The Homecoming earned a thirty-nine share in the ratings, which means that of all the people watching television at the same time, thirty-nine percent were watching us, a huge number in the biz. Christmas shows traditionally do well, and the mood in the country lent itself to a nostalgia piece where family values were paramount in a tight-knit community of neighbor helping neighbor. The CEO of CBS, William Paley, learned of the movie’s success, and as Earl Hamner described in his book Goodnight John-Boy, Paley screened it while on vacation in the Bahamas and ordered it to be developed immediately into a series.
I was ten when The Homecoming aired in December of 1971. Connie Reynolds came over with a special gift of Almond Roca and watched the show with me. We ate the whole can as we watched the show. I was unaware of the business decisions, the political climate, or how my life was about to change forever. It was really a time of uncertainty for all of us, a constant in the entertainment field. Other shows, such as All in the Family, tackled issues like racism, religious intolerance, and the war in Vietnam, but ours was the first dramatic series to include these progressive topics in weekly storylines. Slotted to air against The Mod Squad on ABC and The Flip Wilson Show on NBC, the critics predicted we wouldn’t last the season.
THE DEVIL OR THE WALTON
No matter how I look at it now, something in my life was about to change, and it had to do with Hollywood. The only other role I auditioned for between The Homecoming and the series starting was The Exorcist.
Before they went to New York to find Linda Blair, I was one of six girls narrowed down in Los Angeles. My agent called my mom and told her there was going to be a hypnotist at the audition, asking if that was all right with her. My mother told me years later she anonymously called the hypnotist and asked him what he was going to do. She thought it odd that he was going to an acting audition. He told her they might want to use hypnosis during the movie, and he, too, thought it odd that she was the only mother who called him. This made my mom nervous. She sent me and my dad to the store to buy the book. As a Catholic woman, she needed to know what The Exorcist was, before I auditioned.
We’d ask, “Do you have The Exorcist?”
They would say, “Exodus? Yes, we do.”
We told them about the book by William Peter Blatty, and suggested they might want to stock it, as they were about to make a big movie based on it. We finally found a copy, and my mom read the entire thing the night before my audition. When I woke up, she was trembling and pale. She said, “You are not doing this movie.”
She called the agent, who assured her I would never get the part, but I should just go on the audition so we wouldn’t upset them.
I went and all of us girls pretended to be hypnotized. At least, I did. It was acting, right? He told us to hold hands and that we couldn’t let go, so we didn’t. Then he told me I couldn’t pick up a dollar bill off the floor. He placed it there, telling me it was glued and there was a million pounds on top of it. I told him I thought I could. He told me again how I couldn’t, and we went back and forth. He said I could have the dollar if I could pick it up, but that I wouldn’t be able to because it was stuck and weighted to the floor. Then he egged me on, “Try and pick it up, let’s see. There’s no way you can do it.” I walked over and picked it up. I was escorted out of the room, and I never even got the dollar.
Years later, I met “Blair,” as I call her. She became a close friend. She was so supportive when I started In the Know, a resource for women seeking information on body image issues. She bravely told her own implant story for a congressional education video I made.
She is a great girl, whose laugh I can hear as I write this. I am not the only girl with a cackle. The two of us could make people crazy with our laughter. Our laughs even cracked us up. She was not like most people assumed. She stayed home making cookies while I was out on dates. She was the tame older sister—nothing like the image people have of her. We became roommates, and she brought rescued animals into my animal-free house. Her passion to save animals is honorable and unavoidable. Just ask my pink chaise, or what was left of it. At an animal show recently, my girls worked in her booth and helped with the dogs for adoption. She is a rare combination of being funny, beautiful, and passionate.
WALTON, IT IS
To my mother’s relief, I didn’t book the movie, but I was asked to return and play Erin on the show that would be called The Waltons.
It was a time filled with excitement and energy. Everything was changing for this little Valley girl. I’m sure my parents had no idea just how much all our lives were about to change, but the flurry of activity was electrifying.
I remember when they took me to Our Lady of Lourdes to pick up my textbooks, all fourteen of them, to bring to studio school. California entertainment laws require working children to log at least three hours of school every weekday during the school year.
