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AN INTERVIEW WITH VALERIE WIENER

An Oral History Conducted by Barbara Tabach

Southern Nevada Jewish Heritage Project Oral History Research Center at UNLV

University Libraries University of Nevada Las Vegas

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©Southern Nevada Jewish Heritage Project

University of Nevada Las Vegas, 2014

Produced by: The Oral History Research Center at UNLV – University Libraries Director: Claytee D. White Project Manager: Barbara Tabach Transcriber: Kristin Hicks Interviewers: Barbara Tabach, Claytee D. White Editors and Project Assistants: Maggie Lopes, Amanda Hammar

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The recorded interview and transcript have been made possible through the generosity of a

Library Services and Technology Act (LSTA) Grant. The Oral History Research Center enables

students and staff to work together with community members to generate this selection of first-

person narratives. The participants in this project thank University of Nevada Las Vegas for the

support given that allowed an idea the opportunity to flourish.

The transcript received minimal editing that includes the elimination of fragments, false

starts, and repetitions in order to enhance the reader’s understanding of the material. All

measures have been taken to preserve the style and language of the narrator. In several cases

photographic sources accompany the individual interviews with permission of the narrator.

The following interview is part of a series of interviews conducted under the auspices of

the Southern Nevada Jewish Heritage Project.

Claytee D. White Director, Oral History Research Center

University Libraries University of Nevada Las Vegas

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PREFACE Valerie Wiener is an accomplished state senator, business owner, president and founding member of the Public Service Institute of Nevada and the Valerie Wiener Foundation. She was born October 30, 1948 in Las Vegas, Nevada. Her service as senator for 16 years and her role as a public servant led her to become the first woman assistant majority leader of the state senate in Nevada. She graduated with a bachelor degree of Journalism at the University of Missouri/Columbia within the School of Journalism earning a Masters of Arts in Broadcast Journalism and a Master of Arts in Literature at the University of Illinois in Springfield while attending law school at McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento in the 1970s.

Her generosity is also seen through scholarships and activities at the Louis Wiener Jr. Elementary School. In addition, Valerie is a professional speaker, consultant, and internationally published author. She is the recipients of many awards, such as: “Women of Achievement Award” in Media; “Healthy Schools Heroes”; “Public Affairs Champion Award”; “Legislator of the Year”, and the Nevada Secretary of State’s recipient of the “Jean Ford Participatory Democracy Award.” She stays active through her commitment to the Nevada Senior Olympics for both Fitness and Weightlifting earning 17 gold medals from 1998 to 2007.

In this interview, Wiener discusses her childhood and being raised in Las Vegas in the 1950s as well as the academic path that led her career into politics. She shares memorable insight into the life of her father, Louis Isaac Wiener, Jr., an accomplished attorney and business man who represented the infamous Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel during the construction and opening of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino in 1946.

Throughout Wiener’s interview, she highlights the traditions of the small, but growing Las Vegas Jewish population in the 1960s. Among the people she recalls most vividly is her grandmother Kitty Wiener. Wiener also discusses her community service work and her life mantra of giving.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Interview with Valerie Wiener

January 20, 2015 in Las Vegas, Nevada

Conducted by Barbara Tabach

Preface…………………………………………………………………………………………..iv

Valerie Wiener opens with an introduction of her family members and a story about nicknames and how to honor people by using their preferred name; She talks about her birth in Las Vegas in 1948 and the immigration of her father and grandmother in 1931; She shares insight on the population of Las Vegas during the 1930s; Valerie remembers moving to Arizona after her parents’ divorce; She reminisces about her Grandmother Kitty and her father’s birth in 1915…………………………………………... …………………………………………...….1 – 3

She annotates the career path of her granddad as a tailor in Pittsburgh during the Great Depression; Shares the adventure of a midnight train ride west with three generations of the Wiener family; Her families arrival in Las Vegas and a description of the old railroad district housing; Talks about her father’s path to becoming the 70th attorney admitted to Clark County bar; Reflects on her Grandmother and Grandfathers trades as dressmaker and tailor in San Francisco; Mentions her Aunt Kit giving piano lessons in Boulder City; Valerie gives her early experiences of faith and growing up around Charleston Boulevard and 15th Street………..….3– 6

Gives detailed summary of her Grandmother Kitty as the Matriarch of her family; Reflects on her father’s second marriage and her new role as a step daughter; Valerie remembers how the relationships in her life shifted when she attended the University of Missouri/Columbia School of Journalism; Mentions her marriage to Charles Michael Baird after she earned her master’s degree; Living in Columbia, Missouri while working in television and moving to Illinois; Returning to Las Vegas in 1974; Talking about her Grandmother’s quirks and her passing ……………………………………………………………………………………….…..…....6– 13

Discusses her father’s faith and her personal search for hers; Taking classes at the Temple Beth Sholom and exploring Judaism; Getting her second master’s degree and going to law school at McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento; Struggling with eating disorders and sickness; Overcoming and returning to Las Vegas; Attending Christian Science Church and her Fathers support in relation to Judaism; Following her spiritual path to becoming a Licensed Religious Science Practitioner…………………………...…………………………………………….14– 18

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Speaks her interview with Jews in Nevada; Importance of education instilled from her Father; Her father’s support of her writing and her experiences visiting his law office; her contributions to writing and community service; Illustrates different traditional Jewish food eaten when we was growing up; Remembers her brother, Paul and her father’s similar passing………….19– 25

Discusses the small Jewish population in Las Vegas in the 1960s; Her experiences going to her first bar and bat mitzvahs; Her father’s Jewish tradition of philanthropy or tzedakah; Her service as senator for 16 years and her role in public service; first woman assistant majority leader of the state senate; Opening a Public Service Institute of Nevada and the Valerie Wiener Foundation; Retirement and working as a Religious Science Practitioner; Her involvement in the Alzheimer’s Task Force and the Nevada Youth Legislature; Her father’s charitable remainder trust…...26– 34

Writing her first, second and third books Power Communications, Gang-Free: Friendship Choices for Today’s Youth, and The Nesting Syndrome: Grown Children Living at Home; Remembers her father’s passing in February 1996; Her nomination for Women of Achievement in Media; Advise from her father on contribution and accomplishment; Shares details of her work as a positioning strategist; Hyphenating her last name in marriage during the 70s…..35– 39

She shares her father’s financial influence in the community and keeping his commitments no matter what; Her Fathers oral history contributions; She recalls her father’s stories of defending the law and representing Bugsy Siegel; Her meeting with Millicent Siegel Rosen; Her recollection of watching the film “Bugsy” together with her father and the fallacies the movie illustrated; Her father’s role of the rebuilding of Siegel’s private apartment; Her dad presence at the opening of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino; Her father’s victory in getting the Federal Government to grant building permits for the Flamingo…………….……………….…….40– 46

Valerie speaks of the elementary school named after her father; Her father’s friendship with Jim Rogers; Remembers her beloved cat Democat; Living in Spanish Oaks across from her father; Her approach to success; She concluded by imparting advice from her father on how to embrace life………………………………………………………………………………..………….47– 51

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Today is January 20th, 2015. This is Barbara Tabach and I'm with Valerie Wiener in her

home in Spanish Oaks. And we were talking about nicknames. Talk about your

nicknames. That's cute.

As a young person, I was athletic, very active, played a lot of sports with the guys and didn't do

as much with the girls because I just loved being out there with the game. And so my nickname,

because I was little and Valerie was such a long name and we were kids, they called me Val or

my Pal Val, my Gal Val. I went by all of them. And then when I went to law school in

Sacramento, 1976 to 1979, I had a classmate whose name was Val. A big man, who had played

football at Brigham Young University and still had that physical presence. And I realized that I

liked Valerie, which is my, of course, birth name. And so it was probably in 1977 when I

decided that I would prefer Valerie, and I did everything I could to orient people in my life to

that. However, the people who hold on the longest and the hardest tend to be family. So my

half-brother, Doc, called me Val. My biological brother, Paul, called me Val and I could not get

him to shake that. My dad called me Val. My mother, however, called me Valerie. Some

long-time friends still call me Val and I can most assuredly guarantee that they knew me in high

school. I've even said to people, “I prefer Valerie.” I mean, 1977, when I made that great

decision, is a long time ago. I honor people when they have a choice about what name to be

called and I very specifically introduce myself as Valerie, or this is Valerie, and they'll say, “Val,

what are you...?” That tells me how much they're listening. So it's a lesson for me to be a better

listener. I do pay great attention to how people want to be addressed because it's a way to honor

them.

And you were saying earlier that with the last name of Wiener that you would be called—

Oh, I had other nicknames. Hot Dog, which has carried forward to this day. Senator Joe Neal,

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one of my closest friends, calls me Hot Dog all the time. In fact, sometimes in Senate committee

in the Nevada Legislature he would call me Hot Dog. Senator Mike Schneider would call me

Wiener Dog. I was called Frank, short for frankfurter. My mother called me Princess. She was

Australian-born and that was very prominent in her personal history. Dad would call me Sweet

Pea. And so there are a lot of different names in different references and different relationships

of names that I'm called. But Val and Valerie are the ones that I hear most often.

So you were born here?

I was born in Las Vegas. When I go on the Internet to try to find population—I haven't done

hard research in a physical facility—I can't get quite the population for my birth year, but I can

get close. I've been told is when I was born here there were about 19,000 people in the area

when I was born. When my father [Louis Weiner Jr] and his sister [Kathryn], parents and a

grandmother came here in 1931, there were about 3000 people in the area. The construction of

Hoover Dam—well, they called it Boulder Dam—was a draw for the family, though we already

had family here. The family came in, I believe, the early 1920s for various reasons. That's why

my family moved here, because we had family here. It won’t be long until my family's 100th

anniversary of residing in Las Vegas.

Isn't that amazing?

Yes. Seven generations have lived here and, I believe, four of us were born here. Now, they

followed on my cousin's side because I don't have kids, but that's still my family from the same

grandparents.

And that's on your father's side, his lineage?

Yes.

And because the nature of this project is about the Southern Nevada Jewish community, I

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want to maybe follow that path of your family history, what you know about it.

It's interesting. My parents separated when I was ten and divorced when I was twelve, and I

moved with my mother, Tis Ava Knight, and my brother, Paul, for a short time to Scottsdale,

Arizona. That’s when I learned my dad was Jewish. I missed my dad so much and moved back to

Las Vegas months later. My dad’s mother, Grandma Kitty, had a very, very powerful family

presence. Truly, if there were a definition of matriarch by name in the dictionary, it would be

Kitty Wiener. As a child, I thought everyone grew up with the mainstay of chopped chicken

liver, matzah ball soup, and salmon on bagels. That was the Jewish menu. On the Anglican

side, my mom was born in Sydney, Australia—I thought every child studied each night with a

little cup of tea and a cookie.

As children, we visited my grandmother often. The stories of Grandma...she was

probably the anchor in her marriage. My grandfather was very quietly strong. I never knew him.

My dad was, of course, named after him. There's not any official I don’t know about any oral

history that's been passed through the generations. My grandfather came from, what I believe, a

Polish village that was purged by the Russians. I don't know when he came to this country. My

dad was born in 1915. So my grandfather could have come in the late 1800s, early 1900s. I only

know is what's been passed down: When he came through Ellis Island, he left it all behind. He

did not share stories. He did not share history. He did not talk about what preceded that entry

into the United States of America.

