The Answer Is… RIDING A STATIONARY PONY

Before we got that first house, we lived for a few years in Toronto. My dad had gone back to work at the King Edward Hotel to save for the down payment on a home.

In Toronto, my parents had a ton of Ukrainian, Russian, and Polish friends, and that made for some great celebrations, great parties. On Sundays everyone came over to our place. It was a three-story rented house with an in-ground gas pump in the backyard. I haven’t thought about that gas pump in forever. Why do I remember that all of a sudden? We hosted because everyone else lived in apartments. There were lavish spreads of herring, dill pickles, cabbage rolls—and, of course, schnapps and vodka. Around the third glass of vodka, Dad would bring out his violin and start playing jigs. Poor Barbara went to the dining table once, wanting a glass of water. She grabbed a glass that looked like it contained water. It contained vodka. She sucked that up and then started screaming.

That house was where another of my life’s many injuries and ailments occurred. I made myself a parachute, and I decided to try it out by jumping off the roof of the front balcony. How else are you going to try out a parachute? Jump from a park bench? No, you have to jump from a high place. A lot of people think I’m pretty sharp as the host of Jeopardy!, but when I look back on my life I did plenty of stupid things. Fortunately, that time, I just got a little bruised—messed up my knee a bit.

One day, a guy came through the neighborhood with a pony, charging kids to take their picture with it. Barbara got a photo—a beautiful shot. Then I came home. I had been out playing.

I said, “Oh jeez, you got your picture on a pony! I didn’t get no picture!”

Mom responded, “Well, go get your picture taken.”

I was wearing coveralls and I had dirt on my face, but it didn’t matter. I climbed up and got my picture taken. The pony looked just about as sad as I did.

Look how regal the pony is in Barbara’s hands. Look how sad it is in mine.