I have to get this off my chest but if I ever find out you’ve repeated a word of what I’m about to share, I will have your lips hermetically sealed. To begin at the beginning, I’d have to start at the dawn of civilization so to save time I’ll pick up closer to the present…

For a woman without a backbone, Mama could really dance. Daddy could really dance, too. In their heyday, which began in the late 1920’s, the Fox Trot was their specialty. A glamorous couple, they commanded a dance floor and won almost every Fox Trot contest they entered. When I asked Mama why she married Daddy, she said she thought they would just dance through life together – forever. Mama was eighteen years old and did not know what she was getting into when she eloped in 1929; Daddy was twenty-one and he knew even less. The stock market crashed that same year and Othermama believed it to be an omen. Family members, neighbors and spectators, declared my nuclear family a disaster early on. I’m the youngest of the four fall-outs. Although I was not born in the proverbial “trunk” like some actors, as an infant I did sleep in a dresser drawer until Mama could borrow money to buy a crib. I strongly suspect that sleeping in a drawer accounts for some of my dramatic ability. In addition, it seemed some crisis in the family was always being acted out. While Mama was a frustrated performer, Daddy was just frustrated. If our family drama had been given a title, it could’ve been Creatures back from the Lagoon, Backyard Jungle, Come back little Shithead or my favorite, Devil without a Cause. Daddy played the bad guy; Mama played a zombie. But beyond a doubt, it was Mama’s secret, burning desire to be a star on stage that sparked my love of performing and launched my theatrical career. My desire to run away from a home life that featured domestic violence also factored in. I often thought of joining the circus. At one point, Mama thought she might have to put me in one.

When Mama was six months pregnant with me, her doctor felt two heads in her womb but heard only one heartbeat. As sonograms were not yet in use, his educated diagnosis was Siamese Twins. At first Mama was horrified. It was going to be hard enough to feed one more mouth – never mind two. After the shock wore off, however, Mama began to pray and to plan for the future. She suspected that the circus would be “my” or “our” best bet. In fact, she envisioned the entire family on the road with Ringling Brothers. It might not be such a bad existence – we would get to see the world. Her plans were dashed when the other head the doctor felt turned out to be my butt. I was born feet first in 1943 and lovingly named “Nicolette Elizabeth Bradshaw.” Had I been born in recent years, I might’ve been named, “Butthead.” Fortunately, from day one, everybody called me, “Niki.”

Our entire family loved to sing. In fact, Mama promised God that she would attend church regularly for the rest of her life, if God would give her a daughter who could sing. Her prayer was answered when my sister Rosebud was born with a beautiful voice. My older brothers Jake and Ben sang, too. When Aunt Millie and Uncle Hank came to visit they would always ask us to sing. Whenever Ben sang, “Put Your Arms Around Me, Honey,” they threw money at his feet and begged for encores. Even Othermama (my maternal grandmother) sang. Her specialty was hymns. When she was a girl she also picked a guitar. She had a high quivery voice that gave me goose bumps. I imagine if a ghost were to suddenly rise up out of its grave and burst into singing,”The Old Rugged Cross,” it would sound just like Othermama. Daddy had a powerful baritone voice but he used it more for yelling and screaming. He could yell louder than anybody I’d ever heard. By age fifteen, Rosebud was well on her way to becoming the singing rage in Quicksand – our hometown in North Carolina. She sang professionally for Pete Green’s Band. Rosebud looked a lot like the movie star Ava Gardner. I recall the very first time I saw her on stage. She sings, “I’ll be with you in Apple blossom time,” and when the audience applauds, I go crazy to get up on the stage, too. I cry and howl so, Mama is forced to carry me outside. She buys a Pepsi Cola to keep my four-year-old mouth shut.

In the summer of 1949, Mama took Ben and me to see the Walt Disney movie, “Song of the South.” “Zippity Do Da.” was the big hit tune from the movie and Mama and I both fell in love with it. Mama began to teach me the song and gestures to go with it. She promised I could audition to sing on the radio if I learned all the words. Colonel Ralph Waddell (Colonel Waddie) hosted the “The Shower of Talent Hour” a popular radio show broadcast every Saturday afternoon. Rehearsals usually took place by the ironing board while Mama pressed Daddy’s shirts. He was extremely clothes conscious. Mama said Daddy was a clotheshorse; Othermama said he was a jackass.

At age five, my turn to perform comes at last on a warm Saturday afternoon in April. In a starched, white ruffled dotted-swiss dress with a huge sash that Othermama has tied to perfection, I follow Mama and Ben to the end of the road to catch the bus into town. Ben is wearing his blue serge Sunday suit and although he’s ten years old, he could pass for six. The studio at the radio station is packed with hopefuls – men, women, boys and girls – waiting for a chance at stardom. One man plays spoons, another a violin. One girl twirls a baton and marches; a boy sings “On top of Ole Smokey.” A group of boys roll and tumble; a woman plays a long boring piece on the piano. When the Colonel finally calls our name, hand in hand, Ben and I walk up on stage. Ben sings, “Put Your Arms Around Me, Honey,” and the crowd goes wild – stomping their feet and whistling. Not to be out done, I burst into “Zippity-Do-Da,” and again, the audience goes wild. Colonel Waddie calls Mama aside and tells her that he wants us back the following week to compete for prizes. To celebrate our success, we eat lunch in the cafeteria in Kresses’ basement. At that time, the whole world knew that the five and dime store served the best mashed potatoes and meatloaf in town. For dessert we each order the Kresses’ Special — a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. The following Saturday we all oversleep and rush to get dressed. It’s pouring down rain and none of us can find the umbrella. By the time we borrow one and make our way huddled together under it to the end of the road, we’ve missed the 9 o’clock bus – the only bus that makes the trip from Quicksand to Charlotte and back on Saturdays. Drenched and disappointed, we trudge back home. Mama says that Colonel Waddie will understand and promises we’ll go back the following week, but for some reason, we never make it. That could’ve been the end of my career had I not been as Mama always put it, “Born to perform.”

