Life Is Not a Stage Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Photographs

  Copyright Page

  To my children, who inspire me and teach me about love every day

  To my grandchildren, who fill my life with light and joy

  And to my sister Emily, who has walked every step of the way with me

  Acknowledgments

  As I will mention in the introduction to this book, there were many reasons why the idea of writing a memoir was a daunting task that I had avoided for years. But just as it has often happened throughout the course of my life, the support and help I needed to move forward seemed to manifest once I truly committed. Here are some of those special people to whom I am so grateful:

  Joel Brokaw put a lot of miles on his tires over many months to work with me to put my thoughts and words on the page. His sensitivity, dedication, and patience made the process far easier and more enjoyable than I could have envisioned.

  David Brokaw and Rick Hersh came forward to suggest the idea that the time was right and found a publishing home for it.

  My friend Ruth Helen truly understands and taught me the meaning of the word “friend.”

  Kayla Pressman was there as always with her steadfast hand and keen oversight. She has been a cornerstone of friendship and professionalism in my life for almost forty years.

  My brothers and sisters have loved me and supported me unconditionally.

  Christina Boys brought her loving red pen to the process. Every author should have such an enthusiastic, supportive, and adroit editor. Rolf Zettersten, the publisher of Center Street, believed in the potential for the book and made it all happen.

  The Orland family—Paul and Malcolm—manage my business affairs as they have for over half a century.

  Cheryl O’Neil, my hypnotherapist and friend who was trained by my husband John, has helped me over many a rough spot.

  Araceli (Shelley) Loza and Angela Burton are my indispensable and loving in-house support team. They run a tight ship.

  It would take many pages to express my gratitude and appreciation for all the friends who have blessed my life. Many of these relationships have lasted almost my entire lifetime while some are more recent. Their loyalty, acceptance, love, and kindness have been a constant in both good and more challenging times.

  Teachers continue to inspire and excite me about how much more there is to learn and discover. Whether it was during my school years, professional training, or in unexpected forms in my everyday encounters today, I have been so thankful for the many ways teachers have turned up in my life and continue to share important lessons.

  Lastly, special thanks go to the fans, some of whom have been part of my life since the beginning of my career. To the newer and younger ones who have recently discovered me on the tube and think I’m still thirty-five years old, you don’t know how good you make me feel.

  INTRODUCTION

  It Will Never Be Noticed on a Galloping Horse

  Meet me at Route 2 and Darby Lane by the blue mailbox. I can’t be with my family anymore. I’ll be there waiting for you. Please take me away with you.”

  So reads a recent letter from a young girl that is not unlike hundreds of others I’ve received over the last four decades. Between 1969 and 1974, I played the role of Carol Brady on a television show called The Brady Bunch that hit a deep chord with millions of people around the world across all cultures. Astoundingly, it has never been off the airwaves over the past forty years. That is why the letters and e-mails such as this one keep coming.

  I have taken each and every one of these letters to heart, deep in my soul. You see, what I have kept private for all these years is that I too was one of those children waiting at the crossroads. My real family, although similarly large in size, was the polar opposite of the Bradys. Truth be told, Carol Brady came alive in my portrayal because she too was the mother that both I and the young girl who wrote me the letter so desperately wished we had.

  Throughout the years I resisted offers and simply sidestepped the whole topic of writing an autobiography. Most accepted my excuse that I was too busy to sit down and write a book, since my hectic schedule spoke for itself. I had followed my mother’s advice all too well, words I first remember hearing when I was a little girl no more than six years old.

  “I can’t wear this to school, Mother,” I cried, referring to a dress that was made out of feed sacks. In the 1930s, bags of flour, seeds, and oatmeal came in colorful muslin patterns as a sales incentive because many Depression-era families could not afford to buy new cloth or ready-made dresses. The fabric was bright although mismatched, but worst was how the bottom ruffle was partially missing. It left a gaping hole in the front and made the dress stick out like a sore thumb. “Please don’t make me wear it! Everybody at school will make fun of me.”

  “Of course you’re going to wear it. That’s all you have. Think nothing of it. It will never be noticed on a galloping horse.”

  Those words grew to have enormous meaning in my life. In fact, they were so pervasive, I almost used them as the title of this book. They were a way to deal with adversity and a standard operating procedure for a good part of my life. When terrible things happened, they dictated that no matter what, you picked yourself up and put yourself back in the saddle. You got busy and you stayed busy. But as the stories in this book will testify, that is only a temporary solution.

  Not writing this book was also symbolic of an avoidance of a larger issue that I hadn’t been prepared to deal with nor had summoned sufficient courage to heal. It is what kept me in constant motion on that galloping horse, relentlessly kicking up dust so I couldn’t easily see the truth.

