Might as Well Laugh About It Now (17 page)

There were no cell phones yet, or instant messaging or World Wide Web, in either LA or Orem, but at least in LA the lead story on the evening news wasn’t about an agriculture class raising alpacas.

Driving wagon-train style in our packed-up cars towing multiple trailers along I-15, heading northeast across the desert, I knew that I was saying good-bye to the exciting lifestyle that I was really just getting into. Now, as a parent, I can see how that was the main reason my father wanted to get us “out” of LA. Donny and I were the youngest-ever television hosts (and we still hold that record), and between us we had an estimated value of over $40 million. But our estimated value didn’t matter to our parents—our values did.

Our parents weren’t concerned if we understood high fashion, gourmet food, how to pose for the paparazzi, or the newest “glam rock” music craze. They wanted us to be people of integrity with a rock-solid foundation in faith and family. They knew that the value of both is more easily understood through working hard and having a humble heart. Heaven knows I had worked hard to keep us residing in LA, but now my heart was definitely being humbled on that road to Utah.

The Osmond Studios were built and the
Donny and Marie
show started a new season . . . taped live in Orem, Utah, with Mount Timpanogos replacing the famous Hollywood sign as the scenery we saw every day on our way to work. Mount Timpanogos resembles the profile of a sleeping woman. Other legends tell (and I’m not kidding on this one) that the mountain was named for an Indian maiden who died of grief after being forced to separate from her love. I wondered if she was forced to leave LA, too.

Our new studio became the venue for new life lessons. Not only did my brothers and I perform in the shows, but we performed almost every task needed to make the shows happen, from choreographing dance numbers to stocking concessions, engineering the sound, writing songs, and even painting the walls. Our new catered food meant remembering to boil a couple of eggs before we left home for the day and bringing them to the studio with us. Any time we didn’t have a microphone in hand onstage, chances were we were holding a toilet brush or a broom and putting it to use backstage. In the course of an hour I could go from being in the spotlight wearing a Bob Mackie designer gown to sporting bright yellow gloves designed by Rubbermaid, scrubbing the spots off the bathroom mirrors.

One night I arrived back home, exhausted from a full day of studying my schoolwork with a tutor, then rehearsing songs, sketches, and dance moves. I was ready for one thing—collapsing in bed.

My mother greeted me at the door, her face full of enthusiasm and her hands powdered with white flour.

“Hi, honey. Are you ready to learn to bake bread? This will be a good skill to know when you have children. Singing to them won’t fill their hungry tummies,” she said, pointing me to an extra apron hanging from a hook near the stove.

“It’s ten o’clock at night!” I protested.

She replied, unfazed, “Remember the earthquake? Ten o’clock. It’s a good time to get busy.” We were always taught to respect our mother, no matter what. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t “think” things.

Once I got past the thought “No one expects Olivia Newton-John to knead dough at the end of a long day,” I actually began to enjoy the process. Bread making is elemental: the flour, the salt, the yeast, the honey, and the water, very back to basics. In her wisdom, my mother knew that if I could appreciate the ingredients, then I would never take the finished product for granted. She was wise enough to engage me in an activity where working with our hands gave us the opportunity to speak from the heart. And once in a while we could take out some frustrations with a punch or two to the rising dough. I loved those times my mom and I would talk together.

It’s a beneficial approach I’ve used many times with my own teenagers. The best way to get them to “download” is to get them busy with a project. (I use crafting, cooking, sewing, playing board games, rearranging furniture, making smoothies in the blender, anything that does not involve a computer.)

Our bread, fresh from the oven, didn’t last long once my brothers picked up the scent. No wonder, to this day, I can never go to sleep before one a.m. My ingrained behavior pattern is coaxing me: “It’s ten o’clock!!! Let’s make something. Cinnamon rolls!”

My father, with his military background, could be a tough taskmaster, as well. But he wasn’t just being tough for the sake of it. He always wanted his children to be able to handle any situation with common sense and some elbow grease. My brothers and I commiserated and laughed together about having to do things like stock the paper towels, put away costumes, sweep the floors, and carry out the trash, but no matter what the chore we were all still working together, persevering, figuring out the best way to accomplish a goal that served the entire group. I understand now that he was really working our heart muscles.

A number of journalists, biographers, and entertainment professionals have commented on the Osmond endurance in show business, where fifteen minutes of fame is more often the rule of thumb. As I think about it now, we may have had a run of great “star” years if we had stayed in LA, but the move back to Utah and the chance to ponder the meaning of my life under those starry mountain skies changed me permanently. Those young, hard years gave us the backbone, determination and the kind of “work until it’s all done” ethic that gave us a shot at lasting in the entertainment business for decades.

A year or two before my mother could no longer travel due to the effects of her strokes, she came for one of her many visits to be with her “grandbabies.” My kids loved to have Grandma stay at our house because she always had a fun project or two . . . or three or four . . . ready to go. One evening, I arrived home from the airport after signing dolls at a retail store in North Caro lina. It was past the kids’ bedtime, so I expected to come in to a sleeping household, climb the stairs and crawl into bed. Much to my surprise, Jessica and Rachael, who were preteens at the time, met me at the door, their shirts splotched with flour. Brianna and Brandon, the toddlers, were close behind and grabbed me around the knees with jelly-covered hands.

