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thing, too. Omar just left—they’ve been playing cards and yakking all night. I had to finish the packing.”
    Normally, Phyllis did her own packing.
    The “baggage wagon,” which turned out to be a second limousine, arrived shortly and I realized the necessity of having a separate vehicle for the luggage. Karen and I formed sort of a bucket brigade; she handed me the bags off the porch and I passed them on to the driver, who stashed them in the trunk.
    “Hey, this one’s empty!” I said.
    “No, it’s the feathers.”
    So there was a bag with feather boas and headdresses, two wig boxes for the fright wigs Phyllis wore onstage, two suitcases with costumes, Phyllis’s two regular suitcases, a bag with things for Warde, who was meeting us there, my office bag, and a “kitchen bag.” The kitchen bag was heavy and when I saw what was inside, I understood. There was a hot plate, pans, utensils, cutlery, assorted herbs and spices, cans of soup and some crackers. Added to that were Karen’s suitcase, which matched Phyllis’s, and mine, which didn’t.
    I’d learned more about Phyllis Diller since the day I said “yes” to the lady at the employment agency. The traveling kitchen, I realized, probably reflected an uncertain childhood during the Depression. Phyllis had been an only child of older parents and evidently learned to be self-reliant at an early age. Also, times were tough during her first marriage to a husband who couldn’t or wouldn’t hold a job. There were days when she didn’t know where they’d get money to buy food for the growing family. Although she was no Scarlett O’Hara, I’d guessed that she had promised herself she and her family would never go hungry again.
    Warde was another dish of fish entirely. Karen told me he came from a wealthy, prestigious family. His brother was Chairman of the Board at Disney Studios. Perhaps my first impression of him had been wrong, I told myself as we continued to hand suitcases down to the limo driver.
    Phyllis, somewhat bleary-eyed, came outside to see how we were doing. When she saw my suitcase, she turned back into the house and in just a moment was back with one of hers. “Use this,” she said. “With all the traveling we do, you’ll wear yours out in no time. Besides, it’s easier to pick them out when they all match.” There wasn’t time to repack my suitcase right there on the front porch, so I sent her huge, red-plaid suitcase home with my dad, but used it on all the trips after that.
    I’d asked my dad to wait until we were on our way. I don’t know quite why, but I just wanted to make sure everything was going to happen the way I thought it would. When Phyllis saw me handing the suitcase to him, she waved us both over.
    “Phyllis, may I present my father?” I asked.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Diller,” my father said as she held out her hand. My father was a proper English gentleman and even at this early hour on a Saturday morning, he was wearing a suit and tie. Phyllis was properly impressed. She liked him even better when I told her that we had a Chickering grand piano and he played classical music.
    Score one for our side, Dad.
    I had an odd introduction to traveling with Phyllis Diller. The usual arrangement had Phyllis and Warde in first class, while Karen and I went coach. However, Warde had gone directly to Philadelphia from New York, where he’d been since Phyllis got back from England. Phyllis never sat alone, so I got to enjoy first class while Karen sat in coach. I had never flown first class before. The crew recognized Phyllis and catered to her outrageously, filling her glass with champagne whenever it was less than half full.
    What is this? Some kind of game? We hadn’t been in the air more than forty minutes and she’d consumed the better part of a bottle. I became uneasy when after the third refill Phyllis decided to show me the contents of her purse. Like the Queen of England, there was no need for her