Peters, and called the Forest Park Highlands amusement park: “This is Charlotte Peters. One Fourth of July, she dressed Mike and his cousins in old, torn clothes, smudged dirt on their faces, reminded them to call her Mrs. He could settle her down just by putting his hand on her arm and saying, “Come on, Charlotte.”Ĭharlotte’s best moods had the shimmer of fantasy. He was her “spittin’ opposite,” Tuffli thought, quiet and steady and serious. His father was a traveling salesman, so unfortunately, he was gone a lot.
Mike’s friend since fifth grade, Bruce Tuffli, used to knock on their door with trepidation, never sure what kind of mood Mike’s mom would be in. Having Charlotte Peters as a mother was wonderful, but it wasn’t easy. Once she was famous, she’d let Mike skip school to meet her celeb guest stars-Jerry Lewis was an instant hero, because he stammered and was funny-or try out every single kind of pen nib at Bader’s art-supply store downtown. She’d stopped school after eighth grade, so instead of realizing Mike had to do homework, she’d say, “C’mon, let’s go to a movie!” Before she went on TV, she and her sister used to whitewash a wall in the basement, paint a backdrop for whatever show was new on Broadway that year, set up folding chairs, and invite all the neighbors over for a show. She loved her fans: When she signed autographs, it never felt like quite enough, so she’d smear on extra lipstick and kiss the paper.Ĭharlotte was a little manic she’d lost her mother at age 8, and a Dickensian childhood had left her with a wild, joyous energy that could turn dark at the slightest setback. Louis television, musical, bubbly, and willing to do anything to make the crowd laugh.
In 1947, housewife Charlotte Peters entered an amateur-hour contest-and wound up doing her own show on KSD-TV for almost 23 years.
Or how it felt to hear his mother rage and sob because she couldn’t bear the daily pressure of doing a one-woman TV variety show, singing and dancing and being so charming, the housewives wouldn’t dare click the channel to a soap opera. What his scenes don’t tell you is how it felt to run home from school sobbing because kids had made fun of his stammer, and to hide, shaking, in the coat closet or behind the TV set, so they couldn’t find him. Or Mike putting on the Superman suit she made him-complete with long johns dyed blue, yellow belt, and cape-and leaping into an empty house’s basement to turn off a spigot someone left running. Just funny, endearing scenes, like his friends splashing around on the brick porch of his house in Dogtown after his mother rolled blankets to seal the stairway and filled the porch with three feet of water to improvise a pool. There’s no subtext, no finger-pointing or grudges, no maudlin analysis or rationalization. It all goes into Mike Peters’ whimsical, dyslexic, Pulitzer Prize–winning brain, and a few days later, a bell goes off, the brain whirs, and out comes a picture, drawn in heavy, sure black lines and sealed with a few clever words that stop people all over the world and make them laugh aloud. Texting, abortion, Iraq, nuclear power, fire hydrants, Romulus and Remus, agnosticism, and the pop-up button on a frozen turkey.