I remember one time my Aunt Kit, my dad's sister, said she remembered, as a child,

visiting a family member in New York. She remembered that this woman was in a rocking

chair. And this is what my Aunt Kit said, “I think she was an aunt or something, but I don't

know.” And my aunt once said, “I believe my father was an educated man; I don't know for

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sure, because he never talked about it, but he had a wonderful vocabulary.”

Anyway, when they came here from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1931, leaving

everything behind in Pittsburgh—Granddad was a tailor. He had a significant customer base: the

Mellons and the Carnegies and all of the big families. However, during the Depression, someone

in the Carnegie family did not need to add another suit to the five hundred he already had. So

things plummeted and they made a decision to come west. I'm sure they were in debt. At the

time, I'm told, my Aunt Kit was engaged; she did not tell her fiancé she was leaving. The last

night Dad was in Pittsburgh, he went to a ball game with his very best friend and did not let him

know he was leaving. The three-generation family took basically a midnight train and came west

with a hundred dollars in their pocket to satisfy the needs of the family.

They rented a house down for one month in the railroad section downtown. We were a

railroad town—eight hours by train from Salt Lake and eight hours from Los.Angeles. Union

Station was located at Main and Fremont. So all those little houses downtown were railroad

houses. I never visited that house and it's not there now. But Las Vegas Councilman Bob Coffin

told me many, many, many years later that he had bought it and he wanted to know if I wanted to

buy it from him. At that time. I couldn’t do so. I think a lawyer bought it, made it an office, and

then it was torn down.

Soon after my dad arrived in Las Vegas, he met with his uncle, a lawyer, who had been

disbarred attorney by Back East. Dad, who was sixteen-and-a-half, told his uncle he was going to

be a lawyer. This is all he ever wanted to do. His uncle said, “You can't be a lawyer here.” My

dad said, “But this is probably the only growth city in the country. People are working here.”

The uncle replied, “No, you can't be a lawyer here or you'll go broke.” My dad just didn't

understand what he was saying. The uncle added, “People don't sign contracts here; they shake

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hands; they give their word. You'll never make money as a lawyer here.”

Well, my dad did become a lawyer. I believe, he was the seventeenth attorney to be

admitted to the Clark County bar. When he took the state bar exam, Dad was the only person in

Clark County who took it. Today hundreds of people take the exam every time it's given. Once

notified by telegram that Dad had passed, my grandfather called Justice Orr on the Supreme

Court, and said, “Well, we got this telegram that Junior passed the bar. What do we do now?”

Justice Orr said, “Take him downtown and get him sworn in. He's got to go to work to do.” I

gave that telegram.to Louis Wiener Jr. Elementary School. The telegram says, “You have been

admitted to the practive of law.” They misspelled it. So when I read it, I told my dad that they

knew you were going to have an active practice, a practive.” My come back, right?

Granddad was a tailor and Grandma was a dressmaker. They had this tailor shop where

the Golden Gate is. Looking back to my granddad, everything I reflect is through stories.

Granddad was color blind. So he had to have people help him pick material out. He didn't use

patterns; he really built the suit on the body. He was a craftsman. Downtown was Block 16, the

red-light district. My grandfather made the suits for all the owners of the houses. My

grandmother was a premier dressmaker and she clothed the women who worked there. That

business kept food on my family's table.

My Aunt Kit, Kathryn Waldman, was a significant pianist. Prior to the midnight move to

Las Vegas in November 1931, she was preparing to attend Julliard. Again, to keep the Wiener

family fed, she would drive the dirt roads to Boulder City once or twice a week to the

construction area and teach piano to the children of the middle managers.

I didn’t know my granddad, but I've seen pictures of him—a tiny man, very soft-spoken,

very gentle. I think he and my grandmother got married on either her sixteenth birthday or

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eighteenth birthday—whatever the minimum age required. Fortunately, I did grow up with

Grandma, the matriarch of this Jewish family.

My mother wasn't Jewish. My mother was raised in the Church of England and then later

as a Seventh-day Adventist. In the Jewish faith, the faith tradition passes through the mother.

My dad never asserted any kind of voice about religion in the family. He let Mom take the lead.

So my faith experiences were many, starting with the Mormon Church for my early years. I went

to that church with my childhood sweetheart, Danny Potter, who lived down the street. Our

block was one city block long and there were about eighty kids, most of who were Catholic or

Mormon.

What street was that?

Earle Street. Initially it was spelled E-A-R-L; the city changed it at some point to E-A-R-L-E.

It's in the area of Charleston Boulevard and 15th Street and Fremont Street. I went to Mayfair

Grammar School, which later became a diagnostic center for the school district; I think it's a fire

station now. We were one classroom per grade, so we all just moved with each other. When I

graduated from Las Vegas High School, I sent invitations to all of my elementary schoolteachers,

and of the seven I had, kindergarten included, I think five or six of them came. They bought me a

little salmon-colored wind-up travel clock, the kind you could fold. I remember when I opened

it, there was an outside dial that had different major cities of the world. So this is a time in Las

Vegas I could see what time it was in Barcelona or somewhere else. The teachers wrote in the

card: “We know you'll be a world traveler, but never forget where home is.”

Oh, how sweet is that?

It's like a movie, the kind of support I got.

May we chat again about my grandmother?

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Yes, because I want to hear about her.

Yes, the Jewish influence.

There's a lot of people that mention her when I mention your name—Oh, Grandma Kitty.

Grandma Kitty.

Everybody knows Grandma Kitty.

It's interesting because I didn't have as much interaction with her while my parents were still

married. I mean we'd visit Grandma. We'd have our meals with Grandma. She scared me a

little bit because she had a bark and she had a presence. She was very, very powerful. She was a

very astute businesswoman at a time when women weren't supposed to be. I think she was the

brains behind the business and my grandfather was the talent. She was just so powerful a thinker

and a doer. At one time, Grandma wanted to buy property and found a lot that she wanted to

buy. I think I remember as a very young child visiting her there, because I remember the fence,

going into the yard, and up to the house. Everybody had cautioned her it was just too far out of

town, just too far out of town, and it was on what is now Las Vegas Boulevard between Bridger

and Fremont Street. Though there's now a pawnshop on that lot; for decades Nevada State Bank

owned the land. Too far out of town? Hmmm, okay.

And then she wanted to build a house. She was a widow. My granddad died before I

was born. She wanted to build a house. Mrs. Laub, the mother of Dr. Richard Laub, who

delivered me—one of maybe four doctors in town at the time—was Grandma Kitty’s good

friend. She said, “You're crazy; you're crazy; you'll never pay it off.” Well, indeed she did,

instead of paying rent. Grandma said, “When you pay rent it's like throwing it into a garbage can

every month. Nothing grows from that.” And she also said, “For however long I live in it, I

have grown value in it.” Who thought that way back in the 1940s or '50s? Grandma paid for her

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house long before her death.

With Grandma Kitty, the matriarch, there was an understanding that certainly her

children and, generally, the grandchildren, too, would call her or visit her every day. Since the

town was small, Dad would stop by on the way home from work every day and visit on

weekends. Aunt Kit lived around the corner from Grandma and always stopped at Grandma’s

fist before going home. We grandkids called Grandma; she never ever called us, ever. It was our

responsibility.

When my dad and mom got divorced and he married his second wife, Gail, the dynamics

in my family shifted substantially. I had been the youngest of two in a very solid, stable family,

where the income was enough that we didn't have to do without and I knew my mother loved me.

Mom always was in my life. She'd write notes that I'd read if she wasn't home when I came

home from school. She might say, “I ran to the grocery store. I'll be home real soon. I love you,

Princess.”

In Dad’s second family, I became the oldest of three and I was the stepdaughter. It was a

huge shift, and my role in the family shifted. My level of happiness shifted, because I wanted to

live with my dad, whatever it looked like.

When I went on to the University of Missouri/Columbia School of Journalism, my

relationship with Aunt Kit, which was always strong, became an adult relationship. I was an

adult child. And my relationship with my grandmother also changed and we grew much closer.

So my fear of my grandma disappeared. I remember one time in those early years of Dad’s

second marriage when I was still afraid of Grandma, my half-brother got chicken pox or measles.

I also had a step-brother. The two boys shared a room and I had a room. Well, because my half-

brother had to be isolated, I was shuttled off to stay with Grandma. I was shaking in my boots.

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I was in junior high school and I was terrified to be with my grandmother.

However, when I went into the back bedroom where I was going to stay for several days,

on the wall, next to the bed, was a framed paint-by-number of Peter Pan on the deck of the ship

in a sword fight. I had painted the picture and has given it to her years before. Seeing it then and

there was so huge for me.

Another memory: When I was in junior high school, I was a candy striper at Sunrise

Hospital. One year the women's auxiliary and candy stripers combined, decided that we wanted

to make baby-sized Christmas stockings in which we could send all the newborns home. Step by

step we would make each of these stockings. Well, my grandmother, for whatever reason, had

joined the women's auxiliary—at least for this project. She became the supervisor of sewing.

Women would go over to her house, and they'd either bring their portable sewing machines or

work with hers. And, was she a taskmaster. I mean, nobody wanted to go over to my grandma's

because she knew...”Nope, nope, this should only take twenty-two minutes to make one.” I

mean she just knew. Could she bark out instructions! Well, we completed hundreds of stockings

and made a lot of families happy.

I remember, in that same time line and into college, as we built a relationship and as I

was growing up, Grandma made me a lot of clothes for college. She loved the idea that she was

going to make me clothes. I remember one time when my dad wasn't in town, and my mom was

in Arizona, and I was preparing to return to the University of Missouri. No one was here to say

goodbye. But Grandma was here, and she was adamant that I call her every night on the road so

that she knew I was safe. That meant so much to me, because she stepped in. Between Grandma

Kitty and Aunt Kit, I had the sense of family that I wasn't getting when I was just the

stepdaughter. I had the maternal piece that I wasn't getting because my mother was in Arizona.

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And both Aunt Kit and Grandma certainly provided love and nurturing. In the physical way of,

oh, I'm going to go up there and just get a hug, I always went to Grandma's. Years later, when I

attended law school, we grew even closer.

That's nice.

I got married to Charles Michael Baird two weeks after I earned my first master's degree in

broadcast journalism. We lived in Columbia, Missouri, and worked in television as a team. He

was my director; I was a producer. We first worked as a team on a half-hour program called

“Postscript,” which was my master’s project. Then after we got married we were the producer-

director team on a weekly half-hour contemporary religious program called “Checkpoint.” Then

we moved to Illinois where I worked in television; he worked in television, and I got another

master's degree in contemporary literature. In 1974, we came back to Las Vegas.

I remember not being a great cook. I loved to bake, but I was just an okay cook. I put

meals on the table, but I didn't enjoy it that much. And when you're newly married, you really

stretch hamburger.

Right.

With oats you make it stretch, right? You do a lot of those Hamburger Helper meals. But I

remember my grandmother said, “It's important that you cook a holiday meal.” And in our little

apartment I remember Grandmother coming over—it was just the three of us—and I cooked a

turkey dinner. She ate it all and complimented me. What I didn't register for a little while was

Grandmother eating everything when normally she complained of her hiatal hernia and ate very

little. It might have been a control thing, the matriarchal control thing, but often when she was

she got more attention.

