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for Audio Visual Conservation 

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IV. . 25t Writer Turns Actor with Bilico 

iristmas Spirit— Lennon Style 


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Atlantic Coast 

Alarm Clock 


Dad Bill Lennon 

His Best Girls 




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All is calm, aU is bright. In Amer- 
ica we worship as we please, in 

But like so many precious 
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Peace costs money. 

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The U.S. Government does not pay for this advertiting. 
The Treasury Department thanks, for their patriotic 
donation, T^ Advertising Council and this magazine. 



JANUARY, 1959 


VOL. 51, NO. 2 

Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Associate Editor 
Lorraine Girsch, Assistant Editor 

Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Assistant Art Director 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 


What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 4 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 6 

Spectacular Music ( This Is Music cast ) 8 

Youth on the Upbeat 17 

Christmas: Lennon Family Style by Bill Lennon 18 

Bobby Darin : The Splish Splash Boy by Gregory Merwin 22 

Happy Days and Lonely Nights (Connie Francis) by Helen Bolstad 24 

The Good Luck Man From Texas (Ty Hardin ) by Eunice Field 26 

Daytime Charmer (Jimmy Dean ) by Isabella Morgan 30 

I Was "Drafted" Into Bilko's Army by Herbert Kamm 36 

A Sweet Merry Christmas (Bonnie Bartlett's Christmas cookie recipes) 44 

Play Your Hunch ( Merv Griffin ) by Martin Cohen 46 

Song of the Road Of Life ( Patricia Wheel) by Diane Isola 50 

Atlantic Coast Alarm Clock (Jack Sterling) by Frances Kish 52 


The Blonde With the Big, Big Smile (Jacklyn O'Donnell) . .by Peer J. Oppenheimer 32 

The Man Who Has Everything (George Montgomery) by Maurine Remenih 34 

Versatility Plus (George Fenneman) by Fredda Balling 38 

Who Said "Ranch Style"? (John Payne) 40 


Get Up and Gary Owens ( WIL) 10 

Smooth Sailing (Marty McNeeley of WKMH) 12 

The Record Players : Turn Over a New Album Leaf by Joe Finan 14 

U.S. Marshal in the Making (John Bromfield) 58 

A Hoppin' Good Time (Freeman Hover of KCSR) 60 


TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies 3 

Information Booth 11 

Beauty: Figure It Out With Dancing (Sarah Hardy's ballet-inspired exercises) 

by Harriet Segman 56 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 72 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 80 

Cover portrait of the Lennon Sisters and their dad by Gary Wagner 


Published Monthly by Macfadden Publi- 
cations, Inc., N. Y. Executive, Adver- 
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Canada. Copyright, 1958, by Macfadden Publications 
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Vriter Kovacs and witch Gingold confer in "Bell, Book and Candle. 

ense courtroom scene features Julie London and Anthony Steel. 

-th^ mo^^i 

keffington (Spencer Tracy) turns a wake into a political rally. 

The Last Hurrah 


Edwin O'Connor's best-selling novel of a few years 
ago is brought to vivid life on screen, with big-wig 
politician Skeffington played magnificently by 
Spencer Tracy. Long-time Mayor of an Irish- 
American city, the aging Skeffington seeks re- 
election, is aided in his campaign by his nephew 
(Jeffrey Hunter). He loses, to the despair of his 
loyal ward bosses and constituents, but remains 
the triumphant strong-man to the end. Critics 
predict the movie may be Academy Award winner. 

A Question of Adultery 


A frank treatment of a controversial theme: Does 
artificial insemination constitute justification for 
a legal charge of adultery against the wife as basis 
for a divorce action? Anthony Steel plays a race- 
car driver married to Julie London, ex-cabaret 
singer. Unwontedly jealous of his beautiful wife, 
Steel invokes a violent quarrel when he learns his 
wife is pregnant — accusing her of an affair with 
a young man she scarcely knows. An automobile 
accident ensues, with result that the wife miscar- 
ries her natural child, the husband is made sterile. 
Yearning for a child to cement the stormy mar- 
riage, the wife gains agreement to artificial in- 
semination so she may bear an heir to the 
marriage. Roused again to jealousy of a young 
Swiss living near the nursing home where arti- 
fical insemination project is under way. Steel 
changes his mind — decides to sue his wife for 
divorce, claiming adultery. Movie is played out 
within the framework of the court trial which 
results, with a flashback giving details of plot 
development leading up to trial. An hoi.est attempt 
is made within structure of the trial to explain 
the complicated legal questions involved in such 

Bell, Book and Candle 


John Van Druten's amusing play about modern 
witchcraft is rendered into a star-studded movie by 
writer Daniel Taradash. Involved in the witchly 
goings-on are beautiful blonde witch Kim Novak, 
who bewitches (what else?) publisher James 
Stewart, but eventually loses her skill with a fast 
hex due to the fact that she falls truly in love. 
Various other-worldly types abet the zany action, 
including TV favorites Ernie Kovacs, Hermione 
Gingold and Jack Lemmon. 



"Gift" is music to ears of Dick Adier, his sons Andy 
and Chris, wife Sally Ann Howes, "Santa" Ernest Adler. 

Which Meadows "twin" has the Broadway play — which 
the TV panel? It's Joyne to the left, Audrey to the right, 

Let It Snow: Phil Silvers expecting 
January delivery of a little Bilko. His 
wife is former model Evelyn Patrick 
and this is their second production. 
. . . Grim thinking behind the scenes. 
ABC-TV booked seven star cowboys — 
including Maverick brothers, Sugar- 
foot, Wyatt Ear-p, others — to fly into 
N.Y.C. for mass guest-shot, then was 
struck with what might happen to net- 
work if plane tragedy should involve 
all. Solution: They sent the gunslingers 
in on different airlines. . . . Bing's sec- 
ond show in February may include 
the Slender Sender and Judy Garland 
as guest stars. Should make a sensa- 
tional hour. . . . Anthony Ray, "Bud 
Gardner" in Search For Tomorrow, 
leaves the TV serial to take over lead 
in the national company of "Dark at 
the Top of the Stairs." . . . Debbie Rey- 
nolds, not a girl to be floored by tragic 
personal problems, may do a spring 
spectacular. . . . Sullivan's son-in-law. 
Bob Precht, upped to job of associate 
producer on Ed's show. Bob's first job 

