“Do you want me to peel it?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he said, “I’ll just step on it.”
Laughter gives a household great resiliency, and I needed every ounce as I grew up. At eight, I made my first foray into prime-time TV, landing a part on the long-running CBS classic Gunsmoke as the child of dirt-poor farmers whose lives are made even worse when Marshal Dillon shows up at the house and arrests my father. It was an intensely emotional scene made memorable by the way my on-screen mother, Katherine Helmond, worked herself into a tearful state and then kept herself in the moment in between takes.
I’ve never forgotten how she put herself into a corner and squatted down in her big prairie skirt, with her elbows on her knees and head in her hands, closing herself off from the chatter and joking that went on as setups were changed. I watched her, trying to figure out what she was doing. Then, when we returned to work, she was back in the scene, tears streaming out of her eyes. I got it—and now I do something similar if I have a difficult scene. I go into “the Dungeon,” my private vault of difficult memories and emotions.
My next job was playing the daughter of a heart attack victim on Emergency, NBC’s popular hour-long drama about a team of paramedics. I was thrilled. I was a fan of the show (it was a toss-up between that and S.W.A.T. as my favorites), and I had huge crushes on both of the stars, Kevin Tighe and Randy Mantooth. In my scene, I ran after the guys as they carried my daddy out on a gurney and wailed, “Daddy! Daddy! Bring my daddy back!” As I reached out for him, Kevin caught me in his arms and I cried into his shoulder.
I thought I was incredibly good, and my mother raved about my brilliance and depth of emotion. I remember the whole family talking about my work as if I were an eight-year-old Colleen Dewhurst, and to be sure, it was a seminal moment that boosted my confidence and let me truly envision myself as an actor, not just a child getting work on TV.
I’ve gone back and watched that show, excited to see this moment that had proved to everyone around me that I was ready to join the pantheon of great child actors, like my idols Shirley Temple and Margaret O’Brien. My God! It was just awful. All whiny child actor horseshit. I was terrible. Seriously, rent it sometime. What dreck!
Then came a lull in the action when I did a few commercials but no episodic work. In hindsight, the dry spell may have been due to the whiny crap that I was dishing out. My mother was fine with that; she preferred commercials or the occasional guest spot because I didn’t have to miss more than a day or two of school. I attended a good private school in Sherman Oaks and wore a uniform every day. I was expected to bring home good grades and was reminded that after-school dance lessons were a privilege.
Despite being a disciplinarian, my mom pulled out all the stops for holidays. On Easter, we hunted for eggs and paraded in our bonnets. Even though we were Jewish, friends and family came over every year to help us decorate our Christmas tree, and then on Christmas Day my mother hosted a gigantic dinner, complete with presents and singing amid the piles of endless food.
My mother was equally exuberant when it came to planning my birthday parties. She arranged pony rides, clowns, and performers. One year there was a revival of the movie Gone with the Wind, and she let me take all of my friends to the theater so I could see it on the big screen, which was amazing. My other favorite movies were The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, Cinderella, and any film with Shirley Temple or Dracula.
My taste in TV ranged from kids shows like Wonderama, Zoom, and The Electric Company to The Ed Sullivan Show and The Muppet Show. I also liked The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Batman, I Love Lucy, and Marcus Welby, M.D. What I’m trying to get at is for all the natural ham in me, there was no cheese. I wasn’t one of those show kids who always needed to be in the spotlight. As Michael Landon would later tell people, I was unspoiled and real, more interested in catching bugs than acting.
My mom, still a young woman after splitting from my dad, maintained an active social life, and though I don’t remember her dating, my recollection is that at some point when I was around nine years old she went on a cruise to Mexico (my dad stayed with my brother and me) and shortly thereafter she married Harold Abeles, a prominent attorney. They had a reception at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Harold’s daughter, Patrice, the older of his two children, who was my brother’s age, and I wore matching powder blue dresses and bows in our hair. Harold’s children—he also had a son, Joey—lived with his ex-wife.
