If You Ask Me (6 page)

I have never met him. I never want to meet him (I’d be too embarrassed after taking his name in vain so many times). However, what began as a crush on a movie star soon grew into genuine admiration. I became aware of his concern for the environment, his love of and respect for nature, his involvement with The Wilderness Society, and I maintain that the Robert Redford answer works for me in almost any department.

Fast-forward to January 2010. A few days after I had received an unbelievable honor from the Screen Actors Guild, I brought the mail in one morning, as usual, and found the following letter.

More than a note, the congratulation consisted of a delightful,
funny
six-stanza poem that began with “Dear Betty” and ended with “Congratulations, Robert.”

By now I don’t have to tell you how my mind was blown. Of course, my first reaction was that someone was putting me on, but the stationery was authentic, and on looking further, I found a great picture of himself, signed “Guess who? Robert Redford.”

Finally, I found the courage to write him a thank-you and said I couldn’t promise to stop using his name—unless he didn’t find it funny.

I can only say that Robert Redford is one class act.

 

 

P.S. I know you would love to hear the poem. Sorry.

© BETTMANN/CORBIS

ZUMA PRESS/NEWSCOM

C
ertain common clichés maintain that most men love hardware stores, just as women dote on shoe stores. I have no idea how accurate that is, because, personally, I am strange for stationery stores. Not for the fancy writing paper—it’s those tablets and packs of lined three-hole notebook pages and those packs of typing paper that turn me on. I even buy those things when I go to the grocery store, whether I need them or not.

Let’s say I am in the middle of a writing project and have, perhaps, hit a slow spot. Bringing in this stuff can recharge the battery. Or, if I am
not
in the middle of a writing project, it can often cause me to start one.

Why? I have no idea, but it has been that way all my life—even back to my school days. A fresh pack of paper was the best incentive in the world for me to tackle my homework.

As weird as all this sounds, I am not alone. I can remember once being told by an author—who was rather well known at the time—that on the rare occasions when he hit a stubborn writer’s block, there was only one specific brand of green-lined paper that could get him started again. He called it his “paper laxative.” As soon as he’d bring in a pack, the ideas would start again.

Okay, so I’m weird. At least I am in good company.

John Steinbeck, who was Allen’s and my good friend, did his writing standing up at a drafting table—in longhand, his white bull terrier, Angel, lying across his feet. People always seem amazed that I write in longhand. Well, if it’s good enough for Steinbeck, it’s good enough for me! I really can’t communicate to a machine—the thoughts want to go from my brain down my arm to my hand to the page. After I’ve written that first draft, I copy it over again onto another page. That’s when the most changes are made, as I polish and rewrite the original—once again, in longhand.

I still remember those lovely times with my mother when I would try to copy her handwriting. Maybe it isn’t only John Steinbeck’s influence after all.

With our computers today, we have a whole new population who will find all of this totally academic, since they write by hand as little as possible. Even signing their names seems to have gone by the boards.

Computers can’t take all the blame. Both my business manager and my doctor have handwriting that is practically unreadable. Whenever I get fan mail in which the handwriting is absolutely illegible, I wonder if they’ve taken writing lessons from my business manager!

Ironically, when I grew up and entered into show business, I found many people who actually practiced diligently to make their autographs as eye-catching, illegible, and uncopyable as possible!

On
Hot in Cleveland
, Valerie Bertinelli, Wendie Malick, Jane Leeves, and I sign scripts each week to be used as charity auction items. I am always so grateful that I know their names, because I wouldn’t have a clue from their signatures, which are as distinctive and interesting as they are. You can’t imagine how dull my readable but boring “Betty White” looks on that script cover in that distinguished company.

I must practice.

BETTY WHITE PRIVATE COLLECTION

T
he term “fan” somehow seems more appropriate for one in the faceless crowd at a sporting event than for those nice folks who greet me on the street, or in the market, or at the airport—or wherever. The greetings are warm and friendly, probably because they have been inviting me into their homes for decades.

The Betty White Fan Club, Bets’ Pets, has been around since 1971. While it has grown some over the years, it is still kept very personal, thanks to long-serving president Kay Daly and charter member LeElla Moorer. They have hung in there since the very beginning and have become treasured personal friends.

Over all those years, Kay and Lee have attended almost every performance I’ve done, not only in Los Angeles but out of town as well. As of today, they are in the audience every week when we shoot
Hot in Cleveland
. They are deeply appreciated.

Bets’ Pets was so named because from its inception, the club was dedicated to helping animals. The members pay minimal annual dues, and at Christmas and for my birthday in January, they put together a bonus gift—all of which is forwarded to various animal charities in my honor. They are a great group.

As well as sending out newsletters to the members about my activities, Kay manages to put out a great journal every year, comprising pictures and articles and pet news sent in by club members, which keeps us all updated on one another. She did all that while working as a fourth-grade schoolteacher until she retired. Lee, after serving as a nurse in the military, became head surgical nurse at UCLA Hospital until her retirement. I am most grateful that they haven’t retired from my life!

Fans, in general, continue to amaze me. When I’m working out of town and I show up at different studios for appearances, no matter which city we are in, there is always a group waiting, holding pictures of me to be autographed.
How
do they know my schedule when I hardly know it myself? Time is always short, and I feel bad when sometimes they rush me past and I can’t stop and sign, but these people always seem to understand and keep smiling.

Fan
mail
is something else again, with which my invaluable assistant Donna Ellerbusch and I contend! We try to keep up, but the mail continues to burgeon. A good percentage of it consists of picture requests, which I sign for Donna to send. I can’t answer it all, of course, but there are a few categories that Donna sets aside, to which I do respond: those who have just lost a life partner and need to share their pain with someone who has been through it; boys and girls achieving Eagle Scout and the Gold Award, respectively; hurting individuals reporting the loss of a beloved pet; and students writing me as part of a school project. My answers are understandably brief, but answer I must.

Fellow actors have urged me to send the mail to companies that make a business of handling fan mail rather than complicate a busy schedule. One actor friend maintains that he never deals with his fan mail in
any
way—he just dumps it.

Truth be told, I need to read these letters to discover what I’m doing right or, more important,
wrong
, and these writers don’t hesitate to tell you.

 

 

I used to be able to travel alone without thinking about it. I can’t do that anymore. I have to have a meet-and-greet on both ends to get me through the airport. People are just being nice, but recently I actually missed a plane because I couldn’t break away.

Between the Snickers commercial and the explosion of projects on which I worked in the past year, and a whole generation of fans who have met me through syndication, it seems like the number of people who call themselves fans just keeps growing. (There was a time when
The Golden Girls
was on four times a day!)

I don’t mean for this to sound self-serving, but it can be a problem, and yet these are the people responsible for your good fortune!

Please know how grateful I am. Even if I do have to rush by to catch a plane!