Keep Moving

by Dick Van Dyke

  Trust was assumed where I grew up. Nobody ever thought about locking their door. On Saturday night, when we went to the movies, we simply walked out of the house. We left a light on, but otherwise the screen door slammed shut behind us, and that was it. You saw the same thing in houses on every block. When I was five years old, my mother would give me a nickel and send me on the streetcar four miles away to my grandparents’ house. If something happened, she trusted that I’d be okay, that someone would help out.

  I probably sound double my age when I go on about such things, an old man on a soapbox, but remembering the way people used to trust each other, along with other basic values, like kindness and manners, those are exactly the sorts of good things from the past we don’t want to lose. Trust is not like a Norman Rockwell painting that people can see in a museum—once it’s gone, it’s hard to get it back.

  I say this not as a warning but as an invitation to younger people. Talk to people my age. Don’t let the gray hair, the brittle legs, or the long pauses between thoughts scare you. As stewards of the future, it’s important to know the past was full of good stuff too—and to know what that was.

  My great-grandparents’ farm in southern Illinois comes to mind. Even my brother was born too late to know about it, but I went there a number of times. They had no electricity, no water—no anything. They had kerosene lamps for light and a pump in the kitchen for water. My great-grandfather got up at 4 A.M., ate steak and apple pie for breakfast, and then worked all day in the field. Their days were built around sustenance. They had an old pump organ in the living room that I banged on until they yelled at me to stop.

  “We have to get up in the morning, Dickie! There’s gonna be work to do.”

  Back then I thought it was incredible people could live that way; it’s even more so now. There was something about the simplicity of that life that stands out to me as pure and perhaps more genuine than the clutter we drown in today. How much of what we have is essential to a good life? What is essential?

  I might even ask: What is necessary to provide the best life going forward to future generations? Are we making those choices? Or are we erring on the side of commerce and clutter?

  This has been on my mind since last Christmas when Arlene said she wanted a teepee for the backyard. (Yes, this is the aforementioned teepee part of this story—finally.) I said, “How about a nice necklace?” But I was joking—my wife doesn’t wear jewelry. She’s a creative person, like me, and her tastes are practical and playful, along the lines of dance lessons, arts and crafts materials, or even a new hula hoop. It’s one of the things we have in common.

  But a teepee?

  Arlene explained that she had seen a kids-sized version in a catalog and thought it would it would be a fun novelty on the patio as the weather got warmer. “Rocky can hang out in there,” she said.

  Because this was a gift, I took the lead, did some research, and ordered a beautiful handmade teepee. Instead of the Boy Scout–sized tent we expected, the teepee that arrived measured sixteen feet tall and eighteen feet in diameter. The new addition now sits on a custom-built platform halfway up our backyard hill and fits into the landscape surprisingly well.

  But that wasn’t only half the surprise. Arriving with the teepee was a copy of a letter that Suquamish Indian leader Chief Seattle allegedly wrote to President Franklin Pierce in 1855 in response to the United States’ determination to purchase the tribe’s land. This popular and poetic homage to the environment begins, “The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?”

  It goes on to ask even more profound and prophetic questions. “Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.”

  Interestingly, this oft-quoted letter did not prove to be authentic. In the course of researching its context, I learned a screenwriter had penned it in the 1970s, and its authenticity was simply assumed. But I found the real letter, the one that inspired the screenwriter, and it’s equally powerful, if not more so due to the chief’s anger and resignation that the white men didn’t get it:

  Your religion was written on the tables of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, so you would not forget it. The red man could never understand it or remember it. Our religion is in the ways of our forefathers, the dreams of our old men, sent them by the Great Spirit, and the visions of our sachems. And it is written in the hearts of our people.

  Your dead forget you and the country of their birth as soon as they go beyond the grave and walk among the stars. They are quickly forgotten and they never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth. It is their mother. They always remember and love her rivers, her great mountains, her valleys. They long for the living, who are lonely too and who long for the dead. And their spirits often return to visit and console us.

  What are the dreams of this old man?

  That we don’t lose all the ways of our forefathers.

  That younger generations realize we all are part of a continuum and act accordingly.

  That young people talk to old people and hear their stories before they are gone.

  That compassion becomes a priority, and cost is not a consideration.

  That trust makes a comeback.

  That young people watch Laurel and Hardy movies.

  That they listen to Frank Sinatra records.

  That they explore the pioneers of jazz.

  That they appreciate the way Cary Grant dressed.

  That people smile at strangers and say hello to each other more often than not.

  That people of all ages cherish and revere the generosity and beauty of the earth as our home and mother and do everything they can to protect and preserve its health for future generations.

  That someone writes a song about all this.

  That the Vantastix record it. Soon.

  That you order a teepee and see whether it doesn’t make you think too.

