Might as Well Laugh About It Now by Marie Osmond, Marcia Wilkie Page B

and pillows on the aluminum luggage racks above the seats and crawling up there for a nap. We practiced our songs from town to town and always did our lessons. Mother would walk up and down the aisle of the bus, checking our schoolwork, listening to us read out loud. This was the way we traveled, from show to show, from the Elks lodges to the county fairs to the outdoor festivals. As a family, we loaded and unloaded our own instruments, costumes, and microphones. We would set up on whatever stage was made available, using whatever amplification system was there, and play to the audience that had gathered.
    My mother and I counted the unsold tickets, called “deadwood,” to help determine ticket sales for each show. I would walk into the box office with my mom and the personnel would say: “I’ve heard of you. The only sister, right? You’ve become famous across the country as the ‘ticket terror.’ ”
    Yes. Before I found my passion to perform, I found it first in being the only one who could find the one missing ticket number in a bundle of five hundred.
     
     
    The first couple of years doing shows in Las Vegas, our home base was an Airstream trailer my father had hitched to the car. We would get one hotel room and take turns using the shower. We would also take turns staying in the room so we could sleep in a real bed. My mother would buy sandwich bread and cold cuts (usually olive loaf—I guess she thought since her name was on it, she should buy it) and make lunches on the tiny countertop in the Airstream. Every night after the shows, we would gather in the trailer for our family time, learn the stories of the Bible, and then pray. With nine growing kids and two adults, we would squeeze around the little table, scrunch up cross-legged on the beds, perch on the steps, and even hang out of the bathroom door. (Want to play Barrel of Monkeys, anyone?)
    Why we crowded into the Airstream and not the hotel room was somehow never questioned. But as long as we were crammed into the trailer, closeness was unavoidable, and for my parents, I think that was the point. For all of the successes that were to come, the hardships of those years hold the best memories for me. Even when the income from performing increased, my parents still chose humble accommodations. My father, especially, wanted to be certain that we never put ourselves above anyone else. After almost every show, my brothers and I would stand, greet our fans, and sign hundreds of autographs.
    One time, on the edge of my teen years, we were doing a summertime show at a state fair. It was miserably hot, and following the show I grumbled at the thought of having to stand in line, shake hands, and take pictures for another hour.
    My mother said to me, “Marie, many of these fans looked forward to this day for a long time. This might be the most fun they will have all year because their lives are so hard. Some of them probably had to save their money for months and months to come and see you. It’s only one more hour in your life, but it’s a lifelong memory for them.”
    Okay. Fine! If you put it that way!!!
    Honestly, I’m so grateful that she put it that way. Because of my parents, and perhaps first because of Elvis Presley, my brothers and I have had fans that are like our family. They are the ones responsible for giving my brothers and me such long careers. Elvis was a wise man.
    When I was on season five of Dancing with the Stars , the producers told me that my fans jammed the phone lines voting for me. They sent bags full of letters to the show and thousands of e-mails to my Web site. Many longtime fans wrote to me of their support, but thousands of new fans, some as young as ten, also wrote to me with encouragement and a thank-you for helping them feel like it’s possible to take on a challenge. Every day, when I would drag my aching body to another dance rehearsal, I would think of them. I pushed myself because they made me happy and I wanted to give it