Prairie Tale (7 page)

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. As 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.

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 every 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.

“No,” I said.

Now, nearly three and a half decades later, I can say that I’ve never gone into a scene on any project unprepared. Mike would’ve expected as much from me. He taught me not to settle for anything less than my best, especially if I demanded it of others.

In the ensuing years, I’ve also realized his influence on me extended way beyond the set. As a kid, I didn’t know he sipped vodka from his coffee mug every day almost as frequently as he pulled me into his sweat-soaked torso for a giant bear hug, but I’m sure he’s one of the primary reasons why as a young woman, I almost always picked men who smelled like alcohol.

Likewise, I’m sure Mike was responsible for my preference for physical men with a sense of humor. Here’s a perfect example: we shot exteriors on a Simi Valley ranch about ninety minutes north of Paramount, and if the sun was out, Mike would, by late morning, strip off his shirt and work in just his pants, boots, and suspenders. (In all fairness, it could be hellaciously hot in Simi Valley.) Well, women came out in droves to watch him work and to swoon, and he loved playing a certain prank on them.

He would send me to catch a frog from the pond (I can still hear his surreptitious whisper, “Half Pint, go find me a little one”), then pop whatever I brought back in his mouth, walk over to where the women stood, say hello, and let the poor freaked-out frog jump out at them. As they gasped and shrieked, he flashed a naughty, self-satisfied grin that made him even more lovable.

It would be years before I opened my eyes to Mike’s shortcomings; and until then I thought he was perfect. His daughter Leslie was one of my best friends. I was also close to Mike Jr., who was a year younger than Leslie and me. I slept at their house and they at mine, often enough that they felt like my weekend family, and I thought Mike and Lynn were the most glamorous, loving couple.

As we went through the season, work seemed more like play. Various episodes required me to go fishing; fly a kite with a cute boy I kind of liked on-and offscreen (fellow child actor Eric Shea, who attended my school); do scenes with guest star Richard Basehart, a giant in my eyes for having starred as Admiral Nelson in
Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
; and pretend to fight with Alison, who, though cast as my on-screen nemesis, was one of my best friends in real life.

When we had slumber parties at Alison’s house, we got to stay up and watch
Saturday Night Live
. At my house, the lights went out much earlier and my TV intake was carefully monitored for age appropriateness. My mom had a long list of rules that were impossible to explain to my friends. Among others, she didn’t believe girls should wear black or get their ears pierced until they were eighteen. I still haven’t figured that one out, though I lived by it, and when I turned eighteen I did what any girl in my position would: I pierced my right ear once and my left three times.

I had no idea how she would’ve reacted to my first crush because I didn’t tell her that my heart went pitter-pat whenever I thought about Craig Botkin. Nor, at the end of the school year, did I let her see my sixth-grade yearbook, where friends wrote they were sure I’d marry Craig and they’d see me at the wedding.

But that was the least of what went unspoken. In February, I was home from school with a bad cold when my mom came in with my brother and said she had to tell us something. The key words in that sentence were “had to,” because my mom wouldn’t have told us something if it wasn’t imperative and inevitable that we know, which this was.

“Daddy died last night,” she said.

For a brief second, I thought I’d misheard her, the way I had when she’d told us about his stroke. In fact, I almost ran to the phone to call him. Then it hit me. He wasn’t dying to talk to me. He was actually dead. My brother was already crying when I let out a wail that sounded like the air was screaming out of me. I collapsed into uncontrollable, racking sobs. My daddy was gone.

F
or me, everything about my father’s passing is still blank and mysterious. One day I had a daddy; the next day he was gone. After my mother broke the news, we didn’t talk about it again. I don’t remember ever going to his house again. I wasn’t asked if I wanted any of his belongings. I wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral, nor was my brother. I’m sure my mother thought it would be too painful for us. She wanted to shield us from that kind of sorrow, preferring our lives to be beautiful all the time. It was a long time before I found out that my father had died after suffering a second stroke. To this day, I don’t know if he was at home or some other place. All I knew, all that mattered was that he was no longer alive and my life was never going to be the same again.

It was like there was a hole in my soul. No one came to sit with me. None of my friends knew. No one at work ever mentioned my father’s death. No one put their arm around me, gave me a hug, or said they were sorry. I have a feeling people were told it would be too upsetting for me.

Not even Leslie Landon, my best friend, knew. Many years later, we were having lunch, now parents ourselves, and I mentioned something about losing my dad. Leslie was shocked. All those years she had thought my father died before she and I met. I had a hard time believing Michael never gathered his kids, who were my closest friends, and said, “Listen, Melissa is having a hard time.” But he didn’t. I assume my mother didn’t want anyone to know lest they upset me by bringing it up.

A year or so after my father’s death, my grandfather took Jonathan and me to the cemetery. We looked down at my father’s headstone. I looked over at my grandfather crying and saw my mother put her arm around him. I wouldn’t shed a tear that day. I wasn’t supposed to be sad—ever. At least that’s what I thought. So I just stood there. But I was very angry. I was angry that my mother would comfort her father, that she even had a father. That he could cry and I couldn’t and I had to be a soldier as we stood over my father’s grave.

More time would pass, decades, in fact, before I would find out the details of my father’s funeral. According to my mother, hundreds of people turned out. Tony Curtis, who loved my father and tells me the most wonderful things about him whenever we cross paths, couldn’t even go into the service. He sat on a hillside outside of the Old North Church at Forest Lawn Mortuary. Years later my mom told me that Red Buttons delivered one of the eulogies; she said the tributes were amazing and I should always know that many people truly loved my father. I of course had no way of knowing whether this was true or more fairy dust. I’ve since chosen it to be true.

My father’s death was handled so differently than I would handle it today as a mother myself. I’ve made sure that my children were exposed to death and grief from very early ages. They were given the choice to come along when we had to put pets to sleep. We even had a funeral for a pet mouse. I’ve tried to give them an understanding of loss and a sense of grief as a necessary part of life. I wanted them to realize that without such sadness and pain, there can be none of the love and happiness, and loss doesn’t mean you have to give up the good stuff in your heart. It means you cherish those memories that much more and think of the tears that may fall as smiles from the past. It’s as Mike said in the beautiful poem “Remember Me,” which he composed for the episode featuring Patricia Neal: