four
I was nine years old when I went on a cattle call for a new series NBC was getting set to produce based on the classic Little House on the Prairie books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I’d read a couple of the books, which my mom had introduced me to years earlier because they’d been among her favorites when she was a girl. I was trying out for the role of Laura. I didn’t know much more than that about the project.
My mom drove me to NBC, knowing more than I did about the series, particularly that with Michael Landon attached it was a project the network was very much behind and thus an opportunity to be a part of something special.
I think my grandfather might’ve also gotten involved behind the scenes, calling executives he knew at the network and telling them to take extra good care of his grandkid. There were hundreds of girls waiting to be seen, and when my turn came I went into a room and read for the network’s casting people. The casting director and I had a brief chat about nothing and then I was excused. But as I walked out the door, he had one more question.
“By the way,” the casting director said, “how tall are you?”
I stopped, turned around, and looked at this person like he was crazy for having to ask such a silly question.
“I’m this tall,” I said, wondering why he couldn’t see something that obvious for himself.
I don’t know whether it was rude or spunky. But it made a strong impression on the producers. They brought me back, along with a smaller group of girls, to read for Michael. I had no idea who he was, his level of stardom, or his clout with the network, but my entire family was beyond excited that I was going to be auditioning for Michael Landon.
I read for him in a room at Paramount Studios. I remember thinking, Oh gosh, he’s really handsome. He gave off a different kind of energy than ordinary people. It was a higher wattage. I’d been around stars and thought nothing of it, but Michael was different, and that difference was tangible without him having to say or do anything. It was a power, a mix of charisma and confidence that affected other people.
In the hands of an actor, it was a powerful tool. It filled the room. Michael did more than that, though. He raised the temperature. And he wasn’t just planning to star in the show. He was also the executive producer, writer, director, producer, cheerleader, boss, coach, and surrogate dad.
You’re either intimidated by the kind of person who has that mojo or you’re comfortable with it, and I was totally at ease as we chatted and he listened to me read. Midway through the reading, he poked his head out the door and gave the okay sign to my mother and grandmother, who were waiting anxiously for me to come out. Apparently my grandfather had also gotten word to him that I was Hesch’s grandkid.
A week later I went back for a screen test. A couple other girls had also been called back. Each of us filmed a scene with Michael and another one with Melissa Sue Anderson, who had already been cast as older sister Mary Ingalls. We worked on a soundstage, which was always exciting. But the day ended and then I kind of forgot about it as I returned to my normal daily routine.
A couple weeks later I was at school when a girl came up to me at lunch and asked if my name was Melissa. I said yeah, and she introduced herself as Leslie Landon, Michael’s daughter. I brightened as I remembered how much I’d liked him.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
She smiled as if she knew a secret, which she did.
“My dad said you’re going to be Half Pint,” she said.
I didn’t believe it.
“What?” I asked.
“My dad said you’re going to be Half Pint.”
I screamed and ran to the office where there was a phone available for students to use in an emergency. I called home and told my mom what had happened. She let out an excited shriek and made me repeat the story. As I did, I felt like booster rockets had ignited under me and I was about to blast off into some exciting, new, uncharted world. Meanwhile, as I finished the school day, my mom did some fact-checking and found out it was true, I’d gotten the role of Half Pint. Leslie had told me even before my agents knew—and boy, did she get grounded for that one.
Shortly before Michael died, I saw him at Leslie’s wedding and he told me when it came time to show all the screen tests to the network executives, he only showed them mine. I looked at him, then said, “Really? You did?” He nodded.
“Oh yeah. I knew. I knew immediately that you were her and I didn’t even want them to think about anybody else.”
From there, we began the steps leading up to the pilot, starting with wardrobe fittings. That original fitting was the first time I grasped the importance of costume in creating a character. I was a little pisher and didn’t have a formal process. Once I slipped on the dress, though, I felt different, transformed into someone else, as well as transported backward in time.
When I finally received the script, I went over my lines with my mother. I underlined them with a crayon. I memorized dialogue easily; I had a good memory, maybe a photographic memory. It came in handy, and I was prepared when the time came to shoot the pilot.
