Memories of Jimmy Carter…

December 30, 2024 by John I.

(When I turned on the news yesterday afternoon and learned that former President Jimmy Carter had passed away at age 100, my mind was filled with memories of the two years I spent covering him for The National Enquirer in 1977-78. Here are my reminisces.)

By the end of 1976, Watergate had paralyzed the government and Americans were ready for a change in leadership. Tricky Dick was so consumed with defending himself about his role in the Watergate mess that the government was basically running itself. The Republicans knew that, with Gerald Ford, Nixon’s VP as their candidate, they were on the short end of the stick in the upcoming election. Their candidate was not only part of the establishment voters had learned to hate, but he had pardoned his infamous predecessor for his crimes. As a result, Ford had a certain amount of the same stink as his Nixon.

Meanwhile, the Democrats, taking advantage of the voters’ disgruntled mood, sought out a candidate that was as far removed as possible from Washington and the Watergate scandal. They wanted a candidate who not only presented a fresh face, but projected a wholesome image of the so-called “common man.” Finally, after intense screening, they selected a Southerner, a man named James Earl Carter Jr. who, with his toothy grin and impressive record as governor of Georgia, seemed to fill the bill. The choice proved to be a wise one and, in the general election on November 2, 1976, Carter won by a landslide victory.

***

In late November, three weeks after the election, Jan Goodwin, my editor at The Enquirer, called me into her office.

“Do you fancy a trip to Washington?” she asked.

“Got a government waste story?”

“No,” he replied. “I mean permanently.”

I drew back.

“Permanently?”

She nodded.

“The boss wants you to go live in Washington and become our Jimmy Carter reporter. Now that we’ve got a deep Southerner in the White House, he says another deeper Southerner like yourself is the perfect person to cover him.”

“The Boss” Simon was referring to was none other than Generoso Pope Jr., editor and publisher of the Enquirer.

It was so sudden that, at first, I didn’t know how to answer.

“You’ll be working out of the Washington bureau,” Jan continued. “There will be government waste and some medical stories. Mostly what Mr. Pope wants are human interest stories about the new president.”

“Can I think about it?” I asked finally.

There was a long silence.

“You want to go up there for a few days just to see if you like it?” Jan suggested. “You can go sightseeing, check out the bureau, get a feel for the nation’s capital. It’ll be totally different from south Florida.”

I told Jan to have the travel department set up the trip.

***

The next morning, I caught a flight from Palm Beach to Washington National. Before I arrived, I knew exactly what my plans were. I had always wanted to go sightseeing in the nation’s capital. As soon as I checked into the DuPont Plaza Hotel, I caught a taxi and went straight to the Smithsonian. There, I spent four hours seeing the Spirit of St. Louis, replicas of the Columbian ships, the woolly mammoths, and the seemingly endless collection of art and artifacts housed in the museum. It was too much for one day.

That afternoon, I visited the Enquirer bureau offices in the National Press Building at 14th and Constitution, and as I walked through the shiny, marble hallways, I passed offices representing newspapers from throughout the world. There were publications from Hong Kong, Jakarta, Sydney, Berlin, Vienna, Amsterdam, Moscow, New Delhi, Johannesburg, and Rio de Janeiro. My goodness, I thought, this is the big time. Afterward, on a trip to Capitol Hill, I wandered through the congress and senate chambers, soaking up their history. Finally, I lazed away the rest of the autumn afternoon in the park at DuPont Circle, listening and watching as the locals argued politics and played chess.

Everything in this town centered on the government. It was filled with history, culture, music, theater, and the arts and, whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was becoming weary of Florida. I still loved the beach and I liked to go deep sea fishing every month or two, but culturally, Florida didn’t have much to offer. I had never lived in the middle of a large metropolitan city and, secretly, I had always wanted to live the life of a full-fledged city boy and wear suits, dine at fancy restaurants, and go to the theater with a beautiful woman on my arm. As big cities go, it wasn’t New York, but it was close. Suddenly, I realized how I hungered for the different and the new. The following morning, I called Jan and told her I wanted to make the move.

Two weeks later, I was safely ensconced in the Hilton at the top of Connecticut Avenue and had my first assignment, “The Childhood of Jimmy Carter.”

“There has got to be some scandal in this man’s life,” Jan said. “All little boys tie cans to dog’s tails and tear wings off butterflies. Mr. Pope wants to know all of the bad things he’s done. The clips say he’s had lots of problems with his younger brother Billy over the years. Be sure to check that out.”

So I joined a team of reporters and was shipped off to Plains, Georgia, Carter’s hometown, to see what we could dig up. The oldest of four children born to James Earl Carter Sr. and the former Lillian Gordy, the new president was part of a second-generation peanut farming family. From the first day of the investigation, “Jim Bob,” as Mr. Pope facetiously nicknamed the new president, seemed to be a model citizen.

As a high school student, he was class valedictorian, a member of the FFA, and an avid churchgoer. After high school, his father used his political connections to win him an appointment to the Naval Academy at Annapolis, where he graduated with honors.

After completing his service in the Navy, Carter returned to Plains for several years and ran the family farm before entering politics. Quickly, he moved up the ranks, becoming first a state senator, then, after one unsuccessful bid, he was elected governor in 1970.

Carter brought a toothy smile, a down-home folksiness, and a certain childlike innocence to Georgia politics. At the time he was elected president, he’d been married to his high school sweetheart, the former Rosalynn Smith, for twenty-eight years and they had three adult sons and a young daughter.

“Jim Bob’s” mother, Miss Lillian, was the family matriarch and obviously on my short list for an in-depth interview.

When I sat down with her at the “Pond House” near the family home in Plains,the first thing she asked about was my affiliation.

“The National Enquirer?” she said. “Oh, John, I love your publication. There are great recipes and household tips, and I can catch up on all the Hollywood gossip, but I could never be seen buying one. Why, I’d be the laughing stock of Plains, Georgia.”

“So how do you get it?” I asked.

“Thelma Blevins gets it in the mail,” she replied, almost in a whisper. “Once she reads it, she gives it to me. Once I’ve read it, I pass it on to Henrietta Cline and she passes it to Rhoda McElroy. Is all that stuff true about UFOs and aliens?”

“There lots of evidence to support it,” I replied. “Whether it’s true or not, people like to read about it.”

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “It’s all very interesting.”

I asked about the long-time rivalry between Jimmy and his brother Billy.

“When they were young, they were the best of friends,” she said. “Although there was several years’ difference in their ages, they played ball, fished in the creeks, and worked on the farm together. After my husband died and Jimmy returned and took over the family business, Billy was sorely disappointed. He thought the farm should come to him after my husband passed and, from that point on, nothing was ever the same. If Jimmy said something was black, Billy called it white.”

