Kurtz Swoosie - Part swan, part goose: an uncommon memoir of womanhood, work and family

There are two time-honored professions in which the first thing you do when you get to work is take off your clothes.

Im in the other one.

Arriving backstage or on a back lot, ascending the winding staircase in a Broadway theater or climbing into my trailer at Warner Brothers, my first order of business is to shed my street clothes (my father would have called them civvies) and be delivered into the skin of whomever it is Im getting paid to be that day. Im surrounded by nimble artists who appraise my appearance with unforgiving technical eyes and craft me from heel to eyelash, evaluating my rear end, propping up my meager dcolletage, making sure my earlobes and knuckles dont clash, checking for knee wrinkles and hem threads.

Rarely does all this happen with any deference to my dignity. In my line of work, while humility is an asset, modesty is a bother. Im lucky enough to have been brought up by two people who knew the difference.

My father, Frank Kurtz, was an Olympic diver in his youth. Theres not much room for modesty up there on the ten-meter platform and even less room in a pair of aerodynamically snug swim trunks. But to make that leap without humilitywithout respect for gravity, without remembering how applause disappears under waterthat would be a terrible mistake.

My mother, Margo Rogers Kurtz, was Frankies foil in witty dinner table repartee and his staunch ally in every other aspect of life. She was the ever-fixed mark Shakespeare noted in sonnet, a small, brilliant pin on his private map of the world. Margo was the model wartime bride in the 1940s: industrious, beautiful, capable, the perfect combination of stiff upper lip and fire-engine red lipstick. She could pilot a small airplane, feed a small army and fit nicely into those tailored peplum skirt suits that were all the rage.

Newspapers and newsreels couldnt help noticing her as my father flew higher and farther, collecting scars and medals. Every time he made it home in one piece, it was a stunning blow for the cause of hope, and during World War IIunder the darkness and din of the air-raid sirens, as inhumanity sucked innocence into a genocidal ovenhope was highly prized. It was sought after.

I look at that photograph on a bookshelf behind my desk and see nothing but hope, hope, hope. Margo and me, September 6, 1944.

ASSOCIATED PRESS

Frankie and Margo were recruited along with Hollywood stars and other celebrities for war-bond tours. These junkets were utterly purpose driven: no frills, no egos, just as many recognizable names as the organizer could cram into a train car and parade to the autograph tables. In one town after another, starstruck fans lined up to buy bonds. Even the most pampered celebrities were gung ho about these rustic excursions. Im certain any attempts at modesty would have been laughed out of the tiny train car water closet, so Margo and Frankie fit right in. He was a hero, and she was the classy, garrulous sidekick who kept his clay feet warm.

My mothers book, My Rival, the Sky, came into the world the same year I did. We both grew inside her while my father flew bombing runs over Italy in 1944. G. P. Putnam (the publishing magnate who was also the husband of Amelia Earhart) had taken an interest in my parents after they collaborated with W. L. White on the book Queens Die Proudly, which told the story of the great Flying Fortress bombers, including my fathers heroically cobbled together B-17D, the Swoose. A contract was proposed and accepted: Margo was to write a war memoir from the home-front perspective, title to be determined, $250 to be remitted on signing and $250 on delivery of the manuscript.

I was born in the fall of 1944, a few weeks after Nazi forces put a brutal end to Hungarian resistance, a few weeks before U.S. troops landed in the Philippines. My father was somewhere in the thick of that as my mother and day-old me were being photographed for the newspaper. People desperately needed to see this beautiful, young mother treasuring her fresh baby and believe in a God who would either bring that babys daddy home or send straight to Hell the scurvy tail gunner who took him out.

I look at that photograph on a bookshelf behind my desk and see nothing but hope, hope, hope. My mothers face is filled with optimism and love. Its hard to turn away. But its time.

Margo, darling? I call on my way to the car. Im off.

No, youre not, she says. Youre just right.

A quick hug, and Im out the door. I drive myself to work (mechanically and metaphorically), and it doesnt take long. Every day Im grateful for this five-minute commute to the studio. The kismet is unbelievable. After decades of bicoastal and intercontinental commutes, almost always working more than one job at any given time, just when I needed it most, I landed a steady gig on that rarest of beasts: a television show that is a critical