Betty White in Person Read online

  A friend of mine has what he considers to be the perfect solution. He simply says, “Sorry, I can’t.” No hemming or hawing, no embroidery . . . just “Sorry, I can’t.” And he leaves it at that. Maybe he is secure enough to get away with it, but with my luck they’d say, “Why not?”

  Honesty is a virtue greatly to be admired, but it is strong medicine to be taken . . . and dished out . . . in careful doses. Being frank is fine, but not to the point of brutality. If you feel your “honest” opinion will really benefit someone, then go for it . . . but if the hurt incurred will outweigh the help, keep your mouth shut.

  Truth is resilient and can be stretched pretty far. Lies . . . even little white ones . . . should be avoided like the plague . . . not only for moral reasons, but because, unless you are a master of the game (in which case, I don’t want anything to do with you), they are almost always going to come back to haunt you. With a memory like mine, that goes without saying.

  Where prevarication can really get you in trouble is in the early days of a relationship. In the euphoria of a new romance, you tend to enthuse and agree on things you might not like at all if you were in your right mind. Which, of course, you’re not.

  Be honest up front . . . for, should the relationship bloom into something more, you could find yourself going to hockey games for the rest of your life.

  If, on the other hand, later on you finally have to own up to the fact that you were less than honest in the beginning, your credibility sustains a bruise. Even if it concerns something that seems too trivial to matter, it can start the mildew of doubt, and cause a problem when the big things come along.

  And those big things do come along. That’s when your honesty must be meted out very carefully. As a wise doctor I know put it, “You can call a spade a spade, but you don’t have to call it a dirty old shovel.” Total honesty can sometimes destroy hope in the other party. Dishonesty can destroy faith. It’s a very fine line and there is no blueprint.

  Keep the other person’s well-being in mind when you feel an attack of soul-purging truth coming on. You may feel better for it, but you may have done some irreparable damage in the process.

  Measured honesty is the best policy.

  On Saving Things

  At some time or other, everyone must feel a sense of drowning in a sea of things that are not quite throwawayable. At least I prefer to think I am not alone with this problem.

  We all have different things that we save for a variety of reasons. Those reasons may say as much about us as that which we save.

  It has been said that if you can organize your closet, you can organize your life. That could probably be stretched to include the garage as well . . . of course, the catch phrase is . . . if you can.

  Many of us are of the “Waste Not, Want Not” persuasion, or the subspecies “This Will Come in Handy Someday.” Consequently, valuable shelf space is taken up with coffee makers that no longer work, pieces of cardboard, plastic bubblewrap, extra accessories from a retired vacuum cleaner, and a myriad of florist’s cheap glass flower vases. After the marginally fixable have been picked up by Goodwill, many of these things may still hang on through a couple of garage cleanings, but ultimately they will bite the dust . . . to make room for more.

  The junk stuff is the easy part, and it will more or less take care of itself. A more difficult keepsake group to cope with is “Memorabilia.” The subheadings on this category break down into “Nostalgia” and “Family Duty.”

  “Nostalgia” gets thinned out every so often by a relatively simple procedure . . . you deep-six something when you can no longer remember what it was saved to commemorate.

  “Family Duty” gets more complicated. This consists of all those anonymous items you can’t bring yourself to part with . . . not because you are attached to them, but . . . like the little brass camel box whose lid keeps falling off . . . they have been around for as long as you can remember. Eventually these may get packed away, but not actually disposed of . . . it has somehow become your “Family Duty” to perpetuate them.

  However, somebody must have the courage to get rid of these things, judging by the number of quaint little shops proudly displaying these eyesores in their windows at astronomical prices. Keep anything long enough, as the old rule goes, and it will come back into fashion . . . becoming someone’s treasured collector’s item . . . no matter how ugly it may be.

  Is it possible that I am not in the majority on this subject, after all? And another thought . . . even more disturbing . . . many of the things I have packed away originated from one source . . . a particularly unfavorite (a euphemism) aunt. Could it be that I have a latent fear that if I even considered getting rid of her things, she might come back to haunt me? Heaven forbid! She was bad enough the first time around.

  Something else that just occurred to me . . . those shop windows I mentioned are always filled with old portraits and statuary . . . and to me they all look like my aunt! I may have stumbled on to the surface tip of a deep psychological iceberg here.

  Let’s get on safer ground that we can all share. For instance, isn’t the tendency to clip things (or tear them) from newspapers and magazines fairly universal? “The sound of Sunday in our house,” my husband used to say, “is the tearing of paper.” Still is . . . articles, ads, recipes, photographs.

  The photos I am always going to sketch or paint someday.

  The recipes never get made, but they sound simple and wonderful.

  The ads are obsolete before I get around to calling about them.

  The articles do make it into the file, since I am sure I will want to refer to them at some future date. Obviously, on the rare occasion that that happens, I can never find the damned article.

