by Tim Conway
She arrived at the station and, while awaiting her call to the Douglas show, she watched Ernie’s Place on a monitor. She thought we were hilarious. She dropped into our studio, introduced herself, and asked if we had tapes of our show. We screened a few for her. She really liked them and asked if she could take a few back to Hollywood to show to her friend Steve Allen. We gave her a couple of reels and off she went. Steve Allen was one of the kings of television, and neither of us ever expected anything to come of it. Surprise, a couple of weeks later someone from The Steve Allen Plymouth Show called and asked if I would come out to Hollywood and appear on the program. They didn’t mention Ernie. I’d be on my own. I told Ernie, and he was happy for me. I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it but I’d think about it. He told me I was nuts. It wasn’t an easy decision for me to make, though. It meant leaving Cleveland for three weeks and more important, I’d be breaking up the team. I made up my mind and told Ernie I wasn’t going to Hollywood. He told me I was. And to make sure of it, he got the station manager to say that he’d fire me if I didn’t. There was nothing I could do but go. I promised Ernie that if it worked out, I’d find a way to get him out there, too. The truth is my departure was the beginning of the end of our WJW partnership but not our friendship. And, I’m happy to say that Ernie Anderson went on to achieve considerable fame in television.
Ernie’s rise began in the mid-1950s when Universal Pictures released their library of classic horror films, Dracula, Frankenstein, The Wolfman, etc., from the 1930s and 1940s. The horror TV shows became an instant national phenomenon as television stations around the country eagerly licensed the package for their local “shock theatre” programs. John Zacherle at Philadelphia’s WCAU-TV may have been the country’s first “shock” host. He called himself Roland, wore ghoulish makeup, dressed in black, and introduced the films with quips. Later, he went to New York where, as Zacherley, he hosted Shock Theatre on Channel 7, the ABC affiliate. WJW got the films, and the station manager assigned Ernie to air them friday evenings on Shock Theater. Ernie, calling himself Ghoulardi, wore a fright wig, a moustache and Van Dyke beard, and a butcher’s white coat. Ghoulardi presented the films, commented on them, inserted himself into them, and discussed a wide range of subjects such as the benefits of smoking pot. He claimed to be a Polish worker at the Two Mile Crib. (That’s the place where all the sewage from Cleveland was released into Lake Erie.) He also claimed to live in Parma, the Polish section of Cleveland. Every time Ghoulardi said Parma, a polka would play and he’d break into a dance. The real Parma residents were not amused and petitioned to get Ernie off the air. Naturally, this only increased his show’s popularity. At one Cleveland Orchestra performance in Severance Hall, the guest conductor gave a little speech in which he told the audience he was from Parma, Italy. Immediately, the audience burst out singing Ghoulardi’s polka theme. The conductor didn’t know what was going on, but the folks from Parma who were at the concert sure did. Another petition was filed. Try as they might they could never get enough signatures to stop Ernie.
Ghoulardi also hosted Saturday afternoon’s Masterpiece Theatre; Laurel, Ghoulardi and Hardy, a weekday children’s program; and Parma Place, a parody of the popular soap opera, Peyton Place, which was yet another shot at Cleveland’s Polish community. The funny thing is Ernie was about as unprejudiced a person as you can get. He liked everybody unless they proved to be unlikeable but it had nothing to do with ethnicity or race. Ernie was simply outspoken and about as un-PC as you could get. He didn’t pull his punches; he socked it to his audience and, as a result, had plenty of detractors. Fortunately, he had more supporters. After I permanently settled in Los Angeles, I’d return periodically to Cleveland and appear on Ernie’s show. We’d revive some of our old sketches and had a swell time doing it. I even duked it out with Ghoulardi on a few occasions.
