Betty White in Person Page 12

  Willie sings. I make bad jokes.

  But we do it with enthusiasm.

  V

  HEART OF

  THE MATTER

  On Memory

  Any momentary lapse in recall is immediately blamed on advancing age. And for the most part with good reason. However, my memory has always been lousy. I could memorize a script in five minutes, but drew a blank as to where I had dinner last Tuesday . . . and with whom. And this was in high school. It probably happened even before that, but I can’t remember.

  That’s why, whenever I have been asked to write my “memoirs,” or someone wants to collaborate on the story of my life, I pass. There is just no way I can fill in the blanks, some of which are not all that trivial . . . a first marriage, a whole television series, (“A Date with the Angels”). It’s as though these things happened to somebody else, and I was out of the country at the time.

  I’m not being coy. It’s scary. Other things that occurred before, after, or during are Lucite clear . . . but chronology has never been my best thing. If it weren’t for a raft of old interviews, I wouldn’t know half the places I’ve been.

  That’s why the people who keep journals are so smart. Carol Burnett told me she never goes to sleep at night without writing something of the day . . . whether a little or a lot. She not only has a record of what happened, but even how she felt about it at the time.

  How I wish I had been smart enough to do that. I was even off to a good start . . . and then blew it.

  Remember those fat little five-year diary books? . . . They are no doubt still around. They were about 4X5 . . . leather-or plastic-bound . . . and they had a lock with a tiny key. For every day there would be space for five years on a single page . . . considering the size of the book, you couldn’t go into a great amount of detail on your life. Well . . . I kept one of those things faithfully . . . for seven years. That’s a diary book and two-fifths! . . . (you could have figured that out, I guess) . . . complete, without skipping a day. If, for any reason, I did neglect it for a night or two, I would go back and catch up.

  The years covered were from the age of almost ten to almost seventeen . . . unfortunately, not the most dynamic period of my life. Also, my priorities were strange . . . frequently, I would report what we had for dinner. (Keep in mind the space I had to work with.) There were several pressed leaves and flowers . . . carefully saved, but not explained. I did, however, record at some length a terrible crush on Fred Astaire . . . and Ginger Rogers.

  Then . . . I went from crush to a deep, serious, and abiding love . . . for Nelson Eddy. I wasn’t jealous of Jeanette MacDonald . . . I was Jeanette MacDonald! I saw Naughty Marietta thirty-two times on its first time around, Rose Marie twenty-nine times, and Maytime twenty-six . . . not including the countless times afterward, through the years. The monetary investment wasn’t quite as monumental as it may sound . . . in those days, admission was forty cents tops . . . often less. I now have all three of those films on cassette, and it’s nobody’s business what the dogs and I watch when no one’s around.

  Those three pictures were the apex for the MacDonald-Eddy team, as far as I was concerned. After that it became the law of diminishing returns . . . either their subsequent films had diminished in quality, or I had increased in age. But it was only the films that lost some of their luster for me . . . not the stars themselves. I went to every one of their concerts, and I cut their pictures out of magazines until I had boxloads. In all truth, the reason I am in the entertainment business today is due, for the most part, to my feeling for them.

  Years later, I followed Jeanette in summer stock in Warren, Ohio. She was closing her run in Bittersweet one night, and I was opening in The King and I the following night. I attended her performance, and was introduced to her backstage. She could not have been warmer or more gracious . . . and you can’t imagine the thrill it was to receive a beautiful bouquet in my dressing room the next evening . . . TO BETTY, LOVE, JEANETTE MACDONALD!

  Later, back in California, our paths crossed again on several occasions, and she always treated me like a dear friend. The Jeanette MacDonald Fan Club is not only still in existence, but it is an enormous international organization. Each year, they have a beautiful formal banquet in her honor hosted by her husband, Gene Raymond . . . they are presently celebrating their fiftieth year!

  I never met Nelson Eddy. I saw him once . . . from a distance . . . in the hall at NBC, but I lacked the intestinal fortitude to approach him. I’ve always regretted that.