Miss Lillian said her oldest son had inherited the gift of gab from his father and it had carried him a long way in life.

“Jimmy could talk to people,” she said. “He could convince people to do things and get them to take orders from him. Billy, on the other hand, never had that. He liked to keep to himself and read books.”

After eight days in Plains, we found none of the bad things Mr. Pope had been expecting. The new president had been a model citizen. He’d never been arrested, and he’d been an avid churchgoer who followed all the rules and proved to be an asset to his community. The only bad thing we found was that, once, during the church service when he was eight years old, he’d taken a penny out of the plate when it was passed.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jan said when I filed my story.

“That’s it,” I said. “This guy is squeaky clean.”

I could hear the disappointment in her silence.

***

So I settled into covering the new president. I knew GP had no interest in politics. Enquirer readers couldn’t care less about the infighting between the Democrats and Republicans. Subjects like budget deficits, foreign policy, cabinet reshuffles, and Supreme Court appointments were totally lost on Enquirer readers. What “the boss” wanted was personal tidbits about the president, his idiosyncrasies, anything unusual about him and his pets, his sense of fashion, and quirky, silly gossip overlooked in the daily press.

Early on, I learned that stories about his brother Billy were almost as popular as stories about the president himself. One afternoon, I got a call from the mayor of Plains, saying Billy had bought a new home in nearby Buena Vista.

“Now that his brother is president, Billy thinks he’s too good to live in Plains with us regular folks,” the mayor said. “Well, I can tell you, the people of Plains are just as good as Billy Carter.”

Outraged, he went on and on.

“The people of Plains won’t miss him,” the mayor said. “If he’s so high and mighty, he can just go to Buena Vista and stay there. The people of Plains are glad to be rid of him.”

The call was a gift from heaven. It went on the front page and more than made up for the poor showing I had on the childhood story.

A few days later, I wrote a truly stupid story with a headline that read, “Nation’s Capital welcomes Southerners.” Mr. Pope wanted to be sure that his readers knew Carter and his new administration of mostly southerners were being graciously welcomed in the capital.

The story consisted of quotes from long-time Washington residents saying things like “President Carter is going to make us a fine president,” “We just love southerners here in the nation’s capital,” and “I’ve never seen such fine people as these southerners who are here to help our new president.” Great God, I thought, as I filed the story, what am I doing with my life?

***

Another of my regular reportorial chores was to attend the First Baptist Church in Washington, the First Family’s adopted church, and report on the president’s worship activities. On Sunday mornings, I would arrive around 9:15 a.m. and drive slowly past the church’s front entrance. At either corner of the block, I would see the Secret Service agents at their posts. All of the old women and an assortment of other parishioners would be loitering near the front door, waiting to greet the First Family.

Around 9:45 a.m., the presidential limousine would pull up in front and Jimmy, Rosalynn, and little Amy would emerge. Striding beside the president was the marine corporal who carried the “football,” the briefcase that contained the secret codes for launching the nation’s nuclear weapons. Once the trio had run the gauntlet of well-wishers, they would enter the church and take a seat in their special pew. The First Family pew was situated perfectly in the middle balcony of the upper level in the church facing the pulpit. Once everyone was seated, the minister would begin the day’s sermon and, after some thirty minutes, he would begin to call on churchgoers to testify for Christ.

Invariably, during services, the pastor would call on the president to testify, and Jimmy would launch into a lengthy diatribe about the influence Christ had had on his life. Once the president started talking, it was almost like he was delivering a political speech, but, in this case, he wasn’t asking for votes; he was making his personal testimony for Jesus. Once services were finished, the First Family had to run the gauntlet again to return to the presidential limo.

Over the next two years, I covered more and more Jimmy Carter stories, many of which were fluffy little pieces about Miss Lillian’s favorite soap operas and Rosalynn’s favorite dresses and little Amy taking her dog to the vet.

Mr. Pope was keenly interested in the president’s health and, every few months, Jan instructed me to go to the White House and get all of the results from the president’s most recent medical checkup. The White House physician, a tall, balding, serious man in his early sixties, would always meet me in a small press office near the front door, then he would read off the president’s test results on blood pressure, PSA, dietary requirements, cardiac indicators, and sodium levels. Even if all of the tests were good, PG felt it was worth a story because he wanted his readers to know their president was in great health.

Even before he was elected, Carter was the object of his younger brother’s revenge. When the press met Carter’s family in Plains for the first time, Billy was ready to pounce.

“My whole family is crazy,” he said. “My mother joined the Peace Corps when she was sixty-eight. My sister is a motorcycle freak; my other sister is a Holy Roller evangelist, and my brother thinks he’s going to be president. I’m the only sane member of this family.”

After riding his brother’s coattails to fame as a good ole beer-drinking country boy, Billy got an agent, became a regular on the national talk show circuit, and even had a beer named after him. While promoting Billy Beer in London, the younger brother relieved himself in the bushes at Heathrow Airport in front of the press and a host of international dignitaries. Naturally, the world press had a field day with that one.

Meanwhile, I loved my life in DC. After work each day, I would leave the office, take the subway to DuPont Circle, then walk to the Hilton. Once I had showered, I would take my bicycle and explore off-the-beaten-path historical sites such as the Georgetown restaurant where JFK proposed to Jackie, the apartment where Senator Grover Cleveland housed his mistress and their illegitimate child, or the boarding house where John Wilkes Booth and his accomplices laid plans to assassinate Lincoln.

One of the true wonders of the nation’s capital has always been its history. Raw history lives in every square inch of Washington, D.C., but one must go out and discover it. Many times, the act of discovery will prove to be more entertaining that the history itself. During those history-seeking afternoons, if the mood struck, I would stop by a French restaurant on Connecticut for a red wine and bouillabaisse, or pedal down to Georgetown for coconut chicken at the Tsingtao on Wisconsin Ave. Those were such happy days!

I will always remember the two glorious years I spent in the nation’s capital covering Carter. The country boy that grew up in the hills of North Alabama became a full-fledged city wearing suits, taking taxi cabs everywhere and dining at fancy restaurants on Mr. Pope’s dime. All of it happened because of James Earl Carter.

Thanks, Jimmy! Thanks for the memories! May you rest in peace!

Flannery O’Connor on reading….

December 30, 2024 by John I.

(Mary Flannery O’Connor was an American novelist, short story writer, and essayist. She wrote two novels and 31 short works including Wise Blood which is one of my favorite stories in American literature.)

