Yesterday, I watched “Becoming Cary Grant.” It reminded me of a fun story from my childhood. In 1971 my father picked up the phone and a voice asked if Gwen Davis was there. “She is, ” my father responded, ‘may I ask who’s calling?” “It’s Cary Grant.” “Oh alright, Cary Grant,” my father responded in his best Cary Grant impression, “I’ll go get her.” My father was pretty sure this was someone putting him on, so he walked through the house saying, “Gwen, Cary Grant is on the phone,” continuing what he thought was a superior Cary Grant impression to the one that had been attempted on the phone. My mom picked up the phone and discovered that in fact, Cary Grant was on the phone. He had read her recent novel, and had enjoyed it so much that he had contacted her publisher to get her number and offer his appreciation. She and Cary Grant became friends for the last dozen years or so of his life. My one memory of him must have been around the time of the beginning of their friendship. We were living in Coldwater Canyon and we stopped at his house. It was around Christmastime, because I remember he had his lights up. he was home alone, and he was excited that my mother had brought me. I remember him being white haired and very handsome. He pulled out a box of magic tricks and proceeded to perform them all for me. When he finished his performance, he boxed up the tricks handed me the box, and wished me Merry Christmas.
