My Lucky Life in and Out of Show Business_ A Memoir - Dick Van Dyke [100]
As corny as it sounds, I think my decision to stick with entertainment the whole family could see was made with that in mind. I am proud that I kept it clean, that I stood for something, and upheld values. I passed up a number of opportunities, but feel good about the contributions I have made, and the fan mail I receive is awfully nice, which is very satisfying. I wanted my work to reflect the kind of person I was—and wanted to be.
My mother said I was a good boy—and now, at almost eighty-five years old, in looking back, I guess I stayed that way. I simply did what I thought was right and got rid of most of my bad habits.
My best work was done at home. My kids turned out to be truly admirable people. Margie did the work, but I will take some credit. As the father of four, the grandfather of seven, and a great-grandfather four times over, why not? Best of all, I have noticed an improvement in each generation. I was a better father than my father, my sons have eclipsed me, and my grandchildren are on their way. Parenting in general has become more of a science, though I don’t agree with everything I see these days—like the micromanaging of time. When I was young, when school let out for the summer, I used to have three months of barefoot time that was mine. I could do whatever I wanted. Now the kids don’t seem to even have an hour by themselves to play and wax creative. What’s going to be the effect of that?
As I’ve said many times, I’ve been lucky my whole life. I have worked with extraordinary people and always felt as if my work was play. I have also been fortunate that people have liked what I do, and as a result, they’ve liked me. I’ve tried never to take that for granted, to appreciate every compliment, kiss, and handshake, because I can imagine the opposite.
For nearly twenty years, I have volunteered at the Midnight Mission on L.A.’s skid row. Aside from fund-raising, I served food every holiday until I was asked to simply walk around as an unofficial maître d’, which I interpreted as an invitation to sing with people, dance with some, or just sit at their table and have a conversation. One year, after I harmonized with a homeless woman, she said, “You don’t know how many people look right through us, as if we’re not even there.”
I gave her a hug.
“I’m glad to be here,” I said. “In fact, I can’t think of anyplace else I’d rather be than right here, making you smile.”
It is early morning, and I am at home. Come on in. Be careful not to trip over the ottoman. Just kidding. There isn’t an ottoman or any other furniture blocking the path into the living room, where I have been augmenting the start of this beautiful day near the beach by playing jazzy chords on a black upright piano. It has not been tuned in thirty-some years, but all the keys work and it still sounds pretty darn good—just like me.
I said that the other day to a director who had come over to discuss working on my one-man play. He asked how the piano could still be in such good shape given the moist air, variations in temperature, and constant use. Good craftsmanship and luck, I said—the same reasons I’m still going strong today.
Over the past year, I have realized something about myself. I suffer from a form of claustrophobia: I hate being at home by myself. I am a people person. My life has been a magnificent indulgence. I’ve been able to do what I love and share it. Who would want to quit? I suppose that I never completely gave up my childhood idea of being a minister. Only the medium and the message changed. I have still endeavored to touch people’s souls, to raise their spirits and put smiles on their faces.
It seems that I have done a good job. But the awards I have received over the years pale