  My one point of pride is that I only tear from my own property. I consider myself a cut above those who mutilate the periodicals in doctors’ offices or beauty shops. In those circumstances if something is absolutely irresistible, I will frantically try to scribble it down on whatever paper my purse contains. The result is not only illegible, but I am usually called away before I’ve finished copying. Once I did get a complete (short) recipe written down for grape pie, only to discover I had used the back of my parking ticket . . . which, of course, I had to give to the man in order to retrieve my car. I’ve tried to make the pie several times from memory, but I think I’m leaving something out. The only ingredients I remember for sure are the grapes.

  Letters are something else that can gather and complicate your life. Other people always seem to save the right ones. They keep them in good order, then eventually publish them in a book for the historical benefit of the general public, or . . . if they contain some degree of prurient interest . . . personal profit. Even if they don’t get published, such a collection will serve as a rich lode for some interested researcher of the future . . . (who, naturally, is writing a book.)

  Unfortunately, the letters I have retained over the years have nothing to do with history or prurience . . . only sentimentality. By now, some of them have ceased to be anything more than familiar packages that, again, have been around long enough to earn a permanent place in the storage room. It’s odd, but the letters I wish I had today are not to be found, although they were more important, even at the time, than the unnoteworthy notes that have survived. It could be that the special ones were carried with me until they fell apart.

  At this late date it is unrealistic to believe I can change my ways. I will, no doubt, continue to save the worthless and discard the treasures. It will be up to the poor soul who has to sort it out after I’m gone to figure out what it all means. Good luck to whomever.

  Of course, now I have roused my own curiosity to the extent that I may go back and read some of those old letters. There may be a book there.

  II

  ALL WORK

  AND SOME PLAY

  On Name-dropping

  The fact that I have lived in or near Hollywood almost my entire life does not for one moment make me blasé about
seeing celebrities in the flesh. (Figure of speech.)

  Being able to count people who were once distant idols as close friends today still boggles my mind, and it’s a privilege I will never take for granted. It absolutely knocks me out to come home and find a message that “Fred Astaire called.”

  This certainly doesn’t mean that all my friends are showfolk . . . far from it. Some of my most cherished have no connection in any way. Nor does it mean that all the acquaintances who are in the business are simply swell. Some, you find yourself making excuses to avoid for one reason or another . . . just as in any slice of life.

  What do entertainers do when they entertain each other? They talk shop a lot, admittedly . . . just as doctors talk medicine, teachers talk school, and lawyers talk your head off . . . but they are well informed and have varied interests on which they can hold forth with equal enthusiasm.

  Some also play games.

  Parties have never been my favorite pastime . . . Allen was the party boy . . . but there is one group I cannot resist. Burt Reynolds is more or less the ringleader, and usually winds up being host. The whole purpose of the evening is to play a game, similar to charades, only drawing on a blackboard instead of acting out. Sounds silly and harmless enough . . . but it gets even sillier than that, and we play for blood. Girls against the boys.

  Over the years, the cast of characters has shifted slightly, but the nucleus remains pretty stable. (Anything but the appropriate word.) Along with Burt, of course, the group would include Mel Brooks and his wife, Anne Bancroft, Carl Reiner, Dom De Luise, Bert Convy, Charles Nelson Reilly, Loni Anderson, Michelle Lee, Norman Fell . . . (get an idea of the types?) . . . along with spouses and mates. Turn this group loose in a room with a blackboard and a piece of chalk, and it’s black belt comedy time.

  Before play begins, the women gather in one room and the men in another to choose movie and television show titles that the opposing team will be called upon to sketch . . . the more obscure, the more diabolically difficult, the better. Once the titles are decided on, we all get back together to start the game. One by one, each person is given a title to “draw” on the blackboard, for fellow team members to guess, against the clock. Charles Nelson Reilly was timekeeper only once, which was a sketch in itself. Clint Eastwood, who can seem so grim and intense and dignified, was just as ridiculous as the rest of us.

  One night, at our house this time, Fred Astaire, who loves games, was playing this drawing madness for the first time. (Imagine all these alleged grown-ups, racing through dinner so they can set up their blackboard and play!) Fred was given a title to sketch . . . Follow the Fleet, one of his own hit movies.

  On this big blackboard, Fred began drawing microscopic little sailors that no one could possibly see. When that didn’t work, he drew every kind of ship he could think of, then arrows to try and get them to say, “Follow.” This went on for six minutes, and by now his team members were purposely not guessing even if they did know. Finally, in desperation, Fred picked up the entire blackboard and stalked out of the room, as everyone at long last chorused, “Follow the Fleet!!”

  Not long ago, Burt Reynolds and Bert Convy joined forces to try and put this game on television, and we taped a pilot show. By the time you read this it will be on the air. Some of the drawings, I fear, will lose a little something in the translation to family TV.

  Carol Burnett is another game player beyond redemption. Whether there are four people or forty, Carol will have a game afoot.

  One night we were invited to her house for an evening of “murder” . . . a game wherein one member of the group is secretly designated as the killer, and it is up to the rest of us to track him down. This is done through a series of elaborate clues that have been planted all over the house. Carol must have worked all day setting things up.

