I went on another abusive diet until it was time to shoot the episode. Then, the closer we came to the last shot, the more I ate. Toward the end of the day, I went over to craft services and stood right next to the donuts. I said loudly, “How many scenes do we have left?”
“Three!”
Back to work on the scenes, then it became: “How many shots? Only three more? Well, I think I’ll have a donut.”
And then after every shot, I ate another one, right in front of wardrobe and everybody.
This set up a pattern of unhealthy eating that lasted years. My fad diets included going to a doctor who gave me injections of a hormone to lose weight, and another who overprescribed thyroid medication to speed up my metabolism. I fasted, and then I tried predigested protein drinks. I even tried sticking my fingers down my throat to rid myself of the evil food I loved so much. Extreme measures again—anything to get to be thin, to be accepted. My friends lost weight, but I didn’t. Then I found out they were vomiting six times a day. I’d never tried that and couldn’t bring myself to do it every day, but I did binge and purge, which was a horrible cycle to be pinned under. Once again, I was lucky; my survival mechanism kicked in. I was fortunate I wasn’t successful purging, and I never lost weight this way. It is such a dangerous practice, that years later I had to deal with the emotional aftereffects. I did anything for beauty, praying it would get me approval. After all, wasn’t I the “pretty” one? Wasn’t that my value, what I had to offer?
The stupid thing is that during this time, I wrote a magazine advice column on diet and healthy living for teen girls. Here I was, dispensing advice, and I couldn’t live up to that image without abusing myself. I couldn’t be what they wanted without a diet, a pill, a doctor, shots, or starving myself. Or so I thought.
I hated myself, my body, and my urge to make and eat cookies. I had a rebellious love-hate relationship with food. Since I stuffed my emotions, I started stuffing food for comfort, and to rebel. It created the illusion I had control.
Feeling so beaten by the boulders of body image, I called myself “Hog Body.” I drew a self-portrait: an ugly, lumpy body, with the face of a pig. She is how I felt I looked, how I thought the world saw me. Every time I got dressed, Hog Body was there to remind me how crappy I looked, how fat I was. The voice inside my head would scream at me with distaste and hatred. “See how ‘pretty’ you are now, you fat pig? You look terrible in that, if only you would have stayed on that diet. When are you going to learn, Hog Body?” I berated and punished myself for my body.
When my brother asked me if I wanted to go to the beach with him, I would say “Let me ask Hog Body if she feels like putting on a bathing suit today.” Hog Body became my alter ego for years.
It makes me cry today to think I saw myself that way. I look at pictures of me then, when I let Hog Body run my life, and I can’t believe I felt that way. I still carry her with me at all times, but I have learned to love her and care for her.
Now if I am getting ready for something, and her voice starts nattering at me, I close my eyes, put my hands on her face, and love her. I let her know she was, and is, beautiful inside, and I am so sorry she was hurt back then. Now I embrace her as part of me—my lessons and my journey.
5
LESSONS IN LAUGHTER
Almost as famous as the good-nights were our dinner table scenes. From the family scrambling into their seats, saying grace, the cold food we had to “eat” right after lunch—you can watch us whirling peas or some other unappetizing pile around on our plates—we spent many hours at that wooden table. Every episode had at least one dinner table scene, and they were the focus of our time together on the set. We were all there, every time. There are many dinner table stories, and they still bring a smile to my face, or make me laugh out loud. I can still hear Will rambling on, often unscripted, as he had a tendency to do. When he thanked the trailing arbutus, we smiled, knowing another long dinner scene had begun.
On every show I’ve worked on, there is always at least one set that is tough, for one reason or another. Either the energy drops, or the type of scenes played there are demanding or take an especially long time to shoot. The kitchen set was ours, specifically the dinner table scenes. If we were in the kitchen shooting a scene, it was fine. The minute we all sat down for a meal, though, we knew we were in for it.