Per my mother, it was all very much a done deal and not discussed beyond the formal rollout—This is Harold, who is very special to me. He’s going to be your new stepfather and he’s going to live with us. No questions were invited, no complaints were entertained. As with my parents’ split, my mother assured us life wouldn’t be any different than before.
But it was.
My mother and I were almost joined at the hip. Suddenly Harold came between us and I felt lost and displaced. It was hard for me to accept anyone, especially another man coming in and taking my father’s place, no matter how many times Harold tried to allay my fears. The fact was Harold moved in with us, into the house that belonged to me and my brother and my mommy and, most of all, my daddy. Not only that, he brought with him his two German shepherds, Lady and Hank.
The dogs alone were more family than I bargained for. On day two, Hank attacked my beagle, Saulie, my best pal, and brutally ripped him up. Though Saulie was rushed to the vet and sewn back together, he was never the same.
Then Harold indulged an interest in archery. He was one of those people who develop passions, buy all the accessories, then move on. So he bought a target that was attached to a large bale of hay and put it in the backyard. Once everything was set up, he never used it. Saulie ate some of the straw that was leaking from the target’s canvas covering. It blocked his intestines, and he died.
I blamed my stepdad, but I wasn’t able to articulate it, to scream or rant at him or at anyone else, nothing beyond the normal grieving I was permitted after losing my dog: cry, get over it, and move on. I wasn’t able to use Saulie’s accidental death as a key to unlocking the anger and sadness I felt over my parents’ split and Harold’s arrival. No, I was expected and in fact told to accept my new instant family. My mother made it clear that everyone had to get along, that was the way it was going to be. I could cry over Saulie for a little while, but that was it.
As such, the porcelain doll stuffed her emotions away, which she was adept at doing, and quickly pulled herself together. Life continued. Thinking back, I didn’t even know I was upset. If I so much as frowned, my mother would ask what reason I had to be sad or upset. Why? Tell me! God bless her and her fairy dust. According to her, there was never a reason—look how lucky I was! Look at all I had and did! I bought into that program hook, line, and sinker.
Talk about showtime. Things might have been awful, but we acted like they were great. When we went to a fancy event, my brother, stepsister, and I wore matching outfits (Joey was too young to attend). All of us looked fantastic together. When we ran into people we knew, we told them that we were wonderful and things couldn’t be better. Back at home, though, Harold fought with his ex. They had a messy divorce and warred constantly in front of their kids. Joey was too little to be impacted, but Patrice, poor Tricie, was a mess.
Not that I was much better. I sucked my thumb in private for way too many years and wet my bed well into my twelfth year, though no one wanted to acknowledge I might be a little old for that sort of thing, or talked about why I desperately tried to hold things inside me till I finally lost control. Nope, things were perfect.
In any case, I preferred my drama on-screen, and soon enough I set my sights on something special: a remake of the movie Miracle on 34th Street. My audition went well. It was a job I really wanted, really cared about, talked and dreamed about. One of my other childhood idols, Natalie Wood, had been in it and I so wanted that part. When I didn’t get it I was crestfallen. I wanted to talk about it with my dad, so I headed to the
garage where he built furniture. It was filled with tools, wood, and various projects he had going; sawdust carpeted the floor, and it had a sweet smell that to this day I still associate with him. This hobby taught me that even though entertaining was his passion, there was more to his life. It gave me an appreciation for simple things, those that left one with a great sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. Maybe even greater than any standing ovation.
I spilled my guts and quite a few tears as he listened while he worked. My father probably realized I was crying about more than losing a part—there was the upheaval at home following Harold’s arrival and also the painful loss of Saulie—because after I finished, he looked up and said, “You know, Missy-do”—that was his nickname for me—“this only means something better is going to come along.”