In 1966, I urged Ernie join me in Los Angeles and he finally did. I was appearing on The Carol Burnett Show and arranged for him to get some television exposure. Carol always began her show with an unrehearsed exchange with members of the audience. She’d take questions and then, before the first sketch, she’d introduce any celebrities who happened to be there. I had a chat with my darling Carol and she agreed to go along with a little plan I’d hatched. If you watch The Carol Burnett Show DVDs, you’ll notice there are a number of episodes where, during her opening appearance, she calls out, “And, look who’s here with us tonight, Ernie Anderson!” At that, Ernie would leap to his feet and wave. Nobody knew who he was, but the applause was deafening. I don’t know if it had a direct bearing on these appearances, but when Lyle Waggoner, the announcer, left the show, Ernie replaced him.
One of Ernie’s first legitimate acting jobs was on a TV show of mine called Rango. He appeared on the first two episodes. Wait, maybe there only were two episodes. We also worked up a comedy act that we performed on a television variety show and we released two comedy albums. Did I say we didn’t work together professionally after I moved to California? I stand corrected.
In time, Ernie dropped all the front-of-camera work and went behind the scenes. He was the ultimate in announcing, and eventually became one of the most renowned voices in broadcasting. He was called the Voice of ABC and introduced the phrase “Eyewitness News . . . starts . . . now.” And it was Ernie who gave the particular spin to the middle word when announcing The Looove Boat. His voice was all over TV, and you know what, it still is. He passed away in 1997, but to this very day radio stations still license his voice for promotions and pronouncements. Think of it, when you hear, “Eyewitness News . . . starts . . . now.” You’re listening to Ernie Anderson.
Forgive the detour but I really wanted you to know a little something about my pal, a true friend, and a genuinely funny man. Okay, back to my future. In September of 1960, Tom Conway was on his way to Hollywood . . .
Hi Ho Steverino
Sometimes I get a little sad when I think about people like Ernie Anderson who were important in the early days of television and are now just about forgotten. Actually, most performers suffer a similar fate. Heck, I’m going to suffer it, too. (Right now I’m holding on by my thumbs thanks to YouTube. Wait. And thanks to Carol Burnett, whose timely DVD re-releases of her shows keep us participants before the public eye.) Still, it gets to me that, except when Public Television has a tribute of some sort, icons like Steve Allen barely rate a blip on the radar screen of today’s viewers.
What a career Steve had. For starters, he was the original host of The Tonight Show, which began on NBC in 1954 and is still going with Jay Leno at the helm. Steve pioneered the format for talk shows in general—things like the opening monologue, audience participation, comedy sketches, celebrity guests, and the resident band. If you watch late-night talk shows you’ll notice nothing much has changed from his original format. Steve Allen was my kind of guy. I stayed up five nights a week for the hour-and-forty-five-minute Tonight Show. I loved the talent he showcased, people like Don Knotts, Louie Nye, Tom Poston, Jonathan Winters, Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, Bill Dana, and Pat Harrington. Steve himself was a true renaissance man, a comedian, a writer, a musician, a composer, and an actor. No kidding, he was the brightest man I ever met. I told him that, adding also that I was proud of being the dumbest person in show business. He agreed. By the time I got to appear on Steve’s show, he’d already been through a landmark battle in the television ratings wars. His Tonight Show was such a success NBC decided to use him to bring down one of the most popular TV shows of the day. The Ed Sullivan Show on CBS had locked in its 8 to 9 P.M. Sunday evening time period for eight years. The Steve Allen Show premiered on June 24, 1956, directly opposite Sullivan. Steve continued to do both his shows till 1957 when NBC took him off The Tonight Show so he could put all his efforts into Sunday night. While Steve did better than the rest, Sullivan remained invincible. In 1958, The Steve Allen Plymouth Show was moved to Wednesday, then cancelled in 1960. In 1961, he went over to ABC but The New Steve Allen Show was droppe
d after fourteen weeks. His big hosting days were over, but Steve continued to appear on television in various other shows. My first national television appearances were on The Steve Allen Plymouth Show.
I arrived in Hollywood armed with a portfolio of my material and, thanks to Rose Marie, met with Steve and his writers in a conference room just like the one at WJW, only this room was the size of a football field. We sat around a table that a Piper Cub could have landed on. A staff of muckety-muck writers surrounded me. One of them handed me a piece of paper.
