A Hot Dog Makes Her Lose Control

I was very young during the very manic ’60s, too young to make much of a political statement, although I did my best. My Barbie doll and I both went bra-less, and I already knew instinctively (and because the poster on my wall said so) that war was not healthy for children and other living things. But there were certain things that were good for everyone. Take TV. It paid the bills.  My dad Ben Starr wrote TV shows (films and plays, too.)  Even better, it was the peacekeeper in the family. We sat in front of that box for hours, not caring whether the signal was fuzzy or clear. We watched, we laughed – especially during “Mr. Ed,” one of my dad's shows – and best of all, no one yelled, for the most part. True, there may have been some sisterly whines, some brotherly elbowing.  One of us probably got sent to our room for misbehavior. To miss one show was manageable. To get TV taken away was a near-death experience. 

I loved my TV shows deeply -- so deeply, I went into a trance while they were on and didn’t come out until they were over. I was a junkie that way, slipping into a black and white world. I needed my cartoon fix in the morning, my Sheriff John booster post-kindergarten, and, above all, my Patty Duke dosage before bed. In my tender brain, there was nothing better than “The Patty Duke Show.” I wanted to be Patty. I wanted to be Cathy. I adored them both because they represented two sides of my wacky personality.  Patty Lane was my favorite.  She was perky and upbeat, a fun-loving, trend-conscious teenager who “loves to rock and roll.” And, as everyone knows, “a hot dog makes her lose control.” Patty was so me! I was tiny for my age like her, and perky comes with the territory. I had just discovered the Beatles. And who doesn’t love a big, juicy wiener? Of course, in my house, the wiener was likely to be Hebrew National.

Now Cathy, her identical cousin from Scotland – who knows why – showed a more reserved and sensitive side. She was into “the minuet, the Ballet Russes and crepe suzette.” I certainly related to her serious, perceptive nature. Even then, I was way too tuned into the universe for my own good. I experienced Cathy’s confusing adjustment to America as if it were my own. Like all little girls, I loved to dance (still do). I fully planned to join the Royal Ballet as soon as the invitation arrived. We shared culinary similarities, as well. I worshipped pancakes, the kissing cousin of the crepe suzette. Sure, these girls may have been “different as night and day,” but the three of us had a lot in common. Patty and Cathy were the sisters I would never get to sit across from at breakfast. I could live with that, as long as I got to watch them on TV every week. In my mind, it was a fair trade-off.

Then one day, something happened, something so bizarre, so unexpected, that it messed with my little head and made me question everything! There I was in Beverly Hills, walking with my mom when we bumped into her dear friend Pat Harris, a well-known casting director. Pat stood next to an attractive young woman in her late teens. She had a troubled, far-off expression; a look that said, “Get me out of here.”  I was only six or seven at the time, but right away, I realized that Patty Duke on TV and Patty Duke in person came from different planets. They didn’t laugh alike, walk alike or even talk alike.

As Pat introduced us, Patty Duke barely nodded. She didn’t make eye contact; she just stared off into space. I smiled shyly and inspected her many freckles. Here was a young woman caught up in some private battle;  it was all right there on her face. Later, I asked my mother, "What's wrong with Patty Duke?" "I'm not sure, sweetie," she said.  Many years later, when Patty Duke went public with her struggles, I still felt a bond.  I was relieved that she was okay.  Back there on the sidewalk, I'd had a tiny glimpse into her life, but it stayed with me. TV can give you that sort of connection, one that doesn't fade, no matter how many years have gone by.