I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  I was seated at my desk, poring over the script for Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, a film I was preparing to direct, when Judy Nagy, my then-loyal secretary and still-loyal friend, placed a small, white fur ball on my desk and asked, “Do you want to take this home?”

  Judy’s friend, Mark Steen, had enlisted her help in finding homes for this fur ball and its three siblings, which he carried in a cardboard box. It seemed there had been eight premature pups born in a stable, and four had been stomped to death by the horse whose quarters had been commandeered by the pups’ mom. If any dog deserved a home, Homer did.

  At this time, Buffy, a female beagle, was the designated pet at our house, and had not this sweet-faced, white fur ball been so needy and irresistible, I might not have awakened my wife from a nap, placed the fur ball on her chest, and asked, “What do we do with this?”

  Her face lit up as she cradled it in her hands, and she said, “We keep him.”

  I do not know how Estelle arrived at it but, after handling the puppy for just a few seconds, she said, “Homer—he looks like a Homer, doesn’t he?”

  By God, he did—and thereupon Homer became Homer! We had no idea what breed of dog he was or how big he would grow. My wife pointed out that the size of his paws indicated that we had just adopted a very large animal.

  It may sound as if I’m exaggerating, and what I am about to suggest may seem far-fetched, but I have the photos to prove my case. Homer grew so fast that if one had the time and the patience to sit and stare at him for hours on end, one would actually see him grow. A pair of photos says it all—one of Mel Brooks placing a three-month-old, fifty-pound Homer atop the head of his and Anne Bancroft’s eight-year-old son, Max, and the other of this puppy trying to sit in my wife’s lap.

  In less than a year, Homer grew to be a handsome, 126-pound, gentle giant who became a treasured member of our family. My wife, our children, and I all loved Homer…not the case with very old beagle, Buffy, who never warmed to the idea of an interloper. It was two or three years before Buffy succumbed to old age and let Homer become our sole pet. Except for ole Rinnie, a goldfish, and a turtle, Homer was the gentlest pet we ever owned. He rarely, if ever, barked, and he loved to be petted or stroked. He was always happy to accept pats on the head, be it from family, friends, or perfect strangers.

  Homer had no idea how big he had grown and continued to act like a pup. After he was full-grown, he continued to jump up on the couch and attempt to sit in Estelle’s lap, and Estelle never discouraged him from trying.

  I return now to “Homer’s Major Contribution to Scientology.”

  One afternoon, I answered the doorbell and was greeted by our friendly UPS delivery man, who handed me a parcel that was addressed to me. I did not remember ordering anything. I opened the box, and in it I found a most impressive-looking leather-bound book. The page edges sparkled with gold leaf, and on its cover, in raised gold lettering, was the title and author:

  DIANETICS

  BY

  L. RON HUBBARD

  The bible of Scientology by the creator himself. I could not for the life of me figure out who would send me this silly science-fiction book. For the last few years, Scientology had been masquerading as a viable, alternative religion—and, sad to say, with more success than is healthy for the untold millions of naive people worldwide. These poor souls were duped into following the cultlike teachings, and many have been convinced to give up their jobs and their earthly possessions—and a few, even more.

  There were and are many outraged critics and whistleblowers. One, a Justice Latey of the High Court in London had ruled that: “Scientology is both immoral and socially obnoxious…it is corrupt, sinister and dangerous. It is dangerous because it is out to capture people, especially children and impressionable young people. It is corrupt because it is based on lies and deceit.” (http://londonist.com/2008/05/police_to_prose.php; http://en.wikinews.org/wiki/UK_minor_faces_charges_for_calling_Scientology_%27cult%27_at_protest)

  Many investigative books have been published on the dangers and possible consequences of becoming a Scientologist. One scholarly work, Inside Scientology, is written by Janet Reitman. There are also many websites that carry important information about this cult.

  For me, the mystery was, why was this book sent to me? Why was I chosen to be the unwitting owner of a beautiful, Florentine leather-bound copy of L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics?

  The mystery was solved when I scanned the first page, and one word jumped out at me—the word “Clear!”

  As I read on, I learned that when a young recruit studies Scientology, he spends much time and effort and oftentimes money to reach the ultimate goal. That is to be acknowledged, by the school of Scientology as someone who has become “Clear.” Clear is the cherished state that all students strive to achieve.

  I had inadvertently sent a signal to someone in Scientology that I was one of them! I had done this by virtue of my having once formed a production company to produce the films I wrote or directed.

  Years earlier, my company was called Acre Enterprises. It was created by using the first initial of the names of our family members, A for Annie, C for Carl, R for Rob, and E for Estelle. Acre! Devilishly clever, eh?

  Sometime later, when we were blessed with our third child, Lucas, we naturally needed to add an L to “Acre Enterprises,” but if we did, our company would become “Acrel Enterprises.” We guessed that Acrel was not a word, and even if it was, “Acrel” had no flair. “Acre” conjured up something substantial—like a piece of property, a ranch or a farm. Had we placed the L in front of Acre, we would have “Lacre,” which conjured up the L.A. Lakers basketball franchise.

