Prairie Tale: A Memoir
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PRAIRIE TALE
Simon Spotlight Entertainment
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 2009 by Half Pint Enterprises
“Fully Alive” © 2005 by Dawna Markova (www.ptpinc.org)
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-2360-7
ISBN-10: 1-4391-2360-8
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FOR SAM, LEE, DAKOTA, AND MICHAEL, THE FOUR CHAMBERS OF MY HEART.
AND FOR BRUCE WILLIAM BOXLEITNER, MY TRUE COMPANION.
DO YOU KNOW HOW FINE YOU ARE TO ME?
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
“Fully Alive”
Dawna Markova
CONTENTS
FOREWORD BY PATTY DUKE
REVELATIONS AND REALIZATIONS
1. FAIRY DUST
2. WITH PARDONS TO DARWIN, THE ORIGIN IS SPECIOUS
3. SHOWTIME
4. SOMETHING BETTER
5. LITTLE HOUSE
LOVE, LOSS, AND LOVE
6. GROWING PAINS
7. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
8. OH SHIT, THEY GOT A REAL MAN!
9. NOT SO SWEET SIXTEEN
10. ONCE, TWICE, THREE TIMES A WOMAN
11. MEET CUTE
12. I’M EIGHTEEN, AND I LIKE IT
13. CHOICES OF THE HEART
HOLLYWOOD IS THE DEVIL’S TOILET
14. THE WORLD ACCORDING TO…
15. ANDY WANTS TO KNOW IF ANY FAMOUS PEOPLE ARE HERE
16. WAIT A MINUTE, WHO’S THE PRINCESS IN THIS LOVE STORY?
17. WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?
A BRAND-NEW START OF IT
18. THE HEART OF THE MATTER
19. NEW YORK STORIES
20. NEWSFLASH: THIS PERSON DOESN’T YELL, “DO ME, DADDY”
21. NO, NO, NO, WE’RE NOT GOING TO DO THAT
22. GETTYSBURG WAS MY WATERLOO
EXACTLY WHERE I NEED TO BE
23. GABLE AND LOMBARD: THE TV VERSION
24. DATES WE WILL NEVER FORGET
25. DAYS OF MIRACLES AND WONDER
26. INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR
27. ALL KINDS OF CRAZY
28. MADAM HALF PINT
29. A PAIN IN THE NECK
30. THE SWEET, SIMPLE THINGS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERT
FOREWORD
By Patty Duke
My friend Melissa and I met when I was a so-called grown-up and she was a so-called kid. This happened shortly after my agent phoned and informed me that Melissa’s company was producing a television version of The Miracle Worker, in which Melissa would play Helen Keller and I would play Teacher Anne Sullivan. Some twenty years before, I had played the role of Helen Keller, opposite Anne Bancroft as Teacher, and the experience had an enormous impact on my life and career.
Two decades later, my reaction to the remarkable opportunity to play Teacher was a cacophony of feelings: thrilled, flattered, and not a little apprehensive. How would it work, having a thirteen-year-old actress be my boss? Not to mention the fear of trying to fill Anne Bancroft’s extraordinary shoes. As I child I had longed to play Teacher, and here I’d been presented with the chance to fulfill that dream.
I took a deep breath and said yes, and with that, negotiations were under way. In the meantime, however, there was something my heart insisted I do. With a good deal of anxiety, I called Anne Bancroft. There was no way I could do the movie if it created any discomfort for her. But my anxiety was quickly dispelled; Anne was excited for me, and she couldn’t have been more supportive. As had been the case as long as I’d known her, her generosity of spirit and her demonstration of unconditional love were inspiring.
Once I’d secured Anne’s blessing, it was on to the task at hand. What I knew of Melissa Gilbert going into the movie was this: she was the adorable Half Pint on Little House on the Prairie, and her talent was real and had kept growing over the years. What I didn’t know was that we were almost exactly the same size. The Miracle Worker is very physical; the characters go at it in no uncertain terms, and often. After I’d sized her up (literally), my biggest fear became: She could take me with a couple of moves or less.
But my biggest obstacle had yet to be revealed. It came to light on the first day of rehearsal, when the director pulled me aside and exacted a vow from me not to influence Melissa’s performance. No tips, no critique.
This agreement didn’t feel right to me. In rehearsal we are supposed to explore each other and delve into each other’s psyches. If I wasn’t such a people pleaser, I would have never taken that vow. But I would learn that a desire to please people was just one of the many characteristics Melissa and I have in common.
