Betty White in Person

by Betty White

  The Talker is easy to spot. He is ready with a cheery self-introduction and opening gambit even before the door is closed. He would prefer sitting next to a Passive Listener, but should he draw another Talker it’s all right, because they won’t be listening to each other anyhow. His frustration is apparent, however, if he is unfortunate enough to get a seat partner who immediately dives into book or briefcase . . . these individuals are often tough to break down. He bides his time until the food is served . . . and just as the book or work is set aside momentarily . . . he makes another assault. If his opponent is quick enough to go for the earphones, Talker is finally forced to concede.

  Perhaps someday there will be seating arrangements that can be reserved ahead, designating seat partner type preference . . . much like the smoking and nonsmoking sections today.

  Being a confirmed book/briefcase type, I must still admit, reluctantly, that I have had some memorable conversations in the air. On two occasions they were so interesting that I jotted down notes afterward, which I still have. And the best exception of all, a dear friend whom I cherish, is someone my mother met on a flight from New York to Los Angeles. Mom and Aimée Friedman struck up a conversation that lasted three thousand miles and twenty years.

  Before I abandon my book and briefcase entirely, though, it pays to remember that those gems are but tiny islands in a sea of inconsequential small talk. Overall, observing is still more fun in this situation, I find, than participating . . . and it can become a real spectator sport during the occasional post-cocktail-hour mating dance!

  An airliner is just one small arena for people watchers. It not only works anywhere, but there are so many variations on the game.

  One day on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, I saw a motorcycle policeman writing out a ticket at the curb. Not too unusual . . . except that it was a very tall policeman, and the tiniest, lowest little red sports car I ever saw. What made the moment memorable . . . the cop was literally down on both knees on the street in order to talk to the driver.

  People listening is also fun when you’re by yourself. Riding up an escalator at Lord & Taylor, I once overheard two women talking behind me . . . and the scrap of conversation was brief, but vivid. All I heard was one woman say, “We adored Rome, but I spent so much money! Even on the way to the airport, I had to stop at one more gallery. I paid a bundle for this old masterpiece, and when I got it on the plane the goddam thing was still wet!”

  Judging from my own cluttered mind, I know that it is possible, on different levels, to be thinking of three unrelated things, while outwardly we appear to be doing something else entirely. It’s sometimes interesting to try and surmise what is really going on in someone else’s head. Certain clues can be helpful . . . facial expression, body language, tone of voice . . . from which you make up a whole scenario to suit your own imagination. Of course, there is no way of knowing if you were even close, but you’ve had fun guessing.

  If anyone was ever able to take a look inside my head, they’d get the net.

  Yet another variation on observing people is also good mental gymnastics, and can be a welcome diversion if you are stuck in a waiting situation. Glance at someone for a split second, then look away and see how many details about that individual you can recall. Then you can look again and check your description. Not so easy, is it? But you’ll find you do get better at this with practice. Just be sure to keep your glances subtle . . . don’t get so carried away that you forget they could be looking back at you.

  And sometimes they are.

  When someone has been appearing on television for a hundred years, as I have, it is only to be expected that people may recognize you. Television, more than any other medium, invites informality . . . which I think is great. At the market, for example, people go by and say, “Hi, Betty” in passing . . . as you would to anyone who has been visiting your house for years. Movie stars, on the other hand, seem to have something of an invisible shield around them. Onscreen they are larger than life, so it follows they might be somewhat more intimidating in person.

  Whatever the reason for a “celebrity” identity, it does tend to inhibit your own people watching, because you are no longer anonymous . . . to some degree you are “on.” But it is still fun to watch the different ways people handle the situation.

  For the most part, the folks who come up to you are warm and polite . . . sometimes even apologetic. They say something generous then move on. Now and then there is the accuser . . . “You’re Betty White, aren’t you? I knew it!” You feel so guilty suddenly, you are forced to confess. “Yes . . . I am. I’m sorry!”

  Then there are the ones who seem to think you can neither see nor hear. They nudge the person next to them and point. “Look! I told you that’s her! She’s not as fat as I thought she was!” The fact that they are standing three feet from you doesn’t faze them an iota . . . they are so used to talking in front of their TV set.

  It always amazes me how readily they can spot you . . . no matter how you may look. Especially little kids. I can have a scarf on my hair, be wearing glasses, and bundled up to here in a raincoat . . . not for disguise, but for weather . . . and, sure enough . . . “Hi, Betty! I recognized your voice right off!”

  Far from resenting the familiarity, I think it is a lovely vote of confidence. Ninety-nine percent of the time the greetings are graciously enthusiastic . . . and brief. I am very flattered.

  Whether one is the watcher or the watchee . . . people are entertaining.

  On Awareness

  If there was such a thing as an “awareness meter,” people watchers should score well, wouldn’t you think? Not always.

  First, some ground rules must be established as to what constitutes awareness, which probably varies with each individual. It is also difficult . . . if not impossible . . . to measure. Some people can be very conscious of things around them, yet keep still about it. Others of us seem to have a compulsion to belabor the obvious with comment.

  I plead guilty to the latter, but it is not intentional, so help me . . . it just pops out. It doesn’t necessarily make me a bad person, but I have a maddening habit of interrupting myself to say, “Look at that sky!” (or whatever) . . . and then going right on with the conversation. I know it is maddening, because a close friend, who has known me forever, uses it as a sarcastic putdown whenever he wants to get my goat. He contends that he has seen whatever I am pointing out, but doesn’t find it remarkable. Heaven forfend he should waste a remark!

  Naturally, I will take his word that he noticed whatever it was . . . even if he was looking the other way. But what he never will understand is that I wasn’t pointing it out for his benefit . . . only for my own. An involuntary gasp of appreciation, I guess.

  So “Look at that sky!” has become a cliché between us that can apply to almost anything. He has known me for so many years, of course, . . . he thinks cliché is my second language.

  The awareness that I find appealing in people is really nothing more than sensitivity, and it is certainly not limited to scenery alone.

  Someone can be aware . . . that a person is being ignored in a group. How many times have you seen people get so engrossed in a conversation that they keep shifting positions, until one poor guy finds himself looking at nothing but backs? This isn’t deliberate rudeness . . . just insensitivity.

  Someone can be aware . . . that there are others trying to see what he is looking at, and he will make a little room accordingly.

  Someone can be aware . . . that a car is waiting for her parking place, so she will postpone touching up her lipstick until later.

  And like that.

  Sometimes it is difficult for me to believe that people aren’t acting out of sheer malice. It seems inconceivable, with all the bodies on this planet, that anyone could fail to notice all those others besides himself. But . . . amazingly . . . that’s the way it is.

  Perhaps it is a form of subliminal self-preservation . . . insulation against the burgeoning densit
y of the population. Survival of the fittest . . . or the most insensitive.

  Whatever excuses we find for them, I hate to think the inconsiderate shall inherit the earth. In order to survive it is not really mandatory to carry on a conversation at full voice in a movie theater!

  I am beginning to get testy, which serves no purpose. Let’s go back to where we came in . . . we were talking about being observant.

  Noticing something different about someone can be flattering. Or at least preferable to not noticing at all. The other day at work, a fellow I know said that it took his wife a week to realize he had shaved off the mustache he’d worn for fifteen years. Maybe she just didn’t find it “remarkable.”

  Being aware of a change in the sound of your car’s engine . . . if you discover it early enough . . . may save a repair bill down the road. (This one I flunk out on completely.)

  Any Californian venturing east of the Rocky Mountains is sure to be bombarded with “Don’t you miss the change of seasons?” This is a question I can understand because, as has been indicated, I speak fluent cliché.

  Well, to the observer who is seeing . . . not just looking . . . we have changes in the seasons, even in crazy old California. We just go about it more subtly. Our leaves turn in the fall without being ostentatious about it. We know when it’s winter because we cut our roses back so we will have gorgeous blooms again in twenty minutes. We also know it’s winter when the wind blows chill through our California bungalows, even though all the doors and windows are closed and the air conditioning is off.

  Spring is a little harder to detect, since everything has been in bloom all winter . . . but a sure sign is when the mockingbirds sing all night, and the hills turn from gold to green. Easterners call our winter hills brown . . . we know they are gold.

  Summer is the most obvious of all, since it is brushfire season, and it’s not easy to be subtle about that.

  It doesn’t matter where you live if you are a sky watcher . . . the sky is great everywhere. Clouds are never the same, but always a spur to the imagination. If you see one spectacular sunset, you have not seen them all.

  And then there is the moon! It has been doing its number, month in and month out, for quite some time, but it is still a constant source of wonder and beauty to the romantics of this world. On moonlit nights I make it a point to take one last look before I go to bed . . . in case one or the other of us may not be there tomorrow night. How must those men feel who have walked there!?

  Some people just don’t know . . . or care . . . what they’re missing.

  But then . . . think of all the things they see that I miss.

  “Look at that sky!”

  “What sky?”

  On Animals . . . Naturally

  It is difficult for me to stay off the subject of animals at any time . . . but well nigh impossible when we are talking about awareness. Animals invented it . . . they survive by it . . . and, since moving in to live with us humans, have perfected it to a fine art.

  Our pets are tuned in to us at all times, and remembering this, we can begin to appreciate the wordless communication that exists between us and our dog or cat. The longer we live together, the more mutually perceptive we become. This same rapport is a little harder to come by with people . . . words get in the way, and basic meaning or intent becomes clouded. Not so with the fourlegged creatures that share our lives. They keep it simple . . . dogs in particular. Cats are every bit as sensitive, but much more sophisticated. They are willing to pretend to cool it until there is some reason to get involved. With dogs . . . every moment is deemed worthy of their complete attention.

  A dog can be sound asleep, but so much as tiptoe to another chair . . . the ears lift, the eyebrows twitch, and, usually, the head comes up momentarily until you settle again.

