Almost as famous as the good-nights were our dinner table scenes. From the family scrambling into their seats, saying grace, the cold food we had to “eat” right after lunch—you can watch us whirling peas or some other unappetizing pile around on our plates—we spent many hours at that wooden table. Every episode had at least one dinner table scene, and they were the focus of our time together on the set. We were all there, every time. There are many dinner table stories, and they still bring a smile to my face, or make me laugh out loud. I can still hear Will rambling on, often unscripted, as he had a tendency to do. When he thanked the trailing arbutus, we smiled, knowing another long dinner scene had begun.
On every show I’ve worked on, there is always at least one set that is tough, for one reason or another. Either the energy drops, or the type of scenes played there are demanding or take an especially long time to shoot. The kitchen set was ours, specifically the dinner table scenes. If we were in the kitchen shooting a scene, it was fine. The minute we all sat down for a meal, though, we knew we were in for it.
BOREDOM ANTHEM
We spent so many hours at that dinner table, we would get punchy and a bit slaphappy. We often sat in the same places, and my spot was usually between Michael and Jon. One particular day, the energy level was especially low, and to relieve the boredom, Ralph started singing a staccato “I shot the sherrrrrr-iff, but I did not shoot the dep-u-teeeeee….”
Now, Ralph is not a singer that I know of, and his rendition of this Eric Clapton song was so out of tune and oddly inflected, he had us all in stitches. We burst out laughing, but when we eventually calmed down, we suddenly had the energy and focus to continue working. For years, and to this day, Ralph cracks us up when he starts to sing that song. His great sense of humor was perfectly timed to lighten us up so we could move on.
Ralph made those long scenes easier to bear, but sometimes harder, too. I got in trouble for getting the giggles from time to time. Right before a take, Ralph would lean in and whisper something off-the-wall, or nudge Michael underneath the table to get a rise out of her. Well, she was a professional, and once the camera rolled, she would focus and be the ideal Olivia. I did not have such control.
It was usually during grace, and when I sat next to her, she’d squeeze my hand to keep from breaking character. I’d feel her grip tighten, then her arm shaking up and down against mine. I knew she was laughing inside, and I couldn’t help myself. I am not one to keep a straight face, which was the fun part, to me. I would start giggling and break up the scene, ruining the shot. I felt awful, but I laughed, anyway. I couldn’t help myself.
When we were out of control, usually a stern look from Grandma would get us back in line. Although there were times I’d sneak a peek down to the “grandparent” end to see Ellen laughing and slapping Will on the arm over the hijinks down there.
Ralph had a habit of repeating the same jokes over and over; so eventually all he had to do was say the punch line and we would crack up. One favorite was when he’d put up a hand, lean in, and with that twinkle in his eye, he’d yell, “Not so fast, Ferguson!” It was from a joke he’d told several seasons ago. This resulted in lots of laughter from us. Whenever this happened, new directors would lose total control of the scene as we relived a shared moment from Walton history. We were so bonded because of the time we spent together. I spent more time at this dinner table than I did eating with my own family.
It got naughty at times, too. I heard more dirty jokes around that table than my parents would have a heart for. Some kids learn in the back alley, the streets, or the school yard. I learned from the crew, and on the set, including at that table. I didn’t know what many of the jokes meant, but I laughed, anyway, then tried to figure them out later. As I grew up, I got the off-color jokes the crew made in earshot of us kids. As naughty as I knew it was, I felt like I was part of a secret club trying to figure out codes and secret signs. Keeping it all a secret from my parents gave me an even deeper sense of belonging. I knew my dad would blow a gasket if he heard half the things I was exposed to. Years later, my mother admitted she guessed what was going on.
“I know a lot happened to you, but I just didn’t want to know it.”
“Mom, don’t worry,” I said. “I would never tell you because you would have a heart attack and die. Besides, I turned out okay.”
Yes, the dinner scenes were a wild ride, a joyful combination of acting, shoving coagulated food around our plates, and getting through the scene without falling behind schedule. There was always a professional standard on the show, one I am proud to have learned from Richard, Ralph, Michael, Ellen, and Will. They set the bar high, but somehow at that kitchen table, all bets were off as they taught us that even when you work hard, there’s always time for laughter.
EATING MOUNTAINS
Ralph always insisted since we were a starving family in the Depression era, we should eat a lot! He made up for the rest of us by eating whatever props served. I think he’s a method actor.
I learned the hard way that for consistency, whatever I ate in the master shot, I had to eat in every shot afterward. One day, we started a scene before lunch. I was hungry and ate a lot in the shot. It was warm and tasted good. Then the assistant director said, “Lunch, one hour.”
We went out to lunch, like we did every day, then returned, took our seats at the table, and I realized I had to match what I’d taken in during the master shots. Yuck. I was full already, and worse, everything was cold and gross. It had probably sat on the table while we broke for an hour.
