I was so pressured and angry about my mental prison; my emotions shut me in more. While I sat in my room staring at this nonsense, my dad would come in and say, “Okay, now, do the poem.” He took the script away to make sure I was word perfect. I stumbled and couldn’t get it all out. He shut me in my room again and forbade me to leave until I learned it perfectly.
I was frustrated about the unfairness of it all. I hated my dad for that. He was so strict and disapproving of me. The more I tried, the less I retained. I missed the time to go with my friends and take a break from the stupid duck of a poem, which made me more frustrated. My dad was not sympathetic at all. He yelled at me and I was banished to my room until I learned the poem.
My father was tough in that way. Unyielding. He believed practice made perfect. He worked hard and long hours to get things done, so why shouldn’t I? He was hard on us to teach us lessons he felt important. His anger at me only fueled my insecurities and reach for perfection. When he was angry, he closed me off. With his silence, I felt utterly unlovable. I thought he’d love me more if I was perfect, which, to me, meant do it his way.
My father understood the incredible opportunity I’d been given. He had so little when he was growing up, he didn’t want me to lose any part of the gifts. I didn’t see any of this. I just felt the pressure to hold and keep it all, which made me come to a breaking point. While it was difficult at the time, and took many years of therapy to sort through, I know my work ethic, high standards, get-it-done attitude, and competence came from those difficult times with him.
“Doing Merv” became another drama for me—a terrifying situation where I thought I had to be flawless, but my gray cloud informed me I wasn’t. I knew I was no good and was faking it.
What happened when I got to the set not knowing the poem by heart? I was scared to reveal my failure to memorize the poem, and I had a stomachache all through the taping of the opening number. I wore a red-and-white-striped dress—yes, like a candy cane.
Eric and I were to open a door and step onto the winter set, complete with snow. Fake snow, that is. The music played, our cue came, and we opened the door, revealing our bright faces amazed at the scene. The plastic “snow” floated down and one flake landed right in my eye. I tried to cover and not ruin the shot, but it hurt and I couldn’t see. Just one more thing added to my mixed bag of nerves. I knew the dreaded poem would be worse than a snowflake in the eye.
Eric and I took our marks and they gave us the go-ahead; a teleprompter was set up. We read every word as they rolled by, no memorization required. Why didn’t someone tell me I didn’t have to memorize every line? So much fighting for no reason.
Recently I found the original script in a folder with Merv’s smiling face embossed in red on the cover. A letter from the producer referred to the “enclosed Merv album,” in which side two, track five, contained the poem, which might “help with the reading.” What? What album? Why had my dad never played me track five? Maybe I could have had a clue. I don’t know if the company forgot to send it, and my dad felt he couldn’t ask, or what—but, boy, that sure would have helped!
Eric and I were paired together a lot. We traveled on a tour to promote the show, four cities in four days. We visited children’s hospitals every day. Burn units, cancer wards. Eric was strong and had a great sense of what was right. We cheerfully signed pictures and visited with the kids; then we would be off to the next city. On the way to the airport, I was sad because I knew a lot of those kids would never leave the hospital. Eric always looked at the positive. He reminded me how the kids were happy to see us, and as hard as it was, it was a good thing we were there. He, too, was raised with the importance of mitzvah, giving back. Eric’s a mensch and I learned a lot from him.
DINAH AND THE TOADS
One day, someone on the set asked what I was wearing for “doing Dinah.” I panicked. I didn’t know what “doing Dinah” was. I asked my mother, but she was so excited, all she said was, “Oh, honey, yes, you’re doing Dinah, but what will you wear? We’ll have to get you an outfit.”
She took me to a store called Stardusters, of all things, that catered to mothers and their shopping needs. While she sat in a nice chair, I was put in a fitting room and dressed by a clerk, then paraded out to model for her. I hated the place—they didn’t have anything hip to wear—but my mother liked the whole charade. I felt like a fourteen-year-old doll being dressed up and taken out for display. But I had to have something to wear to “do Dinah.”
Everyone talked about it as the date grew closer. I didn’t want to admit to anyone I didn’t know—again—what was going on, so I kept my mouth shut, listening to that familiar music reminding me to dance. Before I knew it, we were on our way and the pressure was on.
But what’s a “Dinah”? Help!
We arrived at the studio, and production assistants showed us to a green room. As the moments ticked closer, I felt the familiar cloud of the unknown darken inside me. Eventually a man came and led me away from my parents. I dutifully followed him, and we walked down the hallway and stopped behind a big black curtain. He looked at me and said, “When you hear your name, go out to the couch and sit down.”
I knew this was important, so I better figure it out…and fast. He patted me on the back and said, “Go! Go to Dinah.” Someone pulled the curtains apart and I could see onto the stage.
Oh! Dinah’s a person! We were being interviewed on one of television’s most popular talk shows. You must have already figured it out—it was Dinah! Since I was either in school or on the set every day, I’d never heard of the woman introducing me to the audience. I was relieved to see that Ellen Corby was already out there on the couch.
Dinah Shore was as nice as can be. I took my place next to Ellen, and Dinah flashed her beautiful smile. Then, with five innocent words, she said something that would plague me for years. “I hear you collect frogs.”
Oh no, no, I thought. I don’t collect frogs. My mind raced. What do I say? I can’t lie…can I? On TV? Can I contradict Dinah in front of America?
Ellen Corby was famous for collecting ladybugs. One day, she asked me what I liked. I said frogs, because I liked to draw them, and I drew a pretty good frog in my day. The next thing I know, Grandma started to give me frogs. She liked collections, and it was a good hobby, I guess. So for the show prep, she told the Dinah people she started my frog collection with me.
What could I do? I sat there and thought, I’m “doing Dinah” and all I get to talk about is frogs? Why am I being asked such a stupid question? So I did what any good Catholic girl would do, I lied. I lied to protect Grandma, the show, and Dinah. I said I liked frogs very much.
After Dinah! was aired, people sent me frogs…lots of frogs. For years, people thought I collected frogs, and because of that, I guess I did. I had ceramic, cloth, plastic, and crystal ones; large, small, whimsical—every kind of frog that people could make or buy and mail to me. I kept them all in my room, until I moved out many years later. Letting that frog collection go was a step toward living in my own truth and my own desires, not what I thought others expected of me.
Years later, I found out Ellen urged Eric to start an owl collection. He laughingly said it took years to get rid of all those owls.
BEATING THE BRADYS…NEVER!
Eric and I did an episode of Celebrity Bowling and lost to Bobby and Cindy Brady (Mike Lookinland and Susan Olsen). My dad took me bowling in preparation, but I’ll spare you (no pun intended, really!) the gory details of my dad helping me train for that gig. Here was another mountain I didn’t have time to climb before we taped.
Eric and I were a team, and Mike and Susan were the other team. We lost horribly, and it was just humiliating. I saw Mike Lookinland—like, a million years later—and the first thing he said to me was “Hey, remember when we beat you in bowling?”
WOULD MAN SEE IF…
When Mrs. Deeney retired, we went through a few teachers before a more permanent replacement could be found. I hea
rd many teachers who were approached declined. They didn’t want to deal with the pressures—or was it just the extra work—from the production company that often wanted to work us overtime. Our life required a balance of work and school; then factoring in our varying ages and diverse curriculums proved a challenge for a teacher.
We finally found a teacher who rocked our world. He was new to the studio system, plus he had the energy and creativity to deal with all our needs. Glen Woodmansee was a breath of fresh air, and he became one of my favorite teachers. He had long hair and wore a three-piece green suit to work on his first day. I think he was trying to look professional, but we told him he could lose the suit and we’d still have respect for him. He did, and we were off to the races.
Glen was incredibly smart and a little mysterious. He drove an old VW van with a piece of wood he’d wired on as the back bumper. I thought that was wild. I wondered if he was a hippie, a surfer, or an alternative thinker.
