Los Angeles, April 1967. The Beverly Hills Hotel was hosting a tribute dinner for wounded Vietnam veterans. 400 people filled the International Ballroom, actors, politicians, military brass, wealthy donors. It was one of those high-profile charity events where Hollywood came together to support the troops.
Dean Martin was there as one of the featured entertainers. He’d agreed to perform a few songs and help raise money for veterans hospitals. Dean had a soft spot for servicemen. His own service in World War II had been briefed due to a hernia, but he never forgot those who’d served longer and sacrificed more. Red Skelton was the master of ceremonies.
Red was a comedy legend, a household name from radio, television, and film. His variety show was one of the most popular programs on television. Everyone knew Red. Everyone loved Red’s wholesome clown-like humor. But Red had a problem. He drank too much at events like this. And when Red, his filter disappeared.
His comedy became meaner, sharper, less wholesome, and more cutting. Tonight, Red had started drinking during the cocktail hour and hadn’t stopped. Dean arrived late because of traffic. He came in through a side entrance trying to avoid the pre-dinner mingling. He preferred to show up, perform, and leave. Less small talk, less forced conversations with people he barely knew.
But Red spotted him across the ballroom and called out through the microphone. Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Martin has just arrived. Better late than never, right Dean? The crowd applauded politely. Dean waved and tried to make his way to his assigned table. Red wasn’t done. Dean Martin, everybody, the king of cool, the master of making it look easy.
You know why everything looks easy for Dean? Because his mother did everything for him growing up. Cooked his meals, cleaned his clothes, probably wiped his red caught himself. Well, you get the picture. Scattered laughter. Uncomfortable laughter. It was a weird comment. Out of place for a charity event.
Dean sat down at his table with Frank Sinatra and Shirley Mlan. Frank leaned over. Red’s drunk. I noticed he’s been making weird comments all night. Almost like he’s trying to be edgy. It’s not working. Dean shrugged it off. Red was red, harmless, a clown. Nothing to worry about. Dinner was served. Speeches were made.
Representatives from veterans organizations talked about the important work being done to help wounded soldiers. It was all very moving, very appropriate. Then Red took the microphone again to introduce the entertainment portion of the evening. Now folks, we’ve got some great performances lined up for you tonight. Dean Martin is going to sing for us.
And let me tell you, Dean’s mother would be so proud if she were here to see this. Of course, she’s not here. She’s been dead for what, Dean? 5 years now. The room went silent. You could hear the air conditioning. You could hear silverware against plates. Dean’s mother, Angela Crochetti, had died in December 1962.
Dean had been devastated. She’d been the center of his family, the person who’d held them all together. Losing her had been one of the hardest things Dean ever experienced, and Red Skeleton had just brought it up in front of 400 people. Dean sat very still. His face showed nothing, but Frank saw his friend’s jaw tighten, saw his hands curl into fists under the table.
Red continued, oblivious or uncaring. Dean’s mother was an Italian immigrant, you know, barely spoke English. Used to cook these huge Italian meals. I bet she was a big woman, right, Dean? All those Italian mothers are big from eating their own cooking. A few people laughed nervously, most sat in shocked silence.
This wasn’t appropriate. Not at a charity event, not about someone’s deceased mother. Shirley Mlan whispered, “What’s he doing?” Dean didn’t respond, just kept staring at Red. Red seemed to sense he was losing the room, but instead of pulling back, he doubled down. I’m just saying, Dean probably misses his mother’s cooking.
Probably goes home every night wishing she was there to make him spaghetti. That’s the thing about Italian men. They never get over their mothers. It’s like a sickness. A mama’s boy complex. Dean was probably still living at home when she died. At what age, Dean? 45. Still living with mama? That was it.
That was too far. Dean stood up. The sound of his chair scraping against the floor cut through Red’s monologue. Red stopped talking. Looked at Dean across the ballroom. Dean, I’m just having fun. Dean walked toward the stage slowly, deliberately. The crowd watched in absolute silence. 400 people holding their breath.
