I’m 53 and I collect old people.
While this feels like an admission best shared at a weird “I collect old people” program held in a church basement, but I’m actually pretty proud of it.
I’ve collected old people for as long as I can remember. It all started with my grandparents. They were married for 47 years and had “1930s love,” the kind kindled in youth, cemented during wartime and endured for decades.
During my teen years, I added my Aunt Angie, my piano teacher, Mrs. Knight, and my very sophisticated, Aunt Rose. They taught me to laugh with abandon, dedicate my life to a craft and how to be fancy.
I don’t remember ever really choosing to start my “old people” collection. It just happened. I met these women and admired them SO much, I just knew I had to have them in my life.
By the time I was twenty-one and competing in Miss New Jersey, I wasn’t looking for any more “old people” (which, by the way, all these women were probably in their 40s and 50s, but I was in my twenties and thought everyone was “old,” so- I was a bit of an a-hole). Because the pageant was run by good people, all dedicated to helping young women, adding more old people to my collection was easy.
It wasn’t until I stumbled my way into the final slot of the Miss New Jersey Pageant in 1994 that I saw the real prize, the ultimate collectible. A woman who, if you won Miss New Jersey, actually CAME with the crown. Her name was Sally Johnston, and she was the “Official Traveling Companion” to Miss New Jersey. Sure, you could talk to her, ogle her from across the room at Miss New Jersey events, but she would never really be “yours” unless you won.
She had a bright smile, wide eyes-that sought out the imperfect wonders of the world-and she always wore something with an angel on it. Her wrists held a stack bangles and bracelets that, along with the jingle ball in her pocket, emitted a telltale “Sally jingle” when she walked.
She was everyone’s cheerleader, she radiated love, and wherever she went…people gathered. After meeting her, I knew I wanted to be Miss New Jersey, I wanted to compete on the Miss America stage and I wanted Sally.
You can imagine my surprise the following year when I won. I looked around, feverishly, for my prize (Sally), only to find out she was NOT there and, instead, was attending the wedding of her youngest daughter, Amy. I was the ONLY Miss New Jersey in her fifty-three years of service she didn’t see crowned.
Our first meeting was a bit awkward. I was hosting the Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year dinner. I had no idea what I was supposed to do and was clueless as to what Sally was there for. She rattled something off about holding my things, making sure I was safe and taking pictures. All of which sounded great until two hours later, when I was taking pictures with the award winners. One of the men drank too much, I was in a halter dress and I felt- what seemed like- someone licking my bare shoulder during the picture.
I stared at Sally, stunned, sure this fell under the “I make sure you are safe” category, but she was too busy laughing to stop the attack. I just stood there repeating, “Is someone licking me?” over and over while everyone laughed, and I remember thinking, “I don’t think this lady is very good at her job.”
Little did I know, laughter would bring us together, over and over, for three decades.
Sally and her husband, Whitey, now empty nesters, invited me to stay with them, and I became their unofficial “fourth” daughter. Like so many of the Miss New Jerseys, we spent hours talking about everything. What did I want to accomplish during my year of service? How could I learn to smile when I really just wanted to punch people? And how do you heal a body without even touching it? (She loved Reiki.)
She often spoke about angels and made everything seem magical and possible. The first time I visited her home, she introduced her cats, “BO” and “GO”. She then, coyly asked if I knew WHY she named them that. Without skipping a beat, she pointed to each and said, “That’s the Black One and that’s the Gray One, BO and GO,” and then she laughed and laughed. She was so wildly quirky and mystical that you just went along with whatever she said.
I was nervous about being Miss New Jersey and I wanted, so badly, to make a good first impression at appearances. When meeting people, I’d stand up straight, look them in the eyes and follow with a firm handshake. I was always slightly turned off when, after meeting Sal and I, people immediately turned to her and complimented how great she smelled.
EVERY TIME.
Her perfume was called “Jungle Gardenia,” which sounded like a dirty Harlequin novel, but it did smell fantastic and never failed.
“What are you wearing, Sally?” was always the first question after introductions, and I’d just roll my eyes. She’d, of course, jingle over to them, lean in, gently touch their arm and say with a big smile, “It’s Jungle Gardenia. You should get some.”
Then they’d be friends forever.
I could have been on FIRE and no one would have noticed me standing there. She was just magnetic, and everyone knew it.
While driving one morning, she told me the Jungle Gardenia manufacturer was no longer making her magic elixir.
I said something smart like, “Well, I guess you’re going to have to smell like a normal person and be ignored, like me now.”
“No,” she said, in confident denial, looking out the window, “I contacted the manufacturer and asked them for the formula.”
I was dumbfounded. This idea would never have dawned on me, but to Sally, this was a feasible option. She called them and simply explained that if THEY didn’t want to make it anymore, she would just make it in her basement.
In Sally’s mind, everything was possible. Surprisingly, they didn’t share the multimillion-dollar formula, but I’m positive she still tried to make it.
The truth is, she didn’t need a fancy scent to stand out.
At Miss America, I often invited her to sit with me and my fellow contestants for meals, and we would regale the table with stories of our travels. After we told them about my licking incident, everyone just kept repeating, “Is someone licking me?” throughout the week, but in a Southern accent, which somehow made it much funnier.
