Chapter 1: The Mirror of Life Part 4

 “I’m A Horse and Buggy Girl.” 1919

Agnes Moorehead

The Daughter of A Preacher Man

You are scrutinized constantly when you are the child of a minister, as I am.

I even said it in an interview. I was explicitly asked about being the child of

a minister, and I said that you are on display constantly as a minister’s child.

You have no privacy, and everything untoward you may do makes its way straight

to your Father's ears. So, Pegg and I were literally on display from our first breaths.

I am an exhibitionist because I'm an actress and have never been "off stage," so to speak.

There is no anonymity when you are the child of a minister, and that happens

whether you live in a big city or a small town. Throughout my youth, I lived in both

worlds and thrived. Did you know I danced barefoot on the lawn before Central High

School in 1917? I went to burlesque houses to get autographs and to the stage door

of every theater in St. Louis to which I had access. I wrote letters to the likes of

Eleanora Duse. It culminated in me being on stage at the St. Louis Municipal Opera

at twelve; I was about three years older than that. So, I lied about my age

to get on stage and dance. Never mind that I was a “minister's daughter. Never mind

that I was constantly on display. I made it a point to be noticed, which she learned

to do from Mother. Suffice it to say that my humor, pattern of speech,

ability to reason, and a fair bit of generational trauma became part of the

confounding masterpiece that was or is me.

Papa

Father always considered Pegg and her when accepting a call to pastor a church.

After we left Massachusetts, we moved to Hamilton, Ohio. I loved it there.

There was so much to do and to see. We lived in the parsonage at 23 Court Street.

I had an enormous sandbox in the yard, and all my friends used to come, and we would

play for hours and hours. In 1906, my sister Margaret Ann was born. What a gorgeous

little cherub she was. Her hair was a mass of red-gold curls. Her cheeks were pink

and chubby. I used to pinch them gently, and Peggy would laugh and laugh.

Even though she was younger than me, she was fearless. Pegg was always right

there in the middle of any games the older children played, laughing. Everyone

adored her so. It was as if I had a living doll to play with daily. Oh, my Mother

fussed over Peggy because she was so tiny, as if my Mother was tall, and for some

reason, Mama seemed to think Peggy was fragile enough to break like fine porcelain.

She wasn’t delicate and kept pace with us no matter what. Papa stayed at the church

in Hamilton until I was eleven. Then, having decided that the family needed to

broaden our horizons, Papa accepted a pastorate in St. Louis, Missouri. In my mind,

Pegg and I were beside ourselves with joy. We were going to live in the big city.

We could now see and do things they had only dreamed of.

As we grew up, St. Louis allowed us to be ourselves. I would experience that freedom

again in College. Pegg and I set about making friends. Pegg had tons!

I also had a good number, and St. Louis gave me freedom.   Did you know that two

years before my graduation, I went to the front lawn of Central High School, kicked

off my shoes, and danced barefoot in the grass? I had no idea my happy little dance

hinted at my future as an entertainer. At this point in my life, I felt unconstrained by

my overly prudish mores. I could be silly, joyous, unfettered, and exuberant without repercussions.

My time in St. Louis was among the happiest of my life. 

Then, in a complete about-face, Mama and Papa accepted a posting in a tiny

town in Wisconsin called Reedsburg. I entered Muskingum College during the

Fall of 1919. I came home to St. Louis during my vacation, and in December, we all

boarded a train to take us to the small, quaint, gorgeous village of Reedsburg. Peggy

was beside herself because she knew they got a large quantity of snow, which

meant tobogganing and snowball fights with her sister. I was enchanted with the idea

as well. I loved the quiet way snow falls. It soaks up the hustle and bustle, making it

seem like you are walking in a fairytale.

Mama

Mama adored Reedsburg. It breathed new life into her. It reminded Mother of the

area she spent her childhood in, with one enormous difference. Mother always said

that no matter how hard god tried to make the snow in Scottdale white,

it was always a unique shade of gray because of the coal dust. The snow in

that part of Pennsylvania was gray. There were many shades of gray, from light to

dark, but absolutely no white within 12 hours of the snow hitting the ground. The lack

of coal dust made this the ideal place for Mother because Reedsburg had considerable

white snow yearly. They all, Papa included, looked forward to the first snow.

It was very nearly a holiday in itself. But Christmas, oh, that was glorious indeed.

I love winter. As the train rolled along the tracks, I sat still with my hands folded

in my lap. Mother fussed at me for fidgeting with the leather edge of my gloves.

I was tugging at them in rhythm as the train wheels clicked.

