Prairie Tale: A Memoir

by Melissa Gilbert

  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.

  Baby 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.

  Though my father spent most of his time on the road, I knew he was proud of my work on Little House—he told me all the time—and I saw even more of him after his stroke, frequently spending weekends at his house. Early on, he was partially paralyzed on one side, and he had one of those metal triangle things hanging over his bed that he could use to help pull himself up. A couple times I hooked my leg onto it and swung upside down. He thought it was funny. My dad’s girlfriend, Natalie, was not amused when I showed her.

  My father’s leniency on those weekend sleepovers accounts for some of my fondest memories. A
s he got stronger, we stayed up late, really late, past ten o’clock at any rate, which was the middle of the night to me, and watched my favorite horror movies on Creature Feature and Chiller Theatre. During commercials, we’d pal into the kitchen and make ridiculously thick, hard Italian salami sandwiches laden with spicy mustard and carry them, along with a frosty root beer float, back into bed, where we finished watching the movies. To this day, one of my favorite things to do is watch a scary movie with my boys while we eat salami sandwiches.

  He seemed to have made a full recovery by the end of the summer when I returned for the second season of Little House. The relief I felt from witnessing his rebirth as he went back on the road was matched by my nearly out-of-control anticipation as my mom’s expectant tummy got bigger and she sat farther from the table. As naive as I was about the birds and the bees—at that point all my knowledge of where babies came from and how they were born was gleaned from “The Lord Is My Shepherd” episode—I still knew she was about to pop.

  At the end of January and already well into Little House’s second season, she went into labor. I was on the set when it happened. Harold called the production office to let them know, but they kept the news from me since there was no telling how long labor would take and they wanted as much work out of me as possible. I’m still a little steamed about that.

  Finally, later in the afternoon, someone came up to me and said, “Half Pint, there’s a telephone call for you.” I hurried to the phone on our stage. It was Harold. As soon as I heard his voice, I asked, “Is it here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You have a baby sister.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sara Rebecca.” (They went with my choice for a middle name!)

  I leaped into the air and let out a scream. Everyone within earshot knew of my excitement. When I turned around, the cast and crew, all of whom already knew about the good news, were gathered behind me, standing in a semicircle, and they cheered wildly. A few days later, my mom brought Sara home from the hospital and I was beside myself. With Jonathan’s arrival, I’d felt intruded upon. Sara was different. She was my baby doll.

  Just over nine pounds at birth, she was the most perfect, most gorgeous chunk of baby imaginable. I could barely keep my hands off her. I just stared at her and kissed her and smelled her little neck. At my insistence, Sara’s bedroom was next to mine. I played with her in the morning and made a beeline for her when I got home from work, and often I got up in the middle of the night to watch her breathe, and if she was too still I would poke her gently and make her stir. Not only was she my mother’s miracle, as far as I was concerned, she was mine, too. She still is.

  My mother encouraged me to believe that I was blessed in every way. She would tell me my life was enchanted. What with Sara, a wonderful family, a job I adored, and, as my mother reminded me when I asked about my own entrance into this world, the genetic gifts of my prima ballerina and Rhodes Scholar birth parents, it was impossible to argue. Indeed, my life was full of moments of genuine happiness, laughter, and joy. My mother’s whimsy rubbed off.

  But there were troubling currents beneath the surface, complex emotions I would wrestle with later. I didn’t know any better, but why were difficulties and heartaches denied, glossed over, shoved aside, or covered up? And why was I so determined to prove to my mother that I was perfect? I made sure things were exactly as she wanted them, happy and sparkly. I would’ve been nuts or a spoiled brat to complain about anything in my life at that time, so I didn’t complain.

  With a growing awareness of my notoriety, I moved gradually into adolescence, taking baby steps and feeling uncertain whether the coming events, whatever they might be, would be good or bad. My mom didn’t permit me to think in terms of gray areas, as much of life is. No, it was one extreme or the other, good or bad, and with my mom it was all good. Maybe I sensed otherwise, and maybe that’s why when I close my eyes and picture myself back then, I see my nose pressed against the window, looking for the comfort and security I’d left in the old house.

  LOVE, LOSS, AND LOVE

  six

  GROWING PAINS

  I had to be forgiven when it came to Hollywood stars. Unless it was Batman, Chuck Barris, one of the Bradys, or David or Shaun Cassidy, I was oblivious to who was who. And that’s why the name Patricia Neal didn’t register with me when she graced the Little House set a third of the way through the second season.

  Patricia guest-starred on the two-part episode “Remember Me,” playing a widow with a terminal illness. I wasn’t aware she had won a Best Actress Oscar for the 1963 movie Hud, received another nomination five years later, and appeared in such memorable films as The Fountainhead, A Face in the Crowd, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. If someone told me, and someone probably did, the information didn’t stick.

  However, I knew she was important because all the adults on the show were beside themselves that she was there and because she had her own Winnebago, which was unheard of on our show.

  I found out Mike had arranged the Winnebago for Patricia because she’d suffered a stroke a few years earlier and needed a private, comfortable place to rest. The crew also set up a teleprompter on the set for her dialogue. Though she had recovered, I learned her stroke had been much worse than my father’s. We kids were told not to distract her, to be respectful, and keep our distance. That just made tenacious me more intrigued.

  Early on the first day Patricia was on set, she and I had a fun exchange and she took me under her wing. I was allowed to go in her Winnebago and spent a lot of time with her. She made me feel comfortable, and as we chatted, she opened the door for me to ask her anything. So, being kind of guileless, I asked her why she needed a teleprompter and how come she couldn’t remember her lines.

  She explained what had happened to her, and more specifically what had happened to her brain.

  “It’s difficult for me because I only recently learned to walk again,” she said. “I still have to think right-left-right-left. And when my brain is busy thinking right-left-right, it forgets everything else.”

  She gave me a lovely doll as a wrap gift, but more than the doll she gave me information and stuff to think about. In fact, I remember being profoundly moved and almost a little confused by her openness. We didn’t discuss anything that openly at my house. My father’s stroke wasn’t mentioned. It had been bad, but he’d recovered, and now that he was back on the road we didn’t have to think about it.

  Or we weren’t supposed to. But I still worried and wondered, and those thoughts rattled around my head until I spoke to Patricia. She told me more about having a stroke than anyone else did, including my own father. She let me see it was possible to recover, which enabled me in a sense to exhale. I didn’t have to be scared all the time about my daddy.

  I still think about the way Patricia’s honesty cast a light on life, ridding it of some of my deeper and darker fears. I loved her for it. I’m one of those people who believe everything, good and bad, happens for a reason. You’re always in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. And so I believe that the universe sent Patricia into my life when I needed her.

  I also needed braces for my legendary buck teeth. Michael Landon once said I could eat an apple through a picket fence, and he was being kind. I could literally bite down and with my teeth clenched, stick my thumb between my bottom and top teeth. My father insisted on paying for my orthodontics even though I earned a nice paycheck; I’m pretty sure it was because my daddy was a proud man, and there was no way he’d let me pay for anything, and because he was staunchly against our family falling into the traps child stardom (and the money that goes along with it) can bring. I never got the chance to ask him. He kept himself booked on those cruise ships and worked hard when he probably should’ve taken it easier.

  I missed my dad. I know that no one knew how much I missed him. I wouldn’t dare say it out loud, as it might’ve hurt Harold’s feelings and upset my mom. But I wished every day and prayed ever
y night that I could spend more time with him. I do see now how lucky I was to have a wonderful daddy substitute in Mike. Our relationship continued to grow even tighter, though there were still the inevitable growing pains. For instance, one day, as we shot an emotional scene for the episode titled “The Gift,” I sensed his famous temper was about to blow.

  It was my fault. I couldn’t remember my lines.

  There was nothing I feared more than disappointing him. From the moment he chose me for the role of Half Pint on Little House, I felt a connection to him that transcended our TV relationship and made me want to please him. Plus, his anger was terrifying, and having witnessed it, I never wanted to be on the receiving end. But I thought I might be about to experience it after he called cut for the third time and turned to me with a look that sent a shiver up my spine. He was able to take it down a notch before leaning close to me.

  “Half Pint, do you not know your lines?” he asked in a measured voice. “Did you not study the scene?”

  I lost it. Tears gushed. I stammered while searching for an explanation, but all the words jammed on my tongue. Nothing came out but an apologetic wail.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” he said, switching gears. “Just calm down. Take a breath—a big, deep breath.” He leaned back and swiveled toward the crew. “Give me a script and then everybody go for a walk.”

  Then he went over the scene with me until I learned it.

  “Better now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good.”

  Feeling like the storm cloud had passed, I got up and began to walk away. Suddenly Mike grabbed my arm, spun me around, and stared daggers straight into my eyes.

  “That’s never happening again, is it?” he said.

  I bit my lip, trying to hold off another downpour.