Chapter 29
IN 1973, THE SUMMER I turn eighteen, I begin working at Camp Iroquois, a camp in Ithaca for children with special needs. I become good friends with the director, Rochelle Mike, who hired me. At the end of the session, we have a staff party at Johnny’s Big Red Grill, a well-known place near Cornell University. I still don’t have my driver’s license, despite those early lessons from my dad when I was four, so he picks me up. One of the counselors, someone who I don’t know and who doesn’t know me, begins talking about a Twilight Zone episode he watched late the night before. He says, “I fell asleep right before it ended. Did anyone see it? Can anyone tell me what happened?”
He doesn’t see my dad come in and take the empty seat beside him, and he is still asking around the table if anyone knows about last night’s episode. Someone begins laughing, and he finally turns and sees my dad sitting beside him. The expression on his face is priceless.
My dad stays for a while. He orders a Coke and fills in the curious counselor on missing information. Before long, he has engaged the attention of everyone at that table.
That same summer, Jodi, now twenty-one, is married in a production rivaling Father of the Bride. Three hundred guests, mostly friends of my parents’ from California, are invited to the ceremony, held in the Unitarian Church in Ithaca, New York.
In the months and weeks prior to the wedding, my mother and sister begin to unravel with all of the preparation: the planning and arranging, the invitations and flowers, the dresses, the cake, the photographer and music, the parking, reception, the food, and on and on.
For the most part my dad and I stand on the sidelines, afraid to get too close. But with only a few nervous faux pas (my sister introduces her maid of honor, as her “best man,” and her new mother-in-law as her “grandmother”) the ceremony goes off without a glitch. Jodi is a beautiful bride, and my dad is smiling as he walks her down the aisle.
The reception is held in an inn overlooking Cayuga Lake. I remember dancing with my father, the towering cake on a table in the corner, my aunt drinking far too much, and my sister and her new husband, Steve, looking happy, running to their car, leaving for their honeymoon in the rain.
Anyone who knows my dad says he is nothing like the image on screen. What initially surprises many is that he is only five-foot-five, or, as he sometimes says, “Five-four and three-quarters.” People are constantly saying, “Hey, Rod; Hey, Mr. Serling, we thought you were SO much taller!” If it fazes my dad, he never lets on. He just smiles and shrugs.
One of his favorite stories, in fact, and one he tells frequently, is about when he was in the audience of a show hosted by the comedian Don Rickles. Rickles yelled out to my dad, “Hey, Rod! Stand up. Oh! You are standing!”
About his appearance, my dad is quoted as saying,
Apparently, on the screen, I look tall, dark, and close to omniscient, issuing jeopardy-laden warnings through gritted teeth. And then they look at me [in person] and say, “Why, God, this kid is five-foot-five, he’s got a broken nose, and looks about as foreboding as a bank teller on a lunch break.”
Once past the initial surprise at my father’s small stature, all it takes is moments in his presence to experience his genuine warmth, humor, and his innate ability to put everyone at ease.
My friends adore him. Having him around is like having a playmate who can drive and take you wherever you want to go. It isn’t like having a normal parent, one you can’t wait to flee. With my dad, you want him to stick around; you want him to stay, to play.
My friend, Joan Barnes Flynn, remembers meeting him in 1973 when he visited the boarding school we both attended:
Anne’s dad was coming to take her to dinner, and I was invited. I admit that underneath my excitement, I was a bit unsettled. Rod Serling in person? What would I say? How would I act? What if something strange happened? Should I call my parents one last time, just in case we got caught in another dimension and couldn’t get back?
The evening arrived, and I kept trying to quell my nervousness. Anne told me over and over that her dad was great and I believed her. I also believed that he was deep, dark and scary, and maybe I should let them go by themselves. But, no, my curiosity, friendship with Anne and need to escape the institutional setting all convinced me that I could make it through no matter what happened. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and went down the stairs. Anne and her dad were standing in the front hall as I approached. I suddenly felt great relief. He wasn’t much taller than I was, and when he turned toward me he had the warmest smile on his face—no weird music, no sinister aura. I smiled back and shook his hand.
We went to the only decent restaurant in town—a steak house across the river. Rod told us funny stories and treated us like adults. There was such a close rapport between the two of them, but he made sure to include me in that warmth. I felt deeply flattered and very glad I had come. I was happy I hadn’t called my parents to say goodbye.
After dinner, we went to see the movie “Nicolas and Alexandra”—very Russian, very romantic and very long. During the intermission, we went out to the lobby for sodas and popcorn, and a young guy approached Rod as we were standing in line. He held out a pen and said that he didn’t have a piece of paper, but was wondering if Rod would autograph his girlfriend’s chest. With a wry grin, Rod politely refused and turned his attention back to us. He had such style, and I was captivated!
One Christmas vacation, I flew out to their home in California and spent four days with Anne and her family, getting the full tour of Disneyland, Universal Studios and all the special out-of-the-way places that only the locals had access to. I fell in love with the palm trees and the weather, but I especially fell in love with the private Rod Serling—the family man who got down on the floor and rolled around with the Irish Setter; the man who ferried his daughter and her wide-eyed friend around because it was fun for him, too; the man who wasn’t afraid to be silly and laugh at himself.
Over time, Rochelle Mike, the camp director, becomes my close friend. At first she, too, seemed somewhat apprehensive to meet my dad.
Meeting Rod Serling for the first time was all you expected a television star to be in person—handsome, deeply tanned and extraordinarily memorable. But, it was what you least expected from the creator and host of The Twilight Zone that endures—his brilliant humor and his ability to play any willing audience for all it was worth.
My introduction to him took place at the family home on Cayuga Lake; I had given Anne a ride home from the summer day camp where we both worked. He was tending his roses, a scene as far from The Twilight Zone as one could imagine. I vividly recall how genuinely pleased he was to see his daughter home safe and sound, as if she’d returned from a lengthy journey, rather than just a day at a summer job.