Expressing my own voice has been one of the best lessons of my life. It took many years of running headlong against that boulder to learn how.
SCHOOL DAZE
People often ask what it was like to go to school on the set. It was great on a lot of levels, but unusual and different for me. Our first schoolroom on Stage 26 was an old train car left over from some show. I always thought it was probably left over from an old Bonanza episode. Stuck in the back of the soundstage behind the painted backdrops, this boxcar still came complete with a sliding cargo door. We had to lift the lever, then slide the door open, but not while filming, because it was too loud. We had to be really quiet since the ceiling was chicken wire covered with a sheet of cotton. They even hung a red light over us, and when it turned on, we would look at each other and say, “Shhh, they’re filming!”
Our teacher, Mrs. Deeney, lobbied for a better classroom situation, which we eventually got.
The law required at least three hours of school a day, but that didn’t mean we only went to school that long—at least, I didn’t. On our set, we were able to add school hours with a system called “banked time.” It’s usually used when you are working so many hours, you don’t get your three hours in one day. You can make up for that time on slower filming days. The studio teachers keep track of the time kids spend doing schoolwork, and log the extra “banked” time. It’s a standard practice for most studio kids. I had to get my assignments completed for my school’s requirements, three hours or not. Because I had so much schoolwork, I had over a hundred hours of banked time.
In the early years, we had different studio teachers, usually two at a time, one for us younger kids and one for the older three. Once when Eric needed a teacher who could teach him German, we got a teacher for that requirement.
One of our teachers early on was Thordis Burkhardt. Her husband was the famous abstract expressionist artist, Hans Burkhardt. One year, her Christmas card was a print of one of his sketches, a treasure I still have.
There was one teacher we did not like. She wanted us all to sit in cubicles facing the wall so we wouldn’t waste time talking and distracting each other. Well, let’s just say she wasn’t there very long.
Catherine Deeney was with us a long time, though. She was a special woman. She had taught everyone, even Shirley Temple. I remember thinking that was the coolest.
Mrs. Deeney taught me moderation. I ate a lot of candy as a kid, and she asked me to cut back and eat only one piece a week. It was a huge request for me at the time. No one had ever taken an interest in me like that before. I felt cared for, with her special attention and lesson. She educated me to the why and how about candy. She told me why sugar was bad for me and my teeth, and I agreed with her idea. I decided if I had to wait a week for a piece of candy, I would pick something that would last longer than one bite, so I chose one of those red cinnamon square lollipops, which were popular. I brought it to class and Mrs. Deeney kept it on her desk until the given day. I really enjoyed that lollipop and learned about delayed gratification, patience, my teeth, sugar, and moderation. I know this lesson affected me later in life, too. When I learned a moderate way of dieting later on, I applied this early lesson from Mrs. Deeney.
When they are old enough to do so, Roman Catholics reconfirm the faith their parents baptized them into. When it was time to choose a confirmation name, I chose Saint Catherine in honor of Mrs. Deeney, who was Catholic. I added “Catherine” to my already long name. Now I was Mary Elizabeth Catherine Murray McDonough, a proud Irish lassie.
One of the hardest parts of being a kid actor for me was going back and forth from the set to school. I would be in the middle of a math problem, and they would call for us with “ready on the set.” We needed to go to the set, even if the math problem or chapter was not finished. Then it was time to change gears, put on a different thinking cap, remember blocking and lines, and get into the Erin character again. I wished I could just finish the problem instead of having to start all over when we got back to school. Heavy emotional scenes were even harder.
Some days, being on the set was so much fun, we never wanted to leave to go back to school. Think about it. Stay on the set with the activity, the cameras and lights being set up, and all the grown-up actors talking and laughing…or go back to school and find “x.” No comparison. I remember Jon would often start talking to someone and never make it back to school; sometimes they’d have to send someone to bring him back.
When Jon and Judy graduated, I was jealous, and our class size got even smaller when Eric graduated. I hated to be in school while they were having fun on the set. I knew I was missing out. I was so glad when I graduated and could focus on the work and feel like a real participant.
BUCKTEETH AND BRACES
There is vulnerability in growing up in front of so many people. The entire country sees every aspect of your childhood. In my case, it started during my youth, lasted through the awkward teenage years, then into my early twenties.
When it wasn’t the hair, it was the teeth.
When I was younger, my teeth were really crooked. I inherited my mom’s small jaw and my dad’s big teeth. For the show, it was perfect. A farm girl in the depression with irregular teeth fit the part. One of the aspects that made the show real was that we were not perfect-looking.
I suffered through as many teeth-straightening procedures as I could for a better smile. I had baby teeth pulled, and then some permanent ones were taken out. I felt like I lived at the orthodontist’s office. I wore headgear every day and when my mouth wasn’t visible to the camera. After years of orthodontia, it became clear that I would need braces. The Waltons were a poor family in the depression, so my having braces was out of the question, according to the production company.
Cut to: A few years later, Little House on the Prairie started. Little House was set in an even earlier time than The Waltons. So imagine how chapped my hide was when I saw Melissa Gilbert, as Laura Ingalls, wearing braces in the late-nineteenth-century American West. I couldn’t believe it. I think they were clear and on the back of her teeth, but there they were. My dad lobbied again, but the answer was still no.
Despite the orthodontic jealousies, Melissa and I met a few years later at a Tiger Beat party, and we became good friends. We saw each other at different promotional events, and had a lot in common and many mutual friends. One friend used to rent a cabin up in San Bernardino every year for his birthday and invited us to ski with him. A bunch of us went and had a great time. Melissa and I would usually do the shopping, play house, and cook for everyone. Spaghetti, if you’re wondering.
When she started to date the young actor Rob Lowe, he joined us on those ski trips. It was interesting hanging out with actors before they got their big breaks, and then seeing their careers take off. Rob’s certainly did. It was fun for me to follow their success and remember a simpler time when we all skied and just hung out at my house. I was a bit older and owned my own home by then, so I had parties. Not wild or Hollywood parties, I lived in the Valley. But I did have a Jacuzzi, and we would fill it up with Mr. Bubble and everyone would jump in. All good clean fun, but a bit odd to think of how our parents let us do all that stuff. Years later, when I did a small role on The West Wing, Rob and I laughed about those parties.
Another perk of hanging out with kids from other shows was meeting Alison Arngrim, who played Nellie Oleson on Little House. She is a hoot and a half. With her wit and personality, it’s no wonder she went into stand-up. Over the years, we became friends, and she came to my Christmas Eve brunch every year. When I made my short film, For the Love of May, Alison was perfect to play the sarcastic Jude. She is wonderful in the film. I feel lucky to have had Alison and Melissa’s friendship over the years. We have a common bond, having lived through growing up on television.
Years later, I told Melissa of my jealousy that she got to wear braces and I didn’t, and we had a laugh. I still have not had braces, but I do wear retainers every night.
MISSING MCDONOUGH
Being plucked from my “Valley” life and dropped into “Walton” life felt like I was running up the mountain to get by in this completely new world. Adjusting was tough for me. I didn’t see my family as much, and different guardians took me to the set, because my mother was working. We lived about an hour from the studio; Northridge is about eighteen miles from Warner Brothers, so I was in the car constantly. It was a long drive for a ten-year-old.
As much fun as I was having at studio school, I still missed my friends at my regular one, especially my best friend. When I started working, she stopped being my friend. I never understood why she didn’t want to know me anymore. My mom told me one day some people didn’t like or approve of “the business.” Even my aunt warned my parents that I would “go to hell” if they let me work in show business: “Nothing good can come from that.” She warned that this “terrible” place I was going every day was bound to corrupt me. It just wasn’t very “Catholic.” I heard a rumor that was also why my best friend wasn’t my friend anymore; her parents felt the same way.
I was torn between enjoying my new world, and letting go of my life as I knew it. I didn’t complain, because all I heard was “You’re so lucky, you’re so lucky.” I knew I was. I was having a blast, after all. However, now I had not only lost friends, I had received scorn from family members, and that gray cloud of self-doubt hovered over me like a shadow across my happiness.
PROMOTION AND BEYOND
Soon we were booked almost every weekend to promote the show. We did more parades than Carter has little liver pills, as my mother would say. I even made an appearance for Toys for Tots. Again, I didn’t know what to expect, and no one told me ahead of time what I would be doing.
So picture me. I am about eleven or twelve, standing at the edge of a holiday set clutching a toy my father has handed me. A stranger gives me a microphone and says, “Walk up to that marine, offer him your toy, and don’t blow it. This is live television, kid.”
Don’t blow what? What was I supposed to say into this mic? My mind raced and my hands started to shake. I could feel my dad’s eyes from off stage. I didn’t want to sin; I wanted him to be proud of me. Don’t drop the toy, Mary! Wait, what’s a marine, anyway? I trembled as I walked up to a very large man in a uniform. He took the toy from me, and I knew I should say something. I put the microphone to my mouth…and the rest is a blackout. I have no idea what happened.
I still wish someone would have told me what to do or say. After so many of these experiences of having no clue—I still think of it as dancing to a tune I couldn’t hear—I developed a fear of trying anything new, afraid I wouldn’t perform as perfectly as expected. How could I if no one taught me the steps?
I was afraid of the unknown, the not knowing what was coming next in the performance arena. In the physical arena, I’m actually quite the daredevil—Bob Stivers, who created Circus of the Stars, invited me to perform on his show. I did an aerial act thirty feet in the air with Scott Baio.
I also guest starred on Bob’s show Celebrity Daredevils. I had to transfer from water skis to a helicopter skid, and then the chopper flew up and over the lake, down onto the beach, where I stepped off onto the sand to join Bert Convy, who was waiting for me on the shore. In my private life, I’ve skydived, and bungee jumped off a 250-foot bridge in New Zealand. But those were physical feats I chose to take. It was an entirely different challenge learning how to speak in public. So I failed, and felt miserable.
I eventually learned to dance, even when there was no music. I accessed my daredevil nature to help me through my fears and learned to find my voice, but it was a gradual process that took years before I worked past those feelings of shame and self-penance.
THE SINNER
In one of our first-season episodes, a young minister came to the mountain and preached “fire and brimstone,” then spent the afternoon with the Baldwins, had a little too much recipe, and got drunk. In “The Sinner,” John Ritter joined our cast as Reverend Fordwick. I vividly remember one of his first scenes. John-Boy pulled up in his car and John, or “Ritter” as we called him, got out of the passenger side, only to pratfall, hit the car door, then tumble to the ground, over and over. I was amazed how he could play drunk and do his own physical work. I was so afraid he’d hurt himself. He was great in that scene, and on the show.
He told me once that he thought some of his best work was on The Waltons. I agree. His work was some of the most memorable, and so different from his famous comedy. Little did I know this funnyman would someday help save my life, but more on that later.
DADDY DIRECTOR
“The Fawn” was an episode I’d rather forget. Talk about the embarrassment of a lifetime. This episode is where Erin wants to adopt a deer, Lancelot, but has to send it back to the forest where he belongs. There is a parallel storyline where a boy—who, I’m sure, was very nice in real life—is interested in Erin. For instance, he brings flowers to her at school. I was so mortified by the crew teasing me, I could barely breathe.
Ralph directed this episode, and I’d asked him to cast a cute boy. He picked who he thought was cute. I remember being so resistant to the scenes we had together, I was pretty impossible to work with. I think I frustrated Ralph tremendously. When you are playing out in front of millions what you have never been through in real life, it freaks you out. At least, it did for me. Sorry, Ralph.
One of the reasons I had a hard time with that episode was because I arrived at the show fearful of boys. When I was eight, I was the victim of inappropriate physical experimentation by neighborhood boys. This set me up with another secret I gave no voice to.
These “boys on the block” told me I was the bad one, I was to blame, and if I ever told anyone what they did to me, I would be in big trouble. Their threats silenced me: I carried that with me until I went into therapy years later and finally started to deal with the toll their actions took on my body, mind, and soul.
I was guarded and scared, unsure what was expected of me. I hated feeling obligated to men and authority figures. The pull between getting approval from them and doing what they wanted tore me apart inside. There were so many authority figures at work to cater to, I betrayed myself in deference to them. Only once did I tell my mom about a crew member who insisted I kiss him every day behind a backdrop.
I was about twelve and I’d bought a trendy outfit to wear to the first day back at work for a new season. It was a cute crop top and a pair of hip-hugger jeans. As we got closer to the studio, I got scared. I knew the crewman would want his kiss. I was maturing, and I sensed my new outfit would get me into more “trouble.” I didn’t want to touch him ever again.
My mom was very quiet about “girl things.” She was prim and proper and didn’t like to talk about what she perceived as the darker side of life, maybe because of her abusive upbringing. Right until the day she died, I never heard her say the words “tampon” and “gynecologist”…ever. So I had to choose my words carefully.
“Mom, I’m afraid I wore the wrong outfit.”
She glanced over at me. “Why, Mary? You picked it out yourself. I thought you liked that one.”
“I do, but I’m afraid of how the crew will react.”
“What? Why?”
I spilled the beans about the daily kiss, the crew guy who coaxed and teased me into doing it all last season. She was furious. She told me that I never had to kiss him, in the first place. I was so relieved. She finally gave me permission to say no to someone in authority. For the first time, I felt I wouldn’t get in trouble for disagreeing with someone. I was grateful my mom was on my side. It was nerve-wracking when I got to the set, but I did tell him on that day that I wasn’t giving him the obligatory kiss ever again.
As big a step as that was, other obligations hovered in my confused little-girl brain.
I still couldn’t talk to anyone about the whole truth, why I felt this way, so I withdrew. As Erin grew older, there were many love stories for
her to play, but Mary didn’t want to play these at all.
This was the case a few years later when, at age fourteen, I had to kiss a boy. One of the many kisses Erin received, usually followed by tears and a broken heart. Imagine having to kiss someone in front of thirty of your big brothers, sisters, and crew members, all who consider themselves your extra parents. Oh, I hated those scenes.
I looked for reasons not to like the guys I played opposite. Okay, one of them burped, spat, and farted before scenes, so I think that one was fair game for my disapproval. One of them tried to get close to me, probably trying to make light of a tense situation, and picked me up from behind by my pants, giving me a wedgie. I thought I would die. I swung at him, but he wouldn’t put me down. My guardian, Cori Cook, rescued me from him, saving me from the humiliation.
Cori became my full-time guardian, and she is another person I credit with helping to save my life. She was a fierce protector, and would actually “body block” assistant directors who wanted to overwork me and say, “Not with my kid, you don’t.” She came to my aid, defending and teaching me things my own mother couldn’t. She was a friend, guard dog, big sister, aunt, cool chick, and substitute parent all rolled into one. She accepted me for who I was and helped me grow into who I am today. She cemented in me the belief that it was important to stand up for yourself and okay to say no. If I developed a spine at all, it was because of Cori’s care and example.
Lessons from the Mountain Page 5
