Hadn’t I been good for the past 27 years?
Could it possibly hurt to dip into a little comfort?
I picked up a bottle and took a long look.
It’s not like it was vodka. The alcohol level was like 12 or 13 percent. It was more like pain medication than wine.
And really what’s the difference anyway? One you get from a pharmacist in an amber bottle and the other you get from a cheery display next to the sunglasses and pool toys.
I knew that no one would know. Not my alcohol recovery group. Not my family. Not my friends.
I needed this. I had earned this. After everything I’d been through.
Anyone who didn’t understand how much I deserved this had no idea what I’d endured.
Said the voice.
And I gently lifted a four-pack from the display and went to the register.
When I got home, the house was silent. That same silence that had come to fill every corner like sand.
I sat down in my living room in front of the television with my little wine bottles, which felt so unfamiliar in my hands, and cracked the screw tops and for the first time since August 16, 1984, felt the sweetness and sting of alcohol cascade like liquid morphine down the back of my throat.
Drinking again came with some surprises. A few months later I was in New York City for a few days prior to a Little House fan event and I took a stroll down to the Times Square area and decided to help myself to a martini. My first since the Reagan Administration. I seated myself at a bar, ordered the drink and later when I was presented with my bill I nearly spewed. It was $24! The price of drinks had really gone up in the past 20 years. I felt like Rip Van Winkle.
More than anything though I was surprised by how easy it all was. I was drinking and wasn’t falling apart. I wasn’t sliding around town drunk. I wasn’t grasping for a giant bottle of vodka the moment I opened my eyes in the morning. I wasn’t parking my car and finding the doors open and my purse on the sidewalk in the morning. I was totally in control. Of course I had to keep it strictly to myself. Half the people I knew, half the people in my family, including my sister, were in alcohol recovery.
They would all of course tell me this was the wrong thing to do. But I was fine. I just had to keep it to myself and not make a big deal about it. I stopped going to my alcohol recovery meetings three times a week and started just going once. I was quieter than I’d been in the past. But I was going. Everything about my life was working as it should.
I just needed a drink every now and then to get me through this stage, I told myself. I was in grief. My husband had died and I needed some time. I needed a little extra something. Then I’d quit again.
The truth is the best thing I had going for me through all of this were the fans and the support of old friends like Alison Arngrim. She and I would sit beside each other at fan events and autograph shows and she was such a friend and so relentlessly cheerful. It was with her encouragement that I began to think about writing this memoir.
Around this time I’d gotten to know a writer, Andy Demsky, who said to me back in 2009, “Charlotte, I think you have a book in you.” And I said, “No, I don’t think I do.” I truly didn’t see a story. Maybe a magazine article or a radio interview — I’d done lots of those. But a book? A book with hundreds of pages? With plot twists? That made you want to read the next page? No.
He was convinced otherwise and we went back and forth like this for several years until finally we met for coffee in 2012 and he gave me a copy of a memoir he’d collaborated on. He said, “See what you think. And if you ever change your mind, let me know.”
I took the book home and read it and liked the voice, the style, and the tone and began to think maybe the idea was at the very least worth exploring. We started getting together once a week to map out how my story might take shape. And one theme that kept coming up again and again was alcoholism and alcohol recovery. Hmmm. What was I going to do with that?
Maybe we could write my story without talking about it. Just focus on the career stuff — the Little House stories, Eraserhead, Twin Peaks — keep things light and fun and leave out the addiction part.
I proposed the idea and Andy’s eyes went a little vague and he said he’d think it over. What that really meant was that he didn’t believe it would work and was too courteous to say so right off the bat. Those of us born and bred on the West Coast often like to take our time saying ‘no.’ My friend Jeanne, from the East Coast, would’ve just said, “Charlotte, you’re fucking nuts, that’ll never work.”
Instead he came back a few days later with, “Well let’s just keep working and see how all the pieces fit together.”
Smooth. He wasn’t letting me off the hook nor was he pushing me too hard. Not yet anyway.
In the meantime I was doing a lot of traveling and loving it. I’d gone to England, for the first time since my honeymoon with Tim, for two Twin Peaks festivals in London. While in the UK I spent time with friend Barnaby Marriott, a British Little House fan who always makes me laugh. We became close friends when he’d visit me in California over the years. Barnaby was with me in the South of France where I got that legendary bear hug I talked of in the opening paragraphs of this book.
