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Prairie Tale: A Memoir, by Melissa Gilbert
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A fascinating, heartbreaking, and ultimately uplifting tale of self-discovery from the beloved actress who earned a permanent place in the hears of millions for her role in Little House on the Prarie when she was just a child.
To fans of the hugely successful television series Little House on the Prairie, Melissa Gilbert grew up in a fantasy world with a larger-than-life father, friends and family she could count on, and plenty of animals to play with. Children across the country dreamed of the Ingalls’ idyllic life—and so did Melissa.
With candor and humor, the cherished actress traces her complicated journey from buck-toothed Laura "Halfpint" Ingalls to Hollywood starlet, wife, and mother. She partied with the Brat Pack, dated heartthrobs like Rob Lowe and bad boys like Billy Idol, and began a self-destructive pattern of addiction and codependence. She eventually realized that her career on television had earned her popularity, admiration, and love from everyone but herself.
Through hard work, tenacity, sobriety, and the blessings of a solid marriage, Melissa has accepted her many different identities and learned to laugh, cry, and forgive in new ways. Women everywhere may have idolized her charming life on Little House on the Prairie, but Melissa’s own unexpectedly honest, imperfect, and down-to-earth story is an inspiration.
- Sales Rank: #153839 in Books
- Published on: 2010-02-16
- Released on: 2010-02-16
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.25" h x .90" w x 6.12" l, .90 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 384 pages
Review
"Hold onto your sunbonnets... [Gilbert's] autobiography is no clean-cut family drama: It's chockablock with juicy tidbits."
—Entertainment Weekly
About the Author
Melissa Gilbert starred as Laura Ingalls on the hit television show Little House on the Prairie. She has also starred in more than forty television movies and has served as president of the Screen Actors Guild. She currently serves as president of the Board of Directors of the Children’s Hospice and Palliative Care Coalition, where she works directly with chronically and terminally ill children to provide them with care and comfort. She resides in Los Angeles with her husband, actor Bruce Boxleitner, and her family. An entertaining, sometimes heartbreaking, but ultimately inspirational memoir by actress Melissa Gilbert 9
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
one
FAIRY DUST
My mother was nearly a month past her husband's funeral when she turned her attention back to my desire to write a memoir. It wasn't just a desire; there was an actual book deal, and she was against it. If the book were on any topic other than myself, she would've already been circulating word that "Melissa is writing the best book ever." But this was different. It was about me. Which meant it was also about her. And she was against telling that story if she wasn't the one doing the telling.
She had tried numerous times to talk me out of it, but her efforts were interrupted by the death of my stepfather, Hollywood publicist Warren Cowan. Now she was back on point.
She showed up at my house one afternoon carrying a large box packed with news clippings, ads, letters, and diaries of mine. She set it down on the kitchen table with a thud and announced with a smile as deadly as a pearl-handled Derringer that the contents would be helpful.
"For your book," she said, pronouncing the word "book" as if it were a petrie dish containing the Ebola virus that I was going to let out in the world.
I marveled at her gamesmanship -- and at her. She looked a decade younger than her age, which, if revealed, would be taken as a bigger crime than revealing Valerie Plame was a CIA agent. Her hair was blond and coiffed. It's sufficient and necessary to say she was strikingly attractive. She looked great whether going to her weekly appointment at the hair salon or to movie night at the Playboy mansion, which she and my stepfather had attended for years.
I also cringed at the layers at play here in my kitchen. I thought, thank goodness I have four sons. The mother-daughter relationship is one of mankind's great mysteries, and for womankind it can be hellaciously complicated. My mother and I are quintessential examples of the rewards and frustrations and the joys and infuriations this relationship can yield. By and large, we are close. At times, though, she could render me speechless with her craftiness. Now was one of those times.
While I sifted through the box packed with sacred bits from my life, my mother offered sly commentary and full-on reinterpretations of the contents. Ah, the contempt and fear and anger she hid behind her helpful smile.
To me, at forty-four years old, my book was a search for truth and identity. To her, it was -- if only you could have seen the look on her face, you'd fully understand -- the ultimate betrayal.
I moved on. I made tea. We talked about some of the condolences about Warren that continued to stream in. We mentioned which friends checked on her, the dinner invitations that kept her busy as ever, and of course the latest comings and goings of my husband, Bruce, and my sons. Finally, after we had caught each other up on everything, she returned to the book.
