My Days
Page 28
I have no great need to be remembered, but if I am, it would be nice if the thoughts that came to mind were pleasant ones. Perhaps if I had lived a more worldly and exotic life, rife with all sorts of juicy love affairs and scandals, I would be better remembered. But that never was me. I didn’t just choose to be a solid, steady and moralistic person who believes in goodness and kindness; it was just a part of who I was from as long back as I can remember. If there is anyone who is a product of their sturdy Midwestern upbringing, it’s me. And because of that, being a good person with a code of morals has always been very important to me.
So how would I like to be remembered?
Whenever I’m asked that, I think about a time when I was traveling through Scotland and we went to this old cemetery by the sea where my great-grandfather is buried. There was a beautiful chapel in the cemetery; and inside, under a stained-glass window, there was a little bronze plaque with a man’s name on it; and underneath his name were three simple words: A good man. That really struck me, and I’ll never forget it. I have no idea who he was, but when he shuffled off his mortal coil, he left people behind who remembered him for his goodness. Is there really anything better that any of us could ever hope to be remembered for?
As I sit here in my sunroom, putting the final touches on this story of my days, I have already lived well over thirty-two thousand of them, and each one served as the stage for its own unique twenty-four-hour scene. All those scenes have made up the story of a life—a happy life, for the most part—in which I saw my secret dream, my destiny, fulfilled. I’ve lived a life filled with happy days—not all of them, but more happy ones than otherwise. I can’t imagine anyone asking for anything more.
As for what else I have to do in life, there isn’t much. My bucket list is pretty well complete. I’m comfortable and happy, and there is almost no place I can go on the planet where, because of Happy Days, doors don’t open for me and people don’t warmly welcome me with love and affection. Isn’t that wonderful! I mean, what could be more rewarding and lovely than that?
I’m at peace, and I know that I did what I was supposed to do during my days on this planet. I am so grateful for all I have, and yet, if for some reason it was all taken away from me tomorrow, I could manage and survive—I really could. I have proven that to myself over and over again: that no matter what happens, I have the strength and resilience to carry on.
There is one last question older people are constantly asked: What do you think happens when we die?
My answer: “I don’t know. I have no idea at all, and frankly, I don’t care, because I never think about it.” I think having life means dwelling on life—what we can be doing in the here and now—not on what may or may not be looming out there in the great beyond. I heard a saying once: “Don’t die until you’re dead.” I don’t know who said it, but I thought it was good advice, and it resonates with me even more as I prepare to enter the tenth decade of my life.
And as for dying? I don’t know. I guess it may be nice if I was given a dignified little send-off by my family, perhaps with the overture from Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier playing as some friends file in to pay their final respects. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I also think it would be nice to have my ashes buried side by side with Paul’s in the San Diego cemetery where the other members of the Ross family peacefully rest in our family plot.
Yes, that would all be lovely. But, I’m beginning to think that none of those things are going to happen. As a matter of fact, I just may not bother to do it at all—die, that is.
You know, when Ellen was a little girl, she would have nightmares and would run into my room and say, “Mommy, Mommy, I’m afraid you are going to die. Are you going to die?”
I would hold her and assure her, in the most convincing way, that dying was not, nor would it ever be, a part of my plan.
“That will never happen!” I would promise her. “I will never die! Never! I can assure you.” And when I told her that, she would calm down, smile, and go back to sleep in peace.
So maybe that will be the next big dream I will chase. My next goal will be to never die (I mean, I did promise Ellen, and a promise is a promise). I know that may sound ridiculous—like the most crazy, outlandish and far-fetched dream a person could ever have. But is it?
You know, there once was this little girl who wrote a far-fetched dream in her diary book:
When I become a great actress—and I will—I will act in theatres [and will] have all the people in the world clamoring to talk to me and gush over me.
And guess what? That far-fetched dream came true.
So here I am, all these years later, writing in another book. So how’s this?
When I have lived forever and ever—and I will—I will become known as the woman who never died, and all the people in the world will clamor to talk to me and gush over me.