BOREDOM ANTHEM
We spent so many hours at that dinner table, we would get punchy and a bit slaphappy. We often sat in the same places, and my spot was usually between Michael and Jon. One particular day, the energy level was especially low, and to relieve the boredom, Ralph started singing a staccato “I shot the sherrrrrr-iff, but I did not shoot the dep-u-teeeeee….”
Now, Ralph is not a singer that I know of, and his rendition of this Eric Clapton song was so out of tune and oddly inflected, he had us all in stitches. We burst out laughing, but when we eventually calmed down, we suddenly had the energy and focus to continue working. For years, and to this day, Ralph cracks us up when he starts to sing that song. His great sense of humor was perfectly timed to lighten us up so we could move on.
Ralph made those long scenes easier to bear, but sometimes harder, too. I got in trouble for getting the giggles from time to time. Right before a take, Ralph would lean in and whisper something off-the-wall, or nudge Michael underneath the table to get a rise out of her. Well, she was a professional, and once the camera rolled, she would focus and be the ideal Olivia. I did not have such control.
It was usually during grace, and when I sat next to her, she’d squeeze my hand to keep from breaking character. I’d feel her grip tighten, then her arm shaking up and down against mine. I knew she was laughing inside, and I couldn’t help myself. I am not one to keep a straight face, which was the fun part, to me. I would start giggling and break up the scene, ruining the shot. I felt awful, but I laughed, anyway. I couldn’t help myself.
When we were out of control, usually a stern look from Grandma would get us back in line. Although there were times I’d sneak a peek down to the “grandparent” end to see Ellen laughing and slapping Will on the arm over the hijinks down there.
Ralph had a habit of repeating the same jokes over and over; so eventually all he had to do was say the punch line and we would crack up. One favorite was when he’d put up a hand, lean in, and with that twinkle in his eye, he’d yell, “Not so fast, Ferguson!” It was from a joke he’d told several seasons ago. This resulted in lots of laughter from us. Whenever this happened, new directors would lose total control of the scene as we relived a shared moment from Walton history. We were so bonded because of the time we spent together. I spent more time at this dinner table than I did eating with my own family.
It got naughty at times, too. I heard more dirty jokes around that table than my parents would have a heart for. Some kids learn in the back alley, the streets, or the school yard. I learned from the crew, and on the set, including at that table. I didn’t know what many of the jokes meant, but I laughed, anyway, then tried to figure them out later. As I grew up, I got the off-color jokes the crew made in earshot of us kids. As naughty as I knew it was, I felt like I was part of a secret club trying to figure out codes and secret signs. Keeping it all a secret from my parents gave me an even deeper sense of belonging. I knew my dad would blow a gasket if he heard half the things I was exposed to. Years later, my mother admitted she guessed what was going on.
“I know a lot happened to you, but I just didn’t want to know it.”
“Mom, don’t worry,” I said. “I would never tell you because you would have a heart attack and die. Besides, I turned out okay.”
Yes, the dinner scenes were a wild ride, a joyful combination of acting, shoving coagulated food around our plates, and getting through the scene without falling behind schedule. There was always a professional standard on the show, one I am proud to have learned from Richard, Ralph, Michael, Ellen, and Will. They set the bar high, but somehow at that kitchen table, all bets were off a
s they taught us that even when you work hard, there’s always time for laughter.
EATING MOUNTAINS
Ralph always insisted since we were a starving family in the Depression era, we should eat a lot! He made up for the rest of us by eating whatever props served. I think he’s a method actor.
I learned the hard way that for consistency, whatever I ate in the master shot, I had to eat in every shot afterward. One day, we started a scene before lunch. I was hungry and ate a lot in the shot. It was warm and tasted good. Then the assistant director said, “Lunch, one hour.”
We went out to lunch, like we did every day, then returned, took our seats at the table, and I realized I had to match what I’d taken in during the master shots. Yuck. I was full already, and worse, everything was cold and gross. It had probably sat on the table while we broke for an hour.