"You can write the book if you want," she said with a nonchalant shrug.
"Thank you," I replied. "I'm looking forward to it."
"I can understand why you want to write it," my mother said. "You write it and get it all out of you."
"Thank you."
"You have my blessing."
"Thank you again."
"But," she said, "the classy thing would be to burn it after you're finished."
My life was a mystery even as I lived it.
Several months earlier, I had called my mother and asked if I'd ever had a conversion ceremony to make me officially Jewish. Although I was raised Jewish, my upbringing didn't include any formal religious education or training. We celebrated Passover and other major Jewish holidays. But we also celebrated Christmas and Easter. It's why I always emphasized the "ish" in "Jewish."
As I got older, though, I grew more observant and intrigued by a more personal relationship with God. One day, as I discussed this with a friend who had converted to Judaism as an adult, she asked if I recalled my conversion ceremony.
"Huh?" I said.
My friend explained that adults wanting to switch to Judaism from another religion had to go through a conversion process. It included reading and discussion among friends; a deeper course of investigation with a rabbi; then study, immersion, and approval by a board, culminating with a public ceremony and celebration.
Even though I was just a day old when my parents adopted me, my friend explained my parents would still have needed a rabbi to perform a ceremony and a blessing to make me officially Jewish. That's when I asked my mother if she recalled doing the ceremony.
"Why do you need to know now?" she asked.
"Because if I never had a conversion ceremony, then I'm not really Jewish," I replied. "And if I'm not Jewish -- "
"But you're Jewish," she interrupted.
"Who says?" I asked.
"I do."
"Mom, believe it or not, you are not the final authority on this issue."
"I'm your mother," she said. "And I'm Jewish."
"But my birth parents -- "
"We adopted you at birth."
"Was there a conversion ceremony?" I asked.
"I don't remember," she said.
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"No?"
When it came to my childhood, my mother's memory was more reliable than the Apple-S command on my laptop, so I knew she had the information filed away somewhere. I switched tactics. I asked if she remembered what I did for my second birthday. She did, and described the party she threw me. I then asked if she remembered my first birthday party. She recounted that, too, including the flavor of the cake and the bakery where she bought it.
"Mom," I said with a dramatic pause worthy of the best courtroom lawyer, "you can remember my first and second birthday parties as if they happened an hour ago. But you can't remember whether you hired a rabbi and had a conversion ceremony for me. How is that?"
"Melissa!"
"Mom!"
"Maybe I didn't have one," she said. "I don't really know. What's the big deal?"
"It means I'm not Jewish," I said. "It means I'm not who I thought I was for all these years. It changes everything."
Okay, I exaggerated. It wouldn't change everything. When I hung up the phone, I was still going to be me: dressed in sweats, juggling car-pool duties, going to meetings, planning dinner, trying to wedge more into my day than twenty-four hours permitted. In one sense, my life would be fundamentally unchanged.
However, in another sense, my inner compass had already started to spin wildly out of control. Was there a conversion ceremony? That was a simple question. Was I who I thought I was? Not such a simple question.
Welcome to my not-so-simple life. My mother, whom I love early, has continually revised my life story within the context of a complicated family history that includes more than the usual share of divorce, stepchildren, dysfunction, and obfuscation, and I've spent most of my adult life attempting to deconstruct that history and separate fact from fiction, especially as the facts pertain to...me!
For example, my mother was at the helm of everything, including my career, my food intake, and how I dressed -- my whole life. I never questioned her or rebelled. Speaking out against the family was the ultimate form of disloyalty, and disloyalty was not tolerated. It was like the mafia. Although I never feared getting whacked, I was always just a little afraid of being sent back to wherever it was I came from.
So in an interview back when I was ten years old, I'd likely have said that everything was wonderful, everyone in my life was fantastic, was happy, and life was perfect. But most of that was untrue. Just as it wasn't true when I told a reporter in an interview three months after my mom's second husband suffered a brain hemorrhage that I had my crying moments, but I was pretty tough about that sort of thing.
The truth is that I never cried over my mom's second husband. I was never close to him. I never liked him. I didn't have any relationship with him. I was dragged to the hospital when he was sick to add cachet so the nurses would take better care of him. I know it was difficult for my mother, but I don't remember being upset about anything at the time.
Could I say that to the press? Absolutely not.