My life was about to explode into two lives, lived simultaneously, yet worlds apart. My own McDonough family was about to collide with the Walton family. One set didn’t supplant the other, but the Walton siblings were immediately more present in my day-to-day life.
BACKLOT BABY
People often ask me where the show was filmed. I tell them “Burbank,” and watch their eyes widen, since it looked so much like rural Virginia. The exterior house set was on the backlot of Warner Brothers. Ike Godsey’s store was literally down the road from the house set. The back roads and Drucilla’s Pond were there, too. If you went a bit farther, you would be on Western Street.
To this day, whenever I visit the backlot, it’s still a sensorial experience for me. The roads, overgrown bushes, and divots on the path return me to hot summer days, rainy winters, beloved crew members, refreshing lemonade from the craft service wagon, and us kids running around the barn and mill.
The earthy aroma from the eucalyptus and pine trees overwhelm and instantly remind me of walking barefoot on the dirt roads, wearing depression-era clothes often held together with duct tape. I especially remember one dress whose seams came apart one hot summer day. Sweat dripped down my back and the tape stuck, ripping my skin when I moved. I hated that dress and was so glad when that episode was over, so it could be “retired.”
No such luck. They just sewed it with a patch and put it back in my wardrobe stall. My favorite was a pink dress with a smocked bodice. It was a shift, so at least it was cool; it seems like I wore it all summer that first season. I also remember carrying prop lunch boxes everywhere. We were always taking them from the house, carrying them to school, using them in the school scenes, and then back home again. We lugged those antique metal boxes everywhere.
With the freedom of summer and no school requirements, we had a great time and got to know each other better. We ran all around the backlot, exploring our new home and “neighborhood.” We met all our cast animals and wandered the back road to Ike Godsey’s store. It was such an adventure, always something new.
We explored the sets on Western Street, one of my favorites was used as Shangri-La in Lost Horizon. This enormous outside set would soon be reshaped into a Shaolin Temple for the television series Kung Fu. It was huge, probably three stories tall. I had never seen anything like it before. We ran up and down its steps and hid in the rocks. I tried to imagine what the fountains looked like with water and flowers. It was an imaginary playground turned real life—well, not really. It was amazing to me and so different from Northridge. What better playground could a kid ask for?
EDUCATING MARY
Every script brought something new. We learned some sign language for “The Foundling,” about a little deaf girl left on our doorstep. Then there was “The Hunt,” where John-Boy doesn’t want to kill an animal, but he saves Pa when he shoots an attacking bear. It wasn’t scary, because the “bear” was actually a costume we got to see and touch. It was so much fun for me. I mean, what kid gets to be exposed to this kind of stuff?
We were working with the best. They brought in Russell Metty, the Oscar-winning director of photography, to create the look of the show. When I went to film school, I realized he was an icon. He worked with Orson Welles to shoot the famous opening scene for A Touch of Evil. As a kid, I didn’t know, of course. He was just a man who sat in a chair and chewed a green cigar. He would wave his best boy over and mumble something to him. The lighting changed and the show had an incredible look and feel for the era. Magic. We were surrounded with talent.
There was so much to learn about acting and sets and all the equipment and terminology, I felt like I didn’t have a clue what was going on. I knew how to follow directions because of my dance training, so I did that, and I watched the other kids to see what they did, because they had all worked before. It was a thrilling, wild ride and I was glad to be on it. I felt I was part of something special.
KID IN A CANDY STORE
When we weren’t working, the interior sets were another place we explored and poked around. First we explored our new “home.” The interior of the house was in Soundstage 26, the exteriors were filmed in the backlot. The house was modeled after Earl Hamner’s childhood home in Schuyler, Virginia—a common structure in the area because of its practical design, usually a two-story, with three windows across the top floor. For the Hamners, the upstairs was divided into bedrooms for all the kids, but the Waltons had to squeeze the girls in one room, the boys in another, Olivia and John in theirs, and another one for John-Boy, who had his own room. And with the bathroom, that made…too many rooms for the facade. To make it work, the furniture for all our different rooms would have to be removed and replaced each week depending on the script.