was to make ready the Alaskan show- 
slated for December 7 telecasting. Ed, 
himself, flies to India next month to 
find out what's new on the Ganges. . . . 
Audrey Meadows, now separated, su- 
ing for divorce from Washington busi- 
nessman, Randy Rouse. Sister Jayne 
separating from I've Got A Secret to 
co-star in Broadway play, "The Gaze- 
bo," opposite Walter Slezak. This is 
her first Broadway role since 1945, 
when she was billed as Jayne Cotter. 
Program note: Jayne and Audrey re- 
appear on Steve Allen's stanza Decem- 
ber 14. . . . They're playing around with 
the idea of "smellies" for TV. Idea is 
your future TV set would be stashed 
with separate vials of perfume to be 
controlled electronically. A scent 
would be sprayed into your living 
room to make the drama more realis- 
tic: That is, pine odor for an outdoor 
scene, maybe vermouth for a cocktail 
party, etc. 

My Fair Lady: The musical version 

For What's Netv On The ll¥est CifusU See Page 6 

of O.Henry's famous "Gift of the Magi' 
is set for December 9, CBS-TV, and ill 
turns out to be a family deal. CBSl 
angeled "My Fair Lady" and has 
chosen its current Broadway star, Sallv 
Ann Howes, to play the lead, DelldJ 
Sally Ann's husband, Dick Adler (she^ 
from the south of England), has writ-l 
ten the music. Dick Adler also wrot^ 
the score for "The Pajama Game.' 
Sally Ann, an agreeable, lovely gal 
recalls that she first met Dick in Lon- 
don when he asked her to audition foi 
another show. She refused. "I hadn't] 
seen the script in advance and just saicl 
no." But she accepted a social date 
auditioned him for the part of bride- 
groom and he got the job. "Now I hoptl 
to make my career over here," shtj 
says. "I love New York and I love pizzcj 
pie. I consider myself completehi 
Americanized." She has no fear o 
sounding too British when she play;' 
the classic American short story, "Gif ■ 
of the Magi." She says, "I've knowi I 
the story since I was a child, for Moth-j 
er was an avid reader and O. Henr\' 
was one of her favorite writers." She- 


She felt her disposition was showing, so 
Betsy Palmer sleeps a little later now. 

Two quiet people with something to say 
after ten years — Don McNeill, Potti Page. 

Californians, here they come: the marshal (Richard Coogon) and the saloon 
keeper (Carole Mathews) in New York's Gaslight during Gold Rush party. 

adds, "I don't think of the story as 
being sad. Yes, Delia cuts her long 
beautiful hair to buy her husband John 
(played by Gordon MacRae) a watch 
chain. But her hair will grow back, I 
always think. John pawns his watch 
to buy her a set of combs. But he's 
bound to get a raise and buy another 
watch, I always think. It's a beautiful 
love story." Sally Ann's hair falls only 
to her neck, so she'll wear a wig for 
the show. "There is such a peculiar 
guilt feeling for a woman when she 
cuts her hair. Not many years ago, I 
went into a beauty parlor and told 
them to cut mine to one-inch. I felt 
very guilty afterwards, even though it 
was my own hair. My mother was hor- 
rified, but it grew back." She doesn't 
think that "Magi" is dated, and holds 
that modern woman can still make 
sacrifices for love. "But I don't know 
what I could give up for Dick, since 
my hair isn't so splendid and I can't 
very well cut off my nose." 

Missile Toes: Betsy Palmer gave up 
her permanent berth on the Gatroway 

show because it was too much work. 
She had to get up at four in the morn- 
ing, sometimes couldn't get home to 
Englewood till 4: 30 or five in the after- 
noon. The job was worth $100,000 a 
year. Betsy continues with her other 
TV assignments and goes to Hollywood 
to make "The Last Angry Man." . . . 
Peter Lind Hayes and Mary Healy live 
uneasily. Son Michael is carrying on 
nuclear-fission experiments in the 
basement. . . . Playhouse 90 breaks 
away from the dramatic format on De- 
cember 25 to present the New York 
City Ballet in "The Nutcracker Suite." 
. . . The way fan mail is piling into 
Jimmy Dean's basket, it's a reasonable 
prediction that he is top choice to be- 
come the "great man" on TV. . . . Grim 
note: Erie Stanley Gardner, creator of 
Perry Mason, says, "When you look at 
a corpse, it could be you. Based on 
statistics, you'd be surprised to know 
your chances for being murdered are 
pretty good." . . . Peter Whitney, co- 
star of Rough Riders, is an unusual 
fellow. Once he decided to be a writer 
and took his wife and five r-hildren to 

a grass shack in Tahiti for a year while 
he pounded out fiction. Gave up in '57 
and returned to acting. On the other 
hand. Hector Chevigny, who turns out 
The Second Mrs. Burton scripts, start- 
ed writing to pay for his medical edu- 
cation. That was thirty years ago. He 
never did finish medical school. . . . 

Negative News: So much fuss made 
about Mary Martin doing a CBS show 
on December 12 it should be noted that 
it won't be. Too many complications, 
too many other commitments. . . . Suz- 
anne Storrs, female interest in Naked 
City, dating Jody McCrea. Says she, 
"Just friends." . . . Julie La Rosa has 
been on a tiger kick for years and has 
accumulated statues and pictures of 
jungle cats. But everyone thinks he 
went a Uttle too far when he named his 
sophisticated French poodle, "Tiger." 

N.Y. Arrivals: Don McNeill visited 
Manhattan for a week. All of the cast 
came along, but Carol Richards who 
was preparing for the stork. Highlight 
came the {Continued on page 13) 



On road for personal appearances, Lawman John Russell and Peter Brown 
make best of enforced "bachelor" joys, ploy gin rumnny on the suitcase. 

The Life of Allen: Ralph Ed\/ards, interpreter Phonn Ti Quy, Steve and 
Korean foster-child Neuyen Von Thong, and sons Steve Jr., Brian, David. 

For What's New On The East Coast, See Page 4 

Hot spell found Marilyn Lovell, Dick :, 
Roman and Liberace warming up keys. 

