This Time Together Read online

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Cheerful. That was her mantra.

  In 1976 I was planning another special for CBS, so I called Beverly’s manager, Edgar Vincent, and asked him to test the waters and see if she would like to get into the sandbox and play with me. We had never met, but I admired her so much I was willing to take the chance. Within minutes, she returned the call herself.

  “Carol?”

  “Miss Sills?”

  “It’s Bubbles. When can we play together?”

  I was floored. She was saying yes.

  She was coming out to LA for a brief visit, so we set up a time when we could meet and talk about the kind of show we’d like to do. Laughing, she said she’d be staying at the “Beverly Sills Hotel.”

  I drove up the hotel’s long driveway and there she was, waiting for me out front. She got in the car and gave me that big smile and a bigger hug. We started talking and giggling at once and didn’t stop until we got to my house. It was as if we’d known each other our whole lives.

  Ken and Mitzie Welch, who were going to write all the musical special material for the show, were waiting for us, along with Joe, who would produce. Out of that meeting came Sills and Burnett at the Met.

  It was a joyous time from that very first meeting. We laughed all through rehearsals, opened with a comedy number, “We’re Only an Octave Apart,” did sketches, and wound up with a tap-dancing finale that brought the house down. As I’ve said many times before, I’m a nut for bad weather, and whenever I’ve done a show for the first time it has either snowed or rained. I remember telling the crew, the dancers, and of course Beverly on March 9, the day before the show, to bundle up the next night when we taped, because “we’re gonna have some weather!” I don’t think it was predicted, but the next day New York welcomed a MAJOR snowstorm!

  The show couldn’t have gone better. It wound up winning some wonderful reviews and quite a few awards. We both cried when it was over.

  Over the years, whenever I went to New York I would call Bubbles before I had even unpacked. We would get together often. When I was back in California, we called each other constantly. In spite of any personal anguish she was going through, she was always cheerful.

  Once again, I got my wish. I not only got to meet Beverly Sills, but over the years we developed a loving friendship that cheers my heart whenever I think of her … which is every single day.

  She died in 2007.

  How blessed I am to have known her.

  And if there is something after this life, I can’t wait to get back into the sandbox with her and play some more. One thing I do know: it’s sure to snow.

  Questions and Answers on the Road

  As I mentioned in the introduction, for quite a few years now I’ve been taking to the road with the same Q & A format that I used to open our variety show every week. I never know what the questions will be, so it forces me to be in the moment. My mind can’t wander for a second. Many of the questions are about our show and Tim, Harvey, Vicki, and Lyle, which I welcome because I have several stories I can tell.

  And then there are those questions that just throw me for a loop.

  A while back I was in Pennsylvania and a young man raised his hand.

  “Yes, the young man on the aisle.”

  “It’s my twenty-fifth birthday today. Would you give me a birthday hug?”

  “Sure. Come on up.”

  The young man bounded up onto the stage, whereupon I gave him a big hug and asked the audience to sing “Happy Birthday.” He thanked me and returned to his seat. It was a nice moment, and a few minutes later I called on a handsome gentleman dressed in a nice suit and tie. He stood up and said, “Miss Burnett, I’m not twenty-five but it’s my birthday, too, and I’d like a hug because I’ve always found you to be a most attractive lady.”

  I knew I could have some fun with him, so I shouted, “No kidding? What’re you waiting for? Get up here!” The audience was laughing as he made his way onstage. He came for me with his arms outstretched for THE HUG. I held him back with my hands and said, “Now wait a minute, not so fast! We hardly know each other!” He backed off, a little red in the face.

  The audience was having as much fun as I was. I continued, “So how old are you today?”

  “Forty.”

  “Forty. And what’s your name?”

  “Bob.”

  “Thank you for the nice compliment, Bob. And you want a hug?”

  He started for me again and I held him off again, much to the audience’s delight. “Sooo, tell me, Bob, have you ever thought in terms of an older woman?”

  He took a couple of steps back, and the audience howled.

  “What’s the matter, Bob?”

  “N-Nothing.”

  “Oh no! Bob, are you trying to tell me you’re involved with someone else?”

  “Sort of …” The audience was eating this up.

  “Sort of? I don’t understand, Bob. What do you mean, ‘sort of ’?”

  There was a short pause.

  “I’m a priest.”

  Another time I was in Texas and a woman in the balcony asked me the weirdest question ever. She must have been working on it for a long time.

  “Carol, if you could be a member of the opposite sex for twenty-four hours, and then pop back and be yourself again, who would you be and what would you do?”

  My mind started racing like mad. Opposite sex? For twenty-four hours? Who would I be? What would I do? I said a quick little prayer. Please, let me just open my mouth and have whatever comes out make sense.

  I took a deep breath and what came out was this:

  “I’d be Osama bin Laden, and I’d kill myself.”

  Brian

  In 1993 I signed on to perform for six weeks in a musical in Long Beach, and met Brian Miller. He was the contractor who hired the musicians and also played drums for this particular production. Musicians have always been special to me, not only for their unique talents but also for their sense of humor. During rehearsals the cast and crew would take a break and relax downstairs around the coffee machine. I was drawn to Brian because he was fun, smart, and easy to be around. I began to look forward to those coffee breaks.