As we rehearsed, the vow was an intrusion in the process. Finally, I couldn’t stand the secrecy anymore, and I became determined to reveal the director’s instruction. Rehearsals were coming to a close and we’d soon be off to Palm Beach for a two-week run of the play prior to filming.
During the flight to Palm Beach, I imposed on our friend Charlie Siebert, who would play Captain Keller, for his insight and advice. He aimed me in the direction of trusting my instincts. Melissa and her mom were in the seats in front of us, and I leaned forward and tapped Melissa on the head and said, “We need to talk.” She popped up, looked back, and grinned a mile wide.
I rushed into sharing insights about playing Helen, and called up directions from Arthur Penn (the original director of the 1959 version) from memory. The relief was enormous for our new and energized team. With the barriers gone, our work was able to breathe free and our personalities were falling in love with each other. Melissa’s confidence grew in leaps and bounds, and she absorbed and delivered Helen Keller.
Since Melissa had never been onstage, it was important for me to also teach her theater etiquette and superstitions (she actually picked her nose during one of the first curtain calls). I emphasized discipline so often, I sounded like Anne Sullivan both onstage and off. We both learned a lot during the run and became tighter than ticks. Our trust in each other didn’t waiver and hasn’t since. We made our movie with determination, joy, love, and some good performances.
It wasn’t until years later that we found the time to fill each other in on the dark sides of our lives: The early deaths of our fathers. The pressure to be perfect kids and actors. The responsibility of being breadwinners. The search for love and respect. Like most folks, we had family issues, career issues, and just plain girl issues.
Watching Melissa grapple with these challenges was like looking at a younger version of me, walking the same tightrope.
As is typical in show business, our paths took us in different directions for some time, but to this very day, whenever we catch up, it’s as if we’d talked yesterday. And thankfully, over the years we were teamed again in two more television movies, and both times we luxuriated in our symbiotic and solid friendship. Even our age disparity fell by the wayside.
Later, was I surprised when Melissa ran for Screen Actors Guild president and won handsomely? Nope! My only advice, having held that office, was “Stay tough” and “Don’t let them get to you.” She did, and they didn’t. For decades I’ve been getting all puffed up with pride as I watch her mature. You’d think she was my daughter. And I’m prouder still of her for this book, her latest accomplishment. In the following pages, she presents herself, warts and all, and allows insight into one woman’s emotional roller-coaster ride.
Once again, she makes me proud to be (as she calls me) her teacher/friend.
REVELATIONS AND REALIZATIONS
one
FAIRY DUST
My mother was nearly a month past her husband’s funeral when she turned her attention back to my desire to write a memoir. It wasn’t just a desire; there was an actual book deal, and she was against it. If the book were on any topic other than myself, she would’ve already been circulating word that “Melissa is writing the best book ever.” But this was different. It was about me. Which meant it was also about her. And she was against telling that story if she wasn’t the one doing the telling.
She had tried numerous times to talk me out of it, but her efforts were interrupted by the death of my stepfather, Hollywood publicist Warren Cowan. Now she was back on point.
She showed up at my house one afternoon carrying a large box packed with news clippings, ads, letters, and diaries of mine. She set it down on the kitchen table with a thud and announced with a smile as deadly as a pearl-handled Derringer that the contents would be helpful.
“For your book,” she said, pronouncing the word “book” as if it were a petrie dish containing the Ebola virus that I was going to let out in the world.
I marveled at her gamesmanship—and at her. She looked a decade younger than her age, which, if revealed, would be taken as a bigger crime than revealing Valerie Plame was a CIA agent. Her hair was blond and coiffed. It’s sufficient and necessary to say she was strikingly attractive. She looked great whether going to her weekly appointment at the hair salon or to movie night at the Playboy mansion, which she and my stepfather had attended for years.
I also cringed at the layers at play here in my kitchen. I thought, thank goodness I have four sons. The mother-daughter relationship is one of mankind’s great mysteries, and for womankind it can be hellaciously complicated. My mother and I are quintessential examples of the rewards and frustrations and the joys and infuriations this relationship can yield. By and large, we are close. At times, though, she could render me speechless with her craftiness. Now was one of those times.
While I sifted through the box packed with sacred bits from my life, my mother offered sly commentary and full-on reinterpretations of the contents. Ah, the contempt and fear and anger she hid behind her helpful smile.