To avoid that happening again, I learned from Michael to look busy by buttering my bread or sipping milk, which was usually safe. A trick I got from Eric was to load a fork full of food and bring it to my mouth. Just before taking the bite, get very interested in the dialogue and lower the fork to listen. The fork never passes the lips. But now, I’m telling secrets.
Later on, I rarely ate, because I was always watching my weight, but I wasn’t the only one. Ralph still jokes that Olivia Walton never ate a bite of food through the entirety of the show. Michael says she never ate as she was too busy saying, “More coffee, John?”
After Michael left the show, Ralph was directing an episode and I wasn’t eating—as usual. While I sipped coffee, he launched into his argument about why Erin would eat, and that he wouldn’t print the shot and move on until I did. I ate more in that one shot than I did in three seasons. It was pretty funny, but Daddy ruled, so I did it.
UNDIGNIFIED DINNER BEHAVIOR
The show won a lot of awards in its day. Several Golden Globes and Emmys, a Peabody, and one special award that was presented to us on the set, at the dinner table of all places. A very nice man came to the kitchen set to present this lovely recognition. No one told us ahead of time what the award was for, but we knew they were going to film his presentation.
He stood at one end of the table, and we were seated at our usual places. On “Action!” with the award in hand, he walked toward the camera and spoke of how special the show was.
As he handed over the award, he said, “And now, to honor The Waltons television show, we are pleased to present you with the Decency Award.”
Well, Eric, at that precise moment, had just taken a sip of milk, and upon hearing the word “decency,” he spewed the white fountain all the way across the table. The irony was too much for us. We lost it. This poor unsuspecting man was not met with “decency” by the Waltons, but with a bunch of tired actors who were like any other family, and not the characters we portrayed on TV. I think we got a stern talking-to and apologized to him; then we did another take, trying our best this time to live up to the “decent” standard for which he was trying to honor us.
COMPANY FOR DINNER
Shooting “The Boy from the C.C.C.” (Season 1) was also cool. I thought Michael Rupert was the cat’s meow. He played Gino, a boy who escapes from the children’s camp of the Civilian Conservation Corps. John-Boy and Elizabeth find him injured in the woods, and they bring him home.
During the dinner table scene, props served us horrible chipped beef. We’d never had it before, and thank goodness, we never saw it again. It sat on the table waiting for the lights to be set, and by the time we ate, it was cold, coagulated, and tasted awful. Poor Michael was supposed to be starving, so he had to eat a lot of it. We watched him in sympathy, but he never complained.
From then on, when we would have to eat when stuffed or were complaining about the food, Jon would say, “Hey, at least it’s not chipped beef,” and we’d all laugh. I can’t remember if we teased Michael about the meal we served him.
Years later, during that first trip to New York City, I got to go to my first Broadway show. That was a perk, and so exciting for me. Michael Rupert was starring in Pippin, and we all went. We went backstage to see him—my first Broadway show and I got to go backstage. So cool. The whole time I sat in the theater seat watching, I wondered if Michael would even remember me. He did, and he was so nice.
We have many outtakes that include kitchen mishaps. Michael Learned was making salad once and she put her hands into the bowl, lifted handfuls of lettuce, and threw them in the air, screaming with each toss. Even the crew cracked up. That one is in the gag reel.
In others, lines were missed, we spilled drinks, broke character, and dropped forks. And we had more than one food fight. One day, Ralph picked up a bowl of biscuits, dumped it upside down on Richard’s plate, and said, “Here, boy, eat up!”
The dinner table scenes were a mix of fun and fatigue, but we were all together, and I believe our sense of camaraderie and closeness transmitted to the audience. We liked each other, we had fun, and it showed.
NEVER WORK WITH…
Many of my “costars” were animals: Blue, the mule. Chance, the cow. Reckless, the dog. There was the raccoon, and also the deer. Then there were the chickens. I’ll never forget the chickens.
Harry Harris directed more episodes than anyone else—forty episodes and several of the movies. He became a mentor and got to know each of us well. He was like another father on the set. He was always a good sport, with all the Walton goings-on, but he never had much luck with the animals. Seems like he would always get the episodes with an animal story line and had trouble wrangling them. Many times we would hear him say to our AD Ralph Ferrin, “But, Ralph, what are we going to do about the chickens?” If you wonder what I mean, try to direct a chicken to…well, do just about anything…on cue. For years, we would repeat that to Harry when things on the set got hairy.
I used to ride Blue through the back roads of the studio lot when I had some free time. One day, something spooked him and he tore through the trees. I tried my best to stop him, but he just kept running. I ducked as best I could, until a branch smacked me in the face and knocked me off on my bum. I came to, on the ground, and panicked about what might have happened to the old mule. I was shaken by the fall, but even more scared of getting in trouble for losing or hurting him. Thankfully, there he was, standing near the tree, patiently waiting for me. I took the reins, but he wouldn’t budge. I pulled and pulled, crying for him to move. He started munching a branch and I yelled at him to follow me. I finally persuaded him to let me lead him back to the barn. I was hobbling in pain, afraid someone would see me. I hid my scrapes and bumps from everyone, especially the makeup people. My fear of making that mistake kicked in the bad-girl feeling.
