I Love Her, That's Why! an Autobiography

By George Burns, Cynthia Hobart Lindsay and Jack Benny

I Love Her, That's Why! first published in 1955, is an entertaining look at the earlier life and career of comedian George Burns and his wife Gracie Allen. From humble beginnings in New York, Burns and Allen went on to become much-loved stars of stage, radio, television, and the big-screen, one of the few entertainers to be successful in each venue. The book begins with Burns' childhood and early struggles in vaudeville before he meets Gracie Allen. Burns then details his efforts to win her affections; their marriage and adoptions of two children; radio, film, and TV productions (including the script for their television series). Included are 16 pages of illustrations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781456636425

George Burns

GEORGE BURNS (born Nathan Birnbaum; January 20, 1896 - March 9, 1996) was an American comedian, actor, singer, and writer. He was one of the few entertainers whose career successfully spanned vaudeville, radio, film and television. His arched eyebrow and cigar-smoke punctuation became familiar trademarks for over three quarters of a century. He and his wife, Gracie Allen, appeared on radio, television, and film as the comedy duo Burns and Allen. When Burns was 79, he had a sudden career revival as an amiable, beloved and unusually active comedy elder statesman in the 1975 film The Sunshine Boys, for which he won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. Burns, who became a centenarian in 1996, continued to work until just weeks before his death of cardiac arrest at his home in Beverly Hills. CYNTHIA HOBART LINDSAY (May 27, 1915 - May 5, 2007) was an American writer, actress and stuntwoman. She is best known for her roles in the movies American in Paris (1964), A Look at Monaco (1963) and My Three Sons (1960). Born in North Hempstead, New York as Cynthia Hobart, she began a career in entertainment as a stunt double for such stars as Claudette Colbert and Sonja Henie in films—falling off horses and cliffs, swimming in aquacades, skating and skiing, and riding covered wagons across the plains. A horseback riding injury ended this phase of her career, and she turned to writing, first for M.G.M., and later as a free-lancer for magazines. She lived in Santa Monica, California with her third husband Louis Lindsay, her children Meg and Michael, and her poodles Beetle and Doc. She died in 2007 at the age of 91.

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I Love Her, That's Why! An Autobiography

by George Burns

Subjects: Autobiography -- Actors; Entertainers; Comedians

First published in 1955

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

I LOVE HER, THAT’S WHY!

An Autobiography

by George Burns 

with Cynthia Hobart Lindsay

PROLOGUE

MY NAME is Jack Benny. I am an actor, a comedian, and a frustrated violinist. I am not a writer. I have a bunch of fellows who generally do this for me very well. But this particular job I wanted to do myself because I am what you might call an authority on the subject. George Burns is my closest friend. He may deny this, but it’s true.

As I say, it is difficult for me to express myself in writing, for usually when I’m on-stage I emphasize a joke or story by pausing and looking at the audience. As I cannot very well do this with you readers, I thought I might use a device to indicate a pause. Like this: Now about George Burns; I haven’t read the book yet, but I know what’s in it. It’s an old story to me, with a few new twists. George never tells a story the same way twice. This is to lull you into a false sense of security so you won’t think you’ve heard it before and stop him. Knowing George as well as I do, I could almost have written this book myself. Almost, meaning that I probably should have. Some of the episodes I am sure are true. Some of them will have a basis of truth and then will develop into the damnedest lies you have ever read. The reason for this is, he has told these stories so many times to the same people that he has to embellish each episode and find a new finish. Some of the stories will be completely true, but they didn’t happen to him; they happened to somebody else. George Burns is the greatest offstage actor I know. Sometimes at a party when he is telling a long story about me, he is so convincing that I have to take him in the other room and say, Did that really happen to me? He says, "Of course not. It was Harpo Marx, but Harpo isn’t here and you are"

The things you will no doubt read about George’s mother—and his eleven sisters and brothers—are true, because nobody could make up anything so fantastic. But the anecdotes you will read about me are the ones I told you will be basically true and then drift into fantasy.

I don’t have to enumerate these lies about me specifically, because the truth will be brought out at the trial in case I have to sue him. You must remember I haven’t read the book yet, but I have an attorney in the bullpen.

Even though this is an autobiography, he will naturally include his source of income. I am referring to his wife—Gracie Allen. I wouldn’t be presumptuous enough to venture an opinion on whether the chapters on Gracie are true or not. That close a friend I’m not. But I’m sure they must be true, because Gracie, even though professionally a zany character, in real life is a very capable and intelligent woman and won’t stand for any nonsense. She is also a deeply talented actress, has natural beauty and a wonderful sense of humor. If you think that’s a prejudiced statement, you’re right. Why? I also love her, that’s why.

