a fox, 29 cats, a movie star, and an epiphany
by kerry lee daniel

“It was at this house, before I started school, that I experienced my first remembered moment of ecstasy. There were two large trees in the small front lawn. I was running between them, touching one and then the other, feeling for one split second the rough running rivers of bark under my hands. Suddenly between the two trees I was grabbed, I was flung, I was hurled into ecstasy. I looked up through the leaves, and stars fell into my lungs, never to be expelled. I touched the unexplored. Maybe I was only a dizzy child out of breath. I think not. I think something split open and I slipped through the crack. Only part of me came back.” …from “Sandy Dennis: A Personal Memoir”

I met Sandy Dennis the first time in 1969. She was 31 years old and had already won two Tony Awards – one for Best Supporting Actress in A Thousand Clowns, and one for Best Actress in Any Wednesday. She also had scooped up an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. And she ranked with legions of the famous and infamous when her face made the cover of Time magazine September 1, 1967. By all accounts Sandy Dennis was a star.

Despite her widely acclaimed accomplishments, it was Sandy Dennis’s performance in a lesser known role that most endeared her to me. In 1968 she played Jill Banford, a lesbian, in the film adaptation of D. H. Lawrence’s novel, The Fox. To the best of my recollection, the movie captured no awards. Historically, though, it broke fresh, new ground in filmmaking. And more important to me, it was my personal epiphany. The relationship between the two main characters in The Fox stirred emotions inside of me that I had never experienced before. The theme lifted the window to my soul and held up a mirror that allowed me to know myself for the very first time. The movie was a catalyst, launching me on a voyage of self-discovery that changed my life forever.
To understand the significance of The Fox—not just to me but to every budding lesbian during that time—it’s important to remember the cultural climate of the sixties. Cinematic portrayal of loving relationships between two women was unheard of then. There were a few cult or underground films that crossed the line, but none of them made it to the big screen. The Fox was the first mainstream Hollywood movie to cross that boundary. And Sandy Dennis was the first American actress to play a blatantly lesbian role that included an intimate sex scene. We would have to wait a long time for a story ending where the girl gets the girl – and gets to keep her. Still, it was an amazing breakthrough. I was in awe that an actress of Dennis’s stature would put her career on the line to play such a controversial role. It took courage and guts to blaze that trail, and critics were harsh. Some whispered she would never work in Hollywood again.

In 1968 I was 21 years old. Writing and photography were my passions. My dream was to nudge Barbara Walters off her pedestal. I would write an article about Sandy Dennis “on speculation,” as they call it in the publishing world. That meant I would go get the story, write it, pay all the expenses out of my own pocket, and if it was good perhaps a magazine would buy it from me. Now, I didn’t have a college degree or writing credentials, though I was able to put words together easily. I was also sincere, enthusiastic and blessed with a great smile and easy nature—an innocence —that worked well when it came to getting past security guards at concert and other celebrity events. I had yet to publish anything, but felt it was just a matter of time. So I wrote an interview, loaded up my battered Volkswagen with a suitcase, camera, and tape recorder and set out alone on a nine-hour drive to Connecticut.

My Uncle Jim and Aunt Marie lived in Westport, Connecticut, a bedroom community of New York City. They often saw Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward squeezing tomatoes in the veggie section of the local grocery store. They rubbed shoulders with lots of celebrities, though they didn’t know any of them personally. I had learned in a magazine article that Sandy Dennis lived in that same town. I was sure if I hung out long enough I’d find her. So I figured I’d just bunk in with the relatives, who were always happy to see me

The morning after I arrived in Westport, I started my search for Sandy Dennis in the local phone book. Aunt Marie laughed. She thought it was like expecting to find Elizabeth Taylor in the phone book. Sometimes naïveté pays off, though. And this was small town Connecticut, not Hollywood. The Westport phone directory was about the size of a trade paperback book, only just a half inch thick, including the Yellow Pages. I ran my finger down the “D” column and squealed with delight when my finger crossed the name Sandy Dennis. The listing included an address and phone number.

Finding her turned out to be the easy part. The tough part was working up the nerve to call. I dialed the number several times but hung up before the phone rang. Finally, I let the call go through and a woman’s voice answered. “Hi,” I said nervously. “My name is Kerry Daniel.” I hesitated a moment, then stuttered, “May I please speak with Sandy Dennis.” The woman who answered explained that she was Yvonne Dennis, Sandy’s mother. She was house and cat sitting while Sandy was out of the country filming a movie. I was so disappointed. I told her that I had hoped to interview Sandy for an article I was writing. Yvonne must have sensed my disappointment. She said if I wanted to come over she would be happy to talk with me and give me any information she could. My heart raced. I had just been invited to visit with the mother of my favorite actress.

It was a cold, rainy October day with wet leaves thick on the road and underfoot. Yvonne met me at the door. Her face, an older version of Sandy’s, was open and friendly, her smile warm. She took my coat and invited me to relax by the fire while she brewed a pot of tea. For hours she shared funny and interesting stories, including ghostly visits in the very house in which we were having tea together. At one point she disappeared for a few minutes and came back, arms laden with scrapbooks. We talked and laughed through the afternoon as we poured through the books of memories. She was a proud mother. Cold rain beat against the window panes, occasionally interrupting the crackle of the fire in the old hearth. It was the coziest home I’d ever been in.