A large part of my life has been an illusion -- not an illusion crafted through carefully controlled media; it's more like light going through a prism, in that there's one story bent in numerous directions. There's my mother's version, there's the one in the press, there's the one I lived, and there's the one I'm still trying to figure out.
However, there are some facts. For instance, I am a twicemarried, now-sober former child actor and mother of four. I acquired those hyphenates by living the way I wanted to or needed to, hopefully with some grace and dignity. I made my share of mistakes, which I think of as the stones I stepped on to get to where I am today, and through luck, hard work, serious reflection, and a desire to face the truth about myself, I ended up at a place where I now enjoy the peace that comes from allowing myself to not be perfect.
Such was not always the case. My mother, beautiful, delicate, and deluded, saw me as the pillar of perfection -- and told me that I was the world's best actor, the best wife, the best...at everything. I knew I wasn't, but I lived my life as though I had to be, lest I disappoint her.
Today, I just want to be my best, and I don't fear disappointing anyone other than myself and my family. I'm in love with a good man, and my children are brave, funny, and compassionate people. I love the lines around my eyes, but I hate the way my cheeks are falling; I'm carrying around an extra ten pounds and enjoying it (most of the time). I suppose I am truly fat and happy.
I play drums, surf, and meditate. I'm in a peaceful state of mind most of the time. Though I am lucky enough to earn a living at a job I love, I'm also thinking about going back to school to get my RN or LVN in end-of-life pediatric care. I'm much better going forward than backward or sideways. I have no real plan, just general dreams.
It wasn't always like this. I wasn't always at peace. I wasn't always content to let life happen.
For my first couple of decades, there was fairy d...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
I didn't really enjoy reading about the ins and outs (pun intended) of ...
By Jean Pickard
Although this book held my interest, I didn't really enjoy reading about the ins and outs (pun intended) of her love life with every man she's ever known. If you are going to call your book "Prairie Tale", I think the majority of the subject matter should be about Little House. God forbid I let my pre-teen daughter read this!
113 of 130 people found the following review helpful.
Couldn't Put It Down!!!! GREAT Memoir for ANYONE from the '70s
By Blondzilla8
What can I say? I'm a SUCKER for dishy bios on the stars I grew up admiring and wanting to be. My boyfriend saw nothing but my face buried in this great book over one solid weekend.
Melissa Gilbert was one of the truly admirable teen idols back in the '70s and an extraordinarily talented actor to boot. Her story, much of what I already knew from keeping up with her Tiger Beat and People magazine interviews through the years, is incredible and this book just reminds us that what we may perceive as the audience members of someone else's supposed "perfect" life, may very well be quite the opposite.
Gilbert is honest, irreverent, hilariously funny, and even when she's "dropping names" it doesn't feel like anything except that she is grateful for knowing and working with the legends she refers to.
Michael Landon, Rob Lowe, Patty Duke.....all very important people to Melissa - the people who truly shaped her life respectively. And so many more......but it never feels pretentious or "I bet you wish you were me".....she is just 10000% REAL when revealing the ups and downs of her colorful life. And what a life. I am so glad she had the courage and moxy to put pen to paper and share it with the people who've followed her since she was the adorable little girl on "Little House."
I also hope that young, ambitious and up and coming actors read this book because Gilbert is also the picture of dedication and professionalism sans the ego that seems to follow this generation of performers.
Melissa Gilbert is an inspiration. Her life is a wonderful lesson in perseverance, loyalty, and not taking "no" for an answer when you know deep in your heart that there's a better one.
A must read!!!
118 of 136 people found the following review helpful.
Say it isn't so Half-Pint!
By Breakers
Melissa Gilbert has as many flaws as the rest of us and if you don't mind having her burst that bubble you'll get a good chuckle as she shares anecdotes involving the unbelievable behavior of some of Hollywood's familiar faces.
Melissa keeps her bumps in the road interesting and never once appears to be reaching out for pity as a means of distracting us from the unpleasantness in her life.
I would have preferred to keep her up on a pedestal but despite the revelations regarding her less than perfect behavior, the book kept my attention and moved along at a good pace. I especially enjoyed the snippy tidbits regarding Kent McCord, Valerie Harper and Sally Kirkland. I'll never be able to think of them the same again. Someone should write a comedy about the SAG meetings!
Lets hope the publicity from the book will bring Melissa back to prime time, or at least another TV movie.
This was a good summer read; you won't regret the purchase.
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