Lessons from the Mountain Read online

  Honeysuckle grew behind the Walton house, and by Ike Godsey’s store. Grandpa taught us to pluck off the green end of the flower gently and then suck the blossoms for their sweet drops of nectar. You had to work really hard to get those drops. Sometimes you could pull out the center, and a nice drop would be there for the licking. Other times, we had to squeeze a little to get the tiny drop. We loved doing this as kids. Kami and I would hunt for honeysuckle nectar all the time on the Warner Brothers backlot. Years later, when I bought my first house, I planted honeysuckle in the backyard, a loving tribute to Grandpa Walton. He “ate life” with gusto, and passed his enthusiasm for nature, and people, on to us as well.

  Will Geer had been blacklisted during the McCarthy years. He hadn’t been found guilty of anything worse than refusing to testify in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), but he, nonetheless, couldn’t find work acting. During the years he was considered unemployable, he founded the Theatricum Botanicum for himself and other blacklisted actors. Times were hard for everyone then, and he traded admission for items such as eggs, homemade bread, or canned goods. He had cut his acting chops in Virginia’s Barter Theatre and never wanted anyone turned away if they couldn’t afford a ticket. Another similarity in my two “families,” for my dad would also take trades for services in his auto mechanic shop.

  The Theatricum (now the Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum) was, and still is, known for its excellent theatrical productions. Will coached, acted, and led folk singing in this still-popular venue. Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie, Della Reese, Burl Ives, and many others performed there at one time or another.

  Will loved his Shakespeare and made sure that every plant mentioned in his works would be planted at the theater. He tried to teach us about the Bard, and we even did a show at the Hollywood Bowl with him. Kami, David, and I were the three witches in Macbeth. I still remember bending over the imaginary pot. “Double, double, toil and…”

  I never really understood why I was so reluctant, but I dutifully learned the lines, even though I resisted. I wish now that I wasn’t such a typical teenager and learned more from him. The reason I didn’t might have been because of what happened during one particular play.

  Grandpa always wanted more Shakespeare for us. He asked me to perform the role of Ariel in The Tempest… in the nude. He tried to tell me how “natural” it was, and that I could climb up and down the trees and it would be fun.

  Well, I certainly wasn’t comfortable appearing in the nude, and I’m sure The Waltons publicists would have freaked if I had, but we did go to watch. I sat in the amphitheater’s hillside seats with my mother, watching as a man, not one of the actors, came out…and he was completely naked. It was the 1970s, of course, and streaking was popular. This man, I must say, barely streaked. Not a lot of running going on. It was a nude saunter, more of a bobbing across the stage and off into the woods. Well, it was very “natural,” wasn’t it? Just like Grandpa had promised. After all, it was very crunchy-granola-hippie living out there in Topanga Canyon.

  I stared; people were laughing; my mother screamed and tried to cover my eyes. That’s hard to do while yanking your thirteen-year-old daughter’s arm out of its socket while dragging her to the car. He was my first naked man, after all. I was quite frightened; yet, at the same time, I was a bit interested in the different parts, as it were. I tried to get a better look without my mother noticing, and a bubble of laughter gurgled up in me. Then I saw my mother’s face and I “got it.” This wasn’t a laughing matter—at least not to her. Bubble burst.

  Then the audience started to laugh at us! Oh, the mortification, the embarrassment! Yikes! Isn’t this “education” supposed to happen in the streets or at school with your friends? Oh yeah, I didn’t really go to regular school like the other kids. I wasn’t normal. Oops. I forgot.

  So, instead of what I’d imagined, that warm, bonding, girlfriends-huddling-giggling-pointing-gasping-with-amazement over a man’s body in some hot picture from Playgirl, I got my first glimpse of a naked man—with my mother! Yes, I was not raised like other girls my age. My life was different. My work life gave me wild Will that day. So different from the life my mother was trying to take me home to. To my teenaged embarrassment, we left in a huff, made a scene, and almost upstaged the streaker.

