LOVE

Living On Victorious Energy

I ENTERED THE EARTH'S ATMOSPHERE at the Lillie-Duke Hospital in Goose Creek, Texas, on June 29, 1944, at 11:50 A.M. — "just in time for lunch." My mom, Virginia "Ginny" Sadie Arnett Busey, loved to tell me that. My dad, Delmer Lloyd Busey, was not present for my arrival on earth because he was in the South Pacific fighting in World War II. Since Mom was on her own with a newborn baby, her sisters, Ruth and Sis, helped raise me. Those three incredible women were so nurturing, cuddly, and warm; they showered me with endless affection, doting on my every need. I was the center of their universe. My feelings of that time were infinitely rich with being loved every minute.

As a toddler, I loved to explore. Mom said I always went where I wasn't supposed to go. She tried to contain me in a playpen, but I always climbed out. Eventually, Mom turned the playpen upside down to keep me secure, but I had enough power in my oneyear-old body to lift it up and escape. Then, I'd wander to the front door, where I found a way of unlatching it. Once outside, I'd trek down the street on my baby scooter to visit three dogs I was in love with. They always barked so loud when I arrived, I just knew they were telling me they loved me, too. Mom moved the latch higher on the front door, but I still found a way to unlock it with a broomstick. Nothing could stop me from visiting those dogs. My mom and aunts all claimed, "We can't stop Gary. He goes where he wants to, and that's it." I was evolving into a real force of nature.

My favorite thing of all was when Mom showed me the picture of Dad that hung on the wall. She always lit up with an infectious smile that made me feel so happy while she enthusiastically said, "That's your dad." Dad was the handsomest man I had ever seen — just like a movie star — a Victor Mature type. With one-quarter Native American blood, Dad had incredible smooth olive skin, thick black hair, and penetrating blue eyes. The thing that struck me the most about him was his tender smile. I couldn't wait to meet him in person. I knew he was going to be the most loving dad ever.

FILM

Feelings Illuminated Like Magic

IN 1946, when I was almost two years old, Dad returned from World War II. He didn't waste any time getting reacquainted with Mom — within months of his return, she was pregnant with my sister, Carol, who was born on September 12, 1947.

Because of Dad's Seabee experience designing runways in the war, he got a design-construction job with the supermarket chain Safeway. After a few years on the job, Dad was promoted to management, which took the family from Goose Creek, Texas, to Chickasha, Oklahoma, in 1950. I attended kindergarten in Chickasha, but just a year later, Dad moved the family again, this time to Oklahoma City.

In Oklahoma City, just four blocks from our new home, on the corner of Western and Tenth Street, was a movie theater called the Wes-Ten. The Wes-Ten was the local babysitter to kids of all ages in the neighborhood. Every weekend from noon to six, the 350-seat theater was packed to the brim with excitable, rowdy kids of all ages. Mom gave me thirty cents, then sent me off with my buddies Ronnie Dale, Bobby Hughes, John Mason, and Tommy Hawke to spend the day at the Wes-Ten. The five of us raced the four blocks, through a park, around trees, and over fences, to be the first one to arrive. I was six years old and feeling free as a bird.

The Wes-Ten became my private paradise. On the outside, the façade was outlined in neon with a V-shaped flashing marquee. Inside, down the sides of the theater walls and all through the lobby were large framed pictures of the biggest Hollywood movie stars of the day, like John Wayne, Jennifer Jones, Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Jean Arthur, Joel McCrea, Jane Russell, and Marilyn Monroe. Looking at the pictures, I felt like I knew each and every one of them personally. Then there was the lobby concession stand. It was the most glorious sight — like being...