Our plays were a mishmash of themes I can barely remember. Lots of “weddings” were performed. Usually, a little dance thrown in, since Connie and younger sister Claire took classes at Marge’s as well. The girls would dress up in elaborate outfits from our moms’ closets and our dance recital costumes. I had learned that art from my cousins Curlie and Patty Hearne, who dressed me up, along with my cousins Bobby and Billy.
We would set up chairs from our dining room on the back porch and use sheets for curtains (my mom loved that, her clean sheets on the patio). Our stage was the patio with entrances and exits from the back door. It was great to have so many choices of actors for our plays. We had a built-in audience with my parents, Granny and Gramps, Mrs. Reynolds, and a few big brothers who heckled us from their seats on the lawn furniture.
As I grew up, I was kept real and humbled by the kids on our street. The open-door policy of families helping each other and being there for community is a big part of who I am. Many rocks in my mountain have the name Reynolds etched on them.
ROSARY AND MALA BEADS
The rosary was a big part of my upbringing. When my parents were dating, my dad would end a date with a decade (a set of ten Hail Mary prayers) or two before dropping my mom safely at her doorstep. We often visited our cousins on weekends, and on our drive home those Sunday nights, we said the rosary as a family. Each of us would lead a decade. My brothers, of course, would poke me and each other to try to break us up, and we would get in trouble.
When each of us was born, my parents had our whole name engraved on the back of a special rosary cross. I still keep mine on my nightstand next to my mala beads. The rosary was modeled after mala prayer beads, so it’s all come full circle in meaning. For me, it’s about intention and focus, and connecting to Love and the Source.
Saying the rosary is a staple to Catholics. The prayer is a series of the Hail Mary bookended by the Our Father, with a few of what my father called the “Glory Be’s” as well. My father loved saying the rosary, and his beads were all he asked for in his last days. I understand now how the repetition of prayers calms the mind. I used to say it when I couldn’t sleep. Now my spiritual practices have evolved. While I don’t consider myself a religious person, I am spiritual. Today I use mala beads and chant different prayers, but my spiritual practices sprouted their roots during all those years of saying the rosary as a kid. Even today, when I pray for my Catholic family, I use my rosary.
With this prayer and my namesake, I joined the Legion of Mary at my school. We met each week, got on the floor on bended knee, and said the rosary. I wanted to be a nun and walked to school early every morning to go to mass before school. I’m not sure why I wanted to be a nun, since my experiences in Catholic school were tough. I went to a Catholic school until I graduated from high school. My cousins had a very different experience in their school; they learned about a loving God. That was not my takeaway from school.
I felt God was unyielding and unforgiving. Catholic school started the perfection issues I still deal with today. It seemed no matter how “good” I was, I would never be enough for God. I would never have enough indulgences to get anywhere, forget heaven. I was scared all the time. One teacher in particular made me feel imperfect. I felt shamed by her about my appearance, that I was not enough as I was. It was the beginning of trying to change myself to please others. Even then, I wanted to fit in and do the right dance.
MISS PERFECTLY PULLED-TOGETHER
I felt judged by this second-grade teacher. The story is as vivid for me today as it was then. “Miss Perfectly Pulled-Together” had not a hair out of place. She was tightly wound, from her clenched fists to her underlying anger. No yelling, no raised voice, but she used the passive-aggressive noise of her high heels hitting the metal podium to control unruly seven-year-olds and instill mental fear as we waited for her punishment. She would stomp and wait. We would turn to look at her smiling face. She would wait until she had everyone’s attention, staring back at us. One day, the perfect bow decorating her shoe fell off from the force of her stomping. As it lay powerless on the floor, we laughed; then the punishment came. Scolding, shame, and even more Baltimore Catechism questions for us to memorize.
She was responsible for one of the horrors that set me up for years of hypersensitivity to disapproval, letting me know I was not enough, not okay as I was. It’s the hair. I’ve always had stringy hair. Every morning, I loved being in the bathroom with my mother. I brushed my hair; then she would pull it back as tight as she could into a ponytail. She would tuck in all the loose ends but by the time I walked to school, the “fly-aways” had already begun to escape. Then, at recess and lunch, I would go outside and play so hard, my face would get beet red—and my hair…well, some of it was still in the ponytail. Back inside, we would put our faces down on the desk to rest. I could feel my heart beating into my hot face against the cool desktop.
