Betty White in Person

by Betty White

  Anyone who is missing someone . . . for whatever reason . . . will tell you the same. You can handle the big things. What does you in is the horde of tiny memories that circle your head like gnats . . . the ones no one else can see.

  Toadstools on the morning lawn.

  A cherry in the bottom of a cocktail glass.

  And why should anyone’s eyes fill at the sight of a lizard in the sun!

  You had to be there.

  On Friendship

  A common misnomer is referring to acquaintances as friends. There is a big difference, and it’s a good idea to take stock every now and then, and redefine that distinction among the people around us. Not as easy as it sounds. We’re apt to discover we have a lot of acquaintances. Or we may be surprised to find we have more friends than we thought.

  One problem is that we expect a friend to be all the things we like wrapped up in one package. Unfortunately, this occurs with the frequency of an albino dinosaur.

  To be sure, we have the same high hopes in a romantic relationship, but at least here there are other things working for us as well . . . genes . . . or jeans . . . whatever. Something that creates enough of a glow to make two people believe they have so much in common . . . temporarily anyway, and occasionally, with luck, permanently. But in the platonic sense . . . whatever the individual gender . . . it is not necessary to have a friend for all reasons. If doctors can specialize . . . why not friends? We know how difficult it is to locate a general practitioner who’ll make house calls!

  Why not a movie friend? You may not want to see everything that comes along (God knows!), but you don’t want to miss it all either. And even if you disagree on the movie, it makes for something to talk about afterward.

  My closest and oldest friend, (scratch “oldest” . . . make that “friend of long standing”) not only enjoys movies, he is a foremost authority on them. He’s the author of several important books on the films, and teaches classes on the subject at two different colleges. Hey! . . . when I have a friend for the movies, I get the best . . . I don’t fool around! (Steady!)

  To be serious . . . while I don’t share his knowledge, I do share his interest, and he has no idea how much I’ve learned to appreciate and enjoy films, thanks to him.

  How about a friend with whom you can share some deep interest of your own? With me, it’s animals. It’s wonderful to know someone who makes me feel so secure, that once in a while I can go on a real animal binge . . . meaning (she hastens to explain) that we can talk animals for hours on end yet know we are in no danger of boring each other. We can’t quite indulge that much with anyone else.

  For “animals,” substitute music . . . cooking . . . sports . . . whatever your pleasure. You soon find yourself migrating toward people who feel the same.

  Another friend may not have any heavy interests, but likes to gussie up a little and go out for a leisurely dinner and good conversation.

  Somebody else likes to kick back, cook dinner at home, then maybe play a game of something.

  You can be the one to decide what you feel like doing, and there is someone with whom to enjoy it.

  Happily, sometimes these specialists cross over into many other areas of your life . . . a nice serendipity.

  Many times these friends may enjoy each other . . . the game player might join up for a movie, or the dinner conversationalist will take a stab at Trivial Pursuit. Proceed with caution here, however, or it’s possible to wind up with a group sitting around on dead center, out-politing each other.

  “Well, what would you like to see?”

  “I don’t care, it’s up to you.”

  “Where shall we eat?”

  “Anywhere’s fine with me . . . but I can’t eat Italian . . . or Chinese . . . or . . .”

  Soon you no longer have a movie friend and a dinner friend and a game-playing friend. You have a homogenized “bunch.” Before you know it, somebody begins to criticize, someone else picks up the ball . . . soon you’re seeing faults you never noticed. And you wonder whatever happened to all those fun times you used to enjoy.

  All I’m saying is mix with care . . . I am not saying be too noble to criticize. It is a proven fact that a little judicious dishing keeps one’s skin clear.

  It’s one thing for me to blither on here about all these great ideas for managing all your friends and interests. If you happen to be at a particular low spot as you read this, the temptation is to throw the book across the room.

  If you have already done that, either literally or figuratively . . . please pick it up and read on. Things do have a way of changing . . . sometimes even for the better, believe it or not.