  The best wordless communicator I’ve known was our Sooner . . . a golden retriever/Labrador (at the very least) mix that we found on the street one night when he was only a few months old. After healing up a broken leg, we brought him home for fifteen wonderful years. Talk about being on the same wavelength! It got so that if I simply smiled at him across the room, he would wag his tail . . . but if I frowned, his ears would go down, and his eyebrows (trust me) became question marks! He didn’t always do exactly as I wanted, but it wasn’t ever because he didn’t understand . . . and he knew I outranked him. Once I realized that he was as smart as I was, we got along fine.

  My black cat, T.K., has another approach. She thinks she won’t give me the satisfaction of letting me know she is listening, but again, it is her ears that are the dead giveaway. When I speak to her she can look the other way in an elaborate show of inattention, but those black ears are turning like radar scopes, taking in everything.

  This constant two-way communication does keep a house from feeling empty. You have to pay attention to something besides your own concerns . . . maybe only subconsciously . . . whether you want to or not.

  At long last, pets have been publicly recognized as first-rate therapists. They have been doing the job since time began, but it has only been in the last couple of decades that we caught on. For the ill, for the disturbed, the disabled, the disenfranchised . . . probably most of all for the elderly . . . pets can be a link with life.

  My friend Tom Watson and I wrote a book, Betty White’s Pet Love, on the subject of pets used in therapy. In the course of our research, we came across example after example in which animals established a contact, or triggered a response, where a human therapist could not. We didn’t just read about it . . . we saw it. And these stories continue to come in almost daily.

  Many in the medical community, doctors as well as nurses, who were disbelievers going in . . . have become avid converts after seeing how deeply an animal can reach patients in certain situations. What I find surprising is that often the contact will work, even though a patient may not have been particularly animal-oriented in the past.

  Dogs and cats aren’t the only animals in the miracle-working business. Horses have proven invaluable, both physically and emotionally, in helping children suffering from various crippling diseases. Therapeutic riding programs were developed in England years ago, and are now found all over this country as well as abroad.

  The physical therapy necessary in treating crippled children is often painful, and certainly tedious. Those same movements in many cases can be achieved by taking the little one out of a wheelchair and placing him on a horse. Can you imagine what a far-reaching lift that is? The child who, until now, has only been looking up from a bed or a wheelchair is suddenly above it all . . . and, what’s more, feels in charge of this huge animal beneath him.

  The horse, too, seems to be fully aware of how important his passenger is, and behaves with appropriate care and patience.

  One horse in particular I shall never forget. In Los Angeles there is a fine therapeutic riding program called “Ahead with Horses” under the direction of Liz Helms. One evening they had a demonstration for the public with some of the children involved in the program. They were a mixed group of assorted sizes and physical problems, but long on pride and enthusiasm.

  The smallest was a boy no bigger than a minute, and the horse he rode looked enormous. A young gymnast (a volunteer with the group) walked beside, unobtrusively holding the child’s belt for safety. I couldn’t help noticing how tenderly the young man handled both the rider . . . and the horse. They proudly made their way around the ring, and when they had come full circle, the horse stopped and stood like a statue. The little one was lifted down, but instead of being put right into his chair, he was placed standing . . . with braces . . . on the ground. This tiny child reached toward the motionless horse and took three steps. It was one of those “moments.”

  Later the young man told me they were the first steps this little boy had taken . . . the added excitement of riding in the “show” had provided the little extra push that was needed to make it possible.

  When I stroked the horse and told him how good h
e had been, too, the young fellow introduced us. “This is Promise Yourself.” He grinned. “He’s our best teacher. The kids can all relate to him because he’s overcoming a problem, too. You see, he’s blind.”

  On Measured Honesty

  Could you make it through a whole day telling nothing but the truth? If you did, you might wind up losing some friends.

  There are times when the absolute truth just won’t cut it . . .

  This certainly applies if you are in the acting business . . . where you are constantly obligated to make comment on the performances or productions of friends.

  If it is a casual friendship, and the production is a bomb . . . you might try to make it through that minefield by being enthusiastically noncommittal. “Well, that was really something!” “What an evening!” But so many jokes have been made about that . . . “Well, you’ve done it again!” . . . that it’s difficult to pull it off without sounding as though you are doing exactly what you are, in fact, doing.

  Even dear close friends don’t want to hear that a production is bad . . . yet they would be horrified if you lied to them. You must level to a certain extent . . . but if you really love them you don’t have to go into chapter and verse about what a turkey it was. Merciful measured honesty.

  There are so many instances when the whole truth can pose a problem.

  Suppose someone I like is giving a party. What do I do? Make up a polite, if slightly creative excuse, or be truthful and say, “I don’t like parties in general, and yours are the worst!” If I stopped with “I don’t like parties in general,” I might get by with it . . . but then I’d feel guilty, and worry . . . and . . . Well, I usually wind up going.