EVERYTHING Came off okay. The first 
day home from, the hospital with 
the new baby, six-pound Michael 
Arthur, gave Bobbie Linkletter her 
first chance to change the young 'un. 
Looking over her shoulder were 
mother-in-law Lois Linkletter, moth- 
er of five; their neighbor, Mrs. Bob 

Cummings, mother of five; and their 
close friend, Mrs. Charles (Amos 'N' 
Andy) Correll, mother of five. Bobbie 
had one anxious moment as she strug- 
gled with the first layer, but everything 
came bff as it should and she was com- 
plimented by the trio of "experts" who 
had shared fifteen such experiences 
between them. . . . Speaking of babies, 
it looks like the Old West is going to 
be pretty heavily populated: CBS- 
TV's Rory Calhoun is expecting a 
little "Texan." Likewise Steve Mc- 
Queen and his lovely wife Neile. And 
Bob Culp's yoiuig giant, Joshua, who, 
at six months, is tracking around their 
new one-acre Encino manse. "Big kids 
need lots of room to play in," says Bob. 
Christmas in Hollywood: Dale Rob- 
ertson and his ex-wife, Jackie, still 
very friendly, planning to spend 
Christmas Eve together, with tree and 
all, for the benefit of six-and-a-half 
year- old daughter, Rochelle. Dale's 
mother is planning to be with them, 
too, for an old-fashioned Santa Claus 
Eve at home. Rochelle received her 
Christmas present early this year — a 
high spirited pony they call "Buttons." 


First of third-generation "Links," Bobbie and Jack's Michael Arthur meets grandparents Art and Lois. 

But "Buttons" bucked little Rochelle 
jff on her button, and now Jackie, a 
»ood rider, is breaking the colt for her. 

. . More horses for Christmas: 
Amanda Blake, crazy about horses 
since she started riding on the Gun- 
imoke series, has just bought herself 
a registered quarter-horse, named him 
'John The Brave." Why? "Because 
he's so brave to let me ride him," she 
Bays. Come now, Amanda, you look 
»reat on a horse — but then Amanda 
looks great any old place. 

More Christmas: Producer Paul 
Hennings of the Boh Cummings Show 
presented his stalwarts, Ann B. Davis 
and Rosemary DeCamp, with their 
Xmas presents — contracts to take 
them through their seventh year. 
Rosemary and her husband, Judge 
John Shidler, are taking their four 
daughters — Margaret, 16; Martha, 12; 
Valerie, 11; Nita Louise, 7 — to Hawaii 
for the Christmas vacation, because 
they've been such good girls during 
the filming of their Borax commer- 
cials. . . . Gale Storm's Christmas 
present to her fifteen-year-old son 
Phillip will be a private phone (to 
be paid for out of his allowance). 
Handsome Phil is developing a fan 
following of his own as a result of his 
appearances with his mother in na- 
tional magazines. Gale was sixteen 
when she began her Hollywood career 
—Phil only has one year to go. . . . 
Hugh O'Brian will tour England's 

veterans' hospitals over the holidays 
whilst Marshal Earp gives the bobbies 
some advice on keeping law and order 
in London Town. 

It's a wet Christmas for Ernie Ford 
and family — ol' Ern just put a new 
swimming pool in his backyard for his 
boys. Buck and Brion. Both the boys 
taught themselves to swim while in 
Hawaii this summer, are having a ball 
winter-splashing in their heated ocean 
with neighbor Bob Hope's kids, 
twelve-year-old Nora and KeUy. Ernie 
is as puffed up with pride as a bullfrog 
sittin' on the bank, over the fact that 
young Buck has joined the Cub 
Scouts. Ernie was a Scout when he 
was a kid and thinks the training is 
great for a boy. "Now Brion wants one 
of those crazy 'Thursday -night suits,' 
too," says Ern, who takes his son to 
the uniformed meetings, "and he fol- 
lows Buck around like he's the hero 
of the week." 

Uniforms of another kind are wav- 
ing for Rick and David Nelson and 
Tommy Sands. There'd be sad songs 
sung in Hollywood if the three of them 
were to go all at one time. Tommy has 
just hit it big again with his great 
acting job in 20th Century-Fox's 
"Mardi Gras." Tommy's next Capitol 
Album will be cleffed by Nelson Rid- 
dle, who has so successfully backed up 
Frank Sinatra lo, these many years. 
Tommy, with a Httle bit o' luck, could 
do as well. . . . With their service 

career behind them, the Crosby boys 
are thinking of building their own 
permanent act to play the bigger 
hotels and Las Vegas. So we'll have 
four Bings instead of one. Dennis al- 
ready has his own deejay show going 
successfully on ABC in Hollywood — 
the profits from this show, in fact, are 
going into a new home for his bride in 
Pacific Palisades; Philip Crosby and 
his bride, Sandra, meanwhile, are liv- 
ing in the Holmby HUls manse. . . . 
Steve Allen and Jayne are shipping 
their favorite furnishings into the 
house down the block. Steve's reaction 
to his appearance on This Is Your 
Life: "I don't know what I did when 
Ralph Edwards came up behind me. 
... I don't remember what I said. . . . 
I had to watch the show to find out 
how I reacted! And even then I didn't 
believe it!" 

Speaking of surprises, the two hun- 
dred ladies standing in line for the 
ABC-TV Liberace show were com- 
pletely flipped when Lee walked out 
of the studio one hot day in the middle 
of winter (104 degrees, end of Octo- 
ber) and said, "You girls shouldn't 
have to stand out here in this heat — 
why don't we open the doors now and 
you can sit down inside while I re- 
hearse?" So the girls, now air-cooled, 
saw two shows instead of one. . . . 
Here's a fattening item: The swim- 
ming pool at Ann Sothern's new Bel 
Air home has {Continued on page 15) 

WCPO's pantomime people pick 
tlie tops of the pops for 
some live-wiring on the ABC-TV 
This Is Music show 

Audio's by Lewis — Jerry, that is — as Lee Fogel 
ond Bud Chase put "Shine on Your Shoes" on video. 

