A DREAM, AN APPARITION, AND FATE
(or How And Why I Found Dean Martin)
I’ve been a Dean Martin fan since I was a child in the early ‘60s. Handsome and sophisticated, he lived a swinging show biz life that fascinated me.
On March 23, 1987, I heard the horrible news. A fighter jet and its pilot, thirty-five-year-old United States Air Force Captain Dean Paul Martin, had disappeared from radar screens during a routine training mission two days earlier. My heart stopped. Not my Dino. It couldn’t be. From that moment on, I listened to all news reports, praying for his safety, feeling his family’s pain.
I’ve been a Dean Martin fan since I was a child in the early ‘60s. Handsome and sophisticated, he lived a swinging show biz life that fascinated me.
On March 23, 1987, I heard the horrible news. A fighter jet and its pilot, thirty-five-year-old United States Air Force Captain Dean Paul Martin, had disappeared from radar screens during a routine training mission two days earlier. My heart stopped. Not my Dino. It couldn’t be. From that moment on, I listened to all news reports, praying for his safety, feeling his family’s pain.
I’ve been a Dean Martin fan since I was a child in the early ‘60s. Handsome and sophisticated, he lived a swinging show biz life that fascinated me.
By the age of 10 in 1965, my attention had turned to the world of teen idols. Paul McCartney was my favorite, but his allure faded when I discovered a new face in the teen fan magazines I read religiously. One look at one grainy photograph and I was in love with the blond, blue-eyed boy who played bass guitar for a trio new to the music world. They called themselves Dino, Desi, and Billy.
It was quite a surprise when I learned that the boy I was dreaming about, thirteen-year-old Dino, was the son of my earlier hero, Dean. Their unexpected family ties excited me, adding to the mystique of both father and son.
Little girl fantasies filled my mind, evolving into the private, personalized fairy tales that helped me get through a troubled adolescence. Unlike reality, life was perfect in my imaginary world. Dean was king, Dino, my very own Prince Charming, and I was everything he wanted me to be in every scenario I created, each one ending with happily ever after.
Even after I married and started a family of my own, I found myself thinking about Dino every now and then, and he always made me smile. I had kept up with him over the years through magazine articles, and watched closely when he began an acting career. By then, he had dropped the nickname, Dino, in favor of his given name, Dean Paul. He’d always be Dino to me, though, and I clung to a lingering secret desire—the chance to meet him one day, if only to say thank you for some of my fondest childhood memories. Then I lost him before I found him. Dino was killed when his jet crashed. A piece of my heart, a part of my youth died too. The shock of losing my fantasy prince hit hard. I mourned him and missed him as I would an old friend, while time, a husband, and two young daughters keeping me busy softened my grief. I would never forget Dino and hoped for a chance to somehow say a proper goodbye to him.
In 1989, my husband, Mark, and I decided to visit Los Angeles during our family’s summer vacation. We wanted to see the sights, and I would finally have the opportunity to pay my respects to Dino, two years after he died. I never could have imagined the events about to unfold. When I called a travel agent in early May to arrange our trip, I learned that the hotel where we hoped to stay was full during the week we wanted to travel, so we agreed to go the following week. A few days later, while reading a jeweler’s trade magazine, Mark learned of a trade show to be held at our hotel, a week after our rescheduled visit. Once again, I called our travel agent, eager to take advantage of the chance to incorporate a little business into our plans. “Changing your reservations would normally be no problem,” he told me, “but our airline computers are down at the moment.” It was a Saturday, and the agent was apologetic for the inconvenience as he reminded me that by 9am Monday, our flight schedule would be locked in, as per airline policy. The agent sounded much more hopeful when he added, “If we do get back on line before close of business today, I’ll make sure to take care of it for you.” “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “And don’t worry about letting me know. I’ll call you Monday to find out.” Hanging up the phone, I wondered which week we’d be traveling, glad it really didn’t matter. That night, I had a cryptic dream. Dino was there and I was telling him of my plans, and all the other things I wanted him to hear—how much he meant to me, how much I missed him. “I know,” he assured me, flashing the smile I so lovingly remembered. “But you have to tell him.” “Tell who? Tell him what?” “My dad needs to know how you feel. It’ll help.” “Your father?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. “What are you talking about? How can I tell Dean Martin anything? Where? When?” Even in a dream, I knew the idea was ridiculous. But Dino gave me an answer. “August twelfth,” he said. “At eight o’clock.” Then he faded away.
Seemingly so real, the image remained clear in my mind when I woke up the next morning, and I immediately checked the calendar. If my family and I went to Los Angeles for the jewelry show, I’d be home in Fort Lauderdale on August twelfth. But if a computer breakdown forced us into going the week that was now our third choice, I’d be in L.A. on that date. Suddenly recognizing the hands of fate at work, dictating the dates of our vacation, I was now certain I’d meet Dean Martin. Somehow. Somewhere.