The girls’ room and the parents’ room were actually the same set. So, when we filmed a hallway scene, we didn’t have enough doors. Whenever we ran out of the room into the hallway, we’d have to “appear” from our room. To make it look believable, Kami, Judy, and I squished together, hugging the wall. At “action,” we would walk out of the “wall,” like it was a door.
We loved exploring Ike’s store, with its antique props from the 1930s. It was like a museum. I looked in awe at all the toys, the bolts of old fabric in gingham and heavy ticking, the vintage clothes and the canned goods with nostalgic labels. The candy counter was our favorite. When we filmed, the props department filled it with licorice, hard candies, and all kinds of tempting treats. We were warned not to touch anything, but we snuck a few here and there, when nobody was looking.
Eric, David, and I once went into the store set when we weren’t filming. It was dark and all the counters were covered with sheets. We peeked under the protective cloths, hoping they’d left some candy behind, but no such luck. One of us did find some ancient tobacco leaves for roll-your-own cigarettes. Eric dared us to try it. He took a small piece, David took a chunk, and then they looked at me. The good girl in me was challenged; I knew we shouldn’t, but I didn’t want to be left out. I broke off a small corner and we all put a taste onto our tongues. We stared at each other, trying to be cool, but the tobacco was old and tasted like acid. We spit it out, but tiny pieces stuck to our tongues. We frantically searched for somewhere to wipe off the foul taste, but we were in wardrobe, so no using our sleeves! We ran to the craft service cart and threw back glasses of the very welcome, ever-present lemonade to wash the disgusting taste out of our mouths. We laughed and realized how old those tobacco leaves must have been. Lesson learned: don’t eat antique props.
We used Frazier Park for location shooting a few times a year. Now, that was a great time. We were in a beautiful setting, with mountains and trees, and would spend the night at a hotel in Gorman, California. This was the high life to me. Imagine us kids running around the hotel, enjoying ourselves. Jon Walmsley once jumped into the pool in his pj’s. It was all harmless, but so much fun.
We ran around the hotel, and one night we saw Richard Thomas in the bar with some crew members. We wanted to be with everyone, so we went in for a visit in our pj’s. I remember watching the bartender make a drink they called a Cardinal’s Cap. In a small glass, he floated a thin slice of lemon on top of the liquid. He carefully placed a clove-dipped sugar cube on top of the slice. Then he lit it on fire. Amazing to me. I had never seen anything like that before…or since, now that I think of it. This was incredible for a ten-year-old. My memories are so vivid, and each new experience touched me. Suddenly I was a part of a new life and family that made me feel unique, to say the least.
The first episodes were incredible—so many memorable stories. When I saw the amazement on my mom’s face and realized how different this new life was, I became as enchanted as she was to meet and work with Hollywood legends. In “The Carnival,” Billy Barty, who had been acting since 1925, played Tommy Trimble. Once again, I took out my orange corduroy autograph book. He signed it for me and was so nice; we were all enthralled with him. I can be as starstruck as anyone, and every time we saw him on TV after that, my mom and I would say, “Oh, look, there’s Billy,” like we were his best friends. I still jump when I see someone I have met or worked with on TV. The magic is never lost on me.
AN ACTING LESSON FROM BOB BUTLER
On the set, I was just a kid, and a bit lost when it came to the acting part. They wanted us to be kids and act like kids, so not a lot was said about our technique. Without formal training, I made mistakes. I wanted to be so good and perfect (I equated perfection with grace, like memorizing the answers in the Baltimore Catechism; if I followed the Catholic Church’s rules, I was good. To me, a mistake was a sin, something bad to be ashamed of. Every time I made one, I felt evil inside. It took me years to learn it was a miss-take, not a sin.) I didn’t really know what I was doing; so the more mistakes I made, the worse I felt about myself. I started hearing whispering and mumbling, “She keeps looking…ruining the shot….” I knew they meant me.