  Allen’s “Password” taping had run a little late, and coming straight from the studio, we arrive just after the game has begun. As we pull up in front of the house, here is Rock Hudson, diligently searching through the bushes by the front door. With a quick “hi” and a wave, he is back to the bushes. We walk in the open front door in time to see Vicki Lawrence running in one direction and Tim Conway in the other. From the top of the stairway, Carol calls down, “Hi, Allen. Hi, Betty . . . your packets are on the table . . . see you later!” Dutifully, we got our envelopes containing our instructions, and were instantly involved, searching for our own clues . . . for the next hour and a half.

  I don’t recall whodunit, or who won . . . all I remember is that in following the clues, I kept running into other people doing the same thing, and each one was a famous face! When we all finally got together for refreshments later, it looked as if the party had been done by Central Casting.

  For the past fifteen years I have served on the board of GLAZA, the Greater Los Angeles Zoo Association, with Gloria Stewart, a dynamite lady and wife of actor James Stewart. They are both staunch supporters of the zoo with both time and money. One day when Allen had occasion to call their home, Jimmy answered the phone . . . it wasn’t too tough to recognize his voice. Allen kidded him, “Don’t you know big stars never answer their own phones?” “Well,” said Jimmy, “I . . . uh . . . no . . . I guess they don’t.”

  Whenever I call Lucille Ball, I have to be careful. More than once, hearing the deep “Hello,” I’ve said, “Gary?” “No, this is Lucille.”

  With all the various animal activities in which I am involved, I am forever swearing my friends into service. Their marquis value helps immeasurably, and is deeply appreciated. No one have I taken more advantage of than my friend Mary Tyler Moore. Poor Mary must shudder whenever she hears I’m into a new project, because she knows it won’t be long before she gets my call.

  At one point I did a television series called “The Pet Set” . . . each half hour featured a celebrity with his pet, and then I would write the rest of the show around his particular area of interest in animals. Well . . . guess who my first show was written for! And, as always, Mary said okay.

  First, we interviewed Mary, on camera, with her two poodles, Maude and Diswilliam . . . and then had a bevy of poodles of every size, color, age, and flavor extant. For the big finish, we had our wild animal spot . . . and I thought it would be fun to do a takeoff on the MTM pussycat logo.

  This was a lovely excuse, (as was the entire show) for me to romp with special friends of mine . . . Major, a dear, kind, black-maned lion . . . and Sultan, a Siberian tiger, whose manners were perfect.

  The payoff came with Mary and Betty, sitting on the floor playing with two six-week-old tiger cubs, and Mary telling me that the MTM mewing kitten was, in itself, a takeoff on the original MGM Leo the Lion.

  I was thrilled with the way it all tied in, as was everyone connected with the show. Good friend, Mary, went along with it, and handled baby tigers’ sharp little claws, as well as Betty’s enthusiasm, and kept smiling. It was only after we signed off that I learned that although Mary loves animals, cats were anything but her favorites, and the wild variety were even lower on her totem pole.

  Our friendship not only withstood that test, but a couple of years later, lucky Mary got elected to help Betty with yet another adventure.

  Because I wanted to show the world what a truly spectacular zoo we have in Los Angeles, I wrote, sold, and hosted a ninety-minute special . . . “Backstage at the Zoo” . . . for the Metromedia stations around the country.

  Divided into segments, each segment was hosted by a star/friend . . . Joe Campanella, Amanda Blake, Jimmy Stewart, Greg Morris, and who else but Mary Tyler Supportive Buddy Moore!

  I wanted to make it fun for her, so she was featured on the baby animal nursery segment. During the interview portion, zoo director Dr. Warren Thomas, Betty, and Mary . . . Mary holding a rambunctious baby gorilla . . . sat in a lovely area outside the zoo nursery, talking about how important these captive-born gorilla babies are to the dwindling worldwide gorilla population. It was a heavy discussion, and midway through, Mary jumped
perceptibly. Keeping that uranium MTM smile, she firmly handed baby gorilla to me, yet never missed a beat in the conversation. It seems that the little one found Mary’s T-shirt irresistible, and pinched whatever he could find to get her attention.

  It is rather amazing that she continues to be such a good friend. Mary is one of those special people . . . who are there for you, not just for the good times, but whenever they are really needed.

  After tigers and gorillas, I’ll have to think of something spectacular for her next time.

  And there will be a next time.

  On Fans in General

  The term “fan” sounds far too impersonal to describe the many many nice people who greet you . . . not as a stranger, but as someone they have invited into their homes. They may not write letters, perhaps, but do take the opportunity to say hello if they happen to see you.

  Quite a few ask for autographs . . . and it is interesting to sort out the various ways in which this is done. Attitudes are highly contagious.

  The smaller the group . . . the better the manners.

  If it is one individual, alone, it’s usually “Could I trouble you for an autograph?” or “Would you mind signing this, please?” With pleasure.

  If somebody shoves a pencil and paper in your face, shouting, “Sign this!” . . . he or she is asking for a more brusque response. A pushy group . . . drawing support and false courage in numbers . . . is usually made up of remarkably normal individuals, who would never act that way on their own. Those who are downright rude, are few and far between.