Mourning the loss of ‘America’s Mom’

Me? I simply mourned the loss of a woman with whom I struck up a fast friendship that day as we stood side-by-side, collecting our belongings at the TSA security checkpoint at the Indianapolis airport.

At first, truth be told, I didn't even notice Florence standing there beside me as I collected my carry-on luggage after passing through the metal detector. It wasn't until I noticed the exuberant reaction of TSA security workers who were all abuzz over Florence's presence that I glimpsed a petite blonde woman out of the corner of my right eye.

When I turned to see what all the fuss was about, I was stunned to see Florence standing next to me.

If a comic-strip thought balloon had suddenly popped up over my head at the time, it would have read: "Holy (expletive)! It's Florence Henderson!''

I immediately seized upon the opportunity to extend my hand and introduce myself.

"You know, for the better part of two decades, I've been covering the Indianapolis 500 for The Boston Globe,'' I said, "and I have to confess every year the moment that has given me the biggest goose pimples is at the start of the race when you sing 'America the Beautiful' and Jim Nabors sings 'Back Home Again in Indiana.'"

I told her how it remained a powerful moment that intensified each year I covered "The Greatest Spectacle in Racing," because it signaled that it was time to go racing. I confessed to her that I had even become emotional about it that year.

Florence smiled widely. He sparkling blue eyes grew wide. She thanked me with warmth and appreciation.

As we strolled through the Indianapolis airport to our gates, we chatted about our destinations. I was headed home to Boston, I told her. She was headed to New York, she told me, to collect a Gracie Award for her self-named cable TV show on Retirement Living TV.

As it happened, when we reached our gates, our flights were delayed. So I seized upon another opportunity: "Florence, would you care to join me for coffee and a scone?"

She nodded. "Yes, that would be nice."

We settled with our refreshments in a quiet corner of the waiting area, across the hall from our gates. We chatted about travel, our jobs, our families. But never once did I broach the subject about "The Brady Bunch." It would have been too crass. I wanted to get to know Florence Henderson. Not just about Carol Brady.

As we sat there, chatting, three women approached us.

"Do you think it would be OK if we got her autograph?" one of the women asked me.

"I don't know,'' I replied. "Why don't you ask her?''

"Of course it would be OK,'' Florence said.

And in that moment, it dawned on me why Florence felt so at ease in my company. It was, perhaps, that my imposing physical stature gave the rest of the world the outward appearance Florence Henderson was traveling with a private security guard.

When one of the ladies handed me a camera and asked if Florence would pose for a photograph, she politely obliged.

I took the picture.

After they thanked her, Florence turned to me and said, "You know, in all my years of show business, I've learned one thing: It's easy to be nice. It takes hard work to be mean."

And that, in essence, is what made Florence Henderson such a lovely lady.

That sentiment she shared resonated for me Friday when I studied the business card she handed me that day.

She gave it to me after I had mentioned I had set out to make some travel arrangements for the NBA Finals, anticipating a Celtics-Lakers matchup. I was surprised to learn she was a big sports fan, and an even bigger fan of the Celtics, largely because of her admiration for Larry Bird, with whom she shared a similar background having grown up in rural Southern Indiana.

I was on my way back to Boston to resume coverage of the Celtics' playoff run to the Eastern Conference finals against the Detroit Pistons. When I told her how I was anticipating a Celtics-Lakers matchup in the NBA Finals, and had made plans to stay at a Marriott hotel in Marina del Rey, Florence perked up.

"Marina del Rey! Why, I live there! I know that hotel!"

I seized upon another opportunity: "Well, Florence, I want to make you a promise: If the Celtics play the Lakers in the NBA Finals, I would love to take you out to lunch if I get out there."

"I would love that,'' she said, handing me her card and, even, writing out her home address on it.

It cemented a friendship, and my unwavering status as a card-carrying member of the Florence Henderson fan club.

My boss, Joe Sullivan, roared with delight when I returned and told him how I had met Florence Henderson on the way home from Indy. I even showed him her card as proof. I told him how I had wanted him to join me for lunch with Florence if we got out to LA. Joe roared even harder.

Sadly, I never made it out to L.A. for the NBA Finals.

I had been informed that I would be needed to cover a NASCAR race in Michigan to advance the big July race at New Hampshire Motor Speedway. As we sat next to each other on press row, soaking up the Celtics' series-clinching victory over Detroit in Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Finals, Joe Sullivan turned to me and asked, "Well, Mike, the Celtics are headed to the NBA Finals. What do you think about that?''

"Joe,'' I replied. "I'm happy for the Celtics, but I have to say I'm a bit crestfallen for myself, because I know I won't be having lunch with Florence Henderson."

Joe let out a huge belly laugh.

I covered the first two games of the NBA Finals in Boston, but pulled away to head back to Detroit to cover the NASCAR race. I had called and left message on Florence's voicemail that, sadly, I wouldn't be coming out to L.A. because I had been dispatched to another assignment.

As I was leaving Ford Racing headquarters in Dearborn, Mich., after an interview session with several drivers and car owners, my cellphone rang. I fumbled around for my phone and nearly swerved off the road when I heard a familiar voice on the other end say, "Hello, Michael, it's Florence Henderson . . ."