Ramona Burnett 

Bob Smith 

* Lee, Colin, Romona, Bud, Bob Shreve and Gail — -all 
"Standin' on the Corner," and with no lines to speak of. 

No words, no music — this is brainstornning time, for 
exec producer Wally Dunham, Ramona, Lee, Gail, Colin. 

THE MAN who said pantomime is "old hat" better eat it 
with his Monday dinner. Then, he can sit back in 
good conscience and enjoy This Is Music, videocast over 
ABC, Mondays at 10 P.M. (in Cincinnati, Fridays, 6: 30, 
over WCPO). Scoring one-up on the record com- 
panies, this Cincinnati-originated pantomime portfoho 
— otherwise known as "video to listen to music by" — 
is sweeping the continent with topnotch production and 
performing talent. Though it's "all a big act," the 
numbers dubbed to the current tunes happen to be 
art of a pretty high order. Say the producers: "This 
Is Music isn't just mimicking to somebody else's 
vocals. Hour upon hour of practice is required of our 
stars to perfect action, expression and lip movement. 
Each singer's individual pronunciation and style must 
be caught by our 'actors' and synchronized precisely 
with the waxing. This is classical stuff, and much 
harder to do than taking a part in a play and working 
from your own concept of what the playwright means." 
. . . Say the pantomime nine: "Actors' Studio was never 
like this." 

Paula Jane 

Colin Male 

Gail Johnson 


The six stars and three co-stars of 
This Is Music may be "silent partners" 
on the set, but, once off, they've plenty 
to keep them moving — and talking. 
While their performing quality is in- 
variably high whatever they do, their 
talents are various as the shows WCPO 
producers can think up for them. The 
result is, these nine alone comprise a 
performing nucleus for Cinci's impor- 
tant production ideas. With excep- 
tions of Ramona Burnett — as pretty a 
Rebel as Nashville ever loaned out — 
and Colin Male — he shuffled in from 
Buffalo half-a-baker's-dozen years ago 
— each star and "co" has shone by Cen- 
tral Standard the better part of a 

Bob Smith didn't "go Pogo" from 
Dayton, where he was born, to the 
Army and thence to Cincinnati. A 
champion pole-vaulter, Bob rather un- 
expectedly landed in the big-league 
"pantomime nine" in February of '57. 
One of 417 who auditioned, when Bob 
found himself a finalist, he vaulted over 
to the Cinci Conservatory for pointers 
in pantomime. Now he has thirty-four 
fan clubs. 

A distaff Daytonian, Paula Jane went 
to high school in Kettering and college 
at Ohio U., an engineering major. One 
"major change" later, and Paula found 
herself a featured deejay on the Univer- 
sity station. Now, in addition to Music, 
Paula shines on the WCPO-TV weather 
show, whether or not it's raining out- 

Lee Fogel is right at home in the 
Queen City. Born here, he swam on the 
Hughes High team. During Air Force 
service, Lee was attached to an Alaska 
radio station. Then, at WCPO, he was 
first a prop man, then a director, and 
now appears on the Clubhouse show 
daily. Comedy being Lee's "forte," 
you'd better watch out. He aims true, 
right to the funnybone. 

A "model" Chicagoan, Gail Johnson 
loves reading, water-skiing and wearing 
high-fashion outfits. Like Bob Smith, 
Gail won out over hundreds for her pan- 
tomime place. Now she's learning about 
four new records a day. A member of 
Northwestern's Class of '57, Gail once 

used her model earnings for a trip to 

Bob Shreve may be a frustrated vo- 
calist, but you'd never guess it. In radio 
and TV for twenty-six years, Bob's 
done every type show, and even seen 
the other side of the lights, directing 
and "trying to sell" radio time. His 
hometown is Fort Wayne, his service 
the Navy, but Bob's comic gifts were 
first discovered by WLW. Wife Mary 
Jane worked in radio before their mar- 
riage, but son Bobby hasn't decided. 

Bud Chase was also a Navy man — till 
his Chief Petty Officer dad caught him 
up short of years and sent him home. 
Bud was fifteen. Chicago-born, he grew 
up in New York, but returned for 
schooling at Northwestern. Before long, 
he was acting in radio drama and be- 
coming an excellent announcer. Married 
to singer Patti Williams, Bud is the 
father of two. 

Wanda Lewis is "Captain Windy" on 
the Al And Wanda Lewis children's 
show, over WCPO-TV, and hostess for 
Movie Matinee. A graduate of the 
Struthers, Ohio high school, Wanda at- 
tended the Cleveland Institute of Art, 
where she met husband Ah Now they 
have three wonderful little girls, all 
talented in music and painting. 

In nine years of broadcasting expe- 
rience, there is no type show versatile 
Colin Male has not been associated 
with, in both East and Midwest. A Uni- 
versity of Rochester alumnus, before he 
joined the airwaves, Colin was a re- 
porter on the Buffalo Courier-Express. 
Married and the father of two, Colin's 
ultimate ambition is station ownership. 
His pet peeves are stilted commercials 
and misuse of the language. 

Ramona Burnett would never be ac- 
cused of that; her Southern drawl is 
charming to everyone who meets her. 
But her biggest asset is her pantomime 
ability, which rates an A-1 no matter 
how you view it. Ramona was a secre- 
tary when she was first discovered. 
Though her voice is only seen but not 
heard, she sings along with the disc to 
"get the right feeling" into the action. 
Ramona's varied tastes run to hot coffee, 
sports cars and orchids. 

Bud Chase 

Wanda Lewis 

Lee Fogel 

Bob Shreve 


In St. Louis, the day is "gone'* 

before it begins — compliments of WIUs 

maestro of ay em antics, Gary Owens 

Arty's prayer for GO: "Please, Father Christmas, if 
you love him at all, bring him a big 12-cup percolator." 

