Bernie Herman thought laughter could heal, so he went to clown school

After another few weeks in physical rehab, Bernie Herman and one of his daughters went over his setlist.

In his 90s, he was mostly blind from macular degeneration and hard of hearing from being in his 90s. But he knew his jokes were good, and he knew his audience needed them.

Susan Lylis or Beth Herman sat behind their dad in his wheelchair, and when the time was right, they’d whisper a prompt.

“The little boy in the church…”

“The parrot who goes into the bar...”

Mr. Herman took it from there, and soon, the room filled with laughter. It worked every time. He knew people faced a lot of challenges there, in the assisted living facility, and later, in the nursing home, Lylis said.

So he came prepared.

Mr. Herman, of Clearwater, died at 95 of an infection.

You’ll find three of his jokes here. They’re best read with a New England accent in mind.

“The babies and the lantern…”

A woman went into labor late at night in a tiny Irish village without electricity. The doctor was fetched from town and got to work, asking the husband to kneel down and hold the lantern very close to his wife. The husband had been very nervous and had been drinking to calm his nerves.

In a few minutes, the first baby arrived.

"It's a boy!" the doctor exclaimed.

The husband started to jump for joy, withdrawing the lantern as he stood up to celebrate.

"Wait!" the doctor exclaimed. "Bring back the light. There seems to be another coming."

The husband returned and held the lantern where he had before. A second baby was born -- a girl. Again, the husband started to jump up to celebrate, whereby the doctor pulled him back down.

"I think there's one more," the doctor said. "Keep the lantern here."

The third baby was born, another boy.

Again, the husband rose, withdrawing the lantern, this time shaking his head in total disbelief.

“Doc,” he said finally. “Do you think the light’s attracting them?!”

Mr. Herman grew up in New Bedford, Mass., and served in the Army. He married Florence Settlow, who lived 20 minutes away in Fall River, and moved to the mill town where her father owned a men’s clothing factory. Mr. Herman worked as a lawyer there. The couple had two daughters.

His practice revolved around the construction industry, so when the recession hit in the early 1970s, his client list shrunk.

“And he had to reinvent himself,” said Beth Herman, his eldest daughter.

The family moved to Cape Cod, where they’d vacationed for years. Herman remembers her dad would sometimes say that in his work, clients were never happy with the results. It seemed like it was always something. In his 50s, he studied the work of Norman Cousins, an author who popularized the idea that laughter is good medicine.

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Mr. Herman agreed. So, in his late 60s, he went to clown school for a week. When he got back, his wife, who owned her own company and worked in tourism, helped him book his first gig.

Mr. Herman spent the next 20 years visiting hospitals, schools and nursing homes and holding seminars for medical professionals on the healing power of humor.

“The plane and the parachute…”

A first-time military jumper stood nervously inside a plane, listening to instructions from the jump master about what was going to happen on his first jump.

"There's nothing to worry about," the jump master explained. "When you exit the plane, after a few minutes, just pull on the yellow tab to the left and your chute will open."

The student jumper remained nervous. "But what if it doesn't?" he asked.

"That's easy. Just pull on the red tab to the right. It's fail-proof. And, when you're on the ground, a truck will be waiting to bring you back to the base."

The student nodded and on cue, jumped out of the plane. In a few minutes, he pulled on the yellow tab. The chute didn't open. Trying not to panic, he quickly pulled on the red tab. The chute still failed to open.

“Oh, that’s just great,” he grumbled to himself. “And I’ll bet the truck won’t be there, either.”

In 2009, Mr. Herman and his wife moved to Clearwater after years of snowbirding. Soon after, Mr. Herman and his sense of humor made headlines here.

A bank robber looking for a getaway car put a gun in Mr. Herman’s face and demanded his keys, according to a 2009 story in the Tampa Bay Times. Mr. Herman told the reporter that, for a moment, he thought of saying, “Would you take a credit card?”

Mr. Herman kept dispensing laughter even when he was the patient. In 2015, he tripped and broke his neck in two places, along with several ribs.

Doctors told his daughters to make end-of-life plans, but Mr. Herman fought his way back.

A year-and-a-half later, he fell and broke his neck a second time.

He finally stayed put in a wheelchair, but he never stopped telling jokes.

“St. Peter…”

Two doctors pass away at the same time, whereupon they are greeted at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter. He asks the first doctor, "What kind of medicine did you practice and what did you do for others during your time on earth?"

The first doctor replies, "I was a renowned cardiologist and like to think I saved hundreds of lives."

St. Peter replies, "That's great. Come right in. Welcome to heaven."

He then asks the second doctor the same question, "What kind of medicine did you practice and what did you do for others during your time on earth?"

“Well,” the second doctor replies, “I also practiced medicine, but then I went to work as CEO for a large HMO.”

“Okay,” St. Peter says, “you can come in, but you can only stay three days.”

Senior news researcher Caryn Baird contributed to this report. Want to know more about Mr. Herman? Head over to Instagram and @werememberthem and see one way her family will remember her. Know someone who has recently died whom we should write about? Send suggestions to Kristen Hare at epilogue@tampabay.com.

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