Let’s just say I was warned. I was guest starring on the Danny Kaye special as a way of promoting the third season of The Dick Van Dyke Show, and on the first day of rehearsal the director warned me that Danny had quit smoking five weeks earlier in preparation of working with me. I responded with a look that was easily read as “Really?”
“Yeah, he figured he better have his wind,” the director said.
I smiled. Only later did it dawn on me that Danny might have felt challenged if not a little threatened by going toe to toe with me on his own show. The two of us had a big production number together, a musical sketch set in a courtroom where I played a disheveled old Clarence Darrow–type lawyer and Danny was a dapper hotshot attorney. But on day two of rehearsals, I returned to the studio and found out that our parts had been switched. No explanation was given until the later part of the afternoon when a producer took me aside and said that I’d gotten too many laughs as the old man.
Later, when I had my own specials, I approached them as opportunities to have fun with performers whom I admired. It was playtime for me, and hopefully the viewers at home would enjoy it as much as I did. But I understood what was going on with Danny. I didn’t say anything. Then again, I didn’t have to.
I responded in the only way I could, the only way that made sense. I became Nijinsky. I danced off the walls, leapt over tables and chairs, and afterward, when Danny shook my hand and said he’d enjoyed having me on the show, I offered an easygoing smile and said the feeling was mutual.
With The Dick Van Dyke Show an audience favorite and according to some critics carving out a niche in TV history, I was too consumed with our inspired brand of fun to let those kinds of situations bother me. I was also too busy. That season, Carl expanded the team with veteran comedy writers Bill Persky and Sam Denoff. Carl gave them the lowdown on the show’s ethos and they contributed brilliantly on and off the page.
Sam was a character who spent the Friday run-through for the writers leaning back in his chair, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, listening to us; then every once in a while, he would stop us in our tracks with a foghorn-like bellow, “Boring!” Bill was also an original, a smart man with a steady hand who could get a laugh just by raising his big, thick eyebrows but who kept the atmosphere light and interesting with jokes, impressions, and a wry take on just about every topic imaginable.
The best writers were philosophers who wrapped their commentary about life in laughter. Carl’s other hires included Garry Marshall, the future creator of Happy Days, and Jerry Belson, both of whom went on to magnificent careers. Jerry Paris also began to direct. The show became its own little world, with its internal rhythm and high standards, and also a playground for talented performers on their way up, including Don Rickles, Jamie Farr, Greg Morris, Joan Shawlee, Herbie Faye, and Allan Melvin.
Being part of such a talented ensemble was my idea of heaven. We were so successful creating a feeling of family that many people thought Mary and I were really husband and wife, including some of those at the Emmy Awards the previous May, where, even though the attendees were from the industry, Mary and I were consoled as a married couple when we failed to win in our respective categories. Rosie also lost that year, while Carl, John Rich, and the show itself captured trophies.
For a smooth mover, as I was often called, I was less than suave when it came to handling individual stardom, which was never my thing. My favorite example of my awkwardness in such situations occurred one rainy morning on the freeway as I was on my way to work. Suddenly, in a burst of blue and gray smoke, my Jaguar seized up and sputtered to a stop. Oil had leaked out of the crankcase and the car was dead in the middle lane.
Although rush hour, I stepped out of the car—and that’s when the real problems started. As I waved at cars to stop so I could push my Jag across the lanes to the side, people began to recognize me. Not only did cars stop, but a few got out and asked for autographs as well. A producer named Tom Naud appeared from out of nowhere and handed me a script, explaining that he had been trying to get it to me and wasn’t this a lucky break.
For everyone but me. Two cops showed up to assist me and both turned out to be amateur dancers who couldn’t wait to show me a few steps. A former vaudeville performer ran the garage where I was towed, and he dusted off his old act as I waited for one of his servicemen to examine the car. Despite hours of inconvenience, it turned out to be an interesting morning.
In early 1964, we purchased a thirty-five-year-old California-style ranch home in Encino. The family home, with property that included a swimming pool and majestic old oak trees, satisfied my craving for normalcy. (I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how much the cat loved hiding out in the oak trees and then terrorizing our dogs by jumping down onto their backs.) I decorated my office with my first Emmy, which I won that May, and Margie continued doing a terrific job keeping the kids grounded and on track.