I looked at my sister and said softly, “Each one is different, you know, Peg.”

Snowflakes look the same on the outside, but they couldn’t be more different from

one another if they tried,” I said matter-of-factly. Peggy looked up. Watching her

long strawberry blond curls bouncing as she raised her head was a joy.

Margaret, whom we called Peggy, had been reading her Bible. Peggy tilted her head

sideways and sarcastically said, “Do you know that you tell me that every single

time it snows, Agg?” Straightening her head, she said, “Then you tell me that we are

like the snowflakes, different but the same.” “There, I’ve just saved you the time.”

Peggy was a sassy young woman, always full of sass. It drove the Mother to distraction.

Peg turned her attention back to her reading. I remember that I smiled and gave

a silent chuckle. My sister was singular, and she knew it.

Peggy daydreamed as she stared at the Bible lying in her lap. I know she hated that

these moves always seemed to happen in the middle of something else.

This year, it was Christmas. Here it was, the day of the birth of Christ, and

the day with all the presents. “How did the Mooreheads end up on a train in the snow

on CHRISTMAS?” she asked with a tone that made Mother look up disapprovingly. 

Peg quickly followed, bemoaning her leaving St.Louis behind, saying that she would

have no friends again and be forced to start from scratch with everything, and that

I would be there to help her this time. Peggy began to cry but stopped herself

because she knew the repercussions. She hated all of it.

“How,” Peg thought, “was she going to do this without her sister?” Peggy knew the

tears were coming, so she excused herself, saying she had to go to the restroom.

As usual, I was close behind her. I could sense my sister's anxiety. When I

reached the door, Peggy was inside with the door closed. So I softly knocked to

avoid drawing attention to herself. “Peg,” I whispered through the door. “Come on, Peg,

open the door before I have an accident!” The door lock clicked, but in typical Peggy

fashion, she could not open it. I told you she was tiny. I opened the door gently

and went in. Peggy was sitting on the closed toilet, crying. I closed the door, locked it,

and returned to Peggy. Peggy stood up, and I held my baby sister for several minutes,

comforting her while she cried.

The train continued throughout the day. Finally, at  4:00 p.m., it pulled into the railway

station in Reedsburg, Wisconsin. It was dark and cold, and we were all exhausted

. In true Moorehead fashion, we all pulled ourselves together, hiding our exhaustion

and anxiety under partial smiles on Peggy and me, soft, motherly concern on

Mother’s face, and warm confidence on Papa’s gentle face. We stepped off the

train as the porter collected our luggage, looking like the perfect family. 

A small crowd was on the platform to greet us and welcome us to our new home

with fellowship and a hot meal. Followed by what seemed like hours to Peggy

and me of joyous conversation with people we had never met before.

I thought we all made it look easy, but it wasn’t. It was downright painful for Peggy.

But since I was grown up, I have been able to converse about various topics.

Peggy was not even thirteen yet and felt like the lone onion in a petunia patch.

Reedsburg was a lovely little town filled with amiable people, and Father thought

it was the perfect place to bring us after the hustle and bustle of St. Louis.

That year, five inches of snow were on the ground in Reedsburg, Wisconsin,

on December 25, 1919. It was twenty-nine degrees outside when Mother, Peggy,

and I arrived with Papa from St. Louis. The air converted breath to frozen mist as

people walked and talked. It was incredible. The whole place looked like it had

come from a Currier and Ives print! Evergreens dusted with frost and snow. 

Wreaths and ribbons were abounding. This is the Christmas scene that we all

imagine as children. Twilight glowed about the village since we had just passed the

shortest day of the year, and that darkness would bring a deep cold to Reedsburg. 

This small hamlet had a population of 2,997 people that year. It was a picture

postcard-perfect scene. This scene greeted us when we first came into

the town of Reedsburg.

Reedsburg was the polar opposite of St Louis, Missouri. St. Louis had tons of

people in it, and Reedsburg had 2,997. These two places could not have been

more different if they tried. We all may have suffered a wee bit of shock when we

surveyed the quaint little village. Although we had lived in a smaller town in Ohio before

we went to St. Louis, this was a different situation altogether. From the rush and bustle

of a city to the hush and quiet of a village. I adapted effortlessly, but I knew Peggy

would have abundant time on her hands, which could be problematic. Remember, Peggy

had no fear of anything except for Aunt Cam. My sister got herself into scrapes and

was rarely successful at getting out of them without being noticed. As I looked around,

I surveyed the lay of the land in their new home. It was a quiet and serene place.