Coffee break: Gary wards off starvation with a platter, 
keeps EmDee Rex Migraine on hand for consultation. , i 






HE MAY BE strictly for the early birds, but Gary Owens 
takes his civic responsibilities seriously. On Station 
WIL, from 5:30 to 9 each morning, he wakes up St. 
Louis. It takes some doing. Gary must first rouse him- 
self, then his wife "Arty" (Arlette), then one-by-one 
the "cast of thousands" who assist him in his morning 
shenanigans. Despite the heavy labor, Gary insists he 
enjoys the routine — "especially around 4 ayem, when I 
make coffee in my pajamas." ("Sometimes," quips Gary, 
"I wish we had a percolator!") . . . But the cast of thou- 
sands don't wake easily. For the most part, they're a 
rascally bunch destined to get coal in their stockings, 
come Christmas. Among the leaders are Clinton Fee- 
mish, career nepotist; Fenwick Smoot, unlisted; The 
Marquis de Sade; and an amoeba named Frank. For a 
fictional break, Gary puts on his horn-rimmed glasses 
and plays "Uncle Don" reading the funnies. "Suddenly, 
a huge black-lettering balloon comes out of the head 
of Rex Migraine, M.D.," narrates the GO-man, "and in 
big black letters spells. Sorry, I can't remove your pan- 

creas for only $25; however, I may he able to loosen it 
a bit . . . The nurses in the series," puns Gary, "are just 
too cute for wards." . . . Back in Plankinton, South 
Dakota, some twenty -four years ago, Gary didn't have 
such heavy duties. Just born, no matter how hard he 
cried, he couldn't wake more than 750 sleepyheads — 
the total Plankinton population. On the "GO" ever since, 
Gary's been artist, journalist and deejay extraordinary. 
Gary also has the distinction of being the first American 
deejay to phone Moscow to ask if they kept a Top Forty 
list. "It was a Party Line," Gary surmises. "They told 
me the U.S.S.R. prefers the classics." . . . Because his 
wife Arty majored in psychology in college, she under- 
stands GO and shares all his "real gone" enthusiasms — 
like sipping espresso and playing Monopoly. But then 
it's time for WIL's wake-up man to quiet down. By 
nature he's not an insomniac, but, before drifting off, 
Gary likes to think about his great system for rabbit- 
hunting in St. Louis. "You just wait for the rabbit to 
come by," says GO, "and make a noise like a carrot!" 

Information booth 

Passing the Half-Buck 

Dear Editors; 

I would like to point out that you have 
made an error and have put a photo of 
John Stephenson, the former host of Bold 
Journey, into the spot where you should 
have had a photo of Jack Douglas, the 
present host. 

K.N., Salt Lake City, Utah 

Thanks for calling this to our attention. 
We'll pass the buck for half the blame, and 
indict our photo source. The photograph 
appearing in November "Information 
Booth" captioned Jack Douglas was, cer- 
tainly, John Stephenson. We hope the 
picture of the real Jack Douglas, appearing 
on this page will clear up the matter. 

Hitting Big With "Dariin"' 

Would you please print something about 
the new recording star, Robin Luke? 

R.D., St. Helena, California 

That elusive Lady Luck appears to be 
traveling under the name of Susie — at 
least as far as the recording business is 
concerned. First, the Everly Brothers hit 
big with "Wake Up, Little Susie," and 
now the name has again brought success — 
this time, to Robin Luke, a sixteen-year-old 
schoolboy who lives in Honolulu. The 
song, "Susie Dariin'," which he wrote and 
recorded, became the No. 1 hit in Hawaii 
a few weeks after its release and is now 
well on its way to becoming one of the top 
hits in the United States. Robin actually 
wrote the tune when he was fourteen, and 
it's his five-year-old sister Susie who is the 
"dariin' " of his song. . . . After his birth 
in Los Angeles in 1942, Robin traveled all 
over the United States with his parents, 
studying guitar because it was easier to 
cart around than a piano. ... He had 

played the guitar and ukulele at all kinds 
of shows, and in January, 1958, Bob 
Bertram, president of International Rec- 
ords in Honolulu, recorded Robin singing 
"Susie Dariin'." Then the youngster was 
picked to appear in Honolulu's big "Show 
of Stars," and Bertram decided to release 
the record in time to set him up for the 
show. At this point the Dot Record dis- 
tributors in Cleveland, Art and Dorothy 
Freeman, were in Hawaii on their honey- 
moon. One day, as they strolled past a 
record shop, they heard "Susie Dariin' " 
and arranged to pick up the master disc 
for Dot. . . . The blond, blue-eyed singer 
is nick-named "Tiger," because of his large 
collection of same — stuffed ones, paintings 
of them, and figurines. . . . Although he 

Peter Hobbs 

Robin Luke 

has become quite a celebrity — not only 
for his record, but as co-star of Club Kimo 
on Hawaiian video and as guest star on 
several shows in the States — Robin has 
other ambitions. When he grows up, he 
wants to be a doctor. . . . Robin prefers 
casual clothes, anything in turquoise blue, 
and strawberry cheesecake. And this boy's 
wild about sports cars. 

Two Men Called Peter 

Please give me some facts about Peter 
Hobbs, who plays in the daytime serial 
The Secret Storm. 

L.D., Turbotville, Pennsylvania 

Peter Hobbs had to come a long way to 
play the part of Peter Ames, a widower 
with three children on the CBS daytime 
serial, The Secret Storm. All the way from 
France, to be exact. He was born there, 
in a small village called Etretat on the 
English Channel. Although his parents 
were American, they were living in France 
at the time of Peter's birtli-^lhe new father 
serving as a physician wdth a volunteer 

Jack Douglas 

medical unit attached to the British Army. 
. . . Shortly after the boy was born, his 
father died in the flu epidemic which was 
raging that year, and Mrs. Hobbs, Peter, 
and a French nurse returned to New York, 
where Peter grew up. ... In 1940, he was 
graduated from Bard College, then an 
undergraduate college of Columbia Uni- 
versity. He had begun his theatrical career 
in 1938 — as a summer-stock electrician 
with the Surrey Players in Ellsworth. 
Maine. Peter then acted with the company 
off and on for the next twelve years. . . . 
In 1945, he appeared in the Theater Guild 
production of "The Russian People." The 
following year, he understudied Marlon 
Brando in "Truckline Cafe." He replaced 
Kevin McCarthy in "Joan of Lorraine" in 
1949, toured opposite Joan Blondell in 
"Happy Birthday," and then took over 
Tom Helmore's role in "Clutterbuck." . . . 
Since then, he has concentrated on TV, 
appearing in such dramas as Suspense, 
Danger, Studio One, Schlitz Playhouse, 
and many others. . . . Peter likes to play 
tennis and baseball, but he insists — though 
his claim may not "hold water" — his only 
real hobby is plumbing! 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new 
members. If you are interested, write to 
address given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Jerry Lewis Fan Club, Pat Salzburg, 
Harbor Road, Sands Point, L.I., New York. 