  This whole evening at the theater and the difference between Will’s attitude and my parents’ became a pivotal moment in my whole approach to body image. I hadn’t thought much about the way my two worlds collided and intermixed, but they had been, ever since the beginning. When I landed the role as Erin in The Homecoming, my mom had insisted that I wear a longish camisole with a training-bra-type undergarment so when I had to change in front of the others, I was discreetly covered. Now, mind you, I was ten years old at the time. But to uncover in front of the other girls, and possibly the wardrobe ladies, had been too scary for my mom. But it also sent a message to me: your body isn’t good.

  Compare that to the free-stylin’ attitude of the rest of the country, Grandpa included, that bodies are to be admired as art in their freest form, and it was no wonder I was confused. On one end of the spectrum, I should be ashamed of being seen. On the other end, Will represented that I should be accepting and free with my body. Will was a hippie and could cast off any inhibitions through his art. While learning to be more accepting of myself and my body would have helped me in my struggles, I think something in the middle ground of my two experiences may have been better for me.

  Because of Will’s sometimes wild ways later that year, Grandpa gave me an extra Christmas gift. He led me away from the others, and with a wink, he whispered, “I think you’re not learning about the beauty of nature at your house. Here, I got this for you, but don’t show it to your parents.” Thus, I became the proud owner of my first—and still only—book of nudes. (Yes, I still have it.)

  Grandpa tried to encourage me to move toward being comfortable in my own skin and not ashamed. Even if it was just in my mind, I took a tiny step toward accepting myself with his unorthodox ways. My parents wanted me to be a lady, discreet and modest, but often I misinterpreted that as being bad or ashamed. Grandpa was trying to provide a balance, which would take me years to comprehend fully.

  Grandpa would be glad to know I used the book of nudes to educate my own daughter about the beauty of the human body, breaking the cycle of shame. Today I use those lessons in my Body Branding workshops to empower others to make peace with their bodies—sharing my lessons of embracing and not judging yourself, and getting comfortable with the skin you’re in.

  He gave me other books, all of which he signed. One was on Bob Dylan and another on the Rolling Stones. He signed Mick Jagger’s picture with an arrow pointing to Mick and wrote: Mary Beth, WE adore you. Like Mick knew who I was. What a sense of humor he had! (Oh, by the way, the only book he didn’t sign was the book of nudes.)

  Will was just so full of life, as if he was making up for being blacklisted. The irony was not lost on him that he had missed several years of his career to this horrible movement of suspicion and distrust, but now he played America’s most beloved grandpa. He was so appreciative to be playing Zeb Walton, it seemed he got back a little of what he had lost so long ago.

  He carried no bitterness, that I know of. He came to work every day with an upbeat, positive attitude. He made a point to meet new people every day, and is quoted as saying, “For well over half a century, I have never gone a day without getting acquainted with some other person, and in those times, I’ve only had my face slapped once and been called a few names.”

  He taught us to stand up for what we thought was right, especially when he thought someone was not being treated well. This applied to all people, even entire races. When a script once called for a Native American character, Will and Ralph Waite protested when they cast a Caucasian, instead. They made such a stink, the original actor was let go and the role was cast with a Native American (“The Warrior,” Season 6). This act of defiance left a lasti
ng impression on me.

  I learned by their example how important it is to stand up and fight for what you believe in and live by your beliefs. They shone light on what they felt was an unjust practice and gave a voice to those who were speechless. This was unheard of for that time in television. These remarkable role models left a lasting mark that empowered me to do the same thing years later.

  A LIGHT LESSON

  When I was sixteen, my brother John served as guardian on my first trip to New York. The trip was an incredible gift. It was great to have my Walton and McDonough family members together on a special trip to a place that neither John nor I had ever been to before. Aside from parades in California, there weren’t a lot of events my brother could go to. I was thrilled to take him with me and have a little bit of the fairy dust land on him, too.