“I didn’t really start to read until I went to Graduate School and then I began to read and write at the same time. When I went to Iowa I had never heard of Faulkner, Kafka, Joyce, much less read them. Then I began to read everything ay once, so much so that I didn’t have time I suppose to be influenced by any one writer. I read all the Catholic novelists, Mauriac, Bernanos, Bloy, Greene, Waugh; I read all the nuts like Djuna Barnes and Dorothy Richardson and Va. Woolf (unfair to the dear lady, of course); I read the best Southern writers like Faulkner and the Tates, K.A. Porter, Eudora Welty and Peter Taylor; read the Russians, not Tolstoy so much as Doestoyevsky, Turgenev, Chekhov and Gogol. I became a great admirer of Conrad and have read almost all his fiction. I have totally skipped such people as Dreiser, Anderson (except for a few stories) and Thomas Wolfe. I have learned something from Hawthorne, Flaubert, Balzac and something from Kafka, though I have never been able to finish one of his novels. I’ve read almost all of Henry James – from a sense of High Duty and because when I read James I feel something is happening to me, in slow motion but happening nevertheless. I admire Dr. Johnson’s Lives of the Poets. But always the largest thing that looms up is The Humerous Tales of Edgar Allan Poe. I am sure he wrote them all while drunk too.”

From a letter by Flannery O’Connor.

Tolstoy and Gorky

December 27, 2024 by John I.

In 1900, two of Russia’s most prominent literary figures, Leo Tolstoy and Maxim Gorky, were photographed together at Tolstoy’s estate, Yasnaya Polyana. The photograph, taken by Tolstoy’s wife, Sophia Andreevna Tolstaya, captures a significant moment in Russian literary history. Sophia was not only a devoted partner but also a keen photographer, often documenting her husband’s life and interactions with key figures.

By 1900, Tolstoy, the celebrated author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina, was already a towering figure in world literature, known for his profound philosophical inquiries and moral writings. Gorky, on the other hand, was a rising star in Russian literature, renowned for his works depicting the struggles of the working class and his involvement in revolutionary movements. At the time of their meeting, Gorky was deeply influenced by Tolstoy’s ideas, particularly his humanistic views, and saw him as a moral authority.

Yasnaya Polyana, located in Tula Province, was more than just Tolstoy’s residence; it served as his intellectual haven and a place where many significant conversations and philosophical debates took place. The meeting between the two writers at this retreat marked an important moment of literary exchange, symbolizing the passing of the literary torch from the established Tolstoy to the younger, more revolutionary Gorky. The photo not only documents their personal connection but also reflects the intellectual and cultural landscape of Russia at the turn of the 20th century.

~Charlotte Emma

Zora Neale Hurston

February 28, 2025November 26, 2024 by John I.

It was once said of Mary Ann Evans (the English novelist who, under the pen name George Eliot, wrote the classics Middlemarch, Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner) that “when you read her work, you knew you’re in the hands of genius.”

The same can be said of Zora Neale Hurston, author of “Their Eyes Were Watching God.”

From the very first, you realize that she is an extraordinary literary genius. You watch as a miracle unfolds across the pages. The flux and vivid detail of her imagery is not only truly original, but at times, the multi-layered meanings, subtle double entendres and the exquisite use of language approaches that of any writer I have ever read.

I found myself rereading some of her narrative passages seven or eight times to savor their excellence.

This woman is a novelist with a poetess living inside her who rushes to the forefront of the narrative at the most unexpected moments. In experiencing this book, you will be reading a long passage which has been driving forward at a slow, steady pace then suddenly launches into pure poetry.

For example, early on, Hurston describes the porch-sitters, the old busybody black women who huddle together on front porches and gossip about everyone that passes. This is how Hurston describes them:

“These sitters had been tongueless, earless, eyeless conveniences all day long. Mules and other brutes had occupied their skins. But now, the sun and the bossman were gone, so the skins felt powerful and human. They became Lords of sounds and lesser things. They passed nations through their mouth. They sat in judgment.”

When the book was first released in 1937, the Harlem Renaissance intellectuals objected strongly to her use of dialect. Here’s an example of dialogue in the book:

“Naw, Ah thank yuh. Nothin’ couldn’t ketch dese few steps Ah’m going. Anyhow mah husband tell me say no first class booger would have me. If she got anything to tell yuh, you’ll hear it.”

The Harlem intellectuals felt it was wrong to depict black folks talking in dialect. They felt it presented blacks in an inferior, truly unflattering light. Hurston could have cared less. Unlike the Harlem crowd who only wanted to enumerate and seek justice for the white man’s cruelty to the black man, Hurston wanted to present black people exactly as they were.

She had no interest in sugar-coating the life and culture of her people. She wanted to get as close to the truth as she could. Once you start reading, you see immediately how and why the use of dialect helped achieve this special truth.

If you like muscular, vibrant prose which lays bare the very heart and soul of black culture in the deep South during the twenties and thirties, you’ll love this book. Watching Hurston’s literary genius bend and swing with the rhythm of the narrative is truly a literary miracle to behold!!!

Breath-taking imagery! Great read! I will never forget the love story of Janie and Tea Cake.

Now I know why Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, said: “There is no book more important to me than this one!”

Majestic book!! Absolutely magnificent!!

Excerpt from “A Quiet Madness..”

December 27, 2024November 21, 2024 by John I.

(The following narrative is an excerpt from my book “A Quiet Madness: A Biographical Novel of Edgar Allan Poe.“)

Moments later, Maria was escorting Mrs. Allan to the door.

“What is her outlook?” Mrs. Allan asked.

Maria shook her head sadly.

“She doesn’t have long. The doctor says just a few days.”

“What will happen to the children when she passes?”

“I’m not sure,” Maria said. “They will probably go to their grandparents or be put up for adoption.”

Frances studied her for a moment.

“I wanted to say to you that my husband and I have no children. When the time comes, we might well be interested in taking little Edgar into our home and raising him. He seems to be such an intelligent child. Of course, I’ll have to talk to my husband.”

“I appreciate the thought. Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“You and your husband are well-off?”

“We own a plantation.”

Maria quickly turned back to her.

“A plantation?”

“Yes, a plantation.”

***

Two days later, Luke Usher appeared at the Poe home and presented Eliza with $425 in cash.

“The proceeds of the benefit,” he said. “I hope it helps.”

“Oh, thank you so much. We can survive a couple months on that. Maybe even longer. I could kiss you.”

“I just wanted to help. You’ve been a good and faithful friend. I couldn’t bear to see you in such a situation.”

“My time is not long.”

“I know that. I wanted to say thanks to you for your service to me and the company. Again, I’m sorry about what happened between me and your husband.”

“I understand.”

Usher took her hand, bent over the bed, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Good-bye!” Usher said.

“Good-bye! And thanks!”

***

When Eliza opened her eyes on the morning of Dec. 8, 1811, she knew her time was short. When she awoke, she was coughing violently and, at the sound, Maria was instantly in her room.

