Free Keep Moving by Dick Van Dyke

speaking on Sundays. My primary topic was the hypocrisy of people who were pious only one day a week. “What about the other six days?” I used to ask.
    Though popular, my turn as a speaker didn’t last long—my heart wasn’t in it.
    And then I lost my taste for organized religion. After the Watts Riots, race, and, more specifically, racism within the Los Angeles Police Department made it to the top of the news, similar to what has happened recently in Baltimore, Ferguson, and Cleveland, a number of us at our church felt like we should do something to try to heal the city and understand the issues. Someone suggested inviting a Baptist choir from Watts to our church. I thought that was a great idea. What better place than a church to bring people together? What better place to celebrate differences and discover similarities? And how perfect to do that with music?
    But in a meeting of the church elders several people objected. They did not want any black people in the church. I was disgusted. I left that meeting, and that was my last Sunday in any church.
    I wasn’t quite done with religion, though. I began attending Jewish services with the Congregation Beth Ohr, whose members met in a Unitarian church in Studio City. Anybody was welcome. I was impressed with their rabbi, a man named Michael Roth. He would speak for thirty minutes, and then everybody went in anotherroom, had coffee and cake, and discussed the service. They questioned ideas, debated them, related them to the real world, and talked about how the age-old themes might be applied to our lives. To me, that felt more like it.
    I attended services for about six months and then lost touch with the rabbi until not too long ago when our paths happened to cross. He was in his nineties.
    “What do you do now?” I asked.
    “I’m still learning,” he said. “Still reading and learning.”

Old Things—And What Really Matters Old Things—And What Really Matters

    No one was more surprised than me to hear that the striped satin blazer I wore in the “Jolly Holiday” scene in Mary Poppins, the one where Bert the chimney sweep dances with animated penguins, sold at auction. According to reports, a collector of movie memorabilia paid over $60,000 for it. The label still had my name on it. As far as I know, that was the second time the jacket was auctioned, and my reaction this time was the same as the last time—wow!
    Around the same time, my wife bought a “Dick Van Dyke” signature cardigan that was manufactured at the height of The Dick Van Dyke Show in the early 1960s. She’s constantly finding rare photos and merchandise of mine on the Internet, and this signature sweater was the latest. She purchased it for $15 and gave it to me as a birthday present. I was pleased to see that the graysweater had held up over the years. It had a small fray on one of the sleeves; otherwise all of its original buttons were intact, and it looked pretty good—kind of like me, I suppose.
    It’s a funny thing, though, about things. I have never felt an attachment to material things. Not old things. Not new things. Not anything. Once I was able to afford sports cars, I went through my share. I owned Corvettes, Jaguars, an Avanti, and even an Excalibur. I enjoyed nice cars. But I didn’t “collect” them or anything else. Not stamps or coins or baseball cards. Not ashtrays, matches, or postcards. Not paintings, records, or movies. Not favorite old T-shirts. And obviously not jackets, costumes, or sweaters with my name on the label.
    I once read that collecting things is related to anxiety. I am not an anxious person. Is there a connection? I don’t worry. I don’t get nervous. I can’t remember the last time something wound me up. The shelves in my home do not boast anything I would show off to visitors. My parents did not collect anything either. Of course, they didn’t have any money. Even if they had been well off, I don’t think they would have bothered. They