It was the perfect place for now, despite Peggy’s initial dislike. In the parsonage that night,

we all slept deeply and peacefully. We dreamt of Christmas and New Year’s

and the joy that 1920 would bring them. If we had frozen that moment,

we would have lived happily in it forever. 

Chapter 1: The Mirror of Life Part 2

  Telling My Story

Out of this darkness emerges Aggie Moorehead, looking ethereal in lavender and with the clock rewound forty years. Aggie is standing in the pool of light in the darker-than-ink blackness; she clears her throat and begins to speak, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it, the very normal, very lonely death of a once great star of film, radio, motion pictures, and television. If I'm honest, I found myself disappointed. I had imagined it would be much more dramatic and less tedious. I suppose in this situation, I must give way to the idea that I am dead. Very inconvenient. I had plans for things, you know. But as long as I'm here, I'd like to invite you into my parlor, as it were, to look at my life. It's a marvelous story, and I do love telling it!"

As if by magic, a large wingback chair appeared on a stage in a theater, and naturally, it was upholstered

in a beautiful gold-shot mauve silk. "I would never accept anything less," she said with a smile.

I want you to sit back and enjoy this story. You do know you'll be the first to hear it all.

My life has been shrouded in mystery since, well, as long as I can remember. I never believed in allowing

your audience to "know" who you are. It dulls the mystery of the entire thing.

I'm making an exception because I've been locked in that room of silence for

so long that I need to air myself out!" Gesturing for the lights to come down in the house,

she began to tell the tale—the tale of a Boston-born preacher's daughter

and how she came to be Agnes Moorehead.

"My father was a tremendous man. He was the most compassionate, broad-minded, and

gentle human I have ever known," Agnes said proudly. Although Father was not a

big man on the outside, he was a universe constantly in motion on the inside.

He was a deep thinker, and so is his daughter.

Often, he would sit in his office, either at the church or in our home, pondering

the sermon he was working on. He would stare off into the void, considering his message

and how it would impact his parishioners. Now and then, he would make

a statement to all of us during his sermon, hiding it carefully in a sermon but

giving more than enough information for Mother, me, or Pegg to get the point.

Oh, it was always a very pointy point, too! But we all took it to heart immediately and counted

ourselves lucky for having been told in a manner that served to praise god.

Papa knew the only way to get through to Mama was to incorporate god

into the statement, and she would absorb it quickly, knowing it was meant for her.

On the other hand, mother was what they called a pistol. Mama was never

afraid to speak her mind and often did so without thinking. Don't misunderstand;

my mother was good, and Pegg and I knew she loved us.

You see, "Mother was this tiny Victorian lady," as I once described her.

She had been raised in a rough Irish household with a heart of gold and

the judgment of god. I loved my mother dearly, but if I were,

and I try to be honest, she was hard on Pegg and me. She was so hard on Pegg that

it nearly drove her mad.  Pegg was the fairy princess, and I was the angel with the cockeyed halo.

Mother had every right to be proud of Pegg. She was so talented. Peggy played the

violin and the piano, sang like an angel, and danced like Pavlova. Peg had a golden

future in Mother's eyes, mine too, but Mama drove Peg so hard to be perfect at all of it.

Peggy wore herself out trying to live up to mother's expectations and be who she

thought she should be. 

My father and mother always seemed an unlikely couple to me. They operated in opposite ways.

Papa was gentle and compassionate. Mama was often harsh and judgmental. I understand that

my parents were because of their families and how they were reared. Papa came from a house

full of love. Mama came from a home filled with people trying to stay away from each other.

That's where Mother learned to be outspoken and blunt. Grandma McCauley was unusual. 

That's who Pegg was named after, but in true Moorehead fashion, Papa believed Peggy was

named after his grandmother. Trust me, it is much better that way.

Grandma McCauley was everything Grandma Moorehead wasn't, which was not necessarily good.

Father once wrote a sermon about Grandma McCauley, called “The Wicked Grandmother."

I am sure they never saw eye to eye. Papa was polite and cheerful around Grandma McCauley,

but you could see in his eyes that he thought her a hard woman filled with anger who had no outlet.

Of course, there was a reason for that anger. Grandma McCauley was angry at

Father for twenty or more years. It all concerned Mother and the fact that

Father was the minister at her church when she was a young girl. You see, Mama

ran away to marry Papa. She was only 15 when they decided to get married.

It necessitated a trip to Kentucky, where Mother told the county clerk she was 21 and

Father told them he was 27. In truth, Mother had just turned 16, and Father had just turned 30.