Grandma was so top heavy, yet tiny. She was probably five foot or five foot one and

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very, very large, and stood just as stiff as a board; she wore this corset her whole life. Well, for

years—I don't remember when she didn't—she had a hiatal hernia and had trouble swallowing

and just couldn't get food down. I was always talking about her. “Oh, I'll cook for you, but you

know I can't eat.” That kind of a matriarchal martyr. But she ate every bite of that dinner and

didn't complain. She didn't get sick or anything.

Years later, her doctors suggested, “Why don't you stop wearing that corset and you

might be able to swallow and actually digest food?” After decades of wearing a corset, she was

trained in standing very straight.

And she got rid of the corset?

Yes, she got rid of the corset and could eat again without any problems with her hiatal hernia.

While I was in law school in Sacramento, California, my husband was in Las Vegas.

During my second year, I came home for Thanksgiving. That was my first trip back. My

grandmother was in the hospital and I walked in straight from the airport. It was almost like a

director from the movie put this stark image together, because she was in a small private room.

And they didn't have a lot of private rooms back then in 1977. There was a lot of equipment and

it was all white; everything was white. Ordinarily, my grandmother who had very long hair;

wore in a French twist. So, when I saw her sleeping in her hospital bed—she was curled up in a

fetal position—I was emotionally frozen. The image of her hair embracing her entire body like a

blanket was almost angelic, because everything was so stark white. I lost it. I just lost it.

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving I returned to see my grandmother. A nurse was there

and standing at the end of the bed, I said, “Oh, Gram”—I called her Gram; most of us did, or

Grandma Kitty— “I'm so glad to see you're doing better.” She was alert. And I said, “I'll

continue to pray for you.” And she looked at me and she said, “You don't need to do that; I'm

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just fine. You don't need to do that” in such a loving way. The message was clear and she was

so at peace. I think I got the call two days later that she had died. I realized then that she had

been ready and wanted me to know it.

Some things about Grandma were so predictable. My cousin Bill, my Aunt Kit's middle

son, always teased her because for drama, again, on the anniversary of her wedding, which was

her birthday, too, and the anniversary of my grandfather's death—so twice a year Grandma

would lose her voice. You could count on her losing her voice.

Like on cue?

On cue. So my cousin would inquire, “What anniversary is it?” He'd call her Whispering Kitty,

I remember one time when my dad, the woman who would become his third wife, Ruth, and I

were having dinner over at Gram's. She had cooked brisket and had prepared her famous

coleslaw that again, Bill, the cousin, always teased, “The coleslaw isn’t hot enough; it's not hot

enough.” In reality, you needed a fire hose it was so hot with the peppers. However, she'd keep

adding more hot peppers. I grew up with hot coleslaw, not knowing it could be milder.

It felt like it was searing my tongue.

Anyway, so we're there, the three of us, with Grandma. Oh, Grandma also had a hearing

challenge. So my grandmother was bringing food to the table. Finally she sat at the head of the

table and my dad and Ruth were to her left. I am to her right, within striking distance, and that's

a relevant description. While we were eating, Grandma turned to my dad and Ruth and says to

them, “I never interfere in my baby's life”—my dad being her baby—”in my baby's life.” And,

well out of her line of sight and sound, I whispered and rolled my eyes, oh, yes, right. In an

instant, my hard of hearing grandmother whacked me in the shoulder. Not hard, but certainly

she made her point. Selective listening, I'm telling you.

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When I came home for Grandma’s funeral, I remember walking into the mortuary. I was

absolutely inconsolable. I was hysterical. No one cried as hard as I did. I remember arms

touching my shoulder, embracing me. I couldn't handle it because she was so powerful for me.

Rather than, oh, Gram, I love you so, and have regrets for what we didn’t have, our love got

better through the years.

My dad was certainly very close to Gram. He had three marriages: my mom, Tui; Gayle;

and Ruth. And he lived for about 17 years with Judy because he promised my grandmother that

he would not get married again after the third divorce. Ironically, he also promised her that he'd

only marry a Jewish girl, because of the tradition of the religion. Yet, none of his wives were

Jewish.

Nor were any of his relationships with Jewish women. The woman who became his third

wife was very much in his life before my mother. She knew about that promise that he'd only

marry a Jewish girl. So she left town. Now, how she reentered his life decades later, I don't

know. But they ended up being married for a short period of time.

When I was 12, after my parents’ divorce, I moved back to Las Vegas to live with Dad.

Having recently learned that my dad was Jewish, I didn’t know what to do. I’d gone to lots of

churches. I did the Mormon Church. I did the Presbyterian Church for all my elementary years.

I did the Lutheran Church in high school. I studied Baha’i. I was constantly looking at faith

practices and my dad always honored it. We had Christmas because Dad had mentioned once,

“It's become a commercial experience more than a religious one for many.” I didn't quite know

what he meant by that.

How did you learn?

My brother brought it up because he was so angry about the divorce and Dad not spending time

14

with us and spending time with my stepmother-to-be's children or child. Anyway, Paul, my

brother, was very bruised by the whole thing. That's when I learned, actually from my brother. I

didn’t know how he learned. Though my mother always honored everything about Dad, we

never had a holiday that way.

Anyway, after I moved away from Mom and Paul in Scottsdale in 1961, and returned to

Las Vegas to live with Dad, I thought it was really important that I learn about my dad's faith.

So I went down to Temple Beth Sholom and took classes.

All the other kids in the classes were Jewish and were raised that way. These were kids I

was meeting for the first time though. They all knew each other from grammar school,

elementary school. Though I attended the little-known Mayfair Elementary School, they all

went to Crestwood or John S. Park. I was meeting kids who'd known each other since they were

babies and who'd been in the Jewish tradition their whole lives. I didn’t even know what Judaism

or Jewish tradition involved.

So let me understand. You're about twelve years old at this point.

Yes, twelve, approaching thirteen because I was going into seventh grade at John C. Fremont

Junior High.

This would have been about the age kids were having their bar and bat mitzvahs, too.

Yes, yes. And a lot of them were preparing for that, and I didn't have a clue what that was,

either.

These new friends were experiencing their faith in new ways. And I was studying

because I wanted to learn. Many of them were in religion classes, because their parents told

them they had to go. Because I was an eager student, the cantor used me as the example of how

you should be learning, how you should be studying. I said, “Please don't do that. I don't know

15

these people very well and I don't think they like me.”

What was the cantor's name?

Cantor Kohn or Cohen. And I don't remember how long I studied though I celebrated some of

the religious holidays with the class. At that point, I said, “I've spent so many years being raised

in a Christian tradition and I honor Judaism. However, I feel that I've moved beyond it the way

the Bible moves beyond it.” It's interesting, decades later, to reflect how I’ve studied so many

faiths.

When I was in law school, I had a huge test of faith. I had already earned a Bachelor of

Journalism at the University of Missouri/Columbia, the oldest and toughest journalism school in

the world, and was in the top ten percent of my class. I was also in the top ten percent in my

master's program in broadcast journalism. I had a 3.8 GPA coming out of my second master's in

literature from Sangamon State University, now the University of Illinois in Springfield. Then I

went McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento and was a C-plus student. No matter how hard I

worked at it, I just couldn't do better than that.

What I didn't realize is that everybody who got to law school was in the top five or ten

percent of their college, but they put everybody as a C student coming in. Then I had to prove

myself to be better yet. The best students were science and math majors because they never

attached to it, a case, a test; they just logically worked through it. For me, the journalist, I sought

balance and equity. I got caught up in my journalist's thinking, not in the science of practicing

law.

During my second year I became anorexic, and it happened fast. I had joined a

Slimnastics class at the junior college and I bought a book on how to lose weight on a controlled

Carbo Calorie Diet. Within ten days of going to that class, I was full-blown anorexic. I

16

consumed 230 calories a day. I ate the same thing every day. I exercised two hours a day.

Eventually, I became a laxative addict. I took sixty laxative pills a day. I took seven to ten

water pills each day. I took appetite suppressants—as if I had an appetite.

Going into my third year, I suffered a brachial plexus injury. As my husband Michael and

I were preparing for my return to law school—about eight days before—I awoke in the middle of

the night with severe pain. The next day I couldn't lift my right arm and I was really in trouble.

The doctor misdiagnosed it. So my husband and I drove back to law school. My first week

back, I was trying to get ready for moot court and I lifted a pen; however, I couldn't do anything

with it. I was trying to write on a calendar and I couldn't do it.

Oh, how frightening.

It was Labor Day weekend. My husband had just returned to Las Vegas from moving me back to

school. I was really scared. He said, “I'm going to get your mother there so you won't be alone.”

Mom came up from Arizona. This was 1978. Mom came up. She was scared, too. She went to

all the medical tests with me. They were very, very painful. Now they do it with ultrasound, but

then they did it with poking needles into you. Very, very painful tests, and I was terrified.

One night my mom was massaging me because I needed the relief, and she withdrew her

hands and said, “I can't do this anymore.” She said, “You're nothing but a human carcass, and I

can't stand to touch you.” I've experienced a lot of physical pain in my life, but nothing hurt as

much as my mother saying she couldn't stand to touch me.

After spending three weeks with me, Mom returned to Arizona. When she got back to

Scottsdale, she called me and said, “You're dying. I can't save your life. I don't know what to

do. The only thing I know how to do is buy you sessions with a Christian Science practitioner.”

And I said, “Mom, don't take the doctors away from me; they're all I have.”

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Throughout this entire trauma, I still went to class every single day. At this point the

doctors had put me into a sling because my dominant arm was useless. My right arm just

dangled. I'd still go to class and take notes the best I could. Then I'd come home and type my

scribbled notes, all with my arm in this sling, just so I could read them. Unfortunately, when it

came to tests, I was in trouble. I couldn’t finish tests because my arm would quit; it just froze in

the middle of writing answers. I wasn't doing well; I was deficient in my classes.

Mom did find me a Christian Scientist practitioner who lived maybe a mile and a half

straight-shot from my apartment. So this saved my life.

With everything seemingly depleted in my life—career, finances, employment, income,

insurance, marriage, savings, health—I made a decision to return to Las Vegas. I knew I had

something magnificent ready to unfold in my life—whatever it might be.

So I came home and I started going to Christian Science Church. Dad was really

supportive, because he could see it was helping me. One day I sat down and I said, “Dad, I'm

really confused as to why you encourage me to go to church. I mean, I know loving me as a dad,

you'll support me. But Christian Science is really different from your religion. It was certainly

new to me. And he said, “Well, honey, Grandpa and Grandma were Christian Scientists once,

for a while.” I said, “Really?” He said, “Yes. Things got so bad that they became Christian

Scientists. And then when times improved, they were Jewish again.”

What did he mean they got so bad?

I think he was referring to finances; they really hit bottom. That's when I learned that Uncle

Herman—my grandmother's brother-in-law—had been a member of the Christian Scientist

Church in Las Vegas for 40 years. I only knew him as a white-haired man who looked like Santa

Claus.

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When I joined the church, which is located on 7th and Bridger, across from the Las Vegas

Academy, a lot of people still remembered Uncle Herman. And Dad said, “For all the good this

is doing you, I'm thrilled. You follow whatever works for you.” He was so big that way.

In fact, Dad didn't go to temple. I remember one time he must have gone to a funeral or

something and he joked about it. He said, “Rabbi Gold saw me walk in and he looked at each

wall very carefully, because he just knew they were going to come tumbling down because I had

walked through the door.”