“How do you feel?”

“Oh, Maria, I don’t have long. I want to say goodbye.”

Maria, tears welling in her eyes, seated herself beside the bed and took Eliza’s hand.

“I wanted to express my gratitude for your service over the past two years. My accomplishments in the theater would not have been possible without you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“I no longer have earthly cares other than for the welfare of my children. Promise me you will ensure they go to good homes and be properly cared for.”

“I promise.”

“And mind Henry. He mistreats Eddie.”

“You have my word.”

“Now bring in Henry so I can say goodbye.”

Moments later, Henry was at his mother’s bedside.

“Remember to be a good boy, to love your brother, and to mind Maria. You’re the oldest, so I expect more from you.”

“I will, Mother. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“When will you return?”

Eliza looked at Maria.

“I’m not sure.”

“But…”

Eliza motioned with her head for Maria to take Henry away.

“It’s time to go,” Maria said.

The child resisted.

“Where’s Mother going?”

“It’s time to go,” Maria said again, hurrying him out of the room.

Moments later, Maria returned with Edgar.

“Oh, dear sweet little Eddie. I fear I must leave you to this mad world.”

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure.”

Eliza turned to Maria.

“Look in the drawer,” she said, indicating the bedside table, “and get me the book of Byron’s poems.”

Maria opened the drawer and took out a signed copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Eliza took the book and turned to Edgar.

“This is my greatest treasure,” she said. “I bought this two years ago when I was in London and heard Lord Byron read his poems. Now I want to give them to you.”

She turned to Maria.

“Maria, read the note on the back of the book.”

Maria read the note.

“To my darling son Eddie. May he never forget the immortal poems of Lord Byron.”

Edgar took the poems.

“Thank you, Mommy!”

Then she lay back on the bed. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, Maria. My time has come. The final curtain is ringing down on my life. Now is the end of the third act.”

For a long moment, she launched into a spasm of coughing into one of the small towels Maria kept at her bedside. Finally, she stopped.

“Mommy, I love you,” Edgar said.

“I love you too.”

For a long moment, there was another spasm of coughing. Then, with seemingly helpless bewilderment, Eliza gazed into Maria’s face. Her eyes closed, her body went limp, and she fell back into the nest of pillows.

“Mommy? Mommy?” Edgar said, taking his mother’s hand and shaking it.

No response.

“Mommy! Mommy! Wake up!!

No response. Again, the child shook his mother’s hand.

“Mommy! Wake up!”

He looked to Maria for an answer

“Aunt Muddy, why won’t Mommy wake up?”

Maria did not answer.

For a long moment, Edgar turned to Maria for an answer.

There was none.

“My mommy is dead, isn’t she?”

Maria looked at him without speaking.

“Tell me! My mommy is dead. Isn’t she?”

Finally, she spoke.

“Your mother has gone to a better world.”

For a moment, the child looked into Maria’s eyes. Then, at the realization of death’s imminence, his eyes slowly filled with tears and suddenly, overcome with grief, he rushed into Maria’s arms and began sobbing.

**************************************************************

A Quiet Madness is available in ebook, paperback and hardback. It can be purchased at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733350098

Free Short Story Read!

November 20, 2024 by John I.

This story has been called a “dead man’s dream.”

Going Home

John Isaac Jones

Archie was ready to die. At least he thought he was. The sentence had been formally read, he had had his last meal, and the prison chaplain had asked God to have mercy on his soul. Now, as he sat quietly in his cell, the hour was upon him. In the distance, he could hear the doors of the outer cells opening and closing. The warden and his entourage were coming to take him to the electric chair. The sound of rattling keys and the opening and closing of steel doors grew nearer and louder, then he heard the door to the death row cellblock open and a chorus of footsteps tromped across the concrete floor.

With military precision, the entourage stopped in front of Archie’s cell. There was the warden, two assistants, the chaplain, the executioner, and the prison physician. The warden faced Archie.

“Archibald William Johnson?” he asked.

“That’s me,” Archie replied.

With business-like certainty, the warden unfolded an official-looking document. Then, he put on his glasses and began reading.

“The State of Georgia has decreed that you be executed in the electric chair at Valdosta State Prison at midnight on April 23, 1961, which is today. The hour is now approximately 11:35 p.m. Some preparation time will be needed to carry out the court’s order. You must come with us so we may carry out the wishes of the state.”

Seconds later, the two assistants entered the cell, placed handcuffs on Archie’s wrists, and escorted him out. Then the seven men, with Archie in front, started walking out of the death row cellblock.

“Good-bye, Archie,” said Charley Fancher, another death row inmate whose cell was directly across from Archie’s.

Archie nodded at his old friend.

“May God have mercy on you,” said Moses Washington, an older black man, who had been Archie’s best friend during his years on death row.

“Bye, Moses,” Archie said.

“In about fifteen minutes, you gonna be in hell,” said Ray-Ray Hollingsworth, whom Archie had once fought over a piece of cornbread in the prison mess hall.

Archie glanced ominously at Ray-Ray, then acted like he hadn’t heard the words.

The entourage stopped in front of the door to the death row cellblock. The warden unlocked the door, waited for the others to pass, then relocked it. Now the seven men were starting the long walk from death row to the execution chamber.

As the entourage passed through the steel and concrete corridor, Archie tried to appear as brave as possible. At age forty-seven, he was a thin, smallish man—maybe five feet, eight inches—with sad eyes and thinning hair. He had two missing teeth and a slight stubble of beard. Jutting over the collar of his prison uniform, on the right side of his neck, was the top of a cross, a chain-gang tattoo he had acquired as a teenager in the state reformatory. Archie had not been a model citizen. He had been in and out of scrapes with the law for as long as he could remember. At the moment, he had been in state prison for eleven years—eight on death row after he was convicted of murder during the robbery of a convenience store near Albany. Archie and his accomplice had taken just over $1100 in the robbery and were making their getaway when a customer, an off-duty cop, came out of the store and started firing. As the robbers’ car backed up, then swung around and headed for the street, Archie, who was on the passenger side, took dead aim and dropped the cop with a single shot to the chest. Then they sped away.

After almost a year, Archie was captured in Tennessee, then returned to Georgia. In the first trial, there was a hung jury because the state’s chief witness, the clerk, couldn’t remember important details of the robbery. In the second trial, however, a new prosecutor was brought in with a new witness and won a murder conviction. The judge said he had no choice but to sentence Archie to death. There had been too many prior felony convictions and Archie wasn’t showing sufficient remorse. Over the next ten years, Archie’s state-appointed attorneys appealed his conviction all the way to the state supreme court, where it was upheld. With that decision, Archie and his attorneys knew it was only a matter of time before the execution would be held.

