In 2007, Margie was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. A few years earlier, she had moved from the Oregon coast to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Both places shared a serenity that appealed to Margie and her taste for all things spa.r.s.e and natural. She loved Santa Fe. But soon she was plagued by backaches. Despite treatment, they grew more debilitating and eventually she was diagnosed with cancer.

I arranged for her to get an apartment at the Motion Picture Home in Los Angeles. All the kids were here. It made sense.

Mich.e.l.le and Margie never crossed paths, but they knew of each other almost as if they had met many times. Both were strong women. They shared a mutual respect.

We decorated Margie's place with new furniture and paintings, and she started intensive treatment. For a while, we thought she might pull through. But then she began to fail. At the end, she lapsed into a coma. For two weeks, the whole family sat beside her bed until she finally breathed her last breath. Quietly, I said good-bye and joined with the kids in crying, though I knew that in the end Margie was done suffering and had gone to a better place.

I was deeply affected. I had lost close friends like Richard Crenna, but Margie was the mother of my four children, someone who had been a part of my life practically since childhood, and even though we were long divorced, with her death I also lost a part of myself.

A year later, I was. .h.i.t with more heartbreaking news. Mich.e.l.le's doctor found a spot on her lung and said he wanted to watch it. That was in January; by summer, it was determined that the spot was cancer. Mich.e.l.le had surgery to remove the lower right lobe and we thought she was clean. But evidently she wasn't; a subsequent checkup showed that the cancer had metastasized. Though devastated, we vowed to fight on.

Everyone familiar with Mich.e.l.le knew that she was a fighter to the core. She'd had three or four angioplasties since her first heart attack, and even though she was not as physically fit as she had been twenty years earlier, she still had the inner strength of an Olympic athlete. I took her to the hospital every day for chemo and radiation. It was not the most pleasant of routines, but we clung to statistics and prayer.

Sadly, though, Mich.e.l.le did not respond to treatment. Several months before the end, her doctor gave me the news that we had tried our d.a.m.nedest to avoid, and then deny: My beloved companion of nearly thirty-five years was not going to make it. As full of hope and fight as she was, Mich.e.l.le was also scared. Every so often she broke down and asked me if she was going to die. I said that n.o.body knew but the doctors were doing their best-and they would not tell me if they did know. It was the hardest acting I have ever done.

As she neared the end, though, Mich.e.l.le knew. It was October 2009, and she spent that time at home talking to her friends. She spent the last week of the month in a coma. Her doctor told me that she could still hear, so I sang and talked to her until the hospice nurses who were helping in the final days told me that she was gone.

I believe the last words she heard were "I love you."

I was completely unprepared for life without Mich.e.l.le. I had read statistics showing that husbands rarely outlive their wives and I was prepared to leave her with a long to-do list, not the other way around. I mean Mich.e.l.le was a world-cla.s.s procrastinator. She postponed everything, including marrying me. You would think that the woman whose palimony suit made headlines for years would have insisted on cementing her future. was completely unprepared for life without Mich.e.l.le. I had read statistics showing that husbands rarely outlive their wives and I was prepared to leave her with a long to-do list, not the other way around. I mean Mich.e.l.le was a world-cla.s.s procrastinator. She postponed everything, including marrying me. You would think that the woman whose palimony suit made headlines for years would have insisted on cementing her future.

But no, not Mich.e.l.le.

When she died, she left me a long list of unfinished projects. Like a bookshelf she wanted installed in the bedroom (it was three-quarters finished), a gazebo she planned to put on the hill in our backyard, and the wedding we had talked about for more than thirty years.

I'd wanted to get married at home, but when that seemed impossible to plan, I'd suggested a simple civil ceremony. I could still hear myself saying, "We don't have to tell anyone," and Mich.e.l.le nodding, "Yes, that's a good idea, let's do it," and yet I could never get her to put a date on the calendar. The only thing she did not put off was her garden. She worked in the flower beds every day, and they were gorgeous all year round.

After she pa.s.sed, I told the gardeners to keep them up the way she had, and they have been in constant bloom. Right now, on this warm day in mid-July, I am looking outside from the dining-room table and I see Mich.e.l.le's garden full of vibrant color, full of life-just the way I remember her.