However, Aunt Kit’s side of the family and the older generation, including Uncle

Herman's daughter Sally and Uncle Mike, that whole side of the family were practicing Jews. I

don't know that Aunt Kit made a big deal of it. But her kids celebrated Jewish holidays and

other special practices. Aunt Kit was very open, as well. She told me that whatever faith

practice worked for you, then that helped you enrich your life as a spiritual being, whatever it

was. And so my dad always encouraged me, “Follow your spiritual path.” And I think he'd be

proud that I'm a Licensed Religious Science Practitioner.

I think that points out how often people don't understand that there is a secular way of

being Jewish, as well as a spiritual way.

What I've shared and I believe is more common than people know. I was interviewed for

another book. The author spent twenty years writing about Jewish politics in Nevada. There's a

piece about my family in there. I learned things about my family through his writing. For

example, my second cousin, Bobbie Kane, who lives in Hawaii now, was the first female Jewish

baby born in Clark County. Because the faith passes through the female, I told Bobbie, “That’s a

claim of fame.” I saw Bobbie a few years back. She was here for her husband's ninetieth

birthday and we had a big family reunion. Among many others, I reconnected with her

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granddaughter, who attended Wiener Elementary School.

So Jews in Nevada is the book that we're talking about.

Yes. There's a part of a chapter about our family.

I told him [John Marschall wrote Jews in Nevada] when he wanted me to interview, I

said, “I'm really not Jewish; I wasn't raised in the faith.” However, I was raised in the tradition

and the values.

Talk about that. That's a really good topic.

Education was important in our family. The only promise Dad ever elicited from me, and I

honored it, was that I would graduate college before I got married. And I had my master's

degree when I got married, so I double honored it. As a young child, I made this promise about

finishing college when I couldn’t even comprehend what college was. Education, education,

education.

I remember in high school Dad wanted to make sure that I took typing. That might seem

like a strange thing. He said, “It's not that you're going to be a secretary, though that's lovely.

Your mother was a wonderful secretary. However, if you have typing skills, you'll do better in

your schoolwork.”

Dad had a handicapped left arm. He was born dominant left and had an injury so he had

to become dominant right. His left arm was totally dysfunctional and atrophied. He had kind of

a grasp with his hand; he couldn't do anything with it. He only wore short-sleeve shirts because

he couldn't wear long sleeves. Everything was custom made for him. Anyway, when he took

the bar examination, though they were allowed to use a typewriter, he couldn't physically type.

So in getting ready for it, he had to learn how to read faster and analyze faster because he had to

handwrite his answers. He needed more writing time than everybody else. So in reflection, he

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said to me, “I want you prepared when you go on to college that you have the tools you need.”

I did take typing and earned a typing award. Back then you'd take a typing test for five

minutes and count your words and divide by five. For every misspelled word, you'd subtract five

words per minute. It wasn't just what you typed, but it had to be accurate. With all that I typed

65 words a minute. That's on a manual [typewriter]. Often, now, I can be watching a movie and

realize that I’m typing what they're saying, keyboarding on my legs or on the arms of the chair.

I'm keyboarding almost like a court reporter.

That was really important, the promise to finish college before I got married. He

stressed, “It's very, very important. I don't care what you study.”

I was always a word person. This was my mother’s influence and Dad supported it. I

started writing at a very young age. I was about seven years old when I started knowing how to

putting words together on paper. I'd carry a legal pad from Dad's office; I always had a legal pad

from Dad's office and lots of pencils with very sharp points and very big erasers. I wrote about

everything I saw, everything I saw. “Oh, look at, the leaf on that tree; oh, look at that little bug.”

I was constantly writing. My mother would take me to my dad's law office every few months.

We would sit there on a Saturday. Mom would sit down in front of a typewriter and I would sit

next to her. She’d open my writing tablet and make magic happen by turning my scribbles into

what looked like the pages of a book. Then she’d add them the other typed pages in my

olive-colored binder. My one regret in life is that I left the binder with my half-brother to keep it

safe, because I was moving every two years for professional reasons. His pit bulls destroyed

everything in my storage trunk. So that keepsake was lost, along with other mementos.

You've got that memory still.

Oh, those mementos. I can see that binder. Almost every story—this is probably part of the

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Jewish tradition and my mother's love, too—every story had a moral to it. Everything had a

happy ending.

I remember writing a poem for my Aunt Val, after who I was named. I remember I felt

really sorry for her because she wasn't married. So I wrote a poem, like an ode to Aunt Val,

about how great she was and it's okay that you're not married. I sent it to her and just knew it

would make her feel better.

In my adult life, I’ve earned about 250 awards for writing, whether it's putting together

seminars or speaking or writing speeches or writing my books.

That's wonderful.

Most of my awards involve words and communication. I love working with words.

My dad taught me about education. Both of my parents were instrumental in teaching me

about community service, by example, not by talking but by doing. Mom was always involved

with school and I saw what it was like to participate at a human level in the community. Dad did

his service clubs. In fourth grade at Mayfair Grammar School, one day a new student, Linda-

something joined our class. She was unfamiliar. And, for those of us who grew up together, she

was an intruder. My friends bullied her. Though I did not bully, I didn't stop it, either.

One day I remember sitting in reading circle, legs crossed, and I saw something I'd never

seen before. I saw holes in the bottom of Linda’s shoes and I could see her socks. I was so

stunned by that. It was just like developing a new sense. I didn't know what to do with what I

was seeing.

So I decided to spearhead a covert fundraising effort to buy her a pair of shoes. I

encouraged everybody to donate their nickels and dimes and quarters. Because I got a dollar a

week allowance, I helped bumped it to ten dollars. I don't know how I got the phone number of

22

the family, but I called the mother because I needed Linda’s shoe size. When she was resistant, I

said, “We're doing this because we love her.” And then the mom gave me her shoe size.

Several of us went up to Buster Brown shoe store on Maryland Parkway and Bonneville

and bought the shoes. All of us wrapped the box. I remember their apartment was just around

the corner, so we walked there to give Linda the shoes. I remember the mom's reaction,

watching her daughter get that new pair of shoes.

That was really my first experience in community service. And it wasn't as though my

mom or dad said, “Well, why don't you raise money?” It just was what I knew I was supposed to

do. It just was the right thing to do.

That's a great story.

I didn't remember it until years back when I was asked to speak at a parent support group for kids

who have physical challenges. I was talking about voluntarism and how to recruit more

volunteers and shared that story. I said, “The most important thing about volunteering to me is

knowing when to say no. It's not about yes to volunteering.” And that's not what they wanted to

hear. They want, “Oh, yes, rah, more volunteers.” To me it's say no. By saying no you can

honor all the yesses you’ve already said.

I said, “The first time you say yes when it's too much, then you dilute the value of all

your previous yesses where you gave a commitment.” Because if you’re overloaded or if you're

not engaged with head and heart, then it's going to affect all of your earlier commitments. It's

disingenuous. So saying no is just as important as saying yes.

I was a candy striper at Sunrise Hospital for five years. Often I'd have to take a cab

because no one would take me to the hospital. I'd use my allowance for cab fare to do volunteer

work at Sunrise because I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my time and my money.

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You wanted to be there.

Serving the patients.

Now, Grandma Kitty, did she ever talk about being Jewish in those early days? So the

food, when you talked about matzah ball soup—

That's just what we ate. Yes, the chopped chicken liver, matzah ball soup, hot coleslaw. I think

we ate gefilte fish. I didn't like it. We ate a lot of salmon and bagels. Dad also liked ham

sandwiches and bacon and probably ate sausage. I probably did as a kid. I don't have a taste for

any of that now. I'm probably more Jewish in terms of my palate than most people I know who

are Jewish. I'll eat Bac-O Bits because they're usually soy, but I just don't eat bacon or sausage

or ham. I don't eat lamb or pork. We did eat a lot of brisket, a lot of brisket and sauerkraut. She

made great brisket and sauerkraut. I just thought everybody ate that way. I learned when I went

to college that most of my sorority sisters in Missouri never had eaten brisket in their lives. They

had no clue about sauerkraut either.

Yes. That's such an Eastern European flavor.

Ironically, my brother, Paul—I just lost him in October, October 17, 2014—was possibly

affected medically by the Eastern European influence. He was my only immediate family left.

Dad died in 1996; Mom died seven years earlier. People say when you lose your second parent,

you know your mortality. That's not what I felt. When Paul died I realized I have no family. I

used to say don't have parents, husband or children. And then I'd say, “But I have Paul.”

I have a half-brother Doc, whom Dad adopted while married to Doc’s mother, Gayle.

However, we aren’t close.

Paul and Dad were estranged. When I went to be with Paul’s wife, I put the memorial

24

together and wrote the obit, Paul’s widow, Charlotte Allen, reinforced how much anger he had

toward Dad. After my parents’ divorce, he took my mother's maiden name. That was a blow to

Dad that his son gave up the Wiener name. Paul was so bruised that Dad adopted another son

who had the family name. Dad still tried to bridge the gap. He flew up to San Francisco to be at

Paul's wedding to his second wife. He gave them $10,000 as a wedding gift.” Charlotte didn't

know that, but she found a picture of Dad at the wedding. Paul and Dad were almost clones of

one another. Charlotte said, “They look so much alike.” I said, “Well, they were more alike

than Paul wanted to admit.” In fact, they died similarly. It's eerie how similar the circumstances

of their deaths were.

Oh, really?

Dad lived with me for about four years prior to his death. I was out of town when he died. He

died in the hallway in the middle of the night. I worked at home and an employee found him.

She said that he had a very peaceful look on his face. The night before he had been talking to

Harley Harmon, who lived across the street. He had come home from dinner and was

complaining of an upset stomach and he just really felt queasy and icky.

The days before Paul died—he struggled with chronic lymphocytic leukemia—his wife

was in Grass Valley, California, at their other house. Because he had been doing so well, she

knew he could care for himself for a few days. That last night, he told her on the phone that he’d

been sick at his stomach all day. When she asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital, he said,

“No, no, no.” And then in the middle of the night or early morning hours, he died in the middle

of the floor with a very peaceful look. He’d had a heart attack just like Dad. Charlotte wasn't

home, the way I wasn't home. I would have been and she would have been, because I was

coming back the next day and she was coming back later the day of the day he died.

25

Charlotte said she had a conversation with Paul about being Jewish. “No, no, no, no, no,”

he answered. She said, “But you're Dad's Jewish.” Paul said, “Yes, but I'm not.” “Where is

your family from?” He said, “Well, the name Wiener; it's German.” My grandfather was

Eastern European, as far as we know, the Polish kind, wherever that is in Europe.

My brother had chronic lymphocytic leukemia, which is very common with Eastern

European Jews. He didn't tell me until five years into his illness; that was in 2012. Other

people get it, but it's very common with Eastern European Jews, according to Charlotte’s

research. At the end, Paul just had some major shifts during conversations he had with people. I

believe that there's a family reunion that's eternal going on right now. I believe it. I think

everything that is experienced here in a negative way dissipates, and the family is together again.

Now, how about on your dad's sister's side, the Waldmans—

They practiced Judaism. Probably not in an orthodox sense, but they had more of the religious

experience in their household than I did. They had different religious keepsakes in the house.

