by Betty White
For anyone to whom pets are important family members, it is a heartache that they have a shorter road to travel than we do. But we knew that going in. If I were to pro rate the grief I have felt, each time I lose one of these friends, against the pleasure and comfort they dished out through their stay with me . . . it’s no contest. The grief is a fair price to pay.
Our lives together rarely come out even . . . that just isn’t the nature of things. Sometimes an older person who loses a pet has the feeling that there aren’t enough years left to commit to a new puppy or kitten. In this case, the human road may be the shorter one . . . and the thought of giving up animals completely only compounds the unhappiness over the loss of their pet.
There is one solution to this dilemma that I have seen work wonders, again and again. Every shelter has a roster of fine, healthy older dogs and cats. They are not senior citizens, by any means, but they are far enough past puppydom and kittenhood to minimize their chances for adoption.
These animals are over the rambunctiousness of youth, settled in their ways, and have some very good years to go. They need a friend, desperately, and their gratitude is boundless . . . they will adapt themselves to whatever is required. It may sound like wishful thinking. . . I would think so, too, if I hadn’t seen it happen so many times.
Old friends can be the best friends. Anybody knows that.
IV
OFF MY CHEST
On Things I Hate
Sure, I’m a cockeyed optimist.
If the truth were known, it no doubt stems from trying to compensate for a lifelong tendency to be hypercritical. I probably overdo it, giving the impression that I think everything is simply peachy, and wouldn’t let a negative thought enter my flowery, pointed little head.
Au contraire. Oh, how very contraire!!
As there is a lengthy list of things that drive me straight up the wall, let’s get some of them out of my system right now.
These are a few of my unfavorite things:
For openers, I hate the word “hate,” but let’s call ’em as we see ’em.
I hate making decisions. Big or small, I agonize over them . . . even when there is a clear-cut choice. Bless the man who tells me where we are going and what we are going to do. (For the record, this craven indecision holds true only up to a given hour.)
I hate people who take their half out of the middle. Whether it’s in an automobile, pushing a market basket, or simply walking down the sidewalk . . . it says a lot about them. Look at their faces. The expressions are identical to the sheep you sometimes encounter on a country road. They are going to cross, no matter what, and it’s up to you to avoid them. It isn’t really rudeness . . . as far as they are concerned, you don’t exist.
Those people must be kin to the ones who move in too close, physically . . . invading that little bubble of space we all have that is our own. If I’m waiting in line, or standing in casual conversation, let someone crowd nearer than necessary, and I begin to squirm. It may be only a matter of inches, but it’s important. With animals it’s called “critical distance,” and it’s different for each individual . . . but cross that line and the animal takes flight. I can empathize.
Of course, we are not speaking of a romantic encounter . . . in which case all bets are off. For damn sure.
I hate loud noises . . . with the possible exception of thunder, which, I reluctantly admit, I find exciting, but only if it doesn’t spook my dogs. Fireworks make me furious except at great distance . . . seen and not heard. And professionally supervised, please!
I hate the word “bored” or any of its derivatives.
I hate the expression “lonely only child.” It is so often specious . . . but more on that later.
I hate bathroom humor. Scatology is a real turnoff, and it would be fine with me if bodily functions stayed in the closet (figuratively, not literally). Conversely, I like light touch doubl’ entendre. I get tickled by things that say one thing but can also mean something quite different. The fun of it is . . . it’s harmless. Those who don’t get it can take the first meaning and go happily on their way, while the more depraved of us can enjoy a good laugh at no one’s expense. But be sure to laugh and move on. Deliver me from the heavy-handed leerer who is so afraid the second meaning might escape that he belabors the poor thing right into the ground. By this time you wish you’d stayed home. Why is it that some people can say almost anything without offending . . . while others can make “Raspberries!” sound dirty? Attitude, I guess.
I hate snide sarcasm. There is a certain patronizing tone of voice that can instantly set my teeth on edge.
I hate sloppy diction. Words were invented for communication, which is tough enough at best . . . Mumbling only compounds the problem. Some television commercials seem bent on eliminating certain consonants:
“This soap is gen-le on your hands.”
“Call your frien’ly travel agent.”
Genuine regional accents are forgiven.
Don’t let your mouth or your pen mumble. If you have a difficult name, for instance, help other people by saying and writing it clearly . . . be proud of it. Admittedly, some of the world’s greatest have had execrable handwriting, which makes a complete bum of my argument. I really hate that!
I hate having to put the shades down on an airplane just at sunset time so they can run the movie. But I know how to get even . . . I put my shades down, yes, but I don’t watch the damned film! That’ll show ’em!
I hate wrinkles.
On my face. On my body. In my clothes.
Think of all the effort that went into inventing new miracle fabrics that don’t wrinkle . . . then some genius decides they aren’t chic! As a result, you put your clothes on, feel crisp and fresh for about twenty seconds . . . sit down one time, and you get up looking like an unmade bed.