He climbed the steps to the stage. Red backed up slightly, still holding the microphone. Dean walked right up to him and held out his hand. Give me the microphone, Red. Dean, come on. I was just joking. Give me the microphone. Red handed it over. His smile was frozen on his face, but his eyes showed fear. He’d crossed a line and he knew it.
Dean turned to face the audience. His voice was calm. Eerily calm. [snorts] Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption, but I need to address what just happened. Red Skeleton just spent 5 minutes making jokes about my dead mother in front of all of you at a charity event for veterans. The crowd stirred. murmurss, uncomfortable shifting.
Dean continued, “My mother died 5 years ago.” Her name was Angela. She was born in Italy and came to America when she was 18 years old. She didn’t speak much English. That’s true. She was a large woman. Also true. She was the most important person in my life. She raised me and my brother. She worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known.
She sacrificed everything so we could have a better life than she had. His voice remained steady, but there was steel underneath. When she died, part of me died with her. I don’t talk about it much because grief is private, family is private, but apparently Red doesn’t understand that he thinks my mother’s death is material for comedy, that her size is funny, that my love for her is a joke.
Dean looked directly at Red. You want to know if I miss her cooking every single day? You want to know if I was a mama’s boy? Absolutely. I was proud to be her son. She was the best person I ever knew. And you just mocked her memory in front of 400 people. Red’s face had gone pale. Dean, I didn’t mean Yes, you did.
You meant every word. You thought it was funny. You thought making fun of an immigrant woman, a dead woman, my mother, would get laughs. And maybe it did. Maybe some people thought it was funny. But it wasn’t funny, Red. It was cruel. The ballroom was so quiet you could hear people breathing.
Dean turned back to the audience. I want you all to understand something. Comedy has lines, boundaries, things you don’t joke about. A man’s dead mother is one of those things. You don’t go there. You don’t make that material. Not for laughs, not for anything. Red Skeleton is supposed to be a professional, a comedian who’s been doing this for 40 years.
But tonight, he showed that all those years didn’t teach him basic decency, didn’t teach him respect, didn’t teach him that some topics are off limits. Dean looked at Red again. You owe me an apology right now in front of everyone who heard you. Red’s smile was completely gone now. He looked small, diminished.
Dean, I’m sorry. I had too much to drink. I wasn’t thinking. You were thinking. You just thought wrong. Try again. I apologize for making jokes about your mother. It was inappropriate and disrespectful. I crossed a line. Why did you do it? Red blinked. What? Why did you make jokes about my mother? What possessed you to think that was acceptable? I I don’t know.
I was trying to be funny to loosen up the crowd by mocking my dead mother. I wasn’t mocking. Yes, you were. You made fun of her size, her English, my relationship with her. That’s mocking. Own what you did. Red looked at the floor. I mocked your mother and I’m sorry. Truly sorry. Dean studied him for a long moment, then nodded. Apology accepted.
But Red, if you ever mention my mother again, if you ever make another joke about her, we’re done. Professionally, personally, done. Do you understand? I understand. Dean handed the microphone to Red and walked off the stage. The audience sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then, someone started clapping. Just one person, then more.
Within seconds, the entire ballroom was applauding. Dean didn’t acknowledge it. just returned to his table, sat down, and took a long drink of water. Frank leaned over. That was intense. He deserved it. He did, but I’ve never seen you like that. Never seen you that angry. I wasn’t angry. I was furious, but I kept it contained.
If I’d let myself get truly angry, I would have hit him. Shirley touched Dean’s arm. Are you okay? No, but I will be. The event continued awkwardly. Red tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes, but they fell flat. The energy in the room had shifted. Everyone was uncomfortable. Everyone was thinking about what had just happened.