  Wiping the Slate Clean

  Like everyone, I have my share of regrets, things I would do differently if given a chance. As I said, when I was a kid, the church organist noticed me playing, said I had talent, and offered to give me free piano lessons. But I only went twice. Mistake. Around that same time my mother signed me up for tap dance lessons. I got the chicken pox and never went back. Later those lessons would’ve come in handy.

  As a teenager, I hung out with guys who started me smoking cigarettes. I wish I had never started. I didn’t have the sense to quit until I was in my sixties. In my thirties, when I began to sing and dance, I should’ve taken singing and dancing lessons. I didn’t. I was offered the lead in the movie The Omen, but I thought it was too dark, and the role went to Gregory Peck instead.

  There are more, but there’s only one regret on my list that I still have the ability to change, and I want to do it before it’s too late. I was in fifth grade at Garfield Grade School. We were in class, and a friend of mine broke wind. The teacher smelled something funny and said, “Who lit a match in here?” No one raised a hand. The teacher got mad. They called each kid to the principal’s office.

  When it was my turn, I said, “It was Earl Copner.”

  I was going to also say, “He didn’t light a match. He farted.” But I didn’t know how to say the word in front of the principal. I was embarrassed. I clammed up instead and left the poor guy hanging.

  All these years later I want to finally say, “I’m sorry, Earl. It was my fault you got in trouble.”

  A Conversation with Carl

  As I say frequently,
I would not be where I am today without Carl Reiner. This Emmy-winning writer and actor, Oscar nominee, playwright, novelist, devoted husband, father, and proud grandfather is my longtime friend. He is also my mentor, a genius, and the smartest person I have ever known. Whenever I’ve needed advice, I have called Carl. Whenever I needed a clever line, I knew I could go to him and get a winner. And now, in need of another chapter for this book . . .

  Seriously, given that Carl is three years older than me, I thought it would be interesting to speak with him about our relationship, about life, and about living a lot longer than either of us would have predicted. Luckily, he agreed. So one afternoon in April 2015 I went to his house in Beverly Hills, where we sat down in his office, a room filled with books, awards, and the interesting clutter amassed in one of Hollywood’s great careers.

  ME: So how is it being ninety-three?

  CARL: Slower. (He smiles.) But hey, it’s better than having stopped at ninety-two. How old are you?

  ME: Eighty-nine.

  CARL: How is that?

  ME: A surprise.

  CARL: I understand.

  ME: We have known each other for about sixty years. Do you remember our first meeting?

  CARL: I do—and I’ll tell the whole story. I did a pilot called Head of the Family, a sitcom. I was starring in it, and I wrote thirteen episodes so that I would have a bible for other writers. I did the pilot with Barbara Britton, Sylvia Miles, and Morty Gunty in the other three parts. And it didn’t sell. It was poor to failing. Horses and guns sold that year—no situation comedies. So I put it to bed.

  However, I had thirteen episodes lying on my agent’s desk. He was so upset because, as he said, the scripts were gold. He gave them to producer Sheldon Leonard, who wanted to try it again. But I said to Sheldon and my agent, “Fellows, I don’t want to fail twice with the same material.”

  Sheldon Leonard said, “You won’t fail. We’ll get a better actor to play you.”

  That better actor was you. Someone suggested you right away. I knew of you. I’d seen you on TV—the morning show you hosted when Walter Cronkite did the news for you. I went to see you in Bye Bye Birdie, and I was smitten. I went backstage to say hello, and that’s where we met. I told you what I was planning, and as I recall, it was magic from that moment on.

  ME: I had a pilot of my own that I wanted to do, something based on Jacques Tati’s character Monsieur Hulot and set in Europe. But after reading your script, I threw my idea out the window. I had never read anything so good in my life.

  CARL: It was one of those fortuitous moments. Everything fell into place, including Mary. That was another thing. I was looking for—well, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Sheldon Leonard, in his infinite wisdom, said, “You’ll know her when you see her.” I saw about thirty girls, including Eileen Brennan, a very good actress. We flew her from New York and tested her. She was too ballsy and strong. Your character—not you but your character—couldn’t have handled that. We told Sheldon she wasn’t right.

  We also told Danny Thomas, who’d picked up the check for the show, and he said, “What’s that girl with the three names? She has good legs. She played on Richard Diamond, but all you saw were her legs. I brought her in to test for my daughter. But her nose went the wrong way.”

  We looked her up. It was Mary Tyler Moore. We called her, but she said she didn’t particularly want to come in. She had gone to a couple of auditions and didn’t make it. But she came anyway. As I recall, she walked in, I handed her the script and said, “Read the first scene.” She read the first word and I sensed a ping in her voice. I made my hand into a claw, like the kind in an amusement arcade that picks up candy, and I walked across the room. She got scared.

