Might As Well Laugh About It Now

by Marie Osmond

  My dad taught all of us kids to bait a hook, catch, clean, and cook fresh fish, ride a horse, round up cattle, use a bow and arrow, milk a cow, churn butter, plant a garden, harvest the garden, store fruit and vegetables, can them, and build a fire. And that was just in our first few months of life! I think he knew it would be hard for us to get big heads if we were bent over picking sweet peas from the garden and then bowing our heads to say grace at a table full of food that we had grown. We understood the beginning of all good things.

  Father appreciated the “fruits of his labor” and tried never to waste anything edible. As honorable as that is, sometimes the horn of plenty made us all squawk and try to skip breakfast. When we moved to Arleta, California, in the mid-1960s, Father was thrilled that citrus trees could be grown in our yard. One white grapefruit tree seemed to have full-grown fruit hanging from its branches year-round. It must have been some kind of freaky produce-aholic tree. My dad would pick huge grapefruits almost daily and, not to waste “the bounty of the earth,” squeeze the juice so we each had a large glass waiting for us when we got up in the morning. I’m talking sixteen ounces of pure acid. Now, as an adult, it sounds refreshing, but as a little girl it was like pouring vinegar on your Frosted Flakes. (Sure, I’ll try a side of rooster feet anytime, but daily pints of white grapefruit juice were another story.) At one point, Donny, Jay, and I devised a way to have some of the problem citrus “mysteriously disappear.” We launched about fifty of the dreaded fruit over the fence and into the yard next door. They didn’t vanish for long, as our irritated neighbor, dodging our blind throws, came to the fence to complain. She scolded us for littering her lawn and we quickly collected the bowling ball-sized fruit before our parents found out.

  Playtime was always as full of energy as running the ranch, but that was the way my dad wanted us to view life: as an active adventure. He would get out our tents and we would camp and paddle canoes on the lake. We’d play touch football, softball, badminton, ride bikes, and hike. He taught us to shoot BB guns, and set up target practice for our bows and arrows. In the winter we would go tobogganing, ice fishing, and take hay-rides around the ranch.

  He also encouraged each of our separate interests, from Wayne getting his pilot’s license as a teenager to Merrill’s oil painting on velvet to Jimmy’s passion for makeup prosthetics to Donny’s obvious genius in electronics. (Yes, I tease him a lot, but Donny could wire stadium lights and the soundboard before the age of thirteen.) Even in his late eighties, my father still participated in anything he could learn, especially if it involved spending time with any of his kids. He sculpted a couple of dolls for my collectible doll line—including Georgette—which my mother named after him.

  When my brothers and I were grown with our own kids, my father continued the adventures with every grandchild who came to stay. He taught them how to pull up onions and brand a calf. He let them drive the tractor with him and showed them how to catch night crawlers in the dampness of nightfall to use for fishing in the morning. He was always happiest in nature, working the earth, and celebrating the cycle of life. He even learned the ukelele so he could sing songs with his grandkids when they’d visit him in the nursing home.

  It was never my father’s intention that his young children become the family breadwinners. After all, he had always found a way to provide for his growing family. But we had this unusual and unique ability, the result of a beneficial mixture of DNA. He was repeatedly told that his children had a gift, not to be shuttered away, but to be shared with the world. How many young children are graced with perfect pitch and an ear for harmony starting when they first learn to talk? How many boys between the ages of five and eleven could sing four-part harmony together? They had a unique sound that has gone unrivaled among singing siblings to this day. When Jimmy was barely three years old he sang “Red Roses for a Blue Lady” perfectly, not only in English, but in Swedish and Japanese, too. Still, it was my grandfather, on my mother’s side, who sent a tape recording of my brothers off to Hollywood.

  When our careers were still fledgling and uncertain, my father had to risk leaving behind the business of real estate. We became his complete focus and he worked at it with all of his energy, which meant we worked very hard, too. We rehearsed, practiced, studied, and took every challenge to improve in the entertainment business. On live television there were no do-overs, so we practiced our act until Father felt that it was worthy of an audience of millions. From learning to ice skate to learning to tap dance, if we needed to take a crash course for an act in the next show, my dad found the best teacher available, and then ice skating or tap dancing became our constant until we had it down. My father was very wise with the money made by my brothers. He would first tithe ten percent in thanks to God for our many blessings. Then, he would invest half of the rest of the money into safe financial investments and the other half back into my brothers’ careers for singing lessons, dance routines, and whatever else was needed to keep them armed with fresh, unique material, guaranteeing them a place for seven years on The Andy Williams Show.

  The portfolio my father created was over the $100 million figure when he handed it over to my brothers in the late 80s. He felt at peace with a job well done as he and my mother went off to serve two different missions for our church: one year in Hawaii, and one year in London, England.

  The “Made for TV” movies about our family portrayed my father as a controlling, angry stage parent.

  In actuality, he was a man who did everything in his power to keep our family together in a business that is notorious for destroyed relationships.

  In the short run, I think the sacrifice was about equal: we missed out on attending regular schools and the social aspects of being with other kids our age, and my father missed out by not having his own career advancements and a place of esteem in the eyes of his peers. He quietly faced harsh judgment from others for encouraging and supporting his children’s entertainment careers. In the long run, the end results were not equal in the eyes of the world. My performing brothers and I each have vast portfolios including hit records, TV shows, and multiple other businesses and charities. My father ended his working years with the title of “Father Osmond.” He wore it happily, which speaks volumes about his true humility.

  Even as an adult, when I would go to visit my parents, they would have me join them in their bedroom for prayer.

  They would look so cute with the covers pulled up to their chins. On the nightstands next to each side of the bed would be the ever-present foam heads, with my mother’s wig attached to one and my father’s hairpiece pinned to the top of the other. The foam heads were still decorated with the makeup Jimmy had applied to them when he was practicing for some scary Halloween getup. (Only later in life did my parents wear their natural hair, or lack thereof, in my dad’s case. Fake hair was just easier. They were busy people.)

  My parents would move to the edges of the bed and then pat the mattress between them.

  “Come and be with us,” my mom would say.

  I’d climb between them, propping the pillow up against the headboard.

  “Tell me all about everything you’re doing,” my dad would ask. As always, he was forever intrigued by life.

  And we would talk until they started to snore—that was my cue to go. I’d turn out the lights and make my way to the spare bedroom.

  One time, I took the kids to my parents’ house for an overnight visit. As usual, late that night I found myself sitting on my parents’ bed. My mother dozed off early, but I could tell my father had something on his mind.

  In a rare moment between my father and me, tears spilled out of his eyes as he told me that he had been looking back at his life and his only worry was that he was too tough on my brothers and me.

  I know that compared to the way other kids were raised, our lives were very out of the ordinary. He was strict, but there was never a question as to where we stood, which gave us great security. He had high expectations, but the rewards were highe
r for us. He made mistakes, but his faith in God always led him to act with integrity. He drew the line, but not around his heart. His heart was always open, full of love for my mother and for his children. He didn’t always try to make everything all better for us; he gave us the skills to make it better for ourselves.

  He and my mother raised eight great men. My father was the most consistent and honorable man I’ve known in my life.

  When I would record my radio show in 2004, my father would come over to the studio and sit in to listen. He was so lonely for my mother after she passed away. I would always have a lunch ready to share with him—once in a while a plate of sushi.

  He loved to listen on the headphones, to hear what people had to talk about when they called in. He would chuckle at the humor and get misty-eyed at the touching stories.

  Usually after an hour or two, he’d move over to sit in the reclining chair so he could put his feet up and then he’d take a nap. Sometimes people would call in and ask, “Is that someone snoring in the background?” Yes. It was. I loved it that my father could finally just hang out. And I prayed that he could rest easy in a job well done.

  Boogie Woogie Twenty Miles in Fifteen Minutes Flat

  I was even late sending out Christmas cards, so this was a post-New Year’s delivery.

  My dad taught my brother Alan to play the bugle as a boy. It was then Alan’s chore to wake us up almost every morning with reveille. Since my dad was an army sergeant who was later constantly jostled about by the unpredictable life of show business and nine kids, I think that certain elements of daily routine were his way of staying sane. Waking up to the blast of a brass instrument cannot be described as pleasant, but I sometimes wish I still had that option instead of my alarm clock. After all, it’s impossible to throw a young man playing a bugle across the room without getting out of bed. When Father was in charge, I was always on time, to everything.

  Left to my own devices, I tend to run a little bit late. I’m eternally hurried. It seems no matter how early I start to get ready, I still find myself scrambling to get out the door.

  Donny would say, and has said, that I am always running late, but I like to call it living in the moment. I admit, sometimes my “moments” gel together to become thirty minutes or more, but as they say, time flies when you’re having fun, so I must be a joy-loving person. How’s that for female logic?

  Donny is exactly like my father when it comes to minding the minute hand.

  You would have to search far and wide to find anyone who was ever miffed that Donny arrived late. It doesn’t happen, unless he’s drugged. In forty-five years of professional appearances, so far, that has only happened once.

  A couple of weeks before the opening of the Donny and Marie show at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, Donny and I made an appearance on Good Morning America on the outdoor stage in New York City’s Bry ant Park. Good Morning America actually starts live programming in the middle of the night. Well, at least it feels that way if you are traveling from West Coast time for an East Coast performance. Our plane had landed at around ten p.m. at the John F. Kennedy Airport, just in time to get a few hours of sleep and be on the set at four thirty a.m. The Osmonds may not have powers to time travel, but we can definitely time-zone travel. We are pretty used to losing three hours, then gaining ten, going forward a day, then back eight hours all in the name of an international tour. Most people would find it a challenge to fall asleep at eleven p.m. when their body is telling them that it’s barely dinnertime. Personally, I’m used to being able to sleep soundly whenever the chance arises: sitting on a crate of anvils backstage with my head resting against the wall, leaning against an airplane window, having my roots touched up by a colorist, in a dental chair while having a root canal, or even with wet painted fingernails propped up on pillows and one or two kids with restless limb syndrome flailing about my bed like electric eels. Give me only sixty seconds and I can go unconscious. I mean willingly! I can also go unwillingly unconscious on live television in about one second, but that’s another story, or millions of views on YouTube.