Harry had an interesting animal experience that I have never forgotten. I couldn’t believe it was true, so I had to go over to the set to see it in the flesh. The scene called for Blue to be frightened and run away. I never knew what had spooked him when he ran away with me in the backlot woods that day, but I know it was not what they’d planned to use in the upcoming sequence.
Apparently, someone had studied American history—remember “Uncle Sam’s Camels”? At one point in time, the army had tried to use them; it was a fiasco. It had spawned a legend that camels couldn’t get along with horses or mules.
So they brought in a camel, hid it behind the house, and set up for the moment when Blue was supposed to be frightened by something, rear up, and run away. Someone fetched old Blue for his big scene. Off camera, a handler tried to coax the camel out from behind the house, Blue patiently waiting on his mark. That stubborn camel didn’t want to come out, and the wrangler pulled and prodded until finally he emerged from behind the corner of the house so the mule could see him. Sure enough, Blue spooked and ran away. Of course, they needed more than one take, and the trouble was that Blue got used to the camel. After that, he didn’t run away with the same gusto as in the master.
From then on, we teased him with, “Harry, what are we going to do about that camel?” All the animals could fit into that question from time to time. The animal stories became part of our shared tales as the years went by.
COW FOOT
I was not great around animals. My allergies kept me at a distance from them. As evidenced by the incident with Blue, I should have stayed even farther away. At one point, there was a writer’s directive, which I wholeheartedly supported: Don’t write anything for Mary Beth with animals. Yet, I couldn’t seem to stay away from working with them, and Erin even fell in love with animals in many story lines.
When Yancy Tucker set the barn on fire in “The Sinner” (Season 1), we were all called out of bed into the yard to help put out the fire. We lined up, barefoot and in our nightgowns, passing buckets of water as the animals were led past us to safety from the burning barn. Of course, I was standing nearest to Chance, the cow, when they led her out of harm’s way. She came to a stop with her cloven hoof right on top of my instep for a very long take. I heard my bare foot crunch, and tried to shove her off without making a commotion. Cows are very heavy animals, it turns out. I thought I would scream, it hurt so much. I didn’t, though, because that would have ruined a very dramatic scene. I was trying to be professional, at all costs. My foot was bruised and badly scraped—but luckily, no bones broke.
The animal wrangler was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, who even let me ride Chance one day. Maybe that’s why she stepped on my foot, retribution for that ride? As much as I was eager to experience everything, there was one suggestion I didn’t take him up on. “It feels great. Do it, Mary Beth,” he urged me, pointing to a fresh, warm patty. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to take him up on his offer to walk barefoot through cow manure.
MISHAPS ON THE MOUNTAIN
Considering how much we ran around the lot, we were lucky there were no bigger accidents or broken bones. One thing did happen, and my gray cloud of guilt and shame enveloped me for days.
The others were filming down the road at Ike Godsey’s store, so David, Kami, and I wandered over to the tree house near the barn. It was a pretty fair climb up that pepper tree. The entrance was a square cut out in the floor, and we climbed in and just sat there, talking and looking around. We hadn’t asked permission, and something—the rule follower in me—knew we shouldn’t be there. Of course, childhood curiosity won out. It was so fun to be up there with the bird’s-eye view of the house, the yard, and the mill.
Then I heard a scream. Kami had stepped back through the hole in the floor, fallen, and hit her head every inch of the way down. I will never forget the sound of her screams. I was horrified, and I don’t even remember getting down myself. David ran to get help, and I did the best I could to comfort Kami. She had a lump on her head the size of a lemon.
They took her to the hospital. I was miserable. I was the oldest, and I felt it was entirely my fault. I should have known better, and now my baby sister was hurt. I cried and knew I was wrong to have wanted to go up there. My gray cloud hovered as I tossed and turned all night, waiting for the punishment. No one told me it wasn’t my fault. I just knew that after they took care of Kami, I would be in trouble. My cloud didn’t dissipate until after I saw Kami the next day and saw she was all right. I didn’t get the expected grounding, and no one said a thing to me about it. I vowed to myself to follow the rules. I punished myself by being miserable and said the rosary. I knew I was bad, and bad things happen to bad people. The fall should have happened to me.
I carried this belief around for years, punishing myself for “bad” behavior: from gaining a pound, breaking a diet, not being perfect, speaking my mind, or blowing a line. It was a horrible way to live. I was so hard on myself, which only added to my misery. A wise therapist once said to me, “Mary, you would never talk to or treat anyone as mean as you treat yourself. You would never judge anyone the way you judge yourself. Why are you so hard on yourself?”
The truth hit me like a bolt of lightning. Her words helped me start looking at how I beat myself up constantly, even when no one else did. I saw how I held myself back by being the victim and martyr. Eventually I learned to give up my belief that if I was a good girl, I could make good things happen.
Maybe I was enough as I was. I am still learning forgiveness, especially toward myself. It’s hard to get those nuns’ harsh lessons out of my head sometimes; yet it would be vital for my survival. But that was another mountain to climb.
