by Betty White
Then there is the well-meaning soul who eagerly asks for an autograph . . . but doesn’t have pencil or paper.
Whichever side of the autograph book we happen to be on . . . giving or receiving . . . it’s a good idea to remember what a lasting impression can be made in such a brief encounter. It’s really too bad that it is the couple of negative examples that stick in your mind rather than all those very nice people you see every day.
Do I have any specifics? Afraid so.
My husband Allen and I were having dinner one night at a very lovely restaurant, in a cozy booth, out of the traffic pattern. We were, as usual, deep in conversation, enjoying each other and the fact that we were out on one of our “married dates.”
A woman came up to the table, and in a voice that would cut steel, proclaimed to the world, “It’s Allen Ludden! And Betty White!” She went on to say what would normally be some flattering things, but not at those decibels, and not at such length. Foolishly, we assumed we were rescued when the waiter brought our entree. No such luck. He kept trying to maneuver around her, and finally, when he had said, “Excuse me,” for the third time, she, without missing a beat in her monologue, sat down in the booth with us . . . and there she remained even after the waiter left.
My usually good-natured husband had finally had it, and said, politely but firmly, “Ma’am, your dinner must be getting cold. I know ours is. I suggest you go back to your table now.” It didn’t seem to shake her even slightly . . . without any show of haste, she got up and left us with, “No, we’re done, we’re just on coffee. I’ll bring my husband over on the way out.” I dug my nails into Allen’s thigh under the table, just to remind him that it probably wouldn’t be nice to hit a lady in a fine restaurant.
I’d like to say she had just had a little too much to drink and was feeling convivial, but I’m afraid she was cold sober and insensitive. We also had the distinct impression that it wasn’t Allen and Betty she was gushing over, but that anybody she recognized sitting there would have been equally lucky. Happy to report, we never did see the poor guy who had to go home with that woman.
The prize exasperating encounter happened in New York one chilly night when Allen and I had been married a short month. Romantic fella that he was, Allen celebrated each month’s wedding anniversary with a gift . . . for the whole first year of our marriage. Of course, I didn’t know that on this first month celebration . . . all I knew was that we were going to the theater. But when he came to help me on with my coat, my husband slipped a short white mink jacket on my shoulders instead. It was gorgeous, and I was thrilled beyond description.
(author’s note: This was in 1963, before it dawned on either of us how stupid it was to wear fur at the painful cost of animal lives . . . especially when there are so many beautiful and warm alternatives.)
We were just stepping into a cab to begin our festive evening when a young man rushed up, and with a “Hey! Sign this!” shoved an autograph book and a fountain pen at me. Now I know why it is called a fountain pen . . . it literally erupted, with bright blue ink, all down the front of my brand-new jacket. And I mean all down the front!
Undaunted, the young man insisted. “Sign it!” Needless to say, we left him insisting, and rushed back inside to try and rectify the damage, but it was a mess. Later, the cleaner tried valiantly . . . they got rid of the blue, but there remained a sickly yellow stain that proved permanent.
Today, of course, I would read the above and snarl, “Serves her right for wearing fur!” But at the time I was unenlightened . . . and, in any event, his blue ink wouldn’t have looked good on whatever I was wearing.
Enough of the bad news, let’s get back to something more pleasant. Fan clubs have been in existence for a long long time, but over the years they have grown larger, both in size and number, as well as more sophisticated. They usually begin with a few people who like the same celebrity, and this forms the nucleus of a mutual admiration society. These groups have proliferated to the point that there is now an International Society of Fan Clubs . . . members of different individual clubs meet and mingle at the annual convention.
There has been a Betty White fan club for over thirty years, which has remained loyal and supportive through all the different stages of my career. Called “Bets’ Pets,” it was originally started by a girl viewer, Barbara Guthrie, who went on to become my first secretary. The club has been in the capable hands of one Kay Daly, its president, ever since. Kay is a busy and dedicated fourth grade teacher, yet still finds the time to run the club, send out a monthly newsletter, and a yearly journal. “Bets’ Pets” is not only self-sustaining, but each Christmas, and again on my birthday, a charity fund is raised and sent to various animal organizations in my honor. These people are all give and no take . . . asking nothing of me, either financially or in terms of time. Fan clubs are misunderstood and underestimated by many as simply an ego trip for the celebrity involved. I can only judge from the “Pets,” but I see them as individuals with common interests who reach out across the country, becoming pen pals with each other, forming lasting friendships, and enjoying their hobby. I have found my fan club to be a group of constant and loyal friends through good times and bad. They are much appreciated.
Since we haven’t been able to come up with anything better than the term “fan,” I guess we’re stuck with it. “Devotees” sounds pretentious . . . “followers” has a cultish ring to it . . . “supporters” won’t do at all. Sports fans would then become “athletic supporters.”
No . . . “fans” it shall be . . . and thank God for them.
On Fan Mail
There is also something vaguely unsavory to me about the term “fan letter.” It always sounds like a putdown of the sender, the recipient . . . or both. However, since I can’t seem to come up with anything better . . . “letters from unknown strangers”?, “strange letters”?, “letters I’ve never met”? . . . let’s, under protest, go with “fan mail.”
