Prairie Tale (6 page)

The people who owned the small motel where we stayed had a puppy, a fluffy black poodle, which I played with every day after work. I ate breakfast and dinner at the diner there. It was such a different lifestyle than at home, and I was happy exploring this newfound freedom. I enjoyed the familiarity of seeing people I knew almost every place I went, whether roaming around the motel or sitting at the counter in the diner.

I still dream about that motel. I got to go down to the diner in the morning by myself, greeting the waitresses and manager through my sleep-filled eyes, carrying my mom’s thermoses, which I filled with fresh, hot, black coffee (I can still remember the strong aroma) and left outside her door. Then I went back for my breakfast. People from the crew wandering in would say good morning and ask how I slept or if I felt good about the day ahead.

I sat at the counter, staring at the big machine from which the waitresses got hot cocoa. There was a sign on it that said “hot whipped cocoa supreme,” and I spent most of every morning trying to figure out what the hell was so supreme about their hot cocoa.

It’s funny to think about how much time I spent as a kid trying to figure things out.

Everyone grew close quickly, which was a new experience for me, and it explains why I became upset after shooting Victor French’s last scene and saying good-bye to him before he returned to L.A. After developing family-like relationships, I didn’t want to say good-bye to Victor or anyone else. I thought we were making a movie. I wasn’t aware of the possibility that it might be turned into a series. My expectations were carefully managed.

I also had a real affinity for Victor’s double, Jack Lilly. I liked everyone, really—they were all nice. Who wouldn’t like being around people who showered you with affection and always had a kind word, a joke, or a funny face? Compared to the real world, it was like make-believe. A lot of the crew had their families with them, including their kids, which made it fun for me; it was also one of the reasons people wanted to work on Mike’s shows. If you went on location, you got to bring your family.

Mike worked everyone hard. He was a perfectionist. But he did things first-class. We traveled by private jet, on big planes, and everyone piled in together. I can remember getting on board and hearing Mike playfully barking at makeup artist Whitey Snider to sit next to him because “if the plane goes down, I want to look good.”

I was impressed when I was told Whitey had been Marilyn Monroe’s personal makeup artist. That seemed incredible to me, to be that close to someone who had been that close to a legend, who’d touched her face and also touched mine. He carried a money clip she’d given him. The engraving said, “To Whitey, while I’m still warm. Love, Marilyn.”

Sometimes he let me hold the clip. I’d clasp the metal in my hands and think,
God,
she
picked this out and had it engraved
. A few years later, when I was a teenager, Whitey told me that he did Marilyn’s makeup after her autopsy, before she was placed in her casket.

I also counted hairstylist Larry Germaine as one of my instant pals. Considered among Hollywood’s legendary hairstylists, he did my hair every day, and I treasured the time I spent with him. From the moment you sat in his chair, he transported you from reality into a private conversation that seemed more interesting than anything else going on around you. I was so pleased he seemed to want to talk to me; later, when I was older, he told me how he got his start in the business. He’d been an undertaker until one day they brought in a kid who’d been hit by a train and the parents wanted an open casket. He had to put that kid back together, doing the hair and makeup, everything, like a jigsaw puzzle, and it was too emotional for him. He quit and got into show business, where they faked the crashes and everyone looked pretty when they died.

The only trauma on the
Little House
set came at the end of January, almost four weeks after we began shooting, when it was time to pack up and say good-bye. I had a hard time returning home, but I soon fell easily into the same old routines. I went back to school and had sleepovers with my best friend, Tracy Nelson. Home life was the same as usual: cuddling with my mom and reading, torturing and being tortured by my nasty little brother. Still, I missed the work and the affirmation that came from it. I especially missed the attachments I’d made to people.

I was down in the dumps whenever I imagined not seeing them again, but my mood did a one-eighty at the end of February when Mike gathered everyone in a theater on the Paramount lot to watch the film on a large movie screen. My heart warmed upon hearing him call me Half Pint again. I cried and laughed through the movie, as did my family, who filled the seats on both sides of me. I was surprised by the music. I was even more surprised by my performance. Was that really me?

I can recall feeling calm as I sat in the theater. I wasn’t nervous at all about what my family and others would think. All the self-doubt and pressure came years later. Back then, on that night, I was simply dazed and dazzled.

