THE ROSANNE ULLMAN SAGA

For a game show fanatic, it's hard not to be envious of Rosanne Ullman, a mother of three and freelance writer originally from Pennsylvania. One bright day in 1980, she found herself with the rare privilege of sharing a stage with both Bill Cullen and Tom Kennedy. Tom Kennedy's World and Game Show Utopia proudly present her first-hand recollections of her experience.

Prologue

I grew up in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where it wasn’t unusual for a teenager to have her picture in the local newspaper, personally meet city officials or have other experiences inherent in living in a small city. One day a scout from the local PBS station came to my racially diverse high school to observe in the classroom and select teens to participate in a new political discussion and music series. My social studies teacher recommended that we talk a lot in class if we wanted to be on the show. I had no problem doing that, and I was chosen to appear on three of the episodes. One of my shows featured comedian-turned-political-activist Dick Gregory and Woodstock singer Melanie; another had The Selling of the President author Joe McGinnis and musical artist Dion, who wrote and sang “Abraham, Martin and John”; the third offered folk singer-activists Pete Seeger and Oscar Brand. Normally gregarious and confident, I clammed up in front of the cameras and uttered not one word on any of the shows. Other than the embarrassment of my silence, I loved doing the shows, learned a lot and felt sure that, given another chance, sooner or later I would muster up the courage to speak on television. But until “Password Plus” came along, those PBS shows served as my 15 minutes of fame.

In 1971 I enrolled at New College of Hofstra University in Hempstead, New York. After college I spent a year working a block from the White House and living in Maryland. I couldn’t find a job as a journalist, so I worked as a secretary for a trade association. I adored Washington but didn’t enjoy secretarial work and moved to Evanston, Illinois, to get a master’s degree in journalism at Northwestern University’s Medill School. After graduating from Northwestern, I married a Chicago guy I’d met in Washington, where he’d been attending law school at American University. He opened his own law office, and I got a fun job as news editor of a trade magazine, Modern Salon. Before long, I was promoted to managing editor. 

About a month later, in the spring of 1979, I found myself unexpectedly expecting. I was 26 and had been married for a year and a half. Although we hadn’t planned this pregnancy, my husband and I quickly grew excited at the idea of welcoming our first child. I couldn’t imagine leaving my baby with a childcare provider all day, so I quit my job later that year, giving up a grand annual income of $13,000. Our daughter was born on December 27. I planned to begin seeking freelance writing work at some point but not quite yet, so early 1980 found my husband struggling with a law practice still in its infancy and me at home with a daughter still in her infancy. We were poor but content and living in the Chicago suburb of Wilmette when we received invitations to two October weddings, both in California and just a day apart.

The first, in Santa Barbara, was Marilyn’s wedding. Marilyn was the link between my husband and me. She’d known both of us while we all were living in the D.C., area; my husband and I met when we hung out with her. Coincidentally, she was marrying a Californian whom she and I had met together when we went out bar-hopping one night in Georgetown. With the four of us seemingly destined to be connected in some way, I wanted very much to attend her wedding. The second wedding, in San Francisco, was to mark the marriage of my husband’s high school friend to a woman we hadn’t met. My husband felt he should try to make that wedding as well. The trouble was that we had zero money to attend either one. 

“Just put the trip on a credit card, and I’ll find a way to pay for it,” I promised my husband. I was resourceful, I figured, and I’d come up with something.

 My “Password Plus” Experience

I’d always been good at word games and, with L.A. being the world capital of game shows, I decided that “Password Plus” presented the best chance for me to score some fast cash. I called the phone number they posted on the show and had no trouble getting an appointment to try out. 

From that moment on, I spent a lot of mental energy preparing for responses to typical “passwords.” It was quite a distraction, considering that words are everywhere. If I read a sign that said “restaurant,” I’d think about clues. “Diner.” “Eatery.” “Alice’s.....” One category I tried to thoroughly prepare for was colors. If the password was “red,” I’d say, “Crimson.” I’d use “aqua” for “blue,” “verdant” for “green” and “lavender” for “purple.” For “orange,” I’d have to go with the fruit and say, “Tangerine.” But I couldn’t come up with anything for “yellow.” In retrospect, “amber” would have worked, but I didn’t think of that at the time. I decided that if the password was “yellow,” I’d just say, “Color.” 