Dick Dale National Fan Club, Mrs. 
Evelyn Hurt, 1060 S. Cochran Avenue. 
Apt. 3, Los Angeles 19, Calif. 

The McGuire Sisters Fan Club, Julia 
Veitengruber, 8950 Curtis Road, Bridge- 
port. Michigan. 

something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, if we can, 
provided your question is of general inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — 
but be sure to attach this box to your 
letter, and specify whether it concerns 
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers. 



Ubiquitous Marty's ayem beat for 
WKMH takes him down river, up Seaway, 
and free-wheeling all over Detroit 

Seeing stars — like Kothryn Grayson, Ed Sullivan, 
Monique Van Vooren — is almost doily bit with Marty. 

A great fonnily man, Marty devotes most of his 
evenings to wife Doris, son Doug, daughter Jane. 




Skipper Morgan Howell of the 5.S. Aquarania was thrilled 
as Marty to be cruising down the river on ocean-going vessel. 

MAD ANYONE Suggested to Navy man Marty McNeeley that= 
on some warm August morning in '58 he'd find himself j 
aboard a seagoing vessel in the Detroit River, he'd have waved] 
it off as a science-fiction piece about as fabulous as that i 
ostensible "sneak submarine attack" on Denver last year. ■ 
But here he was, of a warm August morning in '58, struggling 
to get his sealegs back, making nautical history in the City 
of Wheels. WKMH's six-day-a-week morning show — usually^ 
broadcast from 6 to 10 A.M. from downtown Detroit studios » 
in the Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel — was "on location" on the \ 
decks of the S.S. Aquarama. Marty gripped the mike with on^ 
hand and the helm with the other. Would the radio signal | 
carry back to town? What about the dynamiting down the 
river? But everything went without a hitch. As the vessel i 
cast off, broadcast lines wei-e disconnected, and Marty's Morn-i 
ing Beat was carried by short wave until 11: 15 A.M., as the ' 
ship made its way to Cleveland. . . . This was just one of the | 
many epochal occasions Marty has covered in the course of his^ 
six years with WKMH. A real person, Marty is completely 
devoid of the "temperament" that so often goes with a big- 
name radio personality. He believes, for example, that to 
know a job well you must start as low man on the pole and 
climb slowly to the top. "Low" for Marty was high on the 
airwaves with a morning show while he was still in a 
Youngstown, Ohio high school. During the war, he worked 
with Armed Forces Radio out of San Francisco, then went t( 
Cleveland, where he found a job and a bride, at WJMO. In 
'51, Marty, his wife Doris and their son Doug, now eight, madi 
the move to the Motor City. Dad Marty may be their man 
of the airwaves, but all the McNeeleys — including four-year- 
old Jane — apprentice at the family tape-recorder. And if 
anyone suggests there may be another McNeeley traveling th< 
airwaves, circa 1970, Marty will be the first to agree. 


(Continued from page 5) 

morning Patti Page appeared as guest 
and Don "ate crow," admitting that, 
ten years earlier, he had given Patti 
a week's audition for the show, and 
then let her go with the words, "You'll 
have to wait a little while before jnou're 
ready." Patti recalls it was her first 
network program and she made thir- 
teen hundred for that week, in contrast 
to her usual seventy -five. "It was nice," 
she says, "and an incentive to make 
good." Don, always quiet as a mouse 
off the air, explained why he hadn't 
kept Patti on. "She wouldn't talk on 
the show. Her singing was fine, but she 
wouldn't ad-lib with me." Patti recalls, 
"I was plain scared." ... A couple of 
cowboys, plus a female saloon-keeper, 
galloped in from their video corrals 
and made themselves available at New 
York's Gaslight Club, the nearest thing 
to an old-fashioned saloon in existence 
(though operated on a private mem- 
bership basis). Dick Coogan, Calif or- 
nian, cased the set-up — the bartenders 
in fancy vests and the waitresses in 
fancy nothings, and said, "I feel naked 
without my make-up." Jim Garner, the 
older Maverick boy, looked around 
and quipped, "I thought Wyatt Earp 
had closed up places like this." Garner 
settled down to being good-natured 
and making jokes about his TV broth- 
er, Jim KeUy. Sample, "It's not true 
that I do Jim's tricks for him. He can 
almost mount a horse by himself." Dick 
Coogan was still bewildered about a 
conversation he'd overheard between 
his wife and their son Ricky. "Ricky 
was telling his mother that he thought 
she should marry Jerry Lewis. He said, 
'Daddy is very funny, too. If they live 
in the same house, they could be a 
comedy team.' " On hand was Dick's 
TV girlfriend. Carole Mathews, a tall . 
blonde with a mezzo voice as startling 
as her looks. She said, "I'm the love 
interest and I guess everyone is sup- 
posed to sense I'm trying to get my 
hooks into Dick, but we don't kiss. We 
can't even hold hands. I guess one thing 
never changes, so far as Western cow- 
boys go. They just can't kiss girls." 

For Cats and Kiddie-Cats: The new 

recording division of Warner Bros, has 
some worthy discs. Among them are 
the Mary Kaye Trio's "Too Much," 
which brings you the kind of musical 
entertainment you'd pay lots of dollars 
to hear in a club. WB has also waxed 
sheer melodic pleasure, with Warren 
Baker's "Waltzing Down Broadway," 
a collection of top tunes from recent 
musicals. Two WB jazz items in the 
news are Dragnet's Jack Webb, who 
presents "Pete Kelly Lets His Hair 
Down," Chicago-style ad-libbing in a 
blue mood; the other is a double-disked 
album, "The Dixieland Story with 
Matty Matlock and the Paducah Pa- 
trol." This one is exceptionally fine. 
. . . In the Christmas spirit are Capitol's 
'The Star (Continued on page 73) 


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■ Dept. WG-1S9 

S 205 East 42 St., New York 17. N. Y. 

