Douglas Lutz, native New Yorker, WWII veteran, Emmy award-winning television producer moves on at the age of 91.
Doug Lutz, devoted husband, loving father and grandfather passed away on September 26 after leading what anyone would call one helluva an interesting life.
A native New Yorker, Doug was born in Brooklyn, and lived his entire life in New York City’s boroughs with the exception of Staten Island. For a short time he even lived in New Jersey.
A child of the early 20th century, Doug mastered street games like Kick the Can and Johnny on a Pony and played tackle football on sand lots with the Glen Morris Bonecrushers. During the depression, as a child he picked up coal scatterings from the local railroad tracks to help heat the home and stole fennel bulbs from local Bronx farms so his family would have something to eat. That or grab a few oysters from the oyster carts of yesteryear. Anything to put food on the table.
A witness to New York’s’ growth, Doug called cobblestones “Belgian paving blocks”, remembered paying a nickel to see a movie and habitually referred to the subway as the BMT and IRT.
A veteran, Doug joined the Navy in 1943 as a Seabee and built airstrips and roads in support of the fight through the Philippines, Layte Gulf, the Solomon Islands and elsewhere in the South Pacific. Amazingly, in a sign of the urgency of a nation at war, he entered and exited the Navy never knowing how to swim. Doug proudly wore his Seabee insignia ball cap right until the end and he was quite proud of his service. But it’s his tales of those sweltering days in the South Pacific, tales you won’t find in any history book, that we remember most.
A consummate entertainer, Doug embarked upon a career in show business while still in the Navy, organizing productions for the troops. Upon returning home, he started in acting, but wound up directing and producing, first for the stage and then in the early days of TV (live TV, he always reminded us). He would go on to work for each of the big three networks, rubbing elbows with the stars of the day and producing a wide variety of TV “entertainment variety shows”, which he loved. He later won two Emmys for his documentary work.
An urban pioneer, Doug lived in the West Village (Jane Street) and Chelsea before it was cool to do so. He also did “loft-living” before it was a thing, renting a place on Broadway half a block north of Union Square in the mid-60s. It was an area so remote at the time that cabs sometimes refused to take him there after dark.
A builder, Doug constructed virtually every wall, shelf, desk and cabinet in his home using many of his father’s tools, including hand saws. No power tools here. He was also a notorious recycler of building materials, saving every scrap of wood for future use and even pounding bent nails straight again for re-use, a holdover from his Depression days when even the cost of a single nail was something to be considered. Doug’s pride in each of his building projects was evident, but for some reason he never got to the painting stage. We teased him about it but we got used to the “unpainted” look.
A gamer before there were gamers, Doug loved poker. He’d literally marvel at the feel of a new deck of cards or a neat stack of chips. But heaven help you if you brought some “new and fancy” game to the table like Chicago or Texas Hold ‘Em. Doug strictly played Draw or Stud. And no fancy wild cards either; only deuces wild.
A nostalgic, Doug always had an ear for the music of his youth, post-war America and the jazz giants. Anything by Frank, Stan, Nat, Glen, Louis, Dave, John or Gerry or any of the giants would always elicit a smile and perhaps a crooned verse or two. Maybe even a little ballroom shuffle. Doug wasn’t a great dancer, but the entertainer in him loved it and he was seen doing soft-shoe routines in the halls of his retirement home just a few weeks before his passing.
A 5 handicap in his mind, but a 20 on the card, Doug loved the game of golf. Dragging around his family, he visited course after course, sometimes to play, other times just to look. He wrote dozens of published articles about the sport and even wrote one of the early guide books to all the courses in the NYC area. He would personally teach three sons and one wife to play the game with tips they still use on the course today, none more important than respect for a game played honestly…that and the fact that if you stick a bag of oatmeal cookies in your golf bag on a hot day, they’ll be nice and chewy by the turn.
A caring man, Doug worked as hard at his charity work as he did his day job, perhaps even harder. For decades, he was a mainstay at the Veterans Bedside Network, an organization that provides entertainment to bed-ridden veterans. He served as president of that group for many, many years, but was at his best in his tux emceeing the annual VBN ball which (surprise surprise) always took the form of a TV variety show. And he was not above stuffing his three sons into tuxes and turning them into stage hands. “The magician needs a banana! Someone get a banana!”
A home and hearth kinda guy, Doug was the biggest fan of the Christmas season you will ever know. Ever little detail of that time of year brought him joy. He seemingly knew the lyrics to every carol and could tell you the origin of every ornament in the box. “I had that one before I had your mother,” he’d say each year with a wink. But as traditional as he was, he wasn’t afraid to break the mold: one year, instead of sticking the tree in a stand, he hung it from the ceiling with rope and pulley, an old fire bucket suspended beneath to hold the water.
An amateur artist and sculptor, Doug filled his home with various creations all crafted from reclaimed parts and pieces. There was a life-sized, monocled man made out of 2x4s reading the daily racing form and a colorful, blinking maze of electrical wires dubbed “Code Violation”. Old beer can pull-tabs were featured on a black and white piece that was Doug’s commentary on racism. And a “Shy Moose” still hangs on our wall, a natural image Doug saw within an old wooden plank that he simply topped with a twisted curtain rod for antlers.
A comic at heart, Doug could make anyone laugh, often uncontrollably. We’re talking side-splitting, fall out of your chair, run to the bathroom laughing. We’re talking 5, 10 or even 20 minutes bouts of wheezing, red-faced irrepressible laughter. Be it a small comment, an improv routine, an off-color reference or an elaborate prank years in the making, eventually, when you were with Doug, you were going to hurt yourself laughing.
And amidst all the things Doug was—New Yorker, veteran, entertainer, builder, gamer, golfer, artist and family man—that’s what we, his family, remember most: the laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Right to very end. Right up to when we stuck a banana in his coffin so he’d have a prop to take on to his next routine.
Dementia is a cruel tormentor. Time passes innocently, but exacts a painful price. But neither of these villains stands a chance against strong family bonds and the memories a good person leaves with others when they move on. And they crumble in the face of the love Doug showed for his family his whole life and the love they still bear towards him. After all, laughter and love, who can ask for more?
Doug is survived by three sons, Tim, Jeff and Brad; three daughters-in-law, Ann Marie, Marsha and Amy; and six grandchildren: Gabriella, Mario, Cori, Kalin, Austin and Caden.
But most important to Doug was his wife of 49 years. Mary stood by Doug through all the ups and downs life brings. She cared for him as age and illness began to take a toll and found him excellent care when she could no longer bear the burden alone. And she was by his side week after week right up until he passed. Their love was evident to all, a lifelong love that inspired those around them. Doug may be gone, but love like that can never be truly extinguished. And certainly a life so interesting can never truly end.
In memory of Doug, the family has asked that donations be made in his name to the Lillian Booth Actors Home, 155-175 West Hudson Avenue, Englewood, NJ 07631, the place that took such good care of him in his waning years.
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