I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  Rob, who to this day loves baseball and is almost as knowledgeable about the sport as Vin Scully, once said while watching his kid brother play, “Ah, we now have somebody in the family that we can live through vicariously!”

  That Texas Leaguer pop fly I was describing that was hit into no man’s land, was falling to earth just as the potential winning runs were crossing home plate. The game was over, or would have been, had Luke not taken one look at the ball’s trajectory and dashed, full throttle from his infield position into short center field, stretched his gloved hand out as far forward as he could, and snatched the ball just before it hit the ground. A second after Lucas fell on his face, his teammates fell on Lucas, or more accurately, jumped on Lucas and congratulated him by pounding his back with their gloved hands. It was exciting for the team and the spectators and would have been for my wife and I, had we not been concerned about his being pummeled to death.

  Lucas’s beloved wife, Maud, had heard this bit of folklore many times and on many occasions when friends and family get together, and she had to assume, as most people would, that when parents sing the praises of one of their children, they are probably exaggerating just an eensy bit.

  Maud never accused us of overpraising Lucas, but one day she found herself at the marina and being offered a ride by a good Samaritan. When Maud introduced herself as Maud Reiner, the woman said, “Reiner? I knew someone named Lucas Reiner—any relation?”

  On hearing that Lucas was her husband, the woman lit up and proceeded to do what I had done—praise Lucas. The woman had a son who played in the same Little League, and she described how talented a ball player Maud’s husband was and in what high esteem he was held by his fellow Little Leaguers.

  Maud told me about this meeting and how happy she was to learn that I had no need to embellish the facts about her husband’s short career as a major Little League ball player.

  In his short baseball career, these are some of Luke’s stats:

  His combined overall batting average for his career was over .525, yes .525, mostly line-drive hits. His pitching record one year was eleven wins and no defeats—among them that no-hit, no-run game and a few one- and two-hit games. He pitched his team to a league championship and went on to win an interleague game by hitting a last-inning triple. In that last game, he tired in the sixth inning, and by virtue of his walking two batters and an error by a teammate, the bases were loaded. The manager walked out to the mound and asked Luke how he felt and if he thought he could continue. Lucas asked, “What do I have to do?”

  “You have to get three outs,” the manager answered.

  And that is what Luke did. He struck out the last three batters.

  Lucas played Little League baseball for six full seasons, and when being wooed to join a Pony League team, he asked me a question that I did not expect. “Dad,” he asked, “how would you feel if I did not go on and play in the Pony League?”

  I would have felt awful, but I bit my tongue and asked quietly, “Don’t you want to continue playing ball?”

  “Not really. I would like to get a guitar and learn how to play it.”

  He explained that even though he liked playing ball, he did not like the pressure it put on him.

  “Luke,” I responded, “if that’s what you want, I have no objection. One thing, though: if I buy you a guitar, will you promise to take lessons?”

  He promised to take lessons, and we bought the guitar. He immediately started to noodle on it and in a short time figured out how to strum a chord or two. When he knew that he needed help, he asked around and found a teacher. By the time he was sixteen, he and his friends formed a rock band they called the Johnnys. The Johnnys played a few small venues in town, one a bowling alley where my wife and I caught their act. Not because Luke was our son, but his mother and I agreed that the Johnnys were “not bad, not bad at all.”

  I am pleased that Lucas chose not to be a ball player. If he had been a successful one, it would have delayed pursuing his calling to be an artist for at least ten years—ten years being the average length of a ball player’s career.

  By attending Otis-Parsons, Lucas successfully tapped the fine-art gene he inherited from his mother and with it established a flourishing career as a painter. Fine-art galleries throughout Europe and the United States have exhibited Lucas Reiner’s oil paintings and etchings of trees and also his large canvases depicting the aftermath of fireworks.

  Displayed on the following pages are examples of his paintings.

  I can’t tell you how much nachus I shep from Lucas and all the members of my whole family!

  For those who do not know the phrase, shep nachus, I should tell you that shep nachus or shepping nachus is Yiddish for “to derive great pleasure from.” One usually sheps nachus from a child or grandchild who has drawn a picture that looks like a cat or a dog, or has played his or her first song on a musical instrument, or brought home a good report from their teacher, or hit the proverbial home run in any of their endeavors.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Yenemvelt

  What is Yenemvelt? Yenemvelt is the name of an exclusive social club that came into existence forty-two years ago, and I am proud to be one of its founding members.

  In 1980, at the behest of writer/producer Norman Lear, five couples spent a memorable weekend together at a beautiful, five-bedroom home in Palm Springs, California. If laughter and unbridled joy be the yardstick, that weekend had to be the most satisfying, fun-filled one I have spent in my entire life—and so have said the nine other participants.

