Introduction

“Karen Grassle’s memoir, BRIGHT LIGHTS, PRAIRIE DUST struck me in my deepest heart. It’s raw, it’s poignant, it’s a 100% authentic portrait of the real woman who will always be my ‘Ma.’ Thanks to this book, so many fans of our show will get to know her too.” —Melissa Gilbert, Actress Little House on the Prairie, Author

Karen Grassle, the beloved actress who played Ma on Little House on the Prairie, grew up at the edge of the Pacific Ocean in a family where love was plentiful but alcohol wreaked havoc. In this candid memoir, Grassle reveals her journey to succeed as an actress even as she struggles to overcome depression, combat her own dependence on alcohol, and find true love. With humor and hard-won wisdom, Grassle takes readers on an inspiring journey through the political turmoil on ’60s campuses, on to studies with some of the most celebrated artists at the famed London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts, and ultimately behind the curtains of Broadway stages and storied Hollywood sets. In these pages, readers meet actors and directors who have captivated us on screen and stage as they fall in love, betray and befriend, and don costumes only to reveal themselves. We know Karen Grassle best as the proud prairie woman Caroline Ingalls, with her quiet strength and devotion to family, but this memoir introduces readers to the complex, funny, rebellious, and soulful woman who, in addition to being the force behind those many strong women she played, fought passionately--as a writer, producer, and activist--on behalf of equal rights for women. Raw, emotional, and tender, Bright Lights celebrates and honors womanhood, in all its complexity.

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Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Smiling and signing, nodding and signing, smiling again; escaping now from the crowd, one more public appearance, one more drop-off exhausted at some airport—Where the heck am I anyway? A telethon in Tennessee? A mall in Missouri? Why? This has nothing to do with acting. I traveled after work Friday night, worked through Sunday, then boarded a flight back to California to film on Monday. God I need a drink! Careful, can’t miss my plane to San Francisco. There I would catch my ride to the location.

In first class, the stewardesses were pouring the wine before takeoff. My polite “Oh just a little please” kept me humming after what I gulped down at the airport. Sitting in the rear aisle next to some guy, I reached for my cigarettes before the No Smoking light blinked off. He lit my cigarette. Banalities about the beauty of San Francisco. Staying long? No, just one night. All was dark and shadowy, but the next thing I knew my new friend and I were making out while the other passengers watched a movie or slept. He invited me to his apartment for the night. I agreed.

Stuffed my swollen feet back into high heels. We deplaned together. In the hallway after baggage claim, bright lights smacked me awake. What am I doing? Oh no. Think fast: there—a ladies’ room. He started for the men’s. I dashed in, made a U, looked out—no guy—and ran crazily for the curb. There—a taxi. Bouncing my heavy bag against my thigh, I jumped in and gave the driver the name of the hotel. He wouldn’t take my traveler’s check and insulted my—what? my hair? It needed washing. I was belligerent, knew I was a mess. I hid my shame by calling him provincial, scrawled a check, scrammed. Tried to stand tall at the desk—just give me the key, if I can just get to the room. Hold on. Solitude soon. But when I closed the door, loneliness whacks like a wall of ice. Hungry. No food. Just bathe and get to bed.

Gasp. Splash. Oh. Fell asleep in the tub. The water tepid, I dragged the body out and into bed, called someone, someone who cared, soothed. I didn’t tell about the guy on the plane, just the mean cabbie. Rambling . . . keeping the black hole at bay, telephone receiver growing heavy. I knew to ask for two wake-up calls and set the travel clock across the room. Gathering darkness of unconsciousness, slack-jawed, I held the small rag doll I called Sunny in the hollow by my shoulder . . . and out.

Morning. Oh God, this is bad. I struggled to standing, got into my jeans and warm sweater for the trip to Sonora. Coming up: winter scenes. I was sick. Entire bloodstream felt poisoned. My usually cast-iron stomach queasy. Couldn’t make it down the hall for ice to cool the hot, red coals that were my eyes. Splashed cold water on my face to revive. I retrieved yesterday’s celebrity outfit from the chair and the floor, grabbed panty hose, packed heels, then tucked the little doll into my suitcase. The guy! Adrenaline shot to my fingertips. Almost didn’t make it here. Close call. How did I get like this?

Gary was fresh and ready for the journey. The Gold Country would be a welcome change from the office at Paramount, where he crunched the numbers. Breakfast? No. No time. He’d eaten. I swallowed my need. As we crossed the Bay Bridge, my head twisted toward Berkeley, dear birthplace—I discovered my calling and awakened as a citizen there. I lamented silently my losses: idealism, Shakespeare, like-minded friends, aspirations to make a difference. What happened? I had been so dedicated. My love of work I thought would protect me. Bankrupt. To distract myself from myself, I asked Gary questions about the economy— What makes it work? It seemed it ran on faith. Faith that people believed it was working made it work. Interesting notion. Long time since I felt any faith.

We passed Sonora and climbed up the steep mountain to the snowy location. I greeted everybody, and they were glad to see me. Freezing air was a welcome tonic. Deep breath. I got a coffee and trudged to the makeup trailer, where Larry and Whitey put me back together and I came out of their caring cocoon with the head of Ma. Then the wool skirt and Ma’s boots and I’d be back in the saddle. Playing strength of character, integrity, kindness, fortitude. Acting. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. How did you relate to the Mother/Father figures?
2. What did you think of Karen quitting school?
3. What did you think of the sexual revolution?
4. Have you ever wanted to participate in a protest or a march?
5. Did you get bored in the section in London?
6. How worried were you when she was going to quit show biz?
7. What did you think of the Michael Landon character?
8. Why do you think the author said so little about the children?
9. Were you surprised she went so far down with her drinking?
10. How surprised were you at the Father’s death?
11. Were you moved by this story?
12. What is the important lesson from this memoir?

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