The Shattered Prayer

Mojo told me some sad news when I got home.  Brett Somers died today.  But, her son, Alan Klugman, said, “She maintained her independence till the end, and her irreverence.  She died very much at peace.” and that made me very happy.  She was a beloved part of my youth and I am very glad to hear that in the end, she kept living life on her own terms. 

I was luckier than some growing up.  My parents, for all their conservatism, were pretty wild and liberal for the South.  They had dances at our house; they were always going on trips (even if were just to Panama City, Florida or Gatlinburg, Tennessee), and they were never without a party on New Year’s Eve.  They were two people who enjoyed themselves and enjoyed a good time.  Part of my dad’s idea of a good time involved ribald or risque humour and things that pushed the social envelope (even though he would deny vehemently that he enjoyed such things — he’d more likely side with Archie Bunker than Maude Findley publicly, but I like to think that there was a little bit of Maude in him.).  This meant that, unlike Mojo, my entertainment growing up could be “wild.”  Or as wild as 1970s TV could get.  My sister and I could stay up and watch things like “Charlie’s Angels”, “The Tonight Show”, or “Maude,” shows other people my age weren’t allowed to watch.  It also meant that I got to watch TV’s raciest comedy, “Soap.”  And my love of “Soap” led to my long and wonderful friendship with Che.

But, of all the shows my parents’ “wildness” allowed me to enjoy, one of the ones I loved the most was “Match Game.”  I loved that show.  I wanted to be there in that studio.  I wanted Johnny Olson to introduced me on the Star Studded panel.  I wanted to tell people how to fill in Dumb Dora’s blanks.  I wanted one of Gene Rayburn’s foot long microphones.  I even pulled the end off of my grandmother’s carpet rake and pretended it was my Gene Rayburn microphone.  Other kids played astronaut or cowboys or football, I pretended that I was Gene, asking contestants naughty double entendre filled question.  The reruns on the Gameshow network can’t capture the feeling of freedom the show exuded at the time, but it was liberating to me.  I even loved the cast.  Fannie Flagg, Betty White, Patti Deutsch.  Why couldn’t I know people like this?  And then there was Charles Nelson Riley, as out as you could be at the time.  Loved him!  And my parents loved him too.  As a little gay boy, I had hope that if they loved Chuck, they could love me!

But the undisputed star of the show in my mind was Charles’ constant sparring partner, Brett Somers. 

I don’t know what it was about her but she fascinated me.  She was unlike any of the women I knew, but I knew that I liked what I saw.  Whenever Brett wasn’t on and some other person took her place, I didn’t really want to watch the show.  I’d look to see what else was on.  I wanted to see Brett.  I wanted to hear her make her jokes.  I wanted to hear her say, “Well, Gene, I said ‘boobs.’”  I never saw why all the contestants chose Richard Dawson for their final match.  I knew if I were on the show, I would choose Brett.

She was as close to a free spirit that a little gay boy in the smack dab middle of Georgia could find in the 1970s.

And later in life I learned that she was just as much a free spirit as she appeared to be on that orange and blue panel.  She ran away to New York’s Greenwich Village when she was 17 (it took me a few more years to get to New York and a little longer to get to the Village, but get there I did), changed her name from “Audrey” to Brett after a character in “The Sun Also Rises” by Ernest Hemingway, and took her mother’s maiden name for her own.  I guess watching “Match Game” in its various incarnations, I soaked up that free wheeling spirit that Brett gave off. 

I knew that I wanted to be like Brett Somers, interesting, adored, and oh so witty.

So here is to one classy dame.  I’ll miss you Brett Somers.   You gave joy and to millions and filled our homes with laughter.  You made us know it was okay to be a mouthy woman with a mind of her own.  And you said “boobs” constantly on network television. 

And that is certainly a life well lived!

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