When I told my husband about my dream, and my seemingly impossible expectations, he laughed. But I knew I was right. I felt it. As expected, we were in L.A. on August twelfth. That morning, at quarter to eight, I left my sleeping family in our hotel room and drove off to visit Dino’s grave. Having learned the location of the cemetery through news reports, I stood alone at his graveside for more than twenty minutes, hoping for further instructions while thinking back to the endless, wondrous hours Dino and I had happily shared in my childhood fantasies and dreams. When I returned to the hotel, I called my family in our room from the lobby. Ready to get started on another day, they promised to come right down. While I waited, I checked the hotel bulletin board. I read about a wedding to be held there that night, and a fund-raising dinner at eight o’clock to benefit St. Jude’s Hospital.
The announcements meant little to me, and as we were driving back to the hotel after another day of sightseeing, my husband had some questions for me.
“What are we doing tonight?” Mark asked. “Where are we supposed to be at eight o’clock?” His tone was sarcastic and I didn’t have an answer. If my dream had really meant something, as I firmly believed it had, I was certain I’d be led to the right place. That’s when it hit me. The information I’d read earlier finally registered in my brain. The fund-raising dinner at our hotel . . . would it be a star-studded affair? I was absentmindedly thinking out loud and my daughters jumped on my words. “What celebrities? Where? When? Will we see them?” When we arrived back at our hotel, my nine-year-old daughter, Lori, flew from the car and raced to the concierge desk, asking questions.
“Several celebrities are expected,” she was told. “They should start arriving in about two hours.” The four of us rushed to our room, showered and changed, and hurried back downstairs to the entrance with our camera and my daughters’ autograph books in hand. Once the guests began arriving around seven o’clock, my daughters kept busy collecting signatures while their dad snapped pictures at a furious pace. We were surrounded by major celebrities, the dreams of a starstruck tourist in Los Angeles fulfilled.
After a half hour or so, I began trembling and glanced at Mark. “If Dean Martin gets out of a car at eight o’clock,” I said breathlessly, “I think you’ll need to take me home in a straitjacket.” My premonition was suddenly frightening me.
When I told my husband about my dream, and my seemingly impossible expectations, he laughed. But I knew I was right. I felt it. As expected, we were in L.A. on August twelfth. That morning, at quarter to eight, I left my sleeping family in our hotel room and drove off to visit Dino’s grave. Having learned the location of the cemetery through news reports, I stood alone at his graveside for more than twenty minutes, hoping for further instructions while thinking back to the endless, wondrous hours Dino and I had happily shared in my childhood fantasies and dreams. When I returned to the hotel, I called my family in our room from the lobby. Ready to get started on another day, they promised to come right down. While I waited, I checked the hotel bulletin board. I read about a wedding to be held there that night, and a fund-raising dinner at eight o’clock to benefit St. Jude’s Hospital.
The announcements meant little to me, and as we were driving back to the hotel after another day of sightseeing, my husband had some questions for me.
“What are we doing tonight?” Mark asked. “Where are we supposed to be at eight o’clock?” His tone was sarcastic and I didn’t have an answer. If my dream had really meant something, as I firmly believed it had, I was certain I’d be led to the right place. That’s when it hit me. The information I’d read earlier finally registered in my brain. The fund-raising dinner at our hotel . . . would it be a star-studded affair? I was absentmindedly thinking out loud and my daughters jumped on my words. “What celebrities? Where? When? Will we see them?” When we arrived back at our hotel, my nine-year-old daughter, Lori, flew from the car and raced to the concierge desk, asking questions.
“Several celebrities are expected,” she was told. “They should start arriving in about two hours.” The four of us rushed to our room, showered and changed, and hurried back downstairs to the entrance with our camera and my daughters’ autograph books in hand. Once the guests began arriving around seven o’clock, my daughters kept busy collecting signatures while their dad snapped pictures at a furious pace. We were surrounded by major celebrities, the dreams of a starstruck tourist in Los Angeles fulfilled.
After a half hour or so, I began trembling and glanced at Mark. “If Dean Martin gets out of a car at eight o’clock,” I said breathlessly, “I think you’ll need to take me home in a straitjacket.” My premonition was suddenly frightening me.
At the same time, Lori had started a conversation with a friendly young girl named Susan, a professional photographer who made a living tracking celebrities around town. My daughter was asking her if she knew which celebrities were expected that night, mentioning several she hoped to see. When Lori brought up Dean Martin’s name, Susan couldn’t hide her surprise. “You’re interested in Dean Martin?” she asked, her wide eyes staring at the nine-year-old in front of her. “Sure,” Lori answered. “My mom’s always been a big fan and I love Martin and Lewis movies!” Standing nearby watching them, I walked closer.
“You want to meet Dean Martin?” Susan asked. “I’d love to,” I responded quickly, intrigued by her tone that implied she had reliable information. “Do you know how I could?”
That’s when Susan told me about La Famiglia, an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills that Mr. Martin frequented, adding he usually arrived there about 7:30. When I checked my watch, my pulses raced. This bit of crucial information had come to me at exactly 8pm, on August twelfth.
“You want to meet Dean Martin?” Susan asked. “I’d love to,” I responded quickly, intrigued by her tone that implied she had reliable information. “Do you know how I could?”