He was not a hippie, but he was brilliant and accepting. He loved taking classes himself; at one time, he carried twenty units at UCLA, while teaching us full-time. I was amazed. He showed me college was something you could always do; and education just keeps on, no matter how old you are.
Glen was also a scuba instructor. When I was sixteen, Jon and I took his incredible class, and we were certified by NAUI and PADI. We did our beach dive near Malibu at Zuma Beach, with a clambake afterward on the beach.
We took our certification dive off Catalina Island. The Garibaldi fish swam right up to my mask. The feeling of being able to breathe underwater is still amazing to me. I still dive whenever I travel in the tropics.
Glen counted down the days until lobster season, and told us funny stories about trying to lure them onto his dinner plate. For me, being underwater was a privilege. I didn’t want to upset it in any way, and I would never take anything.
Whenever I dive, I hear the lyrics from America’s “Horse with No Name.” The lyric “The ocean is a desert with its life underground” reminds me exactly how true that is. It looked like the desert with water added. The peace of the sea life made me feel invisible in a foreign land. So different for me, I felt like a pioneer, given a privilege that lasted as long as the air in my oxygen tank allowed.
In those days of unease, it grounded me to be part of nature and escape to the quiet peace under the sea. There was unfounded calm in buoyancy, floating with the tide, the sound of my own breath, the regulator releasing my old breaths to the surface to rejoin the air that sustains. The stillness of it took me to a place I would later recall in meditations. Return to nature, then you’ll see, how fun it is to be set free, I wrote in my poem book. I still return to nature when I feel off my path. Water, air, and fire return me to myself.
I BEG TO DIFFER
When I was in high school, my own school required biology lab, including dissecting a frog. It wasn’t a requirement for the other cast kids, but I had to have it to graduate. During a hiatus, my mother drove me to the studio to get special permission from the producers, and ask them to cover the expense of the frog dissection.
I was nervous because I had to take this class or not graduate from my school. I thought my mom was going into the meeting also, but when the assistant came for us, she only asked for me. Mom nudged me to go in. I had no idea I was going to do this alone. I felt abandoned and unprepared; I didn’t understand why I had to beg for a class.
The lights were dim in the office, shutting out the bright California sunshine. Two overstuffed leather chairs sat across from the executive producer’s massive desk. He motioned for me to sit. I did, but I looked at the empty chair and wished someone were there with me.
“So, Mary Beth, why are you here today?” He knew why I was there, and this game made me uneasy and angry, but I explained why I needed biology. It was like playing Monopoly when the other player owns all the real estate you land on:
“Can I have Park Place?” she squeaked.
“You cannot pass go. You cannot collect one hundred dollars. Go to jail! No ‘get out of jail for free’ here.”
It felt horrible. To me, all our negotiations with the company were like that. Every year, I hated contract negotiations, and now this.
“The other kids didn’t have a biology lab.”
“Yes, but my school is different,” I squeaked. “May I graduate from high school, please?”
“No!” the big voice of authority rang out in my head.
In the end, I did take biology. Kami and David were part of the lab experience when I dissected the frog. I did graduate from high school, but to this day, I don’t play Monopoly.
BROOM DANCE
Whenever I was going through troubled times, Glen would just let me rip. One day, I’d had it with a math problem. We had a knife in the classroom for cutting fruit, and I picked up the weapon and aimed all my frustration and anger at the math book. I eyed Glen, and he calmly watched as I got closer to my victim. Algebra was going down, unless he interceded, but he patiently waited, passively giving me his okay. I stabbed the textbook right through its linear equations.
I felt a bit crazy, but once I started to let it out, a deep rage took over. Glen stepped in and created a safe way for me to vent. He made a dartboard out of the book’s cover and pasted some of the torturous problems on it as a target.
It was more than frustration toward an assignment. The pressure to be on top of all of my activities oozed from me, making me feel like I was about to burst at the seams. I couldn’t seem to fit it all in. By this time, I was on the cheerleading squad at my high school, played on their volleyball team, and maintained a 4.0. Add to this the worries about my weight and—oh yeah—the work. Oh, that.
Glen’s acceptance of my need to vent my frustrations made me feel safe to be me, to be weird and angry, and he was one of the first people I didn’t feel judged by. I could let my pent-up energy and frustrations, growing pains, teenage angst, and hormones scatter around the schoolroom. Yet, I knew there were boundaries, that I was safe.
A natural outlet for me was to dance. One day, in one of my more spirited exhibitions, I began a kooky tap dance around the classroom. Glen, as usual, sat calmly watching me—I think he even had a bit of a smile on his lips, and that did it. I took off from there. I grabbed a broom, and “Fred Astaire” and I impromptu danced. I incorporated desks and anything in my way. The door was open and I tapped my way down the stairs, then back up, stomping, jumping, and pounding until I was exhausted.
Kami was there and thought it was funny. And it was. At some point, my outburst played out, the anger vanished, and I was ready for schoolwork. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was learning to give in to my feelings, instead of avoiding them. Since then, I’ve often tapped into my creativity to escape the tornadoes of my emotions safely. Glen’s acceptance of a very confused little Mary chipped a crack in the iceberg, and I began to embrace the weird me and find a way back to self.
WALTON’S MOUNTAIN NEWS
One of the most fun times for me was when a new kid arrived on the lot. Finally someone else to play with. Set hopping became a favorite pastime. When the dramatic series Apple’s Way came along, we went over to hang with Patti Cohoon (Cathy Apple) and Vince Van Patten (Paul Apple).
Since I was new to the industry, it was so cool to meet people and get to know them outside the image. When Eight Is Enough filmed a few soundstages over, we’d borrow bikes and go visit. Willie Aames (Tommy Bradford) came over to our schoolroom and we all hung out. Willie was into photography, and Glen had set up a darkroom and taught us photography so we could learn how to shoot and develop photos for our newspaper.
Then Willie suddenly became a huge teen idol. It cracked me up. Here was this guy who had lunch with us, developed photos with us, and was shorter than I was. But he became a teen heartthrob. Girls were crazy about him. When we went to an event, he couldn’t walk to his car without being mobbed. Willie and I once had to run from a gang of screaming girls. We hid until we c
ould jump in the car and lose them. It was weird to think of my friend that way. To me, he was just Willie, even a little geeky. Oh, the power of fan magazines!
The same thing happened with Vince Van Patten. Vince was a reserved and not-too-talkative guy, who had a grape-colored MG. I saw the Van Pattens recently and we still joke and laugh about that car. But the girls went wild. For me, it was a lesson in who people really were as opposed to who people thought they were. While Richard had his girl followers, my Walton brothers never became heartthrobs; so what Vince and Willie went through was comical to me.
Glen was always finding new things. He was terrific at teaching us using hands-on activities. One project I’ll never forget was the Waltons’ Mountain News. Ironic, since John-Boy would soon write the Blue Ridge Chronicle. We wrote articles, interviewed crew members, and wrote poems. We drew pictures for the cover art, and Glen helped us publish our “paper.” We usually printed one near a holiday. Halloween was our favorite. Bats are so fun and easy to draw.
We even invited kids working on nearby sets to write articles and stories. Some of the Eight Is Enough kids have bylines in one or two issues. I still have a few of these treasured editions. And while I don’t think she had enough time in her schedule to contribute to our paper, we met another friend on the lot I’ll never forget.
One day, we heard the beautiful actress Brooke Shields was filming Just You and Me, Kid on a nearby stage. Kami and I went over to her school trailer, knocked on the door, and asked her if she wanted to write an article. We left one of our past issues for her to read. I’ve wondered if she and her tutor thought we were crazy or just intrusive, but we really wanted all the studio lot kids to be a part of our paper, no matter how famous.
Years later, Brooke and I were on Circus of the Stars together. We worked really hard to learn the acts. Brooke did an incredible performance, hanging by her ankle upside down on a rope, elegantly working “the web.” When she finished her routine, she asked the rest of us, “How did I do?”
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