THE CORK AND THE PEARL
Some of us had a hard time with dialogue from time to time. Eric had a difficult time saying “Marsha Woolery” in one script. Then there was “practicing basketball,” which came out “praking baket-ball.” We cracked up so much, we had to do eighteen, or maybe more, takes on that one.
As a result, the producers thought it would be a good idea for us to learn to enunciate properly. The obvious solution was for us to work on it in school. Someone brought in corks and we were supposed to put them in our teeth and read aloud. The idea was that if we could be understood while we held the corks in our mouths, we would articulate even better when they were removed. It was a challenging exercise, for sure.
Glen, as he always did, made it interesting. We had to read The Pearl as part of our school curriculum; so there we sat, cork in mouth, taking turns reading John Steinbeck’s classic. We had a hoot with that one, because we sounded so funny. I am not sure it ever did any good, because we still muffled lines all the same.
CHURCH ANTICS
There were times when our outtakes were off-color. Actually, a lot of times, but they were all in good fun. Richard is a very funny man. He has a great sense of humor, and you wouldn’t think it—for all the sensitivity John-Boy had on the show—but I would say Richard was just as funny as he was dramatic. It’s an indication of how special he is as a person, and talented as an actor.
He had us in stitches a lot. I love to laugh, so these moments are still precious to me. There were times when he would flub a line and turn it into a comedy sketch. Sometimes he would limp, or affect an accent, or exit the house with the walk of a completely different character. One time, he hobbled out like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, all hunched over, crippled on one side, and dragging one leg behind him. Our gag reels are full of Richard’s hilarious antics.
I remember when he was in his monkey phase. He jumped on the couch, protruded his lower jaw, squinted like a monkey, and picked through our hair. This always made me crack up. I loved the silliness amidst the seriousness of the hard work.
Richard played pranks, sometimes on us, sometimes on unsuspecting crew members. When Ritter visited the mountain, he and Richard melded like a comedy duo. They were famous for trying to break each other up, usually during takes. They went to great lengths to pull off these pranks, which played out while cameras rolled.
I’ll never forget a particular church scene. We were in our Sunday best, and Reverend Fordwick had a huge, very important sermon to give. This was a really difficult speech, and there were a lot of people in the warm, close room; extras filling the pews, the crew, and all the equipment made the hot room even hotter. Picture the Waltons up front, the camera right behind us pointing toward Ritter waiting at the pulpit.
On cue, he stepped up and began. All eyes were on him as he launched into this long-winded sermon. Prepared to be bored through long pages of dialogue, I glanced over at Richard, earnestly staring up at Ritter, a perfect John-Boy look of rapt attention on his face. Then I noticed a huge wad of white, thick, foamy spit seeping from the corner of his mouth. The ooze of drool made Richard look absolutely rabid.
I almost burst out laughing on the spot, but for my amazement at the total focus Richard gave Ritter. I was worried I would be the one to break, and all the while they stayed perfectly in character. Ritter gave Richard his most sincere “Reverend” look, continuing to deliver his powerful sermon. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could he not be laughing? My sides hurt from holding it in.
From behind us, the camera could only see the back of Richard’s head, not the drool, so shooting continued. The longer it went on, the more spittle dribbled out of Richard’s mouth. I looked at Ritter as Reverend Fordwick, thumping his Bible and pounding the podium, and back at Richard soberly listening, the drool now covering his lips and making its way down his chin. Ritter’s performance was fantastic; he never broke character or blew a line. I was amazed and hoped someday I’d be as professional and controlled as these two.
Turns out, this little trick was done with a makeup sponge. The timing had to be perfect and Richard had been working up to just the right consistency and saturation before the scene started. He chewed it like gum until it absorbed enough saliva; then at the perfect moment, a gentle bite on the sponge released its contents. The visual was effective, if not disgusting. I was fascinated and grossed out at the same time.
Everyone, even me, remained professional and focused until Ritter finished his lines, and the director called, “Cut!” Ritter and Richard faced off, screaming wildly with laughter. They hooted and hollered like two boys who had just gotten away with hiding a toad in the teacher’s desk, congratulating each other. They were great friends, and we all enjoyed their friendship, pranks and all.
From time to time, we all played practical jokes on each other. I will never count myself to be as clever as Richard and Ritter, but I do remember one fateful day. Cameras rolling, we were gathered around the table, reading letters from the boys at war, passing them to each other, sharing the news our brothers described from their war experiences.
Elizabeth was reading a letter John-Boy had written. The piece of paper had holes cut out as if the war censors had vetted it against security infringements. Kami passed the letter to me, and I noticed she’d written her lines on the prop letter.
After “cut,” I gave her grief about not learning her lines. Then, when she wasn’t looking, I wrote something naughty—I won’t spell it out here, this is a family show—in purple pen right below her line.
We set up again, the cameras rolled for the close-up shots, and I passed the letter to her. She scanned the page for her line, and her eyes got big, and she broke. “Mary wrote on the letter!” The shot was ruined, but I felt like a big sister teasing her.