Then of course there are a few situations that are lies right from the chapter number. I know all this, and I repeat: I haven’t read the book. I am going to read it as soon as I finish the prologue. As a matter of fact, if I make the prologue long enough, Simon and Schuster may prefer it to the book—and with my usual business acumen, I can either sell it to them or peddle it elsewhere.

The book should be very interesting because in his short life (when wearing his toupee he’s two years younger than I am) George has known everybody from Al Jolson to Al Capone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still corresponding with Valeska Surat, Judge Crater, Powers Elephants, Lefty Louie, The Avon Comedy Four, Gyp the Blood, Flipper the Seal, and the end girl in Jesse Lasky’s Redheads. Oh brother, the stories George tells about her—but that’s another book.

As comedians George and I have something in common. Neither of us was discovered by Gus Edwards or Eddie Cantor, and our careers didn’t start at Grossinger’s. We came up the hard way, and knowing each other didn’t make it any easier.

Of course, George had it real tough. Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. George had a cigar.

In conclusion let me say this about George Burns: I love the guy. I have a reputation for being his easiest audience, I make constant resolutions that I’m not going to laugh at him any more—the hell with it. Then I’ll walk into a party and he’ll flick cigar ashes on the lapel of my new two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit, or he’ll point at me in Romanoff’s Restaurant and say, Mr. Benny will take the check, and I’m gone again. What a clown!

However, I must say that of all the people I know, he has the finest qualities a man can possess. He is meticulous in his work. He is creative. He is generous to his enemies and magnanimous to his friends. To coin someone else’s phrase, He is a gentleman and a scholar.

So even though I am as big a liar as he is, I am proud to have him as my closest friend.

Now read the book and enjoy yourself. I am sure you will find it the kind of book you can’t put down. I know I won’t be able to. At three cents a day from the lending library I find myself a very fast reader.

JACK BENNY

EARLY PROFESSIONAL LIFE

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The Pee Wee Quartette. Left to right: George, Heshy Weinberger, Moish Friedman (he posed for Toda, who couldn’t be located for the picture), and Mortzy Weinberger.

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George and Flipper in the very early act, Flipper and Friend.

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Larry and Co. From left to right: Gracie’s sister Hazel, Larry Reilly, Gracie, and sister Bessie.

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Gracie, when she was with Larry Reilly.

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The picture of Gracie that appeared in the front theater during the run of Lambchops.

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Georg in Lambchops. Another front-of-theater picture.

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George and Gracie together in Lambchops.

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Benny Fields, Blossom Seely, Gracie, and George.

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George, at about the time of Lambchops.

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Backstage at the Palace. From left to right: George, Gracie, Eddie Cantor, George Jessel, and Janet Reed. Photo by White Studio.

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George and Gracie with Mary Boland and W. C. Fields in the Paramount picture Six of a Kind.

THE FAMILY

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Gracie as a baby.

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George and Gracie in 1934. We were doing pretty well. I can tell by the dress.

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Gracie with Sandra as a baby.

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An early picture with Sandra and Ronald.

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The family without George.

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Ronnie, Gracie, and Sandra in 1953.

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George and son.

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Back row: Ronnie, Gracie, George. Front row: Sandra Burns Wilhoite holding Laurie, and her husband, Jim,

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Feasting from left to right: Danny Kaye, William Paley, Gracie, a Mr. Jack Benny, George Jessel, and George.

THE PRESENT

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Author Burns and authoress Lindsay.

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George with a Mr. Jack Benny in Hawaii.

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Gracie explaining politics to Senator Alben Barkley.

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Gracie (for President) throws her hat into the ring

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George and Gracie (Romeo and Juliet) backstage at a benefit with Isabel Jewell.

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George, Frank Sinatra, a Mr. Jack Benny, Groucho Marx, and Danny Kaye.

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George with a Mr. Jack Benny acting as a substitute Gracie on TV.

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Bing Crosby, a Mr. Jack Benny, and George.

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Backstage at a benefit: Eddie Cantor, a Mr. Jack Benny, and George.

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At a testimonial dinner for a real old-timer called Jack Benny: William Paley, George Jessel, George, the guest of honor, Fred Allen, and Adlai Stevenson.

1. THE PEE WEE QUARTETTE

SO SHE puts the salt in the pepper shaker and the pepper in the salt shaker because then if she gets mixed up she’s right. And she shortens the electric cords on the lamps and irons in the house to save electricity. And she always drives with the emergency brake on so if she runs into an emergency she’s ready for it. Of course that’s the character she plays.

I must run into about a dozen people a week who always ask the same question and always get the same answer. Question: George, you’ve been married all these years. How can you take it? Why do you—? Answer: I love her. That’s why.

