Farewell, Wally Cleaver

And thanks for being my imperfect older brother

When I heard you died, Wally, it was like my big brother had passed. I was an only child, but from 1957 to 1963, you were my surrogate older brother. I imagined you being the brother who could rescue me from bullies and help me solve everyday problems. You had common sense and wisdom because you had been through the kid stuff. If I didn't know how to throw a baseball, talk to a girl, or keep my parents from seeing a bad report card, you would be there to advise me on how to stay out of trouble.

“Boy, Beaver, wait’ll the guys find out you were hanging around with a girl. They’ll really give you the business.”

Your suggestions probably would have gotten me into more hot water, but you always had my back, spoke for me when I couldn't get the words out, and kept me from feeling sorry for myself. You had a way of making sense and getting your points across.

Everyone liked you, Wally, and it was easy to see why. You were a good listener and never monopolized a conversation. You were either funny or right to the point, and often both — unlike your best friend, Eddie Haskell, who lied and manipulated others to get out of jams. Instead, you took responsibility and never blamed other people for your mistakes.

You were a well-groomed, natty dresser, even-tempered, funny, fair-minded, and caring. You could have taught me how to be social and fit into the world better.

Although your friends would have been annoying, called me a little squirt, and told me to scram, I would have liked to have known them anyway. Eddie Haskell, Clarence "Lumpy" Rutherford, Tooey Brown, and Chester Anderson were like the Seven Dwarfs, but only four.

And I could hear the trickster Eddie Haskell saying:

“Hey Wally, nobody’s home. Let’s call up some girls and pretend we’re talent scouts.”

My life would have been more exciting if I had an older brother. You could have told me jokes, shown me inappropriate pictures, or let me in on some juicy secrets. We could have wrestled and played football on our front lawn. And even if I did something to hurt your feelings, like lose your autographed baseball, you would never hold a grudge.

I often envied your TV family. You got to go home after school to a lovely suburban house with a smiling June Cleaver waiting for you with a snack. And Ward Cleaver, even after a hard day at the office, asked how your day went. But, even though they were well-meaning, you had a knack for keeping them at a distance and developing your own values.

Your real name was Tony Dow, and your personal life wasn't the happiest, but at least you experienced nirvana as a childhood actor. You made us only children yearn for an older brother with a varsity letter on his jacket, who attended sock hops with pretty girls and made money selling ice cream.

Indeed, what a neat brother you would have been. If only my parents had more children, I could have been as lucky as the Beaver.

© 2022 Mark Tulin

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