Grandmother McCauley was furious at the scandal that centered on their being involved with

each other all those years ago. Although Papa has never admitted it, nor was there church

documentation, I believe he went to Boston to escape the uproar over his relationship with

Mother. He married her, and no, I was not conceived before their marriage.

Thank you very much!

Chapter 1: The Mirror of Life Part 1

  Chapter 1: The Mirror of Life

I've repeatedly said that the end makes the best beginning, so that is where we will start with Agnes

 Robertson Moorehead. It was once written that "She is Agnes Moorehead. She is legend." Whether

 you're a legend, like Agnes Moorehead, or one of the billions of people on this planet, you are just like

 she was. You may have been irritable, charitable, incredible, broken, sad, happy, joyful, loud, and quiet,

 but guess what? So was she. I've been told that there are only two things we cannot escape from doing

 as human beings: being born and dying. Will we start at the end, or is it a beginning disguised as an

 ending? I shall let you be the judge of that. The year is 1974, and the place is New York City, which is

 the beginning of Aggie's final journey.

January 1974

New York City, New York

It was bitterly cold on this gray New York day.

There was no snow on the ground, but with the wind chill, there might as well have been

a blizzard. It might have been warmer if that had happened.

But it didn’t happen. As the sun began to set, the temperature dropped steadily.

She sat in the chair of her room, gazing out the window, her mind wandering

through the past. She wasn’t alone in the room as friends and assistants packed her trunk

and bags. It was 1:30 p.m. and in two hours.

She knew she was leaving New York for the last time.

This would be one of her last journeys anywhere.

She had given my two weeks' notice to the production company of “Gigi.”

On January 2424, Arlene Francis would step onto the stage as Aunt Alicia, and the thought of that

broke her heart even though Arlene is a good friend. She thought.“ I am not ready for this. I wanted

 one more time on that stage.” She knew that she was exhausted, and she knew the cause.

She just wasn’t ready to give in to the idea of dying, but she had begun to suffer extreme

pain so crippling that she couldn’t stand up. She had to take pain medicine all day long just

to stay on her feet. She was tired of the future. Standing for any length of time had

gotten more complex and more challenging.

Sometimes, she seemed afraid she wouldn’t be able to stand again when needed.

Some days, just getting out of bed seemed like an impossible task she barely managed to do.

She couldn’t eat much of anything. Aggie had been staying at her friend Mary Roebling’s

apartment. Mary was so happy to have her for Christmas and prepared a fabulous feast, but

all Aggie could manage were mashed potatoes. She snapped out of her reverie and discovered

that it was 2:00 p.m. Jerry had arrived to take her to the train station.

The trip to the station was quiet. Jerry sat quietly. She knew he was hesitant to speak to her.

She could feel it. He was reluctant to talk because he knew where she was going and why she was

 going there.

Aggie couldn’t tell because she was entirely in her head, making notations about her whole life

and asking herself hard questions about everything she had experienced. This would be tricky, as she

 would have to discuss everything she had experienced. This would never be a joyful ride, so they

 just sat quietly and calmly, saying nothing to each other.

Jerry had been given access to an underground parking area for VIP passengers.

He quickly found space, and before he could put the car in park, a porter

and the senior conductor were right next to the vehicle.

The conductor had a junior porter with a wheelchair to assist me in getting to the train.

When she began to get out of the car and saw that wheelchair,

Agnes suddenly found the strength of ten thousand men and announced that she would 

walk to the train unaided.

She put my arm through Jerry’s, and he took her to her compartment.

Her assistant was placed in another bedroom, and before the train departed, she put away all of 

Aggie’s things.

Agnes sat in her compartment, not moving but just staring out the window, trying 

to take in all the sights and sounds as if I had a film camera in her head, recording

them for posterity.

At 3:30 p.m., the train shuddered and started to move. It quickly entered the underground tunnel leading

 out of Grand Central. In the tunnel's blackness, she wondered if this was what it would be like to die. A

 long dark tunnel and then suddenly a pinhole of light that suddenly grows, and you’re home. Her father

 would be there, and so would Pegg.

God, how she missed Pegg. Part of her was glad to be going home, and part of her, like any human, was

 terrified about that, not knowing what would happen next. In an interview the year before, she said,

 “Fear of life closes off more opportunities than fear ever does.” Boze was a lovely, very nosey, but

 charming young man. She was impressed he had the nerve to ask some of what he did. “You have to

 take risks,” she said. “I have both taken them and avoided them. I did a little of each with my

 fervent interviewer,” she said, smiling wryly. The train went on through the night, and Aggie

 pondered the universe, her ending, and what came next. Presbyterians are nothing if not practical.