One day, Miss Perfectly Pulled-Together handed out personal-hygiene pie charts with arrows that spun around pointing to each piece. One slice was marked for shoes polished and clean; others were for a clean face, brushed teeth, clean fingernails and hands, neat hair, or clean clothes. If you were especially neat and clean, you might get a star or two to put on your chart.
Another day after lunch, Miss Perfectly Pulled-Together decided to drive the pie chart lessons home. She started at the first row and, desk by desk, addressed each kid and how they were doing with their pie chart. “Carol, you have beautiful hair and already have so many stars on your chart in each category, very nice. Sam, your shoes are always clean, but maybe you could do a little better washing those hands after dodge ball. Adrian, you have lovely curly hair and you always wear a pretty bow in it. Patrick, your uniform is always ironed.” She went through row two, then onto row three with more compliments.
Nick sat in front of me. I often stared at his scalp through his buzz cut, wondering if his skin got cold without any hair. “Well, Nicholas,” Perfectly Pulled said, “you don’t really have any hair, so your hair is always neat.” She smiled. I couldn’t wait to get my compliments. After all, I did wash my hands after recess and lunch, and I knew my mom always cleaned my uniform, and I had a few stars on my pie chart to prove my success. My ankles were crossed perfectly, my hands folded on my desk, and as she approached me, I sat up a bit straighter.
“Now, Mary. Well, your hair…I don’t know what to say. And as we all know, if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all, so I’m just going to skip you.”
I felt the red blush of embarrassment heat my freckled face. I reached to smooth the fly-aways back into the ponytail, but I could feel the stares. I froze in my guilt and imperfection. It devastated me, and it obviously still does, because here I am decades later, and it still makes me sad as I write this. I’m so outraged I allowed this idiot teacher to hurt me so much.
For years, when I went into her class with a note, or saw her on the playground, she’d pull me closer and straighten my uniform. She would tighten my belt, tuck my tag in, push my hair down, pull on my collar, and smooth my skirt. She was a constant reminder that I was not okay; I needed changing and straightening. Her disapproval weighed me down like rocks of shame in my young mountain. Early on, I knew I wasn’t enough. I felt I needed to change to please my father, my second-grade teacher, and eventually the wardrobe department.
TICKET TO THE IRISH SWEEPSTAKES
Dance classes brought me to my first audition. Many of the other moms told my mother she should get me into acting. But we didn’t have the first clue how to start. My mom thought I would lose interest, so she waited. Several months later, I saw a girl on a Kool-Aid commercial doing a cartwheel and I said, “Hey, I can do that. Why can’t I be on TV?” Never thinking about the acting element, I just wanted to be doing gymnastics in a commercial. To this day, I’ve never done a Kool-Aid commercial, my first dream of being on television.
I bugged my mom so much, she turned to the best place she knew to
find a business: the phone book. She called some “agents” and “managers,” and we met with them. They turned out to be phonies, wanting money or a seven-year contract before they would “represent” me. My dad would have none of that. Eventually we found a legitimate agent named Mitzy MacGreggor. With a name like that, any Irishman would have liked her.
My first audition ever was a cattle call for redheaded kids. That’s how I slipped in. The hair, always the hair. It was for The Homecoming: A Christmas Story, based on Earl Hamner’s own life and family. We read with lines from the walnut-cracking scene.
My mom held my hands and told me I had my first audition, and we jumped up and down, screaming with excitement. When we got to the audition, I remember seeing a lot of kid actors whom I recognized from TV waiting their turn. I was starstruck and couldn’t believe I was in the same room with these kids. I didn’t know them, but I knew them from TV. Lots of kids all over the country want to act, but I was lucky. I just happened to be living in Los Angeles, in the right place at the right time, with famous kids auditioning for a movie. Unbelievable.
After the original interview, I was called back several times to be paired with different combinations of kids. My mom wanted to cushion the blow, so she told me how lucky I was to get to come back so many times. She reminded me not to be disappointed if I didn’t get it. After all, it was my first audition. She took me back for several more callbacks, and we just enjoyed the wonder of it all.
