My older brother, Jack, is extraordinary. Being more sensible than I, he became a CPA and an attorney. He has always been my biggest supporter. He knows I was elected president of my fifth-grade class, and then was impeached. At the age of seventy-nine he chose to tell me for the first time that he was elected president of his fourth-grade class. I asked, “Were you impeached?” He softly said, “No.”
For someone whose father died at the age of fifty-two, I consider myself remarkably fortunate that my doctor, at this writing, anyway, has been unable to find anything physically wrong with me. He says, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but maybe we all should do it.”
My brother, unfortunately, has been besieged by one illness after another. Jack has always been interested in singing. He has gone to retirement homes at Christmas to lead the people there in singing carols.
A couple of years ago, I sent him a big songbook that has most of the standards in it. I also send a keyboard player to his house a couple of times a week, so Jack can sing to accompaniment. He really enjoys that.
About eight years ago, I became friends with a man about my brother’s age, Bob Ellis. Bob doesn’t sing, but he is as goodwilled as any person I’ve ever met. Recently I gave Bob the same songbook that I’d sent my brother. And now Bob, who lives in New York, and Jack, who lives outside of Pittsburgh, take turns calling each other every day and singing about six songs together on the phone. In between they share anecdotes, and a great time is had by all.
I’ve produced in the movies, on Broadway and off- Broadway, and in television, but this by far is the most gratifying show I’ve ever produced.
Singing may not cure all ills, but it certainly moves us in the right direction. If someone in your family or your friends or maybe even you are down, it might be a good idea to get them singing to lift their spirits. I plan to do it myself.
Since I wrote the above, my friend Bob has passed away. I first met Bob Ellis when he came over to me after a benefit I did at the YMHA in New York City for the children of Bedford Hills Women’s Correctional Facility in Bedford, New York. He introduced himself and said he’d like to produce a similar benefit in his area of Armonk, New York. He did.
Bob and I quickly became close friends. I soon learned he had multiple myeloma, an incurable blood disease.
Bob suggested we start a foundation. He wanted me to be the president, because he felt I knew of people in situations not widely known who needed a hand. We called the foundation Lend a Hand.
Through Jayne Begelson at the New York City Bar, I learned of two teen boys with cystic fibrosis. The average life span of people with cystic fibrosis is in the thirties, although some people have lived longer. Right now, there is no cure.
The boys were foster children of a couple in Pennsylvania with three children of their own. Bob arranged for the family, Jane Begelson, her sister, the family social worker, and her husband to join us on a fishing boat he chartered, since we learned one of the boys loved to fish.
We had a great time. Unfortunately Bob couldn’t join us. He was in the hospital with pneumonia.
Later I arranged for the family to come to my house, and Bob came with one of his sons, a doctor. It was a magnificent day.
There was a famous band in the forties called the Tex Beneke Orchestra. Sometimes when I’d be hosting an event, I would introduce Bob—who was actually a semiretired real estate man—as Boppin Bob Ellis, formerly with the Tex Beneke Orchestra. Bob would stand up in the audience and wave. The audience applauded, and after the event some people would come over to him and ask if he still sang. Bob would say, “I hum a little.”
I started to bring Bob onstage with me. Sometimes when I was talking I’d look at him as though I had no idea who he was or what he was doing there. He’d just look back at me with a pleasant expression.
In the fall of 2008, I hosted the annual Children’s Cancer & Blood Foundation fund-raiser at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Bob was to appear with me in a comic routine—no lines yet, but Bob would be playing the Plaza. He died five days before the event.
Since Bob would often join me at various events, he was at one where a photograph was taken of Eli Wallach, Jack Klugman, and me. I’m in the middle with my arms around Eli and Jack. Bob is on the side almost as if he’s superimposed on the photograph, like Woody Allen in Zelig. I took the picture of Bob’s face and had a card made that read “WANTED” on the top, Bob’s face under it, and then the charges against him, “Seen taking funds from a church collection basket and crossing state lines for immoral purposes with a goat,” and below that, “$$REWARD$$.”
I blew it up to the size of an actual wanted poster, gave it to Bob, and hung another one in my study right where I look at a wall. It was always fun to see. After Bob died, it took on a new meaning because it read “WANTED” above Bob’s face and was a constant reminder of how much I miss him. I had to take it down, because I don’t believe it’s helpful for me always to look at photos of beloved deceased friends, particularly if it says “WANTED” above their face.
I see people not as Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, but as those who care about others and those who don’t. Bob Ellis cared. He was a wonderful role model, he loved to laugh, and he always seemed to be concerned about the other person, even if he didn’t know you.
Can we still call people saints?