  I had just completed The Man with Two Brains, which starred Steve Martin, and we were in the process of finalizing the opening production credits. With a flash of creative ingenuity, I reconfigured the first letters of our names, Carl, Lucas, Estelle, Annie, Rob, and “Clear Productions” was born.

  The enterprising Scientologist must have been excited when The Man with Two Brains was released, and he saw the title card, Clear Productions.

  My first impulse was to toss the expensively bound Dianetics book into the dumpster in the back alley, but then I remembered something that Mort Dimondstein, a friend and fine artist had once told us about tossing some of his unwanted paintings into the alley. He told us how he overheard the trash collectors discussing his discarded canvases. One was taken by how unlike regular garbage these “nice-colored pitchers” were and how he would feel bad trashing them. He actually selected two of the failed Dimondstein canvases and placed them into the cab of his truck to take home and “hang ’em up—as a present for the missus.”

  Mort was pleased to hear that someone found his work worthy of hanging, but displeased that bad examples of his art lived on.

  Taking a cue from Mort Dimondstein, I worried that if a trash collector saw this magnificent Florentine, leather-covered, gold-leafed book in the dumpster, he would most certainly rescue it and bring it home. The possibility that this man or his wife and children might be seduced by the book’s contents upset me. Then I thought about Homer.

  At least once a day, our big, healthy animal with a hearty appetite used our spacious back yard as his private commode, and every other day, I used my long-handled Pooper-Scooper to collect Homer’s output and deposit it in one of the alley’s two dumpsters—the blue one for recyclables and the green one for all other garbage.

  And so it was into the green dumpster that I placed L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics. To assure that Mr. Hubbard’s philosophy did not damage any more psyches, I dropped two days’ worth of Homer’s healthy output from my Pooper-Scooper onto its gold-leafed pages. Using the scooper, I closed the book and covered the front and back cover with the remains of my dog’s detritus—thus insuring that at least this copy of Mr. Hubbard’s book will do no harm.

  CHAPTE
R FIFTY-THREE

  Piling It On, Ad Infinitum

  Within the last thirteen days, I have been honored to within an inch of my life. These lovely floggings were inflicted at two separate events, in two separate locations—the first at the Hollywood Egyptian Theater and sponsored by American Cinematheque, the second at the auditorium of The Academy of Television’s Arts and Sciences, and sponsored by the Television Academy.

  At these events, I saw faces from the distant past, the recent past, the present, and gratefully, I saw no scythe-toting, black-hooded faces from my future. All their faces were smiling as they said nice things to my face and also into microphones, so everyone could hear how they thought I had done a great thing by creating The Dick Van Dyke Show.

  If I were a blusher, I would have easily unseated the world titleholder of the MFWRTAB Award (“My Face Was Redder than a Beet”).

  A stream of performers, writers, and directors whom I held in great affection found their way on stage and onto the couch on which I had been placed. I will not try to remember or set down what was said to me or about me, or what I responded, but I will say that there was little that did not get a positive response—often in the form of raucous laughter or honest chuckles.

  I considered listing the names of the faces I remembered looking at me and embarrassing me, but I fear embarrassing myself by the omission of someone who did not deserved to be “omissed.”

  Therefore, I will not mention Billy Perksy and Garry Marshall, who, with their recently departed partners, Sam Denoff and Jerry Belson, had written memorable episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show. Nor will I mention Lily Tomlin, whom I had the opportunity to direct in All of Me, and who sat next to me on the couch and described how much she loved listening to my wife’s superb jazz albums and watching her perform at the Gardenia Supper Club. Nor will I mention how much trouble comedian Garry Shandling went to making a tape telling how he was too sick to attend my event and then showing up to play that tape, or what a tremendous laugh he got by telling me how uncomfortable it was for him to be “sitting next to an old Jew on a couch and not paying him three hundred dollars for the session.”

  Neither will I mention Steve Martin’s difficult decision about not attending the Academy event for me or the recorded message he sent to explain his dilemma. It was apparent, as we watched his tape, how very tortured he was about having to miss my big night.

  It was a genuinely heartsick Steve asking that we understand his valid reason for not showing up. He explained, sadly, that our event was scheduled to be held at the exact time he had would be eating his “dinner at the restaurant next door.”

  Of course I understood, as did everyone in the auditorium. Steve Martin did not get to be Steve Martin without doing for Steve Martin what Steve Martin required he do for his own best interests: make everyone laugh as hard as I did.

  For fear of my seeming self-aggrandizing, I will steer clear of mentioning any of the questions put to me by doting members of the audience, which, I must say, were answered honestly and to great, noisy reactions. I truly feared that the audience members who were screaming with laughter might do physical harm to their internal organs.

  One gentleman, who caught me completely off guard and whose identity I have no intention of divulging, was the last guest to walk on stage and sit down next to me. He is an extraordinarily handsome actor, a selfless humanitarian, and someone I have worked with in the films Ocean’s Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen. If you are guessing it was Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, or Don Cheadle, you would be way off base. I don’t mean to be a tease, but his initials are G.C. Some of you may have concluded that Glenn Close is the name I am keeping from you, and to those of you who guessed George Clooney, all I can say is that you may be right, but as I said, I have no intention of divulging G.C.’s true identity or how magnificently he performed in his Oscar-worthy performance in The Descendants.