I was much, much older when I realized that that advice, or at least the way I remembered him saying it, reminded me of something I’d read about a Buddhist monk who explained that bad things happen in order to open the door for something good to happen. In other words, bad things were kind of like the reverse side of the karmic tapestry, one half of the yin and yang of fate—where there’s good, there’s also going to be bad; where there’s a kiss, there’s also going to be a tear. My dad, as a former acrobat, one whose circus-performer parents died in an accident, knew about conflicting forces and balance.
But I was too young to understand anything like that, so I shook my head in disagreement.
“How could something better come along?” I asked. “This is the best thing ever. It’s my favorite movie ever. What could be better?”
He shrugged and kissed the top of my head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But something better will come along. I promise.”
four
SOMETHING BETTER
I was nine years old when I went on a cattle call for a new series NBC was getting set to produce based on the classic Little House on the Prairie books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I’d read a couple of the books, which my mom had introduced me to years earlier because they’d been among her favorites when she was a girl. I was trying out for the role of Laura. I didn’t know much more than that about the project.
My mom drove me to NBC, knowing more than I did about the series, particularly that with Michael Landon attached it was a project the network was very much behind and thus an opportunity to be a part of something special.
I think my grandfather might’ve also gotten involved behind the scenes, calling executives he knew at the network and telling them to take extra good care of his grandkid. There were hundreds of girls waiting to be seen, and when my turn came I went into a room and read for the network’s casting people. The casting director and I had a brief chat about nothing and then I was excused. But as I walked out the door, he had one more question.
“By the way,” the casting director said, “how tall are you?”
I stopped, turned around, and looked at this person like he was crazy for having to ask such a silly question.
“I’m this tall,” I said, wondering why he couldn’t see something that obvious for himself.
I don’t know whether it was rude or spunky. But it made a strong impression on the producers. They brought me back, along with a smaller group of girls, to read for Michael. I had no idea who he was, his level of stardom, or his clout with the network, but my entire family was beyond excited that I was going to be auditioning for Michael Landon.
I read for him in a room at Paramount Studios. I remember thinking, Oh gosh, he’s really handsome. He gave off a different kind of energy than ordinary people. It was a higher wattage. I’d been around stars and thought nothing of it, but Michael was different, and that difference was tangible without him having to say or do anything. It was a power, a mix of charisma and confidence that affected other people.
In the hands of an actor, it was a powerful tool. It filled the room. Michael did more than that, though. He raised the temperature. And he wasn’t just planning to star in the show. He was also the executive producer, writer, director, producer, cheerleader, boss, coach, and surrogate dad.
You’re either intimidated by the kind of person who has that mojo or you’re comfortable with it, and I was totally at ease as we chatted and he listened to me read. Midway through the reading, he poked his head out the door and gave the okay sign to my mother and grandmother, who were waiting anxiously for me to come out. Apparently my grandfather had also gotten word to him that I was Hesch’s grandkid.
A week later I went back for a screen test. A couple other girls had also been called back. Each of us filmed a scene with Michael and another one with Melissa Sue Anderson, who had already been cast as older sister Mary Ingalls. We worked on a soundstage, which was always exciting. But the day ended and then I kind of forgot about it as I returned to my normal daily routine.
A couple weeks later I was at school when a girl came up to me at lunch and asked if my name was Melissa. I said yeah, and she introduced herself as Leslie Landon, Michael’s daughter. I brightened as I remembered how much I’d liked him.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
She smiled as if she knew a secret, which she did.
“My dad said you’re going to be Half Pint,” she said.
I didn’t believe it.
“What?” I asked.
“My dad said you’re going to be Half Pint.”
I screamed and ran to the office where there was a phone available for students to use in an emergency. I called home and told my mom what had happened. She let out an excited shriek and made me repeat the story. As I did, I felt like booster rockets had ignited under me and I was about to blast off into some exciting, new, uncharted world. Meanwhile, as I finished the school day, my mom did some fact-checking and found out it was true, I’d gotten the role of Half Pint. Leslie had told me even before my agents knew—and boy, did she get grounded for that one.