The story was straight out of the classic series of books, narrated and seen through the eyes of nine-year-old Laura. The Ingalls family—Charles, Caroline, and their three daughters—moves from their little house in the Wisconsin woods to a new home on the prairie about fifty miles west of Independence, Kansas. Leaving their family behind is hard, but the family’s resilient spirit, as led by Charles’s instant affection for the new land, despite its dangers, mirrored that of the rest of the country.
This slice of Americana, replete with chest-tightening dangers and a Christmas celebration guaranteed to open the tear ducts, was actually a two-hour movie, and if the network liked it, they would pick it up as a series, an arrangement known as a back-door pilot. Starting the second week of January 1974, we shot some scenes in L.A. and then went on location near the Sierras in Northern California. My mother and I treated it like a big adventure, which it was. We were far from home. It was cold. And there were numerous people to meet and get acquainted with, starting with Michael, who was quite clearly in charge and the center of the Little House universe.
Indeed, Michael pushed up his sleeves and rewrote the script on the fly after a surprise snowstorm before the first day of shooting. When one of the other executive producers wanted us kids to play the opening scenes without shoes, Michael lit into him with both a bark and a bite that made me pause and say to myself, Whoa, I pray to God I’m never on the receiving end of that temper.
But he couldn’t have been warmer or more nurturing to me, and I could hardly take my eyes off him. I’d never seen a man in person who was built like him. He was an upside-down triangle, thick and muscular, and tough beyond my imagination. He chain-smoked cigarettes. On our first day of shooting, we were out in the snow and he was giving us direction when he took his cigarette and stubbed it out in the palm of his glove. I wanted to run over to my mom and say, “Did you see that?” He did that all the time. Then he took out the tobacco, sprinkled it on the ground, and put the filter in his jacket pocket, where over the course of the day he’d build up a fair collection, which he threw out later. I’d never seen such a macho man. He was like James Bond—or Batman.
His wife, Lynn, was one of the most glamorous women I’d ever seen. On location, she wore fur coats and wonderful boots. My mother was right next to her, dressed to the nines herself, in stunning, fashion-forward outfits that would’ve turned heads on Fifth Avenue. The two of them looked like movie stars. The thing was, though, we were in the middle of nowhere, knee-deep in mud and horse crap. Both ended up borrowing rubber boots from wardrobe. From the knees up, they were Hollywood glamour. From the knees down, they were all prairie.
My mom matched Lynn in the glamour department, but Lynn had a collection of jewelry that was unlike anything my little girl’s eyes had seen. At some point each day I would stare at Auntie Lynn’s fingers, wrists, and ears, hoping to see some new and remarkable piece, and usually I did. Michael showered her with every gemstone imaginable. It wasn’t long before one of my favorite things to do when I visited New York City was to walk down Fifth Avenue and gape at the pieces in the windows of Tiffany, Van Cleef & Arpels, and every other major jewelry store there.
For different reasons, Karen Grassle, who played Michael’s wife and my mother, Caroline Ingalls, also made a strong impression on me. Extremely beautiful, she was very different from the women in my life, especially my mother, who was dark and exotic, a gorgeous gypsy out of Beverly Hills via Brooklyn. Karen was blond and blue-eyed, cut from the Grace Kelly mold. She’d trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, one of the oldest acting schools in England and among the world’s finest.
Karen did the same sort of actor exercises as Katherine Helmond, which had mesmerized me, except Karen went even further. For instance, she made strange sounds as she did her vocal warmups. At first, I giggled and had to hide my imprudence by turning away or making an excuse to leave the room momentarily. But over time my amusement turned into curiosity, and I watched her closely, the way she used her hands and the way she breathed. I watched her a lot, in fact, and I like to think there’s some of her in me as an actor.
I’d met Melissa Sue Anderson at my screen test, but we got to know each other much better while on location. We played sisters and were only a couple years apart in age, but from the start, for whatever reason, we never had a real sisterly kinship. She was a strikingly pretty girl, and I wasn’t, at least I didn’t think so. As we got older, she was the girl everyone wanted to marry, and I was the plucky one they wanted to go fishing with.
There was a distance to her, a coldness, though sometimes I wonder if it was just that I never knew how to get her to let me in. She wasn’t easy to get along with. I think her reserve came across on-screen and was certainly apparent offscreen, whereas I wore my emotions as if they were a neon green T-shirt that glowed in the dark.