They did holidays differently. Though not in a strict sense, they just developed their religion

more. For one thing, my aunt and my uncle were both Jewish. There was such a religious

freedom in this family that if my dad really wanted to assert it, I would have been raised in the

Jewish faith as well. I don't know the conversations he had with my grandmother about that.

However Grandma Kitty did make promise not to marry outside the Jewish faith. Yet, all three of

his wives and every woman he dated that I'm aware of wasn't Jewish. It's almost like a rebellion.

The Jewish population was pretty small here, too.

Temple Beth Sholom was the only temple in the '60s. I remember my Uncle Mike—who

married Dad's cousin Sally. They were so wonderful. I cried so hard at his memorial service at

26

Temple Beth Sholom.

You were asking me about bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs. I was an adult when I

attended my first one. I had moved back from my work in Washington, D.C. So it was probably

in the 1990s. After the event, I came home and said to my dad, “Dad, I really felt like an

outsider because none of those words that I was hearing were English; they sounded so foreign.”

I'm not trying to make light. I couldn’t experience the bar mitzvah fully because I couldn’t

understand what was happening.

I understand what you mean.

You learn Yiddish or Hebrew to do the ceremony, which is not spoken in normal conversation.

And I hadn't had that experience. I asked my dad if he had to learn all that. He said, “Oh, no, no,

no.” I said, “But to be bar mitzvah-ed you'd have to learn it.” Then he responded, “Honey, I

wasn't bar mitzvah-ed.” But he was confirmed.

Dad lived the Jewish tradition of philanthropy in a big way.

Like the idea of tzedakah.

It's very, very, very, very huge for me as well. I give disproportionately to what I take in. I'll

look at a sum of money come in and say, “Okay, there's some things I need—such as a new

compressor for my air conditioner.” But I learned that I should give it to that and that and that

and that. Yes, I take care of my needs though I’m not big on frills. I look for ways to write

checks and give money away.

Well, you mentioned when we first sat down that you started a couple of new foundations.

I did. Serving as a state senator for sixteen years allowed me to participate in the ultimate public

service. I'm thrilled about—and proud of—the work I did. Even though I was in Senate

leadership—when I retired I was the first woman assistant majority leader of the state senate—I

27

didn't introduce partisan legislation. I introduced ninety bills in my eight sessions, and

seventy-five became law. I also introduced seventeen resolutions which produced some major

transformations of policies. For example, upgrading fire standards statewide regarding the care

of animals in a facility was one of my resolutions. Another involved how we deal with eating

disorders, which created big shifts with school nurses.

As I look back on my sixteen years, when term limits kicked in for me, I mourned it. I

really mourned it. I struggled because I thought this is who I am. And then I had to realize, no,

who I am is who I am. Being a senator was what I did, but I'm not doing it anymore. That wasn't

my identity; rather it was something I’d chosen to do.

To alleviate the mourning—my cats, Patriot, Liberty, and Freedom keep me grounded in

my magnificent present moment.

Very pretty cats.

I looked at other political offices. For eight years I'd been looking at secretary of state. I spent

thirteen hours with either Ross Miller or his chief department heads. I asked lots of questions to

see if it was a good fit. I didn't want a divisive primary since we had been through really nasty

2012 election cycle. I stepped aside. I didn't want to contribute to the ugly politics. Then I

looked at state assembly and met with my assemblyman who was not going to run for reelection.

Then I looked at another local office and met with that office holder. Then I looked at a county

office and met with that office holder and toured her facility. Finally, I looked at another

statewide office that I was recruited to seek for the third time in my career.

So, my campaign team and I were gearing up—I had met with that office holder and

decided, “Yes, I'll run for that.” Then I woke up early for a county race the morning after that

meeting, and said, “I can't do this job for the next four, eight or twelve years.” I might win.

28

There are no term limits attached to it. However, I’d be miserable because that's not where my

heart was. My head could do it, but my heart couldn't do it. And I said, “I would be

irresponsible if I run for that. It would be irresponsible to the people who elect me. I can't do

it.”

It goes back to what you were saying earlier; no is an answer. It's acceptable.

Exactly. But my team thought it was a yes at that point. So as I was driving to church—on

Valentine's weekend—I have this wow moment. I have a lot of those moments on my way to

church.

That's a good time to have it.

And then while I am in church, I was eager to get home to start putting things to work. After I

came home from church, I texted my financial planner. I said, “We've looked at my establishing

a foundation for a long time.” I had been very excited about that idea for a public non-profit—

the Public Service Institute of Nevada. That name said it all. And I added, “We’ll need another

one as well—a private non-profit called the Valerie Wiener Foundation.

What I realized was for me, the highest level of public service is to honor others for

theirs. And that's where I am with my life right now. So the things I want to do with—I call it

“Sign,” P-S-I-N—the things I want to do with PSIN or the Institute, is honor of small non-profits

with both recognition and money to seed more public service work. I also thought I could

encourage certain entities to sponsor awards. That doesn't happen. You get sponsors for events

or for scholarships, but this kind of award sponsorship doesn’t happen. For example, I know

about a quilting group that makes hundreds of baby quilts in December for Child Haven. Well,

$500 or $1000…thank you, you did a great job and here's a certificate and here's a check is a

big deal. That's their supplies for that whole project.

29

Then I realized, it would be very beneficial to have a clearing house for best practices for

nonprofits. So let's say cancer organizations manage a certain type of project in the community.

Well, maybe diabetes organizations would benefit from that, too, but they don't know about it.

Why reinvent? Or maybe there's a gap in in services and we could fill it. We could provide a

stipend for a graduate student to coordinate the research. This could be a clearing house for best

practices in this state, not in Alabama or North Dakota, but Nevada.

The Valerie Wiener Foundation, as a private foundation, will have its own mission.

People often ask me, “What are you doing now that you're retired?” Well, my work as a

Religious Science Practitioner is a big commitment. I also chair the state’s Task Force on

Alzheimer's Disease. I also find great joy as chair of the Nevada Youth Legislature Foundation.

How did you get involved in the Alzheimer’s Task Force?

It's not something that one might think about unless you're experiencing it within the family or

with a friend. Unfortunately, most people want to hide from it. I was probably one of those

people. I wasn’t hiding, I certainly wasn’t engaged.

In 2012, we were in our last interim committee work. I was vice chairing the Health

Committee. Senator Shirley Breeden was really excited about chairing an Alzheimer’s Task

Force. Her dad and mom were in a very tragic car collision. Her dad died on the scene and her

mom needed brain surgery. That shifted her life.

So in probably July we were wrapping up our committee work. During a break and the

chair, Assemblywoman April Mastroluca said, “We've got this task force that we're required by

an Assembly concurrent resolution to create, and we’ve set aside a bill for it. However, the task

force hasn’t been formed, let alone met. Would you be willing to chair it?” And I said, “I kind

of thought I was wrapping up my legislative career.” They looked at me, and I said, “Sure, I can

30

do one more.”

So between July and October 26, we had five very long meetings. We came up with a

state plan and had that state plan in the governor's and legislature's hands by February 1, 2013.

With the one bill we were given, we chose to seek the creation of a task force under Health and

Human Services, and the work would continue until 2017. I likely will ask for another bill in

2017 to extend the life of the task force. The work is important. The incidents of Alzheimer's

disease or other forms of dementia—there are about forty or fifty types of dementia,--are

increasing dramatically. Alzheimer's disease accounts for about 70 percent of these diagnoses.

The work is huge. Out 2013 State Plan had twenty recommendations that we refined

from 117 proposed recommendations. Major things have happened during our short history.

Legislation has been passed around our State Plan. We advocate and we educate. Coalitions and

collaborations have been created. It's huge. I mean we really set a standard for other states.

For some states, it takes ten years or longer to get a plan. In fact, our vice chair did the

plan for California and he said it went on to a shelf.

Ours is a living, breathing document. We have an agency that supports it. And I am the

chair and I'm so honored all the time. The task force members and staff are great. We have

experts who make tremendous contributions. We just met at the Lou Ruvo Center for our last

meeting. Each member engages fully, and we’re constantly reviewing our work. Do we still

want this recommendation? Is there something we're missing?

So one bill for the 2015 legislative session is sponsored by Senator Joe Hardy who is one

of our task force members. His bill addresses four of the State Plan’s recommendations. It deals

with continuing medical education for medical professionals. It also addresses training for first

responders. Often when persons are being treated for some form of dementia they’re treated

31

with an inappropriate drug when they experience an unrelated medical incident—oh, it must be

dementia; we'll give them an antipsychotic drug or something, when it's really something to deal

with diabetes. First responders need to learn about screenings.

For our first legislative session in 2013, we had three bills. Two of them were passed.

And the third one, though not passed, mirrored one sponsored by Assemblywoman Maggie

Carlton, and hers passed. So we believe we had three successes. So it's huge, huge, huge.

The other thing that's my big passion is the Nevada Youth Legislature. In 2007, I

introduced a bill to create it. We've earned twenty-seven awards for this program; I keep

submitting it for more. The awards might help us when we start applying for grants.

Each of the twenty-one Youth Legislators is appointed by his or her state senator. They

are taught how to be policy makers. I just received a letter from one for whom I wrote a letter of

recommendation. She said, “This program has changed what I'm going to do with my life.”

Many of them had one thing in mind when they started their terms and then they decided, I'm

going to work in public policy or I'm going to grow a career in public service. One of our former

Youth Legislators, who is at UNLV, was studying business and changed to public

administration, which will require another year in college. But he said, “This is what I want to

do.” As a freshman, he set up a scholarship in his grandfather's name and works an extra job just

to fund it. It seems he’s already on his path of public service.

A $500 annual scholarship to help youths from at-risk neighborhoods attend college.

He’s already done so much with his life. I presented him with a Valerie Wiener Nevada Youth

Legislature Scholarship last year. I've been funding at least five or six annual scholarships since

1995. I started at UNR and the Missouri School of Journalism, and then I expanded to include

the Boyd School of Law and then the University of Illinois, Springfield. Now I fund Nevada

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Youth Legislature Scholarships. They're not big amounts, but they’re consistent.

It's something.

Again, it's what I can afford. They're $500 each and I'll grow them more when I can. When I

gave my first scholarship in 1995 at the journalism school in Reno, the recipient happened to be

sitting at my table. I didn't know she was getting it; she didn't know she was getting it.

Ironically, I had talked to her on the phone to make my reservation to be there at the scholarship

event. I was so excited. I told her that because we had chatted on the phone, I felt like I knew

her. I said, “It's not very much; it's only $500.” She said, “Oh, you don't understand. It doesn't

matter how much it is. You're giving it to a stranger and you're saying, 'I believe in you; I

believe in you.'”

I've gotten letters from recipients. I had one Chinese student who was at UNR who said,

“I was going to have to quit school and go back to China without my degree. This $500 dollars

is going to allow me to graduate.”

That tugs at your heart.

Yes, it does.

Well, you're doing some amazing things.

I wish other people would allow themselves this joy. Instead, some people get caught up on

having stuff like $5000 shoes.

Some save toward that. And I'm going, wow. I just bought a new compressor for $2400

and I needed it because mine was damaged beyond repair. A need versus a want.

I often think of spending money in terms of how many school library books a certain sum

could buy. I used to send a letter at Christmas to the people I care about [as to] why I wasn’t

sending them a gift for Christmas. I explained what certain nonprofits were receiving in lieu of

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my gift giving.