Robert Butler, God bless him, directed many episodes of the show, and he gave me my first acting lesson—a huge one I am so grateful for. One day, he said, “Mary Beth, come over here, I want to show you something.” We headed to the sweeping pepper tree that held the swing in the front yard of the Walton house.
“Watch this,” he said. “I’m going to catch a snake that’s asleep under the swing, but I have to be very careful not to scare it away.” He slowly approached the “snake,” his eyes glued to the target. He moved at a snail’s pace, his hands raised, the tension mounting the closer he got to grabbing the snake.
I was mesmerized. He was so focused and intent on the invisible snake, I believed it was really there. He moved in slow motion, closer and closer. Suddenly his eyes darted away and he looked straight at me. He broke the moment. It was ruined. The magic was gone.
He showed me how losing focus and looking at the camera destroyed the whole scene. I got it. I never looked at the camera again. I was always a visual learner, and he showed me in a way I could understand. I was relieved to know what I’d been doing wrong. He treated me with respect, and I am still grateful for Bob Butler’s lesson under the pepper tree that summer day.
THE HORRIBLE SECRET
The school scenes were fun because there were lots of other kids around. Our real-life siblings and some of the producers’ and some crew members’ kids came in to fill up the Walton’s Mountain schoolroom. It was a fun time to have all our families with us, most of the time.
Early in the first season—I was almost eleven by then—one of the kids told me something that rocked my world and set me up for humiliation, insecurity, and constant fear.
We were sitting outside the school set, and she sauntered up to me and said, “I know something you don’t know.”
“What?” I said.
“It’s a secret, and I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Tell me,” I pleaded. I watched satisfaction literally spread across her face.
“I heard”—she paused, either for dramatic effect or because she enjoyed the attention—“…I heard something about you.”
Now she had my complete attention. “What did you hear?” My stomach turned.
“I heard you weren’t very good in The Homecoming, and they didn’t want you back when they picked up the series. The casting director didn’t like you and wanted a new Erin. You were lucky you even got to come back.”
I crumbled inside. My mind raced back to when we were first cast and Earl Hamner’s remarks about how I reminded him of his real sister. So that was it. The only reason I got to be on the show was because I reminded Earl of Audrey. Not because I was talented or good. I thought about that stupid nose-rubbing incident in The Homecoming. I wanted to cry, but I held it in, numb, barely able to make it through the rest of the day.
I cried for days, but not in front of anyone, of course. That secret became a gray cloud that lived deep inside me, reminding me I was out of my league. I wasn’t liked, I wasn’t wanted, and I’d never been good enough. I could be replaced. I lived in fear that this wonderful ride would end at any moment. So much valuable energy was wasted on this fear.
This was a boulder on my mountain I would face over and over again, never feeling I was talented enough. And it set up a pattern: I learned to hide my sadness during the day and cried alone at night. I couldn’t tell anyone, because I feared what she said might be true. I didn’t want to remind anyone how awful I was. I never even told my parents what the girl said. I was afraid to be a disappointment to them if I was let go. I felt I would have ruined the most special thing about me. There would go all the attention and love that I craved.
I’ll never know what caused that schoolyard bully to say what she did to me. Jealousy? Attention? I do know that if I had only felt safe enough and asked my parents, or Earl, or even my schoolteacher back then, I would have saved myself a lot of pain, and my life might have been different. I would have known the truth, instead of hiding a terrible secret, which wasn’t true at all. Over thirty years later, I finally got up the nerve to ask Earl. He said he had no recollection of any discussion about replacing any of us kids when it went to series. I also asked Claylene Jones, one of our producers. She said the same thing and wished I had told someone. Me too!
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.
IT FLOATS, IT FLOATS
Among the tough days, there were many times that reminded me not to take it all too seriously, and Will was usually a part of the antics. A figurine that Grandpa won in “The Statue” annoyed Grandma so much, it set the two to fighting. She said it resembled one of his old girlfriends, but Grandpa was like a kid with a new toy, and he set up the statue in the front yard, reciting lines from Edgar Allan Poe’s romantic love poem “Annabel Lee” to her. After she caused so much marital discord, Daddy and John-Boy gave him a stern talking-to, and Grandpa finally decided to send the home wrecker to her resting place at the bottom of Drucilla’s Pond.
