. I was by this point used to hearing people call out “Hey, Opie!” in public places, but this was the first time that I ever heard someone call out Mom’s name—her maiden name. We turned our heads. The words were coming from a diminutive man with dark, slicked-back hair and flashy rings on his fingers, a real Damon Runyon character, complete with a fat cigar.
“Felix!” Mom cried, beside herself with excitement. The man was one of the little people with whom she and Dad had acted in the children’s-theater troupe a lifetime ago. She introduced him to me: “Ronny, this is Felix. He was one of the groomsmen at our wedding! And he played Grumpy in our show!”
To Felix, she exclaimed, “I can’t wait to tell Rance I saw you!”
Felix shook my hand firmly and looked palpably relieved to hear the name “Rance.” It hit me later that he might not have been optimistic about the long-term chances of the young couple whose wedding he witnessed.