“We think this sketch will work for you,” he said, disdainfully.
I read it, thought about it, and said, “This is okay, but why don’t I do something that I’ve written.”
The look on their faces was something to see.
“You want to do something you’ve written?” one of them said to me, drawing out each word with special emphasis on “you” and “you’ve.”
I knew what he really wanted to say, and he probably would have said it, too, but Steve stepped in.
“Wait a minute, let’s see what Tom has to show us before we make any decisions.”
I fished around in my briefcase (a shopping bag), found a routine that I thought would do the trick, and handed it to Steve. He took a look and liked it, and that was that, I would do my own material on his show. I know I infuriated the writers. Writers can be very territorial; I am when it comes to what I’m going to perform. It’s not that I’m snotty or think that I know more than anybody else. Far from it. But I sure know what works for me better than anybody else. Eventually, the writers calmed down.
It was Steve Allen who did away with “Tom” Conway. We were going over a sketch when Steve asked if I’d ever considered changing my name. A little puzzled as to what he was getting at, I told him that I’d already done that when l was a kid. Steve absorbed that information, agreed that Tom was a better choice than Toma, but still thought it was time for another change.
“The reason I’m bringing it up is there’s an actor out here named Tom Conway,” Steve explained. “He’s George Sanders’s brother and has been playing The Falcon in movies. I honestly think he’s well known enough for it to interfere with your career. It’s confusing to have two performers with the same name.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I’ve never liked the name Tom that much. I don’t mind changing it, but what should I call myself?”
“Why don’t you just dot the o, and be Tim,” said Steve.
His suggestion was music to my ears. “Tim” was my favorite name, no kidding. As for the confusion, Steve was referring to the possibility of residual checks getting sent to the wrong person. When I went to AFTRA to register as Tim Conway, I told the union official that I’d consider holding on to the Tom if Sanders’s brother Tom Conway were doing better than Tim Conway. Funny, he didn’t buy it. So, I became Tim Conway. I never legally changed my name and nobody (except a few old Ohio friends) calls me Tom anymore.
The first night I was on with Steve he introduced two other acts, The Smothers Brothers and Jim Nabors. I was in very good company. For my debut, I brought along one of the characters I’d created on Ernie’s Place.
“Please welcome Dag Herferd,” announced Steve as I walked out looking ill at ease. I took a seat next to Steve’s desk.
“Now, what exactly do you do, Mr. Herferd?” asked Steve.
“Right now I’m in charge of transportation for the Cleveland Indians for the away games.”
“Oh,” replied Steve,” that’s a pretty big responsibility. How many men are involved?”
“Well,” I explained, “it can vary, and that’s what makes it tricky. For example there were forty-one players going to a Detroit game last week, and the bus only seats forty so I had to hire two buses.”
“Yes,” said Steve, “I can understand that.”
“Yep,” I continued, “I had forty guys in one bus and one guy in the other.”
You have to understand I’m saying this nonsense with absolute sincerity. My answer got to Steve. He doubled over laughing. He had this high-pitched squeal that was infectious. Soon everybody was laughing, except Dag. I pride myself on my ability to stay in control and, for the most part, I do. Occasionally, I’ve broken. Anyway, that night was one of those magic times, everything went right. We got great reviews. I did two other shows and they were equally successful. Who knows what might have happened if The Steve Allen Plymouth Show had not been cancelled. Probably the same thing would have happened as happened. And here’s what happened.
I returned to Cleveland and not long after received a call from someone with The New Steve Allen Show asking me if I wanted to become a regular cast member. I was flabbergasted and honored but I couldn’t commute from Cleveland, which meant I had to think about moving to Los Angeles. However, it wasn’t just a question of my leaving Cleveland, there was someone else to be considered. I guess it’s about as good a time as any to inform you that I was now a married man. Not only that, my wife was baking our first cookie.