When it was time for Dean to perform, he walked on stage to thunderous applause. People were on his feet before he sang a single note. They were applauding his defense of his mother, his dignity, his restraint. Dean sang three songs. Everybody loves somebody. That’s Amore. And return to me. His voice was perfect, emotional, like he was pouring all his feelings about his mother into the music.
During Return to Me, an Italian love song his mother used to sing to him when he was a child, Dean’s voice cracked slightly, just for a moment, but everyone heard it. Everyone felt it. When he finished, people weren’t just applauding. Some were crying. The emotion in the room was palpable. Dean left the stage without saying a word. went straight to his dressing room, closed the door, and for the first time in 5 years, he let himself really grieve for his mother.
He sat on the couch and cried. Deep wrenching sobs. All the grief he’d kept inside, all the loss, all the pain. It came out in waves. There was a soft knock on the door. Dean, it’s Frank. Can I come in? Dean wiped his eyes. Yeah. Frank entered and sat down next to his friend. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there being present. Finally, Dean spoke.
I miss her so much, Frank, every day. And hearing Red make jokes about her, treating her memory like it was nothing, it broke something in me. I know. She was everything. She’s the reason I succeeded, the reason I had the confidence to pursue this career. She believed in me when nobody else did. And Red talked about her like she was a punchline. Red’s an idiot.
Everyone in that room knows it now. I should have hit him. No, what you did was better. You called him out, made him apologize, showed everyone what he did wrong. That’s more effective than a punch. Dean nodded. I wanted to hit him, though. Really wanted to. I know. That’s why what you did was impressive. You were angry enough to hit him, but controlled enough not to. That’s strength, Dean.
Real strength. They sat in silence for a while. Then Frank said, “Tell me about her. Your mother. You never talk about her much.” Dean smiled slightly. She was tough. Had to be. came to America alone. Married my father who was barely making ends meet. Raised two boys in a steel town where everyone looked down on Italians. She worked harder than anyone.
Took in laundry, cleaned houses, whatever it took to help my father keep the barber shop running. And she loved us fiercely, protected us. When kids at school made fun of my name, she told me to be proud of who I was. When I wanted to be a singer and everyone said it was a waste of time, she told me to follow my dreams.
She was my biggest supporter, my biggest fan. When she died, I was in the middle of filming a movie. I flew home immediately, held her hand as she passed. She looked at me and said, “Dino, you made me so proud.” Those were her last words to me. And then she was gone. Dean’s voice broke. And tonight, Red Skeleton made jokes about her like she was nothing, like her life didn’t matter, like my love for her was something to mock.
Frank put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. her life mattered. Everyone in that room knows it. Red knows it. That’s why he apologized. But he shouldn’t have said it in the first place. No, he shouldn’t have. But he did. And you handled it perfectly. You defended her memory. Made sure everyone knew who she really was. That’s what matters.
If you love Dean Martin and his stories, make sure you like and subscribe. Dean eventually composed himself and left the venue. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone, just went home to his family. His wife, Jean, was waiting up for him. How was the event? Difficult. Red Skelton made jokes about my mother. I had to call him out publicly. Jean’s face darkened.
He did what? Dean told her the whole story about Red’s comments, about the confrontation, about the forced apology. That son of a Jean said. She rarely cursed. Your mother was a saint. How dare he? He was drunk and stupid and he crossed a line. Are you okay? Not really, but I will be. Jean hugged him. Your mother would be proud of you for defending her, for standing up to him.
I hope so. The next morning, Dean woke up to his phone ringing. His manager, Herman Citroen. Dean, have you seen the papers? No. Why? The incident with Red Skeleton is front page news. Every paper in Los Angeles is covering it. Dean Martin confronts Red Skeleton over mother jokes. Skeleton forced to apologize at charity event.
It’s everywhere. Dean sighed. Great. Actually, it is great. The coverage is overwhelmingly positive. Everyone’s praising you, saying you handled it with dignity, saying Red was out of line. This is good for you, Dean. I wasn’t trying to make headlines, Herman. I was defending my mother. I know. And that’s why people are responding so positively.