We were notorious for being late to our Miss America events. We’d been given two previous warnings and didn’t want to risk a third, so the next day, we left Epcot two hours before our scheduled appearance in the Magic Kingdom.
As we approached our stop, the monorail kept going. Apparently, it loops around the park and then comes BACK to the Magic Kingdom. We reassured each other, tried not to panic and arrived at the gates with 15 minutes to spare. We had plenty of time to get to the Grand Prix course for my photo shoot.
As we approached a Disney parade had shut down the street in front of us, so we found security and told them of our plight. They made it VERY clear they didn’t care, and no one was crossing that street anytime soon.
I looked over at Sal. No words were needed. We just knew—we were going to have to make a run for it.We crawled under the rope, dodged a dancing Goofy, pushed a small child and made it to the other side. As soon as we cleared the crowd, we saw there was nothing but open road ahead of us.
I yelled, “Hit it, Sal!” and we ran for our lives. I heard a “Woo-hoo!” eek out of her, and we were off.
“We’re doing it, Sal! We’re going to make it. I can see the track,” I squealed as I pointed. “Can you see it?” I yelled over my shoulder.
There was no answer.
“Sal!!” I screamed, turning to discover she was on the ground, about half a mile back.
“What the hell happened?” I yelled, my palms raised high in the air.
She slowly moved her arm in a forward-waving motion, “You go! Don’t wait for me! You’ll be late.”
That’s when this ridiculous scene officially turned into a slow-motion war drama. As I looked at the Grand Prix in the distance, then back at Sal, I faintly heard her yell, “Save yourself!”
I knew that day no woman would get left behind, so I ran back, threw her over my shoulders, like we were retreating from Normandy, and limped us both to the bridge overlooking the Grand Prix course, just as Miss New Mexico and Miss New York drove by smiling for the cameras. We were too late. Sal had bruises all over her legs, we got yelled at again and we laughed all night.
It was the best day ever.
As much as I loved our hilarious adventures, it was how Sally made people FEEL that made her special.
She had the amazing ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room. She was everyones best friend, and she referred to those she loved as “Honey”, which was everyone. Her uncanny ability for telling someone the truth, the WHOLE truth, even if it hurt was on full display the week I was giving up my title (crowning the next Miss New Jersey).
I expected the incoming class of contestants to be “in awe” of me, just as I had been with Michelle Sexton, the first Miss New Jersey I ever met. When Michelle walked into a room, everyone stopped talking, gazed up at her and just imagined the magical life she must be living.
I was halfway through my final week when I realized no one at the pageant was in awe of me. No one was stopping to gaze. No one thought I was magical. They were just like, “Hey Dena, can you get me a soda?”
It was an emotional time, and I remember going to Sally for comfort. I asked her why no one was looking at me. Why was no one in awe of me, like Michelle?
She thought for a moment, grabbed my hand and said, “Honey, they are in awe of you. It just looks a little different.”
Unconvinced, I continued. “But it doesn’t seem like awe,” I whispered. “They just keep asking me to get them chips.”
She shook her head, “You know, honey, You and Michelle are just different. Michelle was always done. Her hair was done. Her makeup was done. She always looked great, and people responded to that.”
She flashed her all-knowing, angelic smile at me and nodded, waiting for acknowledgment I’d received this powerful insight.
I leaned toward her, baffled and whispered, “But Sally…I am done. This is me. Done.”
Her head snapped back.
“Oh,” she said, confused, “Then, I don’t know what to tell you,” and she laughed hysterically and walked away.
I didn’t talk to her for a few hours after that.
(But she wasn’t wrong. My “done” is usually much less done than other peoples done)
Our 30-year relationship spanned our marriages, kids, a comedy career, divorce, empty nesting, death and finding a new love.
Last year, when asked to give the Miss America breakfast keynote celebrating volunteers—some with decades of service to the organization—I knew I couldn’t do it without Sal. She, Julie Barber (Miss New Jersey 2001) and I flew to Orlando and enjoyed a whirlwind weekend. They graciously set up all transportation, invited us to the VIP parties and treated us like queens. Upon arrival, I threw a “Miss America” sash on Sally and told everyone she was Bette Cooper, Miss America 1937.
In the middle of my speech, after raving about Sal a bit, I asked her to share a few words about her 53 years as a Miss America volunteer. She took the microphone and spoke of her love for the organization, the gratitude she had for the friendships she’d made and the bond she had with all the Miss New Jerseys she’d traveled with.
“They have all become like my family. I’ve gotten to know each and every one of them, and I love them all…” she said, and then whispered, “Well, maybe not all of them.”
I grabbed the microphone and held it til the audience stopped laughing.
“Okayyyyy…let’s get back to all the love,” I said, nudging her and slowly returning the mic back, giving her the evil eye.
She smiled and started again. “Well, I mean, they all became like my daughters. I loved them all.”
Then she turned and stared up at me again, “But I mean, some of them….not so much.”
Again, hysterics from the audience.