Two days before the scheduled execution, Archie had spoken with his lead attorney, who said he had found incriminating evidence against the state’s new witness and had presented it to the court and the governor. The lawyer said he couldn’t make any promises, but there was “a very good chance” that the governor would commute the sentence and grant him a new trial. It was Archie’s only hope.

The group had reached the execution chamber. Once the warden unlocked the door, Archie was led inside and the attendants uncuffed his hands, seated him in the wooden chair, and began strapping him in. Strong leather straps were tightened securely around his ankles, his arms, and his chest. The silver dome was lowered and fitted over his head. Finally, satisfied that everything was ready, the attendants stepped away from the prisoner.

The warden stood in a small alcove in the execution chamber, some ten feet from the electric chair. Behind him was a clock and a telephone. He looked at the clock. It read 11:58. There was a long deathly silence, then, at just after 11:59, the warden looked toward the executioner, who was standing behind the electric chair, his hand on the switch. As the seconds ticked away, the warden started to raise his hand. The executioner put his hand on the switch. Suddenly, the phone rang.

The warden answered the phone.

“Governor?” the warden asked.

All eyes and ears inside the execution chamber turned to the warden.

“Yes,” the warden said. “We’re about to conduct the execution even as we speak….”

For several moments, the warden listened.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand….”

The warden continued listening and said “Yes, sir” another six or seven times. Finally, everyone in the execution chamber could see the conversation was about to an end.

“Yes, governor,” he said finally. “I will see that your instructions are carried out.”

The warden hung up the phone.

“Unstrap the prisoner,” he said. “The prisoner has been given a reprieve. The governor says the chief witness against him has recanted his testimony and the judge has granted a new trial.”

The warden turned to face Archie.

“You’re a free man,” he said. “You’re going home.”

Archie was stunned at the news. It was a miracle. He had given up all hope and now the long and tireless efforts of his attorneys had finally brought some positive results. Archie couldn’t believe he was a free man. And he was going home.

Suddenly, Archie found himself on a bus bound for his hometown of Plum Tree, Georgia. It felt so good to be out. To breathe fresh air, to see green grass and bright sunshine, and be able to swing his arms without fear of hitting an iron bar or a wall. He was anxious to get to Plum Tree. He couldn’t wait to see Main Street and how it had changed over the past eleven years. He wanted to go to the Mexican Chili Parlor and see his sister Mable. He wanted to see his old friends at the pool hall. Then he planned to see Big Betty down at the Morris Hotel. He hadn’t been with a woman in a long time.

Most of all, he wanted to go back to the old family farm and see his mother. She had a spare bedroom and he could sleep all he wanted. She had canned vegetables from the garden and a cow that gave a gallon of fresh milk a day. Oh, how he longed to be in her comforting presence, to see the peacefulness in her eyes, to sit at her table and eat some of her fried peach pies.

Once the bus arrived, Archie, suitcase in hand, wasted no time walking the two blocks to Main Street. There, at the corner of Main and Chestnut, he stopped and looked for the Mexican Chili Parlor. It was gone. There was a hardware store where the restaurant had once stood. He stepped back to the curb and surveyed the entire street. Yes, this was the place, but there was no more Mexican Chili Parlor. Well, so much for my sister, he thought as he continued walking down Main Street. The old five and dime store where Archie had shoplifted marbles and candy and toy cars was still there. There was Snellgrove’s Drug Store, the old Post Office, and Tom Anderson’s Office Supply. At the corner of Main and Fourth Street, he turned right and headed for the Smokehouse Pool Hall.

The moment Archie entered the door, Grady Sizemore yelled, “Archie!”

Suddenly, all the pool players stop playing pool and many stepped forward to greet their old friend.

“When did you get out?” Grady asked.

“I beat a murder rap,” Archie said. “I’m a free man.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said. “Jaybird’s in the back room playing blackjack. He’d love to see you.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Archie reacquainted himself with his old friends. There was Harry Pickett who Archie had worked with at the Plum Tree Sanitation Department. There was Rusty Walden for whom he had fenced a truckload of stolen men’s shirts down in Florida. Archie was so happy to see Floyd Abernathy, his old friend from high school who had been paralyzed in an auto crash while running from the police after a supermarket heist. There were other old friends—”Big Willie” Wilson, Charlie Dupree, and Tommy Hammock—all of whom he had known since childhood.

Suddenly, the room to the back room opened and Jaybird Watson emerged. Jaybird couldn’t stop laughing when he saw Archie.

“A free man?” he said over and over. “A free man? I can’t believe it. You know there’s something I been wanting to talk to you about…”

With that statement, Jaybird invited Archie to go to the back room so they could talk privately. Several minutes later, once they were seated, Jaybird began.

“There’s a service station in Defuniak Springs, Florida run by an old man,” he said. “He sells gas and diesel fuel to truckers. He sells thousands and thousands of gallons of diesel every day and he always has lots of cash on hand. My friend says he sometimes has $10,000 to $15000 at a time….”

Archie could see where the conversation was going.

“Whoa! Whoa!” he said. “If you’re angling for me to do a job with you, I’m not interested. I’m going straight.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jaybird said. “It’s just an old man. We could hit him in the head and be gone before anybody knew what happened. There could easily be five or six grand apiece in it.”

“No,” Archie said firmly. “I’m going straight.”

Jaybird shook his head in disapproval.

“You want to have a nip with me?” he said. “I got a fresh pint of Miller’s Hollow moonshine in the trunk of my car.”

“No,” Archie said again. “I quit drinking. I don’t mess with that stuff no more.”

“Just for old time’s sake?” Jaybird asked.

Archie shook his head. He could see that all Jaybird wanted to do was get him in trouble again. Moments later, he said good-bye to his former partner in crime, grabbed his suitcase, and stepped back out on the street. Once outside again, he peered down Fourth Street where, some two blocks away, he saw a sign that read Morris Hotel. Some ten minutes later, he was standing in front of the sign.

He went inside to the desk.

“Who would you like to see?” the clerk asked.

“Big Betty,” Archie said.

The clerk seemed surprised.

“Big Betty?” he said. “We have several girls that are much younger than her.”

“No, I want to see Big Betty,” Archie said firmly.

“Okay,” the clerk said. “That’s six dollars for the room and twenty-five dollars for Big Betty.”

Archie plunked thirty-one dollars cash on the counter and the clerk handed him the key.

“That’s room 241,” the clerk said.

The moment Archie opened the door, Big Betty stared at him as if she had seen a ghost.

“Archie,” she said. “What happened? I thought you were a goner! I read in the papers they were sending you to the chair. How’d you get out?”