This was an enjoyable episode to shoot, and I’ll never forget Will leading the way, and we kids following merrily behind him, pushing and pulling the offensive statue in a wheelbarrow to the center of the bridge. We acted like it was a somber funeral procession, with Kami carrying wildflowers, bringing up the rear. Ralph, who directed the episode, had told Grandpa they would cut just before he gave us the go-ahead to push the statue into the water. Ralph warned us, “Make sure you don’t push it over in this take. We only have one statue.”
We shot the scene, up until the figurine perches precariously on the top of the railing. Ralph yelled “Cut,” and shooting stopped. As they reset the camera for the big moment, we all waited patiently. Finally, we took our places again and heard “Action.” Will said a few lines from the poem in a loving farewell, and someone pushed “Annabel Lee” into the depths of her watery grave.
It was very dramatic; the water rippled out in circles from the sacrificial plunge. A few moments went by and with a…plop and a…splash… she popped back up to the surface, bobbing and floating. Will, of course, without missing a beat, said, “Hello, you’ve come back to me.” We all cracked up; the shot was ruined.
We had another long break, waiting for the property department to figure out a way to sink the pesky statue. When you watch the final, you can see the statue fall; then they cut to the closer shot as we bend over, watching dramatic bubbles rise to the surface. “Annabel Lee” never did sink, and they had to shoot from above because we couldn’t get through another take without laughing. I loved when these funny things would happen while filming. For me, it’s part of the magic: For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee….
COOL GUEST STARS
“The Gypsies” was another fun episode. Barry Miller played the Gypsy’s son. He gave me a belt, and wrote a line from the show, Craska gives, on the enclosure card. That was the first time a boy gave me a gift. I was nervous and asked my mom what to do. She told me I could keep the belt. It was hard for me to accept the gift; I felt like I had to do something to deserve it somehow. I still find it hard to receive; I feel obligated to give something back in return.
I saw Barry in the Neil Simon play Biloxi Blues years later. When I spoke with him backstage after the show, he didn’t seem to remember the belt, or me. This used to happen to me a lot as I grew up. I know now it could be because I had literally changed—I grew up. But back then, I felt forgettable.
“The Ceremony,” written by Nigel McKeand, is one of many episodes where I sensed the show was special. Even as young as I was, its importance affected me deeply. Radames Pera (later of Kung Fu fame) played Paul, a young Jewish boy nearing his thirteenth birthday. His family had come to the mountain to escape Nazis in Germany.
In the story, Grandpa invites the Mann family to celebrate Paul’s Bar Mitzvah in the Walton home. Radames was inspiring to watch. I thought he was so good with the Hebrew as he read from the Torah. I realized this episode would have deep relevance. People hadn’t often seen in a television series this important social statement about embracing others’ beliefs.
In the episode, Ellen Geer, Will’s real-life daughter, played Paul’s mom, Eva. Her hair was in braids, wrapped over the top of her head, very German. I loved that hairdo in real life, and Erin adopted that style in many episodes after we filmed “The Ceremony.”
We all became friends with Radames, and when he started on Kung Fu as Young Kwai, we would sneak over to each other’s sets as often as we could. It was fun to leave 1930s Virginia and travel a few soundstages away to the exotic Shaolin Temple. The massive set was lit with candles and burning incense. How cool is that?
We did a Tiger Beat magazine article with Radames about the kids working on the WB lot. He wore his skullcap and black costume with the high collar and frog buttons; we wore our vintage clothes. We could not have been more different; yet we were the same. Kid actors, bonding over work.
Radames and I have stayed in touch and I consider him a dear friend to this day. He has helped me sift through the dirt of my childhood to find nuggets of positive memories. I’m so grateful the show brought me his friendship.
In another pioneering television moment, John-Boy teaches Verdie Grant, played by Lynn Hamilton, how to read and write. John McGreevey’s Emmy Award–winning script portrayed the struggle of this brave black woman to overcome her lack of education in “The Scholar.”