  I put my hand on top of her head and said, “Come with me.” She had only said one word. Whatever it was, she said it perfectly. I walked her down the hall and said, “Sheldon, we found her.” You were the only one who objected. She was twenty-three years old, and you were—

  ME: I was twelve years older. I thought she was a little young.

  CARL: I said, “My God, look at you together.” Nobody ever asked if he was too old for her. They looked like a team from day one.

  ME: I admired the way you ran the show. Your stuff was brilliant, but you never treated it as if it were written in stone. Everybody could contribute.

  CARL: Luckily we had a creative cast. My agent suggested Rose Marie. He said, “Only one girl can play this. Rose Marie.” And he was right. For the part of Buddy Sorrell, I was looking for a young guy like Mel Brooks. She said, “Morey Amsterdam. He’s perfect.”

  I said, “The human joke machine?” I’d seen him at the little place he had on Broadway. He was the human joke machine, literally. He only needed two lines or even two words to make a joke; and he gave us a hundred thousand jokes. Having him in the room was one of the truly fortuitous things that happened.

  ME: You purposely made it timeless—no slang, no reference to current events, nothing that would date it. What was your thinking behind that?

  CARL: As soon as I saw the pilot, I knew it was a classy show. It was about a family. It was about my family. It was true, and I knew it would remain true a long time if we didn’t put in anything that would date it.

  ME: The show aired from 1961 to 1966—

  CARL: By the way, Dick, I’ve got to tell you something that will make you feel good. The show has been airing on one of the channels, and I have recorded them as they come on. Every once in a while I can’t go to sleep, so I’ll pop on a show, and I just laugh. I keep getting re-amazed by what you could do.

  ME: And I am amazed by what you created. We did the show fifty-some years ago. It’s aired practically nonstop. And while we’ve grown old in real life, on TV we haven’t aged. We’re stuck in our prime.

  CARL: What’s nice is that it’s still on every night. I can’t believe it. And the show is responsible for something nice that has happened now for three generations. It happened twenty years ago, it happened ten years ago, and it happened lately. Somebody comes up to me and says, “When I was a kid or eleven or twelve years old, I was funny. I knew I wasn’t going to be a comedian, but I was funny. Then I saw The Dick Van Dyke Show and learned there’s a thing called a writer. I could do that. I could be that Dick Van Dyke guy who writes for other people.” Over the years two or three dozen people must have said that to me.

  ME: That’s a tribute to your writing. Those shows do make it look fun.

  CARL: It is fun. I write every day.

  ME: But thanks to that show we are eternally young.

  CARL: Scary.

  ME: Actually it doesn’t bother me. I’m just happy to be here.

  CARL: A long time ago I was asked which theatrical project I am most proud of, and I answered, “Creating The Dick Van Dyke Show, hands down. I’ve done a lot of things, but that’s one that informs my whole being.”

  ME: It’s your life.

  CARL: With a more talented person playing me.

  ME: Neither of us has stopped working. Like me, you blew past age sixty-five, retirement age. Did you ever think of retirement?

  CARL: Now, physically, I can’t do very much. I did something at the TV Land Awards the other night, and it took a lot out of me. But I was very funny.

  ME: Did you feel old at sixty-five?

  CARL: I didn’t give age a second thought. I was busy directing, producing, and acting. If you’re working, you don’t think about it. You figure those milestones are just another day. In fact, I think somebody said I was eligible for Social Security. I said I didn’t need it.

  ME: Earlier in this book I have a chapter called “How Do You Know When You’re Old?” When did you start to feel it?

  CARL: I don’t remember the exact moment. But it’s when I look into the bathroom mirror in the morning and say, “Look who you are. What became of you?” There are all these spots and things. How could that be me?

  ME: I remember when I turned eighty, I said, “This is
old age? Fine. It’s good with me.” I didn’t realize what was ahead.

  CARL: Since turning ninety I’ve slowed down a lot. Every once in a while I will feel something and think my blood pressure just spurted. I will hear myself say, “This is it. I’m about to go.” I have one salvation—a blood pressure cuff. I will put it on and check. It’s anxiety. I’m ninety-three. How far can you go?

  ME: I don’t think about that.

  CARL: I do—all the time. How am I going to go? Where am I going to be? What will I be doing? You know the line, “Is this the end of Rico?” Jimmy Cagney says that at the end of the movie Little Caesar. He’s a gangster. He’s on top of a water tower. They’re shooting at him. His last words are, “Mother mercy, is this the end of Rico?” I think about it frequently: How am I going to go?

  ME: I heard you in an interview say that you get up every morning, look at the obituaries, and if you’re not there, you have breakfast.

  CARL: I do that. Every morning. Looking, hoping I see a 101-year-old. Once in a while I do. When I see people in there that were eighty, seventy, and sixty, I think, “Oh, shit.” The other day I saw a ninety-eight-year-old. That was good. There was hope.