After several minutes of explaining about his reprieve, Big Betty was ready to get down to business.

“Okay,” she said. “Get those clothes off. I’m going to make a new man out of you.”

Archie loved being with Big Betty, even though she was in her late forties now. She had gained some weight in recent years, and the wrinkles around her lips were deeper now, but she was a woman who truly knew her business. She had great hands and she knew how to use them. Also, she took pride in her work. “I know how to satisfy a man,” she had once told him. “Any man…”

As promised, Archie was a new man when he walked out of the Morris Hotel. Back out on the street again, he hailed a taxi.

“I’m going to the Chalfant farm,” he told the driver.

Outside of town, he glanced out the cab window at Plum Tree High School where he had attended classes off and on for almost eleven years. There, many years ago on the front lawn, he had fought Harold Bowling over an ice cream cone until the principal had separated them. The old sycamore tree—much larger now—stood in the corner of the playground where he had played softball and horseshoes and tag with his classmates. There was the high hill made up of Georgia red clay overlooking the playground where Archie and his friends would slide down the hill on cardboard boxes after a rain. Moments later, he saw the windmill on the old Chalfant farm and he knew he was nearing his destination. The cab stopped, Archie got out and paid the driver.

As the cab pulled away, Archie instinctively peered across a pasture through a thicket of pines and sweet gums at the old family farmhouse some one hundred yards away. This was where he had grown up. This was the world of his childhood. Then, suitcase in hand, he started walking down the dirt road from the highway to the farmhouse. As he walked, he realized he had forgotten how much he loved South Georgia in late April. Birds were singing, dogwoods were in bloom, yellow honeysuckle hung in heavy pods along the fences and hedgerows, and the entire countryside was rife with vibrant greens and yellows.

Suddenly, he stopped. There, to his left, overgrown with weeds and blocked by a fallen tree, was what remained of the old path to the river. It was down this path he walked hand-in-hand with Maynelle Thompson many, many times. He was seventeen, she was sixteen, and he vividly remembered the Sunday afternoon they walked down that very path to the river, went skinny-dipping, made love, and professed their eternal devotion to one another. Eight months later, however, after Archie was sent to the state reformatory for stealing a car, she visited him and told him she was going to marry Hollis Whisenant. Hollis had a steady job at the mobile home manufacturing plant, she said, and he wanted to make something out of himself. It was nothing personal, Maynelle explained, but she wanted a man with a future.

Now Archie was walking past the waving, amber fields of broom sage where he and his cousins had played cowboys and Indians and caught lightning bugs. As he rounded a bend in the road, he glanced toward the vegetable garden. There was his mother tilling the soil with a hoe. She was hilling pole beans.

“Mama!” Archie called.

The old woman slowly raised her body, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and turned to the direction of the sound. A huge smile burst across her face.

“Archie!” she yelled. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, mama!” Archie yelled back, and then he watched as his mother came running between the rows of okra and tomatoes and sweet corn as fast as her heavy frame would allow. It was so good to be home. So good to find some peace and comfort and security for a change.

Finally, she had reached him and mother and son clasped one another with all their might. As he looked into his mother’s face, huge tears were rolling down his cheeks. Somehow, some way, in his hearts of hearts, he knew he would never look into his mother’s eyes again.

Finally, Archie released the embrace and wiped away the tears.

“Come on,” his mother said. “Let’s go to the house. I just made some fresh peach pies.”

Those were the exact words Archie wanted to hear.

Moments later, he was seated at his mother’s table. First, she served him a glass of cold cow’s milk. Then she turned and started to the stove. With absolute pure lust, he watched as she took down the warm, cloth-wrapped peach pies from the oven. Moments later, she delivered two of them on to the plate in front of him. Archie, not wasting any time, quickly sliced up the two half-moon fruit pies and dabbed them with huge chunks of fresh cow’s butter. He watched the butter melt, slowly and surely, into the flaky pieces of pie, waiting for each dwindling chunk of butter to ooze into the innermost crevices of the crust and filling so that, at just the right moment, he could luxuriate in that perfect bite. Seconds later, that moment arrived. Archie took a bite and closed his eyes. He felt the savory warmth of the melting butter and fresh peach course across his taste buds. Oh great God, he thought, this has to be the most wonderful taste in all the world. Archie felt like he had died and gone to heaven.

Just as he was feeling the full rush of the warm, buttered peach pie, his entire body suddenly convulsed like a clenched fist as 120,000 volts of electricity surged through his every vessel, organ, tissue, muscle, and sinew. His chest thrust violently forward; his arms and legs twisted desperately against the leather straps. Then, a blinding streak of hot light flashed fatally across his consciousness. Everything was dark and silent.

With a nod of his head, the warden signaled for the prison physician to do his duty.

The medical officer, who was wearing a stethoscope, stepped forward and examined Archie for respiration, pulse, and heartbeat.

Moments later, having finished his exam, he turned to the warden.

“The prisoner is dead,” he said.

**The End**

**This yarn is included in my short story collection titled “Thirteen Stories.” The collection may be purchased here: https://tinyurl.com/23cdwrvh

Give Poe this Christmas!

November 17, 2024 by John I.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been spellbound by the words of Edgar Allan Poe? If so, A Quiet Madness by John Isaac Jones is a journey you can’t miss. 📜✨ This riveting novel unveils the heart and struggles of America’s most haunting literary figure—bringing his genius, passions, and tragedies vividly to life.

🚂 Step into a New Era
Travel to 1810-1840s America—a world on the brink of change, with the War of 1812, the rise of steam engines, and the California Gold Rush! Here, Poe’s poetic and literary brilliance grows alongside a rapidly changing country.

💔 Love & Loss
Discover the women whose influences helped shape his writing: his protective stepmother, his first poetic muse, and his tragic young bride, Virginia Clemm. Each left a lasting mark on his life—and his writing.

🖋️ A Genius at Work
From The Raven to The Tell-Tale Heart, Poe’s tales of suspense, horror, and detective mystery continue to enchant readers. Witness the master of dark romance and psychological intrigue as he creates works that have endured for generations.

Don’t miss your chance to step into the mind of a literary legend!

Raymond Burr – How Hollywood Protected Him

November 6, 2024 by John I.

Homosexuality had been an integral part of Hollywood culture since the inception of the motion picture industry. From Hollywood’s earliest days, thousands upon thousands of gay men had proven themselves in behind-the-camera posts such as casting, wardrobe, makeup, cameramen, and even as directors and producers. When a gay man became a major box office star, the studio bosses expected and even demanded that the star’s sexual orientation be kept a closely guarded secret. After all, Hollywood’s leading men were expected to portray the type of virile male that made women swoon and men cheer. Any hint that the actor was not a macho man hunk was absolutely not tolerated in public.