My mother was the same way. Good or bad, our relationship was on full display whether we were behind the closed door of my dressing room or in front of the entire crew. Everyone experienced our affection and our arguments. Melissa and her mother were more contained, more controlled, more private, more connected. She was her mother’s universe. The license plate on her mom’s car was 3MISSY—it was her third car since Missy was born.
Right away we faced the dilemma of having two Melissas on the same set. Her nickname was Missy, and though my dad called me Missy-do or Wissy-do, almost no one else ever did because I made it clear I thought it was the stupidest nickname ever invented. Michael was the one who confronted the two-Melissas issue. He said, “Why don’t we solve this problem before it even starts.”
“Okay,” I said, as others around the two of us nodded in agreement. None of us would’ve dared disagree with Michael.
“She’s going to be Missy,” he said, looking at Melissa Sue Anderson. And then turning to me, he said, “And we’ll just call you Half Pint.”
It worked for me. Half Pint was also my character’s nickname, so it seemed like an obvious choice. Though at one point a short time later I walked up to Michael and said, “Or you can call me Moisha.” He looked down at me with a scrunched-up face.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I said, backpedaling slightly. “I said you could also call me Moisha if you wanted.”
“Moisha?” he said.
“I heard it somewhere,” I said. “It seemed cool.”
Michael hadn’t moved a muscle. He stared at me as if I was nuts. Finally, he shook his head and laughed.
“I think we’ll stick with Half Pint.”
Twins Lindsay and Sidney Greenbush played the Ingalls’ youngest girl, Carrie. The girls were poised, pint-size showbiz veterans and impossibly adorable, with gorgeous, saucer-size blue eyes. I thought of them as toys, tiny living dolls that were there as much for my amusement between scenes as to actually work in front of the camera. I also gravitated toward Victor French, who played Isaiah Edwards, the kindhearted neighbor and Laura’s special friend. He was hilarious and great with us kids.
Of course, Michael set the tone with all of the junior actors. There was a lot of tactile affection, hugging, embracing, and snuggling that made people feel good, close, and loved. I’d never been tossed into the air so much. It was all part of the bonding that took place as we became a family.
This coming together of various people was similar to what I’d been through when Harold and his family came into my life, only on a larger scale. There were people I liked very much, some I didn’t, and a few I didn’t connect with at all. For Michael, it was about creating a family. Many on the crew had worked with him on Bonanza, and some had even been with him before that on other shows. He inspired loyalty and expected it in return. You couldn’t get a position on one of his crews unless your father was on the crew and left the job to you when he died. He treated his crews the same way he treated his friends and family: there was no special favoritism, no caste system. The only two people I remember getting their own trailer were Mariette Hartley and Patricia Neal. Mariette was breast-feeding a newborn, and Patricia was recovering from a stroke. Everyone else had the same kind of room on a honey wagon, including Michael.
Actually, he was always Mike. I was quickly corrected after the first time I called him Mr. Landon. “It’s Mike,” he said. Even though I’d never referred to an adult by his first name, it was Mike from then on. Everyone referred to him as Mike, never Mr. or sir or Michael. Just Mike. And Karen was Karen. Victor was Victor. Melissa Sue was Missy. And I was Half Pint.
Some of Mike’s kids visited the set as we shot the pilot, including his daughter Cheryl, who was grown up (she was seventeen, but that was grown up to me) and beautiful, and Leslie and Michael Jr., all of whom added to the fun and sense of family. At night, the adults went out to dinner in various groups, leaving the kids at the motel to do our homework and study our lines. We were too young and well behaved to get into trouble.
The people who owned the small motel where we stayed had a puppy, a fluffy black poodle, which I played with every day after work. I ate breakfast and dinner at the diner there. It was such a different lifestyle than at home, and I was happy exploring this newfound freedom. I enjoyed the familiarity of seeing people I knew almost every place I went, whether roaming around the motel or sitting at the counter in the diner.
I still dream about that motel. I got to go down to the diner in the morning by myself, greeting the waitresses and manager through my sleep-filled eyes, carrying my mom’s thermoses, which I filled with fresh, hot, black coffee (I can still remember the strong aroma) and left outside her door. Then I went back for my breakfast. People from the crew wandering in would say good morning and ask how I slept or if I felt good about the day ahead.
