Treasure Island in Topanga

Recently I wrote about Hollywood’s Blacklist era, as chronicled in a special exhibit at DC’s Capital Jewish Museum.  This past weekend saw me at a place deeply steeped in memories of that difficult time. Actor Will Geer (born in 1902) is best remembered as TV’s folksy Grandpa Walton from 1972 until his death in 1978. (His passing was ultimately written into the plot of The Waltons, allowing him to be publicly mourned.) Though a lifelong actor on both stage and screen, one who was nominated for multiple prestigious awards, Geer had many other passions. Politically he was a deeply committed activist with long ties to the American Communist Party, During the Great Depression he spent much of his free time touring labor camps with close friends like folksingers Burl Ives and Woody Guthrie. He also had a great love for  botany, and earned a master’s degree in that field at the prestigious University of Chicago.

 Geer’s refusal in the 1950s to “name names” of Communist sympathizers at the behest of the House Un-American Activities Committee naturally led to his being shut out of the Hollywood movie community for a number of years. Though he starred in Salt of the Earth, a 1954 independent film about a New Mexico’s miners’ strike, he was long barred from more mainstream productions. That’s why he and wife Herta Ware built a simple performance space on their rustic property in SoCal’s folksy Topanga Canyon, which became a popular gathering spot for fellow blacklisted performers. At the same time, they began growing fruits, vegetables, and herbs as a way of feeding their growing family. Eventually, following Geer’s financial success from The Waltons, they launched a nonprofit corporation known as the Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum. The many offspring of the Geer family, by then launched on their own theatrical careers, joined together to stage works by Shakespeare and others in a rustic outdoor environment. Today the troupe is still going strong, mixing seasoned professionals with newcomers just learning to tread the boards.

 I try to visit the Will Geer at least once a year. The troupe is most active in summers, and its signature production is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare’s romantic fable for which this is the perfect sylvan setting. Other offerings for 2026 include Romeo and Juliet, along with an obscure Noel Coward farce (I hardly think of Coward as suited to a rustic backdrop, but never mind) and an inventive dramatization of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. The script for this adaptation was prepared by Will Geeer’s daughter, longtime co-producing artistic director Ellen Geer, and her own daughter Willow (also an artistic director) here plays one of the drama’s most colorful roles. As always the troupe finds creative ways to use its permanent stage area, which consists of rough-hewn wooden building facades and beautiful old-growth trees. I’m happy to say that seating has improved a great deal over the years. The audience is shielded from the summer sun by a large canopy, but those concrete benches really cry out for cushions shlepped from home. 

 If you’re planning a day or evening trip to the Theatricum Botanicum, do save time to explore the premises. There is, for instance, a small wooden shack called The Shelter. Once a hang-out spot for the visiting Woody Guthrie, it now houses a collection of historic memorabilia from the 1950s onward. There are also places to buy food and souvenirs, and some gorgeous flowering plants to admire. For the full experience, make dinner reservations at Topanga’s mostly-outdoor Inn of the Seventh Ray, a magical venue full of other-worldly vibes. 

 

Nellie Oleson: Prairie Bitch with a Mission

Jon Provost, like Ron Howard, grew up on television. As the human star of the Lassie series from age 7 to 14, the tow-headed youngster entered the fabric of American daily life. He explained to me a few years back, “When you’re in somebody’s living room, you become part of their family, and when they meet you they subconsciously think they know you.”

To have an intimate connection with the American public can be both a blessing and a curse. Provost understood how his TV persona could help people in need: “I’ve had over the years many fans say that they were growing up in an abusive household or something like that, and they would use Lassie as a means of escape, to help them get through some hard times.” Provost also learned, though, that being reared on a TV show can present interesting challenges, and that stardom at an early age can lead to unrealistic expectations.

Two recent show biz memoirs vividly cover this terrain. Both were written by women who, as girls, were regular fixtures on family-friendly TV series. Lessons from the Mountain: What I Learned from Erin Walton (Kensington Books) is Mary McDonough’s account of the years she spent playing the middle daughter on The Waltons. Alison Arngrim’s Confessions of a Prairie Bitch: How I Survived Nellie Oleson and Learned to Love Being Hated is the rollicking saga of Arngrim’s years as the resident Mean Girl who tormented Laura Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie. Arngrim’s memoir, a hit in hardcover, is newly out in paperback from HarperCollins.

McDonough, a shy and obedient child, clearly had a lovely time on Walton’s Mountain. Her challenge came later, when she needed to move on. Her poor body-image, combined with a yen to make her way into grown-up roles, led her to opt for breast implant surgery, with disastrous medical consequences. Her book traces her evolution from a victim into an activist, whose outspoken concern with women’s health issues even took her into the halls of Congress.

Arngrim, who weathered years of being reviled by the public as nasty Nellie, offers a more colorful tale, full of fascinating contradictions. Her series was child-friendly in the extreme, but on the set the adult world intruded (alcohol consumption was rife; bare-chested crew members ogled her developing body; star Michael Landon—whose roguish charm she adored—favored tight jeans and no underwear). And the difference between the uncomplicated world of Little House on the Prairie and her own tangled homelife (involving a gay father, an oblivious mother, and a drug-addled, abusive brother) was even more dramatic.

Arngrim learned to use her notoriety to shine a light on the sexual abuse of children. She has gotten involved in fighting AIDS too, and the end of her book is a detailed list of resources for those in need. Though her memoir pulls no punches, her ability to be gossipy and funny (she’s become a popular stand-up) made me sorry to see it end.

Years ago I spent the evening with two doting parents whose adorable six-year-old had just landed the lead in an ultraviolent supernatural thriller. The parents, deeply religious, were convinced that this film role was a heaven-sent mission, enabling their daughter to serve as a force of good for all mankind. I was skeptical then, and still am—but it’s also clear that a young actor who’s spent half a lifetime in our nation’s homes and hearts can use her fame to make the world a (slightly) better place.