The public had been told she was simply going for a checkup at the Mayo Clinic.

Friends and acquaintances had been told she was being treated for pneumonia

and an eye infection. At that point, three people knew what was going on. Aggie’s Mother, of course,

 knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, as did Freddie, who had worked for

her for years, and she trusted Freddie completely. The third person was the assistant

who had been attending to her while she was performing in “Gigi.” Only Molly and

Freddie was present at the hospital. Close to the middle of January,

Aggie began a course of chemotherapy that felt like it was going to kill her long before the cancer did.

The chemotherapy that she was placed on had two components. The first was something called.

 Vincristine, and the second was Adriamycin.

There is an indication of the severity of her cancer in the type of medication she was given. These two

 medications treat metastatic cancers widely in tandem with a third.

That means it was already metastasized and had begun to spread through her body. 

The side effects of these medications are not for the faint of heart, believe me.

You must have an incredible will to live if you’re willing to suffer these kinds of side effects:

IS lost every single bit of her hair. There were rashes in places one should not have a rash. Oh lord,

 everything, even water, tasted of metal. She was so nauseous she couldn’t eat a thing. She had blisters

 on her hands, and writing became impossible. Agnes couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t stay awake. It felt

 like the seventh circle of hell, and I mean that with every fiber of my being.

Adriamycin kills cancer cells but damages DNA. It also blocks an enzyme required for cell division and

 DNA repair. Technically, it’s an antibiotic with murderous tendencies. These medications were not

 given lightly or even given freely in 1974. But they gave them to Agnes!

Agnes was most assuredly not ready to throw in the towel. Then, a month into the chemotherapy, her

 Mother decided that she would fare better at her Mother’s home in Reedsburg. It was ridiculous. It hurt

 just to sit up in bed, but you know her Mother would not hear of her staying in the hospital. It is about

 163 miles from Rochester to Reedsburg; it was the worst ride of her life. Not for one second did she

 have any peace on that drive. The staff kept telling her Mother it would have been better to stay put. It

 was an absolute failure, and by April, she was back in the hospital in Rochester. She had managed two

 months at her Mother's. She was miserable, as was her Mother, but even at her age, she would not let

 Agnes did anything for herself, and she hovered around her like a moth to a candle.

What was happening was that those in charge were allowing Aggie’s Mother to sway their opinions of

 where Agnes would heal faster. They sent her home to die, and awkward as she was, she failed to do

 that for them. Her hair was growing back, and it was itchy. Aggie managed to tell Debbie that she had

 lost her hair. She could hear the tears in Debbie’s voice. That is why she did not want to see or be seen

 by anyone. Aggie couldn’t leave them with that horrible memory of her being in a hospital bed, bald,

 tired, and drawn. Nobody wants to be remembered that way.

As she got worse, they were forced to take her back to that hospital for the remaining three weeks of

her life because her Mother could no longer care for me. After all, her Mother was 90 years old at the

 time. April 9 9th, 1974, she had three weeks of life left. Aggie knew it would not be comfortable and

 would not be pretty.

April 30, 1974

Rochester, Minnesota

Tuesday

It was 6:00 a.m. April 30, 1974, in Rochester, Minnesota. The sun had begun its slow journey through

 the sky, just peaking over the tops of buildings. This sunrise was the kind of amber color that only

 someone who had spent time on the stage would know and appreciate. The color was so warm that it

 seemed to fill the rooms like warm water. Technically, it was Spring, but as anyone who has been to

 Minnesota will tell you that doesn’t mean much. But the sun was coming up—the warm amber sun

 with its rays filling each room methodically. There was a sense of something extraordinary in the air

 that day. I use the term “wonderful” relatively because today, someone was going to die. Someone

 exceptional. Not that many exceptional people don’t die every day; however, for this woman,

her death would be a journey of love.

While her Mother sat and read the bible to her, Agnes gently touched the buzzer to ring for the nurse.

 She didn’t want to disturb her Mother. She was nearly flat on her back and couldn’t see the sunrise at

 all, but neither did she have the strength to lift herself to see it. The nurse walked in, quietly crossed

 over to the bed, and placed her head near Agnes’s face. “I want to see the sunrise,” she whispered. The

 nurse obligingly lifted her frail, thin, and worn-out body and placed an extra pillow under her head.

 Then she raised the head of the bed ever so slightly. The sun had just begun to stream through the

 window. She closed her eyes and let the sun wash over her like soft, warm water. It felt so wonderful

 on her thin, tired skin. Still, she shivered from a cold that had suddenly invaded her soul. She opened

 her eyes to look directly at the sun. Its warmth and color were the only things that mattered now,

 anyway. After a good, long look, she closed her eyes once again. It felt like she had stage lights directly

 on her face. Oh, what a wonderful feeling that was.

