Betty White in Person

by Betty White

  I would suffer with her, knowing what she was going through. It is one thing to have breakups on a comedy show, but there are a few places where it is just not possible . . . and a news broadcast is one of them. Knowing this doesn’t do one thing toward saving you when it counts.

  Sometimes a crack-up is caused, with deliberate intent, by one or another diabolical member of the company. In a long-running play, it has been done to relieve the tedium . . . but it is not considered the height of serious theater. In a television studio, the temptations, and the opportunities, are multiplied.

  Harvey Korman and Tim Conway are a classic example of two bad boys who should never be allowed to play together. People often thought their breakups on “The Carol Burnett Show” were planned. Not so . . . they were just highly susceptible to each other’s humor, and sometimes it took nothing more than walking onstage together to get them going. However, Tim did have a sneaky habit of holding back some little goodie . . . a line, or a reaction, or a special piece of wardrobe . . . that no one had seen in rehearsal. Come airtime, hearing it for the first time, everybody was apt to go up . . . but Harvey was a sure wipeout.

  My sympathy for Harvey (whom I adore) would be a lot deeper had I not done a play with him, years ago, in Milwaukee summer stock . . . Who Was That Lady I Saw You With?

  This time, Harvey was the culprit jokester. He spotted me immediately as having a low laugh threshold . . . and he would stoop to anything. At the opening of the second act, each night, I was onstage, alone, pasting pictures in a scrapbook. Somehow Harvey would manage to get to that scrapbook ahead of time, and I never knew what to expect when I opened it . . . once it was a row of naked little old ladies in army boots! . . . then he would make his entrance with big innocent eyes waiting for my reaction. This childish six-foot-four person would even glue my coffee cup to the saucer. Now, this was theater-in-the-round, where the audience was not only on all sides of you, but so close, they were practically in your lap . . . there was no place to hide. My only source of comfort was that once, maybe twice, I managed to play it very straight . . . so much so that Harvey cracked himself up! But then, naturally, that would do me in! This, dear drama students, is not the way to run a railroad.

  Quite seriously, “fun in the studio” can be a real bore to the audience if they don’t know what’s going on . . . making them feel left out, and that is nothing short of rude. Through the years, I have tried to make it a policy to deal the audience in and explain what the joke is, either during or after the show. For all the times that circumstances have made this impossible . . . as well as for any future digressions that are bound to occur . . . please accept this as a blanket apology.

  I’m not really a bad person. I just got in with the wrong crowd.

  III

  OUT OF MY MIND

  On Imagination

  There is one addition I would like to nominate for the Endangered Species list. Imagination.

  It has been explained to me at great length, more than once, that in today’s world of sophisticated toys and omnipresent television, we have paved over the ground where imagination grew. There is no room for it anymore. Tsk tsk. Too bad. So sad.

  Not so fast.

  It is difficult for me to agree that today’s kids have less imagination . . . I just think sometimes its growth is stunted too early. I’m not talking about programming a computer, or drawing a picture electronically . . . but the ability to visualize something in the mind without having to press a button . . . or to make up a complicated daydream out of whole cloth, without the chemical stimulation of hallucinogens.

  Daydreams still allow for the distinction between imagination and reality.

  Hallucinations don’t.

  Remember that period, not too long ago, when the alleged experts were saying how wrong it was to tell children stories . . . or to let them pretend to believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy for a little while? Unrealistic! they cried . . . that would do the child no end of harm in later life.

  Some parents took that to mean it was okay to stick the child in front of TV as an electronic baby-sitter. Others, while not abusing the television alternative, still went all out on the theory of tell-it-like-it-is . . . discouraging daydreams and flights of fancy with a vengeance. Romanticizing was a no-no. Happily, this extreme was current and choice only briefly . . . in the mellowing, poor old Santa and friends are no longer on the hit list.

  As the number of child-abuse cases continues to increase, some little ones have OD’d on reality before they can talk . . . and thank God for the people who devote their lives to try and help. That is a devastating and deeply serious subject, and not one we are addressing here.

  For those youngsters in an average normal home environment, blend of fact and fiction is still possible. We don’t have to throw away the television or CD, providing we monitor those little minds, and continue to make the distinction between show biz and the news. It isn’t easy for a healthy (repeat, healthy) imagination to develop these days . . . and it’s never too early to nurture it.

  Toddlers still go through that inevitable stage when they have more fun with the box a toy came in than with the toy itself. That’s the time to get on their wavelength, and try and see what they see. Not to intrude on the game . . . but being a grown-up doesn’t automatically rule you out. It does, however, give you the privilege of blowing the whistle at any time . . . don’t blow it too soon.

  Where I find a dearth of imagination today is among those who have attained their full height, but just can’t seem to “picture” things. They have lost the ability . . . if they ever had it . . . to see things more than one way. They choose the obvious and never look beyond to see if there is another meaning for a little fun. Forget doubl’! . . . you’re lucky if you can make it with singl’ entendre. I’ve long suspected that puns are often frowned on simply because people are too lazy to figure them out.