In that short amount of time, Sal made an impression. Everyone figured out why she was the queen of all things and they fell in love with her. As we wheeled her around the next few days, her newfound fame shown through as her adoring fans called out her name. She’d wave and yell, “Hi, Hon!” and it was perfection.
One of my fondest memories was when my daughters, Jacqueline and Brooke, started competing in the pageant. After the competition was over, Sally pulled them each aside to chat about how they felt about their experience, told them how great they did and how wonderful she thought they each were.
It was like a time capsule being opened and seeing myself twenty-five years earlier. I wondered how a woman could be so adept at supporting and connecting with young women…over the course of decades.
My daughters’ got to experience the magic of Sally and it was something special. My son’s experience with Sal is…a little different.
Whenever she stayed at the shore with us she’d sleep in my son, Deans’ room. One morning, he needed to grab some shirts, so he knocked on the door to see if he could enter.
Sally yelled a hearty, “Come on in”, but when he opened the door, she greeted him with just her pants and old-lady bra on.
“Whoa…Sal, why did you say come in?” he said, covering his eyes and backing up toward the door.
She thought it was hysterical and kept trying to hug him saying, “I love you, Honey.”
He ran away screaming, “That’s not helping, Sal. Please put a shirt on!”
We couldn’t stop laughing.
When I look back on our time together during my year—speaking at events, telling stories and dissecting the feedback from the audience—I know it’s where my comedy career began.
I still have my first “set list” with both my and Sally’s handwriting on it. As we drove around the stat, anytime we liked a new story I wrote…it was added to my list. When I started doing stand-up, seven years later, Sal was one of the first to come and cheer me on.
But of all the things Sally gave me, one piece of advice followed me long after our year together ended. It was what she said whenever one of my new harebrained ideas went awry.
My process was always the same. I would come up with some new idea, inevitably run into a million obstacles, get frustrated and want to stop.
Sal would say, “You know what your problem is, Honey? You’re frustrated because you’re a “way shower.’”
I had never heard the term before, so she explained.
“Most people, when they come to a split in the road, they go one way or the other. You’re a way-shower. You see things differently. You see a NEW way. You aren’t following someone else’s path; you are making your own. And everyone knows the first person on a path has a lot of work to clear that path for the people who follow. Keep believing in yourself, because you never know who’s coming behind you.”
That advice has guided me throughout my life and kept me on track, especially during my wildest adventures. It taught me to believe in myself and not to worry about following the pack and to keep speaking about things that mattered to me - motherhood, raising kids who learn a little differently, the heartbreak of divorce and being brave enough to start over again and find love again.
Because of Sally, there are fifty plus strong female voices in this world, making beautiful babies and changing the world in big and small ways.
In the past few years, some of my favorite old people have passed away, and with each passing, a piece of my heart dies.
My collection is slowly disappearing.
Selfishly, I wonder what happens when they’ve all left. Who will I look up to? Whose sage advice will I seek? Who will I call when something fantastic happens?
I’m 53 now, the same age Sally was when she and I met.
It dawned on me the other day that I’ve reached “collectible” age. I suppose if I’m lucky, someone will add me to their collection.
Hopefully, I’ve gathered enough wisdom, experienced enough heartache and lived on this planet long enough to realize that life isn’t about me. It’s about how much of yourself you give to others. That’s what Sally did.
I’m forever grateful to Sal’s family for sharing her with us. Hopefully, they know how many lives she changed, how many people who needed a substitute mom, friend, cheerleader, confidante and mystic in their lives- and Sal was there.
You may be wondering if you’re collectible. If you’re so giving, so selfless and so wise that people, not only listen to you but believe what you tell them. They believe they are good, their ideas are worth listening to and their dreams are worth pursuing because of you.
Like any good collectible, we can only hope our presence brings people joy, holding us close makes people feel safe and when we’re gone, the impact of our time together leaves an indelible mark on their hearts, they can just FEEL us rooting for them.
Like any good collectible, we can only hope our presence brings people joy, that holding us close makes them feel safe and that, when we’re gone, we leave an indelible mark on their hearts—so deep they can still FEEL us rooting for them.
Do you smell like Gardenias? Do you believe in angels? Do you even jingle? You may be one of the rare collectibles, like Sally. No matter your magic, never underestimate the value YOU bring to the world. People are watching the good you do, the power you exude when overcoming obstacles and the love you show when caring for others.
Sal would want you to know…you are a VERY valuable collectible.
I found an old voicemail from Sal on my phone last week.
“Hey Hon, it’s me, Sally. I just got your message. I don’t know why I didn’t see it yesterday. You know, you’re in my thoughts and prayers, and if there’s anything I can do to help out, you know I’m there. I know how hard a time this is for you, in so many ways, and I just want you to know I love you.”
It was CRAZY that she was consoling me, during THIS week. I looked at the date and saw she’d left the message was a few days after my dad died in 2022.
I think she wanted me to have it just for this moment. To be consoled by her…for her.
She’s an angel now, watching over those of us lucky enough to have known her. Her words will stay with me long after she’s gone and, hopefully, pass them on to the people who have “collected” me- enough times- that Sal’s legacy will live on.
I Love you, Honey.
Dena
🥲
Beautiful… as always….