As we got older, the lines blurred between being “the kids” and coworkers. Just as all parents do, my Walton parents let me in on more things as they felt I was old enough to handle the jokes and “adult” material.
One day at the dinner table, Ralph was teasing Michael about a movie he’d seen, and she was laughing and pushing him away. He told her it was in his trailer and she should go watch it. They were having so much fun over whatever movie this was, I couldn’t resist and followed them. Ralph set up the video and left, and Michael saw me in the open doorway.
“Come in and keep me company,” she said.
Just what I loved, to be included. It was so cool to be invited in, so I jumped at the chance and went in and stood next to her. Maybe I should have been suspicious when she wouldn’t even sit down to watch. The first images came on the screen, and I was shocked into silence. Michael was horrified as well, and then we ran out of the trailer, screaming like schoolgirls. She felt horrible, but I assured her I was okay. Truth was, I was a little freaked, but being included in the whole thing made up for having my first glimpse at porn with the notorious Deep Throat.
That was the day Michael became more of a big sister than a mom, and she’s still a sister, a dear friend, and a close confidante.
MOUNTAIN MOON
My favorite gag reel shots are the naughty ones, of course. Being raised in these two conflicting worlds, I relished pushing the envelope. As the repressed religious girl, I pretended I didn’t hear the dirty jokes or off-color language. But I still waited until I was alone and could give in to laughter in secret. Eventually, though, I learned it was all right to laugh out loud, along with everyone else.
In “The Heritage,” filmed for the second season, Grandpa pulls his back lifting lumber, and John-Boy volunteers to escort him for a long soak in their hot springs.
Indeed, they make it, but instead of delivering the dialogue as written, at the opportune moment, Richard and Will turned around and lifted up out of the mountain Jacuzzi and shot the moon at the rolling camera. This one scene opened the way for many dropping-trou outtakes.
This was all hilarious to me, even though I had to hide giggles from my parents’ stern glances. I longed to be funny and maybe even someday make it into one of the gag reels. It was like a mark of success for me.
FISH KISSES
We Waltons were all very touch-feely and loving with each other. At the McDonough home, public displays of affection were not a common practice. When my dad would wrap his arms around my mom and kiss her in front of us, she would shoo him away with the swat of a hand and say, “Larry, stop it.”
Even though I was new to all this demonstrative openness, I wanted to be part of the free-flowing hugs and kisses. I loved the attention and affection. We were always jumping onto John-Boy’s bed, and we had to snuggle up close so we’d all fit. We would lie around and just be all over each other. Not in a “Hollywood” way, but like a litter of pups pawing and rolling around together.
The makeup room was another great gathering place. We spent a lot of time in there getting ready; so naturally, everyone talked, gossiped, and caught up. Sometimes we’d run lines in there, too. I loved the makeup room because it was so communal. People coming together and sharing life, everyone talking about their lives before the workday began. I loved the authenticity, the vulnerability. We were who we were before we were made up to be who we played.
One morning, when I was about eleven and trying out my new lifestyle, I decided to give Richard a good-morning kiss. As I approached, he started to chuckle. He said I looked like a fish coming at him with my lips puckered and mouth open; then he imitated me. I was embarrassed at first, but everyone else joined in with “fish kisses,” and I had to get over myself. This was one of those family moments that can either shut you down or you can just join in and laugh at yourself. This was one time I lightened up and didn’t look at my “kisses” as mistakes or doing something wrong. I actually learned something.
He taught me a valuable lesson on what a kiss was not. I’m glad I had this safe place to get “with it.” I could have put myself in a truly embarrassing situation later on. That’s what big brothers are for, right?
CACKLES
Another makeup room topic was my laugh. One day, we were talking about laughter, and I said, “I giggle all the time.” Big brother Richard said, “You don’t laugh. You cackle.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good, like my laugh was wrong. I took it on myself that his comment must have been negative, so I decided to change. I wanted to have a laugh, not a cackle. For the next few weeks, I tried on different laughs. No one seemed to notice how ladylike I was when I giggled now, or, heck, even laughed. No more cackles for me. No way.
I tried a high-pitched, dainty laugh, but I probably sounded more like Betty Rubble. Then I tried not to open my mouth at all, stifling a giggle. Probably sounded like I was drowning. After trying a few more on, I settled on a squeaky, little laugh I thought was adorable. Still, no one noticed. I worked hard to change my laugh so I might fit in better, but no one cared. I was so overly sensitive, I was willing to change myself and my laugh to be accepted. This was just the beginning of a long list of thinking I could change to gain favor. It cost me in the future when it wasn’t just my laugh I thought needed to be changed to get recognition.
Then one day, a few weeks after Richard’s cackle comment, I laughed so hard—probably at Ralph singing, I had to let go. No one seemed to notice that, either. I looked around to see if I had been caught—or worse—ruined something. Everyone was just going about their business. So the cackle came back, and has been here ever since.