I am proud to have been a part of this groundbreaking series, and to have it become a part of Americana. How many times in life does a person end up in the encyclopedia and MAD magazine? It’s still astonishing to me.
I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO
I was twelve when we filmed the “The Easter Story,” in which I had a larger than normal part. It was a special that was aired like a movie of the week and was at the end of the first season. It was two hours long, and had two titles. (It was also called “The Waltons’ Crisis.”) Earl Hamner Jr. and John McGreevey crafted the story around a scary time in our country. Leaving church one day, Olivia collapses, and the doctor diagnoses the dreaded polio. After the initial shock, everyone seems to take it in stride, business as usual. All the action moves to Mama’s bedside so she can supervise and be a part of their lives. All except Erin, who is so afraid to see her mama sick, she hides in the barn.
This was my first crying scene, and I was terrified. My stomach was in knots all day as I waited in anticipation and dread. They scheduled the scene for the end of the day, because it needed to be dark. It was such a big deal for me as an actress, my dad even came down to the set to watch us film. With each hour that drew closer, the more scared I got. The producers had no idea if I could cry, and I knew it was in the script, so I better come up with the goods. Pressure on, and not just in my stomach.
The barn was on the backlot, where the exterior of the house was located. That night, it was full of crew members, equipment, and hay. As I prepared for the scene, I watched the dust particles rising up into the lights they’d set up all around me. They were so calm and peaceful, just rising to the light, backlit and glowing. I simply wanted that calm, to be floating effortlessly in the light, peaceful, almost still. I huddled on the floor and pulled my knees to my chest. We rehearsed for the camera, and Richard was so sweet. I didn’t cry for the rehearsal. I had been revving up all day—and come hell or high water, I was going to cry, but there was still time. I didn’t know how yet, but I set my mind to figure out how to cry as we waited for the lights and camera angles to be adjusted.
I heard our director, the wonderful Philip Leacock, tell Richard not to bring out a handkerchief in case I didn’t cry. He didn’t know if I would be able. Richard nodded and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. I thought, Of course, I’m going to cry. I’m just waiting until we shoot.
I used that pressure to get to it. My pride wouldn’t let me not do the scene as written. I had been watching the best and brightest all year. I had a little training from Lois Auer, an acting teacher who seemed to teach everyone in those days. I still wasn’t trained how to get myself to cry, but I longed to be good in that scene.
I waited while they set the lights. I was so anxious. I walked away, seeking a quiet place to be alone for a few minutes. Then I heard “We’re ready,” and my stomach turned. I felt like I was about to walk the plank, the sword was in my back forcing me into the depths.
I climbed into position, and waited for the announcement of “quiet on the set.”
Then I heard “Roll camera.”
“Sound speeding!” Bill Flannery called out.
And I went to the edge of the plank, thinking of the dust particles, the stillness.
“Action!”
I looked up at Richard and allowed myself to release my pent-up emotions. There was so much inside me, my tears fell. Richard said his line, dug in his pocket, and handed me the handkerchief. Oh, the connection and then the release.
Philip looked pleased and a little relieved. After that, they wrote many tearful scenes into Erin’s life, so I cried all the time. Then when I got older, I kissed a lot, too. I always say Erin kissed and cried a lot through nine seasons.
My stomach knots relaxed and I could finally eat something. My dad scooped me into a great big hug, and told me how proud he was. That alone was worth the entire day of trauma. My daddy is proud of me. For a born-and-raised daddy’s girl, it doesn’t get much better than that.
It took me years to realize the sadness and release in stillness. A lesson I would later learn from Buddhist teachings. When I first started to meditate and get still, I often found tears in the quiet. My friend Jeanie told me, “The Buddha said that ‘in meditation, every tear is a diamond.’” Sadness was often a struggle for me. For this night, anyway, the struggle paid off. I felt I had attained my goal.
A MILLION DEGREES
At least it seemed like it. One day, I was in the Waltons’ green truck, sitting between Michael and Ralph, and we were filming a winter scene. These are always shot in the blistering heat of summer to be ready for broadcast in the proper season. I had on a coat, mittens, and a hat. We had to keep the window shut for the takes, it being “winter” and all. As I sat there, I could feel sweat dripping down my back. It was so strange. I was broiling, and yet I had chills and got dizzy at one point.