To avoid that happening again, I learned from Michael to look busy by buttering my bread or sipping milk, which was usually safe. A trick I got from Eric was to load a fork full of food and bring it to my mouth. Just before taking the bite, get very interested in the dialogue and lower the fork to listen. The fork never passes the lips. But now, I’m telling secrets.
Later on, I rarely ate, because I was always watching my weight, but I wasn’t the only one. Ralph still jokes that Olivia Walton never ate a bite of food through the entirety of the show. Michael says she never ate as she was too busy saying, “More coffee, John?”
After Michael left the show, Ralph was directing an episode and I wasn’t eating—as usual. While I sipped coffee, he launched into his argument about why Erin would eat, and that he wouldn’t print the shot and move on until I did. I ate more in that one shot than I did in three seasons. It was pretty funny, but Daddy ruled, so I did it.
UNDIGNIFIED DINNER BEHAVIOR
The show won a lot of awards in its day. Several Golden Globes and Emmys, a Peabody, and one special award that was presented to us on the set, at the dinner table of all places. A very nice man came to the kitchen set to present this lovely recognition. No one told us ahead of time what the award was for, but we knew they were going to film his presentation.
He stood at one end of the table, and we were seated at our usual places. On “Action!” with the award in hand, he walked toward the camera and spoke of how special the show was.
As he handed over the award, he said, “And now, to honor The Waltons television show, we are pleased to present you with the Decency Award.”
Well, Eric, at that precise moment, had just taken a sip of milk, and upon hearing the word “decency,” he spewed the white fountain all the way across the table. The irony was too much for us. We lost it. This poor unsuspecting man was not met with “decency” by the Waltons, but with a bunch of tired actors who were like any other family, and not the characters we portrayed on TV. I think we got a stern talking-to and apologized to him; then we did another take, trying our best this time to live up to the “decent” standard for which he was trying to honor us.
COMPANY FOR DINNER
Shooting “The Boy from the C.C.C.” (Season 1) was also cool. I thought Michael Rupert was the cat’s meow. He played Gino, a boy who escapes from the children’s camp of the Civilian Conservation Corps. John-Boy and Elizabeth find him injured in the woods, and they bring him home.
During the dinner table scene, props served us horrible chipped beef. We’d never had it before, and thank goodness, we never saw it again. It sat on the table waiting for the lights to be set, and by the time we ate, it was cold, coagulated, and tasted awful. Poor Michael was supposed to be starving, so he had to eat a lot of it. We watched him in sympathy, but he never complained.
From then on, when we would have to eat when stuffed or were complaining about the food, Jon would say, “Hey, at least it’s not chipped beef,” and we’d all laugh. I can’t remember if we teased Michael about the meal we served him.
Years later, during that first trip to New York City, I got to go to my first Broadway show. That was a perk, and so exciting for me. Michael Rupert was starring in Pippin, and we all went. We went backstage to see him—my first Broadway show and I got to go backstage. So cool. The whole time I sat in the theater seat watching, I wondered if Michael would even remember me. He did, and he was so nice.
We have many outtakes that include kitchen mishaps. Michael Learned was making salad once and she put her hands into the bowl, lifted handfuls of lettuce, and threw them in the air, screaming with each toss. Even the crew cracked up. That one is in the gag reel.
In others, lines were missed, we spilled drinks, broke character, and dropped forks. And we had more than one food fight. One day, Ralph picked up a bowl of biscuits, dumped it upside down on Richard’s plate, and said, “Here, boy, eat up!”
The dinner table scenes were a mix of fun and fatigue, but we were all together, and I believe our sense of camaraderie and closeness transmitted to the audience. We liked each other, we had fun, and it showed.
NEVER WORK WITH…
Many of my “costars” were animals: Blue, the mule. Chance, the cow. Reckless, the dog. There was the raccoon, and also the deer. Then there were the chickens. I’ll never forget the chickens.
