Few Degrees of Separation: How is The Cheese Snob Related to Elvis Presley?

Would you believe that my Cheese Mentor, the first person under whom I studied cheese, once directed Elvis movies?  

That man is the late Henry "The Cheeseman" Tewksbury, author of The Cheeses of Vermont (2002: Countryman Press).   In addition to the Elvis films "The Trouble With Girls" and "Stay Away, Joe," Henry also directed or produced films starring Jane Fonda, Jim Backus, and Sandra Dee. His television credits include writing, producing, and directing episodes of "My Three Sons," "Father Knows Best," and many "Walt Disney Presents" TV programs and movies. In Hollywood, Henry is better known by his nomme de cinema, Peter Tewksbury.  

Our story begins in 1995; not in California, but in Vermont, at a pleasant grocery store known as The Brattleboro Food Co-Op. This place is not where I was born, but it is where The Cheese Snob was born, as it was there that I had my first cheesemonger job. Henry was the head of the cheese department at the time, and I quickly became his protégé (I wonder if he knew). Since I've left the Co-Op's cheese department, I've gotten to know some wonderful cheese people, but none of my friends, bosses, fellow cheesemongers, etc., have meant as much to me as Henry.

When I first started working for Henry, a co-worker told me of his Hollywood past, but with few details. I was surprised and intrigued. Being a naturally blunt and curious person, I went to work and asked him about it. Now, Henry generally was a cheerful fellow, able to smile through, or ignore, quite a bit. A few things rankled him, though. At that point, I learned one of them. When I inquired about his Hollywood life, he got very gruff, and answered me rather shortly: "That's in the past!"

Oh. Sorry.

A few years later, however, he could no longer hide his horrible past. The New York Times came to do a story on him, specifically about an early-1960s TV show he directed that had achieved cult status: It's A Man's World. The lid was off, and the article, appearing on January 14, 2001 (the Sunday edition), outed Henry as the Hollywood ex-pat he was - Elvis, Disney, Father Knows Best...

Our Henry? Our good-natured Cheeseman? He hardly seemed Hollywood , at least according to the shallow, prima donna stereotype of a Hollywood player. Perhaps that's why we had him, and they lost him.

Once the article appeared, I suppose Henry decided to quit fighting it, because he became chatty about his past, at least compared with the pre-article days. From then on, you could ask certain questions and not get a growling refusal. Once he offered, with no prompting, a story about what a good time he had in Germany filming Emil and The Detectives, a Disney television film released in 1966.

I asked Henry how he got from Elvis and Disney to Co-Op stores and cheese, and the answer is pretty simple: he wanted out of the Hollywood life, and through various adventures, he found his way to Brattleboro. Although he was rather private about his life, he was still a good storyteller who often couldn't resist; and even before his horrible past was revealed, he seemed to take delight in telling me of his "16 careers," including running a school, providing voice acting for cartoons, raising cows, being a sportscaster on the radio (pre-television), teaching playwriting to elementary school children, and being in the military.

Henry was someone who seemed to need a project, who couldn't stand to be bored, and this, in addition to the passion he brought to cheese, is what makes him my mentor in absentia (we lost Henry in 2003).

At the time I began working for him, the Vermont artisan-made cheese movement was just starting. This was 1995, when Cindy and David Major had been making VT Shepherd for only 2 years. A lot of the 300+ varieties of cheese we carried is what I now consider to be commodity cheese, as they are mass-produced in factories. (Back then, that was pretty much all we had, and it was new and exciting to me.) However, whenever he heard of a new local cheesemaker, Henry made sure to sell their cheeses. And whenever there was word of something exciting coming from abroad, Henry made sure we had it.

Henry was perhaps the first authority figure in my life who displayed a strong sense of fairness, compassion, and patience. We weren't his employees - we were human beings who had families, school, health concerns, and a need for full lives. He understood when "something came up" and I couldn't be at the cheese counter. Because when I was there, which was for the better part of 8 years, I was more "there" than anywhere else I'd been in my life. (Mind you, I was 28 years old when I left, so at that point I'd spent nearly one-third of my life at that job.)

Cheese became my obsession: I wanted to taste every cheese, when I was cutting something I leaned down and smelled it, I closely examined it. I wanted to touch every cheese, to understand its texture.

Henry wasn't a mean person, and he was perhaps one of the best-loved people in the area because of his bright and friendly nature, but he would not take any bullshit whatsoever, and when a voice needed to be raised, he'd raise it. But those were rare occurrences, and when they happened, we who were under him whispered about it for weeks. Usually the outrage was directed toward the Co-Op's upper management and their ill-advised mandates. This only made us cheesemongers appreciate Henry further. He had unmistakable leadership qualities, but he himself seemed to have little respect for self-proclaimed authority figures who had done little to earn that power.

When I learned Henry had passed away, I was packing up to go to New Orleans.   Not having any idea when or if there would be a memorial service, I knew I had to have something concrete that unequivocally said "Henry."   I went to the cheese department, with the hope that there might be copies of his "Weekly Cheese Bulletin" still waiting there, as if everything were normal. There were copies, in their place on the retail counter, just as there had been for so many years. I grabbed one and left the store as quickly as possible, too sad to want to talk to or even see my friends who managed, worked in, or shopped at the store.

I had to read the bulletin.  It was the only way for Henry's passing to make any sense to me.  

I also wanted a copy because I was on my way to Carnival, where on Mardi Gras day, I would march with the unofficial, yet lively and heavily costumed Krewe of the Secret Society of St. Anne. During the happiest day of the year, full of life and costumes and parties and celebrations, St. Anne's has a yearly ritual where at the end of the parade, we march to the Mississippi River to remember those who we've lost in the past year. Here was a quiet opportunity dedicated to remembering those who wouldn't be joining us in this year's revelry. Given Henry's youthful attitude (even at 80 years of age) and refusal to succumb to melancholy, this seemed the best way for me to celebrate him.

As I was driving to New Orleans, I received a call on my cellphone from a concerned friend wanting to make sure I knew about Henry and the upcoming memorial service for him.

I am still having a hard time forgiving myself for not turning around and driving back up to VT to pay my last respects with friends, family, and neighbors. Instead, I was on my way to paying my respects quietly and alone, surrounded by hundreds of strangers who never knew him.

One thing Henry and I shared was the need to do things our own way. Not necessarily as a defiant statement, but simply because it felt right. Thus, I said "goodbye" in the way that meant the most to me.  

Mardi Gras Day, 2003: In the decorated purse where I kept my wallet, cellphone, and small plastic toys to bestow upon randomly-selected revelers, I had a carefully-folded copy of Henry's Weekly Cheese Bulletin.

I wrote him a little note on the back of the printed sheet of paper, the one where he complained about having to type the thing with one hand because something had gone wrong with the other hand. (A result of a very recent stroke, and the start of his rapid decline; still, this could not keep Henry from doing what he loved.) When we went to the River, I took the bulletin from my bag, I read it to myself one more time, and I placed it on the surface of the water. The River carried it somewhere. Hopefully, to a place where Henry could read it.

I didn't take two copies of Henry's last bulletin. That's another regret I have...