  Why dredge up the past? Am I prepared to discuss difficult and uncomfortable things about parents, family members, friends, colleagues, and of course, about myself? Wouldn’t it be better for those memories just to rest in peace? What’s the point? I had plenty of good excuses not to write a book. But one thought countered them. Perhaps the connection that Carol Brady opened up in the hearts and minds of millions was just preparation, a gateway for me to do more. Perhaps my story could inspire and help others who continue to face similar challenges in their lives.

  I realized that all my doubts about doing a book were completely normal for someone who as a young child had endured abuse and abandonment because of alcoholism. We suffer a guilt syndrome in one form or another because we were so powerless to help at the time. If we’re not paralyzed by fear, anger, and hatred, or numbed by our own addictions, we have to overcome deep-seated reactive patterns. In addition to being workaholics who are stuck on the galloping horse, some of us also grow up to become control freaks to keep real and imagined chaos away. Others become gregarious caregivers trying to please everybody, except ourselves. And many, including yours truly, end up doing most of the above!

  This book is written as a natural consequence of forgiveness and compassion, not only for those whose actions may have caused harm, but most important, for myself. I say this because victims have to forgive themselves for what they did or didn’t do in response or for holding on to negative emotions like sadness, anger, and hatred. I too have made my fair share of mistakes and gone through periods of personal turmoil that certainly created upheaval around me. Without that sense of honesty and forgiveness, it is nearly impossible to clean the slate and move forward to a happier and healthier life.

  I’ve chosen not to go into any great detail about my childhood up to this point for a very simple reason. I wasn’t comfortable talking about it. I have come to realize that my decades-long silence was a classic pattern of normal response to an abnormal circumstance of deprivation and neglect. It is a syndrome that millions of others, both children and
grown-ups, may be dealing with at this very moment, regardless of whether it is happening right now, stuck in constant flashback, or, worse yet, recycled in continuing and escalating drama in our lives.

  At the heart of my silence is the sense of guilt that I surely felt as a little girl living under such conditions. Realistically, a small child living in an abusive environment has few choices and little power to change things. That guilt keeps the victim not just quiet but makes them seek out the approval and affection of the abuser. “Perhaps it was all my fault.” “If only I could have done more.” So thinks the child so often in that situation. It is no wonder why I so gladly took on the role of a relentless caregiver in relationships later on.

  Regarding my parents, I came to accept that they were coping the best they could with the hand they were dealt. If Joseph and Elizabeth Henderson could read the pages that speak of their lives, I hope they would view the content as healing for themselves as well. Who knows how far back the cycle of dysfunction had gone unchecked through generations of their ancestors. There were many things that remained largely unspoken during their lifetimes that I hope these pages might serve to bring forward and clarify.

  Obviously, this is not a book about only the good times and success I’ve had. Yes, I have had a lot of laughs along the way, and I trust you will see in these pages how my sense of humor has been a steadfast companion throughout it all. What’s more important is what happened when things were not good and how adversity was handled. Our choices in those moments have important and often dramatic consequences. Any success I’ve had has drawn upon the lessons learned and strength tempered through difficult times. Out of that mix of drama and pathos, comedy and farce, and laughter and tears that make up our daily lives, I hope my story will remind us that no matter how serious or dire our situations may be, each of us has unbounded potential to transcend the most formidable of obstacles.

  The book will also deal with some of the more significant health challenges I’ve faced and conquered. I’ll speak specifically about bouts of postpartum depression, hearing loss, and heart problems. You don’t have to scratch the surface so deeply to see how the mind, body, and spirit are so indelibly linked. I share these too with the spirit that they will awaken a greater awareness of how imbalances in our lives find expression in our weakest links.

  It took a long time, but I was ultimately able to create a life of more profound joy and purpose. The process has not been easy, you’ll understand in frank detail as you read on. Although my life has been a dream come true in so many ways, success didn’t make all my problems go away. Reliving things in the writing of this book that happened many decades ago has brought back a mix of fond memories and others that I’d have rather chosen to forget. The lumps in my throat and tears in my eyes remind me that much sadness still remains.

  I know that for the rest of my life I will remain a work in progress, with wounds still to heal and lingering pain in old scars. But thankfully, I did something about it. Piercing through the many protective layers of illusion does require painful self-examination and a fair measure of courage. I have learned it takes courage to be happy. But as we begin to make progress, we see how much easier it is to begin to connect the dots and make better sense of our chaotic journeys. Surprisingly, I realized how much energy it took to hold back all the things in my mind that I thought were terrible and wanted to hide. Looking back, I sometimes want to cringe at all the mistakes I readily made in the pathology of those circumstances. But hang in there. There is a reward, because the end product is unmistakable—an ever-expanding state of joy and fulfillment bound up in the daily adventure of our lives.

