I grew up sitting outside Lucille Balls old home, most Saturdays just before the sun came up with my father, he was painting vivid memories of his days long gone of witnessing Lucille Ball take out her trash, day after day when he lived next door to the Hollywood Star in the late 80’s, on Roxbury Drive. The street is nestled, in the flats of Beverly Hills and any direction you go will lead you to a place you will remember. My Father worked at The Feldstein’s, just next door, another magical piece of this famous street, where Jack Benny was previously residing in the home, where he would play violin to Lucille, in his back garden for her to hear. The brick paved driveway was lined with pink roses you could smell all the way to Sunset.

At the age of six, I created a fantasy, of what use to be reality at one moment in time for my father, and it would later be one of the most memorable moments of my life. The images of her red hair I imagined, concealed her struggles with depression, Desi and her dissatisfaction with Paramount. Her sadness was palpable even across the street, to people strolling by, and now as an adult, I understand those feelings. But, everyone loved “Lucy.”

In 1994, inside a white Lexus, with a gold package and a fancy car phone, my life took a significant turn. Natalie Wood was nearby, in spirit tending to her garden, where I think her soul was finally in peace. The people who walked by the mansions once and still owned by some of the most unforgettable starts in Hollywood, had poodles with stylish haircuts. The kind that makes you look twice, and wonder if it is a statue or real life, and there was a strong sense of adversity in the air, marking the transition from old Hollywood to the new, though the magic seemed to be fading in my eyes. This is the longing to memories I think my father wanted to never let go, which is why he made them so real to me. The underlying feeling I have is that, the memories were actually reality, they seemed to not be gone from my inner being. So, I sat in their essence and brought them back to life. I could see Lucy, her hair and the sound of the trash can on the sidewalk.

Although children today might not experience Hollywood’s past magic or maybe they will but only through a screen, I was immersed in it without realizing it. This street was paved with pure talent from Peter Lawford and Jimmy Stewart, and all I could think about was him, coming out of his front door to lasso me the moon.

Everything was drenched in magic to me. A pure vision which, I long and hope to help people hold onto. We would take Roxbury drive north and make a right on Sunset, and the stories always continued., My father had a fondness for Hamburger Hamlet, just on the left of our next turn on the road because Dean Martin often joined him there before my time, for the best burger in town. Just a normal day, for one of the most famous men in film. The stories continued to be told , with the windows down as the sun began to warm my cheeks, and I loved the feeling I got as sometimes I wasn’t sure what new story or surprise was going to be around the corner, and then we came upon a familiar place.

We frequently stopped on Delfern Drive in a neighborhood known as Holmby Hills, but specifically Trousdale Estates.. At a house on the left, just past the entrance we would sit gazing at the lion statues outside. This felt like an eternity to me, just sitting there under the large shaded trees, like we were waiting for something, but nothing at all. Unbeknownst to me, it was the Weinberg estate where my father worked in the early ’80s. This home had housed, Audrey Hepburn, Katherine Hepburn and Frank Sinatra in years past. The estate belonged to a business mogul, and his wife, the Weinberg’s. On a Summer day, many years ago during his time at the home, my father could not find the lady of the residence, the house was quiet and unsettled. As he approached the garage, he opened the door, and that is where her Rolls Royce sat, there was a strong Oder that sat under his nose. There, Mrs. Weinberg sat with the windows up, garage shut with the engine running, and time was unknown and stood still for a moment. Gas. My Father, young at the time, but Manager of the home quickly broke into the car, picked up this gentle, lost soul and brought her back to air, and to life. Why, I asked was someone of such wealth, beauty and nobility to do such a thing? The answer was there was no answer. From a poor child to a butler every moment of gratitude in this town of endless possibilities would never bring a thought of the end, but the job was done. My Father told me, no words were spoken, the day went on and soon, shortly after my Dad was re-assigned to a new mansion, a new home with the secrets from Delfern he never told me until the residents were no longer with us. There is something special about the Butlers that once wore white gloves, they kept things clean, and sometimes for the dangerous, unseen, behind closed doors of Beverly Hills, and the Hollywood Hills.

We drove slowly towards the Beverly Hills hotel, West on Sunset, which as everyone knows is the direction of dreams. A child, I was giddy as I knew the Pink Castle would arise and there was nothing better, or that made me feel the way the sun hit the palm trees mid day.

The scent of Chanel No 5 was potent in the air of Beverly Hills and sometimes, in secret I would steal my mothers bottle and although young, I was always interested, and curious of my love for this scent, as it is unusual for a girl my age at the time. I had heard stories and seen photos of Marilyn, with the bottle. As a young girl, admiring a Barbie, she was my version, and I would mimick her hips, and purse my lipsand sing “I want to be loved like you” as she did in Some Like It Hot. The Chanel, later on made sense as subconsciously I think it reminded me of Max Factor, who seemed to always be with me, in lmy long ashes and living through me and my rose stained cheeks, but also Marilyn as well in so many ways. As I reflect, driving down in present day on Sunset, th sun hits my cheeks, this has become my reality, a permanent part of my life, but I get to create my own stories and keep these ones safe so I can tell them, hopefully over Milkshakes to a smaller version of myself one day at theFountain Room.

Next Chapter: