When I was six, we were living in England as my young father prepared to shoot Willow and my mom prepared to give birth to my brother, Reed. We have a home video that shows my dad expressing concern that these two momentous events were happening simultaneously: “Movies! Babies! MOVIES! BABIES!” He then asked me to predict the day Reed would be born （which I did, with eerie accuracy）。 This dynamic of a concerned, involved father including his children in these family discussions was similar to how his parents brought their boys into the fold. Granddad and Grandma Jean showed him it was possible to grow up on a movie set and have a childhood. They even put my dad in a crib while they were performing summer stock, attending to him between scenes. Unconventional? Sure. But inclusive and family-centric nonetheless. Like his own parents, my dad protected us from the craziness while still giving us a firsthand look at the circus.
In my documentary feature directorial debut, Dads, I, too, was drawn to the subject of family. I hoped to interview an expecting father, and as luck would have it, my brother and his wife were about to have their first baby. I remembered Dad expressing to me several times over the years that his greatest fear was not measuring up to his own father as a parent. I shared this memory with Reed while filming and, surprised, he replied, “He said that? That’s my biggest worry—not living up to Dad.” And so, the tradition continues . . .
Introduction
RON
As I write this, I am sitting in a car in Queensland, Australia, getting driven to the set to begin the second week of shooting on my twenty-sixth feature film as a director. I am multitasking, jotting down notes for this book while framing shots in my head and glancing at the call sheet to remind myself of the work that’s scheduled for today. Now, I have been looking at call sheets in the back seat of a car since the 1980s. But this time, I really look. My name appears in three different places. Director, producer, cofounder of Imagine Entertainment . . . Ron Howard. That’s me.
I’ve never been one to take for granted the eventful life I have led. Still, seeing my name in print triggers something in me—a feeling of stepping outside of myself. It could all have been so different. My name could easily have been Ronny Beckenholdt, had my Oklahoman parents not made the brave, crazy decision as young lovers to move to New York to become actors. Dad wouldn’t have changed his name from Harold Beckenholdt to Rance Howard. Mom, the former Jean Speegle, would have become Jean Beckenholdt. And today, I would be . . . what? Wait, I know! How about a farmer in north-central Oklahoma, where my dad’s folks were from?
As Farmer Ronny, I grow corn and soybeans on the forty acres that my family didn’t have to sell to a conglomerate to keep the lights on. I use some of this yield to fatten up the few pigs I still raise. It’s long hours and hard work, but fortunately I have the company of my brother, Clint, five years my junior. Clint and I also have a side business cleaning out and repairing independent oil wells in the area—anything to squeeze a buck out of the land. When commodity prices are up, we do okay. Every day at dusk, we wearily call it a day, taking off the ballcaps that protect our bald Beckenholdt heads.
I’VE ARRIVED ON set and it’s time to start setting up the day’s first shot. But another what-if strikes me before filming gets underway. Suppose my folks did stick with show business? Suppose they followed their dream to California, driving cross-country in 1958 with all their earthly belongings packed into a ’52 Plymouth, including four-year-old me? In this scenario, some things turn out the same as they did in real life. I become a successful juvenile actor, playing Opie Taylor on The Andy Griffith Show and Richie Cunningham on Happy Days. I am a household name in the 1960s and 1970s.
But here’s the twist: those roles are what I am best remembered for. I never pursue my teenage ambition to become a director. I simply keep on acting into adulthood, with mixed success—though I do enjoy the warm notices I’ve been receiving lately for playing “the grandpa” in various Christmas movies on the Disney Channel.
NEITHER OF THESE scenarios is a bleak one; I would have considered them positive outcomes. As a matter of fact, the Beckenholdt farm is still in the family, run by my cousins, and I have plenty of actor friends my age who, though they’ve had their ups and downs, wouldn’t trade their experiences for anything. But I have been fortunate to see my life turn out incredibly well—to not only realize but surpass my dreams of making a living as a storyteller.