To me, at forty-four years old, my book was a search for truth and identity. To her, it was—if only you could have seen the look on her face, you’d fully understand—the ultimate betrayal.
I moved on. I made tea. We talked about some of the condolences about Warren that continued to stream in. We mentioned which friends checked on her, the dinner invitations that kept her busy as ever, and of course the latest comings and goings of my husband, Bruce, and my sons. Finally, after we had caught each other up on everything, she returned to the book.
“You can write the book if you want,” she said with a nonchalant shrug.
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I can understand why you want to write it,” my mother said. “You write it and get it all out of you.”
“Thank you.”
“You have my blessing.”
“Thank you again.”
“But,” she said, “the classy thing would be to burn it after you’re finished.”
My life was a mystery even as I lived it.
Several months earlier, I had called my mother and asked if I’d ever had a conversion ceremony to make me officially Jewish. Although I was raised Jewish, my upbringing didn’t include any formal religious education or training. We celebrated Passover and other major Jewish holidays. But we also celebrated Christmas and Easter. It’s why I always emphasized the “ish” in “Jewish.”
As I got older, though, I grew more observant and intrigued by a more personal relationship with God. One day, as I discussed this with a friend who had converted to Judaism as an adult, she asked if I recalled my conversion ceremony.
“Huh?” I said.
My friend explained that adults wanting to switch to Judaism from another religion had to go through a conversion process. It included reading and discussion among friends; a deeper course of investigation with a rabbi; then study, immersion, and approval by a board, culminating with a public ceremony and celebration.
Even though I was just a day old when my parents adopted me, my friend explained my parents would still have needed a rabbi to perform a ceremony and a blessing to make me officially Jewish. That’s when I asked my mother if she recalled doing the ceremony.
“Why do you need to know now?” she asked.
“Because if I never had a conversion ceremony, then I’m not really Jewish,” I replied. “And if I’m not Jewish—”
“But you’re Jewish,” she interrupted.
“Who says?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Mom, believe it or not, you are not the final authority on this issue.”
“I’m your mother,” she said. “And I’m Jewish.”
“But my birth parents—”
“We adopted you at birth.”
“Was there a conversion ceremony?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“No?”
When it came to my childhood, my mother’s memory was more reliable than the Apple-S command on my laptop, so I knew she had the information filed away somewhere. I switched tactics. I asked if she remembered what I did for my second birthday. She did, and described the party she threw me. I then asked if she remembered my first birthday party. She recounted that, too, including the flavor of the cake and the bakery where she bought it.
“Mom,” I said with a dramatic pause worthy of the best courtroom lawyer, “you can remember my first and second birthday parties as if they happened an hour ago. But you can’t remember whether you hired a rabbi and had a conversion ceremony for me. How is that?”
“Melissa!”
“Mom!”
“Maybe I didn’t have one,” she said. “I don’t really know. What’s the big deal?”
“It means I’m not Jewish,” I said. “It means I’m not who I thought I was for all these years. It changes everything.”
Okay, I exaggerated. It wouldn’t change everything. When I hung up the phone, I was still going to be me: dressed in sweats, juggling car-pool duties, going to meetings, planning dinner, trying to wedge more into my day than twenty-four hours permitted. In one sense, my life would be fundamentally unchanged.
However, in another sense, my inner compass had already started to spin wildly out of control. Was there a conversion ceremony? That was a simple question. Was I who I thought I was? Not such a simple question.
Welcome to my not-so-simple life. My mother, whom I love dearly, has continually revised my life story within the context of a complicated family history that includes more than the usual share of divorce, stepchildren, dysfunction, and obfuscation, and I’ve spent most of my adult life a
ttempting to deconstruct that history and separate fact from fiction, especially as the facts pertain to…me!
For example, my mother was at the helm of everything, including my career, my food intake, and how I dressed—my whole life. I never questioned her or rebelled. Speaking out against the family was the ultimate form of disloyalty, and disloyalty was not tolerated. It was like the mafia. Although I never feared getting whacked, I was always just a little afraid of being sent back to wherever it was I came from.
So in an interview back when I was ten years old, I’d likely have said that everything was wonderful, everyone in my life was fantastic, I was happy, and life was perfect. But most of that was untrue. Just as it wasn’t true when I told a reporter in an interview three months after my mom’s second husband suffered a brain hemorrhage that I had my crying moments, but I was pretty tough about that sort of thing.