  The following morning I arrived on the Good Morning America set, only a handful of minutes late (okay, twenty-three), surprised to hear producers ask me: “Where’s Donny?” They seemed truly concerned. I was sure he must have arrived ahead of me. He always does. I shrugged it off, assuming he was in the lighting booth designing a special effect on the computer or rewiring the electric keyboards, which he can do in his sleep. Little did I know that he was in his sleep when he showed up with only minutes to spare before we were to go on the air. His face was pale and kind of mushed up and his eyes were glazed over. That was really a twist because it’s usually my eyes that glaze over when he’s talking to me about electronics.

  We performed three times that morning, one set in each half hour of Good Morning America, to more than a thousand people gathered in the park. We had rehearsed each number before we performed it for the show, but as soon as the cameras rolled, Donny was not doing one thing that we had rehearsed. Though it shocked me, I thought it was pretty fun and spontaneous for Mr. Punctual!

  For the most part, it all went off without a hitch, but following the show on the way to the airport, Donny told me that he had absolutely no memory of the past two hours.

  Then I found out why. He had been putting in long, intense hours every day producing and editing the videos for our Vegas show.

  He was anxious about being alert and ready for the early-morning performance, so after we had checked in to the hotel the previous night, he decided to take a sleep aid, one he had carried around in his travel bag for years and had never used. One of the side effects, though rare, is temporary amnesia.

  It’s probably a good thing we are Mormon and don’t drink or do drugs, because our chemical tolerance is ridiculously low. Balsamic vinaigrette and antihistamine nasal spray can make us giddy, I swear.

  He asked me if it all went well. I told him yes even though I’m sure at some point he’ll probably see a replay of his attempt to apply the Heimlich maneuver to Diane Sawyer for no apparent reason. He may never look it up on YouTube, but I’m keeping a copy to use for ammunition someday when my unavoidable tardiness sends him over the edge. Working with someone as punctual as Donny, it’s good to have one ace up your sleeve to be able to say: “Remember when . . . ??”

  I’m not trying to excuse my habit of running behind, but please, the playing field is so uneven when it comes to the amount of time a woman needs to get ready compared to what men need. If the most complicated part of getting ready for me was to adjust a slipknot on a necktie, I like to think I’d be twenty minutes early to everything.

  Most women I know have this list of activities to complete before finding the car keys to leave: curling or flat-ironing hair; pressing out the wrinkles on your face, creaming it up, swabbing it down, spatula-ing, sponging, spraying, powder puffing; using wands, tubes, glue and tweezers, nylon, elastic, underwires, and control topping; as well as plucking, shaping, outlining, bronzing, and then blending it all together. Brush hair and then lint roll the runaways; hook, zip, and stretch; coordinate the metalware: earrings, watch, bracelets, necklace, and a hair bobble or two. Then . . . you have to find something to really wear once you realize the outfit you originally picked out looks ridiculous. Find two shoes that are the same style and color. (I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need a flashlight to do this step.) Now you might be ready to go unless you have to change out purses, which adds another five to seven minutes.

  Then a woman usually has to repeat at least five of the above steps with and for any person in the household under age eighteen.

  Here’s the male checklist: splash water on face, apply one dab of hair gel, find two matching shoes (and not even heels! I might add), make sure fly is up, put wallet in back pocket, grab the car keys, and . . . go.

  Still, when Donny and I decided to do this show together at the Flamingo, I made a silent vow to myself that I was not going to be late.
I figured I had lost forty-six pounds of weight in less than a year, now it was time to lose my habit of losing track of time.

  The first week of our six-month run, I was feeling pretty good about my resolution. I was on time to almost every rehearsal, was ready to go for almost every press occasion and meeting, and . . . so far . . . had arrived for each of the four shows in plenty of time. And, to top it all off, it was the same week I had enrolled the four younger kids in their school, bought and organized school outfits, supplies, sports and scouting equipment, and schedules for the month. My seventeen-year-old, Michael, had been accepted into a performing arts program for high school students. He’s always had an incredible musical ear and the ability to pick up almost any instrument and play it, in the same way his grandpa did.

  When Saturday arrived, I took my four little kids, along with Michael, and drove to a nearby health food emporium to pick out some nutritious snacks and dinner food for our family time. Since I have lost weight by eating better, my kids have become more conscious of their own choices. After seeing the massive salad bar, they asked if they could fix to-go cartons for an early dinner. As I helped Abby pick out some carrot sticks and sliced beets, I answered Matthew and Brandon’s repeated questions of “What’s that???” as they pointed to bins of tofu and creamed eggplant.

  Then I saw the edamame (soy beans in the pod), which is Rachael’s favorite, so I said to Michael, “Maybe we should make a salad to take home to Rachael.”

  “No, Mom,” Mike answered. “She’s not at home. She’s at work.”

  “Okay,” I said, checking out the spicy hummus dip.

  That was when a cold reality washed over me, as if someone had turned on the sprinkler system to hose off the produce.