Betty White in Person

by Betty White

  Some of the minor fears that are ever-present when you live alone are very down-to-earth and unglamorous . . . the little routine things that you could always check out with your husband. Did I put too much rouge on? Is my breath okay? Does my hair cover my head, or does that little pink spot show? (We called it “checking the hole in my head.”) Do I snore? Allen swore that I didn’t, and we had a covenant to be brutally honest about such things . . . all I can do is hope I still don’t, because the dogs aren’t going to tell me.

  Then there are the big fears.

  Fear of doing something stupid, like tripping on a rug, or falling downstairs, and not being able to call anybody. We used to call my father “the Hummingbird” because he had a tendency to charge around at top speed. I do the same, and being a card-carrying klutz, I bump into things a lot. When I am alone in the house, I try to remember to slow down a little, and not carry six things when I’m heading downstairs. At least it is an effort toward common sense . . . beyond that, I refuse to fret about it.

  And the deep fears.

  Fear of death is not one of my problems . . . only of the dying. The how, not the when of it. Getting there is not half the fun, and the fear of doing it badly could be of concern if I wanted to waste time thinking about it. I don’t. I figure I will improvise when the time comes . . . some things are better without rehearsal.

  Death . . . the one sure thing that every creature on earth shares in common . . . is still such a personal matter. Each of us has a different approach to it, and a different perception when, or if, we think about it.

  At a distance . . . a natural disaster, a far-off war, an epidemic, a famine . . . death is a grim but remote statistic. Closer to home . . . murder reports, traffic casualties, the passing of someone of note . . . it captures our attention momentarily. Not until it strikes someone near to us does death become a tangible reality, and this is where we all separate into our individual attitudes.

  My earliest experience with what being dead meant was in the loss of a beloved pet. My folks handled it in such a sensitive way that it made the loss of my grandmother, shortly after, a little easier to comprehend. I was led to understand that all the grief was left on our side, to handle the best we could out of our love for her . . . but Grandma was free, and she now knew what we could only wonder about.

  Simplistic as it sounds, this approach really took any fear of death itself completely away. I still want to make the most, and the best, of the time here, but then I know there is one more adventure coming up . . . one big mystery to be solved. So many times through the years, when we’d hear of someone going, Mom and I would say to each other, “He knows the secret.” And now she knows it, too.

  For centuries, comedy has had a close affiliation with death. How often, figuratively, has the tragedy death mask been turned upside down for laughs? The same holds true to this day.

  If a comic does a bit that really works, “He killed ’em!” . . . If it doesn’t get the laughs, “He died out there!”

  “You slay me!” is a compliment.

  “I died laughing!” is another one.

  To describe an audience’s overall reaction, it is either a “live” house or a “dead” one.

  Maybe that is whistling through the graveyard . . . to show lack of fear. Perhaps it has something to do with superstition. The ancient Chinese would begin to worry if things seemed to be going too well, and shaking a fist to heaven, would cry, “Bad rice! Bad rice!” . . . in an attempt to hide the good fortune from the gods, lest it be taken away.

  This is about as heavy as we’re going to get. Probably this piece won’t ever make the book . . . but I enjoyed exploring a path I rarely travel, and have no idea where it leads. I’ll be dying to find out.

  On Moods

  In spite of all the wheezing away that I do about trying to maintain a positive attitude, I am forced to admit that we are all subject to extreme mood swings. Sometimes we handle them . . . sometimes they handle us.

  The color chart of moods always intrigues me. Red with anger . . . purple with rage . . . green with envy . . . white with fear . . . in a black mood . . . a case of the blues . . . the coward is yellow. Plus all the shades in between. Blanche, on “The Golden Girls,” referred to a really bad time as “one of those magenta days.”

  No one ever seems to describe a really good mood in terms of a color . . . at least none that I can think of offhand. Looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, maybe? In the pink? Everything’s peachy?

  Our lives are said to be a series of cycles . . . little ones within big ones, an up cycle versus a down cycle . . . which accounts for the spells of euphoria, as well as the blahs. Learning to use the one and defeat the other would make us into very productive individuals . . . but those who can manage that balancing act are few and far between.

  I’m not sure I would want to be that in control. It sounds a little bloodless. How would you appreciate the really high spots with nothing to measure them against? It’s comforting to know that’s one worry I don’t have to spend time on.

  There are days when I feel I can accomplish almost anything I tackle. I fly from one task to the next with no wasted motion (at least that’s what I like to picture myself doing), while my mind is planning two steps ahead. My energy is boundless . . . and my judgment is so faulty that I manage to believe it is always this way. I completely forget the inevitable doldrums sure to be upcoming, when doing anything is like pushing a car uphill with a wet rope. I’m not tired, or ill . . . I simply can’t get it in gear.

  Unfortunately, all those things to which I said, “Sure I will,” when I was in my Wonder Woman mode, are now on the schedule . . . while my mind and energy are suddenly out to lunch!