In October 1980, the three of us—my husband, my 10-month-old baby and I—flew into LAX. We were fortunate to have a free place to stay, since one of my husband’s many sisters lived in Beverly Hills with her husband and son, who was even younger than my daughter. 

The next day, I entered a small, cluttered office where contestant hopefuls auditioned for “Password Plus” and a couple of other shows. As I recall, four or five of us tried out at the same time. First, someone explained the game in detail and we took a written test that measured our grasp of general information and common terms. I’m not sure what happened next. I think some candidates were eliminated after that round, and then an interviewer asked the rest of us questions about ourselves. They gave us some tips about playing “Password Plus” and had us play a mock round. I tried to walk the line between bubbly and bonkers, and I guess I pulled it off because they accepted me. I don’t recall whether I had to wait for a phone call or they told me that day. But I remember that out-of-towners went straight to the top of the list, since a lengthy hotel stay in L.A. would eat up all the winnings and they didn’t want only Californian contestants. They made every effort to get me on as soon as possible so that I could go home. They taped all five of a week’s shows in one day; if they got me on one of the week’s early shows I most likely would have only the one day of taping to do. Everyone involved with this stage of the process was nice and extremely professional. 

I believe taping was set for the very next Friday, but my memory is sketchy on a lot of these details. Meanwhile, my husband and I rented a car and drove up to Santa Barbara for the wedding. It rained even though Marilyn specifically chose the month of October for its traditional dryness. Other than that, it was a lovely wedding and we had a lot of fun. My husband flew up to San Francisco for the second wedding, then home to Chicago, while I drove the car back to Beverly Hills via Ventura Highway. My advice: never drive a 10-month-old that far by yourself, especially when you’re not familiar with the route (pre-GPS days, that is). My daughter’s pacifier kept popping out of her mouth, which made her cry, and traffic was stop-and-go the whole way. I arrived at my sister-in-law’s house late at night and tired. And that’s when everything hit the fan.

A call came in mid-week from the “Password Plus” people telling me that host Allen Ludden had suffered a stroke and most likely would not be able to host the show for at least a while. They had to postpone the next couple of taping sessions until they settled on a substitute host.

So, with time on my hands, I went merrily shopping for suitable game show attire. We contestants were told to choose something plain and in a nice color. We were not permitted to wear all black, all white or any plaid or check that would produce a sort of moire pattern and be hard on viewers’ eyes. The celebrities could wear just about anything, because they’d be in makeup and that would somehow neutralize the black/white issue. We contestants were instructed to do our own makeup. I bought a casual green top to wear with some tan pants I had with me. If there was a day two, I had a red dress I could wear. 

I think less than week had passed when “Password Plus” called again with a new taping date. They’d hired Tom Kennedy as the substitute host and, as I recall, scheduled me to tape just two or three days later. But this wasn’t good news for me, since my sister-in-law, who had agreed to watch my daughter on taping day, was suddenly called out of town. She took her baby, but that still left me with mine and no babysitter. Paying last-minute airfare for my husband to fly back from Chicago would defeat the purpose of getting on the show. My brother-in-law was a dentist and couldn’t take time off from his practice and apparently they did not use babysitters for my nephew. The one or two acquaintances I vaguely knew in the L.A. area turned down my desperate plea to spend a day watching my child. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward lived two doors down, and I seriously considered knocking on their door and asking “Cool Hand Luke” to babysit. I was frantic. 

Then later that day, or maybe it was the next day, a neighbor came to the door with a package she’d accepted from UPS when my sister-in-law hadn’t been home. She seemed like a nice, middle-aged woman, but by this point she could have been Godzilla. When she handed me the package, I asked this stranger if she would take care of the most precious person in the world to me. Looking back, I really can’t believe I did this. But she readily agreed to do me the favor, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. 

“When do you tape the show?” the neighbor asked. “At 11,” I replied. The woman’s face fell. “Oh no,” she said, looking utterly helpless. “I jog at 11!” 

