Keep Moving

by Dick Van Dyke

  Copyright © 2015 by Point Productions, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. For information address Weinstein Books, 250 West 57th Street, 15th Floor, New York, NY 10107.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Published by Weinstein Books

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for this book.

  ISBN 978-1-60286-297-5 (e-book)

  Editorial production by Marrathon Production Services.

  www.marrathon.net

  Book design by Jane Raese

  Set in 12-point ITC New Baskerville

  FIRST EDITION

  10987654321

  I dedicate this book to my beautiful wife, Arlene,

  who was invaluable in editing this tome.

  Not to mention keeping me fit as a fiddle

  and younger than springtime.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Playing with House Money The Kid Stays in the Game

  Oh Brother, How Old Art Thou? (Or How Do You Know When You’re Old?) That Old Senility

  Mr. Vandy Dances Again

  Dancing with Your Inner Child—A Workout for Older People

  Enjoy the Ride (For my friend Bob Palmer)

  Rewriting the Rules Letters to the Editor

  Old Things—And What Really Matters A Separate Plot

  I Was Supposed to Go First A Tribute to Old Friends (circa 2008)

  Sit or Get Off the Pot Roast

  What Do You Talk About with Her

  Surprises Love in the Afternoon

  Old Dogs, New Tricks Why Write It Down?

  Other Tips and Truths About Old Age

  Good Health Without Drugs . . . Sort Of

  Ninety Years—A Report Card Let’s Hear It for Neighborliness

  The Dreams of an Old Man Wiping the Slate Clean

  A Conversation with Carl The Thing That Lasts

  A Life Achievement Award

  Acknowledgments

  Index

  Introduction

  In 1979 the great filmmaker Orson Welles appeared in a television commercial for Paul Masson wines. The thirty-second spot opened with him turning down the music on his stereo. “It took Beethoven four years to write that symphony,” he said in his memorable bosso profondo voice. “Some things can’t be rushed. Good music. And good wine.”

  In a 2015 update I would like to add something else to that list.

  Old age.

  Old age should be revered, admired, respected, treated to dinner, opened and allowed to breathe like a fine wine, given aisle seats on an airplane, helped up the stairs, and looked upon with patience, especially in the checkout line at the grocery store. Old people like to make conversation with the checkers. If approached correctly, says this former Boy Scout, old age should be considered a merit badge for a life well lived. Old age should be a lot of things. But it should not be rushed.

  I know from experience.

  I was pronounced old way before my time.

  I was working on the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in England and suffered an injury while shooting the musical number “Toot Sweets.” If you recall, it was an elaborate production number set in a confectionary kitchen that celebrated the invention of a revolutionary new candy, the toot sweet. Before the scene I did not take the time to warm up (I never warmed up back then), and in the part of the dance where we spin around on bakery carts in a mix of ballet and acrobatics, I felt the muscle in the back of my left leg pop, like a rubber band that snaps and loses its elasticity. Then, oh boy, did it start to hurt!

  I sloughed it off, of course—or tried to. I told myself it was a simple muscle pull and that, in the spirit of show business, the scene must continue. But when the pain not only persisted but grew worse, to the point where I could not pretend to walk normally or limp with a covert abnormality, I feared the damage might be more severe.

  What did I know? I had never been injured before. I took a few days off and rested my leg, but the throbbing continued. Someone on the crew found me a doctor. I’m not a fan of doctor visits for anything more than regular maintenance—my annual check under the hood—but I knew I had to see a professional about this injury.

  The doctor saw me right away and took X-rays. A short time later he delivered a startling diagnosis: severe arthritis.

  “My God,” he said, tapping his finger against the X-ray and shaking his head gravely, “you’re covered with arthritis from head to foot. I’m surprised you could dance. I’ve never seen so much arthritis in a single person.”

  “What about a married person?” I hoped a joke might lighten the seriousness of his delivery. It didn’t.

  “Married or single, you’re literally suffused with arthritis,” he said.

  “What about the pain in my leg?” I asked.

  “It’s the arthritis.”

  This was not a joking matter, he explained. The condition was serious, far worse than a muscle tear, and it was only going to get worse.

  “Within five to seven years you will be using a walker, if not in a wheelchair,” he said.

  A walker? A wheelchair?

  Those words upended my relationship to the world. My center of gravity, like everybody else, was under my own two feet, and I was being told those two feet of mine were about to be rendered lame, if not useless. The prognosis scared me to death, to the point where I did something rash, something downright defiant. I stood up in the examining room, then and there, and I started to move. Not just move—I lit into a dance, as if proving to myself I could still order my body to do a soft shoe anytime I wanted, despite the pain in my leg. The doctor was astonished.

  “My God!” he said as if watching a dead man start to breathe again.

  My God, indeed.

