Home and Alone

The life I had been living and loving was coming to an end. I was always going be their dad, but the kids were flapping their wings and leaving the nest and didn’t need me in the same way anymore. I had a turn being a movie star and television star and had prepared financially for the time when the parts and the money no longer came easily. So now I needed to figure out satisfying things to do with the leftover time, although I guess I had already decided what this new Daniel Stern’s life was going to look like. He was going to be an artist, a public servant, and a rancher.

I had only seen our new ranch just that one time, when the realtor took me around and I met the cattle rancher who owned it. Laure had gone up, met everyone, and took care of all the real estate closing stuff while I was consumed with Barbra’s Wedding and Regular Joe. She had made a deal with a local cowboy, Will, to lease the pastureland and run his cows on our property, not only giving us a little income but also having someone there every day to keep an eye on the place. Our lifelong fantasy of owning a farm in the country had come true on paper, but now we had to figure out what the reality of that actually was. When we finally got our first chance to go up there, it was like a movie. Specifically, City Slickers. We drove up with a bed, a table and chairs, and some food packed into our Chevy Suburban. (That’s another plug for a GMC car, and I want it known that I am wide open for an endorsement deal.) The drive was gorgeous and easy, and the land was just as beautiful as I remembered, maybe more so. We drove by the barn and the pump house and on up to the wood cabin, cruising by the cows and their adorable babies behind the fences. We unloaded the furniture, set up the kitchen and bedroom, and got the wood-burning stove going. It was simple and romantic and just as we had dreamed. We ventured out to see our land, heading up one of the dirt roads in the Suburban into the pastureland. I drove along the rutted road in four-wheel drive for half a mile or so when we got out to marvel at the feeling of being in such a perfectly natural setting, in the middle of nowhere, green hills surrounding this beautiful little valley. Laure hiked up one side while I strolled in the open pasture.

The sight of her on that mountainside is something I will never forget, but not because of how beautiful she was. It is the memory of those fifteen or twenty cows that suddenly appeared on the edge of the mountain above her. It didn’t make a lot of sense, because cows are nervous around people and aren’t really that curious. I didn’t start to feel uneasy until I looked up at the ridge of the opposite hill and saw another large group of cows congregating. What the fuck was going on? I had been around enough cows on those City Slickers films to know they are afraid of everything, completely non-aggressive animals. That’s how you herd them, by chasing them in the direction you want them to go. These cows looked different. They looked like they wanted to come after us. When another herd of fifteen or so came up the road and blocked our way back, I started to get a very, very bad feeling. Laure was about a hundred yards up the hill when I yelled to her to get back to the truck. At first, she poo-pooed me, saying I was being ridiculous. But she started to run once she noticed the cows moving in on us, slowly surrounding us like a pack of wolves. I hopped into the truck, which was facing the wrong way on the tiny dirt road, and performed a brilliant nine-point U-turn. But moving the truck only served to rev up the cows, and they went from walking toward us to running toward us. Laure was still ten yards from the truck and the cows were about to catch up with us, so I started driving, slowly, trying to get the cows blocking the road to back the fuck up. Laure still swears I was leaving her there, which I wasn’t, but she did have to jump into the truck while it was moving pretty quickly. Once I busted through the cows on the road, I drove a little faster, which only spurred them on, and suddenly Laure and I were in a fucking cattle stampede, our first time on the land! Does it get any more City Slickers than that? It was as surreal a moment as I have ever experienced. The cows were running close to the truck. One’s huge head was parallel with my driver’s window and another with Laure’s window, then dropped off as the terrain forced them away, only to be replaced by another stampeding cow. When we got to the gate in the fence, I got out and waved and yelled at them while Laure opened the gate and drove the truck through, then I scurried through and locked it behind us. We could not understand what the fuck happened until a few days later when we saw Will drive into the pasture in his Chevy Suburban, same color as ours, and unload bales of hay for the cows and their babies. We still laugh about that perfect beginning to our ranch life. We learned that we had so much to learn, and how fun it was going to be.

I loved doing chores up there and man, does it get hot in the summer. But I loved that too. I painted the whole house and worked with Will and his family when he branded the cows and gave them shots. He was an amazing rancher—fixing fences, birthing cows. Sometimes he rode his horse and sometimes he rode his Quad all-terrain vehicle. I bought a Quad and started shadowing him but also exploring the property on my own. I was probably the only Jew, the only Democrat, and the only actor within a hundred miles of the place, and I had never felt so at home. Ranching is about fixing problems with the tools that you have at hand, and I loved the practical creativity I discovered in myself. I learned how to take care of the plumbing, irrigation, fencing, retaining walls, landscaping, and pest control. I bought my first shotgun, pistol, and rifle and learned how to use them. There was no cell phone reception. Sometimes I had to climb the pole and jiggle the phone wires to make the landline work, which was just like the guy in the Green Acres TV show I watched as a kid. We bought a couple of recliners and looked out the window for hours at hawks flying, the pond glistening, the sun setting. Our neighbors were great and helpful and respectful of our privacy too. We had always hoped to have a place like this, but we never knew if the reality of it would match the fantasy. Now Laure and I began to discover that farm life was even more fulfilling than we could have ever dreamed.