She had no fondness for show business. She appreciated Hollywood, but was not drawn to it. I knew events like the Emmys were hard on her. She was, as with many spouses, constantly shunted to the side by people wanting to chat with me or by reporters who stepped between us even if we were mid-conversation. She was earthy and artistic, with an array of interests. She wore her hair short and eschewed makeup. We were often mistaken as brother and sister since many people thought of me as being with Mary.
She came to tapings every so often but otherwise felt no need to go every week. As she frequently said with a laugh, I was pretty much the same there as I was at home. Once, when I was on the cover of a magazine, she went to the grocery store and bought six copies. The woman ringing her up at the counter said she must know someone in the magazine.
Margie said, yes, she did. “Dick Van Dyke.”
“Isn’t that wonderful.” The woman grinned. “Are you his mother?”
So Margie’s attitude to the glitz and glamour was a simple “no, thank you.” I wasn’t much better. Among those in Hollywood, I was regarded as a square—a funny square, but a square nonetheless. I preferred to think of myself as grounded, sensible, and an everyman who hadn’t lost touch with the small town, mid-American values that I’d learned in childhood.
I took pride when Mary told a reporter that I was “the nicest actor” she had ever met. “Even-tempered, considerate, almost saintlike.” Hardly saintlike. In a story I wrote for U.P.I., I painted a pretty normal, if not boring, picture of myself, explaining that I “spent most of my spare time with my family. We don’t go to big Hollywood parties, and we don’t give them, either.”
If that made me a square, so be it. “I take that as a compliment,” I wrote.
I was concerned about doing a good job as a husband, father, and human being. As far as I was concerned, children learned right and wrong and how to behave more from watching their parents than from anything they were told, and I wanted to be a good role model at home. I spent weekends with the family. I surfed with the boys in Malibu. I played music and sang with the girls. I led family sing-alongs, and play-alongs for that matter, as everyone seemed to be involved in learning an instrument.
Every Sunday, we attended the Brentwood Presbyterian Church. I didn’t teach Sunday school as I had in New York, but I spoke to the congregation on occasion. My brief interest in becoming a minister was far behind me, but I was intensely curious and even passionate about God. I had read and continued to read Buber, Tilich, Bonhoeffer, and Tournier, all theologians whom I thought helped explain religion in a practical, rational sense as far as everyday life as opposed to the strict doctrines of religion.
I was all about living a kind, righteous, moral, forgiving, and loving life seven days a week, not just the one day when you went to church. I thought about it quite a bit, noticed the differences in others, and I shared my opinions when the appropriate opportunity arose.
I had a little bit of “defender of the universe” in me. I felt—and still feel—that there’s a higher intelligence up there, something greater than us, something we might have to answer to, and most people would be wise to keep that in mind as they hurry through their day.
And if there’s not a higher power, no one’s going to be worse for the wear for his or her effort.
Was there one way?
No, not as far as I could tell—other than to feel loved, to love back, and to do the things that make you feel as if your life has meaning and value, which can be as simple as making sure you spend time helping make life a little better for other people.
I decided if I could manage that I wouldn’t have any serious problems were there to actually be a Judgment Day.
I found a kindred spirit in the church’s youth minister, Charlie Brown. Bright, energetic, and forward thinking, he was active in Young Life, a group that ran summer camps for junior-high and high-school kids. The idea was to get kids on the right path. It was spiritually influenced but not religious; they didn’t cram religion down anyone’s throat. It was about walking the walk, and Charlie did that with a grace and conviction that impressed me.
It interested me, too. He was young himself. He surfed with the kids, he hung out with them, and he talked their talk.
At that time, being able to relate to young people was especially important. A younger generation was questioning traditions, biases, and social covenants. New ideas were surfacing and clashing with the old. It was clear that the world, as most of us born before World War II knew it, was in flux. That point had been driven home on November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I had returned to the set from lunch in the commissary with a few people from the show and immediately noticed a change in the atmosphere.
I will never forget it. The usual lightness in the air had disappeared, and the mood was somber and heavy. We all knew immediately that something had happened, something bad and dire. I looked around, trying to figure it out, and then someone asked if we had heard.
“No,” I said.
“The president was shot.”