  Having choices of friends sounds ironic if you are feeling alone . . . or worse, lonely . . . but there are ways to reach out. You may not even be aware that you have any special interests, but whether you know it or not . . . there is something you really like, something you find intriguing. Why not start from there . . . let’s see what happens.

  There is another designation in the friendship department. In everyone’s life there will be one or more who goes beyond friend. There should almost be a special term for them . . . Superfriend for now.

  They can number anywhere from one to a handful . . . rarely more . . . over the span of a lifetime. Those individuals who are always there for you, and you for them . . . no questions asked. Whether you saw them yesterday or five years ago, you pick up the conversation where you left off, as if in a time warp.

  With these Superfriends, you can give your mental editor a rest and feel secure in saying anything that pops into your mind. You can share your victories with them, in minute detail, knowing they celebrate with you . . . or you can lay your disasters on them and get strength and understanding in return.

  Knowing this writer, you will probably assume that all my Superfriends have four legs. Not entirely true . . . some of them are human. And they know who they are.

  On Decisions

  Making decisions is not my best thing. That’s probably true of most of us, but some people seem to handle it so much better. They analyze . . . they weigh . . . they ponder. I am certain they come up with the right choice every single time. At least one would hope so, considering the time invested. Try as I will, I can’t seem to get the hang of this approach . . . and wind up shooting from the hip.

  So it follows that I’m a rotten shopper. (I like to go to the market, sure, but that’s buying, not shopping!) In a department store, my patience runs out long before I’ve waded through all the don’t wants to find what I’m looking for. Asking for help can compound the complications because usually we have to settle the question of whether I am really who they think I am. More often than not, I retreat empty-handed. A great way to save money? It would be if it weren’t for the stack of catalogs lying in wait back home.

  Catalogs don’t ask you to make hard decisions . . . they show you a pretty picture, take it or leave it. Having saved so much at the store, you see, I proceed to get a little carried away! A color choice may hang me up momentarily, but I can usually handle it. I refuse to clutter my tiny mind with ominous details such as postage and handling charges.

  As a result, ninety percent of everything I wear, head to toe, comes out of one catalog or another. I’ve had few disasters, and most of the time, what I saw is what I get. Admittedly, this is not the thriftiest way to tackle shopping . . . but by avoiding the stress of going through a store, I’ve never had to have mental therapy either. Look how much I save right there.

  Some decisions are totally academic . . . such as choosing a puppy or a kitten. The choice is immediately taken out of your hands. He picks you.

  If someone else will take care of deciding which restaurant we’re going to, I have found myself a way to take the challenge out of the menu after we get there. If I like what I’ve ordered the first time, then that’s what I order every time I go back to that restaurant. Different places, different orders, so it doesn’t get monotonous. It does inhibit some of the wai
ter’s creativity, perhaps, but I’m always polite enough to wait through his spiel about the specials. Of course, if it is a restaurant I’ve never been to before, I’m back in the soup . . . so to speak.

  Bea Arthur is a food maven . . . discriminating, knowledgeable, and appreciative . . . and a bit intolerant of someone else’s lack in this department. We lunch together every day when we’re working, and my unimaginative predictability drives her bananas. We have two regular places we go in the lunchtime allotted, and she knows if we go to the Assistance League dining room I will have the tuna sandwich . . . if it’s Columbia Bar and Grill, she can make book that I will opt for the hamburger and french fries . . . neither choice being what could be termed a breakthrough. Bea, meanwhile, is poring over a menu that she must have long since committed to memory, since we have been going to these same two places for months . . . but, somehow, when she orders she makes it sound like an adventure!

  Would that all decisions were as readily handled. There are the tough calls . . . the life choices.

  In retrospect, the one I agonized over the most should have been the simplest. Allen Ludden proposed to me for a year before I had the good sense to say yes. I must not think about that year I wasted in soul searching.