I think getting my hands dirty at the ranch made me want to get my hands dirty back in Malibu too, because I had a dream one night that would change my life forever. I was in my kindergarten class and my teacher, Miss Burton, was showing me how to do papier-mâché—taking strips of paper, sinking them into the mixture of flour and warm water, sliding the paper through your fingers to get off the excess liquid, and then laying the paper onto a bowl to make a mask. It was such a sweet dream. I loved that teacher, and the art felt so fun, warm, and creative. The next morning, I got some flour, a bucket of water, and the Los Angeles Times and went out to the garage. I got some chicken wire and made a big ball and started laying papier-mâché on it, and by the end of the day, I had a huge, funny-looking head. The next day I painted it. Then, I made a body out of irrigation pipe, covered it in my old clothes and shoes, and stuffed it with newspaper. When I attached the huge papier-mâché head to it, it was bigger than me and made me laugh. And it made Laure laugh too. So I made another one, and then another one after that. I loved creating art when I was a kid, but I had forgotten about it in the chaos of my life, marriage, family, and career. I had been putting all my creative energy into acting, directing, and writing, but all of those projects need funding and other people. This papier-mâché dream had awakened me to a whole new direction to channel my creativity, which I could control completely and would always give me work to do, because I am a man who needs to work.

Although there was plenty of work to do for the Boys & Girls Club. We were expanding by the day and our foundation needed as much attention as Laure and I could give it—fundraising, overseeing the board and the staff, and trying to lay the groundwork for a strong future that didn’t require us to run or manage it. Mel Gibson and I did another gala fundraising show for the celebrities in Malibu. It was incredibly successful, but kind of obscene in the amount of ego and money that filled up the banquet tent. Where else could you have Kenny G performing an annoying breathing trick of playing a single note indefinitely on his sax, and then get a bidding war going among the audience to get him to stop? We made ten thousand dollars on that alone. But I was getting a little tired of being the pitch man for the Malibu Foundation. I believed in building and sustaining something so vital to the community, but the begging for money by throwing parties and golf tournaments was starting to wear me down.

Even though I was living in a wonderful bubble, I was still very aware of how ugly the real world had gotten. Bush and Cheney had led us into an unnecessary war, and their Mission Accomplished theatrics disgusted me. Henry got a job on John Kerry’s campaign and of course, being Henry, became friends with Senator Kerry’s daughter. He introduced me to the family, and I ended up not only campaigning for Kerry, but shooting a great little film that his daughter directed. Senator Kerry would have been an incredible president, but he was not a great public speaker. He and I met on two occasions, for me to give him “acting advice” on how to loosen up and be more emotional in front of the camera to fight back against the Swift boat lies that Bush was encouraging. The poor man had so many bigger things on his mind than to listen to my advice, but he was very kind and receptive. He was such a humble and funny person, and how America picked Bush again is beyond my comprehension. I thought there wasn’t much I could do about any of it except stay informed, work for change, give money, and raise my voice. But there was one thing I hadn’t thought of.

I got a fan letter one day from Captain Sandra Chavez, stationed in Baghdad, Iraq, asking if I could send her an autographed picture for her celebrity wall. She also mentioned in passing if I would ever consider coming over on a USO tour. The USO, I thought—is that still around? The last I heard of it, Bob Hope was doing shows for the troops in Vietnam. Anyway, how the hell would an anti-war activist go to the war zone and talk to soldiers without the subject of how fucking stupid and reckless the war is coming up? That didn’t seem like a real morale booster. But I certainly couldn’t pretend like I believed in this “holy war” Bush was forcing on the world. Also, I didn’t have “an act” or anything I could fit into a USO show, so what would I do there? I wrote back to Captain Chavez, asking her a lot of questions, along with an autographed picture. I was also trying to get some on-the-ground reconnaissance about security there because the General in Charge of the T.N.T.D. Branch of my brain (Try Not To Die) was demanding a lot of information about entering an active war zone. Captain Chavez replied, excited I was considering it. She made a compelling case on what it would mean to her and the troops for me to make the trip. She said I would not be expected to perform and told me about the USO Handshake Tour, where I could go to different bases, say hello to the soldiers, take pictures, and sign autographs. Yes, it was a dangerous place but there would be tight security around me and their record of protecting USO folks was perfect so far. She said she understood my anti-war stance but this had nothing to do with that—there were people of all political opinions fighting the war. This was about assuring the people serving in Iraq that Americans back home remembered them and respected their sacrifice, especially around the holidays. She told me how much they loved my movies, especially Home Alone, and if I were to make the effort to go there and say “Merry Christmas” to them, it would mean more than I could imagine. I talked it over with Laure, and she was as moved as I was. For all those reasons, as well as my need to see what was going on with my own eyes, I said yes.