Some may read that and think, My God, the poor thing has gone mad in her old age. But, when you think about it, is that really any more far-fetched than a little nobody from Albert Lea, Minnesota, dreaming of becoming an actress; meeting and getting to work with some of the greatest legends Hollywood has ever produced; starring in films and television shows, including one of the most beloved shows of all time; becoming a mother of two wonderful children; finding a soul mate and having one of the world’s most passionate romances; and even getting a star on Hollywood Boulevard’s Walk of Fame to boot?
I don’t think it is. I really don’t.
Here I am with my mother, Ellen Ross, by Lake Waconia, Minnesota, in 1929.
(Author’s personal collection)
With my sister Alicia (left) and brother Gordon (right) in 1930. I was two.
(Author’s personal collection)
With Alicia on a trip to Saskatchewan, Canada.
(Author’s personal collection)
With Alicia in Minnesota—note the bathing suits!
(Author’s personal collection)
“Watch me Daddy!” My brother Gordie is on the inner tube.
(Author’s personal collection)
Posing with Gordie.
(Author’s personal collection)
Easter Sunday with Alicia, Dad, Gordon, and me. I had just had my appendix removed.
(Author’s personal collection)
With my mother and brother, about 1942.
(Author’s personal collection)
San Diego, 1948. I won the S.D. Journal Award for Best Actress, Little Theatre Tournament, for Checkhov’s A Marriage Proposal.
(Photo permission granted by Amy E. Allison, Director of Administration, The Old Globe)
Under contract to Paramount, 1952. (I made $150 a week! I had been making $38 a week filing at Bullocks!)
(© Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.)
From Life with Father, CBS. I was Kathleen the Irish maid.
(Photo courtesy of CBS Broadcasting Inc.)
The Glenn Miller Story, starring Jimmy Stewart and June Allyson, 1954.
(Photo courtesy of Universal Studios Licensing LLC)
With Cary Grant during the filming of Operation Petticoat in 1959.
(Photo courtesy of Universal Studios Licensing LLC)
Clark Gable and Marion, Teacher’s Pet, with Doris Day. Clark signed it: “To Marion--Let’s Do It Again.”
(© Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.)
With Tony Curtis while filming Operation Petticoat. “Am I thrilled!”
(Author’s personal collection)
From my appearance on Perry Mason.
(Photo courtesy of CBS Broadcasting, Inc.)
Christmas 1968 (I was divorced), with Ellen, Jim, our white rat, and our dog, Abigail.
(Author’s personal collection)
Happy Days: Marion and Tom Bosley as Laurel and Hardy.
(Photo courtesy of CBS Television Studios)
Happy Days Ball Game, Garry Marshall at the fence. Note my wedgie shoes! I could hit!
(Photo courtesy of CBS Televisio
n Studios)
With Garry Marshall.
(Author’s personal collection)
Paul and Marion in 1988.
(Author’s personal collection)
Marion and Gwen Berohn, Marion’s assistant for 26 years.
(Photo credit: Dennis Hennessy)
Marion and Rosa Salazar, Marion’s housekeeper for 25 years.
(Photo credit: Gwen Berohn)
Christmas 2016 with the family! My children, their spouses and my wonderful grandchildren!
(Author’s personal collection)
Happy Days cast at Marion’s seventieth birthday party, 1998: Don Most, Scott Baio, Henry Winkler, Ron Howard, Marion Ross, Erin Moran, Ted McGinley, Cathy Silvers, Clint Howard, and Anson Williams.
(Author’s personal collection)
Jim Meskimen, Marion, Rance Howard, and Ron Howard on the set of How The Grinch Stole Christmas, 2000.
(Author’s personal collection)
Erin Moran and Marion at the Motion Picture Academy.
(Author’s personal collection)
At my house, Happy Days Farm, 2017. Memorial supper to honor the passing of Erin Moran: Scott Baio, Cathy Silvers, Marion, Anson Williams, Ron Howard, Don Most.
(Photo credit: Cathy Silvers)
As Lorelai Gilmore the First on Gilmore Girls.
(Licensed By: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All Rights Reserved.)
A very special photo from Ron Howard.