  But there was a lot to consider. I had been happily single for more than ten years. California was my home . . . I commuted to New York to work, because I didn’t want to live back there. Marrying Allen would mean pulling up deep roots and moving east to stay. No more round-trip ticket in my hot little fist. (I had no way of knowing then, that six years later his job would make it necessary to move back out to the West Coast, where Allen became an instant California convert.)

  There were also three children to stir into the equation. Allen’s son David, fourteen, Martha, just turned thirteen, and Sarah, ten, were my great and good buddies. While I had watched Allen Ludden on “G.E. College Bowl,” and met him on “Password,” it was not until we were booked to do a summer play together on Cape Cod that I got acquainted with him . . . and his family.

  Together with two chocolate poodle puppies, Willie and Emma, the kids courted me right along with their father, and I fell in love with the whole gang. But the idea of going from pal to stepmother was very scary.

  What finally tipped the scale was a matter of priorities. Simple as that. I faced up to the possibility of never seeing Allen again . . . of continuing my well-adjusted single life . . . which by now, of course, he had warped out of shape altogether. I pictured what it would be like to turn on the television set, through the years, and see this man, again and again . . . realizing I had thrown something away that often doesn’t come by even once in a lifetime.

  Suddenly the pieces all tumbled into place . . . the obvious answer was finally the only answer. And high time!

  Yes!

  On Weddings

  By now you have gathered that Allen and I had a better than good marriage . . . however it got off to a start that was more like a two-reel comedy.

  In talking about decisions earlier, I told you that I wasted a whole year saying no each time Allen proposed. Well, he was not only proposing, he was selling the whole institution of marriage. His previous marriage of eighteen years to Margaret was a wonderful one, until her death from cancer cut it all too short . . . so he knew what he was selling.

  It got so that instead of saying hello, he would say, “Will you marry me?” Sometimes I’d laugh, sometimes I’d get mad . . . but I’d always say no.

  To show how sure Allen was that persistence would carry the day, he bought a gorgeous gold and diamond wedding ring, and presented it one evening, saying, “This is yours, you know. Someday you’ll wear it.” “No, I won’t!” said she . . . and that was probably one of the nights I got mad. By now, to be sure, I was running scared.

  What did he do? For three months he wore that damned ring on a chain around his neck, so I couldn’t miss it. It got full of soap, and suntan oil, but he vowed he would only take it off for one reason. Afterward, of course, he told everybody he just hated it when we got married . . . he had to part with the ring!

  Because Allen had used up his time off from “Password” to come courting in California . . . when I finally said yes, all they could give him was a long weekend before he had to be back on the show.

  At that time, in most states, there was a mandatory blood test and three-day waiting period before getting married . . . except in Nevada. So, in order to have any honeymoon at all, we decided to fly to Las Vegas for the wedding. Are you ready for Mr. Clean and the Girl Next Door getting married in Vegas?

  Here was the game plan. Allen was to fly out on a Thursday in June, then on Friday, my mom and dad, Allen, and I would fly to Las Vegas have a celebration dinner, see a show or two . . . and on Saturday morning we’d have the wedding ceremony. The newlyweds would then board a plane to honeymoon for a couple of days in Laguna Beach, while the bride’s parents took another plane back to Los Angeles. So far, so good.

  Come the all-important Thursday, however, Allen was caught in a gigantic traffic jam in New York, on his way to Kennedy (then Idylwild) Airport, and missed the only plane he ever failed to catch in his entire life. When he got to the airport, he still had a slim chance . . . he jumped out of the cab, raced in, the man checked his luggage through in record time . . . then proceeded to send Allen to the wrong gate!

  By that time it was all academic. Practically in tears, he screamed, “My wedding suit is on the way to California, and I’m not!” He always remembered a nice lady standing near, who patted his shoulder, saying, “There, there, Mr. Ludden.”