  After the show closed we went our separate ways.

  A few years later we ran into each other at an outdoor mall in Los Angeles. Lunch followed, and then a movie, and then dinner. Despite our age difference (he’s quite a bit younger than I am), I thought of Brian as a contemporary. He knew and loved all the old movies I had grown up with, and was even able to quote from them at length. And as far as music goes … well, he knew just about every standard written. All of that, along with being a classically trained musician and the drummer for the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra for several years, made him very appealing.

  Brian and me.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  After a few months I introduced Brian to my girls, and they took to him instantly, which made me very happy. Next it was time for him to meet the gang—Harvey, Tim, and their wives. We all gathered for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills.

  Harvey, slipping into the role of my father, said later that he had been reluctant to meet my new beau for fear that he might be all wrong for me. Happily, it turned out to be a terrific evening, and we all wound up laughing and hugging on the sidewalk while we were waiting for our cars. And the best part of all was Harvey planting a big kiss on Brian’s cheek, saying, “Welcome to the family.”

  Brian and I tied the knot in November 2001.

  It rained that day.

  In addition to his work as a drummer, Brian is one of Los Angeles’s busiest contractors of musicians for theater and live events, and he also acts as personnel manager for one of the city’s resident orchestras, all of which keeps him pretty busy. He’s brilliantly funny and makes me laugh constantly. What’s most important is that I feel safe with him. He’s a loving human being, and my very best friend.

  A side note: we’re both a lot
like Felix Unger (the neatnik in The Odd Couple). There are even times when we come close to arm-wrestling over the Windex bottle!

  Pets

  A few years ago I was working in a Broadway play, Moon over Buffalo. It got a little lonely in my hotel room between shows, so I began to think about getting a dog to keep me company. I mentioned it to a few of our cast members and crew, and they made me see the light. First of all, I would have to “hotel-break” a puppy. Then I’d have to get up every morning at the crack of dawn to walk him/her (it was winter), repeat the procedure in the afternoon, and then do it once again when I got back late at night after the curtain. It would be almost like taking care of a baby.

  The solution was obvious: a cat. They only require food, water, a litter box, and of course TLC. How would I know what kind to get? The answer was simple: “The cat chooses you.”

  So the following Monday (our day off), I found myself at an animal shelter on the East Side, Bide-a-Wee. It had been recommended to me because they never put their animals to sleep. They kept them alive and cared for them even if they were never chosen. I could see that some of the animals were up there in years, and I thought, “What a wonderful group of people. I’ve come to the right place.”

  I told the manager that I was there to adopt a cat. She took me down to where the felines were housed, a long hallway lined with cages on both sides, full of kitties of all kinds. I walked down the hall checking out the cages on my right, and then up the hall checking them out on my left. They were all so adorable that I swear I wanted to work there! I spotted two beautiful Siamese kittens sleeping wrapped around each other. I asked about them and the manager said they’d come in together and the shelter wouldn’t split them up. I appreciated Bide-a-Wee even more.

  I asked her, “How do I choose one? They’re all wonderful.”

  Same reply. “The cat chooses you!”

  So up and down the hall I went once again.

  I was peeking at a sleeping kitten on the right when I heard a meow behind me and turned around to see a beautiful pair of eyes staring at me. I approached this cat’s cage to peer in, and her front paw reached through the bars and touched my arm. “Hell-ooo! Here I am! Let’s go home!”

  And that’s how I met Roxy. I named her after a character in Moon over Buffalo. She was part Maine coon and part something else, I’m not sure what. She was black and white and fluffy, and about four months old.

  She was it.

  So Roxy and I settled into the hotel with all the necessary equipment and food. She slept with me the first night, cuddling up against my neck. We had already bonded. I decided to take her to the theater every night so she wouldn’t be alone. I bought a second litter box and put it in our little dressing room, just in case. She immediately became a kind of mascot. My dresser for the show, Laura Beattie, was a cat person, and it wasn’t long before Roxy was as comfortable in our dressing room as she was at the hotel.

  Unfortunately, she got a little too comfortable.

  Roxy and me.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  As time went on, for some reason the finale music that played during the curtain calls triggered Roxy to leave a few “calling cards” in the litter box, thereby stinking up the entire dressing room, whose one window had been painted shut for years. This happened every night for the rest of the run. Was it the time of day or the sound of the music that stirred her up? The show itself?

  No matter—until we closed, I made it a point to greet guests coming backstage outside in the hall.

  I didn’t want them to think it was me.

  Roxy died a short while later. Something had been wrong with her since she was born, so she only lived for three years. It broke my heart.

  I have her ashes in a little container on a shelf in my den.