You weren’t trying to create drama. You were just standing up for what’s right. That resonates with people. After hanging up, Dean received more calls from friends, from colleagues, from people he hadn’t talked to in years. All offering support, all saying Red was wrong. But there was one call Dean was dreading from Red Skeleton himself.
It came at noon. Dean, it’s Red. Can we talk? What do you want, Red? To apologize again properly. Not in front of an audience, just you and me. Dean thought about refusing, about hanging up, but something in Red’s voice made him hesitate. All right, talk. Can we meet in person? I want to look you in the eye when I say this.
Why? You didn’t care about looking me in the eye when you made the jokes. I know. That’s part of what I want to apologize for. Please, Dean, give me an hour. Dean agreed to meet at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills. Neutral territory. Public enough that nothing could happen. Private enough to have a real conversation. Red was already there when Dean arrived.
He looked terrible, eyes red from lack of sleep, face pale, hands shaking slightly. Dean, thanks for coming. Dean sat down across from him. You’ve got an hour. I want to start by saying I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry. What I said about your mother was unforgivable. I don’t have an excuse. I was drunk, but that’s not an excuse.
I was trying to be edgy, but that’s not an excuse either. The truth is I was cruel and stupid and I hurt you and I’m sorry. Dean listened without speaking. Red continued, “I didn’t know your mother, never met her, but I’ve been thinking about my own mother since last night. She passed away 20 years ago, and if someone made jokes about her, about her weight or her accent or my love for her, I’d be devastated.
I’d probably do more than just demand an apology, I’d probably punch them.” That’s what you deserved, Dean said quietly. I know. And you showed remarkable restraint by not doing it. You called me out. Made your point. Got your apology. And you did it all without violence, without stooping to my level. That takes character.
Why did you do it, Red? What made you think it was okay? Red was quiet for a long moment. Honestly, I was jealous. Jealous of what? Of you. Of how you make everything look so easy. You walk into a room and people love you. You sing and people swoon. You tell a joke and people laugh. You don’t have to try. You just are.
And I’ve been trying my whole career, working hard, creating characters, building sketches, and it’s exhausting. So, I saw you sitting there looking cool and comfortable. And something in me wanted to knock you down a peg, wanted to make you uncomfortable, wanted to show everyone that Dean Martin isn’t perfect, that he has vulnerabilities.
Your mother was that vulnerability and I exploited it and I’m ashamed. Dean absorbed this. Red, everyone has to work. Everyone has insecurities. I’m not special. I just hide mine better than some people. But that’s the point. You hide it so well that people like me. Forget you’re human. Forget you have feelings. Forget you can be hurt.
And we say things we shouldn’t say because we don’t think they’ll affect you. Well, they do. I’m human, Red. I bleed. I hurt. I grieve and when someone mocks my dead mother, it devastates me. I know that now and I’m sorry I had to learn it by hurting you. They sat in silence for a moment.
The coffee shop buzzed with normal activity around them. People having normal conversations, living normal lives. Finally, Dean spoke. I accept your apology, Red. But I want you to understand something. I’m accepting it because you seem genuinely remorseful. because you’ve taken the time to think about what you did and why it was wrong.
But if you ever do anything like this again to me or to anyone else, I’m done with you professionally and personally. I understand and I won’t. I promise. Promises are easy. Actions are what matter. Then I’ll show you through my actions. Starting now, starting today, I’m going to be better, more thoughtful, more respectful of people’s pain.
Dean stood up, extended his hand. Red shook it. Thank you for meeting me, Red said. I didn’t deserve it. No, you didn’t. But everyone deserves a chance to make things right. You’ve had yours. Don’t waste it. Over the next few weeks, the story faded from the headlines. But the impact lingered.