As a result, the crumpled look is in. We’re right back where we started, with pure linen and pongee . . . both of which look wonderful . . . on the hanger.
I still like to at least start smooth . . . but, of course, anything can be carried to extremes . . . I do feel a little foolish when I catch myself pressing a sweat shirt before I put it on.
The only place wrinkles look good is on a Shar-Pei puppy.
George Burns is militantly antiwrinkle. When he’s working he doesn’t put his pants on until the very last minute before he goes on stage, so there won’t be any sitting wrinkles . . . it’s his old vaudeville training. I feel I’m in good company . . . if anyone thinks I’m too fussy, I can always say, “What’s good enough for George Burns is good enough for me!”
I hate whiners.
I hate onions.
I hate those sunglasses that are like mirrors, so you see yourself instead of someone’s eyes.
And the list goes on . . .
I’m sure you care.
On Being Only
“So, you’re an only child. Aw, poor baby!”
If not those exact words, the implied pity has a familiar ring to it. This attitude is such a common one that it has not only been generally accepted, but perpetuated.
It is true that my personal reaction is anything but objective, but I take great pleasure in shooting down such drivel whenever the opportunity presents itself. “Only” and “lonely” are rhymes . . . not synonyms.
Like all sweeping generalizations, the idea that because a child grows up without sibling support and/or rivalry, he is inevitably doomed to be either a lonely little waif, a selfish spoiled brat, or both is absolutely specious. The fact that some only children do fulfill the prophecy can be chalked up to the law of averages.
It isn’t because a child has no brothers or sisters that he turns into a monster . . . it is how his parents handled the situation. We’ve all known any number of selfish, spoiled, lonely little waifs who were surrounded by brothers and sisters. So much depends on whether the parents were doting on the youngest, favoring the firstborn, or giving short shrift to someone in the middle. Each case is a custom
situation, and blanket assumptions don’t work.
Let’s forget negatives for a minute, and talk about some of the good stuff that comes with the territory of being an only child. I must stick with personal experience only, or I can find myself guilty of those same sweeping generalizations. Let’s just say it worked great for me.
Having one child was not a considered decision on the part of my folks. A month before I was born, my mother was in a bad car accident, and the doctors were forced to patch up her skull fracture before they could worry about the baby. I managed to hang in there, but the question of more children was, by then, academic.
Far from being lonely, I always had all the friends of my own age I could ask for. They were made very welcome at our house when I invited them . . . but having them there was my choice . . . I wasn’t stuck with them, like it or not, because we happened to be related.
The biggest plus, of course, was the special relationship that existed between my parents and me. We were buddies . . . a solid threesome through good times and bad. We had fun together, laughed a lot, always had some silly game going . . . but my mom and dad also ran a very tight ship. “No” meant “no,” not “maybe” or “I don’t think so.” The word was never used lightly. I caught on very early that when I heard “no” it was a waste of time to pursue the subject, and I would move on to something with more potential.
Sure, I was doted on and indulged, when we could afford it . . . remember, I was the only game in town! But I was never, repeat never, allowed to take it for granted as my due. If at any time I showed signs of beginning to believe my own publicity, there was hell to pay, and it was made abundantly clear that things were only worthwhile and attainable if they were appreciated. That has held me in good stead all my life. Sharing was the way it was at our house . . . only they called it “keeping things in balance.”
With just the three of us, I had no live-in peer group with whom to gang up. I was spared the “us against them” syndrome, and could enjoy adults, as well as friends my own age. Rather than thinking of grown-ups as something to tolerate or be bored by, I found that many of them weren’t half bad . . . even if they were taller.
My favorite tall person was my mother’s brother Tom. He was my hero, I was his slave. In reality, Uncle Tom was seven years younger than my mother, but to me he was my absolute contemporary. He could fix anything . . . or tease me unmercifully without hurting. He taught me to play poker when I was six, and to drive a car when I was sixteen. He told me those were the only two things he never wanted to catch me doing like a woman.
In their wisdom, neither my folks nor Tom ever talked down to me. From the time I can remember, a conversation was never scaled down for my benefit . . . if I didn’t get all of it, that was my problem. Questions were answered, but I was not center stage.
It was the same in the humor department. We all loved jokes, and my dad, being a traveling man with a delicious sense of humor, always had a good supply. Once in a while he would add a word of caution. “Now, that one we don’t take to school, honey.” The only rule about a joke was it had to be funny. If it was a little raunchy in the bargain, it had better be really funny enough to justify it. Merely dirty jokes didn’t qualify.
There was no such thing as “man’s work” and “woman’s work” at home that I can ever recall. Everybody would pitch in at whatever needed doing. Evidently, I was always busy doing something else when cooking time rolled around. My repertoire in that department is limited.
