But a conversation with Jonathan Winters — the comedy legend who grew up in Springfield and fascinated generations with his surreal appearances on late-night TV and his role as the backward-aging tyke Mearth on “Mork & Mindy” — makes you wish for something else.
To be able to grow old with a sense of humor.
“I have another CD and it will come out in April,” Winters said. “It’s called ‘Jonathan Winters on Final Approach.’ ”
For right now, he’s still just circling the runway.
After all, he’s providing the voice for Papa Smurf in this summer’s movie version of the ’80s cartoon.
He’s even mulling some offers to perform, but the old Marine now worries about his strength.
“It takes a lot out of you, physically, because you’ve got to be on your feet,” he explained. “You just can’t come out in the wheelchair, unless you’re George Burns, and I don’t want to do that.”
At 85, the comic who’s never serious about anything is serious about his love for the town and the state which nurtured him.
Admittedly, he carries an actual buckeye on him at all times.
Winters, if it’s not already obvious, is among the last of an era.
There’s Newhart. There’s Rickles.
And there’s him.
Those who let him run wild on the sets of their TV variety shows, which in turn cemented Winters’ reputation as the Paleozoic Robin Williams, are mostly gone.
Jack Paar.
Steve Allen.
Johnny Carson.
Gone.
George Gobel, Garry Moore, Dinah Shore, Merv Griffin, Jackie Gleason, Dean Martin.
Basically, if there’s a celebrity roast going on right now in heaven, it’s one hell of a time.
But the losses have been personal, too.
In 2009, Winters lost to cancer his wife of six decades, Dayton native Eileen Schauder.
And then just last month came the passing of former Springfield News-Sun photographer Howdy Weber, the childhood pal who became a lifelong friend.
“I’m in overtime, I know that,” Winters confessed from his home near Santa Barbara, Calif. “At 85, I’ve seen four quarters. And the first half, I had a hell of a first half. The third quarter I got banged around pretty hard. And then the fourth. And now I’m in overtime.
“The stadium is empty, there’s about three people. People are taking the tires off the cars. This is my picture of where I am. America has changed so much to me — and I love my country, I’m a patriot — but I’m in that parade.”
It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world
The thing about Winters is that, at 85, the guy who had a reputation for being absolutely wacko — the man with the documented history of mental anguish — still has all of his marbles.
So if this is the end, he’s going down with his memory and wit wholly intact.
“At my age,” he observed, “guys who were in World War II, a thousand a day are dying. And that’s kind of scary.
“But I had a hell of a roll. I’ve had a great career, a great time. Had a lot of problems — who the hell hasn’t? — and overcame almost all of them. I’ve met some great people, traveled around the world. My God. A lot of people never get across town.”
He quit Springfield High and left town at 17 to go fight in the Pacific.
He came back, enrolled in art school at the Dayton Art Institute after a year at Kenyon College and, after a stint on the radio in Dayton and on TV in Columbus, left again in 1953.
This time for New York.
“I turned to my wife,” he recalled, “and I said, ‘Eileen, I’m going to New York. What do you think? I’m leaving you behind and (son) Jay. You’ll stay in Dayton and give me a year. If I can’t make it in a year, I’ll come back and sell agricultural equipment or something.’ ”
Obviously, Winters wasn’t destined to peddle manure spreaders.
It was an era in which comics didn’t tell jokes.
They did bits.
His ability to improvise and make all sorts of sound effects made for especially good TV.
“It was a challenge, always, to improvise,” he said. “I always said I’m walkin’ the wire, but I work without a net. I’d fall a couple of times like anybody, but most of the time I’d make it across.”
His character studies — many inspired by the everyday folks back home — were perfect for the time.
“There were a number of characters growing up that were like this,” he said. “People that were from Enon or Urbana. Not so much Springfield. But the minute you went to Bellefontaine ...”
This is where a print interview with Winters doesn’t do the man justice — he’s prone to breaking into a different voice, a different persona, at every turn.
Who do you attribute a quote to, Jonathan Winters or Elwood P. Suggins?
Hollywood square
Many of Winters’ characters are, on the surface, simpletons.
“With all the craziness,” he said, “there’s a great deal of honesty there.”
They’re also reminders of a less abrasive age.
“Today in my business,” Winters said, “a guy turned to me, said, ‘What are your politics?’ I said, ‘If Christ had ridden an elephant, he’d still be alive today. He rode the donkey into Damascus and got off the donkey to help some gal and they ate the donkey.’ ‘What’s that got to do with your damn politics?’ ‘I’d pick the elephant over the donkey.’ ‘That’s pretty crazy.’
“I said, ‘Well, I park where it says handicap. I am crazy, and I make a living at it. What do you do?’ ”
With arguably the most whacked-out sense of humor, Winters managed to become a mainstream star.
He was a staple of “The Tonight Show” for decades, hosted an episode of “The Muppet Show” and starred, in cartoon form, in an episode of “Scooby-Doo.”
But regardless of whether he was living in New York or California, Springfield has always been home.
“I thought many times I wanted to come back,” he said, “especially after my wife died. I mean, outside of the weather, that’s about all you’ve got here.
“I would come back in a minute. But, at 85, my luck, I’d come out of some condominium or apartment and fall on the snow and never get up.”
Even with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Winters remains a proud Midwesterner.
“A woman turned to me,” he said. “I’ve been out here since ’64, and she’s a California gal. She said, ‘Where are you from?’ You can tell by their voice they’re idiots.”
(At this point, he begins a banter back and forth between himself and this woman from California.)
Her: “Where are you and Mrs. Winters from?”
Him: “Originally? We’re from Ohio.”
Her: “How quaint. Are you really from there? What’s it like?”
Him: “Well, I’ll tell you what it’s like. We’re tied with Virginia for the most presidents.”
Her: “You’re kidding. Which ones did you get?”
Him: “We didn’t get Jefferson. We didn’t get Washington, Madison. We got some guys. Harding. We got Gen. Grant, kicked the crap out of the Confederacy. Rutherford B. Hayes went to my college.
“We didn’t get the top guys, but we’re tied with Virginia. How did you do outside of Hoover? OK, OK. Nixon?
“One thing we didn’t do from Cleveland to Cincinnati was eat the children.”
Her: “What are we talking about?”
Him: “Oh, honey, the Donner Pass. It’s snowy and cold and you’ll eat the kids.
“That’s history.”
Contact this reporter at amcginn@coxohio.com.
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