In 2014, I went to the 40th anniversary of Little House on the Prairie held in the actual Walnut Grove, Minnesota, where the real events of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s life had taken place. It was so thrilling to be there with nearly a dozen other cast members and to meet fans who stood in line — in the rain — to meet favorite actors and get autographs and take photos together.
And besides my Little House family, thanks to my work on Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and The Virginian, I was now being invited to weekends at Cowboy Events, where I got to hang out with old actors and stuntmen from those beloved shows. I was even being invited to spend the weekend with Elvis impersonators at an annual event celebrating Elvis Presley because of my scenes in the film Speedway.
Beyond all of that I had my other crazy family — the fans of Twin Peaks. For something like 10 years now, I’d made the yearly trip to Washington State to do meet-and-greets with fans in North Bend, watch Twin Peaks episodes and David Lynch films at the Seattle Art Museum, or just to relax, talk, and laugh at the Salish Lodge with fans and cast members. This is where, over the years, I made so many friends including Brad Dukes, who went on to write the definitive guide to the filming and production of the show called, Reflections: An Oral History of Twin Peaks, featuring interviews with nearly all the cast and crew.
In between all of these shows and events I would come home to Napa and I found that I was drinking more. Not because I needed to any longer to staunch my grief but because it’s just what I did now. I’d been busy—therefore, I deserved it. I’d worked hard on the book—I deserved it. I’d made a lot of Beadle Bags that day—I deserved it.
Some mornings now I would wake up and could not remember the night before.
One night I was vaguely aware that something bad had happened. There had been thrashing. And pain and then I fell back to sleep. In the morning I woke on the floor with horrible bruises all up and down my arm, the result of falling out of bed drunk in the night.
I stumbled to the bathroom and in harsh morning light examined the damage in the mirror. With a rising sense of horror I realized that this was just the beginning. I wasn’t 25 anymore. I was in my 70s and next time I fell, I could break my arm. Break a hip. Snap my neck.
It hadn’t taken long to get right back where I was in 1984.
That’s how addiction works. It’s never over. It never goes away. It never gives up.
I knew I needed help. And I would always need help.
My first call was to someone in my alcohol recovery group in Napa whom I’d come to rely on. I told her everything. Absolutely everything.
She wasn’t shocked or sickened and she didn’t judge. She’d been through this too. Her response was that I needed to first to make things right — to tell people who I’d been lying to that
I’d been lying.
So. That’s never easy. Looking people in the eye who’ve trusted you and saying you’ve been a lying sack of crap.
The thought of it is humiliating and crushing.
Still, I knew I had to do it if I was going to have any shot at getting healthy.
I called my sister Barbara Jean, who’d been sober almost as long as I had. She too was supportive and full of strength and optimism.
At my next coffee meeting with Andy I took his hand and said with tears in my eyes, “I’ve been lying to you.”
When he heard me out he gave me a hug and said how much he admired my courage and that now maybe we could move forward with the book in a totally honest, authentic, nothing-held-back way — in other words to tell the truth. About everything.
And that’s what I’ve tried to do here.
My goal has not been to shock or to be salacious or to name-drop. This is simply my life in all its many parts. Good, bad, and in between. I wish I had done some things differently. I wish to God that I’d stayed sober! Damn it! I was alcohol-free for 27 years and then I completely blew it. I am so grateful to my alcohol recovery group here in Napa. I went back to my next meeting and frankly I was scared. I thought they’d be scandalized, sickened, and judge-y. But there was nothing else I could do other than to face up to it. I did the only thing I knew how to do — just spill everything. And they were great. If anything I think a few of them were shaken up. If this could happen to someone with nearly 30 years of sobriety, it could happen to anyone in that room. If anything the strength and support we give each other grew in importance.
The result, for me, was total relief.
Alcohol is a weight in my case. And both times that I’ve let it go, it’s like a sack of cannonballs has fallen off my shoulders.
I committed to going to 90 group meetings in 90 days, just as I had the first time after getting out of the program at New Beginnings. Only this time at 73 years of age I had come to a new-new beginning.
Does it ever end?
In late-ish 2014 I started to hear exciting rumblings and whisperings and gossip from friends in the entertainment business and from online news sources that David Lynch and the network Showtime were talking about filming a 9-episode reboot of Twin Peaks. Well that was unexpected. Then I heard about possible reboots of the shows Full House and Coach. All this combined with the fact that a Clinton and a Bush were both now vying for the White House and I thought, “Whoa — here come the ‘90s again.”