Now, I held no delusions about the residents of Beverly Hills. They hadn’t made it that far by putting everyone else first. But I just stared at this lady in disbelief. “So jog at 10!” I wanted to scream. She wished me luck in finding someone and went on her way. 

The truth was that jogging at 10 wouldn’t have helped me anyway. I had to leave the house by 8:30 a.m. in order to be sure to make it through the morning rush hour to reach NBC studios in what “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” referred to as “beautiful downtown Burbank.” 

I’m pretty sure the taping was set for the next day, although it may have still been two days away. I remember I was completely out of ideas when my brother-in-law called from his dental office and, hearing me on the verge of tears, off-handedly mentioned that a teenager lived across the street. All this time a teenager lived across the street! My mouth dropped open. I don’t remember why she didn’t have school. Perhaps the taping was on a Saturday—I just don’t remember. I think I did have to wait a few hours for her to get home from school to ask her, though. But the minute I could, I marched across the street and rang the doorbell. 

A teen-angel answered the door, agreed to watch my kid and did a fine job of it from what I could tell. I have no idea why no one had suggested her earlier. Still, I was leaving my kid with someone I didn’t know. My daughter wasn’t used to any babysitter other than her cousin. There were no cell phones at the time; I was pretty much unreachable and the best I could advise my sitter was in an emergency to call her own parents. On the day of the taping I tried to stay calm and compartmentalized it as much as I could, but the whole situation did unnerve me. This was my state of mind when I pulled into the NBC studios parking lot. 

I can still picture the lot, with spots reserved for various celebrity hosts. I parked in an unmarked spot, of course, and I’m a little cloudy on what occurred immediately after that. I remember the woman in charge of us had a strong New York accent and an obnoxious, aloof attitude. And I remember being informed that we were to have no contact with any of the celebrities or the host and that if we accidentally saw one of them in the hallway we should just look away and not interact. Apparently, ever since the game show scandals of the 1950s, all parties went out of their way to make sure things were on the up and up.

I also remember the “Password” people having a laugh at Allen Ludden’s expense, although I’m not sure at what point in the day this happened. But now and then I still tell the anecdote that seemed to amuse them. I picture a man talking; I don’t remember who it was, but the story went something like this: 

“Allen often mispronounced contestants’ names, so we got in the habit of spelling the names phonetically for him. One contestant’s last name was Cohn, so we wrote on Allen’s card, “Cone.” When Allen introduced him on the air, he said, “I know a lot of people named Cohn, but I’ve never seen it spelled your way, c-o-n-e.”

The contestants sat in a reserved section of the taping studio. They called us to the stage area two at a time to sit in the contestant chairs so that we’d get used to the lighting and learn how to view the password clues. We each had a chance to practice one or two clues, and then the taping began. I have no recollection at all of the studio audience—when they arrived, how they came in, even where they sat in relation to where we sat. But there must have been one, and I have a vague image of a comedian or someone warming up the audience to get them to applaud a lot.

They didn’t tell us in what order we would go but, rather, informed us only when it was our turn to go next. Being from out of town, I knew I had priority to be called early, especially after I made it very clear that I could not stay in town until the next taping. Finding a babysitter for another day a week hence was beyond the scope of my mental stability, and I had a red-eye flight booked for that night. They seemed agreeable to that. But contestant after contestant was called ahead of me. I think we were taping Wednesday’s show when I finally spoke up. 

“Um,” I began in my plea to the New York lady, “I have to catch a plane to Chicago tonight.” She looked at me with steely disregard. 

“Then you’d better start smiling,” she warned. “When you were up there practicing you weren’t smiling at all.”

Witch. I thought the practice session was for our benefit, not for them to continue to size us up. Nevertheless, I had a job to do. So I pasted a smile on my face and kept it there until my cheeks hurt. Sure enough, I was called next. I was paired with actress Barbara Rhoades; the other guest star was Bill Cullen. Whereas Mr. Cullen was famous for his long history as a host and guest player on various game shows, Ms. Rhoades was pretty much of an unknown other than some past game show appearances. She was introduced as the newest cast member of what was probably my favorite program at that time, “Soap.” The playing began.

