Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny by Marlo Thomas Page A
Authors: Marlo Thomas
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times, one after each “Lord, I am not worthy.”
The service began, and while all of the other girls were focused on the Mass as they should have been, Moya and I waited excitedly for the moment when Father would reach for the bells—which were always placed directly to his right. When the time finally came, we watched his hand reaching in vain, fumbling for the missing bells.
And then he did something that made us choke to keep from laughing. He called out in a loud voice, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.” We couldn’t believe it. And then again, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.” And then a third time, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.”
The two thirteen-year-old girls doubled over in the back row were promptly suspended.
My father was summoned to a conference—“about your daughter”—with Reverend Mother Emmanuel. Unfortunately, I was invited, too. I was terrified of Reverend Mother. She was tough, no-nonsense. Her face squeezed by her binding, starched white habit, she looked out at you with severe green eyes.
On this particular day, that look was aimed at Mr. Thomas, as she told him in very strong words what a very bad girl I had been. She then rose proudly, determinedly, to her feet and pronounced her final sentence—the death sentence for Mr. Thomas’s daughter.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Thomas, that Margaret does not have the poise for a Marymount girl.”
Then my father rose. “I know, Reverend Mother,” he said humbly. “That’s why I’ve given her to you.”
Check. I could see a glint in those severe green eyes. Reverend Mother knew she had met her match.
When we got in the car to drive home, I told my father how brilliant he was, and laughed at how he had checkmated Reverend Mother. But Dad didn’t smile back. He looked at me sternly.
“I don’t ever want to have to face off with that woman again,” he said. “And I don’t ever want to hear that you have done something unfitting at a Mass. Mass is not the place for jokes.”
I felt awful. He was disappointed in me. We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, “I was good though, wasn’t I?” Then we laughed. It was good to have a dad on your side.
DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .
A Catholic teenage boy goes to confession, and confesses to a night
of mortal sinning with a girl. The priest tells him that he can’t be forgiven unless he reveals who the girl is.
“I promised not to tell anyone!” he says.
“Was it Mary Patricia, the butcher’s daughter?” the priest asks.
“No,” the boy says, “and I said I wouldn’t tell.”
“Was it Mary Elizabeth, the printer’s daughter?”
“No, and I still won’t tell!”
“Was it Mary Francis, the baker’s daughter?”
“No!” says the boy.
“Well, son,” says the priest, “say six Hail Marys
and ask God’s forgiveness.”
Outside, the boy’s friends ask him how it went.
“It went great,” he says. “I got six Hail Marys and three good leads.”
Chapter 17
Harry and the Parakeet
T here’s an old joke that Harry Crane loved to tell us when we were kids.
A woman goes into a drugstore. She walks up to the salesman—an uptight, condescending sort—and asks him if they have any talcum powder. The salesman walks prissily in front of her and says, “Walk this way, madam.” And the woman says, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need the talcum powder.”
Terre, Tony and I loved that joke. The poor maître d’ or hostess who led us into practically any dining room across America with the words “Walk this way” was always followed by giggles of laughter—and not just our giggles, but the giggles of the great instigator himself, Dad.
When I was just a little thing, I’d be in an elevator with my father, and I’d snuggle close to him.
“Please, madam,” he’d say in a loud voice. “I’m a married man.” Everyone in the elevator would laugh. The laughter made the world seem small and friendly.
Harry Crane was a wonderful comedy writer who worked with
The service began, and while all of the other girls were focused on the Mass as they should have been, Moya and I waited excitedly for the moment when Father would reach for the bells—which were always placed directly to his right. When the time finally came, we watched his hand reaching in vain, fumbling for the missing bells.
And then he did something that made us choke to keep from laughing. He called out in a loud voice, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.” We couldn’t believe it. And then again, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.” And then a third time, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.”
The two thirteen-year-old girls doubled over in the back row were promptly suspended.
My father was summoned to a conference—“about your daughter”—with Reverend Mother Emmanuel. Unfortunately, I was invited, too. I was terrified of Reverend Mother. She was tough, no-nonsense. Her face squeezed by her binding, starched white habit, she looked out at you with severe green eyes.
On this particular day, that look was aimed at Mr. Thomas, as she told him in very strong words what a very bad girl I had been. She then rose proudly, determinedly, to her feet and pronounced her final sentence—the death sentence for Mr. Thomas’s daughter.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Thomas, that Margaret does not have the poise for a Marymount girl.”
Then my father rose. “I know, Reverend Mother,” he said humbly. “That’s why I’ve given her to you.”
Check. I could see a glint in those severe green eyes. Reverend Mother knew she had met her match.
When we got in the car to drive home, I told my father how brilliant he was, and laughed at how he had checkmated Reverend Mother. But Dad didn’t smile back. He looked at me sternly.
“I don’t ever want to have to face off with that woman again,” he said. “And I don’t ever want to hear that you have done something unfitting at a Mass. Mass is not the place for jokes.”
I felt awful. He was disappointed in me. We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, “I was good though, wasn’t I?” Then we laughed. It was good to have a dad on your side.
DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .
A Catholic teenage boy goes to confession, and confesses to a night
of mortal sinning with a girl. The priest tells him that he can’t be forgiven unless he reveals who the girl is.
“I promised not to tell anyone!” he says.
“Was it Mary Patricia, the butcher’s daughter?” the priest asks.
“No,” the boy says, “and I said I wouldn’t tell.”
“Was it Mary Elizabeth, the printer’s daughter?”
“No, and I still won’t tell!”
“Was it Mary Francis, the baker’s daughter?”
“No!” says the boy.
“Well, son,” says the priest, “say six Hail Marys
and ask God’s forgiveness.”
Outside, the boy’s friends ask him how it went.
“It went great,” he says. “I got six Hail Marys and three good leads.”
Chapter 17
Harry and the Parakeet
T here’s an old joke that Harry Crane loved to tell us when we were kids.
A woman goes into a drugstore. She walks up to the salesman—an uptight, condescending sort—and asks him if they have any talcum powder. The salesman walks prissily in front of her and says, “Walk this way, madam.” And the woman says, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need the talcum powder.”
Terre, Tony and I loved that joke. The poor maître d’ or hostess who led us into practically any dining room across America with the words “Walk this way” was always followed by giggles of laughter—and not just our giggles, but the giggles of the great instigator himself, Dad.
When I was just a little thing, I’d be in an elevator with my father, and I’d snuggle close to him.
“Please, madam,” he’d say in a loud voice. “I’m a married man.” Everyone in the elevator would laugh. The laughter made the world seem small and friendly.
Harry Crane was a wonderful comedy writer who worked with
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