Harry Harris directed more episodes than anyone else—forty episodes and several of the movies. He became a mentor and got to know each of us well. He was like another father on the set. He was always a good sport, with all the Walton goings-on, but he never had much luck with the animals. Seems like he would always get the episodes with an animal story line and had trouble wrangling them. Many times we would hear him say to our AD Ralph Ferrin, “But, Ralph, what are we going to do about the chickens?” If you wonder what I mean, try to direct a chicken to…well, do just about anything…on cue. For years, we would repeat that to Harry when things on the set got hairy.
I used to ride Blue through the back roads of the studio lot when I had some free time. One day, something spooked him and he tore through the trees. I tried my best to stop him, but he just kept running. I ducked as best I could, until a branch smacked me in the face and knocked me off on my bum. I came to, on the ground, and panicked about what might have happened to the old mule. I was shaken by the fall, but even more scared of getting in trouble for losing or hurting him. Thankfully, there he was, standing near the tree, patiently waiting for me. I took the reins, but he wouldn’t budge. I pulled and pulled, crying for him to move. He started munching a branch and I yelled at him to follow me. I finally persuaded him to let me lead him back to the barn. I was hobbling in pain, afraid someone would see me. I hid my scrapes and bumps from everyone, especially the makeup people. My fear of making that mistake kicked in the bad-girl feeling.
Harry had an interesting animal experience that I have never forgotten. I couldn’t believe it was true, so I had to go over to the set to see it in the flesh. The scene called for Blue to be frightened and run away. I never knew what had spooked him when he ran away with me in the backlot woods that day, but I know it was not what they’d planned to use in the upcoming sequence.
Apparently, someone had studied American history—remember “Uncle Sam’s Camels”? At one point in time, the army had tried to use them; it was a fiasco. It had spawned a legend that camels couldn’t get along with horses or mules.
So they brought in a camel, hid it behind the house, and set up for the moment when Blue was supposed to be frightened by something, rear up, and run away. Someone fetched old Blue for his big scene. Off camera, a handler tried to coax the camel out from behind the house, Blue patiently waiting on his mark. That stubborn camel didn’t want to come out, and the wrangler pulled and prodded until finally he emerged from behind the corner of the house so the mule could see him. Sure enough, Blue spooked and ran away. Of course, they needed more than one take, and the trouble was that Blue got used to the camel. After that, he didn’t run away with the same gusto as in the master.
From then on, we teased him with, “Harry, what are we going to do about that camel?” Al
l the animals could fit into that question from time to time. The animal stories became part of our shared tales as the years went by.
COW FOOT
I was not great around animals. My allergies kept me at a distance from them. As evidenced by the incident with Blue, I should have stayed even farther away. At one point, there was a writer’s directive, which I wholeheartedly supported: Don’t write anything for Mary Beth with animals. Yet, I couldn’t seem to stay away from working with them, and Erin even fell in love with animals in many story lines.
When Yancy Tucker set the barn on fire in “The Sinner” (Season 1), we were all called out of bed into the yard to help put out the fire. We lined up, barefoot and in our nightgowns, passing buckets of water as the animals were led past us to safety from the burning barn. Of course, I was standing nearest to Chance, the cow, when they led her out of harm’s way. She came to a stop with her cloven hoof right on top of my instep for a very long take. I heard my bare foot crunch, and tried to shove her off without making a commotion. Cows are very heavy animals, it turns out. I thought I would scream, it hurt so much. I didn’t, though, because that would have ruined a very dramatic scene. I was trying to be professional, at all costs. My foot was bruised and badly scraped—but luckily, no bones broke.
The animal wrangler was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, who even let me ride Chance one day. Maybe that’s why she stepped on my foot, retribution for that ride? As much as I was eager to experience everything, there was one suggestion I didn’t take him up on. “It feels great. Do it, Mary Beth,” he urged me, pointing to a fresh, warm patty. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to take him up on his offer to walk barefoot through cow manure.
MISHAPS ON THE MOUNTAIN
Considering how much we ran around the lot, we were lucky there were no bigger accidents or broken bones. One thing did happen, and my gray cloud of guilt and shame enveloped me for days.
Lessons from the Mountain Page 11