Then I was called in with Jon Walmsley (Jason), Judy Norton (Mary Ellen), Eric Scott (Ben), Kami Cotler (Elizabeth), and David Harper (Jim Bob). We did the same scene one more time. Then Fielder Cook, the director, started talking to us. I don’t remember everything he said, but he explained that we would be working with Patricia Neal and we needed to be careful around her.
I didn’t understand, but I still listened. They dismissed us and we got up to leave, as we had many times before. But this time, it did seem a little different. As I walked out of the room, it finally dawned on me, and I turned to Eric. “Does that mean we got the part?” I think he laughed. He was a veteran.
This would not be the last time I didn’t “get it” about the business, left to figure out what was going on in this wild world I was about to step into. I was ten years old when I was cast as Erin Walton. My dad said it was like winning the Irish Sweepstakes after buying one ticket. Turns out winning the sweepstakes, like getting cast in a movie, will change your life, and your family’s, forever.
NO RUBBER BOOTS
We filmed the interior scenes on the CBS Studios Radford lot in the autumn of 1971. It was so wonderful for me, yet scary at the same time. I had never really acted before, unless you count the plays performed in our backyard.
One of the first things I remember was being measured for our depression-era garb we wore while filming in L.A. Since all the action took place in one day, we had the same clothes for all the scenes. I had a dark blue wool dress with a maroon sweater, and for the outdoors, a hat, coat, and scarf. We would run to a post on the wall, grab our coats, and out we’d go into the L.A. sunshine.
Judy wore boots, and some of the other kids did, too. I thought, I’m so glad I have these little leather shoes. It’s so hot and I don’t have to clunk around in big ole ugly boots.
Cut to: Wyoming, late October 1971. When we finished the interior shots at CBS, we flew to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to shoot the exteriors for the snow. It was thrilling to go with everyone on a chartered plane to a small-town location. I loved that my parents took me shopping for warm clothes. I got a new coat, a snazzy plaid number—it was blue and bright yellow, with yellow trim around the hood.
We stayed in Jackson Hole at a small motor lodge that had a pool in the middle of the common. Judy, Eric, and Jon were having snow fights and daring each other to walk on the frozen pool. Kami and I were less adventurous and made snow angels on the ground. We have home movies of it all. Such a great adventure.
Picture: The end of the walnut-cracking scene. We all leave the barn and traipse through snow to the house with the lovely smoke curling from the chimney. So cozy and warm-looking, right?
Well, I’m in the wool dress, tights, and those little leather shoes. After each take, they sent us inside to warm up. The snow caking on my shoes melted, and my shoes were soaked through. Another take was called, out we’d go, and my feet would refreeze.
There’s a lovely scene where we followed John-Boy leading the cow across the pasture. You get the picture—my feet were frozen. I’m looking around and everyone else has boots on. Hey, how did that happen? Why can’t I wear boots now? Lesson learned: What’s worn for the inside scenes must match what’s worn for the outside scenes. “Live and learn,” as my mom would say.
My mom and Betsy Cox, the costume designer, took me in the honey wagon (the specialized trailer used for dressing rooms and bathrooms on location) and rubbed my feet in front of a coiled heater. My feet were so cold, they ached.
We still had to film the scene in front of the store where a missionary gives out presents to the kids who correctly recite Bible verses. My mom put so many pairs of socks on me that night, I barely fit into those shoes. If you watch closely as we walk past the broken doll Elizabeth gets, you can see my very thick ankles.
ROCKING EDGAR
Next time you watch The Homecoming, notice how we kids run everywhere. We jump up and sprint to the door when Charlie Snead, played by William Windom, arrives. We run to see if Daddy’s home; we dash to the barn. When we’re all gathered around the radio and Claudie (Donald Livingston) comes in to tell us about the missionary, we practically take out Edgar Bergen, who played Grandpa. Watch it in the final cut, his rocking chair goes all the way back, and he’s left scrambling in our dust. Fielder had warned us to be careful around Patricia Neal, who had just recovered from her stroke. But he didn’t say anything about Edgar.