  These are the times to beware. Having to push, nothing goes right, and I make dumb mistakes. Knowing it’s all my fault to begin with only increases the frustration and inefficiency. It isn’t long before the demon Depression sees a chance to move in, and I have to battle it out. My most effective defense is to become so involved with trying to get everything done, that I don’t have time to be depressed.

  However, on occasion . . . rarely for me, thank God . . . the battle turns into hand-to-hand combat. Busyness no longer works, and for no apparent reason, the candle snuffer begins to lower over my head. Sometimes it’s a sudden feeling that washes over like a wave . . . even when things should be the best. Try as I will to move on and away from it, the feeling keeps pace with me.

  Once in a great while, it becomes imperative to turn around and confront the monster. I have learned the hard way that if I don’t do this, it will keep eating away at me until real damage is done. I know the time has come to get very quiet and try to listen for what is actually bothering me. It takes an amount of digging . . . sometimes I even come up with some surprises . . . but it can be done. By identifying whatever is really bugging me, and bringing it into the light, it begins to lose its clout, and may eventually evaporate altogether.

  Deep Depression . . . the genuine article . . . is something else. It is acute and agonizing, and far beyond a simple home remedy . . . so devastating that outside help is usually needed.

  What I try and do is shore up my defenses against ever getting to that point. Recognizing the enemy early in the fight is an advantage. Mood highs and lows are normal, but if I let myself settle into a pattern of too many lows, it can easily slip over into feeling sorry for myself. The enemy thrives on self-indulgence, and I’m damned if I’m going to provide him with a breeding ground.

  Then there are the bright days (whatever we choose to color them) when euphoria strikes . . . equally unbidden. It bubbles up inside with such a feeling of excitement . . . it’s what makes Snoopy go into his silly dance . . . it’s what some call spring fever, whatever the time of year . . . it’s what Mom and I used to know as “that Good Feeling,” almost like a premonition of something great about to happen. It’s pure unadulterated JOY is what it is. Greet it when it comes and don’t ask question
s . . . it doesn’t stick around long.

  Somewhere between the two extreme mood swings is where we all spend most of our time. With a little effort, we can make the territory as livable as possible.

  Beverly Sills’s mother was being interviewed one time about her famous opera star daughter, and I have always loved her response to a question about Beverly’s life offstage. She said, “Beverly isn’t always happy, but she’s always cheerful.” It’s a good point of view, and makes life a lot more pleasant . . . hopefully for Beverly, but certainly for a lot of other people.

  There are those . . . more than a few . . . to whom cheerfulness is absolutely infuriating. When their long faces become too obvious to ignore, you ask, “Is anything wrong?” “Not a thing. I’m just in a bad mood.” Now I find that infuriating! To each his’n.

  Mind over matter. For me it works. As a case in point, I am never troubled by jet lag on a cross-continental flight . . . I simply leave my watch on California time, and my body is none the wiser. With Allen, however, jet lag would really wipe him out. I could never understand why it was a problem for him whether he was going east and losing three hours, or heading west where he gained three hours. To him it made perfect sense. Jet lag was something you got on an airplane!

  Perhaps I am merely psyching myself out about all this mood business, but just let me be. I’m happy and harmless. Maybe the reason I don’t feel my age could be that I never reset my calendar either.

  On Aging

  For those who live to tell about it.

  One of my mother’s close friends would always excuse anything she did with “I’m old enough to be eccentric.” She and Mom were in their seventies when they met, yet I always had the distinct impression that this lady had been saying that since puberty.

  There are people like that. Even as kids, they do things their way, and somehow manage to carry it off. They aren’t exactly leaders . . . but they sure as hell aren’t followers. Eccentric.

  We’ve all known them.

  I remember one . . . a girl at school, Carey Wilson. Her hair was long and all frizzed out. Sounds like the height of fashion today, but at that point in time, we . . . her classmates . . . thought it bordered on weird. To complete the picture, she would set a little black velvet beret on top of all that hair, then come to school! Mind you, this was at the age when the rest of us were spending every ounce of energy and allowance on being clones of each other. God forbid we should get caught looking different! Sleeping on rollers was a way of life.

  Secretly, I’m sure we all admired Carey’s independence. I, for one, spent a lot of time wondering how she kept her hat up there, and why it didn’t mash her hair down . . . but I don’t remember anyone ever trying to copy her. One guy in chemistry class, maybe.

  And I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate on Carey’s part. She was not one of those who work so hard at “being different” they practically glow in the dark. She was a genuine original.

  Wonder what ever happened to Carey. Something interesting, I’ll bet.

  Look at some of the people we know today. Don’t you sometimes wonder what they were like at that age? Carol Channing, for instance. She is the original’s original . . . but how, or when, did she get that way?

  Carol cannot have been an ordinary child. She and I have been great and good friends for twenty-five years. Her husband and mine go back even further. Charles Lowe and Allen Ludden served together in World War II.

  Once I asked Charles what Carol’s childhood was like . . . before eyelashes. He told me she lived in San Francisco, was brought up in Christian Science, and when she was four she took part in a show at a nearby little theater. According to Charlie, “She walked on stage at four and never got off!”