  But I digress! And now I can’t remember what we were talking about. Oh, yes . . . memory.

  Anyway, after seven years of faithful diary-keeping, just when it was beginning to get interesting . . . I up and quit!

  Figuring it is never too late to make up for lost time, I thought to benefit by Carol Burnett’s example, and bought a pretty little bedside notebook with pencil attached. I forget to write in it.

  So my chronology is all screwed up, and so some chunks of my life are AWOL . . . I’m just grateful for those things that have remained so sharply etched. That’s what makes this book such a delightful adventure for me . . . it’s a chance to rummage around in my head and come up with all sorts of things I had no idea were there.

  How erratically my alleged mind works, or doesn’t, is only my problem, and I don’t spend a lot of time fretting about it, since it won’t affect anyone else. But then I get to thinking . . . and this is usually pretty late into the night . . . in the beginning, all history was predicated on the memories of the older members of the society. It was either handed down, word-of-mouth, or scrawled on the rock of the cave. Do we really want to take the word of somebody who writes on the walls? And who among us hasn’t played the game of telling one person a story, who repeats it to someone, who, in turn, tells it to the next person, and so on. By about the fourth repetition, the original story is unrecognizable. Multiply that by a few centuries. All history!

  Before I get too frightened, I generally fall asleep.

  Admittedly, even the scientific community doesn’t understand the mechanics or the hardware of memory. One psychobiologist, Gary Lynch, of the University of California, Irvine, called it “the black hole at the center of neurobiology.” With the interest in the subject, and the research that is going on, more and more is being discovered. It is fascinating. A state-of-the-art computer can store bits of information numbering in the billions. The human mind, it is estimated, can store 100 trillion bits!

  Each of us is walking around with the equivalent of a largely unexplored planet on our shoulders . . . and we are using only a fraction of it. If a way is ever found to unlock those stored bits of information, there is no limit to what we will discover . . . about ourselves, as well as about the world around us.

  All history!!?!

  On Memories

  Memories are only distantly related to memory itself . . . another branch of the family entirely. Memories should sometimes carry a warning label . . . EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL.

  With the possible exception of amnesiacs and congenital idiots, everyone has a collection of memories of some kind. They can be among our most cherished possessions. The problem with the damned things is . . . they are completely unmanageable. Both the glorious ones and the excruciating ones are woven together so tightly, it is virtually impossible to call up one without exhuming the other.

  If you aren’t careful, memories can get the bit in their teeth and run with you . . . taking you over the jumps, whether you like it or not, only to dump you unceremoniously . . . leaving that hollow ache that has to wear itself out.

  For instance . . . every now and then, around twilight time, I could swear I hear the front door open, and then the familiar “Darlin’?” It was Allen’s Texas version of the old “Honey, I’m home!” . . . This is after six years.

  Sure, it hurts. But think how much more it would hurt if I didn’t have the memories . . . that kind of void would really be tough to handle. No, I’ll settle for it . . .
I hope I’ll always hear it. “Darlin’?”

  Music is the most evocative . . . it can really play tricks on you. The song “Memory” from the Broadway musical Cats was written with me in mind . . . of this I was certain, until I discovered how many others feel exactly the same way. Wherever there is background music, it’s a safe bet that sooner or later they will get to “Memory.” One should be used to it by now. Well, no matter how far away or unobtrusive the music may be . . . the first two notes of that melody will cut through whatever else is going on. Hopefully, no one else is aware of this, and we don’t miss a beat. But privately I have a very warm feeling inside . . . a hurt good.

  In the computer we call our brain, what department is in charge of memory selection? Because they do a pretty sloppy job. They let whole blocks of major events in your life blur around the edges . . . yet trivia will be carved in stone. There are some fascinating studies in progress on this very subject . . . and, as more is learned, that whole memory department will have to get on the ball . . . or heads will roll.