I guess you might say my life never really began until I met her. Of course, there were a few things—like being born. This happened January 20, 1896, at 95 Pitt Street, New York City. (And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t let this get around—keep it under your hat. I tell everybody I’m fifty-eight,). They named me Nathan Birnbaum. When I was born I was the youngest in my family, but this position didn’t last long. There were more to come. Before Mother got through there were twelve—seven girls and five boys. If I can remember the order, they came like this: Morris, Annie, Isadore, Esther, Sarah, Sadie, Mamie, Goldie, Nathan (that’s me), Sammy, Theresa, and Willie.

I can’t remember much about the first two years of my life, except that I had long curls. In fact, I had them until I was five because we didn’t have the price of a haircut. When I was five we moved to 259 Rivington Street, a four-story building with four apartments on each floor and a butcher shop and grocery store downstairs. Mother was always hiding us from the welfare people because they didn’t seem to think our apartment was big enough for fourteen people. I don’t know why—we had three rooms. We had a front room with two windows, a kitchen with a skylight, and a bedroom with no windows at all. No bathroom. We took baths in the kitchen tub. There was only enough hot water for one tubful, so the oldest got the first bath and the rest of us took turns, according to age, in the same water. You can imagine what it was like when they got to me. I was cleaner when I got in.

The other plumbing conveniences were in an outhouse in the back yard three stories below. Sometimes this was a problem. All the lights, which were gas, were turned off at ten o’clock. Any one of us kids who had to go to the bathroom after that was followed by a rapid fire of shouted conversation from my mother standing in the hall as we made our way down the stairs and out into the night. The minute we hit the yard, she switched positions and yelled out the window at us until we started back up the stairs. This was so we shouldn’t be scared of the dark. It made us a little self-conscious, though, because not only everybody in our apartment house but all the others on the block knew what we were doing.

At five I was getting the scent of show business. We had an organ-grinder on our street—with a strictly second-class organ, very flat. The men who owned the good ones worked Second Avenue. We only got the organ-grinders that were breaking in, and why they bothered to come around I’ll never know. Nobody had any pennies to throw them. Anyway, it was music of a sort, and all the little girls in the block would dance around him. I did too. I had a Spanish number I did, and if I say so myself, I was very graceful. The people clapped for me and I got my first feel of an audience.

At seven I found out I had teeth. Up to that point I was in the gravy age. It was like the tub routine. The way it worked out in our family was the older kids got the meat, the young ones the gravy. We didn’t think the food was bad, because we had no basis of comparison; we thought it all tasted like that. Also at seven two very important things happened. My father died and I went into show business for real.

I tried other work first, anything I could get to help out, like selling papers, shining shoes, etc. Then with three other boys on the block I formed the Pee Wee Quartette. I sang tenor, a boy called Toda the lead, Mortzy Weinberger sang baritone, and his brother Heshy, bass. I’ll let you in on a secret: we didn’t know how to sing harmony. We figured the kid who held his head highest was tenor, and so on down to the bass, who held his chin on his chest. We sang in yards and saloons and passed the hat afterward. We rotated the job of hat passer because we didn’t trust each other. I guess we were right, because after every performance we searched the one with the hat and always found him with at least a dime in his mouth. I got so I was a pro—I could handle six or seven dimes and sing at the same time.

There were days when we couldn’t collect a penny, and on those empty-hat days we would go up on the roofs of the apartment houses and, lying on our stomachs, hang a long wire over the ledge. The curved end of the wire we hooked over Seltzer bottles that people had left out on their fire escapes for collection, and pulled them up to the roof. There we broke off the lead tops, took them down to the basement, and building a fire under the top of an old milk can, melted them down. Lead was six cents a pound at the time, and on a good day we could make a dollar. Split four ways, that gave us twenty-five cents apiece. To give you a rough idea how good the Pee Wee Quartette was, we went out seven days a week and six of them we melted lead. This is how I became a producer.

It was Lew Farley, the letter carrier on our block, who straightened us out on harmony. He would join us in the cellar of Rosenzweig’s candy store at Columbia and Stanton, where we were working, and we worked and rehearsed at the same time. This wasn’t as hard as it sounds, because our job didn’t take much brain work. What we did was make the syrup for Mr. Rosenzweig’s sodas. There were big vats of all flavors cooking, and mostly we just stirred. We worked from three to five every day and our pay was five cents apiece and all the soda we could drink—we would insist on plain. We were full of syrup. One day Lew Farley was directing us, and Toda, our lead singer, backed into a vat of chocolate syrup. Although this was painful, we finished our number—we’d already heard that show must go on line. When we finished, we pulled Toda out, cleaned him up, and bottled the syrup. Mr. Rosenzweig never found out, and as far as we know there were no complaints from the customers.

I guess you might say everybody in our neighborhood was Jewish. There may have been a few who weren’t but I certainly don’t remember any. All the kids went to P.S. 22, and we were always involved in a serious gang war with the students of the nearby parochial school. The war generally opened in the winter with somebody throwing a snowball that he had carefully frozen first. Somebody else’s head was then cracked open and