Actor Raymond Burr, the subject of this story, learned early on as his star rose in Hollywood, that his sexual orientation could wreck his career. His life was a sad and ongoing battle to hide his homosexuality.

A native of Canada, little was known about Burr’s childhood. His father ran a hardware store and his mother was a music teacher in British Columbia, but beyond that, few hard facts were available. Although there were numerous stories about trips to China with his parents and tales of various marriages and children, the only fact that could be proven about Burr was that, as a small boy, he would spend endless hours in the family garden growing and cultivating roses.

As an adult, Burr was a burly, gravel-voiced bear of a man who broke into Hollywood as a heavy during the film noir craze of the fifties. Breaking bones and making violent threats was his stock in trade during those years and he appeared in more than forty, mostly gangster, films with some of the biggest stars of the day. In 1960, he was cast in the title role of Perry Mason, the most famous defense attorney in television history that always won his case with a daring last-minute on-the-stand revelation or confession.

The same year he got the contract, Raymond met Robert Benavides, an aspiring young actor and Korean War veteran who had a job on the series. They quickly became lovers and, shortly afterward, Raymond got Robert a permanent, behind-the-camera spot on the show that eventually led to him becoming a producer. Although they would be “partners” for more than thirty years, they both knew they had to keep their relationship a closely guarded secret.

Over the ensuing years, a conspiracy of lies and fabrications involving publicists, show regulars, gossip columnists, and even Raymond himself managed to keep his secret hidden. Publicists regularly planted stories that he was dating various young starlets and, during the late fifties, even arranged dates between Burr and several beautiful aspiring actresses so directors and producers could see them on the arm of a big star. Although a sham, it was a win-win for all parties.

In truth, Burr was briefly married to an actress during his early days in Tinseltown. Although the union was brief, this information was played up front and center in all of his professional bios and press releases. Hedda Hopper, the most famous gossip columnist of the day, never divulged his secret because her son William played Perry Mason’s sidekick private investigator on the show. When regulars on the show were asked about Burr’s homosexuality, they always dodged the subject with the comment, “It’s none of my business.”

Over the years, Raymond and Robert built a vast business empire that included exotic orchids, fine wine, seashells, Portuguese water dogs, and extensive real estate holdings, which included homes in LA, Hawaii, and an island in the South Seas. These business interests enabled them to live the life of royalty. In 1974, they bought an old farm in Sonoma’s Dry Creek Valley and developed it as a winery that was named after Burr upon his death and still bears his name.

While Burr was active to some degree in all of their businesses, his favorite was the orchid business where he cultivated and crossbred exotic orchids. His holdings included nurseries in California, Hawaii, the Azores, and the South Seas. His favorites were exotic black orchids, and Burr would spend endless days in his California nursery, making copious notes and studying the characteristics of various sub-species. Over the course of his work, he added more than 1300 new species to the worldwide catalogue.

“The genome of the rose is child’s play when compared to the complexity of the orchid genome,” he once said. “Studying the intricacies of the orchid genome is like listening to a Beethoven symphony.”

In late 1992, Burr was diagnosed with kidney cancer and doctors urged that the cancerous kidney be removed. Only days after the surgery, he began experiencing excruciating pain and, after further examination, doctors reported the cancer had spread into the lungs and liver and was now inoperable. At the news, Burr said he wanted to return to the Sonoma ranch to spend his last days.

Only days after this story broke, Simon called me.

“Perry Mason is dying,” he said. “We have a source in Santa Rosa who is friends with the nurse in attendance. All you got to do is go there and wait until he dies. Don’t hesitate to push her for details. We’re paying her lots of money for the exclusive story.”

The following day, I was on a plane to Healdsburg, California to meet the source. At the meeting, we agreed she would call me twice a day over the following week with updates on Burr’s condition. If he died, she was to call me immediately. On Friday afternoon, she called and reported Burr was dead. I asked about his final hours.

This is the story she told.

On the morning of September 3, 1993, Burr, who had been on a morphine drip for over two weeks, awoke, turned to Robert, and asked about the status of the ranch’s chardonnay grapes, the livestock, and his beloved orchids.

Robert knew the end was near, and his eyes filled with tears as his long-time partner asked questions about ranch operations as if he were going to be there forever.

“What about the Bulbophyllum Filiforme specimens in nursery number four?” Burr asked. “We had thirty-two new specimens in early August. Are they healthy and blooming?”

“They’re fine,” Robert replied.

A long silence.

“Ray,” Robert said tenderly, taking his hand, “I wanted to thank you for the wonderful life we’ve had together. I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful friend and partner.”

“You realize,” Burr said, “the Filiforme has to have a constant temperature of at least 64 degrees or they’ll wither and die. As natives of West Africa, their genome requires much warmer temperatures than other orchids.”

“Yes, Ray,” Robert replied. “I know, but this is not really the time to be discussing business. We should—”

“I can’t wait until the black Filiforme are adult plants,” Burr continued. “The differentiation between the jet black colors and the green is absolutely amazing. Once we have adults, I want several brought into the ranch house. Maybe one in the sitting room by the zebra and another on the Italian marble table beside the fireplace.”

“Ray,” Robert said again, trying to get his attention.

“No, on the mantel; that’s where I want them,” Burr continued. “I can see them now, those glossy black colors against the royal blue wallpaper.”

“Ray,” Robert said. “I’m trying to say goodbye.”

“And what about the pink Orchondrinea?” Burr said. “Are the nursery workers aware of their sunlight requirements?”

Robert could see he was getting nowhere.

“You never listen to me,” he said sadly.

“Now be sure you tell Carlos that the newer pink Bienchadea orchids in nursery number six require…”

Suddenly, the diatribe stopped. For a moment, Burr looked straight at Robert as if he were about to say something important, then he slowly slumped backward on his pillow. Around noon, he slipped into a coma and died.

The following week, when the story was printed, there was only a tiny blurb on the front page which read: “Raymond Burr’s Final Hours!!” Inside, however, the story got a full-blown centerfold spread.

The headlines blared: “Perry Mason Makes Deathbed Request!! Long-time Lover Sadly Watches Famous Actor Die!!” There was even a photo of me with my byline.

His obituary, which appeared in newspapers and magazines throughout the world, represented little more than the fabrications, the lies, and half-truths which had been disseminated over the years by publicists and Burr himself. The conspiracy to hide the truth about Burr’s homosexuality was complete.

Only after his death did books and magazine articles start to print the truth. Interestingly enough, at the time of his death, Hollywood had considerably softened its posture on homosexuality, probably because of the massive publicity generated by the AIDS epidemic. In the late eighties and early nineties, studios and big stars felt it was good public relations to support AIDS projects. While several big stars and studio executives were openly gay, the unspoken strictures that Burr had faced were somewhat loosened. Burr, with an intricately woven web of protective lies and half-truths, had borne the brunt of the discrimination and had weathered it quite well.