  Memories aren’t all sad-making by a long shot . . . we’d be in big trouble if they were. Some make you laugh.

  In the exact same location on Sunset Boulevard, I had two separate dog encounters that occurred years apart . . . but within an eighth of a block of each other.

  The first happened quite a few years ago, during my “tropical fish period” . . . when I got completely caught up in that fascinating hobby.

  My mother was with me, and we were driving home from yet another trip to Aquarium Stock . . . I think it was neon tetras that I had to replace this time. To transport these little beauties, they are put in a plastic bag full of water, which is then tied at the top. It keeps a container from sloshing around, and is less traumatic for the fish. Mom was to hold this carefully aloft, all the way home.

  Suddenly . . . just past the Bel Air Gate on Sunset, in heavy late-afternoon traffic . . . I see this beautiful little pug dog, dodging in and out of traffic, completely bewildered. I pulled over under a no stopping at any time sign, got out . . . and not wanting to scare him even more . . . knelt down and called to him. Bless his heart, he came running as if I was his oldest friend, and I put him in the car. Now my mother has to steady a frightened strange dog with one hand, while she is still juggling a bag of fish in the other. We made it safely home, oddly enough, and by morning we were able to trace his worried owners, by calling all the veterinarians in the area. He went home, to tell everybody he’d slept with Betty White.

  One night, years later, it was about eleven P.M., and I was driving home alone after a taping of “Mama’s Family” . . . I was still in makeup and eyelashes, with my hair piled on top of my head, as Ellen always wore it on the show.

  I got to the exact same spot on Sunset, and had to jam on my brakes to avoid several cars stopped in odd positions across the road. Running in and out of the headlights were two enormous fawn Great Danes. I pulled under my favorite NO STOPPING SIGN sign . . . talk about déjà vu . . . and got out without even thinking of what I would do. It took some coaxing and the help of a sympathetic young man, but we finally got both of them . . . a male and a female . . . into the backseat of my car.

  Everyone was so relieved, and before I could explain, they all drove off . . . happy in the knowledge that this strange-looking lady had retrieved her dogs. So I’m sitting there on an empty street, and I have two Great Danes in my car that I can’t take home with me because of my own dogs.

  On a chance, I drove back to the Bel Air Neighborhood Patrol station at the Bel Air Gate. I walked in, with all my makeup and my upswept hair . . . looking like a hooker who’d lost her way . . . and said, “Excuse me, I have a pair of Great Danes!”

  Well, it took a few minutes to sort it all out, but those nice people knew the dogs . . . who, incidentally were behaving like angels all this time . . . knew where they escaped from . . . and would take them back home. I’d lucked out again.

  Never do I pass that spot . . . which I do every single day while going to and from work . . . without smiling. I keep my eyes on the road in front of me, however . . . I’m afraid to look around for fear of what I might find this time.

  Some memories are even well-behaved enough to come when they are called. Once in a while, if I have trouble getting to sleep at night, I try to set my mind to something I’ve enjoyed, and relive it. It’s like turning pages in an album . . . or playing back a videocassette. I have a whole set of these . . . and I must say, the quality is terrific.

  The ones I play back most often are two trips Allen and I made to Ireland.

  We were the guests of Mrs. Kingman Douglass . . . formerly Adele Astaire, Fred’s sister and brilliant dancing partner on Broadway. . . . Dellie had actually been the star of the act. She was the toast of the town, until she met Lord Cavendish, and retired from her dancing career to become his Lady.

  Following his death, she remarried . . . but was widowed, once again. After that, Adele would spend four months every summer at Lismore Castle in southern Ireland . . . which had been her home when she was married to Lord Cavendish.

  Fred Astaire’s daughter Ava and her husband, Richard McKenzie, were Allen’s and my good buddies . . . and it was through them that we met Adele, and the mutual love affair began.