Shortly before Michael died, I saw him at Leslie’s wedding and he told me when it came time to show all the screen tests to the network executives, he only showed them mine. I looked at him, then said, “Really? You did?” He nodded.
“Oh yeah. I knew. I knew immediately that you were her and I didn’t even want them to think about anybody else.”
From there, we began the steps leading up to the pilot, starting with wardrobe fittings. That original fitting was the first time I grasped the importance of costume in creating a character. I was a little pisher and didn’t have a formal process. Once I slipped on the dress, though, I felt different, transformed into someone else, as well as transported backward in time.
When I finally received the script, I went over my lines with my mother. I underlined them with a crayon. I memorized dialogue easily; I had a good memory, maybe a photographic memory. It came in handy, and I was prepared when the time came to shoot the pilot.
The story was straight out of the classic series of books, narrated and seen through the eyes of nine-year-old Laura. The Ingalls family—Charles, Caroline, and their three daughters—moves from their little house in the Wisconsin woods to a new home on the prairie about fifty miles west of Independence, Kansas. Leaving their family behind is hard, but the family’s resilient spirit, as led by Charles’s instant affection for the new land, despite its dangers, mirrored that of the rest of the country.
This slice of Americana, replete with chest-tightening dangers and a Christmas celebration guaranteed to open the tear ducts, was actually a two-hour movie, and if the network liked it, they would pick it up as a series, an arrangement known as a back-door pilot. Starting the second week of January 1974, we shot some scenes in L.A. and then went on location near the Sierras in Northern California. My mother and I treated it like a big adventure, which it was. We were far from home. It was cold. And there were numerous people to meet and get acquainted with, starting with Michael, who was quite clearly in charge and the center of the Little House universe.
Indeed, Michael pushed up his sleeves and rewrote
the script on the fly after a surprise snowstorm before the first day of shooting. When one of the other executive producers wanted us kids to play the opening scenes without shoes, Michael lit into him with both a bark and a bite that made me pause and say to myself, Whoa, I pray to God I’m never on the receiving end of that temper.
But he couldn’t have been warmer or more nurturing to me, and I could hardly take my eyes off him. I’d never seen a man in person who was built like him. He was an upside-down triangle, thick and muscular, and tough beyond my imagination. He chain-smoked cigarettes. On our first day of shooting, we were out in the snow and he was giving us direction when he took his cigarette and stubbed it out in the palm of his glove. I wanted to run over to my mom and say, “Did you see that?” He did that all the time. Then he took out the tobacco, sprinkled it on the ground, and put the filter in his jacket pocket, where over the course of the day he’d build up a fair collection, which he threw out later. I’d never seen such a macho man. He was like James Bond—or Batman.
His wife, Lynn, was one of the most glamorous women I’d ever seen. On location, she wore fur coats and wonderful boots. My mother was right next to her, dressed to the nines herself, in stunning, fashion-forward outfits that would’ve turned heads on Fifth Avenue. The two of them looked like movie stars. The thing was, though, we were in the middle of nowhere, knee-deep in mud and horse crap. Both ended up borrowing rubber boots from wardrobe. From the knees up, they were Hollywood glamour. From the knees down, they were all prairie.
My mom matched Lynn in the glamour department, but Lynn had a collection of jewelry that was unlike anything my little girl’s eyes had seen. At some point each day I would stare at Auntie Lynn’s fingers, wrists, and ears, hoping to see some new and remarkable piece, and usually I did. Michael showered her with every gemstone imaginable. It wasn’t long before one of my favorite things to do when I visited New York City was to walk down Fifth Avenue and gape at the pieces in the windows of Tiffany, Van Cleef & Arpels, and every other major jewelry store there.
Prairie Tale: A Memoir Page 4