****

(This excerpt was taken from my book Thanks PG:Memoirs of A Tabloid Reporter which retraced my twenty years as a reporter for the National Enquirer. You may buy the book at https://tinyurl.com/2zdhru92

Where do you get book ideas?

April 29, 2024 by John I.

Funny how people always seem to ask me that.

I can remember, as a young writer, asking that question myself.

First, book and short story ideas are everywhere, but you must exercise caution in choosing them. You might get an idea from an experience, an observation, some artistic influence, some snippet of conversation, just a few words from a TV program or even a passing photo you saw on the internet.

The main thing is to always be on the lookout for a good story idea. If you’re watching, you’ll find them. Once you find one, jot it down so you won’t forget it!!

And you never know when or where one will pop up. They come out of nowhere. They can start with one idea and end up being something completely different. That’s the nature of human imagination!

I got the idea for my short story, The Old Indian, during a conversation with a distant relative at my aunt’s funeral in Alabama. My short story Annie grew out of my childhood experiences with my cousin. My short story, Boone, originated with an experience I had with my mother when I was ten years old.

Many years ago, while I was in high school, I watched a construction worker have an affair with a woman who lived near the construction project he was working on. Many years later, I wondered what happened to the man and woman after the project was finished. In 2015, I wrote my novel, The Duck Springs Affair, which was based on that memory. Ideas are everywhere. You just need to learn to spot them.

And, most importantly, jot them down!

Death of Sammy Davis Jr.

April 27, 2024 by John I.

In the course of my career as a Hollywood reporter, I spent countless days and weeks on death watch stories, when the US and world press—depending on the degree of fame of the subject—would congregate outside the home or the hospital where the star was lying on his/her deathbed.

But nothing had prepared me for what we witnessed at the time that beloved Sammy Davis Jr. was dying inside his Beverly Hills home.

Born in Harlem in 1925, Davis began his career in vaudeville at the age of three as a member of The Will Mastin Trio, a dancing and singing troupe that consisted of Davis, his father, and the group’s namesake.

After military service, Davis rejoined the group and they toured nationally, playing clubs, parties, and social events. Almost overnight, he began to achieve success on his own and became an A-list recording artist and actor.

He sang the title track for the 1954 film Six Bridges to Cross and later starred in the Broadway play Mr. Wonderful. In 1972, his song “The Candy Man Can” was the No. 1 single on the pop charts.

After becoming a member of the famous Frank Sinatra Rat Pack in 1959, he made several films with the group, and later had his own popular television show and became a headliner in Las Vegas.

At age twenty-nine, he lost his left eye in an auto accident, but the tragedy failed to dampen his love of show business. For almost a year, he wore a patch until he was fitted with a glass eye.

Shortly afterward, he converted to Judaism. Ironically, the accident took him from being a well-known entertainer to a national celebrity. He was a genius at making jokes about it.

Once before a golf match, Jack Benny asked Davis what his handicap was.

“Handicap?” Davis said. “Talk about handicap; I’m a one-eyed Negro Jew.” Over the years, that would become a signature quote for Davis.

In late 1989, Davis was diagnosed with throat cancer and doctors explained that surgery to remove his larynx would be the best solution. Davis replied he would rather keep his voice than have part of his throat removed and opted for a combination of radiation and chemotherapy.

Although this helped for a while, his condition worsened only weeks afterward and doctors sadly announced they could do nothing more.

Finally, over the days of May 13-16, 1990, the world’s press converged on his home to await his death. Never had I seen a mob of reporters like the one in front of Davis’s Summit Drive home in Beverly Hills.

A throng of more than three hundred journalists from around the world jammed traffic along the winding street and cops had to be called so the other residents of the exclusive canyon neighborhood could get in and out of their palatial homes.

Davis’s next-door neighbor called police after reporters trampled his strawberry patch; his neighbor across the street turned on sprinklers daily to prevent reporters from sitting on the front lawn. Since there was no parking or sidewalks on Summit Drive, old friends, seeking to pay last respects, had to be dropped off.

One showbiz friend in a wheelchair had to be wheeled almost two blocks to the house. Meanwhile, hungry reporters were taking photos and tag numbers of everyone who went in or came out of the house.

While the scene outside the home was nothing short of a three-ring circus, the scene inside was even more bizarre. Since late 1978, Davis had been a target of the IRS.

The agency claimed that not only had he been under-reporting his income, but they had disallowed several shelters he had claimed in recent returns. Also, in recent years, the IRS had been confiscating all of his income from shows, tours, and Las Vegas appearances to pay off the debt.

Now, as he lay dying, the tab was at $5.2 million and tax agents were not only assessing all of his personal possessions to sell at auction, but he was flat broke.

My source, a close friend of Davis’s wife Altovise, said the home was a veritable treasure trove of showbiz memorabilia. There was an estimated $1.5 million in jewelry, an Andy Warhol soup can painting valued at $25,000, signed photos of Davis pals Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe, his lavish costumes, more than three hundred musical scores he had written, expensive Remington statuary, an eight-foot-high fiber glass statue of a character from the Planet of the Apes and awards, plaques, and gold watches he had accumulated over the years.

Since Davis was broke and all his assets frozen, his Rat Pack pal Frank Sinatra was paying the bills at the home for food, water, gas, and lights.

While Davis’s wife Altovise was also responsible for the debt, she publicly claimed she was penniless for fear the agents would seize any monies she might have. As a result, inside sources said the wife prayed every day that the utilities in the home would remain in service until her husband died.

Finally, around noon on May 16, the publicist and the family announced Davis had passed. All of the busy hustle-bustle, the throng of world press, the cops, and the distraught neighbors were gone now.

All that remained were memories. I think you could make the argument that, upon a celebrity’s death, the reach of his fame can be determined by the geographical representation of the reporters assigned to cover his demise.

I had covered my share of death-watches, but I had never seen as broad a representation of world press as the one for Sammy Davis Jr. When I covered the wedding of Robert Wagner and Jill St. John in the Palisades, there was a reporter from Turkey.

That was the first time I had ever seen a press rep from such a far-flung locale. At Sammy Davis Jr.’s death watch, there was not only a reporter from Turkey, but press reps from England, France, Japan, and even Vietnam, probably the result of Davis’s appearances as an entertainer for our servicemen during the Vietnam War.

It was the one and only time I had ever seen a reporter from Vietnam at any Hollywood event. It was a first and a moment to be remembered. Now that’s what I call true worldwide fame.

R.I.P Sammy!!