  That was in 1967. I was forty years old. And I have not stopped moving ever since.

  Nor do I plan to hit the stop button anytime soon. I am 89 years old as I write this at my home in Malibu, California, which means I am in my 90th year on this planet, and by definition, I am old. Very old, I suppose—older than the average male, who now lives to be 76.4 years old (the average female lives to be 81.2). But if you are 65 or thereabouts today, your life expectancy is even longer. You should start thinking of 65 as the new 40. In other words, you aren’t old yet—you are merely on the launching pad of old age.

  I never considered myself old until I was asked to share my tips and thoughts on old age here. I don’t act old, and I don’t feel it. I don’t think like an old person, whatever that means. But according to Wikipedia, old age “consists of ages nearing or surpassing the life expectancy of human beings, and thus the end of the human life cycle.” If you keep reading that definition, it includes susceptibility to disease, limited ability to bounce back from illness, increased frailty, memory loss, loneliness . . . and so on. It does not paint a rosy picture.

  I’m not going to deny the harsh realities of living a long life, because I have experienced my share of them. But there is a flipside to old age, and as a card-carrying the-glass-is-half-full optimist, I am going to unfurl the gray flag, wave it proudly, and declare that getting old doesn’t have to be a dreary weather report.

  In 99.9 percent of the stories I have heard it is better t
han the alternative, if only because you get to see what happens next.

  How can you not be curious?

  One of the things you realize when looking back across the decades is that we all have a front-row seat to what Thomas Jefferson called “the course of human events.” If there’s a better show in town, I have yet to hear about it in my long lifetime—and neither has anyone else. It is the show.

  With Baby Boomers swelling the ranks of AARP and asking without embarrassment for their senior citizen discounts at the movie theater, and with people turning sixty-five expected to live on average well into their eighties, more of us (no, make that more of you—I’m already there) than at any time in human history are going to start the day staring at our reflection in the bathroom mirror and asking the same question I have asked myself many times: Who’s that old person looking at me?

  In this book I am going to tell you that the person with gray or thinning hair, wrinkles, dark spots, sagging skin, a slight stoop, cloudy vision and ears that may need fine tuning is you. But I am also going to tell you the truth about this new normal, formally known as geezer-dom: you don’t have to act your age. You don’t even have to feel it. And if it does attempt to elbow its way into your life, you do not have to pay attention.

  If I am out shopping and hear music playing in a store, I start to dance. If I want to sing, I sing. I read books and get excited about new ideas. I enjoy myself. I don’t think about the way I am supposed to act at my age—or at any age. As far as I know, there is no manual for old age. There is no test you have to pass. There is no way you have to behave. There is no such thing as “age appropriate.”

  On the following pages you will find my tips and truths about life as your hair grays, your knees wear out, you need glasses to find your glasses, and you ask, “How the hell did this happen to me?” You will also find me discussing the realities we all face as we confront the fact that the majority of our days are behind us—though, as I can attest, that is not meant to imply the best days are also in the rearview mirror.

  As you will discover, I try to keep things simple. A friend of mine once said, “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.” She was right. When people ask my secret to staying youthful at an age when getting up and down from your chair on your own is considered an accomplishment, you know what I tell them?

  “Keep moving.”

  One more thing: old age is not a death sentence. It’s a stage of life. And . . . and . . . I forgot what I was going to say.

  That happens too. . . .

  Eventually you will reach a point

  where you will stop lying about your age

  and start bragging about it.

  —WILL ROGERS

  Every morning, I wake up and read the obituaries—

  and if I’m not in them, I have breakfast.

  —CARL REINER

  Playing with House Money

  There are many different ways to celebrate turning eighty-nine. On December 12, 2014, the night before my birthday, I was in the audience at the Malibu Civic Theater watching my wife, Arlene, belly dance. She’d been taking classes at Melanie Kareem’s Middle Eastern Dance School for a few years and was performing a solo in their end-of-the-year recital. She looked gorgeous in a silver top and black skirt that shimmered with every shake of her hips. I was mesmerized.

  After about three minutes I couldn’t sit still anymore. Arlene had cast a spell over me, and there in my seat, my body began to mimic Arlene’s movements and move to the rhythmic Egyptian music until suddenly I was on my feet and heading toward the stage.

  I did not want to detract from her big moment in the spotlight, but I couldn’t help myself. I had spent six decades on the stage, on top of which I had practiced moves with her at home, and I saw no reason to stop what came naturally, even if I was entering my last year as an octogenarian. Why sit on the sidelines of life at any age, especially at mine?

  I didn’t. Standing beside Arlene, I shimmied and shook, my hips going right and then left, my arms and wrists undulating like long snakes. All of our rehearsing at home paid off, as we looked in sync, though I added my own solo on the side of the stage, a final series of bumps and shakes in my blue jeans, before relinquishing the stage again to my beautiful wife.

