Buddy Hackett

et al

Laughing was one of the best parts of my childhood.

My parents were not ideologically driven.  They were not religious either, although my

father had some religious inclinations. He would have been a good rabbi, learned,

judicious and fair.  He looked the part:  white-haired, reliable.  My mother did not

even remotely resemble a rebbetzin, in her orange pedal pushers and large gold loops.

She read novel after novel, and  chain smoked all her life.

They were observant in the way that some people were  religious in the 50’s and 60’s. 

No ham or shellfish in our house.  Shrimp cocktails in restaurants, buttery lobster

rolls at the beach every summer.  Their rules were arbitrary, and interesting.  For

example: my brother and I were named for dead ancestors.  My father’s father Oscar

died a few months before my birth. They interpreted the naming tradition – if

interpretation is the right word – to mean that my name should  begin with an O.  So I

was called Olive.   My mother later explained that it took her two

days to tell my father she didn’t like Olive.  They then called me Esther because they

believed it was a  legitimate cousin to Oscar.  What in the world could that mean?

My brother’s name was more straightforward:  Sam for my mother’s father Shmuel.

As for what else they believed, justice and hard work and living a good life and humor

as a way to exist in this world.  My father who looked more Talmudic than comedic

surprising sense of humor and my mother loved to laugh.  We would watch comedians

on television, and every year in February we would go with friends and their families

to Grossingers, where live comedians were the highlight of every day.  We Jews love

to laugh – at least most of us do.  People who had no sense of humor were discussed in

our house –and I still remember who they were.  At Grossingers, we heard many

comedians live, including Jackie Mason, Jackie Vernon, Henny Youngman, and so

many others.  We loved them all, especially Buddy Hackett who would make his

audiences sick from laughing.

Hackett, born Leonard Hacker in Brooklyn, was the son of a garment worker and an

upholsterer.  He had Bells Palsy as a child, and his face and language were affected.

But that didn’t get in his way.  He could tell a story like no one else, and I became

obsessed at an early age, maybe because of Hackett, of learning how to tell a story.

But no one was ever as good as Buddy.

These difficult days when we often quote Audre Lorde’s  Joy is an act of resistance,

I often think about Buddy Hackett, and one of my favorite stories he told, about

animals and farmers and us.

I laugh when I hear it as much as I ever did.  Some good things are a constant in life.

https://www.google.com/search?q=Buddy+Hackett+duck+joke&source=hp&ei=19vRYuqSG8-y5NoPhqGLmA4&iflsig=AJiK0e8AAAAAYtHp543jvWx1U4FIF7JAosE6b094UmXM&ved=0ahUKEwiq2pCG6_v4AhVPGVkFHYbQAuMQ4dUDCAw&uact=5&oq=Buddy+Hackett+duck+joke&gs_lcp=Cgdnd3Mtd2l6EAMyBQgAEIAEOgsILhDHARDRAxCRAjoLCC4QxwEQrwEQkQI6EQguEIAEELEDEIMBEMcBENEDOg4ILhCABBCxAxDHARDRAzoLCC4QsQMQgwEQ1AI6CAgAELEDEIMBOgUILhCRAjoLCC4QgAQQsQMQgwE6CAgAEIAEELEDOgsILhCABBCxAxDUAjoICC4QgAQQsQM6DgguELEDEIMBEMcBEK8BOggIABCABBDJAzoFCAAQkgM6DgguEIAEELEDEIMBENQCOgUILhCABDoECAAQAzoICC4QgAQQ1AI6BQgAEIYDUABYgyNglyVoAHAAeACAAXCIAYQOkgEEMjEuMpgBAKABAQ&sclient=gws-wiz