  I grew up on the Oz books. A mastoid infection laid me very low when I was little, and my mom and dad would take turns reading them to me. As they finished one, Dad would somehow scrounge enough money . . . around $1.50 . . . to bring home the next one. All three of us were enchanted by them, and certain Oz lines were family jokes all our lives. We were not alone. There is a large International Oz Society . . . of grown-ups.

  There are thirty-six Oz books in all. Dipping into them, after all those years, I realize that L. Frank Baum, and later his daughter, Ruth Plumly Thompson, had a way with words that made it fun to see all the different ways they could be used.

  At one point . . . somewhere around ten . . . I got so carried away I wrote an Oz story myself, in the form of a screenplay. As I recall, it was something about Mae West landing in Oz, and her subsequent adventures. All I really remember is the title (only one this time) . . . Trouble in Pamdoz. Maybe that’s all there was. A bad memory can be a blessing.

  Maybe that all had something to do with why I still love to play word games, both on and off television. More mental exercise.

  Fortunately for me, I lucked into a mother and father who were tops in the imagination department. For three of my preteen years we had an imaginary horse . . . Bill Promise. Invisible though he was, he went with us on our summer driving vacations. Dad would carefully tie him to the bumper when we’d start out in the morning, then untie him and put him to pasture when we pulled in at night. I had to take care of the feeding.

  Remember the beautiful blind horse in the “Ahead with Horses” program . . . Promise Yourself? Could he be related to my Bill Promise? In a way . . . maybe he could.

  Another running gag my mother and I had for years was “Whatif . . . ?” One would start and the other would have to finish. We’d scare the daylights out of each other, but we laughed a lot, too.

  We’d also play “What did Cleopatra . . . or whoever . . . do on her day off?” (Besides that! Remember, I was just a little kid!)

  If by now you are thinking of throwing a net over me . . . consider Hugh Downs. He does whol
e three-act plays in his imagination. He described one of these flights of fancy to me once.

  It seems he was walking through Central Park one spring day, and as he approached a bench he could see, from a distance, that seated there was a really lovely girl. Hugh, a devoted and happy husband to his Ruth, was not prone to accosting pretty young things in the park . . . or anywhere else. Keep in mind . . . it was spring . . . this was fantasy . . . and it all took less time than it does to tell about it.

  As he drew near the bench, he thought to himself, “Suppose I were to speak to this girl. And what if she had been watching me, and answers. I linger, caught up in conversation, and learn that she also is married . . . and has two children. We are involuntarily drawn to each other, and fall deeply in love. We realize we must tell our families if we are to make a life together . . . and we know how deeply we will hurt all those other innocent people . . . and what a far-reaching and adverse effect it will have on all their lives. This in turn will make us wretched . . . eventually driving us apart.” Hugh sighed, then softly, “So the greatest kindness I could do this beautiful young woman was to walk on by without a glance in her direction.”

  This is the same man we see on “20/20.”

  This is the same man who once sailed across the Pacific . . . alone.

  If this is all a bit too Peter Pan for your taste, I apologize. I really did grow up . . . honestly I did. So did my mother and father . . . as did Hugh Downs.

  But just imagine the fun we had!

  On Habits and Superstition

  Wouldn’t it be great if we were able to form good habits as easily as bad?

  Suppose everyone had only good habits. Think of the ramifications.

  Drivers would make it a habit to stop when the light turns yellow. Repairmen would make it a habit to fix something on the first trip. Terrorists would form the habit of not planting bombs in Belfast or Beirut.

  At first blush it sounds like the ultimate solution to so many things. But, no doubt, there would also be side effects.

  For instance, if we only had good habits, what on earth would happen to cocktail party conversation? Can you imagine hearing “I’m determined to quit not smoking” or “I eat such a nutritionally balanced diet, my weight remains perfect!”

  Of course, if we only had good habits there might not be a cocktail party in the first place. I may be on to something.

  Why are good habits so much more difficult to come by than bad ones? You would think by simply concentrating on doing something right each time . . . whatever it might be . . . it would soon become automatic, and you wouldn’t have to give it another conscious thought. Like forming the habit of always putting something back where it belongs. One could write a book in the time saved not having to hunt for car keys alone.

  And good posture. That could become a habit if you put your mind to it. Shoulders down, chest out, tummy in. I’ve been concentrating on that for more years than you can count, and . . . trust me . . . it does not become second nature. The older I get the more I tend to confuse the prepositions . . . shoulders up, chest down, tummy out. Perhaps a dowager’s hump is inevitable. (In a sense, it could even be something to look forward to.)

  Do you make it a habit always to include the name when you jot down a phone number? I keep finding stray numbers on bits of paper under the telephone, or in old purses, and I haven’t the foggiest as to whom they belong. One could call to check them out if one wanted to feel like an idiot. “Hello. Whom am I calling?” This one really needs work, because I get furious with myself. It doesn’t take a mental giant . . . or an extra second . . . to scribble a name along with the number.