MEN OF THE MOUNTAIN
We had guest stars every week, coming to the mountain. Some of the men were very cute, and we had our share of crushes on them. Okay, Judy and I did; maybe Kami was too young. Okay, maybe I did.
In the fourth season, the very handsome Stephen Collins played Todd Clarke in “The Abdication.” I thought he was just the nicest person. Judy and I really liked him, and he paid attention to us, which was even better.
One day, we were working in a scene at the front door of the house, and it was getting late in our day. Judy and I could only work for a little while longer, as our nine-hour day was rapidly coming to an end. There was some chatter about getting an extension for us, unless we could finish in time. If not, they had to bring Stephen back the next day. Well, Judy and I looked at each other and read each other’s minds. We smiled and nodded. We thought Stephen for another day was a great idea. The flirting began.
“Wouldn’t you like to come back?” I said. (Of course, he would, I thought. What actor wouldn’t want another day’s work?)
Judy and I were whispering about how we could help by messing up our lines. We could blow the takes on purpose, or maybe we should have a laughing fit long enough to extend us past our quitting time. Then voilà, we’d get him for another day. The episode’s director, Harvey Laidman, caught on to our little plan. We didn’t blow any lines on purpose, and Stephen had to go home because we finished the scene.
Years later, I saw him in the lobby at a New York theater. What if this man I adored didn’t remember who I was? How embarrassing would that be? I finally worked up the courage to go over and reintroduce myself. We chatted for a moment…. He did rememberme! Then I really took the plunge and admitted I’d had a huge crush on him back then. He winked and said he had a crush on me, too. I could feel myself blush as I returned to my seat all aflutter. What a classy guy, and what a beautiful way of putting me at ease about my admission. No wonder he is so popular now.
Another visitor to the mountain was Richard Hatch, who played our cousin Wade. He was way too good-looking to be our cousin! Despite being “related,” we thought he was cute, anyway. He was always very nice to me, and we really seemed to connect. Years later, we ended up on similar spiritual paths. It’s amazing how you feel a connection with someone, and then your paths cross again, confirming a bond that began years ago.
I was often confronted with not being remembered, and I think the following experience had something to do with it. One man who came to the mountain went on to fame in his own hit television series. We found out he was filming on the lot nearby, and we all went over to visit. (As I said before, we liked to set hop.)
He didn’t remember us at all—even as we stood there in our wardrobe. That was a rude awakening for me, and I was embarrassed. I took it personally, but Jon knew instinctively what kind of person he was. As we walked away, he said, “What a jerk.”
The most famous visitor to the mountain was Elton John. While he was not on the show, he was a fan and visited us on the set. He took Richard and a few of us kids to lunch at the Blue Room, the restaurant side of the commissary. He also invited us to his concert and a big party, set up like an amusement park, at Universal. It was one of the best perks I ever received from being on the show. I got his autograph on the invitation, which I still have. It was so cool to actually meet the man you fall asleep listening to. I swear that the Goodbye Yellow Brick Road eight-track melted, I played it so many times.
We all went to the concert, even Ellen. I remember telling her we were going to get a drink. I asked her if she wanted me to bring her one. She just kept smiling and nodding to the music. Then I screamed over the loud music, “Grandma, you didn’t answer my question. Do you want one?” She looked at me and nodded again, then reached up and pulled out an earplug.
WACKY WALTON
I do not consider myself a comedian, but there was a point when the producers thought I had a flair for the funny. It started with “The Tailspin” (Season 7), when Mary Ellen sets Erin up on a date she should have gone on herself. Erin is running late, and Mary Ellen is helping her rush to get ready, so she decides to wash Erin’s hair in the bathtub to save time. There I was, my head bobbing up and down. It was a funny scene, and Judy and I did a good job.
The producers thought I had great timing and started to write comical things for me after that. In “The Home Front,” Erin’s male chauvinist boss, J.D. Pickett, refuses to consider her for a position as assistant manager at the defense plant because she’s “too pretty and young.” So she dresses as a Southern belle, complete with ringlets and a hoopskirt, greets him one morning with a sweet Scarlett O’Hara lilt, and offers him a demitasse and homemade cookies. When she bends over to discard the mail and filing she used to do, but now couldn’t bother her “pretty, little head” about, her dress lifts and exposes frilly pantaloons, embarrassing J.D. (Shocking, huh?) While I didn’t think I was funny in that scene, Lewis Arquette, who played J.D., was funny. No, he was hilarious.
I smiled whenever I saw Lew was returning for an episode, because I knew it would be a good time. He was professional, interesting, and different for the show. We didn’t have a lot of comedy, but Lew made J.D. Pickett a delightfully hateful boss, and he was great to work with.
He told me about his kids, who were close in age to me. He was quite thoughtful about them, and spoke in great detail of their individual qualities. I asked him if they were interested in acting. Looking back, I think, What a dumb question! The Arquettes are one of the most successful families in entertainment. Way to go, J.D.