  When I was seventeen years old, I stood at the crossroads. All I had was a suitcase, a talent for singing, naïve ambition, a scholarship, and a one-way ticket on a small DC-6 plane bound for New York City. As you will learn in the next few pages, I was very fortunate to be there, to have survived given everything that had happened to me in my young life. Unbelievably, doors would open quickly. My talent would soon be discovered and I would be taken under the wing of Rodgers and Hammerstein and the other giants of Broadway. Television also beckoned, and good fortune followed me there too. But through it all, I feel in some ways that I still remain that hopeful, wide-eyed, and excited teenager on that first trip to New York City, eager to explore the farthest boundaries of where our talents and our determination can take us.

  What I hope will come through to you on these pages is how I cherish my past, both the good and the bad. It has made me who I am. It has given me the gift of knowing how every day there is something joyful to discover. I love living in the present. I am fascinated by the people I meet every day. I love studying how they behave and how they think.

  A short time ago, I was in St. Louis visiting my son and his family. I was staying at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The doorman, a tall man, came over to me when I was standing outside in front of the hotel.

  “Are you being picked up?” he asked me.

  “Yes.” I told him that I was waiting for my son.

  “Would you like to sit over there?” He pointed at a comfortable chair just inside the lobby.

  “No, I’m loving looking at the trees. The air is so refreshing.”

  “I could tell,” he replied. “You’re very serene and peaceful.” As I took my sunglasses off to look at him, he looked at me and said very calmly and assuredly, “I see heaven in those eyes.” His words hit me deeply because I knew what he meant. When we take the moment to look into the eyes of another person, even a stranger we may never see again, we understand how it is a golden opportunity to learn.

  He had no idea who I was. Being Florence Henderson or Carol Brady didn’t matter to him. I learned his name was Dewitt, and he turned out to be a very wise man. Each morning I came down early just to have a few extra minutes to speak with him. We talked a lot about spirituality and many other things. I wish I could remember all the pearls that came out of his mouth. One in particular I cannot forget: “Attitude determines altitude.” It is something that I certainly believe and have put into practice.

  Like my time with Dewitt, I hope that our time together on these pages will be a similar “moment of grace.” In that spirit, I dedicate this book to that child who wrote the letter and to millions like her, young and old, who are looking for hope and promise but feel trapped in their sadness and pain. Come along with me.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Faith of a Child

  Please, can I go home?”

  When I got the news of my father’s death, I asked for a leave to travel back to Indiana. His funeral was to take place in two days. I had just been cast in the lead in the last national touring company of Oklahoma! We were set to open the next night in New Haven. It was the big break, a dream come true for an eighteen-year-old girl. It had come only months after I had moved to New York City to study theater and hopefully to find work.

  At the first opportunity during the rehearsal, I had gone over to Jerry White and Richard Rodgers. The director and the composer were seated in the audience of the empty theater in New York. “We don’t have an understudy for you yet, and the place is sold out,” Mr. Rodgers told me in sympathetic but no uncertain terms. He was the Rodgers of Rodgers and Hammerstein, the legendary duo behind such other Broadway classics as The Sound of Music, The King and I, South Pacific, and Carousel. Jerry White told me about all the publicity they had done. There was a lot riding on this first performance. They went out of their way to tell me how bad they felt about the situation. It made me feel even worse, which almost immediately manifested in a painful medical problem that made me wonder if there was some divine payback as a consequence for my actions. Strange how the mind works, but I’ll get to more on that later.

  Ironically, I knew that this dilemma, as gut-wrenching as it was at that moment, was within the natural flow of an improbable, sometimes horrific, and often miraculous young life. Despite the abandonment, neglect, and poverty I experienced as a child, I had an abidin
g faith I would do better than just survive. I knew with absolute certainty that everything was going to be okay in the end. I felt the undeniable presence of a guiding and protective hand from a higher power above. This gave me a sense of optimism, as if my spirit were still free in spite of my circumstances.

  As I look back on that time, I wish I could recapture the unswerving faith of that child. Unfortunately, my doubts grew with time as life circumstances and relationships became more complicated and challenging. Thankfully, my spirituality remained intact and prevented me from the kind of nihilism people often develop in that situation.

  That I was standing on the rehearsal stage with this legendary composer was, in my mind, a miracle of sorts. Only a few years earlier, when the conditions around me were at their worst, I would escape from my house to go to the local movie theater. Musicals like Easter Parade were my favorite. I would sing and dance on the street all the way home, mimicking the tunes I had just heard.

  I decided at a very young age that performing was what I wanted to do. To make it happen, more was required than just natural talent. To go beyond singing in church or in the shower, a performer needs an endless supply of grit, determination, and a passion for performing. If I was having a bad day or things were just not going my way, these qualities helped keep my priorities in focus and made me more tenacious in my commitment.

  For many reasons, it would have been impossible to tell Mr. Rodgers that my family came first and they would have to get along without me. Mr. Rodgers’s “the show must go on” mentality was not to be violated.

  Naturally, I felt tremendous guilt about the situation. But secretly, deep down inside, there was a sad truth. I was relieved that I didn’t have to go to the funeral. True to character both in life and now in death, the situation with my father, Joseph Henderson, was both complicated and problematic.