NBC aired the movie in March and it did extremely well. By then, we’d received word the network wanted to move ahead with a series. My mother was beside herself. I got a congratulatory call from Mike. My grandparents, on separate occasions, of course, since they couldn’t be in the same room together, smothered me with kisses. Papa Harry gave me his own compliment, saved for truly special occasions. “What a girl this is!” My dad’s reaction was the best. He gave me a hug, then stepped back and took in all forty-eight inches of me with a proud, satisfied grin.

“See, Missy-do,” he said. “I told you something better would come along.”

I
n the late eighties, a friend of mine, Dean Cameron, was shooting a movie called
Summer School
on the Paramount lot. They were shooting a classroom scene, and between takes, he rummaged through the papers the prop guys had stuffed into the school desks and pulled out a paper that now hangs framed in my study. It was the call sheet for my original
Little House
screen test.

I don’t recall the first day we began shooting the series or anyone talking to me about the impact doing a series would have on my life, especially if the ratings equaled or bested the TV movie, which would mean being on a hit series, which is an altogether different experience than just being on TV. At this stage of my life,
Little House on the Prairie
is simply part of my cellular makeup.

I remember life before getting the movie, and then the next thing I knew I was traipsing into Alison Arngrim’s trailer to give her the lowdown on the cast and crew. Alison joined us on the second episode, which was titled “Country Girls.” She played nasty Nellie Oleson and began referring to Laura and Mary as “country girls” almost as soon as we met her in school. My brother, Jonathan, played her younger brother, Willie.

Though she was my great rival on the show, Alison and I became instant friends from the moment I confided, “There’s only one mean person on the show. Everyone else is great.” At lunch, we constantly tried to gross each other out by mixing together the most disgusting combinations of food—and eating them! One of my more memorable creations was butterscotch pudding and radishes. It wasn’t half bad.

It was great to have a friend on the set. We celebrated birthdays together, had sleepovers, and got into adventures on the lot.

I can’t imagine any better playground for a kid than Paramount Studios’ sprawl of soundstages, streets, and stars. We worked on stages 31 and 32, which were located at the back of the lot. Behind us, there was a cemetery on the other side of a large wall. Not any old cemetery, it was the final resting spot for Rudolph Valentino, Jayne Mansfield, Cecil B. DeMille, and other Hollywood luminaries. I thought being close to their and so many other grave sites was neat, in a creepy way, and I tried umpteen times to get a peek by climbing up the fence. I never made it, and I wouldn’t have even if I could’ve pulled myself up. Coiled barbed wire was strung along the top of the fence, preventing any break-ins or breakouts.

I would arrive at work early in the morning, as the sun was starting its slow climb, and it would be dark on the soundstages—one held the interior and exterior of the little house and the inside and outside of the barn. The other held the interior of Oleson’s Mercantile, the church/school, and Doc Baker’s office—and it would be dark on the stage except for wherever we were shooting first. A white light bathed that corner of the
Little House
world and made it appear as if touched by a divine power.

Our dressing rooms were small mobile homes parked in an alley in back of the stages. I went to school in a little dressing room that looked like a house on wheels, which was located outside the soundstages. My teacher on the set was Mrs. Helen Minniear. She would instruct me in all subjects from fourth grade through my last year of high school.

At some point I would find my call sheet and look for my name, which was always third down from the top, following Mike and Karen. It was a small affirmation that I was really there, really a part of this dreamlike experience that felt like the greatest game of dress-up ever.

Whenever possible I liked to wander into the writers’ offices and try to get the scoop on what they were planning for future scripts and who was coming on the show next. I wanted to know everything ahead of time; they called me precocious, but I could just as easily have been called nosy or annoying.

I explored the lot whenever I was able to get away, which wasn’t often; I was unable to resist the lure of checking out the places where scenery was stored, the other soundstages, and the commissary, which was a hub of activity and star-gazing. Everybody on the lot working on TV shows or movies broke for lunch at approximately the same time and headed for the commissary, where my eyes darted across the large dining room. Oblivious to my own profile as one of the stars on a hit show, I was always looking around. I got excited whenever I saw someone famous, like
Mork & Mindy
stars Robin Williams and Pam Dawber or the guys from
Happy Days
.