Cats padded softly across the floors and over the backs of the furniture. I remembered reading articles about Sandy and her love of animals. Yvonne said people often dumped unwanted animals on Sandy’s property. Good fortune smiled on the orphans, though, leading them to the front door where they always found a good meal and a loving touch . Sandy never turned any of them away, though she had to find other permanent homes for some of them.

At one point, I thought I heard thunder, but it was just a group of young cats racing like elephants up the wooden stairs to the second floor where an ever-open window led them out to the top-most branches of a giant oak tree. Cats were everywhere and in all colors. Twenty-nine in all. Longhairs, shorthairs, tabbies, torties, an Abyssinian, and a darling cross-eyed Siamese kitten not more than a few weeks old. I cuddled and petted as many as I could coax onto my lap. I love cats too. With all the petting, though, I had no hands left to write with and wondered if Yvonne noticed I wasn’t taking a single note.

Late in the afternoon the log burned low and the room grew dark and chilly. I knew my Aunt was probably holding dinner for me, so I hugged Yvonne, thanked her and said goodbye.

The next day I left Connecticut with an empty notebook but a very full heart. For the moment my dreams of becoming the next Barbara Walters would be on hold.
The following year, I drove up to visit my Uncle Jim and Aunt Marie again. On the way, and on the spur of the moment, I decided to drop in and say hello to Yvonne. I remembered the way to the house like I’d been there a thousand times. I parked my Volkswagen at the foot of the driveway, and as I stepped out of the car, the back door of the house flew open and a pack of huge dogs descended on my car. Next through the door was a young woman in a pale housedress and tattered yellow sweater. I stood on my car bumper, shaded my eyes and immediately recognized her face. It was Sandy Dennis, herself. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was really her. I began experiencing the stuff of a dream – or nightmare we’ve all had -- the part where you open your mouth and nothing comes out. I didn’t know what to say. After what seemed an eternity the first words that came out were, “Hi, is your mother here?” It sounded so silly, but it was out before I could stop it. I told her my name. She smiled shyly and said her mother had told her all about my visit. “Mother’s not here now, but if you don’t have plans for the weekend, you’re welcome to stay here.”

Imagine for a moment that your favorite actress is Diane Keaton, Nicole Kidman, Rene Zellwegger or Julia Roberts. Now imagine that one of them invites you to spend a weekend with her at her home. You just hang out together, sipping tea, wine and lattes, eating delicious meals she prepares for you herself, sharing warm conversation punctuated with soft, easy laughter. That was my weekend with Sandy Dennis, exactly.

Occasionally she would get up from the sofa and sift the kitty litter box, or drive to town for a roast of lamb and salad stuff. But mostly we talked and laughed – about books and movies and cats —our legs softly curled beneath us. I observed her gestures and halting speech patterns, amazed at how much the real life Sandy Dennis resembled the characters she played. Or was it the other way around? I had a hunch she had won top acting honors by playing herself. It all worked. She was warm, witty, and down-to-earth. Though many critics found her mannerisms annoying, I loved her quirkiness. It was part of her charm. Sandy Dennis was unimpressed with celebrity and the trappings of success – hers, or anyone else’s. To this “girl-next-door” from Nebraska, Hollywood was a million miles away.

When the orange moon climbed high in the sky that night and the fire burned to glowing embers, we padded off to our rooms to sleep. I lay awake for awhile, smiling at my good fortune. Not only did I get to meet my favorite actress, but we are spending precious time together, getting to know each other, becoming friends. And tonight I will fall asleep under her roof, beneath the stars of a most generous heaven.
Sandy and I stayed in touch for many years, exchanging letters and Christmas cards. Later on, I spent one other weekend at her home with a friend. After that we never saw each other again. I often thought of her, though, and the memory of her gentle, kind and generous spirit always filled my heart. I imagined her well, happy and successful. So I was shocked one rainy March morning in 1992 when I turned on the radio and learned that she had passed away. The news came while I was writing a letter. My fingers relaxed and I dropped my pen. Warm, salty tears welled in my eyes, rolled down my cheeks and onto the sheet of stationery. When my eyes cleared, the first words I wrote were, “I lost a friend today.”

So Sandy, wherever you are, this story’s for you. Hope it’s not too late.
********
Sandy Dennis died at age 54 from ovarian cancer. Perhaps her greatest work came to light after her death with the publication of “Sandy Dennis, A Personal Memoir” (Papier Mache Press, 1997). A work in progress at the time of her death, it is just 77 pages, and is a lyrical, poetic and often funny book. If Sandy had lived and continued to write, she would have been a shining star in the literary world today.

Kerry Lee Daniel is a writer, a dreamer and a late bloomer. She is also a proud member of WomanSong. Like Sandy Dennis, she is a Taurean and an ailurophile. Though “low” on cats at the moment, she credits Sandy Dennis with showing how easy it is to share a home with many cats. Kerry lives in a tree house apartment in Fairview that she shares with cat boys Barney and Ben. If you visit them, be sure to wear something you don’t care about.

[Kerrydaniel41@aol.com; 628-6826 (home) ]