  We were accustomed to flying because our dad was a private pilot. He bartered his mechanic skills in trade to a group of doctors who owned a plane. In exchange for his work, they let him borrow it to take us on vacations. Imagine six people crammed into a small Beechcraft Bonanza.

  So flying to New York for John and me was an adventure we cherished. We flew first class, a huge treat, especially since my brother is six feet five inches tall. He had never been in a plane where his legs didn’t bump the seat in front of him, let alone one large enough to walk around in. The upstairs of 747s were lounges in those days. And I was so glad to be able to share my good fortune with him; I loved seeing him so happy and amazed.

  All the Walton kids, and Will, were invited to be the honored guests for a Daughters of the American Revolution gala at the Waldorf-Astoria. Such a beautiful hotel, we felt like royalty. Once again, I had no idea what was going to happen, or what was expected of me. I don’t remember any program or agenda, just the order to show up.

  The dinner was a very fancy affair. Will addressed the large crowd on our behalf, and then sat down with us at the table. The presentation began. The lights dimmed, and doors at the back of the room opened. In walked a long line of women in single file carrying candles, chanting, “Walk in the light, walk in the light.”

  We didn’t know if we were supposed to chant with them, or watch, bow our heads, put our hands over our hearts…what? They just kept marching to “walk in the light.”

  By this time, we were all pretty uncomfortable. We knew it was a reverent event. However, it became one of those moments, like when you’re in church or another solemn occasion and you know you’re not supposed to laugh, but you get the urge to giggle.

  At the time, Young Frankenstein was popular. Will leaned over, and in unison with the women, whispered a famous line from the movie, “Put the candle back.” That did it; we lost it. I started to chuckle first; then my shoulders rose and fell. Eric started to chant with Will; then Jon joined in; and we all dissolved into stitches. We were horribly behaved at this very proper function—I still feel ashamed about it—but we couldn’t stop laughing. Those gracious women were marching in their procession and we acted like…well…teenagers.

  Will regained control of himself first and indicated with a nod we should leave the table. One by one, every few minutes, one of us would stifle our laughter, get up, and make our way out the door. We finally gathered in the hallway, and with Will as our merry leader, we left the giggle fest holding our sides.

  Grandpa was really a kid at heart. He had a good-natured habit of grabbing you with one arm and pulling you close to his chest. One day, he swept me into a headlock. As he clutched me against his warm flannel shirt, I could smell the spicy aroma of his…uh…earthiness. That’s a good way to put it. Will was very earthy.

  He pointed to a group of people sitting at the other end of the kitchen table and whispered in my ear. “Mary Beth, Mary Beth, do you see those people over there?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  Leaning his grizzled face next to my ear, he said, “Right there is dissatisfaction.”

  “What do you mean, Grandpa?”

  “They’re looking for ways out of here. They’re dissatisfied. I’ve been waiting all my life to play this part, and I will never leave. They’ll have to carry me off this set on a stretcher. Mary Beth, you’ve gotta be grateful for what you’ve been given. What they don’t know is that this is the best gig they’ll ever have. Every day I realize this is the best part I’ll ever have, and I’ll never leave. Someday they’ll look back and see this show is the best thing that ever happened to them.”

  Grandpa died a year later. His ashes were buried in a corner of his beloved Theatricum Botanicum.

  Our sense of family manifested itself in many ways on the set, and we demonstrated it soon after his passing. In our dinner scenes, he customarily took the patriarchal seat at the end of the table opposite Daddy. When a director innocently tried to place someone else in Grandpa’s seat, we protested so much that he gave in and left it empty.

  In a sweet moment almost a year after that, we felt enough time had passed. The next person we allowed to sit in this place of honor was Erin’s beau, Ashley Longworth Jr. in “The Legacy.” (Ashley was played by Jonathan Frakes, whom I adore. More on “Number One” later.)