I used to meet up in line with Henry Winkler, one of the loveliest people in the business. As they’d say in
Prairie
speak, he and I took a shine to each other. We’d act out what we were having for lunch.

“What are you having today?” he asked.

“I’m having a hamburger,” I said.

“Then I want to see you act a hamburger,” he said with a note of challenge in his voice.

So I acted like a hamburger. I have to say, the first time he suggested that game I thought he was nuts. But lunch with the Fonz got to be something I looked forward to. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a performance. He made me think as I ordered. How would I act a salad? What would I do to portray a grilled cheese? One day he cut in line behind me as I was taking my food.

“How are the French fries?” he asked.

I turned toward him.

“Zee fries, zey are v’reee French today,” I said in a thick accent.

T
he frown I wore while making the fourth episode was extremely unusual, but easily understood: I was unhappy I wasn’t in more of the episode. I was already starting to like work more than home. A week later, my smile was back and as bright as my mood. We were shooting the episode “Mr. Edwards’s Homecoming.” I had a scene at the end in which Dr. Baker softened the news I had to have my tonsils out by giving me a gigantic gumdrop. Since I wasn’t allowed any sugar at home, getting a piece of candy was like being handed an Oscar, and I savored every bite of that magnificent candy.

We did five or six takes and I got a new gumdrop each time. Those were momentous occasions for me. I felt naughty as my mother watched disapprovingly. But what could she say? Eating the candy was part of my job.

Even sweeter, Victor French returned to the series in that episode. It hadn’t been that long since I bid him a tearful good-bye both on and off camera during the pilot, but at the time I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, so I was beyond excited to have him back. I didn’t have to act in the scene when we were brought together again. I was genuinely happy.

I had no idea what I was doing in the episode called “The Love of Johnny Johnson,” which had Laura falling for a boy who liked Mary. Till that time, I’d never expressed such feelings for a boy, but I’d seen the girls on
The Partridge Family
and
The Brady Bunch
get their first crushes, so I mimicked them. But not all the acting was pretend. The on-screen rivalry between Mary and Laura in that episode played off of the competitiveness that existed off camera between Melissa Sue Anderson and me. When we snapped at each other, it was fairly real.

The lines also blurred between Mike and me. Our special bond began on the pilot when we repeated the scene that I’d read in my audition, the one after we’ve lost the dog while crossing the river and Laura apologizes to him for thinking he didn’t care about Jack being lost. It was a sweet father-daughter moment, one that was very real to me. It wasn’t a stretch at all to think of Mike as my dad. I could easily imagine having such a conversation with him.

At the end of “The Love of Johnny Johnson,” Laura cried about her broken heart to her father, one of those scenes that dealt perfectly with the necessary, cleansing pain of growing up. It was just one of the many times I would cry on that show. (I think I cried for some reason in every episode!) Sometimes it was hard for me to get to those emotions, and this episode was one of those times. Putting myself in Laura’s shoes didn’t work. Nor did dragging up some kind of horrible memory from the Dungeon. So Mike helped me.

He put his arm around me and walked us away from the set, off to the side where we could be alone. And in the time it took to walk fifteen to twenty feet, he got himself crying. Then he turned to me and with tears rolling down his face, he said, “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

That did it. My heart swelled with similar feelings and a moment later tears poured from my eyes. Mike let me cry for a few seconds and then he said, “Are you ready?” I nodded and we shot our scene.

Mike employed that technique for many of the lovely father-daughter scenes that followed. Looking back, yes, it was a bizarre manipulation, a kind of twisted way to get a kid to perform. On the other hand, it worked. And I have no doubt that it was therapeutic; by crying, I was able to release some of my own emotions I kept bottled up.

A few weeks after “The Love of Johnny Johnson,” we shot “Town Party, Country Party,” an episode memorable for the friendship I struck up with Kim Richards, who played Olga, the little girl Laura befriends after hurting her ankle. Kim was a well-known child actor who’d been on
Nanny and the Professor,
and while I hit it off with her, I also enjoyed her older sister, Kathy, who served as her on-set guardian and was young and fun. Just eighteen when she was hanging around our set, Kathy later moved to New York and married Rick Hilton. We stayed in touch, and my mom and I were the first people to find out she was pregnant with her first child, Paris Hilton.