The USO is an amazing organization, devoted to keeping alive the human connection of our warriors and our citizens, a way for both the soldier and the person from “back home” to say a love-filled “thank you” to each other and give a ray of understanding to the madness of war. My Handshake Tour was set for December 18–26, 2003. I would fly to Baghdad and then to various bases throughout Iraq, depending on the security situation at the time. I was allowed to bring another person with me and asked Henry if he wanted to be my assistant, and he jumped at the chance. This seemed like an incredible teaching opportunity to take him to see the reality of war. “You want to be in politics? Well, let’s see what war is really like.”

I had to wait a couple of months to ship out, and at first, it felt great. Saying “I’m going to Iraq” held a power I hadn’t felt before, a certain street-cred that comes with actually putting your ass on the line. I even started getting calls to appear on cable news shows but declined. As departure day got closer, my knees started to turn to Jell-O and the reality of what I had agreed to became terrifying. George Bush had predicted we would be met with parades and flowers for “freeing” Iraq but had no real plan for how to occupy an entire country after chasing away Saddam Hussein. Reading the paper every day about improvised explosive device explosions killing our soldiers, bombings throughout the country, helicopters being shot down, and all of the other horrors of war brought a real personal panic now, not just a political one. I was mad at myself, questioning my motives for going into this chaos, and guilt-ridden that I would be risking my son’s life as well. I got the smallest taste of what it is like for a family to have a member “go off to war,” and it is traumatizing. To be brave is not only to face your fears but to stare them down, and force optimism to overwhelm your pessimism, if for no other reason than to help your family stay strong.

My mission was to be a bridge between our soldiers and citizens, and I would be there at Christmastime, so it seemed appropriate to bring the gifts of love and laughter along with me. I reached out to the schools in Malibu, and they had the kids write letters and holiday cards to the soldiers for me to give out. And I reached out to my funny friends—Crystal, Cheech, Gibson, and Reiser—for some jokes to tell in case I needed to be entertaining at some point. I was still wrestling with my courage and feared my comedy act would be less Bob Hope and more Bob Hopeless.

“Hey everybody, I don’t know what the fuck we are doing here, there’s no way we can win, and we are all going to die. Good night!” Here are a couple of the best of the jokes my friends gave me:

“What’s so special about the stealth bomber? They say it flies in undetected, bombs, and then flies away. Hell, I’ve been doing that my whole life.”

“I was really nervous about coming to a war zone, but the captain was very supportive. He promised to keep a supply of my blood type on hand, even if he had to kill the chicken himself.”

“How do you know when it’s bedtime at the Neverland Ranch? When the big hand is on the little hand.”

Five days before we were supposed to leave, Saddam Hussein was captured in a “spider hole” on a farm somewhere near Tikrit, Iraq. The still-terrified part of me wondered, “Does this mean I don’t have to go? I mean we got him, what do they need me for? I’m just going to be in the way of them packing their bags to get the fuck home.” But there was no turning back, and so I embraced my role of ambassador. When I picked up letters from schools, I realized how much people were investing me with their messages of love and thanks, and that felt great. Laure and Ella and I read the letters and cried at the kids sending letters of love, thanks, hope, news, humility, commitment, and honor. I read a letter from a high schooler that started with, “What is bravery?” and it made me tremble. The day came to leave. The letters took up a whole duffle bag and a half, and the football I thought was necessary ate up some prime suitcase real estate too, so I did not have room for too many clothes, but that was okay. I was cautiously optimistic that we were going to survive. They would never let anything happen to a celeb, not even Bob Hopeless. Real soldiers and their loved ones have been saying goodbye since the beginning of the time, and I got a small taste of those countless heartbreaks. The lead-up to leaving is a slow-motion goodbye, but the goodbye itself is so short. You have to make your body walk away. Legs moving feet, one in front of the other, taking you toward chaos and the unknown.

I flew to London and then to Kuwait, in first-class filled with drunken men in robes. I was met by Tracy, who was my USO escort for the trip. The airport access road was lined with soldiers posted every twenty yards on both sides, and when we got to the Marriott Hotel where we were staying, it was surrounded by tanks and barbed wire. It turned out that the Marriott was the home of the International Arab Conference. The presidents and sheiks of at least twelve large Arab countries were staying in the same building as us. The king of Jordan was there. All roads within two hundred yards of the hotel were blocked off to any car that didn’t have a particular piece of paper that we didn’t have. I was carrying two enormous duffel bags, my backpack, winter coat, and camera bag. Dragging the hopes and underwear of Malibu, Tracy and I made our way through the guns, dogs, ID checks, baggage screening, personal screening, and intrusive wand screening, into the lobby, which was another world completely. The lobby was filled with more robes. Damn, that is a good look! And so comfortable! Tracy took me to the twelfth floor to meet the butler.

“The twelfth floor has a butler. He will run your bath, unpack your clothes, whatever you need.”

My room was nice, with a view of a vast desert of dirt and sand that came right up to the hotel, with a random tent every few hundred yards in the distance. Ding-dong. Guess who was there? Henry! Who flew in from Boston. I hadn’t seen him in a while, and Jesus Christ, was he big and beautiful. We called home to say that we were okay and stuffed our faces on potatoes, salmon, eggs, croissants, and coffee that the butler kept bringing. Just crazy to think where we were and where we were going.