Free Confessions of a Prairie Bitch by Alison Arngrim

the fact that she was holding the samurai sword that Uncle Beach had brought home from World War II. The burglar likely didn’t feel up to confronting a woman who could stand there in a fuzzy pink housecoat, clutching a three-foot steel blade, and exhibit no fear whatsoever. So there was no doubt, as I braved my first day on the set, that I was in the best possible hands.
    A few days after the wardrobe fitting, it was time to film my first episode, “Country Girls.” This was actually the third episode of Little House —Nellie didn’t make an appearance until then because the Ingalls are busy braving storms, fires, hostile Native Americans, etc., all en route to settling in Minnesota. In my episode they’re finally living in the Little House, and Mary and Laura are off to school, where they have to battle an even more terrible force: that would be me.
    The first person we met on arrival at the set was Reed Rummage. Yes, that was his name, poor man. He was wearing polyester pants with a short-sleeved shirt, bearing some sort of stain (mustard?), tucked in. He had the utterly thankless job of second AD, or assistant director. This position has very little to do with “directing” as most people think of it, and everything to do with desperately trying to keep things on schedule, figuring out where the hell the actors and crew disappeared to after lunch, and generally yelling at people. It’s more of a factory floor foreman–type job. He was quickly nicknamed Reed Rubbish.
    I was, thank heavens, not only on time, but early. Number one item on this man’s job description was “screaming at people who are late.” A good set boasts a well-defined chain of command. If several of the actors go missing or something is wrong with the shooting schedule, a director or producer doesn’t want to yell at a bunch of different people, so he just yells at the second AD. Hence, Reed Rubbish’s constantly pained expression and flawless timekeeping. He actually carried a stopwatch and a clipboard like some kind of demented gym teacher. (“You are three and one-half minutes late!”)
    Reed greeted us not with “Good morning” or “Welcome to our set” or any such pleasantry one might fantasize about hearing if one were to arrive for one’s first day starring on a TV show. The moment my aunt explained who we were, he looked me up and down, glanced at her, and barked, “This child’s hair is supposed to be in curlers! Why isn’t she in curlers?” We hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. They had never mentioned this when I was in wardrobe, and I had endured no hair or makeup tests like in the old studio days. I wasn’t even aware of Nellie’s whole “ringlet” issue, not having read the books. Reed then began snarling into a walkie-talkie to someone about my not being in curlers. My aunt desperately tried to explain that we really had not been told this, and, of course, had we been informed, we would have gladly complied.
    He finally let out a long-suffering sigh and said, “Okay, never mind. Go get dressed!” We scurried away to my dressing room. With all of the gigantic Little House sets, the soundstage was not big enough to accommodate the dressing rooms. So we had to go out the back door, often into the rain, onto what appeared to be a loading dock of some kind, and walk down a wooden plank until we reached a series of small wooden structures. Each dressing room was maybe ten feet deep at most and about five feet wide. Mine contained a beat-up old motel couch, two end tables with a truly ugly lamp on one of them, a makeup table (more like a very small desk, really), and an old, rickety wooden chair. There was an old-fashioned wooden cupboard in the corner that held my costumes. I couldn’t decide whether it more resembled a small suite in a skid row hotel or a big bedroom in a mobile home. But, hey, it was clean and dry, and within a few weeks, I would find the sight of this room at the end of a