“JFK?”
“Yes.”
We were all stunned.
I turned to Carl, John, Morey, Rosie—everyone. JFK assassinated? Dead? It was unfathomable. All of us shared an expression that conveyed the same sense of disbelief, horror, and tragedy unfolding in front of our eyes. We couldn’t do anything but stare at the television and mutter, “Oh my God.”
Later that night, I went to the recording studio and made my first album, Songs I Like. Although it was the last thing I wanted to do that evening, and I’m sure the musicians shared that sentiment, we went through with the recording session anyway, and the resulting album, at least to me, sounded that way.
In the months that followed, I found myself, like the country as a whole, in a serious frame of mind and searching for answers and meaning. Many nights I stayed up until two or three in the morning, talking with Charlie Brown about why Kennedy had been killed, why such an act of violence happened in our country, where it stemmed from, what it meant, and what we should do about it.
As was often the case, I heard myself asking questions that I had asked many times in the past: Who were we as a country? Who were we as human beings? What was really important in life? What do we tell our kids and future generations to make sure they do better?
As a middle-of-the-road Democrat, I knew where I stood. I was pro civil rights. I was against the Vietnam War. In fact, with two boys nearing draft age, I was deeply worried about the escalation of the fighting there. I didn’t see the point of the United States being there. Margie was also active in a group called Another Mother for Peace.
When President Kennedy’s former press secretary Pierre Salinger ran for the U.S. Senate from California, I joined his campaign efforts. He had been flying to Japan when JFK was slain and then worked briefly with Lyndon Johnson. After leaving the White House though, he returned to his native California and defeated Alan Cranston in the primaries. He ran against former actor George Murphy, a Republican.
The cornerstone of Salinger’s platform, which I very much agreed with, was his opposition to Proposition 14, a ballot effort intended to overturn the California Fair Housing Act, legislation that had been passed the previous year. It prevented property owners from discriminating for reasons of race, religion, sex, physical limitations, or marital status.
My sense of the way people should be treated was thoroughly offended by those who supported overturning the proposition. I loathed bias of any kind. How could people support such measures? How could Americans openly support the right to discriminate for reasons of race, religion, and so on? Salinger was asking the same questions and fighting the good fight. I didn’t know him until I pledged my support, and I grew to like him very much.
At one point, Dan Blocker from Bonanza, several actresses, and I were on a whistle-stop tour from L.A. to San Diego, and at a speech in Orange County, we were met by a pro–Prop 14 crowd that pelted us with tomatoes and eggs and held up signs displaying vile slogans of hate.
In San Diego we attended a dinner with some of Pierre’s wealthiest backers. I happened to be sitting next to Pierre when one of the bigwigs told him that he had to drop his opposition to Prop 14 and stop talking about fair housing if he wanted a shot at winning. If he didn’t, the backer said, he and several others were going to drop their support.
Pierre didn’t flinch.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m running on that platform. It’s fair, it’s right, and I believe in it.”
Hearing that, I admired him even more as a politician and as a man. Not enough voters shared my opinion, though, and he lost the election and went on to a successful career in journalism.
At work, Carl was excellent at pushing the boundaries in subtle ways, like acknowledging that Rob and Laura were intimate, as husbands and wives are, or allowing others to venture into new and dicey territory. For instance, the third season had opened with the Persky and Denoff–written episode “That’s My Boy?” In it, Rob recounts how he had believed that, after Ritchie was born, he and Laura had brought the wrong baby home from the hospital. He insisted on meeting the other family, and in the end they turned out to be black.
It was a brilliant, socially relevant twist to an extremely funny episode. Initially, though, the network rejected the episode, explaining that a family sitcom was not the place to address the issue of race. However, Sheldon persuaded the network’s executives to change their mind, and we all were proud of that episode’s message.
Work was a great place to search for, and occasionally find, answers to some of life’s big questions. Failing that, it was just a great place to be. As I told a group of people one day in a question-and-answer session for Redbook magazine, “Material success isn’t too important [to me]. I suppose it would be if you were a businessman or a broker making investments and the money you accumulated was the symbol of your success.”
But that wasn’t me. I was fairly simple and basic. “I like acting,” I said. “I like my work. I just love it and try to get better if I can.”