There's just a joy, especially when I do the equivalents. I've told people, “If you treat a

friend to one less movie and probably a very inexpensive dinner a month, that's your $500

scholarship at the end of the year.

It’s easy to follow that equation.

Maybe it means a student can stay in school. I love giving the Youth Legislature Scholarships,

because I actually know them. They go to amazing young adults whose families cannot afford

their children’s education.

That's marvelous.

A former Youth Legislator visited me a week ago. He’s a UNLV student, who in about two

weeks is going to study abroad in Israel. He received a scholarship two or three years ago.

These scholarships mean a lot to our program’s alumni. My hope is to continue funding

scholarships through the Valerie Wiener Foundation.

And then your dad gave…

Yes, Dad set up a charitable remainder trust. The thing is once you set it up, it's irrevocable.

One of the recipients was the medical school at UNR. I get letters from those students;

the school sends them to me. One I recently got—I still have it—touched my heart. I save most

of them. This particular medical student is from Idaho. His family has five generations of

farmers. He himself was a firefighter during the summers. He realized he wanted to do more.

He started medical school at forty years old. He's now a first-year med student. With Dad's

scholarship of $1000 or $1500, he can ease up a little on his loans.

The soccer program at UNLV was another recipient because of Dad. He was good friends

with the coach, Barry Barto. The Jewish Home for the Aged in Pittsburgh was a recipient; also

34

Wiener Elementary School, and Westcare, too. The trust had nine shares, with ten recipients;

two split a share.

I know what he intended but he didn't state it. Because he didn’t make his intentions

clear, some, including Wiener Elementary School, spent down the principal quite a bit. Each

beneficiary received between a $180,000 and $200,000. Back then ten percent annual interest

was common. Dad’s intention was that they would receive in perpetuity what he gave them out

of his pocket when he was alive. So they would forever have that money.

When I was putting my own estate plan together, I said, “Dad, I'm not going to do a trust

the way you did it.” I didn't have the resources. But I said, “I think I have a different formula

that I like better. For one thing, none of these recipients have any level of expectancy. They

can't presume that they're going to receive anything. It's not a contract.” I added that I would

give them 75 percent of interest earned and then you grow the principle. And then, at some

point, you're giving substantially more because you're growing the principle. 75 percent is still

unexpected money for them.”

He said, “You're just so clever. I should have thought of that.”

He was very proud of you. When I listened to just part of the audio recording that was

done of him in 1990, he was just filled with joy and pride of you.

There are a lot of things he never shared with me. We had an experience when he lived with me

at the time, when I was writing my first book, and that was Power Communications.

Oh, I see it on your shelf.

I invested a lot of resource and time in writing it. I birthed it. That was my first book. Everybody

says, “You always have a book in you.” I could have continued writing. However, I went into

politics. Even with that commitment, I wrote five handbooks while I was in office.

35

You were always writing.

Three of my books I wrote while I held office. It's funny, because I'd be working on a campaign

mailer on one computer at A & B Printers and then change desks to work on a handbook.

During one reelection campaign, I revised three of my handbooks at the same time.

In 1993-1994, I wrote my first book, Power Communications: Positioning Yourself for

High Visibility. Though I didn’t have an agent, New York University took it. I was seeking out

an agent at the same time I sent it to publishers and NYU jumped on it. So I got it published

without an agent. Power Communications was the Book of the Month Club, Money Book Club’s

main selection its first month in print.

The book came out in September. My birthday was in October. I told my dad for my

birthday gift, “All I want is for you to read my book.” I felt like my book this is my child. Dad

never finished reading it. That really bruised me. That book was on his nightstand when he died

in 1996.

Many years later I shared with another Religious Science Practitioner how much that hurt

me. Dad had placed an airline ticket in the book to the last page he had read. She asked, “You

still have the book?” I said, “Yes.” I had kept it. She said, “Let's see what your dad just

couldn't read past.” It was something about media training. I read the subhead on the page and

realized, oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh, he couldn't deal with this in his own life. What I was talking

about in the book dealt with media interviews. However, when applied to his personal life, Dad

couldn’t get past the principle I was addressing. It was so obvious to me this was a stumbling

block for him in decisions and the way he ran his own life. He couldn't go further in the book

because he couldn't get past that.

My second book was Gang-Free: Friendship Choices for Today’s Youth, in 1995. —no, I

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had already written Gang-Free. He didn’t read that one either. Ironically, though, he bragged

about both books to other people.

I dedicated my third book, The Nesting Syndrome: Grown Children Living at Home,

which was published in 1997, to Dad. Though the book was about grown children staying or

returning to their family home, Dad had returned to live with his daughter for his last four years.

After his funeral, I was in that room writing thank-you notes to everybody who brought a

card to the funeral. I had written a text that I printed and then I added a handwritten note. When

I was writing the note to Senator Harry Reid, who along with Senator Richard Bryan, Jim Rogers

and me, was a speaker at the funeral, I reflected on the funeral event. I made sure not one story

was repeated. It was amazing and planning it had kept me busy for six days prior to the funeral

on February 12, 1996. While I'm writing the note to Senator Reid, Gary Davis from Davis

Mortuary knocked on the door. He had the robe that Dad was wearing when he died in our home

on February 6. I had given that robe to him that Christmas before. On top of the robe was Dad’s

death certificate. As I looked at that, Gary and I chatted; he asked, “You know about Senator

Reid?” And I said, “I was just writing to him. I was midsentence when you knocked.”

Because he [Senator Reid] came late to the funeral...we were already in the auditorium at

the Las Vegas Academy for Performing Arts downtown and the lights were down. The funeral

was on a Monday and I had talked to Senator Reid the night before for about thirty minutes,

because he wanted to avoid repeating stories when he talked at the funeral. Gary told me that the

Saturday night prior to the funeral, someone had threatened Senator Reid’s life. He was under

protection at the funeral. They had SWAT people were located all over the Mormon Church,

across the street, and all over the auditorium. The reason he came late to the funeral was under

their direction, “Enter in darkness.”

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So I told a friend, “Oh, my gosh, he never, ever would have told me about that because he

gave me his word he'd be at the funeral and that's the friend he is.” He never mentioned it on the

call we had that Sunday evening. He never said, “Valerie, I really can't come.” It all had to be

orchestrated so he could be there. So a friend of mine said, “He put everybody at risk.” I said,

“No, he didn't; he put himself at risk.”

Then Gary said, “You know your dad had provided for you to be interred with him.” He

had bought a double crypt at Davis Mortuary, because, at the time, he had been co-owner of the

mortuary with Gary. “After he moved in with you, he made arrangements for you to be there.”

And he said, “He was so proud of you.” I said, “He just didn't share it with me very

often.” However, even though he didn’t say it to me very often, I knew he was proud of me.

In 1990, I was nominated for Women of Achievement in Media. The Women's Council

of the Chamber of Commerce used to honor professional women in different categories. It was a

big event. I was a finalist in Women in Media, with Paula Francis from Channel 8 [KLAS]. The

other finalist also had a TV station behind her. All I had was my small company that provided

media training and other high-visibility services. Again, in 1991, I was a finalist with two TV

people. And, in 1992—the same.

The first year we bought a table. The next year we had some people there. In 1992,

Channel 3 had a table and Dad came and we were right up front. And that was the year I

received the award. So there was my dad sitting right there when I went on stage to receive the

award. I said, “I've been so fortunate to receive a lot of recognition and humbly so, but nothing is

more important and more valued than receiving it at home.” I looked down at my dad and he sat

there so still. He couldn't make eye contact with me, but he was paying attention.

Since mine was the last category, the band started playing and Dad just kept sitting there.

38

He sat there for at least ten minutes not talking to anybody and then he left.

The next morning he called me and said, “So are you still on cloud nine?” I said, “Cloud

nine?” He said, “After last night.” And I said, “Dad, that was yesterday. I have work to do.

This is today. I'm on my way. There are other things to accomplish and to contribute.” That's

what he taught me; you don't rest on yesterday’s laurels. I mean it’s nice. I was honored.

During my professional career, I’ve earned more than 250 awards. It’s not about the

awards; rather it’s about doing the best work possible.

You're a marketer, too, yes.

I'm a positioning strategist. That's what I do, and so I'm pretty good at it. Certainly, there are

things I don't do well and I can tell you what they are. Positioning individuals and organizations

my little piece of the market.

I believe it starts with knowing who you are and feeling good about it. When I got

divorced I took my surname back because that's who I am. When my parents got divorced—and

I was ten and then twelve when it finally went through—my mom gently offered us up the

opportunity to take her maiden name. She said, “I'm going to take my maiden name back and if

you children would like to do that certainly that would be fine, but it's up to you.” My brother

said, “Yes, I want to be Knight.” And I said, “No, thank you, Val Wiener is who I am.” I was

very sure at twelve years old.

When I got married, I hyphenated my last name: Wiener-Baird. It became important to

me at the time I got engaged. When one of my copy-editing students said, “I saw your

announcement in the paper. What will the world be without Val Wiener?” I went, hmm, I must

think about this. This was a time—the 1970s—when few people hyphenated names in this

country. So I told my fiancé. He was the one who suggested I retain my name by hyphenating it

39

with his last name, Baird. His parents did not like that.

When I went to law school, I dropped my husband’s name altogether. I registered as

Valerie Wiener. What's in a name? I’m very proud of mine, first and last.

I have to ask...you have a father who has the notoriety of who he represented.

I still get calls about his legal and professional life.

I'm sure you do. One of the things that struck me as I was listening to his voice on [another

oral history] recording was his references to Bugsy Siegel. He's a great storyteller.

Dad was known for stories, his storytelling. And I'm a storyteller, too. I could be walking to

Dad’s office to have lunch with him and, from six blocks away, I could see a crowd on a street

corner and he was in the middle of telling a story. He also told jokes. He was so funny. He

could tell the same joke four hundred times and still giggle through it. If I were telling it, I'd

mess it up by the second line. However, I'd giggle with him over and over again because his

laugh was so contagious. He got so amused by it all.

So he wasn't the quiet man of his father. He was a little bit more [out going]…

But he was a private man.

He loved doing and he loved being part of things. He loved business and cherished being

a lawyer. He was involved with a lot of things that didn't go well and he had a lot of things that

did go well. He hit bottom more than a couple of times and found his way back. Through it all,

he always honored his word. For example, when the economy was soft and he had some deals

that were bleeding him dry, he was the money stream for those businesses. I remember when he

got involved with Boys Town. Three people went back to Nebraska to talk to Father Peter, who

was the Father Flanagan of the time. They requested the establishment of Boys Town in Nevada.

40

Well, Dad pledged $10,000 a year for ten years. Think about this. That's back in the '80s

when he was giving money to everything else, too, right?

Well, money got really tight, and Dad had financial commitments to other non-profits as

well. Plus, he was on the notes for all these businesses. His signature guarantee at the banks

started and maintained a lot of businesses. His signature at the bank earned him a percentage of

a business. So he might get ten percent because he signed the note that got the partners the loan.

And he was on the line for it when they couldn't make payroll. So it's a fair switch, right?

We chatted and he said, “I've got to honor my commitment to Boys Town. I'm going to

go to the bank and borrow.” He was going to borrow money to honor a commitment to a

nonprofit. Who does that? They just say, “I don't have it this year.” For Dad, he’d given his

word, and he’d honor it whatever it took.