I was sure “The Raccoon” would be my favorite episode of the first season, since I was able to play with a real live baby raccoon between takes. That was pretty cool. The little critter played the role of the bad guy. In the story, Laura battled for her life after getting bit by a raccoon feared to be rabid. I played that part to the hilt, reveling in the attention I received from playing Laura sick in bed.

As it turned out, “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” a two-parter we shot a few weeks later, became my favorite of that first year and still stands out as my favorite among the more than two hundred episodes we made over nearly ten full seasons. On-screen, this ultimate tearjerker was all about Laura’s relationship with her father, but the lines we said about love and devotion applied off camera, too. After that episode, there was no question about the special bond between Mike and me. And now, more than ever, I cherish the opportunity he gave me to say such things to him.

Plus, we had a real newborn baby on that show. I played with it between takes. That was even better than playing with a baby raccoon.

B
aby news wasn’t confined to the show. Early in 1974, while
Little House
was in the midst of production, my mother announced she was pregnant. Our house filled with excitement, and I was the head cheerleader. No one could’ve been more thrilled. I was big into baby dolls and carried at least one from my plastic-headed brood around at all times, as well as diapers, bottles, a change of outfits, and sometimes even a stroller. I was beyond happy at the prospect of a real baby in the house.

Almost simultaneously Auntie Lynn revealed she also had a little bun in the oven. I remember it as a good, exciting time, though not everyone shared such enthusiasm. One night Harold’s kids were over for dinner and we sat around the dining room table talking about the baby. One by one, we tossed out prospective names. From our various suggestions, it was apparent I was overjoyed about the forthcoming addition to our family and my brother, Jonathan, not so much; Joey was too young to care; finally, we turned to Patrice and asked what she thought. She scrunched up her face and said, “I think we should just call it Garbage.”
Wow!
Even more amazing than Tricie’s comment was the rest of the family’s reaction to it. My mom and Harold sort of laughed it off and then we all just continued having dinner like nothing had happened.

The next few months were extremely busy. They included the end of the first season and the dreaded good-byes to everyone on the crew, a return to regular classes at school, and, in preparation for the baby, a move to a roomier home in Encino. Previously owned by actor Victor McLaglen, our new house had five bedrooms, a guesthouse, and a pool. My mother redecorated beautifully.

The move inadvertently uncovered one of my biggest secrets. My mother didn’t permit candy, cookies, or anything else with sugar in the house. No Twinkies, none of the good stuff I found in my friend Collette’s house. She lived up the street, and I’d go up to her house, grab a handful of candy, and sneak it back home and into my room. I’d eat the candy and then toss the wrappers on top of my canopy bed—the only place I knew my mom wouldn’t find them.

That is, until the movers disassembled my bed.

I came home from camp one day and my mother was waiting for me. Before she uttered a word, I noticed her clenched jaw and fiery eyes, and I knew I was in trouble.

“I have something I want to talk to you about,” she said.

I tried to think what I could’ve done to piss her off as she led me into my bedroom. Then I stopped in the doorway, aghast at what I saw in front of me. The movers had taken my bed apart. It was in pieces on the floor, including the gorgeous canopy. And on top of it were several years’ worth of candy wrappers.

I took the Fifth when my mom asked for an explanation. What was there to say? My crime was evident. I’d eaten candy in violation of the household rules and lied about it. I was grounded.

But that was soon rendered insignificant by a more serious and dire turn of events involving my father. One day, after the move, my mom sat Jonathan and me down and in a shaky voice said, “Daddy is sick.” It turned out my father had been on a cruise ship where he was doing his stand-up act and suffered a stroke. She said he’d been airlifted from the ship to a hospital, where he was recuperating.

“He’s dying to talk to you,” she said.

Of course, I never heard her say the words “to talk to you.” All I heard was “He’s dying,” and I immediately fell apart. My mom quickly put me on the phone with him, and hearing my dad assure me that he wasn’t about to die was probably the only thing that could’ve pulled me from utter panic and hysteria.