A percentage of the mail that comes in consists of simple requests for autographed pictures. A very few of these get quite specific, even a tad demanding. “Send me an 8 X 10, personally signed, not Xeroxed!” “Please”may or may not be added as an afterthought. (For the record, I sign ’em all. No Xeroxes.)
Another larger portion of the mail asks for personalized items to sell at charity auctions. This is a phenomenon that has mushroomed in just the last few years, until now these requests number in the dozens each week, and growing. With some exceptions . . . (I couldn’t resist the little girl who asked for an item to sell at their celebrity “option”) . . . it is regrettably impossible to respond to them all. The goose is running low on golden eggs.
Many of my letters, naturally, have to do with animals in some way . . . requesting information, inviting me to various fund-raisers, reporting abuses, or simply sharing pictures of their pets with me. You can guess the ones I like best.
Now and then there will be the direct pitch for money. Not a little money . . . this group always seems to think in terms of five figures. Usually there is some fail-safe product they are trying to launch. But once in a while there is the hardy soul who just asks for the money . . . period. I often wonder if any of these ever receive an answer. Not from me.
Whatever term we use for it, the mail comes in from a wide assortment of viewers of all ages, colors, occupations, economic levels, incarcerations, political or sexual persuasions. It furnishes those of us on television a chance to look back through the TV screen and see who’s out there . . . sometimes even to get acquainted.
I still receive letters from people who have been writing to me for thirty years. Most of them I have never met, and my responses are pitifully meager and infrequent, but they continue to write without complaint. I’ve gone through their marriages and divorces, watched their children grow . . . in a couple of cases we’re on our third generation.
One unforgettable lady wrote to me every single week for almost fifteen years. Her name was Evelyn Martin, and h
er letter would come in without fail every Monday morning . . . one sheet, written on both sides. When she came to the bottom of the page, even if she was in the middle of a sentence, the letter would stop with “Love, Evelyn.” She would tell me about her friends, and her club meetings, but almost never about herself. She lived in Heltonville, Indiana, which, she once explained to me, was halfway between Bridgeport and Seymour! The only way I learned that she didn’t have running water in her house was when everyone’s pipes froze one year and they all had to come to the pump at her back door.
For years I didn’t have a clue as to Evelyn’s age or appearance, then she finally sent me a picture of herself . . . a tiny, blurry snapshot . . . a friend had taken on her fifty-fourth birthday.
For Evelyn, the whole year revolved around Christmas. She would make it last until spring, then immediately begin pointing for the next “Yuletide,” as she always called it.
It continually amazed me that her letters never missed being on time . . . every Monday morning . . . even when I moved to New York for six years after Allen and I were married. Which event, incidentally, almost caused a break in Evelyn’s loyal friendship. When she heard that I had married Allen Ludden, the letters didn’t stop, but were filled with her shock and deep disappointment that I had broken up a man’s home and family. And shame on him, too! Love, Evelyn! I lost no time assuring her that Allen was a widower, and had been since I’d known him. She not only forgave me, but took Allen into the fold as well. In true Allen fashion, because he enjoyed her letters so, he saw to it that she received a Della Robbia wreath every Christmas. She kept them from year to year.
One Monday, instead of Evelyn’s familiar writing, I received a note from her neighbor . . . Evelyn had died in her sleep.
A letter came in just recently from another longtime correspondent . . . a lady in Wisconsin who has been writing to me for over twenty years. Again, my responses are almost nonexistent, but her letters have always been long and newsy . . . full of stories about her husband, their boat, and their pets. Five years ago, her husband was diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s disease, and he finally had to be put in a nursing home. This story is better told by the lady herself, so let me quote her letter:
“Having researched and written Pet Love, thought you might be interested in some more findings on the subject.
“George’s brain has been destroyed . . . he is now like a nine-month-old infant. He’s forgotten how to talk, walk, read, write, or care for himself. He doesn’t know me, or recognize the nurses who give him tender loving care . . .
“In December I found the collar of George’s tan Chihuahua, Amigo, with the ID tag AMIGO—I BELONG TO GEORGE LOW and the leash with Amigo’s last 1978 license. I put them on a toy stuffed Scotty dog and took them to the nursing home.
“At first there was no response from George to us or the toy. He just had a dead man’s stare. Several days later, the nurse and aides were so excited, asking me to see George, who was petting and babbling to the toy . . . He smiled and cooed with glee, trying to tell us about his dog, but we couldn’t understand a word.
“For a long time he had been fanning the floor with his hand, but no longer does that. He must have been petting his dogs, but now with a dog to hold, he no longer needs to pet unseen dogs on the floor. They put the leash around his waist, so if he drops the dog he can bring it back to himself. They say they put Amigo to bed with him, so if he wakes up in the night he has his dog . . . He seems more alert to his surroundings for the past two months. It is pet therapy even with a toy pet!”
With the advent of “The Golden Girls,” the mail has increased in volume and the horizons have expanded, as we are seen in so many different countries . . . but the breakdown remains fairly consistent. Already there are some regulars beginning to surface . . . a young man in England who keeps me posted on our ratings over there . . . a chap from Australia who sends animal pictures . . . as well as the one-timers.