I Send me a copy of How To Turn Extra 

■ Time Into Extra Money. I enclose D $1 
I paperbound Q $2.50 hardbound. 




( print) 



13 'J 




Beat is sweeter since Tommy Edwards hit. 

This space rotates among 
Robin Seymour of WKMH, 
Torey Southwick of KMBC, 
Josh Brady of WBBM, 
and Joe Finan of KYW 



ONE YEAR AGO, the Top Ten con- 
tained such musical expressions 
as "Lean Jean," "Skinny Minnie," 
"Marvelous Maude," "Eloquent Eloise," 
ad nauseam. Three hundred sixty-five 
days later, a subtle but marvelous 
change has taken place. The recording 
companies — feeling, for the first time 
in many years, a lack of interest in their 
single records — have taken stock and 
decided that quality music is the only 
way to survive in the changing market 
today. Raucous rock 'n' roll, with those 
inane or downright stupid lyrics, is 
definitely on the decline. In its place 
for the kids, we have gotten a better- 
type lyric and rhythm, still very dance- 
able, but in better taste both from a 
literary point of view and musically. 

Teenagers, God love 'em, still want 
their own brand of music, and the 
record companies are delivering. But, 
for the first time, public pressure is 
forcing the record company and lyric 
writer to turn out a better story in 
song, minus the screaming, rocking 
noise that was foisted on kids and 
general public alike a year ago. 

The record business, like any busi- 
ness, is dependent on the salability 
of its product, and thus people who 


have heavily invested in records and 
publishing have been brought up short. 
But they realize that, while the 45 rpm. 
was once on the decline, album sales 
practically doubled. Many record com- 
panies began reviving old tunes with 
much success. 

One of the notable examples in this 
genre is Tommy Edwards' "It's All in 
the Game," a million-seller in 1947 and 
today, almost double that figure. His 
other current numbers — "Please Love 
Me Forever" and "Love Is All We 
Need" — are right up there. After dire 
warnings from the various oracles of 
the business that the kids would not 
accept a toned-down Presley, a tamed 
Little Richard, and a relaxed Bill Haley, 
we have found the kids not only buy- 
ing these songs in their modified forms 
but to a great extent, turning their 
backs on exaggerated rock 'n' roll. 

As a result, radio listening has im- 
proved tremendously, in keeping with 
a better brand of music. Where once 
we had a heavy teen-age listening 
audience, we find today a heavy per- 
centage of women listening — women 
who are willing to listen to Elvis Pres- 
ley's new "I Got Stung," or Pat Boone, 
or Connie Francis — but women who 

will snap the dial faster than you can 
say "hound-dog," at a too-frantic beat. 

As a disc jockey I certainly welcome 
this development, for the defense of 
rock 'n' roll and bad music revolved — 
not on the shoulders of the record com- 
panies — but on the disc jockeys, who 
were berated by radio-TV editors, 
P.-T.A.'s and anyone who wanted to 
rap what deserved to be rapped. 

The growth of the album business 
indicates a strong, healthy future for 
the record industry and offers per- 
formers more security in their life 
work. The album offers a complete 
expression of the performer and gives 
him an opportunity, over a given six- 
teen songs, to display the full sweep of 
his particular talent. The one-record, 
one-shot performer is fast becoming 
a thing of the past, as the record com- 
panies are unwilling to invest heavily 
in the new performers. What they are 
willing to do is to go all out for such 
performers as Fran Warren, Tommy 
Edwards, etc. So it looks Hke a year 
of better music and better listening; 
P.-T.A.'s are happier, parents are hap- 
pier, the kids are enjoying the music 
as much as ever, and the disc jockey's 
ears ring with a sweeter sound. 

The Joe Finan Show is heard over Station KYW in Cleveland, each Monday through Saturday, from noon to 4 P.M. 


(Continued from page 7) 

a real soda fountain built in at one 
end — that's for daughter Tish and 
her friends. Ann moved into the 
new home on the hottest day of the 
year, and Tish's gang had a ball mix- 
ing their own ice-cream sodas. Ann's 
new living room is a stylish blue and 
green, her bedroom, shrimp pink. But 
it's no shrimp — it measures fourteen 
by twenty. Ann's poodle, a stranger 
to the new house, fell into the pool 
the first day. Ann jumped in, slacks 
and all, to get him — shallow end, 
thank you. 

Ray Burr lives in as small and con- 
fined an area as Ann Sothern's is 
grand and expansive: Burr's hour- 
long weekly show is so demanding on 
his time that he doesn't get home to 
his Malibu estate but once a month, 
spends the rest of his time in his dress- 
ing-room suite — small bedroom, bath, 
kitchenette and living room. Ray, a 
big man, had an oversized kingsize 
bed made up for the suite. But the 
door to the bedroom was never meas- 
ured. The bed now stands in the liv- 
ing room and there's barely enough 
space for Ray and more than one 
guest. Out of the normal twenty-four- 
hour day, Ray has about one-and-a- 
half hours to himself — to see his den- 
tist and doctor and tailor. Recently, the 
tailor came to fit him for ten suits 
and Ray quipped, "Now, if I only had 
time to wear them out somewhere, it 
would be grand." But, Ray, you're a 
TV sleuth— find the time. 

Barry Coe is finding it harder and 
harder to find time alone with Judi 

Meredith. Judi has rented a home for 
her sister, her sister's child, and her- 
self in the Valley. But all is not lost: 
Barry will be doing a one-shot on the 
George Burns Show with Judi — which 
led George to remark, "I'll save a for- 
tune in writers' fees on those love 
scenes." . . . Not many love scenes for 
new groom Peter Brown of ABC -TV's 
Lawman series. Pete, married one 
month, has spent fourteen days on 
tour, and, when home, gets up at 5 
A.M. every morn, goes to bed at 8 
P.M. every night. But, at least, when 
he's on tour, he has time to phone his 
bride, which he does every night. 