I believe something mystical hovers around all living creatures who are dying. It was certainly right

 there in Aggie’s hospital room. A soft white mist hung in the air like thin clouds hanging in a blue sky.

 She could see it. She had been watching it for weeks. She opened her eyes to look around the room.

 The mist was there, but today, it seemed heavier, thicker. It hung above the floor, just like the mist over

 a pond, as the water began to warm after a cold night. “Maybe,” she thought, “this is my life flowing

 out of me.” “Maybe these are my memories.” It turned out she was right on both accounts. Our lives

 are made up of memories that stay with us forever. You could walk down this wing of dying humans,

 peer into any room, and find it filled with memories. Some memories the dying exude are so luminous

 that they could easily be mistaken for a star. Some only glow like an ember left behind by a blazing

 fire. Neither is more or less important than the other, for they are what our very souls are made of.

 Agnes had both kinds of memories along the way; some were brilliant as the sun, and others glowed

 softly like coals in ashes left behind by a blazing fire. As she looked around the room, she smiled

 softly. “This was a good life,” she thought.”I know there are many things I should have done

 differently, but really, it was a good life.”  

She looked absentmindedly out the window, her thoughts wandering from year to year. She relived each

 memory in wonderful, warm tones and feelings of comfort and delight. They seemed genuine enough,

 but it felt as though she was viewing it all through my grandfather’s stereoscope. It would have been

 perfect if time could have just stopped in one of these beautiful memories. “What a pity, “ Aggie

 thought, “that nobody can see these diamonds from my life.” How funny that even though her Mother

 was in the room, she was alone. She had always known that she would die alone and had always

 thought that would bother her at all. Aggie wanted the illusion of glamor, but that did not play well in a

 hospital gown, nor could it hide a bald head, but now, it seemed to be the right way to die. She smiled

 weakly, turning her head toward the sun. “This is the last day I will ever see this,” she whispered. Her

 Mother continued reading to her, not noticing that minute by minute, second by second, she was

 leaving this earthly plane until she heard Agnes whisper, “Mama.” Molly looked up, closed her bible,

 and touched her daughter's face as if she were just a baby. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek. Molly

 was utterly alone. Like the end of a magnificent play, the room slowly faded to black.

Sean Moorehead The Debate Rages On

 Sean is probably the murkiest of the multitude of people who floated in and out of Aggie’s life.

A great deal of misinformation, much of which originated from Agnes, has been circulating in the ether for about seventy-five years. There is nearly no paper trail to follow with him, but what there is flies in the face of everything we’ve been made aware of about Sean. After addressing the misinformation, I will focus on the truths that can be verified and investigate the untruths.

Fallacy one is that Agnes and Jack Lee adopted Sean. In fact, Sean was never adopted by Agnes, Jack, or Robert. His last name was Moorehead until he jumped ship and headed out. He was never Sean Lee or Sean Gist; he was just Sean Moorehead. Sean was Agnes’ midlife crisis. It was a fanciful idea that flitted through her head whilst she was in over her head, running hither and yon with Robert Gist. Sean went home with Agnes on December 24, 1951, and he was two years old.

Agnes had no business attempting to raise a child, and her skill at it was put under a harsh light regarding Sean. Agnes actually had very little to do with Sean's rearing when he was young. The bottom line is that he spent most of his time with Aggie’s staff and Kathy Ellis, who stood in for Agnes as his mother when he attended events involving other children. She saw very little of Sean for a long time, and by the time she was spending more time at home, she was shipping Sean off to one European boarding school after another. 

The second fallacy, or rather fallacies, has to do with Sean’s education. Sean attended several schools, but only a handful are named. In 1965, Sean was sent to Llandovery College in Wales. It was Sean himself who brought boarding school to a screeching halt, and he did it by taking a walk. A very long walk. A very long three-day walk from Llandovery College in Carmarthenshire, Wales, to Swansea in May of 1965.  That’s a thirty-six-mile journey on foot. The area between Swansea and Carmarthenshire is not developed land. There are a few villages, but it took him three days, so he likely stopped for food and sleep. We’ll never know the exact means by which he made his way because he took off on his own. When he reached Swansea, Sean simply walked into a police station and identified himself. Never mind that half the country was searching for him; he was as independent as could be. By September 1965, Sean was in California and enrolled in  Lycée Français in Los Angeles. The school itself is guilty of pushing false information. For their sixtieth anniversary, they put out this blurb:

lyceela

“60 Years - Walk Down Memory Lane 3 - We celebrate our first ever enrolled Lycée student! On August 22, 1965, actress Agnes Moorehead, best known for her portrayal of Endora in Bewitched, enrolled her son, Sean, at our Doheny Drive campus. Sean became an integral part of our community, serving as yearbook editor and proudly noting he was the first student to join. Mrs. Moorehead also led parent events, such as galas and balls. Here’s to the legacy they helped build as we celebrate 60 years!” 

