The truth is, Gidget’s “other side of the glass” world was a one-dimensional illusion with laugh tracks, dealing only superficially with the life of a teenage girl and her widowed father—a world where his wife, Gidget’s mother, remained curiously unmentioned. But it didn’t matter to me. It was like feeding a three-course meal to a starving person, and the main course of that meal was Frances (aka Gidget) Lawrence’s father, Russell. A father who was safe and caring, a father whom she felt so completely comfortable being near she could actually ignore, whereas he never ignored her—very different from either of the fathers on my side of the glass. Whenever I stepped through, there he was: Gidget’s father, played by Don Porter.
From the first moment we met, Don put his protective arm around me, while at the same time always treating me with respect as if I were a weathered professional, which he was and I wasn’t. He never seemed upset that I, a rank newcomer, had most of the page count in every episode, and if he had a problem with the lack of interesting story lines for his character, I never felt his dissatisfaction. He just quietly watched out for me. And in return, I never tuned out, never had a foggy moment. Well, not many. Occasionally we’d have a table read for the next episode to be shot, which meant that all the actors—plus the writers, producers, and director—would sit around a long table and read out loud that “hot off the presses” screenplay. It was the only time the fog rolled in, making my mind a total blank. I’d look at words I used every day, simple words, and not be able to remember what they were. How Don did it, I don’t know—maybe I was easier to read than the script—but he always made sure we sat together so that he could whisper the word to me before I fumbled or stumbled or mispronounced it so badly that everyone roared with laughter. The laughs that came out of the show were great, Gidget’s laughs, but this laughter felt as though it came from the other side of the looking glass, aimed directly at little Doodle. Don was my safety net, a constant and quiet friend. And in this new territory I could barely react. I never thanked him, not really. I wish I had.
Most of the day I was so joyously buoyant that I couldn’t sit down, and whether she was rummaging through the kitchen or running up the stairs or pacing around while talking on her pink princess phone, Gidget never sat still either. Occasionally she’d flop down on her bed, sticking her feet in the air, but other than that, she and I were constantly on the move. As I look back on it now, I see my eighteen-year-old self soaking in the information that everyone had to give: the other actors, the director, and the ubiquitous crew, who for me have always been an important part of acting in front of a camera—something I was just learning at the time. I was enveloped in the feeling of not being alone, of being surrounded by people all working toward the same goal, which really was as simple as getting through the day’s work with enough skill to be asked back the following day. We were all on the same team.
From the barely dawn morning, when I’d drive onto the Columbia lot, until long after the sun had set, I lived in Gidget’s world. Then I’d climb back into my newly purchased yellow MGB, carefully work the frighteningly unfamiliar stick shift, and drive back through the looking glass into Sally’s world—where my feet hurt so bad I thought of putting them in a pan of hot water and Epsom salts, the way Aunt Gladys always did. Unlike Gidget’s bright, cheery home with a welcoming father, I lived in a dank, unfamiliar house with a family who didn’t look like themselves anymore. My sister towered over me, giving the impression of a soon-to-be-gorgeous sixteen-year-old, rather than the bewildered twelve-year-old she really was. Jocko seemed less physically changed, other than his hair thinning on top and graying on the sides, although if he was not off doing a personal appearance at a fair or rodeo or God knows what, then he moved through the house like he weighed four hundred pounds, as opposed to his lithe two-hundred-something. But when I flip through the photos of that time, it’s the changes in my mother that are hard to look at, that hurt to see, even now. The combination of vodka and swallowed emotions had thickened her body and bloated her delicate face, making her look like a biscuit rising in the hot oven. I always wondered if unconsciously she didn’t want to be beautiful anymore and had just closed up shop.
When I was thirteen I read T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” while lying on the floor next to the bookshelves in the Libbit house and one line, “rats’ feet over broken glass” has gone round and round in my head ever since. That was the feeling hovering throughout this house, as if there were something horrific hidden in the basement, perhaps a dead body; except we had no basement. And it was to this “rats’ feet over broken glass” house—long before the show went on the air—that fan magazine photographers started showing up on prearranged Saturdays with assignment editors in tow. Screen Gems needed publicity for the unknown actor starring in their new ABC series, and whether for Screenland or Photoplay or Teen Talk, the task was to create a cute two-or three-page story, loosely based on the interview I was required to do during the week. Still wearing the wardrobe, I’d drive from the studio to Scandia or the Brown Derby for lunch and in Gidget’s lime-green pedal pushers I’d proceed to have an overly animated conversation with the weary, uninterested writer who’d been given the assignment. But no matter how I had answered their questions, always careful to paint an appropriate home life, what was ultimately printed barely resembled anything I’d said, resulting in stories entitled “Gidget at the Crossroads,” or “The Night Sally Field Proved She Was a Woman,” or “Do It If You Must but He’ll Hate You in the Morning.”
As I look at the faded, brownish pictures of my family scattered through these magazines it makes me almost physically ill. We’re all walking toward the camera with our arms around each other and Jocko is in the middle, smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world, or we’re leaning on a fence and he’s looking down at me while I hold his hand as though it were my idea. In all of them my sweet sister floats around the edges, just wanting to be included, and if Baa is in the picture, then she looks uninvolved and blank-eyed. In one awkward shot, Jocko is lying on the floor with his knees bent, but instead of demanding that I stand in his hands so he can lift me over his head, he wants me to stand on his knees, though for what reason, I don’t know. Princess, trying to be helpful, is standing next to me, bracing my unsteady attempt, and we’re all laughing—or what looks like laughing. They’re the same kind of stiffly posed photos that were taken of our “happy little group” when I was six, except Ricky’s not present and—as hard as he may try—Jocko’s not the focus anymore. I am.
A happy family, fan magazine style.
Then early Monday morning, off to the other side of the looking glass I’d go.