  Since what I am about to tell you may seem like a fairy tale, I feel it fitting that I start with:

  Once upon a time…

  Or because there was a second fun-filled weekend that equaled the first one, I should say…

  Twice upon a time…there were two events of unbridled joy that took place in consecutive years at two magnificent homes that were owned by a Mr. Perleman.

  Norman Lear personally knowing Mr. Perleman, and all of us knowing Norman Lear, made it possible for Norman to invite eight dear friends to be his guests at Mr. P’s five-bedroom homes. The five fun-couples consisted of Norman and his wife Frances, Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks, Larry Gelbart and Pat Marshall, Dom DeLuise and Carole Arthur DeLuise, and me and my wife Estelle.

  The laughter and gaiety started the moment we stepped across the threshold and into the foyer of Mr. Perleman’s La Costa mansion, where we were welcomed by the sound and sight of sixteen violinists descending a marble stairway while playing a lush Viennese waltz. After a rousing ending, the violinists, whom Norman Lear had gone to much expense to hire, marched off and disappeared—only to re-appear later at the dining-room table, where they serenaded us while we ate the first course of a lovely dinner that the Lears had catered. I do not recall what we ate or what was said, but I do remember explosions of laughter and a reluctance to leave the table after we had finished our dessert and coffee.

  At one point, someone suggested that “we repair to the living room,” and after deciding that the living room “did not need repair but might enjoy a visit,” we adjourned to it and continued laughing at the pearls that were dropping from the mouths of at least five of the assembled guests. During an unexpected lull, someone suggested that we play a round of “pass the orange.” It may be that I suggested it, for I had, as a youth, worked as a social director at a mountain resort. For the uninitiated, “pass the orange” is played by one person cradling an orange in the crook of his or her neck, and without using their hands, attempting to pass it to another member’s neck-crook. It is not as easy as it sounds, considering the differential between men and women’s physical height, neck length, apparel, ticklishness, and proneness to giggle. I daresay that the older and more serious the participants are, the greater the appreciation is when an orange is successfully passed from one neck to another. It may seem apocr
yphal, but underlying this seemingly childish activity, there is a palpable quotient of primal sexuality.

  After playing a round or three of “pass the orange,” which could just as aptly be named “drop the orange,” we segued to a brand-new game, an original one that our group invented and played for almost an hour. We called it “celebrity grapefruit” in honor of the ten celebrities who created it that night. Each couple made up a team, and each team would compete against one other team. For example, say the first match was the Brookses versus the Reiners. Estelle and I would stand about six feet apart and face each other, as would Anne and Mel. Each of us would have a grapefruit in hand. The object of the game was for one partner, on the count of three, to toss a grapefruit to his partner, who was to catch it and toss it back—without hitting your partner’s or the other team’s airborne missile. The team with the greatest number of catches would be declared the winner. It was one of our group’s favorite activities, but sadly, the only opportunity we had to play the game was when we were together at Yenemvelt. As far as I know, there are but ten people in the world who have had the pleasure of playing “celebrity grapefruit.”

  After many satisfying rounds of “CG,” someone noticed that it was almost two in the morning and way past our bedtime. It was at this point that someone else suggested song, and the song we chose to sing was “My Hero” from Oscar Straus’s The Chocolate Soldier. A wise choice, as all of us knew most of the lyrics of the chorus and verse:

  (The verse:)

  “I have a true and noble lover,

  He is a sweetheart, all my own,

  (something, something, something)

  “Oh, happy, happy wedding day,

  Oh happy, happy wedding day.”

  (Then the soaring chorus:)

  “Come, come, I love you only,

  My heart is truuuuuuueeeeee.

  Come, come, my life is lonely,

  I long for youuuuuuueeeeeeee.

  Come, come, naught can efface you.

  My arms are aching

  Now to embrace you.

  Thou art diviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

  Come, come, I love you o-o-oonly.

  Come, heroooooo miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!”

  Written in 1908 by Oscar Straus

  Lyrics: Rudolph Bernauer & Leopold Jacobson)

  (English lyrics by Stanislaus Stange—1909)

  We had formed a semi-circle and belted out the lyrics, until some unseen force directed the couples to turn and walk toward their bedrooms. We sang those last few notes of the song with mounting fervor and then backed into our rooms and shut the doors.

  You are going to have to take my word for it, but without being cued by anything but our mutual understanding of theater and fun, all five couples quietly started to reprise the song’s verse, and after the first two lines, exited our bedrooms singing and slowly made our way into the living room. With Estelle, Mel, and Pat providing the harmony, we finished the verse, and as we reprised the chorus, we all turned and strolled back to our rooms.

  This entire musical staging was repeated at least twice before we undressed and made ready for bed. Before we settled in, Norman, unable to resist activating an intercom he found on his bedroom wall, sang softly, “I have a true and noble lover,” which triggered an encore performance by the pajama-clad Yenemvelt Opera Company.

  That night, as we nodded off, I am sure the members of the company all had smiles on their faces.

