The year was 1952, and I was 24 years old. My husband, Bill, and I were driving from Kentucky to El Monte, California, to visit my aunt. As we were motoring around Encino, California, looking at a map of the stars’ homes, we happened to pass by Clark Gable’s house. Imagine our surprise when we saw the movie star standing at his mailbox.
“There he is!” I shouted, and made Bill back up.
By that time, however, Gable had climbed back into his Jeep.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I take your picture, please?”
It wouldn’t have fazed me if he had decided to drive away. But instead, he looked around, and in that unmistakable Clark Gable drawl, he replied, “I don’t see why not, honey.”
Clark got out of…
