Free Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert Page A

chatted, she opened the door for me to ask her anything. So, being kind of guileless, I asked her why she needed a teleprompter and how come she couldn’t remember her lines.
    She explained what had happened to her, and more specifically what had happened to her brain.
    “It’s difficult for me because I only recently learned to walk again,” she said. “I still have to think right-left-right-left. And when my brain is busy thinking right-left-right, it forgets everything else.”
    She gave me a lovely doll as a wrap gift, but more than the doll she gave me information and stuff to think about. In fact, I remember being profoundly moved and almost a little confused by her openness. We didn’t discuss anything that openly at my house. My father’s stroke wasn’t mentioned. It had been bad, but he’d recovered, and now that he was back on the road we didn’t have to think about it.
    Or we weren’t supposed to. But I still worried and wondered, and those thoughts rattled around my head until I spoke to Patricia. She told me more about having a stroke than anyone else did, including my own father. She let me see it was possible to recover, which enabled me in a sense to exhale. I didn’t have to be scared all the time about my daddy.
    I still think about the way Patricia’s honesty cast a light on life, ridding it of some of my deeper and darker fears. I loved her for it. I’m one of those people who believe everything, good and bad, happens for a reason. You’re always in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. And so I believe that the universe sent Patricia into my life when I needed her.
     
     
    I also needed braces for my legendary buck teeth. Michael Landon once said I could eat an apple through a picket fence, and he was being kind. I could literally bite down and with my teeth clenched, stick my thumb between my bottom and top teeth. My father insisted on paying for my orthodontics even though I earned a nice paycheck; I’m pretty sure it was because my daddy was a proud man, and there was no way he’d let me pay for anything, and because he was staunchly against our family falling into the traps child stardom (and the money that goes along with it) can bring. I never got the chance to ask him. He kept himself booked on those cruise ships and worked hard when he probably should’ve taken it easier.
    I missed my dad. I know that no one knew how much I missed him. I wouldn’t dare say it out loud, as it might’ve hurt Harold’s feelings and upset my mom. But I wished every day and prayed every night that I could spend more time with him. I do see now how lucky I was to have a wonderful daddy substitute in Mike. Our relationship continued to grow even tighter, though there were still the inevitable growing pains. For instance, one day, as we shot an emotional scene for the episode titled “The Gift,” I sensed his famous temper was about to blow.
    It was my fault. I couldn’t remember my lines.
    There was nothing I feared more than disappointing him. From the moment he chose me for the role of Half Pint on Little House, I felt a connection to him that transcended our TV relationship and made me want to please him. Plus, his anger was terrifying, and having witnessed it, I never wanted to be on the receiving end. But I thought I might be about to experience it after he called cut for the third time and turned to me with a look that sent a shiver up my spine. He was able to take it down a notch before leaning close to me.
    “Half Pint, do you not know your lines?” he asked in a measured voice. “Did you not study the scene?”
    I lost it. Tears gushed. I stammered while searching for an explanation, but all the words jammed on my tongue. Nothing came out but an apologetic wail.
    “Okay, okay, okay,” he said, switching gears. “Just calm down. Take a breath—a big, deep breath.” He leaned back and swiveled toward the crew. “Give me a script and then everybody go for a