When I was seven years old, I decided I would either be a cowgirl like Dale Evans or an actress when I grew up. But since we couldn’t afford to buy much less feed a pony (every young cowgirl must have a pony) I decided to become an actress. The year I turned nine, Mama won third prize in a Gold Medal Flour contest by naming their new spicy cake mix with apricot icing, “Apri-clad-dazzle.” With her prize money of $100, she enrolled me in dancing school to take tap and acrobatic lessons. I especially loved tap. My girlfriend Jill also enrolled, and soon Jill and I began dancing together at community functions – school plays, talent shows, fundraisers and such. Mama played the piano for us. In fact, Mama paid for my dance classes by playing the piano for the dancing school. She would add a great honky-tonk beat that our dance teacher, Reilly Tadlock, really liked. Reilly, a rising ballet star, lost his eyesight when he was about nine years old and spent the next ten years in an institution for the blind. Fortunately, he continued to receive dance training. At age twenty, he had an operation and miraculously regained most of his sight. Eventually, he opened his own dance studio. Reilly was a great teacher – patient, energetic and kind – all his students and their parents loved him.

At one of our school fundraisers, a talent scout from New York City is visiting friends in town and attends the show. That night, Jill and I perform our latest tap routine to “On the Sunny Side of the Street.” After the show, the talent scout – a nice looking man in a gray sharkskin suit comes over to Mama and says, “Your little girl has ‘it’ – she sparkles.” He tells her about a special dance workshop for gifted children that will be held that June in New York City. He insists that I should be in it – that I could have a real future as a dancer. He goes on and on about my stage presence and ability and how I could benefit from studying with one of the finest teachers in the country. Mama knows I can dance – she claims I’m a young Eleanor Powell. She takes the name of the dance instructor, the dates of the workshop and thanks the man for his encouragement. When I ask if we were going to New York, she says, “Of course not.” Mama doesn’t trust Yankees.

Reilly closed his school when I was eleven and moved to another state. Although I missed dancing, my interests quickly turned to acting. The Masketeers were an institution in Quicksand. Every year, for as far back as anyone could remember, they brought to life such classics as Aladdin’s Lamp, Tom Sawyer and Anne of Green Gables. For only a dime, school students could experience the thrill of live theatre. I was twelve when I saw their rendition of “Cinderella.” Although the thick pancake makeup couldn’t hide his acne, the prince looked handsome in blue tights. It wasn’t just the prince’s smile that revealed perfect white teeth or the cap with the blue plume cocked on the side of his head that made my heart beat faster, it was everything. I fell in love with the ole battered, wood paneled station wagon that carried the Masketeers, the black trunks filled with costumes and scenery and the flyers. A picture of each player appeared on the flyer with a short bio. I was an excellent student and always obeyed my teachers. But that day, I lie. I raise my hand and ask to use the bathroom. The teacher nods and I calmly walk out of class. At the end of the hall, I break into a run and head out the side entrance. Breathless, I arrive just in time to watch the Masketeers pack up their presentation of “Cinderella.” I stand by the edge of the school steps quietly watching. They move quickly without speaking – each one seems to know exactly what to do. I wonder if they’re rushing because they have to perform the play again at another school or if they’re just hungry and want to go eat. The prince looks somewhat paler than he did on stage but my heart begins to pound at the sight of him. The woman who played Cinderella is pretty but she isn’t a real blonde. She has long, dark brown hair slicked back in a ponytail. A cigarette dangles from her bright red lips as she squeezes into the back seat beside the rest of the cast. The driver, I think he played the man who brought the glass slipper for Cinderella to try on, turns the station wagon around. The driver smiles and waves and I wave back as he speeds away down the dirt road that leads to the highway. I watch them disappear like magic in a cloud of red dust and wish they had taken me with them. That’s it. That’s what I want to do, I decide. When I grow up and become an actress, I will travel with the Masketeers. That night before I go to sleep, I remove the “Cinderella” flyer from my notebook and kiss the picture of the prince over and over. I get down on my knees beside the bed and pray, “Heavenly Father, thank you for all my blessings and please let me travel with the Masketeers. If you’ll let me do that I’ll never ask for anything else again as long as I live – except that you bless Mama, Othermama, Rosebud, Jake and Ben and …

I don’t have to tell you that prayers get answered but that part of the story will have to wait for now. Like I say, if you so much as breathe a word of what I’ve told you so far, you lips will be sealed for all time and even worse, you will never find out the truth about how I ended up a jester, a comic, a – well, you know what I mean.