GOLDEN

One of my favorite TV shows in my “single days” and ever since has been Golden Girls. Those sassy ladies knew who they were, they lived their lives to suit themselves, and they made a wonderful combination of personalities and temperaments.

The smart, even-tempered, quick wit of Dorothy, the ditzy, small-town innocence of Rose, the smart-mouthed, blame-it-on-age zingers and behavior of Sophia, and the flamboyant, openly amorous Blanche were a household of contradictions, of hilarious happenings, of passionately-loyal friends.

I think all of us “girls” of a certain age picked one to match ourselves, or perhaps the one we’d like to be. I envied the easy honesty and self-confidence of Blanche, who changed boyfriends as often as her gorgeous wardrobe, the easy intelligence and common sense of Dorothy, the devil-may-care antics of Sophia, and even the childlike naivete' of Rose, thinking that if I could emulate all four, it would make a formidable, likeable package.

We followed them from heartbreak to outlandish stunts, from separations and losses and reunions and romance and revelry to good, solid friendships which filled that big Miami house with an atmosphere so congenial, we ALL wanted to live there. Or at least, next door.

Rose (Betty White, a perennial sweetheart, with a loving nature and what husband Allen Ludden called “the best legs in show business” even while Betty Grable was still alive---is still kicking up those attractive gams on TV and in movies---most recently a fan-driven push to have her host Saturday Night Live, for which she drew raves AND fans young enough to be her great-grandchildren).

There’s just something about those times, perhaps just in my own mind---I lived there with them once a week, sitting in that pretty kitchen, listening and laughing and crying along with their plots and their plans and their lives. There WERE women friends like that, loyal and caring and supportive, and they could get along under one roof. Lovely.

But in just the last two years, we’ve lost Sophia (the surprisingly attractive and young Estelle Getty (July 25, 1923 – July 22, 2008), and Dorothy (the delightful Bea Arthur---May 13, 1922 – April 25, 2009).

And now Blanche, of the sweeping statements and self-absorption and sense of self which overwhelmed decades of hapless, happy men, has gone from us---it feels as if an era has passed and a time is gone. (Rue McClanahan, February 21, 1934 – passed away just this morning).

R.I.P. Dear wonderful, beautiful Blanche. THANK YOU FOR BEING A FRIEND.