  It took me a while, but I began to think about getting another cat—not to replace Roxy, but to give another little critter my love. I had heard about how smart and loving the Bengal breed is, so I checked it out on the computer. (Yep, Beth, I can surf the Web now!) Brian and I visited a breeder and met their Bengal family, consisting of Mama, Papa, and their brood of four. The first three kittens seemed to be in audition mode—jumping, doing flips, rolling over, and all but tap-dancing to be noticed. The fourth was rather quiet and proceeded to climb onto my lap and curl up for a nap. I handed her to Brian and she snuggled into his neck. Yes, she had picked us. “Hell-ooo! Here I am! Let’s go home!”

  Here’s Mabel, kicking back.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  So along came Mabel. I named her after Nanny. She’s a beautiful cat with jade-green eyes, tiger-like stripes, and a personality that makes me howl with laughter.

  That was ten years ago. Mabel talks, fetches (!), and curls up on my lap when I’m reading the paper or watching television. She follows Brian and me around the house, and will come to us when we call her. My favorite Mabel quirk occurs when it’s time to eat: if she hasn’t been fed yet, she lifts the receiver off the telephone. “Hello, room service?”

  I look at it this way: Roxy gave me everything she could in her short lifetime. And she opened my heart to the possibility that became Mabel.

  God bless our furry loved ones.

  Hal Prince, Hollywood Arms, Carrie

  “The Prince of Broadway” was the clue in the New York Times crossword puzzle. The answer? Director-producer Hal Prince. A prince of a talent, and a prince of a man.

  As I’ve mentioned, back in 1986 Random House published my first book, One More Time. It wasn’t about show business. It was about growing up in an eccentric, alcoholic, dysfunctional, yet loving household. It was a personal journal to share with my kids. The book came out and sold well, and I retired it to my bookshelf.

  In 1998 my daughter Carrie called me from her home in Colorado. At thirty-five she had a good career going: guest-starring in movies for television, writing, and singing. She had an idea she wanted to pitch to me.

  “Mom, I think we could take the first part of One More Time and make a play out of it. Just for the fun of it. You and me, together. How about it?”

  Just for the fun of it.

  Hal and me at Chicago rehearsals for Hollywood Arms.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  We began collaborating long-distance. Carrie would write in her Colorado mountain cabin and I would write in my Los Angeles apartment. The faxes flew back and forth. Nanny, Mama, and Daddy were all coming to life. Carrie was getting to know her family in the most profound way, putting dialogue to moments that echoed in my deepest memories. She had never known these people in life, but she knew them now—not by writing about them, but by writing them.

  After some theater lab workshops with the Sundance Theater and the help of workshop director Philip Himberg, we were ready to show the play to some producers and directors. We got some interest from a producer who suggested two highly respected Broadway directors. Carrie and I didn’t have a clue about which one to pursue, so I called my friend Hal Prince for advice. He knew and admired both directors, so he asked if he could read the play before giving us a recommendation.

  He read it and offered to direct it himself! Hal Prince. The director of Phantom of the Opera, Evita, Cabaret, Sweeney Todd, Follies, Company, and countless other Broadway successes, the winner of over twenty Tony Awards, wanted to work with us on our little play.

  Carrie and I were over the moon.

  Over the next couple of years, Hal helped us turn our work into a real stage play. Originally we had written lots of scenes in many different settings—the one-room apartment Nanny and I had lived in, Mama’s room down the hall, the rooftop of the apartment building, Daddy’s hospital room, and so on. It was more like a movie than a stage play. Our first assignment from Hal was to put all the action in our one-room apartment and on the rooftop. Hal said, “Confinement is your friend.” Was he ever right.

  Carrie was still in Colorado, I was in LA, and now Hal was in New York. Once again, the faxes flew. We found out tha
t the apartment building Nanny and I had lived in when we moved out from San Antonio had been called Hollywood Arms when it was first built in the twenties. We had our title.

  Hal sent the play to Robert Falls, the artistic director of the Goodman Theatre in Chicago, and we were offered a limited run beginning in April 2002.

  Then Carrie got sick.

  Carrie was diagnosed with lung cancer in the summer of 2001. Determined to beat it, she moved back to Los Angeles, where she insisted on driving herself to her chemotherapy and radiation treatments. During these first few months we continued working with Hal on Hollywood Arms. Carrie was in and out of the hospital, rallying and getting sprung to go home.

  I remember one of the times Carrie was readmitted to Cedars-Sinai, in the late fall of 2001. I entered her hospital room. It was around five in the morning and she was stirring. I looked down at her as she opened her eyes and smiled at me. Looking around the room, I feebly joked, “So you wanted to come back here again, huh?”

  “I missed the food.”

  For a while there, we all believed she’d lick it—Carrie most of all.

  One of the nurses asked her how come she smiled so much.

  She replied, “Every day I wake up and decide: today I’m going to love my life.”

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Obituary

  January 21, 2002

  CARRIE HAMILTON (December 1963–January 2002)

  Carrie Hamilton, an actress, writer and musician and a daughter of Carol Burnett, died yesterday. She was 38.

  The cause was cancer.

  Ms. Hamilton, whose father was the late producer Joe Hamilton, appeared in the television series “Fame” and had guest roles on other shows, including “Murder She Wrote,” “Beverly Hills 90210” and “thirtysomething.” She also starred in television movies.