I literally pulled into a parking lot to take the call.

"Florence, I'm so sorry to tell you, but my boss has decided not to send me to L.A., because I've got to cover a NASCAR race here in Michigan in preparation for a race in New Hampshire in a few weeks,'' I said. "So I'm afraid we won't be able to have lunch together, like I promised."

"What is your boss's name?" she asked.

"Joe Sullivan."

"Well, you need to tell Joe Sullivan he needs to send you out here to cover the NBA Finals!" she said, firmly but jokingly.

"I'll let him know,'' I said. "But I was sort of selfishly hoping to have him come join us for lunch, so he could meet you . . . and so he could pick up the tab."

It wasn't until later that year, when the Red Sox were out in Anaheim for a divisional series against the Angels, that I finally met up with Florence for lunch. We had played phone tag the first couple of days I was out on the West Coast. Florence finally caught up with me on a Friday afternoon as I was sitting in the middle of a pregame press conference with Angels manager Mike Scioscia.

When I fumbled for my phone and saw "Florence Henderson" on the caller I.D., I knew it was a call I had to take.

"Florence, hi, I'm in the middle of a press conference with Mike Scioscia, but I'm glad you called,'' I said.

"Mike Scioscia! I loved him when he played for the Dodgers! Please tell him I said hello,'' Florence requested.

"I'll make sure to do that."

We set a lunch date for the next day at the Ritz-Carlton in Marina del Rey. I scribbled down the specific directions Florence gave me regarding the best route to avoid traffic.

When the press conference was over, I walked up to Scioscia and said, "Oh, by the way, Florence Henderson says hello."

Scioscia looked at me in surprise. "How do you know Florence Henderson?"

"Oh,'' I shrugged, rather nonchalantly. "We go way back.''

That evening, the Sox beat the Angels to clinch the series, leaving me free to enjoy lunch with Florence on Saturday afternoon at Marina del Rey.

Because of traffic, I was late arriving the Ritz by a half hour, but Florence was there waiting for me in the lobby when I finally pulled up. She couldn't have been more gracious, even giving me a peck on the cheek when we saw each other.

As we settled into our table to lunch al fresco on a veranda overlooking the marina, Florence reported that she could only stay until 3:30 because she had made early dinner plans with Carol Burnett.

I chuckled to myself when I imagined what Florence's calendar that day had looked like:

"Lunch with Mike Vega.''

"Dinner with Carol Burnett."

"Florence,'' I said, "You should've told Carol Burnett she could have joined us for lunch."

Instead, Florence Henderson chose to spend the afternoon with me. I felt honored and privileged to dine with America's Mom. I complimented her on her cable TV show, which I had watched, and remarked how she was a great interviewer, a skill she had honed as one of the first female guest hosts of the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson."

When I told her how she was beloved by a generation of fans my age as an iconic matriarch, Florence admitted she never fully appreciated that until she was invited to a gala at Universal Studios and was approached by Jodie Foster, who shared in that adoration of her.

At the end, I promised to invite Florence as my date to the Texas Motor Speedway Media Dinner at Indy the following year. Sadly, I was unable to attend the race in 2009 when I fell ill. When I returned in 2010, I had Florence on my arm.

I felt the eyes of the racing world on us when we walked into the swank seafood restaurant in downtown Indy. My media colleagues were left agape when I walked in with Florence, . I felt like I was in a tsunami of paparazzi.

We sat next to each other, but we hardly spoke because she was busy engaged in dinner conversation with the other guests at our table. At the end of the dinner, she obliged when someone asked if she could pose for a photo. Then, turning to me, she asked, "Can someone take a photo of me and Mike?"

I felt like the awkward big kid who had come to the dance with the Homecoming Queen.

When I posted that treasured photo on my Facebook page as my new profile picture, I immediately got an angry response from my 10-year-old daughter, Natalia, who demanded to know why her photo had been replaced by one of Florence and me.

Natalia's hard-line stance softened when she and her younger brother, Noel, and my wife, Barbara, got to finally meet Florence at a Sunday brunch in Marina del Rey, the day after I had covered Boston College's 35-7 loss at Southern Cal in 2013.

She brought autographed photos for the kids and a bound copy of script synopses from her show for Barb and myself.

My colleague, Christopher L. Gasper, joined us at brunch and peppered Florence with questions about her career and her role as Carol Brady on "The Brady Bunch." We all posed for a photo afterward. It was the last time I saw her.

We kept up through the years, with phone calls, texts, and Christmas cards, hers always one of the first to arrive in the mail.

When she appeared as a contestant on "Dancing with the Stars," it became appointment television in our household. I texted her that I would try to coalesce the media vote on her behalf.

Late last month, my wife got word that Florence would be appearing at a corporate function at Gillette Stadium and that maybe it would be nice to see her. I texted Florence, but she didn't text back until after she had arrived late at night.

She would be going nonstop, she said, and would depart soon afterward, leaving no time for a visit. She sent along her best wishes to Barb and the kids.

I texted back: "Florence, you are without a doubt the hardest-working (and most beloved) woman in show business! All our love, The Vegas."

She replied, simply, with three emojis: two smiley faces and a heart.

That was Florence Henderson. A lovely lady.