During the commercial, it’s my recollection that Bill Cullen chatted amiably with his contestant and that Bill, Barbara and Tom Kennedy talked comfortably among themselves. But my encounter with Ms. Rhoades was chilly. Maybe California didn’t agree with me. 

Trying not to sound too much like a groupie, I said, “Oh, ‘Soap’ is one of my favorite shows!” Her episodes hadn’t aired yet, so I was hoping to get the scoop on the role she was playing and any plot twists. I thought she’d appreciate the enthusiasm of a fan, especially since no one had ever heard of her. But her response to me was curt, something like, “Uh huh.” Our conversation came to a screeching halt; I don’t think she ever even made direct eye contact with me.

As the game proceeded, a bit of luck came my way. Barbara looked at her password, wrinkled up her forehead for what seemed like an eternity, then finally sort of shrugged and spit out her clue: “Color.” Having prepared so well for this possibility, I figured she would have been able to come up with the obvious “crimson” or “aqua,” so I went with my gut and said, “Yellow.” Ding, ding, ding! Everyone looked amazed. The next thing I knew I was walking to the “Alphabetics” chair, and Tom Kennedy was asking me how I got “yellow” from “color.” I told him the truth. 

“Before I came on, I thought about the clues I could give for all of the colors,” I said. “I came up with a good clue for every color except yellow.” He seemed surprised that anybody would give that much thought to being on a game show.

Alphabetics went fairly smoothly, and I got every word pretty quickly except for the one beginning with “N,” which was “Nassau.” Barbara gave me clues like “vacation” and never said “Bahamas” but, to be fair to her, I’d been to France, Italy and Canada and all over the east coast of the U.S., but I was still young, unsophisticated and kind of broke and was not much aware of the more glamorous spots on the globe. I never did come up with the right response, so I missed out on the $5,000 which, believe me, I could have used at that point in my life. 

As I walked back to the main part of the stage, I remember mumbling something to Tom Kennedy like, “To me, Nassau is a county on Long Island.” My alma mater, Hofstra, lies in Nassau County, and if Barbara Rhoades had said “county” or “Suffolk,” the other Long Island county, I might have gotten it!

I think that we switched sides, and I was partnered with Bill Cullen. My focus by then was becoming scattered. With the first win and nine correct Alphabetics, I’d earned $1,400, which was just about the exact amount I needed to cover the trip. So I’d done what I’d come to do. I felt a bit dejected about blowing the $5,000, plus I was worried that if I kept winning I’d have to stay over until the next taping. Still, I don’t mean to make excuses—of course I would have chosen to win a little longer rather than lose the next round, which is what happened. 

I returned to my contestant section seat. I assumed I could leave as previous contestants had when their games ended, but they asked me to stay seated. After another several contestants were called, they told me there had been an irregularity in my last game—a clue had been exposed before the password-giving was finished—and they had to give me another chance in order to be fair to me. I was paired with Bill Cullen again. Bill was amiable. When he had a chance to give me the second clue for “green,” he said, “Watch this: color!” I guess I now had a private joke with Bill Cullen. But my head was not in it at all this time around, since winning probably would preclude me from heading home that night. So again I lost, although I managed to squeak out the win on one game of the three-game match for another $100. The match stretched over two episodes, giving me a total of four separate appearances and the opportunity to wear both of my outfits. I took my parting gifts—a plastic fondue set and men’s “banlon” socks are the only ones I remember, and I think the fondue set is still in my basement—and caught the red-eye. My daughter slept the whole way, and I was glad to get home.

When the show aired during the second week of November 1980, we did not yet own a videotape recorder. At that time VCRs came in two formats: Betamax and VHS, with Betamax seeming to have a leg up on the competition. A friend of ours taped my shows on his Betamax. Within a few years, the Betamax format was obsolete, and I have no idea what ever happened to that tape. The only other events that resulted from the show were that my mom received a lot of attention when all of her friends in Harrisburg watched it, an old college friend living in Florida tracked me down after seeing me as a contestant, and a dentist I had for 20 years afterward asked me about “Password” at every single appointment.