  She urged us to come visit her in Ireland . . . Ava and Richard did every summer. Allen was taking me on my first trip to Europe that year . . . exciting enough in itself . . . and we decided that, as long as we were on our feet, we would come home by way of Lismore Castle, and meet the McKenzies there.

  It may have been one of the best decisions we ever made.

  The castle itself dated back to King John . . . and consisted of two hundred rooms. A portion of these had been beautifully maintained as living quarters . . . tapestried walls, exquisite furniture, some of which had been made on the property over a century ago. Each table or desk held three or four bowls of fresh flowers, brought in every morning by the gardeners . . . from the acres of cutting gardens. Years before, as Lady Cavendish, Adele had had some strategic bathrooms added, which fitted in with the rest of the decor so well you’d think they had grown there. This was not a castle newly renovated for tourists . . . this was a private residence. The “property” was eighteen thousand acres, which included the little picture book town of Lismore.

  We spent a week there that trip, and it still seems like something I must have only read about somewhere. First of all, Dellie herself would have been worth the trip if she lived in a hovel. Her wit and spice were priceless . . . as were her stories of earlier days, whenever we managed to trap her into telling them. Ava, Adele, and I represented three generations, each twenty years apart . . . but it was as though we were all the exact same age. I’d say about fourteen.

  Allen and Richard said that as they watched they saw their wives turn into instant Wuthering Heights. I can promise you, they were every bit as carried away.

  There was a large hall, at the end of which was a door that led to the rest of the castle . . . wing after wing containing rooms, now empty, but in good condition . . . nurseries, maid’s quarters off of each bedroom, carved stairways, alcoves . . . secret places.

  We would explore for hours. Ava took us to the small bedroom in the tower where she would stay as a little girl, when she came to visit her Aunt Dellie. It had a fourway panoramic view of the surrounding emerald countryside . . . with a winding river . . . and wild swans. We left Wuthering Heights, momentarily, and went straight to Oz.

  One morning we came back from a long walk on the moors . . . (see what I mean?) . . . when a call came in from Los Angeles. It was Fred Astaire. He spoke to his sister and his daughter, of course . . . but he said the real reason he called, was to complain about a clue someone had given on “Password” that he didn’t think was fair! He had just watched the show, which he did every day, and the fact that we were in Ireland and the show had been taped several weeks earlier were only minor details . . . he got the satisfactory answer he
wanted from Allen.

  Being summer, it didn’t get dark until around eleven-thirty at night. After dinner, and a game of our warped version of Scrabble, Dellie usually went to bed . . . and the four of us would go out for a last twilight walk before retiring.

  Way down at the end of one of the grassy slopes that led from the castle was a long double row of ancient yew trees. They were twisted and gnarled . . . authenticated as dating back to 1100 A.D. . . . where long ago the monks would stroll in meditation.

  This was all that these four bemused Americans needed. It would be close to midnight by the time we would reach this spot each night . . . and we would begin to make up stories about what these trees must have seen through the centuries. One or another of us would quietly slip behind a tree, then wait for a scary part in the story, to leap out unexpectedly. It may sound mild in the light of day, but under the circumstances, trust me, it was effective.

  Allen couldn’t figure out why he could never surprise us, when it worked so well for everyone else. We didn’t tell him that his white shoes practically glowed in the dark.

  Maybe fourteen was too generous an estimate. Ten-year-olds might be closer to the truth.

  When an experience has been that special, it is taking a long chance to try and repeat it . . . ever. Nonetheless, when Adele invited us all back for another week the following summer . . . there was no way we could resist. Not only was the magic still there . . . if anything, it was even better the second time around. Perhaps we really had been enchanted, after all. Rest well, Dellie dear . . . it was you who cast the spell.

  Up-front memories are one thing . . . they will meet you on your own ground and fight fair. But then there is the underhanded variety. Rather than confronting you head-on . . . they sneak up behind you when your guard is down. They can cause you to lose track entirely of what someone else is saying. There is no earthly way of explaining them to anyone . . . sometimes not even to yourself. Don’t even try.