Agnes had no choice but to enroll him in a California school that she had access to and could monitor his behavior. Sean definitely threw a wrench in the works, and I can’t imagine Agnes was happy about it at all. All of a sudden, Sean was underfoot, and Agnes was incapable of handling him. She tried cracking down on him, but he pushed back much harder, and I think as he neared 17, she was actually afraid of him.

After his time at Lycée Français, things must have deteriorated at home, as evidenced by Sean's second escape in November 1966. This time, he made it from Los Angeles to Placerville, California. In case you didn’t know, that is 432 miles. He was spotted at a service station on Auburn Boulevard and Whyte Avenue just standing around killing time. Sean told the police that he left his home in Malibu and was headed to Reno to look for work. He also indicated he was not living with his mother but had been staying with another family in Malibu, stating he’d left home due to problems. They also discovered that he’d done all of this without any money at all. Agnes was notified and arranged for him to return to Los Angeles, but he likely did not go back to her home. In 1967, Sean changed schools again. He became a junior at Santa Monica High School. The thing that struck me is that in January 1967, Sean turned 18 years old, and he was still only a junior. Sean should have graduated in 1967, but didn’t.

Furthermore, after the 1967 yearbook, Sean didn’t return to Santa Monica for his senior year. I believe he may not have graduated at all. It is possible that he managed to complete two years of school in one. Either is a possibility. Sean was highly intelligent, as the police commented, and he was very well-mannered, as noted by the police.

Sean had bounced from Paris, where he was stranded with no plane ticket, to Switzerland, to Wales, and finally to California. No stability was provided for a young man who had been, in his youth, bounced from two foster homes to a hospital and finally to the lap of luxury—zero stability. 

Fallacy number three is that Sean and Agnes had the same color hair. Instead of imagining Agnes with darker hair, the mind tries to put that flaming orange hair on his head. Well, the opposite was true, and they were technically both redheads. Agnes and Sean had auburn hair, which looks brown or black when photographed. I know this because I literally held Agnes’ hair in my own hands, and it’s auburn, peppered with gray and dull brown. This is a fact. The hair color we all remember Agnes having wasn’t anywhere close to her natural hair color. She dyed it to match Robert Gist’s hair, if newspapers are to be believed.

Fallacy number four is that Agnes was Sean’s “foster mother.” She wasn’t. She was his legal guardian, and the fact that she had his name changed proves that. A foster parent is not permitted to change the first or last name of a child in their care. They don’t have legal standing to do it, but a legal guardian could. I came across a letter from Kathy Ellis to Agnes regarding the obtaining of a passport for Sean. Passports require a birth certificate, and if a name has been changed, you must provide all of the supporting paperwork for the name change and prove that it has been done legally. Sean had a passport. Agnes was his legal guardian until he turned 18, which occurred in January 1967. She had no explicit parental rights, only a charge to pay for her ward's care and education.

Fallacy number five is that all communication from Sean is pleading for Agnes to come home. It’s simply not true. There are several “letters,” I use quotes because these were written by a very young Sean, that are sweet. In one letter, Sean refers to Robert as “Daddy,” and Robert’s father, Marion, is referred to as Grandfather. Sean was writing by 1953. Actually, the early stuff I’d call scratching as opposed to writing. He managed to write to his mother and father on scraps of paper several times, long before Robert was escorted out of the house. After Robert's departure, Sean sent his mother birthday cards, Valentine's cards with artwork added, and small notes. His pleading letters are peppered throughout all of this. I don’t know what turned the relationship, but I do know his last birthday card was not the loving Sean of earlier years, but the one who was beginning to dislike his situation and longing for escape from it.