In the months that followed, I realized that I have not ever been without a companion looking out for me. There was my mother, then the Air Force, then Margie, and then Mich.e.l.le. I found myself fumbling through the responsibilities of daily life, the little stuff they tell you not to worry about, which, I can tell you, is much easier to do when the closet is stocked with paper goods. On the bright side, only one of my credit cards was canceled before I got a system down for paying the bills.

Gradually, I found my footing. I turned into a hot commodity among the widows on the town's party circuit who needed a designated driver. In lieu of pot roast, I received invitations to all the charity events. But old age, as my friends will attest, is not a role I am ready to a.s.sume. I recently had dinner with Don Rickles and his wife and Mike Connors and his wife, all great friends who have evolved into a kind of super senior citizenship with good humor and all their marbles. If only the same could be said of their knees. When Don and Mike walked into the restaurant using canes, I cracked, "I have to hang out with a younger crowd!"

I was only half joking. Fortunately, though, the younger crowds still want to hang out with me. ABC's. .h.i.t show Dancing with the Stars Dancing with the Stars came calling, but I turned them down. As I told them, I can learn one dance, but a new one every week, and often two new dances, would be too strenuous. I sang and hoofed my way through a couple numbers with the L.A. cast of the came calling, but I turned them down. As I told them, I can learn one dance, but a new one every week, and often two new dances, would be too strenuous. I sang and hoofed my way through a couple numbers with the L.A. cast of the Mary Poppins Mary Poppins stage show. And I began work on a one-man show that is actually four men since it includes the three guys with whom I still harmonize every week. stage show. And I began work on a one-man show that is actually four men since it includes the three guys with whom I still harmonize every week.

In the nearly ten years since Mike first approached me at Starbucks, we have made two alb.u.ms and sung at dozens of events, including one for hospital workers held in Anaheim. When I noticed that women in their sixties and up comprised most of the audience, I turned to the other guys in my group, all at least half my age, and warned them that these were my groupies.

Sure enough, after the show, the women rushed the stage, albeit slowly and politely. We had to make a run for it.

At the end of June 2010, we took the act to Washington, D.C.'s, Ford Theater and performed at a preJuly Fourth celebration for a crowd of dignitaries and politicians led by President Barack Obama and his wife, Mich.e.l.le. At a reception beforehand, Mich.e.l.le Obama gave me a great big hug and said, "Yours is my favorite television show of all time."

President Obama, standing next to her, chimed in, "She's not kidding. She won't miss it."

I asked if their daughters were going to attend the show.

"No, they have school tomorrow," Mich.e.l.le said.

"But we're singing songs from Mary Poppins," Mary Poppins," I said. I said.

"I'll make sure they see the tape," she said. "But they can't miss school."

The next night, our act went like gangbusters. When we sang "A Spoonful of Sugar," I threw in some special moves and noticed the president sliding down in his seat, laughing. Afterward, he came onstage and said, "You have to teach me some of those moves." He wanted to know how I still did it. Laughing, I said, "I don't have to get up in the morning and run the country."

Of all the presidents I have met (Johnson, Nixon, Clinton), Obama has been my favorite, though Bill Clinton was a lot of fun, too. Mich.e.l.le and I met him when Carl was honored with the nation's Mark Twain Comedy Award in 2000. All of us got to chat with him in the Oval Office. We were ushered in two at a time. When Mich.e.l.le and I walked in, I might as well have been invisible.

"At last we meet," he said to her, and that was it. The two of them spoke the whole time. I could have broken into a dance and they would not have noticed. Carl and his wife, Estelle, spent that night in the Lincoln Bedroom, and around midnight, shortly after they had gone to bed, there was a knock at the door. It was the president of the United States, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He sat down and talked to them until three A.M A.M.

It was a very different side of the president, Carl told me. He was relaxed and even smarter than he appeared normally.

I had my public and private sides, too, but they are less different than I thought. The public saw a smiling, nimble-footed performer while my family and friends were served up a more contemplative loner, a man who many said was hard to know. Even my brother once said it was "difficult to get close" to me. I am not going to dispute any of that, though for the record I will say that it was not intentional. I was not even aware of it. But I have an explanation.

