This is a tough time to be a fan of Hollywood. So many great personalities have recently left us that I’ve had no chance to pay individual tribute. So here’s a collective hail and farewell to Frank Pierson (writer of Cool Hand Luke), Ernest Borgnine (who proved ugly can be cool), Lupe Ontiveros (who made it cool to portray a maid), Al Freeman Jr. (dangerously cool in Dutchman), Phyllis Diller (who looked as though her hair was washed in Cool Whip), and Tony Scott (whose mysterious plunge from the Vincent Thomas Bridge has sent icy shivers down my spine).
I was overseas in late June 2012 when news broke that a Hollywood power couple was no more. So pervasive is the public image of TomKat that the split between Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise seemed like a celebrity death of sorts. Certainly, European tabloids were as excited as American ones that Tom and Katie had reached the end of the road. It’s sad, of course, when any marriage dies, especially when a child is involved. But I felt far sadder later that day when I learned about Don Grady’s death from cancer at the age of 68.
Most of the world (or that part of it touched by American television) knew Don Grady as an early Mouseketeer who found greater fame as Robbie Douglas on My Three Sons. This was one of those inoffensive shows from the early Sixties, full of family squabbles and warm-hearted reconciliations. To be honest, I rarely saw it.
Don Grady did well as a show biz kid because he was talented, musical, and fearless. He was pleasant looking, with a dimpled chin that might even have impressed Kirk Douglas. And he was short (5’7” was his adult height), which for a child actor is always a great advantage: you can play younger than your actual age, and come off seeming mature and precocious. One other advantage for Don was the fact that his mother Mary was a well-known Hollywood talent agent who specialized in representing kids.
All these advantages couldn’t protect Don, circa 1968, from the U.S. Army. The Vietnam War was raging, and most young men I knew (including my husband-to-be) were looking for ways to save themselves from slogging down the Ho Chi Minh trail. Bernie was good enough on the trumpet to land a gig with an Army Reserve marching band unit, which met regularly for drills and performances. Don Agrati (serving under his birth name) was a bandsman too. Despite his Hollywood pedigree, he put on no airs. Once, when the unit was stationed at Fort Lewis, Washington, a trio of guys walked into a supermarket. Gaping at Don, the checker asked, “Aren’t you on TV?” “Not me,” he answered, then pointed out a fellow soldier. “He’s on TV.”
Don in that era was trying to make it as a musician. (He eventually succeeded, as a glance at his website proves.) I have in my hand a 1973 relic, Don’s debut solo album for Elektra Records, Don Agrati Homegrown. The final track, a nostalgic ditty called “Two-Bit Afternoon,” featured a cameo by the 300th Army Band playing a cheerful march Don had written. I was there when the guys, in their olive-drabs, strutted through the streets of Don’s little beach town, tooting away for the microphones, before adjourning to his charming house, complete with recording studio. There his then-girlfriend (on TV and for real), Tina Cole, scooped up spaghetti for one and all. I’ll never forget that beautiful Southern California day. Don will be missed.
By the way, I certainly wouldn’t dream of blowing my own horn (yeah, right!), but anyone at all curious about how Beverly got to Movieland should check out Craig Edwards’ current blog post at "Let's Get Out of Here." Enjoy!