  Will Geer planted in me the seeds of gratitude. He showed me how to appreciate life, the positive and even the negative things. He modeled how to “eat” life, to love nature and people, and to stand up for the things I believe in. In the years to come, I would remember his words, “Mary Beth, be grateful for what you’ve been given,” and I would appreciate whatever gig I was blessed to have. As we grew older and people left the show, I did appreciate the show and all it brought to me. He might have been America’s grandpa on the screen, but he was a real “grandpa” in my life.

  A NEW GRANDMA

  I only knew my father’s mother, whom we called “Nanny,” because she lived in California. My mom’s parents lived in Colorado, so we didn’t see them often. Ellen Corby didn’t have children of her own, so she adopted us, and even gave us presents for our birthdays. Ellen was an incredible woman. She was strict like a real grandmother, similar to how she was on the show. She laughed more than her character Esther. We called her “Grandma.”

  She taught me one of the most important elements of acting for film, which I still use to this day. It made me a better director, and I used it in all aspects of my filmmaking years later.

  Before she became an actress, Ellen was a script supervisor for Laurel and Hardy, where she learned about the technical importance of a scene. She was impeccable at matching. Our dinner table scenes were a good example of her lessons: when to sip milk, when to butter your toast, pour a cup of coffee, or when to shovel in that forkful of peas. She taught us to remember exactly what line we did things on, then to match it on every take. This was important because for every close-up, or two shot as they call it, you must be doing the same thing you were doing in the master, or the wide establishing shot. I’m sure it was a huge relief for her not to be script supervisor with so many mouths to watch. Her instruction made us look natural, and we didn’t ruin the coverage.

  Years later, I was in Midnight Offerings, and in the master take, my purse fell off my shoulder. When we did the close-up, I made my purse fall exactly at the same moment. Someone asked me how I did that. I answered in two words, “Ellen Corby.”

  Some people don’t know about another side of Ellen. She studied Eastern philosophies, and was so limber from yoga, she could bend forward, legs straight, and place her palms flat on the floor. People were surprised to see someone her age so limber. She loved seeing their shocked expression.

  She was the first person to teach me visualization, to focus on the best, most positive outcomes for my life—a technique I later learned more about from Shakti Gawain’s book Creative Visualization. She asked me once to hold her Emmy statue and really feel it as my own, to “see” myself winning one. She said, “That’s what I did, and look, you’re holding it now. You have to see it and believe it. Create it as true for yourself.” Years later, on my own spiritual jour
ney, I realized how much Ellen demonstrated “seeing and speaking” my own positive attitude into reality.

  As a grandma, she was way ahead of her time.

  THE BABY BLOOOOS

  Ralph is our Pa Walton, our daddy. We always called him Ralph, never Mr. Waite. Whenever I hear someone mention Ralph, the first thing that pops into my mind and immediately makes me laugh is the “I Shot the Sheriff” story, but I’ll tell you that one later.

  He must have looked too young, because I have many memories of the makeup man touching him up to make him gray. He used what looked like a small toothbrush to sweep through his sideburns. I thought it was so cool to see his hair and appearance change before my eyes.

  Ralph has very penetrating blue eyes. With one look, he can scare you, make you laugh, or cause you to burst into tears. One day, he sat at the head of the table, and before his close-up, he bent down, looked at his reflection in the camera, fixed his hair, and then straightened up. He looked at us and said, “How are the baby bloooos?” He got a big laugh, and this became a Ralphism. Many followed over the years.

  As you know, we spent about half our lives at that kitchen table. Whenever we got bored or needed a break from a tense moment, he would jump in with the “Ralph” version of a song or joke. He added his own twist so they’d have an even funnier replay value. He would wait until the crucial moment, then crack us all up, get the energy moving again and shift our focus to the work. These moments are so distinctive that years later, one of us can begin a Ralphism, and everyone else knows where we are headed…usually to loud laughter. Ralph always had the knack, and he still does.