Lessons from the Mountain Page 6

  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 bac
k 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.

  3

  AMERICA’S FAMILY

  There would be no Walton’s Mountain or Walton family without its creator, Earl Hamner Jr. The mountain grew from Earl’s own memories of his family living through the depression in Schuyler, Virginia.

  His voice has a melody of its own, as heard in his soft, Southern lilt narrating the show’s opening and closing in each episode. He is a gentle and kind man. He always has been. From my first experience of meeting him for The Homecoming to today, he has always been as supportive and encouraging as the day I met him.

  We have all traveled to Schuyler to see where he was born and the real home of the Hamners. I love going there in the fall, my favorite time of year. There’s something so special about his family and that town. It’s no wonder thousands of visitors are drawn there every year. One gets a sense of the quality of the people and how Earl’s experiences growing up there made the show so special.

  One Christmas when I was about twelve, Earl sent us all Virginia hams as presents. My dad was so excited about that classic smoked ham, I thought he would eat it right out of the paper, until he saw the directions said you had to cook it first.

  There is an Erin because of Earl and his sister Audrey, for which I am grateful. I would not be writing this book if not for his brilliant example of sharing a memory, a story, and a family’s love. He is the real John–Boy, and a big brother to us all.

  ADDING GRANDPARENTS

  From the beginning, each one of the actors I worked with left his or her own unique stamp on my personality. After The Homecoming, Will Geer replaced Edgar Bergen as Zeb Walton and quickly became “Grandpa” to America, and to us. If you thought he was a character on TV, well, he was an even bigger one in life. His booming voice, large presence, his jokes, and the way he would ramb
le while saying grace during the famous dinner-table scenes were his trademarks. (Listen carefully, and you’ll hear him listing plant names. The “trailing arbutus” was our favorite.)

  In our first seasons, we filmed many of the mountain scenes in Frazier Park, north of Los Angeles. We would ride in the back of that familiar green pickup truck, or just walk along, and Grandpa would stop and break a small branch from a nearby shrub or plant. Then he would pull off a few leaves and say, “Kids, open up, try this” as he shoved the plant in our mouths.

  One day, he chose small ferny leaves for our day’s lesson. “Here, taste these,” he said, his face lit up with his familiar, mischievous grin.

  “Not me!” “What is it?” and “I’m not eating weeds, not this time, Grandpa!” we protested at once.

  “Oh, go on.” He winked, chewing on a stem while we watched.

  Finally one of us tried it. “It’s licorice!” the brave taster announced.

  “That’s anise. It’s what licorice is made from.” Grandpa beamed and the rest of us couldn’t wait to try this “candy.”

  At first, we were hesitant. As time went on, though, we knew Grandpa wouldn’t hurt us, so we usually opened our traps and got a good lesson on some herb and how to survive on it. Will had a master’s degree in botany, and he loved sharing his love of nature with us kids. He tried to teach us volumes of information about plants: what their Latin names were, or the medicinal and dietary uses the Native Americans found for them. Honestly, I can’t say I retained it all. The whole thing still makes me laugh.

  I can still picture him in those overalls, always one shoulder unhooked, one hanging down his sleeve. He’d sniff the plant’s aroma with a huge inhale, like he was snorting it, and make some yummy sound on the exhale. That only made me want to try it more. Sometimes he would take a little taste himself, but usually not before we did. Seemed he wanted to see our reaction.

  Now, you might think this an odd thing for a kid to do, or a parent to allow. My dad had been a farmer and my parents thought all of this quite normal. Given their own upbringings, my parents were so thrilled by my new life, I think they appreciated the experience I was having more than I did back then. Besides, they never wanted to rock the boat on this great job I had. They never said not to try his earthy morsels, so I always did, and usually willingly. Sometimes I didn’t like the taste of the tidbit at all, but I was so drawn to his energy, and how alive he was, I couldn’t resist.