Other comedians became more careful about their material, more aware of lines that shouldn’t be crossed, more conscious of the difference between edgy and cruel. Red Skeleton changed his act, stopped relying on put downs and mean humor, went back to his gentler, clown-like style, and whenever he saw Dean at industry events, he nodded respectfully, kept his distance, showed difference.
A month after the incident, Dean received a letter in the mail from Red. Dear Dean, I wanted to write this because saying it in person didn’t feel like enough. I wanted you to have something tangible, something you could keep, something that proves I understand what I did and why it was wrong. Your mother sounds like she was an incredible woman.
The way you described her, her strength, her sacrifice, her love for you, it reminded me of my own mother, of all the things she did for me that I took for granted, of all the ways she shaped who I became. Losing a mother is one of the hardest things anyone can experience. and I made light of your loss, made jokes about your grief, suggested that your love for her was something to mock.
I can’t take back those words, but I can promise to never say anything like that again to anyone ever. I’ve been thinking a lot about comedy, about what makes something funny versus what makes it cruel. And I’ve realized that the best comedy punches up, not down. It targets the powerful, not the vulnerable. It challenges injustice, not grief.
I lost sight of that. You reminded me. Thank you for calling me out, for not letting it slide, for making me face what I’d done. It was painful, humiliating, but necessary. I’m a better person because of it, and hopefully a better comedian. Your mother raised a good man. One who knows how to defend what matters. One who has the courage to confront wrongdoing even when it’s uncomfortable.
One who can be furious and controlled at the same time. That’s rare. That’s special. She should be proud. I know she’s not here to see it, but I hope wherever she is, she knows what kind of son she raised, what kind of legacy she left. With sincere apologies and deep respect, Red Dean read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully and put it in his desk drawer with other meaningful correspondents next to letters from his mother, next to photos of his family. He never responded to the letter. Didn’t feel the need to. Red had said what needed to be said. Dean had heard it. That was enough. In 1969, two years after the incident, Dean and Red were both invited to perform at a USO show for troops overseas.
They’d be traveling together for two weeks, performing in Vietnam, Korea, the Philippines. Dean’s manager called, “Dean, I know things have been awkward with Red. If you don’t want to do this tour, I can make excuses.” No, I’ll do it for the troops. They deserve the best we can give them. Are you sure? Two weeks with Red Skeleton might be difficult. Red and I are fine.
We worked through our issues. It’ll be okay. The tour was grueling. Long flights, difficult conditions, performing in heat and humidity. But the troops loved it. Loved seeing stars from home. Loved the distraction from the war. Dean and Red kept their distance at first. Polite but not friendly. Professional but not warm.
But by the second week, something changed. They started talking. Not about the incident, just about comedy, about performing, about the business. One night after a show at a base near Daang, they sat together in the messaul eating mediocre food and watching soldiers relax. “Look at them,” Red said. “So young.
Some of them aren’t even 20 years old yet. And they’re over here fighting a war most of them don’t understand.” “It’s heartbreaking,” Dean agreed. “Makes our problems seem pretty insignificant, doesn’t it?” “What I said about your mother, the whole incident. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing compared to what these kids are dealing with.
” Maybe, but it mattered to me. It still matters. I know. And I’m glad it does. I’m glad you called me out. Otherwise, I’d still be making those kinds of jokes. Still crossing lines I shouldn’t cross. You made me better, Dean. I need you to know that. Dean looked at Red, saw sincerity in his eyes, saw genuine gratitude. You’re welcome.
They finished the tour on better terms than they’d started. Not friends exactly, but respectful colleagues, people who’d been through something difficult and come out the other side. If you love these stories about how Dean Martin handled difficult situations with class and dignity, make sure you like and subscribe for more. In 1971, Red Skeleton’s variety show was cancelled after 20 years on television.
He was devastated. His career identity was tied to that show. Without it, he felt lost. Dean sent him a note. Read, “Sorry to hear about the show. I know how much it meant to you, but this isn’t the end. It’s just a new beginning. You’ve got decades of experience, millions of fans, plenty of opportunities ahead.