I sat at the counter, staring at the big machine from which the waitresses got hot cocoa. There was a sign on it that said “hot whipped cocoa supreme,” and I spent most of every morning trying to figure out what the hell was so supreme about their hot cocoa.
It’s funny to think about how much time I spent as a kid trying to figure things out.
Everyone grew close quickly, which was a new experience for me, and it explains why I became upset after shooting Victor French’s last scene and saying good-bye to him before he returned to L.A. After developing family-like relationships, I didn’t want to say good-bye to Victor or anyone else. I thought we were making a movie. I wasn’t aware of the possibility that it might be turned into a series. My expectations were carefully managed.
I also had a real affinity for Victor’s double, Jack Lilly. I liked everyone, really—they were all nice. Who wouldn’t like being around people who showered you with affection and always had a kind word, a joke, or a funny face? Compared to the real world, it was like make-believe. A lot of the crew had their families with them, including their kids, which made it fun for me; it was also one of the reasons people wanted to work on Mike’s shows. If you went on location, you got to bring your family.
Mike worked everyone hard. He was a perfectionist. But he did things first-class. We traveled by private jet, on big planes, and everyone piled in together. I can remember getting on board and hearing Mike playfully barking at makeup artist Whitey Snider to sit next to him because “if the plane goes down, I want to look good.”
I was impressed when I was told Whitey had been Marilyn Monroe’s personal makeup artist. That seemed incredible to me, to be that close to someone who had been that close to a legend, who’d touched her face and also touched mine. He carried a money clip she’d given him. The engraving said, “To Whitey, while I’m still warm. Love, Marilyn.”
Sometimes he let me hold the clip. I’d clasp the metal in my hands and think, God, she picked this out and had it engraved. A few years later, when I was a teenager, Whitey told me that he did Marilyn’s makeup after her autopsy, before she was placed in her casket.
I also counted hairstylist Larry Germaine as one of my instant pals. Considered among Hollywood’s legendary hairstylists, he did my hair every day, and I treasured the time I spent with him. From the moment you sat in his chair, he transported you from reality into a private conversation that seemed more interesting than anything else going on around you. I was so pleased he seemed to want to talk to me; later, when I was older, he told me how he got his start in the business. He’d been an undertaker until one day they brought in a kid who’d been hit by a train and the parents wanted an open casket. He had to put that kid back together, doing the hair and makeup, everything, like a jigsaw puzzle, and it was too emotional for him. He quit and got into show business, where they faked the crashes and everyone looked pretty when they died.
The only trauma on the Little House set came at the end of January, almost four weeks after we began shooting, when it was time to pack up and say good-bye. I had a hard time returning home, but I soon fell easily into the same old routines. I went back to school and had sleepovers with my best friend, Tracy Nelson. Home life was the same as usual: cuddling with my mom and reading, torturing and being tortured by my nasty little brother. Still, I missed the work and the affirmation that came from it. I especially missed the attachments I’d made to people.
I was down in the dumps whenever I imagined not seeing them again, but my mood did a one-eighty at the end of February when Mike gathered everyone in a theater on the Paramount lot to watch the film on a large movie screen. My heart warmed upon hearing him call me Half Pint again. I cried and laughed through the movie, as did my family, who filled the seats on both sides of me. I was surprised by the music. I was even more surprised by my performance. Was that really me?
I can recall feeling calm as I sat in the theater. I wasn’t nervous at all about what my family and others would think. All the self-doubt and pressure came years later. Back then, on that night, I was simply dazed and dazzled.
NBC aired the movie in March and it did extremely well. By then, we’d received word the network wanted to move ahead with a series. My mother was beside herself. I got a congratulatory call from Mike. My grandparents, on separate occasions, of course, since they couldn’t be in the same room together, smothered me with kisses. Papa Harry gave me his own compliment, saved for truly special occasions. “What a girl this is!” My dad’s reaction was the best. He gave me a hug, then stepped back and took in all forty-eight inches of me with a proud, satisfied grin.
“See, Missy-do,” he said. “I told you something better would come along.”