“We made bwwwed!” Brandon grinned up at me. “Wiss Gwwwannma! And me. And Waychol. And Yes sika. And Bweeauna. And Bweeauna’s verwee messy.”

And I said: “Wealwee?”

With eight children, you learn to speak each of their languages. Is there a Rosetta Stone for that?

The aroma in the air almost made me cry with joy. I couldn’t wait to sit down with my mom and kids and have a warm slice with melting butter and jelly. That’s when my mother walked toward me, drying off her hands with a dish towel, and said, “Take a nice, long whiff. Because that’s all that is left!” The bread that took ninety minutes to make only lasted for three minutes before being devoured by my children. It was okay by me. I was pretty sure that even though they had scarfed down every bit of fresh baked bread, they had hopefully ingested some of the extremely valuable age-old life lessons that I had learned from my mom too.

My mother put a pan of milk on the stove to make me some hot chocolate as a consolation prize. And though she was yawning and tired from giving hours of time and attention to my young children, she still wanted to hear all about my day. As we dunked marshmallows under the warmed milk in our mugs, she said, “It’s ten o’clock. We can talk while we clean out the storage room.”

I miss you, Mom!!!

Let in the Joy

The perfect final appearance for my brothers’ Fiftieth Anniversary in Entertainment tour and celebration. We had the great privilege of performing with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. As pictured, from left to right, all of my dear brothers. Seated: Tom, Alan, Wayne, Virl. Standing: Merrill, Jimmy, Donny, Jay.

“Who is that?!” my preschooler, Abby, asked me, crinkling her nose in confusion as she pointed to a man who looked absolutely lost in the middle of Chicago’s Midway Airport. He was smoothing down his wispy white hair across the top of his head as his eyes intently took in the crowd. His face looked eager and endearing in a way that I recognized well.

“He’s your uncle,” I said, hoisting a
Dora the Explorer
wheelie bag onto the security scanner. “Remember?”

“Another one?” Abby asked me, astonished.

“Yes, sweetheart. Your uncle Wayne.”

“Uncle Wayne,” Abby repeated, very seriously. “Why does he keep going around in circles?”

I told her, “Oh, he’s just looking for someone who will listen to his jokes.”

“Don’t smile at him, Abigail!” my older teenager instructed her youngest sister. “I’ve already heard all of the jokes and I can’t fake laugh right now.” Rachael tugged her newsboy cap down almost over her eyes, which were suffering from a five a.m. wake-up call. Knowing that Wayne takes any eye contact as an invitation to spill out his endless library of one-liners, she attempted to discourage the barrage.

Abby tucked her face behind the hem of my coat and peeked out at Wayne with engrossed curiosity.

“Rachael, stop,” I said. “You’re going to make Abby think Wayne is crazy.”

“Me?” Rachael responded. “Me? You always introduce him as ‘My Crazy Brother, Wayne.’ You did it on
Oprah
, Mother!”

She’s right. I did. But it wasn’t meant as an insult. After all, it takes one to know one.

Wayne walks, talks, and breathes jokes. He consumes jokes like my kids consume pizza-flavored Goldfish crackers, by the mouthful. Voice mails from Wayne are always three or four one-liners, followed by the real reason for calling. Wayne loves the sound of laughter as much as I do. I couldn’t love him more.

“I’m entitled to tease him. I’m his sister,” I said, defending my behavior.

Abby tugged on my purse strap. “Mommy, Uncle Jimmy is your brother, too. Right?”

My little Abby was trying her best to figure out her family ties, and our trip to Chicago to appear on Oprah’s show was like a two-day crash course in Osmond connections.

Oprah had us on her show to commemorate the Osmonds’ fiftieth anniversary in entertainment. She chartered a large commercial jet to fly our family all together, had three huge buses to transport us, rented out an entire hotel to house us, brought in a “mile-long” buffet table and trucked in acres of food (!) to feed us: over one hundred Osmonds, plus about twenty extra people, including mothers-in-law, assistants, managers, and a babysitter or two.

As Oprah had reminded her audience: It all started in 1961 with Alan, Wayne, Merrill, and Jay performing in their first appearance at Disneyland. Since then, members of the Osmond family have collectively sold over 150 million records, had numerous number-one singles (individually and together), hosted scores of television episodes, founded national charities, produced touring shows, headlined Las Vegas shows, opened a theater in Branson, written books, and started multiple businesses.

The branches on our family tree have never been pruned! It all seemed impossible to describe to Abby how her grandma and grandpa had nine children: eight boys and one girl, her uncles and her mommy. And those nine children went on to have fifty-five children, Abby being one of the youngest. And those fifty-five children have now had forty-nine children of their own, with one or two or seven new ones appearing every year.