Marilu Norden

Marilu was interviewed by Dave Becker for “State of Nevada” on KNPR, Nevada Public Radio, on March 1, 2011, as a member of a panel of people who were part of the whole divorce ranch experience. To listen, click HERE.

PROGRAM NOTES: Back in the 1930s and 40s, Nevada was one of the few states you could get a quick divorce. So many people flew in for a few weeks or months—the time it took to complete the paperwork. They stayed on “divorce ranches”—complete with cowboys, horse rides, and cocktail hours. Sometimes even Hollywood stars came to stay: Clark Gable and Ava Gardner, among others. We take a look back at the “divorce ranches” with a historian, a former guest, a ranch owner, and a cowboy who said he’d “died and gone to heaven” when he saw all those ladies.

GUESTS: Marilu Norden, former guest at Pyramid Lake Ranch and author, Unbridled: A Tale of a Divorce Ranch; Bill McGee, former cowboy at Flying M E Ranch and co-author, The Divorce Seekers: A Photo Memoir of a Nevada Dude Wrangler; Beth Ward, former owner, Whitney Ranch; and Mella Harmon, architectural historian who studied the divorce trade.

A 20-minute interview with Marilu for “The Story”—a nationally syndicated radio program hosted by Dick Gordon out of WUNC Chapel Hill, North Carolina—aired Tuesday, February 22, 2011. To listen, click HERE.

Marilu can be heard talking about her experiences in the 1950s at the Pyramid Lake Ranch divorce ranch outside of Reno, Nevada, that was the subject of her award-winning novel, Unbridled: A Tale of a Divorce Ranch.

Here’s a photo of Marilu during the interview:

Marilu Norden Being Interviewed by Dick Gordon for "The Story

High up a winding road in the hills of Hollywood on a summer day in 1956, I drove my little gray ‘49 Pontiac, trying to ignore the tannish ribbon of smog obscuring the view of the city spread out below me. Finding the address I’d been given, I parked, then mounted steep stone steps to the wood-carved front door of a white stucco, Spanish-style house. I rang the bell and was greeted by a slim, blonde man who smilingly beckoned me to follow him down a few Mexican-tiled steps into a sunken sala, heavy with oriental rugs and wrought-iron and leather furniture.

“Hi. I’m Leighton,” said the man. “Have trouble finding the place? Brando likes his privacy so the place is somewhat hidden.”

Brando!? “Oh, no. Thank you.” I stood, smiling nervously, my portfolio of music held tightly to my chest. “My agent gave me good directions.”

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