I’ll never forget something that happened when we got to Wyoming. Edgar Bergen realized we’d missed trick-or-treating, so he called everyone to the lobby and we gathered in front of a crackling fire in the huge stone fireplace. He carried in a small suitcase; I couldn’t imagine what was in it. My mom fidgeted and winked knowingly, her eyebrows raised in a “just wait and see” look. I was clueless. The anticipation grew until he snapped open the locks, lifted the top, and pulled out Charlie McCarthy. Right there, Edgar gave us our own private show. Watching him in awe, I knew this was a treat other kids wouldn’t get for Halloween.
After the lobby performance, my mom urged me to ask for his autograph. I was so shy and felt dumb, but I brought out my little orange corduroy autograph book. Boy, am I glad I did. He drew a picture of Charlie in that little book, and he and Charlie both signed the page. It’s a treasure I still have.
Years later, I was working on Boston Legal and told Candice Bergen this story about her dad, and how we stampeded him. I shared how he was one of my fondest memories of filming The Homecoming. Although I’m sure she’d heard a million of them, she graciously listened to my stories of her father.
Whenever the Waltons listen to the radio—when the broadcast wasn’t part of the script, they often listened to the Charlie McCarthy radio show.
LITTLE (CITY) GIRL WITH BIG (COUNTRY) BARN ALLERGIES
I have animal, grass, hay, and dust allergies. You can imagine what the barn scene was like for me before the days of Claritin. Oh, my eyes itched, my nose ran, and I tried to stifle sneezes. Later, we filmed a scene where we’re all standing on the stairwell, and the camera pans up. I remember laying my hand on the railing, and then hearing Fielder tell the cameraman to follow my arm. I felt so special in that moment, like I had done something good and cool as an actress. But my nose itched from my allergies and I kept rubbing it. When I watch the movie now, I laugh at that kid scratching her nose.
The walnut-cracking scene became so familiar to me, I loved it. I didn’t understand a reference about Mary Ellen’s hormones or the laughter at Elizabeth’s “I’m gonna have puppies” remark, bu
t I went along, pretending to get it. I danced around it as best I could and tried to keep up. This became a pattern for me when I didn’t know what was going on, and I didn’t feel the permission to ask. I’m not sure why I felt so unsure and unable to ask, but there’s a story my parents told about me from when I was a small child. My dad had the radio on, and I was dancing and dancing, and finally, out of breath, I said, “Daddy”—huff-puff—“can you please turn off the radio so I can stop dancing?”
For years, I kept dancing, never knowing when to stop.
YOU MEAN NOT EVERYONE IS CATHOLIC?
One of my first wake-up calls that I was not in Northridge anymore came in the schoolroom on the set of The Homecoming. All the kids were with our studio teacher, Betty King. I was memorizing my Baltimore Catechism questions, and she asked about my beliefs. (As Jon Walmsley observed recently, I was so young, I had a hard time defending myself.) The teacher told me she was Jewish, and about the differences in our religions. Eric weighed in, saying he was also Jewish, and someone talked about the “Big Bang” theory. I got so flustered. I had never known anyone who believed differently than I did. They asked me why I believed what I did; I had no answer of my own. I was raised in my church, Catholic school, and parish. I hadn’t gotten out much.
I kept thinking, “God is the Supreme Being who made all things.” Isn’t that the right answer? I get an A for that at home. I only knew what the Baltimore Catechism said was true.
My head raced and I remembered my mother telling me that Jewish people didn’t believe in Jesus—imagine the trouble I had with that! They asked me how I knew God made the speck that made the Earth. Oh no, what if I was wrong? I started to cry.
Jon, always a dear one, pulled me onto his lap. I settled down and asked him, “Well, what are you?”
Tenderly he said, “I’m a Protestant.”
I burst back into tears and sobbed, “Ohhhhh nooo! My mother said we don’t even like each other!” Jon was so sweet; he calmed me down and assured me we could be friends despite our religious differences. My lesson from his gentle nature was one of pure acceptance. In that moment, the first glimmer of embracing the differences in people, instead of judging them, was born in me. Jon’s kindness taught me a deep acceptance I would not truly understand for years to come.
Lessons from the Mountain Page 3