On Tuesday, November 11 my phone rang. It was an assistant of David’s who asked me to hold the line, which I did, rather too aware of the pulse beginning to roar in my neck and wrists.
“Charlotte!” came his brassy, joyful voice.
“Hi David.”
“Are you ready to go back to work?” he fairly shouted.
Always.
Always.
Always.
Epilogue
It’s October 2015 and I’m packing for a few days. Tomorrow I’ll fly to Seattle, and then will drive out to Snoqualmie to do some filming for the new version of Twin Peaks, now slated for a 2017 debut. I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement so I can’t discuss anything with anyone.
After that phone call with David things fell apart between him and Showtime — sounded like a money issue. David tweeted that he was disappointed that he wouldn’t get the chance to return to the world of Twin Peaks. So those of us in the cast banded together and started a Facebook page to save Twin Peaks.
We hoped that if enough fans showed their support, it might change things for the better.
There was some talk of Showtime producing Twin Peaks without David, which was beyond unthinkable and spurred the creation of a video in which members of the original cast all weighed in on the idea of what Twin Peaks without David would be like. In the video, which got nearly half a million views on YouTube, cast members such as Sheryl Lee, who was Laura Palmer said, “Twin Peaks without David Lynch…is like a girl without a secret.” Mädchen Amick said, “Twin Peaks without David Lynch…is like a waitress without her uniform.” Catherine Coulson, in a grainy phone video, was filmed saying, “Twin Peaks without David Lynch…is like a log without its bark.” I was quoted as saying, “Twin Peaks without David Lynch…is like Abbott without Costello.”
Maybe it was the surge in fan support that helped, who knows, but not long after, whatever differences had been in play were patched up. And now the reboot is back on and the original nine episodes are extended to even more.
And so, as Shakespeare wrote 500 years ago, once more into the breach.
I’m going back to Twin Peaks and cannot wait to see everyone again. Dana Ashbrook and I have been emailing again and I’ve been in touch with Kimmy Roberts and others.
When I am under those lights again, with the camera pointed at me, and David giving me his usual look of focus and patience, I will likely be petrified.
And yet, there’s nowhere else in the universe I would rather be.
So. On the personal-life front, don’t be shocked and judge-y, okay? But I have reconnected with an old friend. Michael Santos is a sweet, loving, patient, kind, good-looking guy whose entire life has been spent outside of entertainment. He’s far more interested in meteorites and astronomy than in residuals and scripts and Hollywood gossip. But he loves the Giants, so he gets it. And we have a great time together.
Remember the name of that show from the ‘90s in which I played a total bitch? Life Goes On? That’s what happens if you’re lucky.
And I’ve been lucky. I should have died in the 1950s when as a careless teenager I flew over a highway embankment and through a billboard.
Then I should have bit the big one again in the 1960s when I swallowed God-knows-how-many tablets of Miltown when I wanted to escape all my crimes against Tim and our marriage.
I should by any account have expired of liver failure in 1984 when I was living with — and drinking with — Jack Nance in Los Angeles. Cancer could have taken me. Hells Bells, Walt Disney himself should have personally drowned me for smoking on the Jungle Ride.
Yet here I am staring down my 75th birthday with nearly everyone on the planet — who remembers such things — remembering me as Miss Beadle from Little House on the Prairie.
I’m happy to say that I’m still good friends with my two former husbands, Tim Considine and Jordan Hahn, and with nearly every guy I’ve had some type of fling with. I’m proud of that. It’s a lot of bridges that didn’t get burned. To me it represents friendship, conviviality, cutting some slack, and in some cases full-on forgiveness — the best parts of being human.
Every day I am blessed by my many families. My Little House family, who are so kind, thoughtful, and loyal and who’ve passed their love of the show onto their children and grandchildren. My Twin Peaks family who are full of friendship, laughter, and a dark and beautiful love for all things David Lynchian. My Pasadena Playhouse family including Liz Barron, Lydia DiVincenzo, Stuart Margolin, Sig Haig, Josh Bryant and many others who are now scattered all over the world and will always have a place in my heart. My alcohol recovery family, fellow soldiers in this fight, who are there everywhere I go and support me, listen to me, and help me pull through. And of course there’s my actual family — my brother Lewis and sister Barbara Jean and my ten nieces and nephews who are like my kids too. I’m blessed by everyone who came into my life through David Banks, such as Jason, and now with Michael Santos and his children.