  After we all fell asleep, Norman’s voice came over the intercoms, announcing that breakfast was being served. It was actually three hours that we slept, but it seemed like three minutes. I don’t think anyone groused, and if we did, it was a good-natured grouse. Eating, laughing, and “funning” easily trumped sleeping.

  It was at the breakfast table that the word Yenemvelt was first uttered. Once again, I am not certain which of us said it, but I do know that for my mother, Yenemvelt meant “the other world” or “the next world”—a place where poor people would be wealthy enough to own a private home, a car, or whatever luxury their heart desired. My mom would say sarcastically, “Sure, we’ll get all those things —in Yenemvelt!”

  It seems that those of us who had Jewish parents had heard the word spoken in their home, and so Yenemvelt was unanimously accepted as our club’s name. It was also agreed that Yenemvelt should have a song to celebrate its existence, and it was Mel, Larry, or Norman who suggested that the music of the German Yuletide favorite, “O Tannenbaum” would scan perfectly.

  It took no longer than the time it takes to sing a chorus of “O Tannenbaum” for our resident composers to devise the following lyrics for our anthem:

  “Oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt.

  Oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt oh Yenemvelt.

  Oh Yenemveeeeeeeelt, oh Yenemveeeeeeeelt,

  Oh Yenemveeeeeeeelt, oh Yenemveeeeeeeelt,

  Oh Yenemvelt, oh Yenemvelt,

  There is no veeelt—like—Yenem—veeeeeeeelt!”

  We were all so pleased with our emotion-filled rendition of our anthem that we could do nothing less than pledge our loyalty to the precepts of Yenemvelt.

  I truly believe that it was I who suggested that we do this by sealing our commitment in wax, as our Founding Fathers did when signing the Declaration of Independence. Having no parchment or sealing wax available, I suggested that each founder place the tips of their pinkies into the ears of whoever was seated on either side of them. With no hesitation or discussion, the suggestion was implemented, and there we sat, ten full-grown adults, each with someone else’s pinky stuck in their ears. At this point, someone started to sing our anthem and was quickly joined by the rest of us, who rendered a deeply emotional version of “Oh Yenemvelt.”

  I do not remember the contents of the hilarious, joke-laden exchanges we had during that first Yenemvelt breakfast, but I do remember being angry that I had to miss some of the hilarity by going to the toilet to pee.

  During those etched-in-memory Yenemvelt weekends, we took part in two other events that I feel bear noting. One was a spirited and original game of charades and the other a star-studded variety show.

  One night, after dinner, someone realized that we had so many wonderful entertainers in our midst and suggested that we ask them “to put on a show for us!”

  “But who would they do the show for?” another of us asked.

  “For those of us who are not in the show,” someone else answered.

  “That’s a great idea,” another chirped up. “Whoever is not performing would become a member of the audience.”

  And thus, a show was born! Each of us graciously stood up and contributed to the evening’s entertainment.

  Mel Brooks: Leaped out of his seat and immediately became Fred Astaire! With the aid of an umbrella he had commandeered from a stand, and twirling it like cane, he became Fred Astaire and started to sing: “I’m puttin’ on my top hat, tyin’ on my white tie, brushing up my tails!”

  Mel then proceeded to tap dance on the parquet floor and punctuated his choreography with smart Astaire-like kicks to every piece of furniture in the room. No easy chair, couch, coffee table, chest of drawers, or lamp stand escaped being jumped upon or kicked.

  Anne Bancroft: With her expressive hands and body moving flapper style, the Academy Award-winning actress sang a throaty version of Irving Berlin’s “Some Sunny Day”:

  Some sunny day with a smile on my face,

  I’ll go back to that place far away…

  Some sunny day, I’ll be on that express,

  Flying away to my little bunch of happiness.

  Estelle Reiner: Accompanying herself with the ukulele that I brought from home, she sang: “Dapper Dan was a Pullman porter man on the train that ran through Dixie. Everyone knew Dapper Dan, knew him for a la
dies’ man…”

  Carole DeLuise: A capella, she did a hilarious, spot-on impression of Imogene Coca singing the lament about Jim: “Jim never sends me pretty flowers…”

  Dom DeLuise: Did a hilarious but loving impression of his father, a city garbage collector, endorsing his weekly paycheck. Sadly, Papa DeLuise was illiterate but had learned to write his name.

  Before picking up his pen, Dom went through a torturous ritual that included a careful clearing of the kitchen table, the continuous wiping of sweat from his brow with the palms of both hands, and the loosening of tension in his upper body by rolling his shoulder sockets in a circle. After unscrewing the top from the pen, Dom illustrated the herculean effort his dad made to write his name on the back of the check, one letter at a time, pausing, sighing, and mopping his brow after each successful effort.

  Me: For my contribution, I think I did my standard, fairly humorous impressions of Jimmy Stewart, Ronald Coleman, Charles Boyer, and Akim Tamiroff.