Keep your head up, Dean. Red called him. Dean, thank you for the note. It means a lot, especially coming from you. You’re talented, Red. You’ll land on your feet. I hope so. But right now, it doesn’t feel like it. Right now, it feels like everything I built is falling apart. I felt that way when my mother died.
Like everything I knew was gone. Like I’d never feel whole again. But you push through. You keep going. You find new purpose, new meaning. It takes time, but you get there. Thank you for the encouragement and for not holding a grudge. A lot of people would have after what I did. Holding grudges takes too much energy. Life’s too short.
Red’s career did continue. He shifted to live performances, traveled around the country doing comedy shows and painting clowns. Found a new audience, a new purpose. And whenever he was asked about his career, about his mistakes, about lessons learned, he always mentioned Dean Martin. Dean taught me that there are lines you don’t cross in comedy, that some topics are sacred, that defending the people you love is more important than getting a laugh.
I’m grateful he taught me that lesson, even though it was painful at the time. When Red Skelton died in 1997, Dean had already been gone for 2 years. But Red’s family found something interesting in his personal effects. A framed photo of Dean Martin. And underneath it, a small plaque that read, “The man who taught me the difference between comedy and cruelty.
” “Dean’s daughter, Dena,” was contacted by Red’s family. They wanted her to have the photo and plaque. “Your father changed my dad.” Red’s son said, “That incident in ‘ 67. It was a turning point. Dad stopped being mean in his comedy, started being more thoughtful, more respectful. Your father did that by standing up for his mother by not letting it slide.
Diana accepted the items, put them in her own collection of her father’s memorabilia, a reminder that Dean’s impact went beyond entertainment, that he changed people, made them better. The story of Dean Martin and Red Skeleton became one of those Hollywood legends, a cautionary tale about crossing lines, about respecting grief, about the cost of cruel comedy.
But it was also a story about redemption, about apology, about growth. Red Skelton made a terrible mistake, made jokes about Dean Martin’s dead mother in front of 400 people. It was cruel and thoughtless and wrong. Dean Martin’s response put Red on his knees. Not through violence, not through revenge, but through a calm, firm, public confrontation that made Red face what he’d done.
That forced him to apologize. That changed him. That’s the real story. Not just the mistake, not just the apology, but the growth that came after, the lessons learned, the person Red became because Dean had the courage to call him out. Dean didn’t think of himself as a teacher. Didn’t set out to change Red. He just defended his mother’s memory.
Did what any son should do. But in doing so, he taught everyone watching an important lesson. That some topics are off limits. That grief deserves respect. that defending the people you love, even after they’re gone, is not just acceptable, but necessary. Angela Crochet died in 1962. But her legacy lived on through her son, through how he honored her memory.
Through how he defended her when someone tried to mock her. That’s love. Pure, fierce, enduring love. The kind that doesn’t end with death. The kind that demands respect even from strangers. The kind that makes you stand up in front of 400 people and say, “Not my mother. Not ever.” Dean Martin had that love.
He demonstrated it that night in April 1967. And in doing so, he showed us all how to honor the people who made us who we are. Red Skeleton learned that lesson, learned it painfully, but learned it well. And because he learned it, he became better. His comedy became better. His life became better. That’s the power of standing up, of not letting cruelty pass unchallenged, of defending what matters.
Dean Martin understood that power. He wielded it that night. And both he and Red Skeleton were changed because of it. That’s the real legacy of that evening. Not the confrontation, not the headlines, but the growth, the change, the understanding that came after. Red Skelton made a joke about Dean Martin’s dead mother.
Dean’s response put him on his knees. But then Dean helped Red stand back up and Red spent the rest of his life being grateful for that second chance. That’s grace. That’s character. That’s Dean Martin. If you enjoyed learning about this powerful moment in Hollywood history and how Dean Martin defended his mother’s memory with dignity and strength, please like and subscribe to our channel.
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