Vacations were the highlights of each year . . . better even than Christmas. The three of us nature nuts would have a glorious time investigating this lovely planet together . . . again something that has proven a constant source of wonder and joy to this day.
Perhaps I am looking back with rose-colored hindsight, but that really is the way I remember it. For me, being an only child was something wonderful.
Oddly enough, three of my very closest friends over the past many many years are also only children. Although our growing up years were all totally different, geographically, economically, whatever . . . we all agree that being a single child was not half bad.
Being an only adult, however, can be something else.
The family closeness that I treasured was not easy for other people I cared about to really believe . . . much less understand. The men in my life especially. More than once there would be jealousy to contend with, and it would be tough to handle . . . jealousy probably on both sides . . . but since I was in the middle, I am not what you might call an objective judge.
Also, when you are one in number, in times of emergency, there is no one to fill in for you. You find yourself trying desperately to split your loyalties in order to cover all the bases . . . and, as a result, you wind up spreading yourself so thin, you don’t do full justice to anybody.
That is only one example of why I am eternally grateful for God’s great sense of timing. It carried me through the two toughest periods of my life.
During my husband’s long and hopeless illness, my mother was well and fit, not only able to take care of herself, but to help me in so many ways . . . including leaving me free to make the most of every precious moment with Allen.
Mom was there when I needed her . . . to do all of those practical little daily things that are always necessary, no matter what else is going on. The rest of the time she would busy herself elsewhere, . . . which kept me from ever getting the feeling that I was neglecting her.
Toward the end, when Allen remained in the hospital, Mom stayed at my house. When I’d come in from being with Allen, she would meet me with something refreshing . . . then give me time to sort myself out. She never hit me as I came in the door, with all those obvious questions to which she knew there were no answers. She waited . . . and let me volunteer my meager report when I was ready.
I wonder if I ever told her how much I appreciated that.
By the time Mom’s last long three-year challenge came, Allen was no longer here. I was able to concentrate on her completely, keeping her with me where we could enjoy the good time together. Had the order been reversed, I would have wound up short-changing one or the other or both of them. And if you are an only adult, that can tear you apart.
As God knows, better than anyone . . . timing is everything.
On Writing It Down
Much as I love them, words do get in the way sometimes. That is one of the reasons I love listening to music with my cat and dogs . . . they don’t keep talking all through it, telling me how beautiful it is.
The spoken word can also get you in a whole lot of trouble. If a point is interrupted before it is made, the meaning can be changed completely, and the original intent garbled beyond recognition. Yet, in a heated discussion, who has not been guilty of jumping into someone else’s sentence?
My mother had a way around this. When there was something important she wanted to discuss, but knew it was a potentially incendiary issue, she would write it down in the form of a note . . . sometimes a letter . . . and leave it for me to find when I was alone. She was a very articulate lady . . . even more so on paper. This way I had a chance to digest what she had to say, and think about my response, instead of answering off the top of my head. Then we would talk about it. If it was a clear-cut case of my doing something wrong, I would even be able to write out an explanation, or apology, and leave it for her to find . . . if everything had been said that was necessary, we would move on. So often, in a confrontation, you keep repeating the same things . . . plowing the same tired field, over and over, without really resolving anything. Especially with two big talkers . . . which we were.
Needless to say, Mom and I didn’t abuse this privilege . . . it would have lost its punch. We only used it for something vitally important. I still think it was a good idea . . . and I can tell you, when I would come home to find one of those envelopes, in that pretty handwriting, it got my attention!
That probably accounts for the fact that, to this day, there are times when t
he urge to get something out of my system by writing it down, is irresistible. For just such times as these, I keep a Special Drawer.
If I have gone to the trouble of putting something down on paper, I keep it, at least overnight. My private rule is, I look at it again the next morning . . . if I still feel the same, it goes into “The Drawer.” If it is absolute garbahj, it is broomed at that point. This gets rid of at least half.
The way the game works, once in “The Drawer,” the stuff is never rewritten, as that would eradicate what the feeling was at the moment. It would be like removing fingerprints from the scene of the crime.
Every so often . . . even a few years can sneak by . . . it is interesting to read through these heavy numbers from a different perspective. Now, these I don’t cull. I figure if they have made it this far, they deserve a permanent home . . . so they go into “The Box,” high on a shelf.
Perhaps I’m hoping they’ll breed.
Perhaps it’s as well that they don’t.
Putting it in writing while the heat is still on is a wonderful way of venting temper privately. For those occasions when you know if you lose it you’ll get in nothing but trouble, it’s a lifesaver. It also tends to keep you from storing up for a future disaster.
What brought this up? I found a couple of pages recently, at the bottom of “The Drawer” . . . (obviously, it doesn’t fill up too fast) . . . that were scribbled one night, a few years back, following a heated discussion.