  Meanwhile back at the bride’s house . . . she was doing battle with not just jitters, but sheer panic. So when the call came from Allen saying he’d be on a later plane, she was so warm and understanding . . . through clenched teeth, she said, “Why don’t you just stay there!” That’s the way to comfort a fella, right?

  While she didn’t deserve it, he was on the next plane, and by that evening, the lovers and the luggage were reunited, and all was well again. Until the next day, after we all checked into the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas.

  The hotel people, old hands at the game, still fussed over us as though we were the only wedding party they had ever met. They put the four of us in a little jitney and drove us over to a tower building about a quarter of a mile away. My folks were shown to a lovely double room, across the hall from an enormous “wedding suite” . . . complete with a walk-through shower connecting separate his and her bathrooms, one in pink, the other all black. Since the wedding was not until the next morning, this was to be my room, and Allen was given a little single room way down the hall!

  As we all stood there deciding how long we would take to dress for dinner, Allen suddenly turned ashen . . . “My God! I left my briefcase!” With that, he bolted from the room, and raced on foot all the way back to the main hotel where we had checked in.

  When he finally returned, he reported, somewhat breathlessly, that he had found the briefcase still sitting by itself on the floor where he had left it when we were all swept away to our rooms. His trauma was because in the briefcase were his wedding presents . . . a lovely jade bracelet for my mother, engraved with THANK YOU DOLL!, gold cuff links for my father . . . and a beautiful gold and diamond bracelet for his bride, to match the famous wedding ring! Where was that ring? Still safely around his neck? No . . . he had had the jeweler clean it all up, so it, too, was in the briefcase. All this made missing the plane the day before seem like a piece of cake.

  After such a stroke of good luck, we four went on to spend a happy, giddy, sentimental evening. The hotel people would no doubt have been amazed if they knew that Allen really did stay in his little room that night . . . and I rattled around the wedding-or-whatever suite, alone.

  Early next morning, we went to get our marriage license. Allen took a bellhop along . . . not so much to show us where to go, he claimed, but to help keep me from jumping ship.

  The ceremony took place in t
he wedding suite . . .(in the living room, not the shower) . . . and the hotel had set up an adjacent room for our “reception” . . . on them! There was a table, at least a block long, filled with enough beautiful canapés to feed a family of twelve for a month, plus champagne bottles by the dozen.

  Now, our entire wedding party consisted of my mother and father, the judge who married us, the bellhop, a couple of hotel photographers, and the bride and groom. The photographers split immediately to plant their pictures in the paper, the judge was on his way to another ceremony, the bellhop was on duty, and my dad didn’t drink. Mom and Allen and I took one quick glass of champagne, but there were planes to catch. We thought.

  It developed that the new summer schedule had gone into effect, and our flight to Laguna had been deleted from that schedule just the week before . . . so sorry. So we all piled into the plane back to L.A. My folks kept trying to pretend they didn’t know us . . . lest the world think that they were going along on the honeymoon.

  After we landed and said our fond good-byes, Allen rented a car and we drove to Laguna. Not having sampled any of the goodies at the Sands (I hope somebody got to really enjoy that spread!) . . . by now we were starving, so we pulled in to a Denny’s for a quick sandwich before we got to Laguna. As we walked up to the front door, we could see that the whole group of newsstands carried our picture plastered all over the front pages of the local papers. Someone inside spotted us, stood up in the window, and applauded. We kept right on walking . . . back to the car and Laguna!

  What Allen didn’t tell me until months later was that, even in small amounts, champagne always gave him a blinding headache. During those first few weeks, people were so sweet . . . wherever we would go out for dinner, someone was sure to send a bottle of champagne to our table, watch the waiter pour, lift their glasses in a toast, and wait . . . and wait . . . for us to join them. We couldn’t be rude . . . we certainly couldn’t explain across a room . . . we would sip. This no doubt sounds like a golden worry, but my poor darling went through our first two months of wedded bliss with a perpetual secret headache . . . besides the one he married.