  This last unnamed guest said some very complimentary things about me, but I interrupted him to gush about his dedication to making this world a better place for everybody. G.C. and his dad Nick Clooney’s humanitarian efforts to ameliorate the suffering in Somalia and the starvation in Darfur went beyond what anyone would expect a private citizen to even attempt.

  One thing I’d like to share with you is something Billy Persky reminded me that I did a long, long time ago—something I had completely forgotten.

  During the early days of The Dick Van Dyke Show, a young network assistant visited our production office. He had come to offer suggestions that he felt would help our then-successful show become even more successful—and funnier. This hot shot breezed in, plopped himself down in an easy chair, and put his feet up on our coffee table. Present and exchanging quizzical glances were staff members Garry Marshall, Jerry Belson, Bill Persky, and Sam Denoff.

  With his ultra-shiny shoes resting atop my coffee table, the young lion took out a slip of paper and proceeded to read aloud some of the funny ideas he had jotted down. None of us could believe what we were hearing. Our fresh-faced exec did not have a clue as to what was funny or what audiences might find funny. Since it was my office and on my coffee table that he rested his feet, I concluded that it was my duty to act. So immediately after he told another lame joke and asked, “Now, don’t you think that’s funny?” I said, “You wanna know what I think is funny?” and then walked to him, pulled off one of his shoes, and threw it out an open window. “That, I think is funny!” I then turned and left my office.

  It was not long after I left my office that someone at the network asked Mr. Hot Shot to leave his office.

  At one point in that evening at the Television Academy, a thought flickered through my mind—actually it was a revelation. My family, friends, close acquaintances, and co-workers had handed me a rare gift. They had given me the privilege to not only attend but actually hear what will likely be said at my memorial service.

  If the speakers wax this eloquently when they look at me sitting on a couch, how much more laudatory, forthcoming, and emotional will they be when they look at my urn?

  Not much more, I’ll bet.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The End

  I have told many people about the final minutes of my beloved wife’s last hour of her last day, and I would like now to tell it again.

  Estelle had been bedridden for almost a year, and Except for her inability to walk, was in complete control of all her mental faculties. We often invited our good friends, Sheila and Ron Clark, Terry and Sandra Marsh, and our oldest and dearest friend, Mel Brooks—to dine with us in her beautiful, airy, five-windowed bedroom.

  Her last day, at the age of ninety-four, our family—which included Robbie, Annie, Lucas, Georgie, and me—were at her side, helping her to say good-bye.

  Earlier that week, she had individual conversations with each one of our children and discussed with them her feeling that she had not done as good a job of mothering as she would have liked. One by one, they shot down her arguments and convinced her she was nothing less than an exceptional and inspiring mother whom they loved and appreciated.

  As the hours passed, her breathing became more and more shallow, but she seemed to be in no pain. She was still responding to our conversation but spoke less and less. The hospice workers were in the room and ready to help if needed. She had difficulty keeping her eyes open but seemed to be aware of what was being said to her but had stopped speaking or trying to speak. Her breathing was now very shallow, and a quiet moan suggested that she was experiencing a low level of pain. To alleviate this, the hospice nurse suggested I place a drop of a prescribed anti-pain medication under her lip.

  Her nephew George told her how much he loved her and that if she wanted to go, she should feel free to do so.

  I had the thought of playing a song from one of her CDs. I chose Grown Up Songs for Kids, the last recording she did, at ninety. I turned up the volume and hoped that she c
ould hear herself singing, “A, you’re adorable, B, you are so beautiful, C, you’re a cutie full of charm.”

  There was no visible reaction from her, and we had no idea that she heard herself singing. The small, intermittent breaths she took were almost imperceptible. I sat beside her and held her hand as we listened to her sing. One of the hospice nurses quietly remarked, “What a lovely, sweet voice she has.”

  Lucas heard the comment, and with his face three inches from his mother’s, he said, slowly and clearly, “Ma, the nurse said that you have a lovely, sweet voice.”

  We would not have known that Estelle heard what Lucas said, had she not just before expiring, mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  There Is No End for the Living

  I titled the preceding chapter, “The End,” and then I thought that it was not really “the end”—not for those of us who are still alive—like me.

  If it were the end, I would not be thinking about how much I miss my wife and how much she is still with me during the day—and at night before I fall asleep—and in my dreams—and in my writing. This thought came to me while I was driving to our neighborhood Whole Foods to buy some Chilean sea bass for my dinner. While in my car, my wife is always beside me; that is, her sweet voice is. It floats out of the car’s multiple speakers, and during the ride, I am able to hear a few of the 137 songs she recorded.

  I remember the combination of excitement and anxiety she felt when we drove to the Wilder Brothers Studio to record some of the songs. In particular, I recall a problem we encountered when she recorded one of my favorites, “When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along.” The problem presented itself when she sang the line, “I’m walking through fields of flowers…”