Epilogue

 Fast forward 25 years to 2005, which finds me still married, still living in Wilmette, working as a freelance writer still specializing in the beauty salon industry and at the tail end of raising three daughters, 25, 22 and 17. One day I notice that the Game Show Network (GSN) is airing “Password Plus.” I do a little research and conclude that I’ve most likely already missed my appearances. I then become consumed with locating tapes of the shows. On the Internet I discover a whole subculture of game show fans, a sub-subculture of fans of the older game shows and a sub-sub-subculture of Tom Kennedy/Bill Cullen groupies until I finally locate the ultimate greatest old game show worshipper out there: Adam Nedeff, a 20something guy who says he does indeed have tapes of two of my shows. Apparently lawmakers have great regard for these old shows, because they’ve made it illegal to sell tapes of them even to the contestants who appeared on them. But you can trade and share tapes, so Adam comes up with a deal that offers me the two episodes in exchange for my written reminiscences. No sweat! After all, I’m a writer.

Then Adam throws in not another condition but just a favor. He has a trip planned to L.A. and figures on doing some auditioning for game shows. Do I have any advice? Yeah, a little:

$-The perennially sage advice: be yourself.

$-Smile a lot, but don’t be goofy. Just act as if a friendly smile is your normal expression.

$-Don’t act smug or arrogant as if you assume you’ll be picked, but do act confident. That’s a fine line as well.

$-Remember that they’re watching you even when you’re on your own time. Thinking “one-way mirror” when you’re in the men’s room is not being too paranoid, so smile while you’re combing your hair.

$-Given any choice, make the more ethical one.

$-Take notes when you’re receiving any instructions, especially over the phone beforehand. If your instructions are in an email, print it out and take it with you.

$-Focus on the game so that you really do your best. You’ll be mad at yourself if you mess up on something that you should have known. At the same time, try not to be nervous or throw in the towel. One wrong answer won’t keep you off the show.

$-Act excited if you win.

$-Prepare some interesting anecdotes about yourself and about the city where you live. They really do get tired of people who live within 30 miles of L.A., so you have an automatic advantage coming from out of town.

$-Always tell the truth. Don’t put a spin on things or act defensive about anything; just put it out there if they ask.

$-Dress nicely and be well-groomed. This counts so, when in doubt, overdress rather than underdress. A shirt and tie is a better bet than jeans, but don’t try to look older (or younger) than you are.

$-Pack appropriate game show clothing in case you do get chosen and have no time to shop. Remember that you’ll want to wear a second outfit if you make it to a second day.

$-Don’t take a baby with you. 

Adam and I never met but caught up with each other recently by email. He tried out for "Wheel of Fortune" but didn't make the final cut. In a strange twist, however, he ended up with a job at the show a short time later. He now lives in California, and I couldn’t be happier for him. 

As for me, viewing my episodes was difficult; I now understand why actors don’t always watch their own performances. On the show I have an annoying cackle for a laugh, make odd facial gestures and reveal that I don’t know that Keith Richards has an “s” in his last name. Nevertheless, seeing the shows after all these years has been satisfying in providing closure to the memory. 

I’ve never auditioned for another game show, although my family regularly tries to get me to go on “Wheel of Fortune” and I’m not bad at “Lingo.” My brother’s daughter followed in my footsteps in the mid-1990s when she became a contestant on “Where in Time Is Carmen Sandiego?” and then again in 2008 when she appeared on “Jeopardy!” When I catch an episode of “Soap” on the Comedy Channel, I still wince at the Barbara Rhoades character, and every now and then my husband mentions the word “Nassau” to remind me that I screw up sometimes. 

In 2007 I saw that GSN was again airing “Password Plus” and in November, the same week of the month that my episodes originally aired, I put my DVR to work and captured all four episodes. It’s always a big crowd-pleaser for friends who haven’t seen it, and I’ve gotten used to watching myself cackle. 

Although I expected the day of taping to be a bit more fun than it was, I certainly wouldn’t trade the experience and the memory. And you really can make some money this way; just ask Ken Jennings. My best wishes to everyone who wants to the game show contestant experience. You’ll be glad you gave it a shot. 

Rosanne Ullman

February 20, 2008

View Rosanne's Password Plus experience!