  “You were great,” someone said to me afterward. “It’s amazing. You don’t act your age at all.”

  Amazing? Why is it amazing that I don’t act my age? Why should I act my age? Or more to the point, how is someone my age supposed to act? Old age is part fact, part state of mind, part luck, and wholly something best left for other people to ponder, not you or me. Why waste the time? I don’t.

  The following night—my actual birthday, December 13—we were out again. We went to a holiday party at the home of our friends Frank and Fay Mancuso. They throw first-class parties, and this one was no exception. Christmas carolers in Dickens-style outfits stood by the door and greeted guests with a buoyant version of the seasonal hymn “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” but they segued seamlessly to “Happy Birthday” as soon as Arlene and I came up the front walk. My wife had tipped off the hosts, despite my preference against such attention. But their harmonizing was perfect, absolutely gorgeous, and there is no bigger fan of four-part harmony than me. I stood there, beaming.

  “Do you take requests?” I asked.

  “Sure,” one of them said as the others nodded.

  “Do you know ‘Caroling, Caroling’? I love the Nat King Cole version, and for some reason I never hear it on the radio during the holidays.”

  They knew the classic holiday song, of course, and as their voices wove together in beautiful harmony, I stepped away from Arlene’s side and joined them. “Dingdong, ding-dong,” we sang, “Christmas bells are ringing . . .” If I had worn a Victorian-era suit, I might have sung with them all night.

  Inside, the house had been turned into a winter wonderland, starting with a tree in the entry that was at least twenty feet tall, if not taller, and decorated with such an abundance of ornaments and lights that I jokingly said to Arlene, “You could break your neck trying to see the star at the top.”

  In the dining room we encountered an actual light snowfall, a unique backdrop to a delicious Italian feast that also included a sixteen-piece orchestra playing holiday classics and standards—in other words, my favorites. Then Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus passed out fancy caramel-covered apples and brought out an enormous cake full of candles. It was one way to say hello to my ninetieth year.

  Ironically, I hadn’t planned to do anything for my birthday. I had given the okay to my wife to organize a big party the next year, my ninetieth, but my intention was to sit this one out. I don’t need a party every year. I am fine with celebrating the big ones, the birthdays ending in a five or a zero. Otherwise I don’t like the fuss or attention. I am most comfortable with a simple dinner and visits or calls from my four children, seven grandchildren, and growing list of great-grandchildren.

  I think birthday parties are best for kids. They are learning to count. Let them practice. At my age I don’t need the practice. Or the boredom. If I started to count, I would lose interest before I reached fifteen. I would never make it into the fifties, let alone the eighties. So what’s the point?

  However, I do like cake. My mother baked a birthday cake for me every year, an angel food cake with chocolate frosting. To this day it is still my favorite flavor. She sent me one when I was in the Air Force. It did not travel well through the mail and arrived in a pile of crumbs. I did not care. My buddies and I stuck a candle in it and ate every morsel.

  From what I have observed, birthdays get scary as you march through your twenties. At thirty, you don’t know whether to celebrate: what’s to get excited about—the end of youth? The beginning of adulthood? I overheard someone say that fifty is the new thirty. Does that make thirty the new ten? On the Today Show recently one of the anchors declared that sixty is the new forty—and that was part of a week-long showcase of experts telling p
eople how to live to be a hundred. What’s the point here—is it to stay young or live to be old? Or both?

  More people than ever before are crossing the line into senior citizenship, and I see them being intensely curious about how to make it work, how to do it better than their parents or grandparents. These are Baby Boomers, the generation who once screamed, “Hope I die before I get old.” That line should be rewritten, “Hope I die before I feel old.” That is the crux of the matter.

  Except for a three- to four-month period, which I will go into later, I have never felt old. When I turned fifty, typically the point when people think they’re beginning to head downhill, I was in fine fettle mentally and physically, and my fettle got even finer when I starred in a traveling production of Music Man. I toured the country for a year—a new city every week. When it finished, I was fifty-one and in the best shape of my life. I returned to the ranch my first wife, Margie, and I owned in the Arizona desert and realized I couldn’t stay there and do nothing—which was what Margie loved about that place. It was the beginning of the end of our marriage.

  At sixty-five, I was halfway into a thirty-plus-year relationship with a new mate, Michelle Triola, a woman with an immense appetite for treating life as a party—and when there wasn’t a party, she organized one. We enjoyed life together. We traveled and sailed, and I had no plans of doing much other than spending my senior years in a leisurely pursuit of adventure. Then producer Fred Silverman wanted to do a spinoff of William Conrad’s series Jake and the Fatman, and he wanted me in the lead role. “You’ll play a surgeon who solves crimes,” he said.