  Then there are the people to be envied who make it a habit to write notes or answer letters immediately. Their desks must be as clear as their consciences. They realize it is so much easier to scratch off a quick line now, than add to the “Must Answer” stack, for when there is more time. When I finally do get around to this group, I spend half a page apologizing for the late response . . . and by then, I’m out of time again.

  Bob Barker, busy as he is, gets a gold star in this department. On a couple of occasions I’ve sent him a note or congratulatory telegram . . . and there is an answer in the return mail . . . handwritten, warm, and to the point. There are no apologies for tardiness, no lengthy explanations to wade through . . . he says what he means to say, then gets off.

  I’ll keep working on it, but it may mean deep-sixing the present backlog and starting from scratch. Even I know that when the paper begins to yellow, it’s a symptom that I’ve waited too long.

  No two ways about it . . . habits are difficult to form on purpose. You have to just slip into them . . . like old bedroom slippers.

  If habit and superstition are not married, they have certainly been going together for a very long time. Sometimes it’s hard to determine where the line of demarcation falls.

  What set me thinking about this heavy subject, was watching our “Golden Girls” company in action . . . not just the Girls themselves, but the producers, the director, the writers, and the production staff, as well.

  At our studio, there is a small area, off the control room, called the Producer’s Booth. Comfortably furnished, with overstuffed couches and chairs, it is where the producers watch the show during the actual taping. They prefer to watch it on the monitor, so they see it from the same perspective as the home audience.

  Each week, we have a dress rehearsal on Thursday evening, directly following the day of camera blocking . . . and, by now, the show should be almost in final shape for the taping on Friday. When we finish the dress, we meet with the producers and director . . . in the Producer’s Booth . . . to go over the script, page by page, and get our final notes.

  We have done this for fifty-one shows, now. The first week we did it, we all walked into the Booth and sat down, at random, in whatever places were available. The second week, we peeled off into the same places, without giving it a thought. By the third week, a visiting guest star sat down in the spot usually occupied by one of our producers. Without realizing what we were doing, we all started milling around, trying unsuccessfully to get settled. It was like the chaos that takes place when you interrupt a trail of ants. Finally, Tony Thomas, one of our producers, apologetically moved the guest to a place of his own, and we all settled in. Laughing, Tony explained that the show was successful, and we didn’t want to break our luck. That was with just a few of us . . . the same holds true when we break for dinner and notes between shows on taping day. This is served in a room upstairs, at a very large U-shaped table, and now all the writers and the support staff are there as well . . . some forty people . . . but no one ever switches places. We’ve made the top ten in the ratings all season . . . we like where we sit.

  Paul Witt, another of our producers (aptly named, I must say), grew a beard after “The Golden Girls” pilot, while waiting to find out if the network was going to pick up the show. They did, and he shaved. Now, we always know when Witt/Thomas/Harris has another pilot show in the works . . . Paul’s whiskers begin to grow.

  The seating situation was just habit with us, initially, before it grew into a superstition . . . which is probably how most good luck charms develop. Baseball players often go through a whole complicated routine when they step up to the plate . . . some, not all of it, can be attributed to signals involved in the game. The rest, however, is pure pandering to whatever baseball spirits might be lurking in the vicinity. “If I touch each corner of home plate with my bat, I’ll be lucky!” In the beginning, he may have done that to settle himself down, but if he got a hit once or twice, habit quickly turns into superstition.

  Some superstitions, like Paul’s beard, are just good luck charms . . . plain and simple. When I was doing “The Pet Set,” I always wore a cute little dog pin that Mom had given me for luck on the opening show. We did thirty-nine shows, and he was pinned on every one of them. We took a summer break, and somehow I misplaced him during the hiatus. The show wasn’t pic
ked up for the fall season. I found him again, months later, but by that time the horse was already stolen.

  It isn’t that I actually believe in superstition . . . it’s all nonsense . . . but I wish people would stop telling me new ones. They stick in my mind

  If I leave the house, then have to come back in for something I forgot, I have to sit down and count to ten. Don’t ask me why . . . I just have to. It was a tough sell with Allen, but I finally got him to do it, too. He’d sit there swearing . . . but counting.

  If there is something I don’t want to do, I will never use sickness as an excuse, unless it is the truth . . . that’s really pressing your luck.

  If I drop a comb, I must step on it before I pick it up. This is not only stupid, it’s unsanitary. But necessary.

  If you pass me the salt, please don’t think me rude if I don’t take it from your hand . . . set it on the table and let me pick it up.

  Never let me find knife blades lying across each other in the sink.

  Putting a hat on the bed foretells a pregnancy. That one I’ve never given too much credence . . . if he puts his hat on the bed, he isn’t staying long. A passing fancy.

  Theater people, legitimate or otherwise, have the most colorful, understandably dramatic, and . . . I guess weird is the word I’m looking for . . . superstitions of all. The list is long and, I suspect, contingent upon geographic location, creativity of the people involved, and the success of the play in progress.