I was so well behaved, I never would have complained. I just got quiet and focused on the sweat running down my back. This wasn’t the last time I felt sick or uncomfortable and didn’t speak up—that situation became rote for me.
I’m sure they didn’t want me to suffer, but somehow I needed to be the quiet martyr. After all, I could be replaced. The feeling I had no right to say anything would someday burn me in a worse way than roasting in this car.
SANTA AND MORE
To promote the show, we rode in a lot of parades on weekends, so we found ways to make them interesting. One game we played was to wave a certain way to see if people would copy us and wave back the same. Eric and Jon would call to people holding those plastic trumpets to see if they’d blow them. Sometimes we’d jump off our float and walk around in the crowd. I always liked watching moms waving their babies’ arms for them. Like the baby knew who we were. Cracked me up.
One special occasion was the Hollywood Christmas Parade. A tradition since 1928, now over a million people line up along the route to watch celebrities on elaborate floats and in fancy cars. Marching bands and animals, such as horses, camels, and dog acts, pass by. Originally called the Santa Claus Lane Parade, it inspired Gene Autry to cowrite “Here Comes Santa Claus.” (It was also once called Hollywood’s Santa Parade; who can keep up?) Whatever they called it, I had watched for years on TV. Now I was actually in it! I was so starstruck, and I loved to see all the familiar faces from TV right there, in person. What a thrill for a kid!
We rode in that parade for years. We were on a float once with the Barnaby Jones cast, and Buddy Ebsen (Barnaby) had brought his own method for staying warm. The next year, Eric copied the tradition, and it kept us all warm. Can you say “recipe”?
The first seasons were like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Working all week and appearances on weekends kept me away from my friends and birth siblings. I had a new family to get to know and deal with. Just finding my place among them was a challenge. I was the middle child, too young to play with the older kids (Judy, Jon, and Eric), yet too old to play with Kami and David, who quickly bonded. All the responsibilities of being a kid actress—like crying on cue, learning lines, and balancing school and work and my family—weighed on me.
But there were perks—one was when I was sixteen. Along with the rest of the cast, I appeared on CBS: On the Air—A Celebration of 50 Years. It was a nine-and-a-half-hour miniseries that aired every evening for a week in 1978. After a look back to its roots in radio on Sunday night, each evening featured the primetime shows that were currently airing. Our night, Thursday, was called “Join the Family.” Richard Thomas hosted, and we all joined him.
I still remember all of us gathered to tape the special and take the now-famous picture. Talk about starstruck! Everyone—even Lassie—was there. The picture is a framed treasure I still keep. Only the amazing Don Knotts stands between me and Lucille Ball! There I was, little Mary, with all the stars. I mean, think of it. Imagine being in a room watching Dick Van Dyke and Danny Kaye telling jokes and “shuffling off to Buffalo.”
My favorite lesson ever in staying comfortable on set came from Vivian Vance that day. We were told to wear black dresses. I had on high heels and my feet were killing me. I limped to the back, and there was Vivian Vance, sitting on the edge of the set. I sat down to rest my feet, but I was too afraid to remove my shoes, for fear my feet would swell like they did whenever I took off my toe shoes. Ms. Vance looked at me and said, “Honey, let me give you a little tip…. They never see your feet.” I looked down and saw she was wearing black Chinese slippers. She looked as comfortable as can be.
I have quoted her a million times since then and used her wisdom to confirm my “comfort before beauty” motto. “Vivian Vance told me one day…” Like Billy Barty, she, too, was added to my “best friend” list.
Throughout these incredible experiences, I worked hard to live up to the expectations as I made them up to be. There wasn’t a lot of explaining, so I ran and jumped and climbed as best I could. When I fell, I took it hard—privately and personally. Overnight my life had changed beyond recognition. I loved so much of it, even though I missed my first life. I was lucky; I was on a show learning from the best ensemble a kid could hope for.