Life Is Not a Stage by Florence Henderson (big screen ebook reader .TXT) 📕

The recurrent theme in my life, “turning misfortune into opportunity,” struck again, in the same way that ill-fitting bathing suit helped get me my first stage role. It happened when I went to sit on the hot seat to chat with Jack Paar for a few minutes after doing the number. Don’t ask me how, but I managed to spill a glass of water all over his desk. Instinctively, I got up and started to wipe up the puddles with his handkerchief. Jack said something like, “I’ve always wanted a maid like this,” and got a huge laugh. And as a consequence of that simple, nonsensical act, our friendship was cemented. I got invited back and soon became a “regular.”

I understood that Paar loved good stories, so I made sure to have one or two in hand ready to go each time I went on. Of course, the show could suddenly veer off in another direction. You had to roll with the punches, like the time Paar asked me to sing the same song over again three times. Johnny Carson, who succeeded him, could also throw out whatever was on his card from the pre-interview and talk about something completely off the wall. To hang with them both was a challenge, but always an enjoyable one. These were big personalities, and I had to match them. And because I was fairly successful in holding my own, my reputation grew, and I was in demand a lot on the talk show circuit.

To come up with content to talk about, I would think about things from my life that I considered funny. All of it was based on truth, which is where I believe the greatest comedy comes from. Case in point, Paar loved a story I told one night on the show about Barbara. I related how I would take my little daughter with me to St. Malachy’s Church, the actors’ chapel, which is on 49th Street between Broadway and Eighth in the heart of the theater district. Purposely, I would take her down front so she would not distract the other parishioners. After a few minutes sitting there, I noticed how her attention was drawn upwards. She was looking up at the crucifix high above the altar and recognized how it was similar to the one we had at home.

“Jesus on the cross,” she called out upon making this discovery.

“Yes, that’s Jesus on the cross, but don’t talk because people are trying to pray,” I told her, adding that it was okay for her to quietly whisper if she needed to say something.

“Oh, Jesus on the cross,” she repeated a few decibels louder.

“Shhh!”

She paused for a moment and looked thoughtfully up again at the crucifix. “Come here, Jesus, come here.”

“Jesus can’t come down,” I tried to explain to her. “That’s there just to remind us of Jesus and that he suffered for us.”

She looked up at the cross once again, and I could see the little wheels turning. A couple of seconds later, her little voice seemed to fill the church: “Jump, Jesus!”

I loved television so much that when an audition came up for the job as “the Today Show girl,” I jumped at the chance. They were testing different people on air for the part. I went on as a “guest host,” and they liked what they saw. Conventional wisdom may have questioned why I would want to go in that direction when I was considered a member of that rarefied diva club, a Broadway lead. But from as early as my teenage years, I had a steadfast goal, and within it this move made perfect sense. My plan was to be active as an entertainer at a top level at least until age ninety-five (if God granted me the chance to live that long). I knew that I would need to diversify in order to do that. I thought this challenge would be fun and an opportunity to grow.

Such a challenge came fairly early on. I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I have no idea whether what happened to me in one of my first big interviews was deliberate or accidental—a form of hazing, a lighthearted practical joke gone awry, a malicious prank, or just an innocent and unintended comedy of errors.

My interview subject was a Japanese woman who had written a beautiful book on ikebana, the art of floral arrangement. She was married to an American pilot, and she was wearing a beautiful kimono. We didn’t have time to chat before the seven-minute segment was to begin. The segment producer assured me that she did, in fact, speak English.

We went live seated tatami-style on the floor of an area appropriately decorated with a Japanese flourish. We exchanged bows, and I began my questions.

“So, tell me, how did it come about that you got into designing these beautiful floral arrangements?”

“Aaaaaahh aahhaaarrruuuu.” (I think she was saying, “Yes, yes, yes.”)

Maybe the question was a little too complicated, so I thought I’d go to something a little more basic.

“I understand that your husband is American, and that’s how you learned English.”

“Aaauuuhhh aahhaaaarruuu.”

After two more attempts and the same unintelligible syllabic answers, I realized that I was in quite a fix. The floor manager held up four fingers, meaning four minutes remained to be filled. Funny how time can suddenly stall to a near crawl in these moments. Beads of perspiration were beginning to form. I was desperate. She wouldn’t speak. Think fast, Florence!

I held up her book and opened it up to a random page in view of the camera. “Oh, why don’t you tell me about this wonderful book with all these incredible pictures? Would you describe this picture for me?” Of course, there was no response.

“Well, let me describe this picture for you.” I quickly looked at the caption to the photo. “Oh, here are some daffodils and unhusked pussywillows.”

The sound of that sexual double entendre unleashed a torrent of laughter on the set. I seized