Fallacy number six is that Sean had a twin sister who was adopted by another Hollywood powerhouse. To be sure, Sean did have a sister, and a very prominent Hollywood family adopted her. Kathie ended up living just a few blocks from her brother. I have no idea whether Sean or Kathie were aware of each other's whereabouts. Her adoptive father was a Hollywood legend named Harry Cohn, and her adoptive mother was a Hollywood legend named Joan Perry. She was not, however, Sean’s twin. Kathleen Perry Cohn was born in April 1947, making her almost a full two years older than Sean. Kathleen called herself Kathie, spelled with an "ie," and, like her brother, the minute she could get away, she did. Like Sean, she ran from the glare and the privilege afforded her. Unlike Sean, she was legally adopted. She married six times and had one child. Ultimately, she ended up fighting for the trust Harry Cohn had left her. She won the case, and she promptly turned her back on her adoptive mother and siblings. Kathie ended up on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska, about as far from Hollywood as one could get. She owned property as well as a bar and cafe. She died there in 2024

Fallacy number seven is that Sean was born in California. On December 24, 1951, the newspapers ran an item about Agnes adopting a son and naming him Sean. We have all seen those, but there is another story that appears in various papers, and that story strongly suggests that Sean was born in the East. If you track where Agnes was during that latter part of 1951, you will find that she was heavily involved in “Don Juan In Hell,” and you’ll also find that Sean was definitely not from California. How do you say? Simply follow the paper, or in this case, follow the newspapers. On November 29, 1951, “Don Juan In Hell” opened on Broadway at the New Century Theatre, where it remained until December 31, 1951. Sean was “adopted” in 1951. Logic dictates Sean was born in New York. If you’ve been looking in California, you are on the wrong coast. 

Agnes did not drop everything for five minutes and run to Los Angeles to pick out a child. She went looking where she was, and that was New York. Everybody seems to forget that Agnes considered New York her home for a very long time before going to Hollywood. She had lived in New York from 1927 to 1940-42. She had a doctor there. She was very familiar with the hospitals in the area. If you want to believe he was from California, I surely won’t stop you, but facts say he wasn’t.

Fallacy number eight is that Sean broke into a safe in Agnes’ home in 1967 and stole money. Sean did break into her safe, but he didn’t just steal money. It was much bigger than that. He did get 2700 dollars in cash, but he also got these:

Star Sapphire and rose cut diamond necklace set in gold

Rose Topaz Maltese pin in gold

Rose Topaz Maltese earrings gold 

Pansy enameled pin with diamond center 

Square Aquamarine ring set in white gold 

Garnet necklace set in gold 

Gold ring set with garnets about the size of a half-dollar, 

1 pair of drop garnet earrings set in gold 

Garnet cross 

Garnet bracelet set in gold,

Cross with a tiny amethyst set in gold  

Alexandrite ring set in gold 

Gold sun medallion, size of a 50-cent piece, 

Pearl heart pin with diamond center 

Unset platinum rings 

Large green tourmaline ring set in gold 

Pink topaz ring with six tourmaline stones in gold 

Platinum amethyst ring 

Large Amethyst ring set in gold

Large square topaz set in gold 

Platinum bracelet with carved emeralds and diamonds, 

Platinum bracelet with sapphires and diamonds 

Jade bracelet hinged in gold

Carved jade necklace set in gold, 

Amethyst tiara set in gold, 

Drop Amethyst earrings set in gold 

Drop Amethyst necklace set in gold 

Drop gold earrings with square amethyst 

Drop Amethyst necklace featuring light green tourmaline stones in heart-shaped settings set in gold. 

Rose topaz Maltese necklace, part of the set  

A large box of expensive costume jewelry

Two boxes of Joy perfume

A small white jeweler's box containing seven or eight loose emeralds

A lock box made of blue metal containing essential papers. 

Between the jewelry and the cash, Sean made off with nearly $63,000. So, no, it wasn’t about stealing money; it was about hurting Agnes as much as he could. Every piece of her jewelry was locked in there. He stole the necklace that matched the ring that has become her hallmark. This entire thing was three-fold: he received the money to get out, the jewelry to sell when needed, and the box that likely contained all the paperwork related to his birth and her guardianship. This is why she excluded him from her will. He hurt her a great deal with this robbery, and he got 63K, so he had his inheritance. In her mind, he was a costly mistake. He was now right up there with Jack and Robert as persona non grata.

The final fallacy is that nobody knows whether Sean is alive or dead. Sean is dead. He did not die in 1996.  He died after 2013 in Florida, and he kept a diary about everything that happened in Hollywood, as well as the reasons behind his departure. His grandson contacted me about it, and, like the absolute fool that I am, accidentally deleted it very, very carelessly. They were going to empty his grandfather’s garage. So, if he perhaps reads this, FOR GOD’S SAKES, EMAIL ME AGAIN PLLLLLLEEEEEAAAASSSSE!