  Carol has always been larger than life. It is almost as if someone had sketched her, then animated the result. It’s interesting that Carol and Charlie’s son Channing Lowe is a fine cartoonist with the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel.

  Carol has never missed a performance to my knowledge . . . even turning a broken arm to advantage. She got so much mileage out of doing Jerry’s Girls in a cast, I accused her of breaking the arm on purpose. Her days off are happily booked to accommodate extra jobs in addition to whatever show she is doing. As a workaholic, she puts me in the shade.

  It all must agree with her. Under all the wigs and the makeup, Carol is one of the most serene people I know. Wouldn’t it be funny if she was once somebody’s Carey Wilson?

  People like that you remember. Like it or not, they are interesting. They don’t have to spend years of seasoning like the rest of us to garner some individuality . . . if, indeed, we ever do.

  It is my firm conviction that while time is wreaking its havoc on the outside of us, the person inside doesn’t change all that much. The years may mellow the forceful individual, or, with any luck, bring a little assurance to the timid soul . . . but underneath all the silt of experience that settles is the same personality that was there in the beginning. Stir up the silt every now and then and watch that same personality shoot for the surface.

  It is a fascinating phenomenon to watch for . . . in yourself as well as in others. You’ll know it when you see it. The fun of this private little game is that it not only makes you more sensitive to the people around you . . . it keeps you so tuned in you forget to grow old.

  Age has become one of the major preoccupations of our society. If the same is true in other cultures, we are in even bigger trouble than I suspected . . . not as Americans . . . as human beings. But let’s not borrow trouble. That is another whole book for someone else to write.

  In the meantime, for those in the job market here, age goes deeper than mere vanity. For men as well as women . . . livelihoods can be at risk.

  Any television show done in front of a studio audience in Hollywood has a warm-up announcer whose job it is to loosen everyone up to enjoy the show. Whether it is a situation comedy, talk show, game show . . . no matter what . . . one of the first questions that announcer will be asked is “How old is so-and-so?”

  At an award dinner recently, my dinner partner was not only beautiful, but a delightful conversationalist. More importantly, she was a hard-working charity volunteer, and a major donor as well. With all this going for this lovely lady . . . her first question, as each celebrity approached the microphone, was “How old do you think . . . etc., etc.” . . . How unnecessarily sad.

  Of late there has been a growing awareness of “the graying of America” . . . brought on by recent statistics . . . and it seems to be in a positive sense. If that were not the case, a show such as “The Golden Girls” wouldn’t stand a chance . . . again art is imitating life. I am delighted to see even a tendency in that direction, but the old Cosmic View leads me to be cautious. I just hope it isn’t the new “in” thing, temporarily current and choice. Maybe if it stays around long enough we’ll stop counting, and judge others on merit.

  Remember Carol Burnett’s question-and-answer session . . . and how inventive she could be when the age question invariably arose?

  Anyhow . . . “growing old” is a contradiction in terms.

  Wouldn’t it be better to grow smart?

  So many otherwise healthy people are on a collision course with old age. They literally wait for it to catch up.

  The dread starts early on:

  “I can’t believe it. I’m going to be thirty!”

  “It’s all over. I’ll soon be forty.”

  “My God! Fifty!!”

  These poor souls take all the bloom off of the last half of each decade, dreading the next big number.

  My mother, bless her, would never hold still for that attitude, nor would she tolerate it in others. For one thing, she considered it to be the height of ingratitude for all the good stuff. This outlook kept her spirit polished so brightly that it sustained her through the last three painful years when her body let her down.

  It took Allen a while to really believe that his two White girls truly didn’t concern themselv
es with the number of years.

  When my forty-ninth birthday rolled around, he devised an elaborately wonderful surprise party that really worked. Somehow, without my having a clue, he managed to get forty-nine good friends together and marched me into the most complete surprise of my life. In a funny, touching toast, he explained that he was hoping to soften the edge of the Big One coming up next year.

  The upshot, of course, was that when the next year rolled around, he was stuck with another party to celebrate “The Big One.”

  And it will be ever thus as far as I am concerned. I don’t want to fight old age, but I’m not about to invite it to live in, either. I want a nice symbiotic relationship with it, where we are totally unaware of each other.

  If this sounds strange . . . remember, I’m old enough to be eccentric.

  On Aging . . . PS.

  There is one area in which age does concern me . . . that is in regard to my beloved four-legged Superfriends. It has been my great and good fortune to have had many of these guys around for a long, full life . . . in their terms.

  That’s a pretty fair record. And every one of those years represents total mutual joy, no matter what else was going on in my life at the time. It’s difficult to make such an unequivocal statement about even your closest and dearest two-legged friends.

  Having read each other’s body language for so long, you notice when your pal begins to slow up a little, and you become aware of a certain weariness . . . the years are catching up. It’s a time to be extra considerate and tuned in. As with anyone you love, this is when you make the most of the time left . . . you don’t take it for granted, but grow closer than ever if such a thing is possible.