My secretary and right arm, Gail Clark, handles opening and sorting and simple requests, but she sees that I read the personals. And our ironclad rule is that I see every single negative letter. There are some, of course, but these are a surprisingly small minority. With today’s tendency toward negativism, I am always amazed that so many people take the time to sit down and say what they liked . . . and, believe me, it is appreciated. Unfortunately, once again it is the bad ones that stick in your mind. It is not to my credit that the one I remember most mentioned each and every thing about me they couldn’t stand, and documented all my individual performances over the years that they had hated . . . watched but hated. Jellyfish that I am, it cut right to the bone. (All right! Jellyfish don’t have bones, but you know what I mean!) Whenever I start getting carried away with myself, I think about that letter.
And then there are the obscene letters. Or, in my case, letter. I have heard celebrity friends talk about them, and know they can be a real problem. It says something about me . . . (I’m not sure what!) . . . that, though I have received several threats, and a few marriage proposals, I have received only one bona fide obscene letter . . . and it was mimeo’d!
Jellyfish that I am . . . !
On Professional Jealousy
Professional jealousy. How is that for a classic cliché? Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less valid. While it is to be found in any field of endeavor, show biz takes the biggest rap . . . sometimes warranted, sometimes not.
There are few lines of work wherein a person is as vulnerable, or as desperately in need of approval, as in the acting game. The touchy psyche that is the basis of whatever talent may exist is about as stable as a sea anemone . . . wide open in full bloom one moment, then, without visible provocation, collapsing within itself the next.
We may attempt to hide the situation by wearing a number of disguises . . . overconfidence, sickening humility, indifference . . . but those are only the costumes. Gut-level insecurity is the reality . . . and for good reason. Despite how diligently he may work to hone his craft, there is really no solid ground on which an actor can stand . . . because he cannot lock in his best performance, then know it will be that way every time. He keeps “improving” it . . . once in a while it even gets better . . . often, only bigger.
How, then, do these fragile egos . . . these tissue-paper-skinned individuals . . . ever manage to work together? Sometimes they don’t very well.
It always saddens me to hear that some highly successful show is a hotbed of dissension in real life . . . or that the stars of this or that series are, in fact, carrying on a running feud. How do you work under those conditions . . . let alone turn out a decent product?
Some of the stories, to be sure, are apocryphal. Because gossip is mother’s milk to a great many people, a whole industry of garbage newspapers flourishes at every market checkout stand in the country. Writing about how well people get along doesn’t sell very well, so if it’s a slow feud day, they make some up!
Sad to say, there are times when rumors are based on fact. Knowing how much time and togetherness is involved in making a television series, it is mind-boggling to think of doing it if you disliked each other! Bad enough in a dramatic situation . . . imagine doing comedy under those conditions?!
I don’t even want to contemplate what the set of “The Golden Girls” would be like if we didn’t all support and respect one another. The fact that we also happen to be nuts about each other was an added starter which could not have been foreseen when the show was first put together.
Beatrice Arthur and Rue McClanahan had worked together for six years on “Maude” . . . Rue and I had been on “Mama’s Family” together for a couple of seasons . . . Estelle Getty came from a hot run on Broadway in Torch Song Trilogy. There could not be four more disparate females! If you think Dorothy, Blanche, Sophia, and Rose differ from each other on the show . . . that’s nothing compared to what we are in person. Yet we hit it off from the word go.
It isn’t hard to figure out the reason . . . o
r reasons for that. The four of us came together, each with an established career in place . . . past the stage (and age) of desperately trying to carve our own niche in the business. We were all interested in the show itself, not just our own characters . . . thanks to the wise producers and writers. They pulled off a real hat trick, by giving each of those characters enough to do in every script to keep us very busy and out of trouble.
From the very beginning, we were each thrilled by the professionalism of the other three. No one had to be carried. Whatever one of us served up was returned in kind . . . or better.
Of equal importance, if a set is to be a happy one, we were also blessed by the work manners of our group. No one had to be waited for . . . each was where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there. This set the tone and allowed us to relax and get silly, knowing that when the whistle blew, we’d all be in the chute.
You cannot imagine what a luxury that is for an actor. And I have been so very lucky . . . this was not my first experience with such an ideal work situation. “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” had the same degree of professionalism . . . and deep friendship.
The tone of that show was set by the lady herself. Mary’s talent, integrity . . . not to mention her punctuality . . . gave everyone else something to shoot for. She was, in every positive sense of the word, the star of the show. The show ran for seven years . . . I came aboard for the last four, but only on a part-time basis. The most scripts in one twenty-two week season in which rotten Sue Ann Nivens appeared was twelve . . . but she was there for that final show. That’s when the love really spilled over, and we were awash all week . . . laughing a lot, and crying a lot.
The writers couldn’t bring themselves to actually put the final scene down on paper until two days before the show. Jay Sandrich, our wonderful director, couldn’t handle rehearsing it (any more than we could) until the very day of the filming. We all cried through rehearsal, we all cried at performance . . . even during a pickup shot afterward.