Throughout my whole life I have pondered the big questions. I've thought more like a philosopher or perhaps a minister, a career I briefly considered when I felt the calling as a teen. If I was hard to know, it was because I would disappear into this abyss of questions and debate. I would read the great thinkers and try to figure out what it all meant-my life and life in general. What was the point? What was I supposed to do? Was I getting it right?

I don't remember a time in my life when I wasn't asking those questions. But since losing Mich.e.l.le and Margie, I've looked back on the years with a new perspective and considered the lessons I have learned as well as those that may have slipped past, and I've concluded that the answers I searched for were not that complicated, not nearly as much as they seemed. In fact, I may have known more than I gave myself credit for.

A few years ago, I told Esquire Esquire magazine that the Buddhists boiled it down to the essentials. They said you need three things in life: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. The message does not get any clearer. I heard Walt Disney, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Carl Reiner all say the same thing in their own way. Hope is life's essential nutrient, and love is what gives life meaning. I think you need somebody to love and take care of, and someone who loves you back. In that sense, I think the New Testament got it right. So did the Beatles. Without love, nothing has any meaning. magazine that the Buddhists boiled it down to the essentials. They said you need three things in life: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. The message does not get any clearer. I heard Walt Disney, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Carl Reiner all say the same thing in their own way. Hope is life's essential nutrient, and love is what gives life meaning. I think you need somebody to love and take care of, and someone who loves you back. In that sense, I think the New Testament got it right. So did the Beatles. Without love, nothing has any meaning.

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 pa.s.sed 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 maitre 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 in comparison to the memories I've collected. I began talking about retirement fifty years ago. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking? What was going on in my head? I can't imagine what I would have done. These days I no longer talk about stopping or even slowing down. I am happily, contentedly resigned to the fact that that won't happen, not as long as I have a say in the matter.

As you may have guessed, there is no end to this story-not yet, anyway. So instead of a tidy conclusion, I will let you in on my plans. Right now I am going to take my wirehaired terrier, Rocky (he wanted to see his name in the book), for a walk. Later I have rehearsals at an L.A.-area high school where I perform with the kids each year at a fund-raiser. They seem to like it, but not half as much as I do. Coming up are meetings for my one-man show. And then, who knows.

As always, I will see where the wind takes me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

A life story consists not of one life but of many, and after reading the last draft of this book I realized how many dear and precious friends have contributed to the richness of my life. I'm afraid it would take a stack of books five feet tall to thank everyone. But I do want to mention a few key people without whom my life would not have been as lucky. They include Phil Erickson, Byron Paul, Carl Reiner, Walt Disney, Aaron Ruben, Sol Leon, Marc Breaux and Dee Dee Wood, Danny Daniels, Chita Rivera, Mary Tyler Moore, Gower Champion, Mary Miller, Pansy Legg, and my incredible family-children and grandchildren. Special thanks must also go to my editor, John Glusman, as well as to the entire Crown team, especially Domenica Alioto, Tina Constable, Mark McCauslin, Barbara Sturman, Jennifer O'Connor, Court Clinch, and Shaye Areheart. And finally a thanks to my team on this project: my book agent, Dan Strone; my manager, Jeff Kolodny; my publicist, Bob Palmer; and my collaborator, Todd Gold. life story consists not of one life but of many, and after reading the last draft of this book I realized how many dear and precious friends have contributed to the richness of my life. I'm afraid it would take a stack of books five feet tall to thank everyone. But I do want to mention a few key people without whom my life would not have been as lucky. They include Phil Erickson, Byron Paul, Carl Reiner, Walt Disney, Aaron Ruben, Sol Leon, Marc Breaux and Dee Dee Wood, Danny Daniels, Chita Rivera, Mary Tyler Moore, Gower Champion, Mary Miller, Pansy Legg, and my incredible family-children and grandchildren. Special thanks must also go to my editor, John Glusman, as well as to the entire Crown team, especially Domenica Alioto, Tina Constable, Mark McCauslin, Barbara Sturman, Jennifer O'Connor, Court Clinch, and Shaye Areheart. And finally a thanks to my team on this project: my book agent, Dan Strone; my manager, Jeff Kolodny; my publicist, Bob Palmer; and my collaborator, Todd Gold.