Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Perhaps it was two years into our marriage when my reality sank in: I, a country girl born of the purest of Appalachian folks, had married into one of America’s most admired, most well-known television families.

Until that sobering moment on a day when I went into my office and glanced over at the antique black and white television console that preceded my family’s first color television, I had thought little about it. I spent many Saturday nights, lying on my stomach, watching that technicolor wonder.

Even before I met my future husband, I’d seen his name often on the opening credits of television shows. My brother-in-law, Rodney, had asked me once, “Do you ever watch that show called Judging Amy?”

I shook my head. “Good?”

He nodded. “We like it a lot.”

Then, he gave an appealing synopsis.

Still, I did not watch it until a couple of years later. This, I remember clearly: I was sitting on the living room sofa, autographing books for an upcoming speaking engagement, as the television played in the background. I looked up just as the credit “John Tinker” appeared on the screen.

“Tinker,” I thought. “He must be kin to Grant Tinker.” Even growing up on Rural Route One, where the mail carrier, daily, left me half a package of Dentine with a bit of mail, I knew his name and that of his star wife, Mary Tyler Moore.

This is how famous Grant Tinker was: his name was never once listed on a television show, despite the many that he greenlighted as the president of MTM Productions and, later, as chairman and CEO of NBC.

However, his movie star good looks and regal, patrician bearing put him on the cover of many magazines that I studied at the grocery store while Mama brought White Lily Flour and Crisco.

Months earlier, I had been on the Fox studio lot in Los Angeles for lunch in the commissary with producers interested in a story of mine. One of the men was a director, working that week on ABC’s NYPD Blue.

After lunch, he asked, “Would you like to come by the set?”

We entered the darkened studio as he explained what scene they were shooting. A tall, slender guy was crouched down in front of a monitor, fiddling with knobs.

“That’s my boss. Mark Tinker.”

“Grant Tinker?” I asked.

“His son.”

Into this family of multi-Emmy winners, I toted a heavy twang and a propensity for mis-pronouncing words. Tink, on the other hand, went from Hollywood to Dollywood, bringing along his Emmy for best drama writing which gathers dust on the hearth.

When a new documentary about Mary Tyler Moore was conceived, the director began emailing, asking Tink to participate. For six months, they asked him to fly to L.A. or New York to be interviewed.

Here’s the thing about my husband: he has wonderful stories but in full humility, he never believes he has anything interesting to say.

Respectfully, he declined. Finally, they offered to fly the film crew to him.

“I’ll do it if you’ll interview my wife, too. She knew Mary well in her last years.”

I was confident that the director, James Adolphus, said “Yes!” because he wanted Tink. Not me.

When reviews began rolling in, though, I was astounded to see how often I was mentioned while Tink howled with laughter.

“Look at that little country girl!” Under my name, I am identified as “Grant Tinker’s Daughter-In-Law.”

Being Mary Tyler Moore, broadcast on HBO Max, earned an Emmy nomination for best documentary and fattened my IMDb page.

I joked that I was finally a real Tinker because I have an Emmy nomination.

Tink repeatedly reminds me that I am not a real Emmy nominee.

Yeah, but that line about lying on my stomach, watching Mary every Saturday night, made it all the way to the ears of Hollywood Emmy voters.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www. rondarich to sign up for her free newsletter.