I learned a lot from watching Lew. I wasn’t trained in comedy, so I felt fortunate to work with and to watch “funny.” I learned timing and how to be a bit out-of-the-box by watching him. His character, J.D., was over-the-top, something Erin could have used a bit more of. I treasure the times I had with him, and the environment that allows you to get to know people while waiting for the lights to be set and “action” to be called.
There were many wonderful lessons in laughter. I’m a lucky girl, so glad to have been a part of the off-camera jokes, silliness, and pranks—and of having the opportunity to work on my own comedic skills, and not be embarrassed to let loose every now and then with a very loud cackle.
By the way, Erin got the job as assistant plant manager.
MOUNTAIN WOMEN
Many women also came to the mountain. Some became famous after they left; some were already quite well known when they arrived.
Beulah Bondi was one of those famous women. Her first episode as Aunt Martha Corinne Walton was “The Conflict” in 1974. She had been acting since 1897 when she was nine years old. She had worked on Broadway, in movies, and on television for seventy-nine years when she did her last performance with us in “The Pony Cart” in 1976. She was so smart and sweet and tiny. She seemed frail to me in her backwoods dress and apron hat, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her strength filled the set. I was amazed she remembered the lines for a very long story she had to tell us in that episode. Her portrayal of our aunt Martha Corinne earned her an Emmy award.
Beulah had never married or had children of her own, but she played Jimmy Stewart’s mother in four films, including Ma Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, my favorite movie. Every time I watch it, I say, “There’s Martha Corinne.” And, of course, when Ellen appears as Miss Davis, I say, “There’s Grandma!” There is something so magical about actors that always touches my heart.
Jean Marsh also stood out as a respected actress in our midst. She was beyond accomplished when she visited the mountain to play Hilary Von Kleist in “The Hiding Place.”
Toward the end of a long day, there was a scene that required tension, but we were in one of those giggly moods and couldn’t stop. This time, lesson learned from Richard that forever changed my view as an actor. He told us we were an ensemble and every actor needed our support. This important message has helped me in numerous life lessons as well. We are all here to support each other. Everyone deserves our respect.
Here was this wonderful actress having to deal with our mountain “qualities.” We shaped up, and there wasn’t a giggle in the house the rest of the day.
Jean had cocreated and starred as Rose in one of my favorite Masterpiece Theatre events, Upstairs, Downstairs. My mom and I watched it together, and I think it started my fascination with all things British and proper.
Sissy Spacek guest starred twice as Sarah Jane Simmons, first in “The Odyssey” and then “The Townie.” We knew she was special from the moment she walked onto the set. She had a great sense of humor. She and Richard cut up and are in more than a few gag reel shots together.
Sissy even looked like us with her red hair and freckles. It was so fun to watch all of her movies over the years. I liked to think we were a stop on her train to the Oscars. Three years after she was on our show, she was first nominated for the Academy Award for Carrie, and then she won in 1981 for Coal Miner’s Daughter. I remember sitting in my living room in my sweats and eating brownies, watching the ceremony, feeling it made me cool because I knew her.
Kathleen Quinlan appeared in two episodes, “The Thorough-bred” and “The Collision,” as Selina Linville. I remember how elegant she was atop the horse, and how my Walton brothers and the crew also thought she was quite spectacular. When her Golden Globe–nominated role as Deborah Blake in I Never Promised You a Rose Garden launched her to fame, again I felt proud.
Another actress who had a positive influence on me was Joan Pringle. In “The Illusion,” filmed in 1978 (Season 7), Erin and Esther were harassed by J.D. Pickett when they worked together to get Esther a job at his defense plant. After some tough challenges, we succeeded against the male-dominated world.
I so admired Joanie for her grace and class. It was an honor to watch her work. I could see her talent and aspired to be as good an actress someday. She went on to be a regular in The White Shadow and many other shows, and I was so happy to see her career flourish.
I learned so much from these women, lessons I’ve carried with me to every set I’ve worked on, hoping to someday be as classy as my mentors.
ANOTHER ERIN
In 1975 when I was fourteen, Erin Moran, who played Joanie on Happy Days, made Ben jealous in “The Song.” She was a hoot, did a terrific job as Sally Ann Harper, and we had a great time with her on the set. She was my age, fit right in, and we all became fast friends. But we got into some trouble with her. Eric, for instance, sped around the lot with her in his sports car. The guards at the gate were always all over Eric for rushing the gate. He didn’t like to slow down in his fancy sports car.
We decided to take Erin out to our favorite off-the-lot lunch spot, The Magic Apple, a fabulous place that served organic food. We did something that day I still have the heebie-jeebies about. Picture it. There we were—Jon, Eric, Erin, and I—still in our “homespun” wardrobe, because we only had an hour break. We were sitting at a table waiting for our smoothies, and in walk Donny and Marie Osmond. We knew they were probably on a break from doing their show over at ABC Studios.
They were dressed in these 1970s-era bell-bottom pantsuits, and I want so badly to say they were matching, but memory doesn’t serve that well. I just know the hair was big, and the outfits, well, nothing like ours. As they were led past us to their table, someone from our group said, “Nice outfits.” I cracked up. There was such a disconnect between our drab clothes and plain hair and their trendy fashions and makeup.
