1924 to 1972. I did go to Hoover’s house occasionally. He had the only Astroturf lawn I knew of in all of Washington—I believe so he wouldn’t have to have a gardener. He was very afraid of being spied on.
As most people now know, there have long been rumors that Hoover was a cross-dresser and gay, and that he was possibly having an affair with his deputy, Clyde Tolson. Hoover did surround himself with a lot of very handsome men, but I wonder whether or not he was capable of having gay affairs without anyone knowing.
The rumors came out full force after my father was sick with Alzheimer’s disease, and thank God, because my father was a very macho guy and would have been outraged. He supported Hoover unconditionally. He would have said it was a left-wing conspiracy.
But one thing happened that made me wonder if maybe he did know something about Hoover’s supposed love of dresses and wigs. My sister and I used to take the FBI tour once a year. It was a big deal in D.C., and we never missed it. One year, 1961, when I was eight, I was on the tour and my father asked me if I’d like to meet Vivian Vance. According to Helen Gandy, Hoover’s secretary, Vance was visiting Hoover, and she said she’d be happy to meet us.
I was a rabid
“Ethel Mertz is here?” I screamed. My father smiled and took my sister and me into Hoover’s office, where I shook Vivian Vance’s hand and chatted with her. I was thrilled.
Years later, I was reminiscing with my sister about the meeting, and suddenly I realized something. “Does it seem odd to you,” I asked her, “that when we met Vivian Vance in Hoover’s office, Hoover wasn’t there?”
I’ve since looked at photos of both Hoover and Vivian Vance from that period of time, and the similarities are rather eerie …
I’ve called some Vivian Vance experts, including Rob Edelman and Audrey Kupferberg, who wrote
I’m not saying at the age of eight I definitely met J. Edgar Hoover at his office in the FBI wearing a dress and makeup, only that I
ANYWAY, THIS WOMAN ON the plane kept talking about Helen Gandy, Hoover’s personal secretary, and how important she was to him. And yet, she never once mentioned Clyde Tolson, the associate director of the FBI with whom Hoover had lunch and dinner every day and traveled constantly. Tolson inherited Hoover’s estate, and they’re buried side by side.
She leaned over to me at one point and said, “I’ll trade you my
Anyway, a few minutes later she started saying, “Let’s do a biopic of Erik Prince!” She said it as if she was free associating.
And I thought:
But: Take the high road, right? I bought another
Let that be a lesson, though. Who knows what kind of amazing stories she could have gotten out of me if, instead of swiping my magazine, she’d just offered me her paper and started up a friendly conversation?
Not that I love chatting on airplanes, or ever. I do like to keep to myself, a fact that drives my family insane. My mother in particular is incredibly outgoing. She doesn’t believe anyone else should have secrets from her, ever. She’s the kind of person who runs her gloved finger along the top of a picture frame to see if there’s dust on it. I think that’s ridiculous. Who cares if there’s dust up there? If the house is a mess, let’s talk about the dust that’s down here on the table.
When my sister was living in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, my mother and I were visiting once, and as usual Mother was snooping. She went up into the attic, which was a bedroom, poked around, and came down to the first floor to tell me to go up there.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“To see how horrible it is,” she said.
“I don’t want to!” I said. “I wasn’t invited.”
“I want you to see it!” she insisted.
“I don’t want to see it!” I insisted back.
This is the kind of thing we fight about: whether or not to go into my sister’s attic to look at dust. I am all for people getting to keep private rooms private. Not so my mother. In fact, her snooping is such that she thought nothing of breaching national security.
After the tragic assassination of John F. Kennedy, the Warren Commission put together its famous report of what happened. Well, my father had an early, top-secret copy. He brought it home with him from work one night and, knowing my mother was eager to peek at it, hid it well—or so he thought.
My mother found it and locked herself in the bathroom so she could read it in peace. My father banged away at the door, but she wouldn’t open it. Finally, my father took the door down with an axe. You’d think that would be enough to convince my mother to let secrets stay secret, but no, she’s still just as snoopy as ever.
When it comes to what to conceal or what to reveal, I err on the side of privacy but also honesty, as you may have guessed by now.
I think it’s best never to lie, because when you tell lies, you have to remember them. It makes life really complicated. I always tell the truth. It gets me in trouble sometimes, but at least I don’t have to keep track of a whole bunch of crazy stories—at least not crazy ones that are made up!
When in Rome …
I Still Wouldn’t Eat Monkey Brains
MY FAMILY IS ORIGINALLY Norwegian. We were thrown out of Norway in the ninth century and wound up in Scotland. Our coat of arms says, “Make peace, not war.” It may as well have said, “No live food, please,” for we are a timid people when it comes to eating, and my extensive business travels through Asia have definitely challenged my constitution, and my sense that what constitutes good manners must be universal.
For example, one doesn’t firmly shake hands in Malaysia. Traditionally, you put both your hands out and
