Early Comedy Memory. It’s a Saturday night in 1974 and the Maruska family is gathering together around the television. The golden child, my baby brother Paul, has probably been put down in his throne…I mean, crib. I loved my baby brother but he was clearly the favorite for my parents as evidenced on bath night when mom would say to me “why don’t you and your sister take your brother from his bath. Anoint his body with this scented oil and rose water and then lay him upon the alter we have built in his honor in the rec room. Then, you and your sister go upstairs, vacuum the living room, do the dishes and blacktop the driveway while your father and I worship at your brother’s feet and watch “The Jeffersons.”
By now it’s 8 pm and my sister is engrossed in making some jiffy pop popcorn, the total precursor to microwave popcorn in its glorious silver-bubble of greasy goodness that resulted from jerking an aluminum pan quickly across a hot burner while holding a metal handle. No liability involved in that idea. Come to think of it, in the 70’s, we also made pies by putting two slices of bread together and filling them with pie filling and then holding them in a roaring campfire barely an arms length away. It’s a wonder any of us survived.
At 7 pm on Saturday, my sister and I would have watched the exciting drama “Emergency” with it’s hunky young fire fighters and EMTs saving people involved in a variety of dramatic situations, many of them in canyons. I would go to sleep on Saturday nights fantasizing about finding myself in a horrible car accident in an unnamed canyon somewhere (Minnesota does not, as a general rule, have canyons but we do have some fairly large hills and wooded drop offs, often around lakes or rivers, so that would totally suffice for purposes of my fantasy.) The cute dark-haired fireman come to my rescue and then, through some bureaucratic snafu, end up adopting me and raising me as a single father who lets me hang out at the fire station as an unofficial mascot. This bedtime fantasy time would evolve at a later time to one of my parents divorcing and my being raised by two gay men. This particular fantasy has come the closest to actually coming true by the way.
But at 8 pm, the entire family hunkers down and comedy becomes the true star, first in the form of the Mary Tyler Moore show. While I probably always wanted to be Mary (what girl didn’t?) I always knew I would be more like a Rhoda (what girl isn’t?) A bit chubby, struggling with love, and living in a studio apartment while working a minimum wage job downtown. Ironically at the age of 46, Rhoda’s life is my life and I even have a gorgeous, stylish thin “Mary” in my life. His name is David.
At 8:30, the Bob Newhart show came on. Although I knew he couldn’t save his way out of any canyons, I loved Bob anyways. I especially loved the kicky theme song and the scene of him walking through Chicago on his way home to his high-rise apartment. I wonder if all of the 70’s sitcom focus on high-rises is largely why even today I crave the comfort and coziness of high-rise living. All the cool 70’s shows had people living in high-rises and that was the fantasy I took from this situation. No house in the burbs for this girl. In fact, when I lived in Chicago myself a few years ago, I had a studio apartment on the 28th floor of a highrise in the south loop that had a view of the Sears Tower, doormen and a small grocery story on the ground floor. I loved having the doorman hail me a cab and know that could easily have been Bob and Emily’s reality. I did not have sassy and funny neighbors however..that has yet to happen in any of my high-rise situations. I did once have a neighbor who would have sex with a very loud and enthusiastic woman in the summer when everyone’s sliding glass doors would be open, literally inviting making you an extra in their own private episode. I do not remember this ever happening on Bob Newhart.
But as a true 70’s television aficionado knows, the crowning hour was 9:00 and the Carol Burnett show. This was the show that mattered. My sister and I would lay on the floor in front of the tv – big bowls of jiffy pop and bottles of Tab by our side. Mom and dad would sit on the sofa and one of the brown corduroy Lay-Z-Boy recliners with their own big bowls of popcorn. Dad might have a cold beer but that was usually only when we had guests. And if we did have guests –they too would join us in the sacredness that was the Carol Burnett show. We laughed uproariously at the characters – our favorites being Tim Conway’s little old man and Carol’s Miss Wiggins in her skin tight pencil skirt and blonde curly wig. We loved when Tim made Harvey crack up and laugh, which is what we all knew we would be doing too. "How they keep a straight face I'll never know" my mother would often exclaim. We were on a first name basis with them by the way. Carol, Tim, Harvey and of course, Vicky and yes, even Lyle. I would run to the kitchen for more Tab or popcorn if the dancers were on – they did not interest me as much. But together, we would laugh at the family sketches, or share in the references of an old movie spoof. My dad would have tears running down his cheeks and we took special delight in laughing with him over the same things. It wasn't until I was an adult that I finally understood this comedy and laughter appeal. Simply put, it showed that we had something in common with our dad.
What’s that you say?
This was the true fantasy and the one thing at that age that we really could share with our dad. Sure, we shared with mom too, but there was more there to begin with. But dad worked all day, came home to tend to his gardens and go to bed and get up and do it all again. In the old-fashioned world of that time, he was the breadwinner and that was his focus. But he really relaxed on those Saturday nights. If it was a really great episode it may even result in Dad shouting "boy I sure could go for a DQ" and then we'd pile into his Rambler for a drive down to the Dairy Queen off Bellaire Avenue for ice cream. But laughter – shared laughter over a joke or a sketch – was the ultimate commonality on which we connected with our dad. And it didn’t stop there. We took great delight in telling stories or jokes we knew our dad would enjoy. At this point I can see that dad was (and is) sort of kooky. He was the kind of guy who could get onto the freeway, realize he had missed his exit, and simply drive through the grassy median and up onto the other side. At Christmas one year when we were all gathered in a circle opening gifts, he had received a set of steak knives and he threw one down to stick into the carpeting to see how sharp they were.
We all loved to laugh and you’d think some of us would not have minded being a bit out there and noticeable but my mother and sister loathed drawing attention to themselves. I missed that gene apparently and went so far as to become a stand up comic. Don't think the meaning is lost on me for a minute. In fact, I’ll never forget the first time my dad came to see me perform. I was at the Comedy Gallery in downtown Minneapolis and took to the stage in front of a fairly packed house. My set went well and I came to a joke I told about my dad, but which was actually based on something that a family friend used to say to us kids when we were young. I set the joke up by saying “My dad used to say to me..clean your plate, it will put hair on your chest.” As I paused before the punch line, my dad’s voice came through clearly for the entire audience to hear. “I never said that.” He got a bigger laugh than I did for that joke and you know what, he deserved it because he’s the one who gave me the gift of laughter and comedy in the first place, and that’s no fantasy.
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