Erin started to sing that she was “a little bit country…” and Jon joined in with the rock-and-roll line, and we all burst out laughing. It was another “church moment” it was rare for us, but we couldn’t help acting our age. I still hope they didn’t hear us and think we were rude. Sometimes we let loose and had to be kids. Sorry, Donny and Marie, this was one of those times.
Erin and I continued to hang out and became friends. We had so much in common, having been raised in a similar way, and now we were both on TV. I wrote about her and the time we spent together in my journal: I have been going out with Erin a lot lately. We are kind of the same. We grew up the same way too. I like her a lot.
We often visited each other’s sets. I even got to go to Happy Days on taping night, which was a big deal. I met Henry Winkler. Imagine being fifteen and getting to go to the show and meeting “The Fonz,” how cool is that? These were the moments that made it all worthwhile, getting to be behind the scenes of America’s favorite television shows. I sensed I was part of history, even then.
I enjoyed seeing Ron Howard again. The previous year, 1974, in our second season, Ron had done an incredible performance on our show. As Seth, a friend of Jason’s who died of leukemia in “The Gift,” he played a dramatic role that was quite different from Richie Cunningham. Ron was so good in that episode, people still talk about it as a favorite. He says it was that performance that landed him the role as Gillom Rogers in John Wayne’s last film, The Shootist.
Jon also gave a great performance. I’ll never forget him sitting on the porch, playing “Beautiful Dreamer” on the recorder Seth made before he died, as Earl’s narrative begins: “As time went on, there were other occasions that necessitated our grieving, and I often think that this early brush with total loss made us better able to face those which were to come after.”
I cried when I watched it at home: the family facing the death of their friend and standing beside neighbors in their times of need. I believe one of the reasons the show had such an impact, and still does, is because of important story lines written by our wonderful writers, such as this one by Carol Evan McKeand. Being a part of all that was not only another perk, but facing these serious social issues with my Walton family helped strengthen me for the impacts my own family would soon experience.
I went with Erin and her family to Mammoth Mountain to ski, and we went to parties together. We used to go to a diner kind of place called Norm’s in Westwood, or Dr. Munchies, another hangout. Erin was older, so she drove us around in her new Volkswagen Scirocco. We smoked cigarettes and drank black coffee (no cream because of the calories) until late at night, talking and laughing. Erin exudes contagious energy. Her laugh is as loud as mine—well, almost, and her eyes could light up the sky. She has a devilish grin and perfect smile: 1976…sometime in the spring I wrote, Erin and I are going to the People’s Choice Awards. Erin is going with Jimmy, I am going alone, as always.
At the awards that night, we were bold enough to approach Sylvester Stallone and gush to him about how much we liked Rocky. Many years later, I reminded Mr. Stallone of what I’d done when I was fifteen, and he got a kick out of it.
Erin was on the cover of the May 1981 issue of Us magazine, and I was pictured in one of the sidebar boxes as one of “TV’s Sexy Teens.” Valerie Bertinelli was pictured, and also Lisa Loring from The Addams Family and As the World Turns. The cover article’s subtitle was, ON THE TUBE THEY PLAY GAWKY TEENS, BUT OFF CAMERA—WOW!
Erin was there for me throughout a difficult teenage time. It was so good for me to have someone to talk to. She was someone I could relate to, as we went through similar experiences: I am really very jovial, but sometimes I change myself for different people. At work I can never be myself. Richard recently asked me, “Who are you really, Mary McDonough?”
I felt safe with Erin. I remember talking until we fell asleep; we loved Stevie Nicks’s “Landslide,” and played it over and over. I felt that song completely related to me and my life. I had been so “afraid of changing, ’cause I’ve built my life around you.” The “you” being the show. What was I without this girl I played for seven years?
Who was I? My journal illustrates the questions I wondered back then: Who is Mary McDonough? Do I really know? Yes, I do and sometimes I don’t. I guess I don’t really let people know who I am.
Erin and I talked about our shows, the casts, and the producers. We even talked about being Catholic. We shared our experiences in the fast world we lived in, and how tough it was to live up to the unrealistic expectations. Like any other teenagers, we shared diets and secrets, and had fun. Erin’s strong spirit encouraged me to be bolder: I have had fun the last few months. I have done things I never thought I would do. It’s great. I live a radical life. Here’s my latest motto. “Live each day so you have a story to tell tomorrow.”
I am grateful for her friendship. Whenever I see her now, I still think about us running around and staying up late, sharing what it was like to be us. To this day, we still exchange Christmas cards. Even today, “Landslide” is still a special song for me. I now look back to that time of my life and can see my own growth. I was a young girl afraid of changes. Today when I listen to the song it brings tears to my eyes. I think of another girl about the same age I was then. The “you” in the lyric is now my daughter. It’s a powerful song whose metaphors still bring me so much growing and learning.