For his 75th birthday, I really wanted to do something big. I knew one of the people at

WestCare and scheduled a lunch. Dad didn't know what WestCare was. So he listened and

learned about WestCare. My idea was they'd honor him for his birthday as a fundraiser; they'd

get a great list of people who would want to celebrate to his birthday. We’d get a big party for

Dad, and they’d generate more donors.

Dad listened a lot and asked a few questions. He said, “So let me ask you something.

After you pay all your bills, how much money would you clear?” I said, “Don't go there. You

are not writing a check to avoid a great birthday celebration. We are going to have a 75th

birthday party for you.” He had a great one; that's where I presented him with his oral history

that I had commissioned. [Note: Valerie donated a copy of this interview to the Southern

Nevada Jewish Heritage Project.]

Ah, okay.

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And then for his 80th birthday, WestCare gave him another birthday party. For this birthday, I’d

made arrangement with UNR's Oral History Program to do his oral history. You'll appreciate

this even more than I do, the sadness in it. He was eighty years old. At that age, who could

know how long time he would live. H was in good health and had great Nevada stories, north

and south. Unexpectedly, he died just before he was eighty-one. I had set up the oral history

arrangement, and announced it at the big birthday event. Taken their intent to publish the oral

history as a book—months into it I said, “So how's it going?” He said, “Well, they only met

with me once.” I said, “What do you mean they only met with you once?” He said, “Well, they

just never called back.” “Why didn't you tell me? I would've...”

And the people he represented, like you say...I've got the Green Felt Jungle in hard cover

and paperback. What's interesting about the paperback...I bought them both because one of them

has pictures in it; the other one doesn't.

One day I sat down with Dad and we were looking at pictures of gangsters, right? “So,

Dad, how many of these gangster-types do you know?” He said, “Well, I represented him and

him and him and him.” And I went...”Were you a mob attorney?” He said, “No.”

Just like he stipulated with Ben “Bugsy” Siegel, I defend the law, and everything we do

in Nevada must be legal.” Ben Siegel's stipulation with Dad was that every piece of work that

Dad did for him had to be on a separate piece of paper. So if he were working on three different

matters, it would require three different memos. Siegel said, “When you do good work, that's

great and when you don't, I've got a record of it. And I know where to find it. Whenever Siegel

would have his conversations about things that might be questionable or illegal, he had Dad

leave the room so Dad wouldn’t be accountable for what he hadn’t heard.

When Siegel was killed in Beverly Hills, the sheriff or police chief came to Las Vegas to

42

investigate. He met with Dad and said, “I need to meet Mr. Siegel’s bodyguard.” Dad said,

“What bodyguard?” “The guy who was like his shadow everywhere he went.” Dad said, “That

was me.”

Everybody saw Dad at the Flamingo as it was being built. Interesting to note, Siegel

didn't build the hotel from the ground up; it was already under construction and owned by the

publisher or editor of, I think, the Hollywood Reporter. That gentleman had a really bad

gambling habit and owed the mob a lot of money; so they just took his hotel. Prior to the

Flamingo, according to Dad, there were bungalows.

Oh, the old cabin hotel type thing.

Yes. And they were owned by a woman. Dad was her attorney, too. I believe he might have

helped her adopt some children. Dad was Siegel's attorney for his divorce.

All these decades later, the story continues. On New Year's Eve day of 2010, going into

2011, I got a call from a gentleman who created the Mob Experience at the Tropicana Hotel. He

wanted me to meet Siegel's daughter(Millicent Siegel Rosen) who was a consultant on the

project. Though I never met Siegel, because he died before I was born, I knew she was his

daughter. I’d seen his photo and always heard about his penetrating blue eyes. They just

swallowed you.

When she got into the car, I thought, if they hadn't told me, I would say that's Ben Siegel's

daughter. He had two daughters, I believe, and there was just enough difference in their ages

that they weren't very close. I shared some stories that I knew about Siegel that she never knew.

She didn't know Dad was his attorney, because when her dad lived here, she was living in New

York with her mom.

Her references to her dad were really interesting. A lot of admiration. He was a great

43

dad. She couldn't say that he was murdered or killed or anything like that. She said, “When he

died.” She did say that she and her sister took the train to visit their dad and when they got to the

train station downtown her mother was there. Siegel’s daughter was a little angry because this

was supposed to be her time with her dad; her mom wasn't supposed to be there. Then her

mother told her that her dad had died, not that he had been killed.

She talked about her privileged life when they lived in Southern California. She was

quite the horsewoman and Siegel supported that. When I told her stories she didn't know. So

she really lit up. Of course, she knew nothing about my dad, but she had stories for which I had

back stories.

You both gave oral histories that merged together. Yes, it was interesting. Last year there

was one of those fictionalized stories about Benjamin Siegel's death and your dad is a

character in that.

Seriously?

Yes. And when I heard his voice, it's like that real person—they used his name. I just

wonder what that would be like.

It is interesting because we both, my dad and I, watched the movie “Bugsy” together.

I can't imagine watching that with him. That's great.

He was in his recliner and I was sitting on the couch. I kept looking over. He'd say, “Huh-uh,

didn't happen that way, huh-uh. No, no, no, that wasn't it, huh-uh. No, no.” For example,

there's a scene where Siegel is walking the grounds during construction of the restaurant. Siegel

gets really angry that the ceiling is too low and he explodes. Dad said, “That's not what

happened.”

Dad got a call one day and Siegel was livid. You didn't call him Bugsy, because he had

44

such a bad temper. That's why he got the nickname Bugsy; he got bugged easily. You called

him Ben. And so Siegel told my dad, “Get out here now.” So Dad drove to the Flamingo’s

Oregon Building where Siegel’s apartment was. Unfortunately, that building was torn down. I

thought, oh, these revisionist historians; if you tear it down, it never happened. That's big

history with all of the secret passageways and hiding places.

Dad was at the hotel to meet Siegel in his private apartment. As they stood together,

Siegel told Dad, who was only five-feet-six-inches, to walk across the room. He walks across

the room; gets to the other side. That made Siegel angry because Dad’s walk didn't demonstrate

what Siegel wanted to point out. Then Siegel walked across the room and his head hit a beam

because it was too low. Dad got Del Webb Construction to remedy that. They had to rebuild the

apartment.

Ironically, Siegel—with all of his notorious history—was over-trusting, and this was a

flaw. For example, the Flamingo didn't have the traditional construction fences around the

project. So the trucks would come in with supplies and they'd check and provide the invoices for

billing. Then they'd leave and a day or two later they'd just come back through again with the

same materials and another invoice. Siegel paid for the same things multiple times.

He wasn't watching the details.

Right. Dad told Siegel he should wait to open the Flamingo. However, Siegel was getting a lot

of pressure to open. The hotel lost a lot of money on opening night. Dad told me that Virginia

Hill, Siegel’s girlfriend, attempted suicide opening night. So Dad and Siegel spent part of that

night at the hospital. She was big on pills and things like that, the drama of it. Anyway, Dad had

told Siegel, “You can't open, because you don't have guest rooms.” What Dad was concerned

about did happen: people won early and then went back to the El Rancho to conclude the

45

evening. They won and left. If the Flamingo had had rooms, guests would have gambled longer.

So the house lost.

Anyway, I remember watching the movie and, at one point toward the end, the mob was

pressuring Siegel. He said, “Well, you'll just have to talk to my attorney about that.” I looked

over at my dad and realized: That's him; they're talking about him. Throughout the movie, Dad

kept saying, “Oh, Ben would never, nope. No, he wouldn't say that.”

I remember Mom telling me that she and Dad used to go to the Flamingo. The showroom

was the size of what a hotel lounge of today. And Mom and Dad would go out there several

times a week. As the hotel’s attorney, Dad was paid a $25,000 retainer. Think about how much

that would be in today’s dollars!

One time, during the hotel’s construction, Dad had to go before a war construction board

on Siegel's behalf to get permission for additional construction. The board was rigid about a new

project and Dad argued that it was the continuation of an existing property. He really finessed it.

The night prior to his presentation to this board, Dad had an unpleasant exchange with

Virginia Hill blew up at him. Hill, Siegel and Dad were in San Francisco. Siegel and Hill had a

really nice hotel suite. Dad referred to his room as a salesman's closet. Siegel said, “We'll

switch. You have the suite and we'll take that room because you're going to be doing very

important work.” Dad said, “Trust me, I don't sleep. I'll just be pacing. I don't want your suite.

No, no, no. You're going to have it.” Hill went ballistic at Siegel, “You're giving him our suite

and we have to...” That kind of thing. So, Dad took the suite, paced all night and prevailed the

Feds to grant the building permit.

Siegel was really big on giving back to the community. He did a lot to raise money. One

time he was giving away blond wood radios, every night for a month. You'd buy a raffle ticket

46

and hope it would be drawn. A cigarette girl came by Mom and Dad’s table and slipped a ticket

under my mom's plate and said, “You keep that, honey, because that's going to work for you.”

Oh, lo and behold, my dad won one of these radio-record players. My dad said, “Oh, no, huh-uh,

can't do it. No, no, no. I'm an employee. No, no, no.” The next day this magnificent,

free-standing, deluxe model record player radio in blond wood was delivered to our house as a

gift for Dad's integrity.

It sounds like the ethics of the Wiener name...there's a reason you kept that name.

It's just who I am. When my nephews were young, they’d tell me, “Oh, Aunt Valerie everybody

picks on me.” I said, “You just tell them it means a person from Vienna, a Wiener; that's what it

means. You go to Vienna and you're going to see that name everywhere.” “Oh, but they make

fun of me.” I said, “Guess what? I went through it, too. You can be very proud of our name.”

Having Dad’s name on an elementary school means a lot. I always give a party for the

kids the first Friday of each school year. I get to tell them about Dad.

One time, the librarian said to me, “It isn't right.” And I said, “What's that? This school

should have your name on it, too.” She asked, “How do I make that happen?” When somebody

else also suggested that, I said, “You know what? It's what it is.” And they said, “Nope, we're

going to do something about that, rename it, have your name put up there, too.” I said, “No. The

name honors Dad.” I was touched that they even made the suggestion. .

Another quick Siegel story because these are sides of him you wouldn't know. He called

my dad one day and said, “You and Tui (my mom) need to come out. We're going to be

auctioning off a fur stole for charity and Tui would love it.” Okay. So Dad and Mom went to

the hotel.

Siegel always sat at a booth in the corner at the entrance. From the stage it was a back

47

booth in the corner so he could watch everything. When the stole was brought out, it was bid,

bid, bid. Dad had taken $500. $500—someone out bid him. Dad continued to bid anyway, and

won, but didn’t have enough money. He told Siegel, “I bid more than I have in my pocket. Can I

get an advance from the cage? Could I get some money from the cage so I can honor this

purchase I just made for Tui?”

“Yes, fine. I'll call the cage and let them know.”

So Dad went to the cage and the employee was laughing up a storm. And he said, “You

know who bid you up, don't you? Ben.” I don't know what the final bid was, but Dad would

say, “it all went to a good cause.”

Your Dad and Jim Rogers were really close friends, right?

They were best friends. They were business partners. Again, Dad's signature really helped grow

the group from infancy when it couldn't grow. They were partners for twenty years when Dad

died. They grew a substantial multi-state broadcast company together and then Jim kept growing

it. When Dad died he owned about 30 percent of the group.