(Photo courtesy of Imagine Entertainment)
My Epilogue and Acknowledgments
There are some people in the public eye who write their autobiography when they are in their thirties or forties and then, as the years go by, come to regret some of the things they shared with the world. Not me. I waited until I was old enough to know I would have no regrets.
Over the course of my days on this earth, I have learned many things, including how it takes many working parts, carried out by a team of talented people, to bring a theatrical production, a television show or a feature film together. What I had no idea about until I was well into my eighties was how a book comes together.
I always dreamed I would become an actress, but never dreamed I would someday write a book—any book—much less one about my life. In fact, at times I had been adamant that I would never do such a thing. And yet, over the years, I have had many people suggest that I document the story of my life—my son, Jim, and my daughter, Ellen, at the forefront—but it just didn’t seem like something I would ever do . . . until I did.
The genesis for this book actually began without my even knowing about it when an enterprising entertainment producer named Jackie Lewis, the president of Jackie Lewis Productions, arranged for a meeting between my son, Jim, and writer David Laurell at a Studio City, California, restaurant. I am told that Jackie, Jim and David sat and talked for hours and all agreed that the story of the days I have lived was worthy of being documented. And so, shortly thereafter, Jackie and David met with me at the Happy Days Farm to do what may have been the most difficult part of putting this book together: convincing me (a) to do it and (b) that anyone would care to read it. “I don’t have any juicy gossip to share,” I argued. “I have no scandalous or tawdry tales to tell.”
When I shared that same concern with my literary agent, Jennifer De Chiara (who, by the way, is the best in the business), she listened to me intently.
“You do know that I’m not going to have any salacious stories about devious plots to undermine anyone,” I told her. “There will be no sexy tales of clandestine affairs or romps or orgies or trysts, or whatever they call them nowadays . . . no airing of dirty laundry—”
Jennifer cut me off. “Marion!” she said sweetly. “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time for you to do all those things before the book comes out.”
And with that, she made me laugh and also convinced me . . . I would write a book.
Once I did decide to tell my story, I had one question—a big one: How and where do I start?
What I quickly learned is that writing a book, even if it is your book, about your life, is like doing a television show, a film, a play or anything else in life; it takes the collaborative effort of a team. And just like with Happy Days, I once again lucked out by having a most wonderful team, who all worked so hard to make this book a reality.
Taking the lead on that team was David Laurell, who spent days and days and days (all happy and enjoyable ones, I may add) with me at the Happy Days Farm, plotting out how I should approach this task and asking me about things I hadn’t thought about in many years or—in some cases—ever. He was a godsend to me and has become a very special person in my life.
Doing this book, which I had been so hesitant to do, turned out to be a really lovely experience because of the people involved. And even though I am now “a writer,” I really don’t think I can come up with the proper words to express my deep gratitude to all of them for helping me tell the story of my days. And while there are so many people—many whose names have been included in this book—who are responsible for helping me make my dream come true, so that there would even be a reason for me to write a book, there are those who all really pitched in over the past two years and made this happen. I am used to doing projects that, as they end, acknowledge those who made it happen in credits. So, here we go. Let the credits roll. With heartfelt love and thanks to:
Garry Marshall and his executive assistant, Heather Hall, and all my beloved Happy Days family members: Ron Howard and his assistant, Louisa Velis; Erin Moran; Henry Winkler and his assistant, Sarah Chiaravalle; Anson Williams, Donny Most, and Scott Baio.
My family: Jim, Tamra, Taylor, Ellen, Scott, Roxane and Hap.
My assistant: Gwen Berohn.
My agent: Jennifer De Chiara, and everyone at The Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency.
My writing collaborator: David Laurell.
My transcriber: Maxine “Max” Andrews.
My publicist: B. Harlan Boll.
And all the wonderful and talented people at Kensington Publishing Corp: Publisher Lynn Cully, editor in chief John Scognamiglio, publicity director Karen Auerbach, director of communications Vida Engstrand, art director Louis Malcangi, director of social media and digital sales Alexandra Nicolajsen, production editor Robin Cook, copy editor Rosemary Silva, and copy chief Tracy Marx.
And, finally, to Jackie Lewis, who sparked the entire thing.
To all of you, I thank you and wish you a lifetime of health and happy days!