That’s when Susan told me about La Famiglia, an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills that Mr. Martin frequented, adding he usually arrived there about 7:30. When I checked my watch, my pulses raced. This bit of crucial information had come to me at exactly 8pm, on August twelfth.
As soon as that shock subsided, I called the restaurant for reservations. Because the establishment was closed the next day, I chose the night after that, which would be our last night in L.A. We arrived on schedule and, as Susan had suggested, we asked the parking valet if Mr. Martin was expected that night. He was, and at any moment. I knew he would be, and I could feel Dino with me as the tuxedoed maître d led us to our table. And I trembled when Lori questioned him about the possibility of our meeting Mr. Martin while we were there. “I’ll ask him,” the maître d replied. “He usually doesn’t mind, but sometimes, he’s just not in the mood.” When I glanced at the large front window of the restaurant, I spied Mr. Martin getting out of his car. My knees knocked together as he entered the room, and my heart skipped a beat when he sat alone at a booth, steps from our table. My confidence strong, I anxiously awaited the okay to fulfill my mission. It came within minutes. My husband, daughters, and I apprehensively approached Mr. Martin and introduced ourselves. Happily for all of us, he was most affable, engaging the girls in friendly conversation while my husband and I began our own conversation in glances over our daughters’ heads. His eyes pleaded with me not to mention Dino as he knew I wanted. My eyes told him I had to. Dino had told me to come, and in a sense, had led me to the opportunity. I only wished he told me what to say as my husband took the girls back to our table, leaving me alone with Dean. I didn’t know how to go further, and I felt shaky as I stared into his sad brown eyes. Finally, I stammered, “I wanted to tell you, Mr. Martin, that I was a big fan of Dino’s.” He returned my stare as I went on, trying to explain how much Dino had meant to me during the twenty-four years since I first saw him. When I noticed tears in Dean’s eyes, my heart broke for him, and I was overcome by guilt, feeling totally insensitive. I had hoped to comfort him somehow, but it wasn’t working out that way. Quivering, I searched for the proper words to end this meeting. “I just wanted you to know,” I said, “that there are people who still think about Dino, and miss him, and will always remember him. He was special and I just wanted to tell you that. Thank you for your time.” Silently, I added: Thank you, and Dino, for a lot of great memories. You’re both wonderful.
Rejoining my family, I gave them a condensed version of the mostly one-sided conversation. My husband quietly berated my intrusion into the Martin family’s personal tragedy, and I began to wonder if he was right as we finished our meal. Filing passed Dean’s table on our way out, we said goodbye as we moved along. He nodded and waved, and wished us a safe trip home the next day. At my daughters’ request, we took a walk before we got our car, browsing the store windows lining the street. And then, as we were nearing the restaurant entrance on our way back, the parking valet we had questioned earlier called to us. “Mr. Martin is getting ready to leave,” he said. “He should be right out if you’d like to see him again.” We didn’t even have time to answer. Dean was suddenly standing by Lori, and she asked if I could take a picture of them together. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied with a warm smile as he reached down and wrapped his arm around her.
When my husband noticed what was happening, he took the camera and pushed me and our younger daughter, Lindsay, into the picture. Overwhelmed by all that happened, I somehow found the courage to ask Mr. Martin if I could give him a kiss after the photo had been snapped. With the same roguish smile I had seen so often on TV and in movies, he bent down and offered his cheek. I didn’t tell him part of that kiss was from Dino, but there was a true warmth in his embrace as his arm encircled me, as if he had sensed it. I wanted to believe he had. I wanted to believe he felt Dino’s presence between us as much as I did.
“Thank you,” I said to him. “We really appreciate your kindness. It was a special pleasure to meet you.” “No,” he muttered softly. “Thank you.”
When my husband noticed what was happening, he took the camera and pushed me and our younger daughter, Lindsay, into the picture. Overwhelmed by all that happened, I somehow found the courage to ask Mr. Martin if I could give him a kiss after the photo had been snapped. With the same roguish smile I had seen so often on TV and in movies, he bent down and offered his cheek. I didn’t tell him part of that kiss was from Dino, but there was a true warmth in his embrace as his arm encircled me, as if he had sensed it. I wanted to believe he had. I wanted to believe he felt Dino’s presence between us as much as I did.
“Thank you,” I said to him. “We really appreciate your kindness. It was a special pleasure to meet you.” “No,” he muttered softly. “Thank you.”
I was shaking as I watched Dean get into his car and drive away.
“Maybe you did do the right thing,” my husband admitted as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “The tone of that Thank You certainly sounded like he really appreciated what you said.” I can only hope Mark was right this time. Still, for the rest of my life, I will fondly remember the evening, as well as both father and son, the king and my childhood prince. The only thing that could have made the night any more memorable or thrilling for me would have been having Dino there with us—healthy and alive . . . not just in our hearts.
“Maybe you did do the right thing,” my husband admitted as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “The tone of that Thank You certainly sounded like he really appreciated what you said.” I can only hope Mark was right this time. Still, for the rest of my life, I will fondly remember the evening, as well as both father and son, the king and my childhood prince. The only thing that could have made the night any more memorable or thrilling for me would have been having Dino there with us—healthy and alive . . . not just in our hearts.
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