My Prairie Cookbook (8 page)

I met Michael Landon in the winter of 1973. He was a huge TV star. I was a little kid from the San Fernando Valley. I had no idea who he was. All I knew was that my family was making an awfully big deal out of the fact that I was going to meet him.

When the moment came that I first walked into the casting office and saw him, I knew why everyone had made such a big deal about him. He was magnetic, warm, charming, and super funny. The moment I looked into his eyes, I felt safe. He was one of those people whose smile lights up their whole self. Not just their mouth. His smile went all the way to the top of his head. He also didn't talk to me like I was just a kid. He talked to me like I was his peer. He made me feel like he respected my ability as a professional, and that made me want to do even better, go even further in our scenes.

I didn't know it at the time, but that first moment with Mike would be one of the defining moments of my life. We struck up an instant friendship. I would even
go so far as to call it a kinship. Whenever I was with him, I believed completely that I was his Half-Pint and he was my Pa.

Everything I know and honor about being a professional in my industry, I learned from him. Mike was an extraordinary filmmaker. He had this amazing ability to envision a story that would move millions of people, and then put his pen to paper, write it, and mold it into grade-A entertainment—all the while infusing his work with messages about family, community, faith, and love.

Mike was a perfectionist. He did not suffer fools easily. He would give everyone a chance to learn, to step up and deliver. He nurtured everyone around him, but if they didn't deliver or fooled around too much or didn't know their lines or treated someone on his crew disrespectfully, they were gone. Those of us who worked within the parameters he set up for us as professionals found ourselves in the glow of his generous and loving praise. He really made us want to do well for him.

I also learned lessons from him about life, family, and love.

He worked crazy hours all the time, but I'd sometimes spend the night at his house because his kids were my closest friends—especially Leslie. He was very hands-on with us kids—watching scary movies with us, popping popcorn, and giving us crazy amounts of candy. His favorite—and mine—were jelly beans, especially the black ones. We'd save them up and share them with each other.

Mike had the greatest laugh you'd ever want to hear. It was infectious. When he laughed, I could see the boy that he once was. He was so full of mischief, and yet, when it was time to buckle down and do the work, he did it. And he did it brilliantly.

There really hasn't been another person like him in our business. Nor has there been another person like him in my life. I loved him. I loved him as a mentor, as a friend, and as my Pa. I always, always will.