Allow me to backtrack.
Married with Children
When I was in college, I had a core group of friends that included a few girls and a few guys. We kids did everything together—we skied, we went boating, we took trips, we went to movies, and participated in a lot of activities. I dated a few girls and by senior year I was serious about one of them. She was in our little group, and to protect the innocent let’s call her Angie. Around this time, I got really interested in religion, especially Catholicism. Angie was a practicing Catholic and influenced me to the point where I decided to convert from sort-of Greek Orthodoxy to the Roman stuff. (After falling out of my baptismal manger, I hadn’t been too involved with organized religion. In that respect I hadn’t fallen too far from the tree, either. Dan was the most lapsed Catholic you can imagine; Sophia wasn’t that interested in Orthodoxy, either. The most she did was get us to church on a rare Sunday and for the Big Two: Christmas and Easter. Yet, despite their seeming indifference, both my parents lived by The Golden Rule. That’s the way I was raised. And, that’s the way I tried to raise my children.) Angie took me around to her church and introduced me to the priest. I liked the guy and was delighted to have him as a counselor and guide.
When the time came for the big switch, I went to the church with Angie and Mary Anne Dalton, another member of the Bowling Green gang. We needed a witness and Mary Anne volunteered. The priest got ready to perform the rites but before he began, he asked me a number of questions. I gave all the right answers until he posed one that threw me.
“Who will be godmother to you?”
Godmother? Apparently I had overlooked a necessary component of the ceremony. At a loss to name someone I blurted out, “How about Angie?”
“ ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,” replied the priest.
“Why?” I protested, “I’d love to have her as my godmother, she’s a wonderful person. And by the way, she had a lot to do with my converting.”
“Yes, Tom, but there’s a concern here,” said the priest. “You and Angie are dating and it’s entirely possible that some time in the future you might want to get married. In which case, you’d be marrying your godmother.”
“But, who am I going to get to stand in for me at the last minute?” I asked.
The priest looked at me, then at Angie, and finally, at Mary Anne.
“Would you stand in for Tom?” he asked her.
“Sure,” she answered. And that’s how Mary Anne Dalton became my godmother.
Like I said, Mary Anne was part of our little group in college, and, while we spent time together, I’m not sure that we exactly dated. Anyway, I always enjoyed being with her and I do remember that we laughed a lot, and, don’t forget, by the time we graduated, she was my godmother. Meanwhile my romance with Angie petered out, and more and more, I was hanging out with Mary Anne. After graduation, both of us went into the military. While I was defending Seattle (did a good job of it, too, no invasions to s
peak of), Mary Anne joined the Army Special Services and was stationed in Germany. We lost track of each other. We found each other again after our military service was over. By then Mary Anne was living in Windsor, Canada, right across the river from Detroit where her family lived. She was teaching Phys Ed classes. We got together a few times on ski weekends and talked on the phone quite a bit. Meanwhile, I was taking a lot of heat from friends and colleagues. Everyone got on the Tom Conway-needs-a-wife bandwagon. I was frightened; people kept pushing me to get married like it was a compulsory course you had to take. I was desperate. One day I picked up the phone and called Mary Anne.
“Hello,” I said, “it’s Tom. Wanna get married?”
“Let me think about it,” she told me.
“Hey, we ski together, it’s practically the same thing as being married. And,” I crowed, “look what I have to offer. Nothing.”
I should mention that Mary Anne was seeing another guy, and I think she was doing a lot of assessing in her mind whether or not I would be the chosen one. I wouldn’t let her off the hook. I wore her down until she finally said yes. Actually, she may have said okay, which is a little less positive than a good old-fashioned yes. Whatever.
And so, on May 27, 1961, I did exactly what the priest had feared, I wed my godmother. We were married in Detroit where her father was an undertaker. (I used to wonder why she put a little lipstick and rouge on me at night; it must have been her upbringing.) We had a lot of fun together for a while, and during our seventeen-year marriage we made a lot of cookies—six to be exact.