At the beginning of this book I said that after all this I hoped you would find some portion of what you loved in the Miss Beadle character somewhere in me. That’s a tall order — I get that.
But in both Eva Beadle and Charlotte Stewart I believe there is hope, tenacity, empathy, patience, and love.
I don’t have Eva Beadle’s wide-eyed innocence. There’s been way too much sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll in my life to pretend any of that. But after everything I’ve seen and been through, I still have her sense of wonder in the uni
verse and belief in the goodness of people.
If you don’t see a lot of Miss Beadle in me, I’d love for you to see some of Betty Briggs: the eternal optimist in spite of everything.
And as for Mary X in Eraserhead. You’ll have to ask David Lynch what happened with her. But in her defense Mary X did try to hang in there under some pretty horrible circumstances. And we’ve all been there.
As for any other characters, we’ll see. David Lynch is still kicking around. Neil Young could still pull another movie out of his battered hat. Or some as yet unknown writer-director could come along and dazzle us all with a film or a TV show we’ll never forget.
I think I still have a few characters left in me.
Acknowledgments
I could not have attempted such an undertaking without the ass kicking of my writing partner, Andy Demsky, who nudged, pushed, pulled, and otherwise rattled my brain for tidbits of the adventures that made up my life. I probably wouldn’t have survived at all without the support of friends like Alison Arngrim, Jeanne Field, John Binder, Ken Rose, David Lynch, Jack Nance, Elayne Lieberman, Josh Bryant, Joel Bernstien, Liz Baron, Shirley Dubin, Maggi Kelley, Lydia DiVincenzo, Karen Grassle, Maxine Jacobs, Aleah Koury, Rob and D’Ann Lindley, Barnaby Marriott, Neil Young, Elliot Roberts, Trip Friendly, Rebecca Friendly, Dalana Bettoli, Paul Valenti, Brandon Kjar, Jan and George Blevins, my dear Michael Santos, and my entire family of siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins and in-laws.
May God bless you all.
Charlotte Stewart
This memoir is Charlotte’s story from her perspective. If you happened to be around for any of it, A) I’m extremely jealous because you were likely having a great time and B) you may have an interpretation of events at variance from hers as to how things went. That’s how memory works. Especially after the passage of 30, 40, or 50 years memory can become the dance-remix version of reality. In the case of this memoir, fortunately, we were kept pretty well plugged into actual history by Charlotte’s daily calendar books which we have going all the way back to the early 1960s. In addition we were aided by archival newspaper and magazine stories both online and in Charlotte’s records, her freakishly good memory, and various sources such as IMDB.com (the pro version, because we’re spendy like that). We also owe a debt to several people who offered up a lot of time to help stir the memory cauldron. Jeanne Field met with me — once I found her house way up an L.A. canyon — and talked for several hours about her long friendship with Charlotte and their many escapades together. Then she and her husband, John Binder, fed me dinner. A classy move. Catherine Coulson told me she only had 10 minutes when I called in July of 2015 and then went on to talk for more than an hour. She met with me the next day in Ashland, Oregon, following her afternoon performance in Guys and Dolls at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and spoke for another hour or so. I adored her and was crushed when she died just a few months later. Delana Bettoli called and emailed with some engaging and thoughtful insights and details about rooming with Charlotte during the days of The Liquid Butterfly era. Alison Arngrim agreed to a phone call and talked for three of the most entertaining hours of my life about Little House, Hollywood, child actors, sex addiction (not hers), France, fan events, and quite a few other things that deserve to be edited into a podcast. Then she called several more times after reading the manuscript and offered writing tips, edits, ideas for book promotion, and more solid-gold help. A big thank you goes to my Napa posse who read the manuscript and offered thoughtful and thought-provoking questions, comments, and analysis: Mechele Small Haggard, Kate Scudero, Dan Scudero, Shelley Surh, Mike Dearborn, and Ann Dearborn. A massive thank-you goes to three people who meticulously reviewed a penultimate draft and helped us get the grammar, spelling, and wording cleaned up — Jeanne Field, Robert Schoonover, and Katy Howard (whom I am fortunate to call the love of my life). Finally, I enjoyed a delightful lunch on a rainy day in Napa with Charlotte and her sister, Barbara Jean, talking about great Stewart family stories. All of this — plus the countless joyful hours I spent with Charlotte herself — have shaped, enriched, and enlivened both my life and the story that exists within these pages. If you ever get the chance to write a book with Charlotte Stewart, do so; it comes with my highest recommendation.
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