From 1972 to 1986, Dad got involved with the television group in an interesting way. I

owned two radio stations in Las Vegas—KBMI and KFMS. My principal partner was Steve

Gold, whose father, Mike, was a minority shareholder in the NBC-TV affiliate with Jim Rogers

in Las Vegas. Mike and several other smaller shareholders had a 30 percent. They hired Dad to

determine if Jim was cheating them. Dad went back to them and said, “Let me tell you

something. He's so protecting you. But if you want to be involved, then I'll buy you out.” That's

what happened. Dad just bought all the small shareholders out and eventually owned 30 percent.

From there the Dynamic Duo bought several stations in the West.

Dad and Jim were business partners. They were each other's lawyers. They were best

48

friends. They were cronies. They were soul mates. They were brothers. They were father, son.

I wrote the tribute to Jim when he was inducted into the Broadcaster Hall of Fame—the

Lifetime Achievement Award. Bob Fisher, the NBA President, and I had met and he said, “I'd

like you to introduce Jim.” Then as we talked and he said, “I don't want you to introduce Jim; I

want you to write the piece for the keepsake program and I don't care how long it is.”

So I called Jim. He was in Montana for the summer. He said, “Well, let's talk now.” I

said, “No, no, I want to schedule an interview, because I need to put my thoughts together as to

how to interview you.” For the interview, we were on the phone for about an hour and a half.

Jim didn't give anything an hour and a half.

One of the questions was, who is the most influential person in your life? He said, “Your

dad.” Who is the next one? I think his next one was his grandfather and then maybe Jim’s

father. I learned more about Dad through Jim’s stories; stories about Dad that were great.

When Jim die, it was like losing a friend, but also like losing Dad all over again. At Jim’s

memorial service at UNLV at least four times my dad was integrated into remarks. And that

entire week TV-3 was doing excerpts of video from Jim on Channel 3. They ran pieces where

Jim talked about his life. Two of those five days Dad was integral to what Jim was talking about.

And then two other people mentioned him and they used that at the memorial. Then they

mentioned where Jim gave money and one of the recipients was Wiener Elementary. I was

uncontrollable. I cried through the whole thing.

Then my feline family, my oldest cat of seventeen years: He had experienced eight

legislative sessions, three campaigns, the writing of five books, ten Senior Olympics…I visited

forty thousand kids who heard about him. He was my child. And to make that decision to let

him go...So I say I released him from the body that no longer served him. I don't like euthanize.

49

I don't like put down. I just let him go. And so that was May 2014.

And what was his name?

Democat. Because I'm a Democrat.

Oh, I love it.

Democrat adopted me on the Fourth of July 1997 in Dina Titus's office. He was part of an

abandoned litter. He was six weeks old. He was the last one to go because he hissed at

everybody. Then my secretary put him on my shoulder and he nestled there for two hours as I

walked the building. Since then, he was determined to share my space and he did. Every time I

was on the phone, he was there. So before I took him to the vet that last morning, we sat

together everywhere where we had our moments and he just purred the whole time. He was

released seventeen years to the day of his estimated birth.

Oh, my.

I had never released an animal before and then I lost Jim and then my brother died. It was a big

year of...we call it transition in my faith. Death doesn’t mean finality to me. The soul lives. I

don't believe in reincarnation personally, but I believe that life energy is forever. There are many

demonstrations of the infinite nature of life.

Again, speaking of life as we know it, Dad and Jim both loved living near each other in

Spanish Oaks. I’ve lived here since 1987. I kept to myself for my sixteen years as a senator,

because I had to have somewhere to be private. I was available and accessible, but I had to have

somewhere just to be quiet. So I didn't get involved in the brunches and all the community

activities. Walking around and seeing new families here and children are here. And I know how

to walk to add length to my walk because every house is a fifty-feet property line, so I can really

gage my walk. One day I was walking the community during recovery from two hip

50

replacements, I experienced the joy of real neighborhood closeness. Spanish Oaks is a great

community. Dad and Harley Harmon, the original owner of the house across the street, built

intentionally across the street from each other so they could watch out for each other.

Oh, how nice.

Dad and Mom stood up for Harley and Cleo Harmon at their wedding. It's interesting to

reconnect with people back as I walk.

Are there any other stories you'd like to share with me for this project?

There are a lot of people like me who grew up with a lot of very prominent Jewish families. Las

Vegas was small. So Karen Mack, Janie Greenspun. And they're very close friends to this day.

I grew up with the Jewish influence and, again, the philanthropy and the education.

When I was a teenager I really had a weight issue, struggled with it. I was probably a

hundred and twenty or twenty-five pounds. I was physically active and healthy, but I wore a size

twelve and I just couldn't get the weight off. So I'm running stairs and I'm eating Jell-O and

cottage cheese, which is what you did back then. And I said, “Dad, I just can't lose weight.” He

said, “Honey, don't give me nine excuses why you can't do something. You've always succeeded

when you set your mind on it. So forget the nine excuses. Give me one reason why you can

succeed and we'll have a conversation.”

I have used that approach for success in so many ways, even in committee at the

legislature. I've said that more times when I've chaired. The first meeting of the Human

Resource Committee, which was health and education issues and the economy was going stink—

it was 2009 and people were really struggling and naysaying. And I kind of shared that and I

said, “This is a committee of come to the table with yes. I don't want you sitting there and telling

me how everything's going to fail. You leave that outside the door. You come here to work with

51

us and you start with a yes. Then we can have a productive conversation.

From that experience, we were able to have a huge impact on public policy in Nevada.

You never know how a message can effect positive change.

Dad lived with me the last four years of his life. Gary Davis brought me Dad’s death

certificate. He said, “Your dad so often shared with me these were the best four years of his life.

He was so happy.” I said, “He never told me, but I knew.” Gary said it was his best time because

he had no stress and he had a daughter who loved him.

I remember when I moved Dad into the house on Labor Day weekend, I was cooking

dinner and putting out the mats and silver. I thought, oh this will be lovely. Then he picked up

his plate and went into the bedroom to watch a ball game. I thought, okay, preparing meals

won’t be my role. I’ll take care of household needs.

He taught me another piece of wisdom I embrace in my own life: he said, I could make

ten times what I make or I could make one-tenth of what I make and I wouldn't live any

differently. What I do know is you take care of your needs, whatever that is.” And this is what

he shared with Jim Rogers, too, because Jim was not philanthropic until Dad had a conversation

with him, and they made promises, verbal, not written. This became a turning point for Jim and

benefited thousands of people in the country. Dad had said, “Whatever our needs are,--I can’t

define yours and you can’t define mine—then give the rest away. That's what life is about.”

And that's how I live my life. I don't do without, but I'm not extravagant either.

And that's how I live my life, too.

I think that's a good place to end. Thank you very, very much.

You're welcome.

[End of recorded interview]

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INDEX

A Alzheimer’s Task Force, 32 Arizona, 10, 18

B Back East, 5 Baird, Charles Michael, 11, 12, 17, 42 Bar Mitzvah, 28 Barto, Barry, 37 Book of the Month Club, 38 Boulder City, Nevada, 6 Boulder Dam, 2 Boyd School of Law, 34 Boys Town, 43, 44 Breeden, Shirley, 32 Brigham Young University, 1 Broadcaster Hall of Fame, 53 Bryan, Richard, 39

C Carlton, Maggie, 34 Charleston Boulevard, Las Vegas, 7 Child Haven, 31 China, 35 Christian Science, 18, 19 Christmas, 10, 15, 36, 39 Clark County, 5, 20 Coffin, Bob, 5 Columbia, Missouri, 11

D Davis, Gary, 39, 40, 56 Del Webb Construction, 48

E Earle Street, Las Vegas, 7 Eastern European, 25, 27 El Rancho Hotel, 49 Ellis Island, 4

F Fisher, Bob, 53 Flamingo Hotel and Casino, 46, 48, 49 Flamingo’s Oregon Building, 48 Francis, Paula, 41

Fremont Street, Las Vegas 4, 7, 8

G Gold, Rabbi Aaron, 20 Grass Valley, California, 27 Green Felt Jungle, (Demaris, Ovis) 45 Greenspun, Janie, 55

H Hardy, Joe, 33 Harmon, Harley, 26, 55 Health Committee, (Nevada) 32 Hebrew, 28 Hill, Virginia, 49, 50 Hoover Dam, 2 Human Resource Committee, 56

I Idaho, 36 Illinois, 11

J Jews in Nevada (Marschall, John), 21 John C. Fremont Junior High, 16

K Kane, Bobbie, 20 Knight, Paul, 1, 3, 15, 25, 26, 27 Knight, Tis Ava, 3, 9, 11, 14, 15, 18, 22, 23, 26

L Las Vegas, 2, 3, 5, 6, 11, 12, 15, 18, 19, 40, 45, 52, 55 Las Vegas Boulevard, 8 Las Vegas High School, 7 Laub, Dr. Richard, 8 Licensed Religious Science Practitioner, 20 Los Angeles, 4 Lou Ruvo Center, 33 Louis Wiener Jr. Elementary School, 5 Lutheran Church, 15

53

M Mack, Karen, 55 Maryland Parkway, Las Vegas, 24 Mastroluca, April, 32 Mayfair Elementary School, 7, 15, 23 McGeorge School of Law, 17 Miller, Ross, 30 Missouri, 9, 10, 16, 25 Missouri School of Journalism, 34 Mob Experience, The, 46 Mormon Church, 6, 15, 40

N Neal, Joe, 2 Nevada Legislature, 2 Nevada State Bank, 8 Nevada Youth Legislature, 32, 34 New York, 4, 47 New York University, 38

O Oral History Program, 44

P Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 4 Presbyterian Church, 15 Public Service Institute of Nevada, 31

R Reid, Harry, 39, 40 Religious Science Practitioner, 31, 38 Reno, Nevada, 35 Rogers, Jim, 39, 52, 53, 54, 57

S Sacramento, California, 1, 12, 17 San Francisco, California 26, 50 Sangamon State University, 17 Schneider, Mike, 2 Scottsdale, Arizona, 3, 15, 18 Senate, (United States)2, 29 Senior Olympics, 54 Siegel, Ben “Bugsy”, 43, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51 Siegel-Rosen, Millicent, 46 Spanish Oaks, 1, 55 Springfield, Illinois, 17, 35

Sunrise Hospital, 10, 25 Supreme Court, (United States), 5 Sydney, Australia, 3

T Task Force on Alzheimer's Disease, 32 Temple Beth Sholom, 15, 28 The Jewish Home for the Aged, 37 Titus, Dina, 54 Tropicana Hotel and Casino, 46

U Health and Human Services, 33 Union Station, 4 University of Illinois, 17, 35 University of Missouri/Columbia, 9, 16 UNLV, 34, 36, 37, 53 UNR, 34, 35, 36, 44

V Valerie Wiener Foundation, 31, 36

W Waldman, Kathryn, 4, 6, 9, 11, 13, 20 Washington, D.C, 28 Weiner Jr, Louis, 2, 4 WestCare Foundation, 37, 44 Wiener Elementary School, 21, 37, 53 Wiener, Kitty (Grandmother), 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13,

14, 19, 25, 28 Women of Achievement in Media, 41 Women's Council of the Chamber of Commerce, 41

Y Yiddish, 28 Youth Legislature Foundation, 32 Youth Legislature Scholarships, 35, 36

liv