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Everything worked, including ideas we had discussed earlier and little impromptu bits that came to us in the moment. We came off as a married couple. It was thrilling. I could tell it was working, and so could Mary. From the start, we had a special timing and chemistry that you can’t manufacture. It’s either there or it isn’t. With us, it was there—and it only got better over time.

All of us were learning. I spoke to Carl between takes about the shadings of my character. We had been discussing Rob throughout the week and continued the conversation every chance we had. Carl had a picture in his head, and I was just getting acquainted with him. The two would quickly merge, his vision and my portrayal, and then the fun really started.

He knew that I loved physical comedy, so we made Rob a tad klutzy. If he could trip or bump into something at an inopportune or unlikely moment, he did. It was during one of the early rehearsals that I came up with the idea to stumble over the living room ottoman, which became a signature of the show’s opening. I tried it and Carl laughed—especially at my expression. It was golden.

Everything about Rob was like that. He was relatable. A comedy writer may not be familiar to everyone, but he was a husband and father, a good guy who tried hard to make sure things went right, that he did a good job, and that he not get flustered when things went awry. I was able to pour so much of myself into him before I even knew I was doing that. Like me, he hated confrontation. Carl had a deft eye for piling up intricate little problems that turned into challenges that thwarted Rob, including his job, his coworkers, his roles as a husband and a responsible provider, and his own charming, well-intentioned self. Every time he came up with a new situation that caused Laura to wince, “Oh, Rob!” I thought, Oh, good, this is going to be fun.

It was also no accident that we had numerous episodes with parties where we broke into song or dance. All of us looked for any excuse to perform, and Carl relished any and every opportunity to write in a number, since they shortened the script by ten pages or so.

As we shot the pilot, I mispronounced Rob and Laura’s last name, saying Pet-re rather than Pee-tree, as Carl had done in the original when he based the name on some actual neighbors of his in New Rochelle. Nobody corrected me, and so it stuck.

Another name stuck, too—the show’s title.

That was the problem the whole time we began working on the remake. There wasn’t a title. No one wanted to use the old name, Head of the Family. Carl came up with numerous suggestions, one more clever than the next, but none of them hit the magic note that made Carl and Sheldon go, “Aha, that’s it!”

Ideas were pitched all week and just as quickly dismissed, including Double Trouble, which Sheldon championed, as it was his idea.

But Carl shook his head. Our conductor heard it as a sour note.

“The problem is we have a show with a star that no one has heard of,” Carl said. “We need something that will make both Dick and the show a household name.”

One afternoon, with time running out before we had to deliver a title to CBS, Sheldon, an imposing, opinionated man who was always perfectly dressed, fit, and tan, as well as a man who possessed an impressive vocabulary and used it to his advantage, got into a discussion with Carl, who had his own arsenal of opinions and arguments. As they went back and forth, Carl suggested calling it The Dick Van Dyke Show. I saw his face brighten.

“Look, Make Room for Daddy, a big hit, became better known as The Danny Thomas Show,” Carl said. “We should do the same. It solves our problems.”

Sheldon, who looked as if someone had just put a pinch of bitters on his tongue, didn’t think so.

“The Dick Van Dyke Show,” he said slowly, as if placing it on a shelf and standing back to assess how it looked.

All of a sudden everyone looked. All eyes swung to me. I wanted to hide. Rosie, appearing more perplexed than anyone, shook her head and said, “What’s a Dick Van Dyke?”

I agreed.