The Old West was never like this: 
John Russell of ABC's Lawman series 
lives with his family in the west 
Hollywood hills, fairly rugged country. 
Deer come down to the salt lick in the 
back yard, the yard is populated with 
skunk, possum and harmless gopher 
snakes. John came home one night to 
find the boys had put a pet gopher 
snake on his bed to keep it warm. He 
warned the kids they positively were 
not to put a snake on his bed again. 
The next night he found the snake in 
the bed and had a fit. But the kids de- 
fended themselves by saying, "Daddy, 
you said not 'on' the bed — he was 'in' 
it . . . that's different." 

Did You Know? All the income from 
his new series goes into a trust fund 
for Ed Wynn's grandchildren. Tough- 
guy Charles Bronson, from Man 
With A Camera, is an excellent 
painter but refuses to sign his can- 
vases. Tom Tryon, of Disney's "John 

Bells are ringing for Phil Bonnell — with his own phone, thanks to dad Lee 
Bonnell (left), nnonn Gale Storm. Paul and Peter (right) await their "majority." 

Wandering minstrel Johnny Cash 
finds a home on Los Angeles channel. 

Slaughter" fame, studied cartooning 
before he became an actor. To think 
he might be drawing cartoons for 
Mr. Disney instead of acting for him. 
Dashes to Deadline: Louis Nye has 
a Diners' Club card, but no driver's 
license. That would be fine if the sub- 
way were on the Diners' Card. . . . 
John Payne will give his secretary 
away on December 31 and, in doing so, 
will lose the namesake for his Restless 
Gun character, Vint Bonner. John 
stands up for Ann Bonner when she 
is married at year's end. . . . Milton 
Berle's thought for the holidays, 
"Christmas comes but once a year and 
the rest of the time you pay for it." . . . 
Dinah's daughter Missy will dance 
the "Chimney Sweep" ballet with 
Tony Charmoli and Dinah on her 
Christmas show; Missy makes her 
comic debut on Danny Thomas's De- 
cember 8 show. Another triple threat 
in the family? It won't be long now 
before she starts building Early Amer- 
ican furniture. . . . Shirley Temple is 
turning authoress . . . will write all 
her own magazine articles from now 
on — at high prices, too. . . . Johnny 
Cash fans will want to know that the 
young singing sensation is beginning 
a local show over Hollywood's KTLA 
TV channel . . . Lassie and Timmie 
off to Sacramento for personals dur- 
ing the Christmas holidays . . . Bill 
Leyden back from Utah with an- 
nouncer Wendell Niles. Prizes of their 
bow-and-arrow hunting venture — two 
deer. . . . Gale Storm and husband 
Lee Bonnell have just formed their 
own producing company, Confido Pro- 
ductions — means "with faith" in Latin. 
. . . With Pat Boone going to London 
to visit the Queen for a command per- 
formance, the old saying should now 
read: "Where have you boone — I've 
boone to London to visit the Quoon." 
That's it from Hollywood. 


a must for every television fan 

TV's Top Stars 

the exciting, absorbing stories 

of television's greats . . . the part they ploy 

on your set . . . their honne life 

TV's Top Stars 

Here's the greatest . . . TV's 
TOP STARS 1959 ... the 
brand new book produced by 
the editors of TV RADIO 

Here in one glamorous pack- 
age is everybody of impor- 
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Here are 95 absorbing stories 
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stars. This great book takes 
you behind the scenes and 
tells you hundreds of little 
known facts about the greats 
of television. Here you will 
learn how your favorite star 
got started in television . . . 
here also are facts about his 
present role . . . and anecdotes 
about other people in the 
cast. Here, too, you read 
about the roles these famous 
folks play in real life. Now 
you can meet theii- wives . . . 

if your newsdealer can't supply you send 50^ with this coupon. 

theii' children . . . and leai-n 
about their hobbies. 

Each Story Complete 
100,000 Words, 200 Pictures 

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the complete and exciting 
stories of television's greats. 
Now you can really know 
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Only 50< 

Wherever Magazines are Sold 

The price of this wonderful 
book is only 50(Z — get your 
copy at your favorite maga- 
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greater enjoyment from your 
television set. 

Bartholomew House, Inc. 

Dept. RM-159 

205 East 42 St.. New York 17. N. Y. 


Send me postpaid a copy of TV's TOP STARS 1959. I enclose 50#. 





City State. 


Steve Allen 
DesI Arnaz 
James Arness 
Gene Autry 

Lucille Ball 
Molly Bee 
Jack Benny 
Polly Bergen 
Milton Berle 
Pat Boone 
Richard Boone 
Lloyd Bridges 
Peter Brown 
George Burns 
Ronnie Burns 
Raymond Burr 

Rory Calhoun 
Dick Clark 
Dorothy Collins 
Perry Como 
Chuck Connors 
Pat Conway 
Brad Crawford 
Bing Crosby 
Bill Cullen 
Robert Culp 
Bob Cummings 

Gail Davis 
Jimmy Dean 
George de Witt 

Eddie Fisher 
Myron Floren 
Tennessee Ernie Ford 
Pete Fountain 
James Franciscus 
Dean Fredericks 

James Garner 
Dave Garroway 
Jackie Gleason 
Arthur Godfrey 
Eydie Gorme 

Barbara Hale 
Bob Hope 
Robert Horton 
Will Hutchins 

David Janssen 
Betty Johnson 

Jack Kelly 
Phyllis Kirk 

Peter Lawford 
Steve Lawrence 
Jerry Lewis 
Shari Lewis 
Art Linkletter 
Jack Linkletter 
Alice Lon 

Shirley MacLaine 
Jock Mahoney 
Dean Martin 
Lee Marvin 
Groucho Marx 
Darren McGavin 
Jayne Meadows 
George Montgomery 
Garry Moore 

David Nelson 
Harriet Nelson 
Ozzie Nelson 
Rick Nelson 
Kathy Nolan 

Hugh O'Brian 

Jack Paar 
Patti Page 
Betsy Palmer 
John Payne 
Elvis Presley 

Donna Reed 
Dale Robertson 
Roy Rogers 

Dinah Shore 
Phil Silvers 
John Smith 
Ann Sothern 
Craig Stevens 
Gale Storm 
Ed Sullivan 

Shirley Temple 
Danny Thomas 

Clint Walker 
Jack Webb 
Lawrence Welk 
Andy Williams 
Guy Williams 

Loreita Young 


Join with the Editors of TV Radio Mirror 
To wish for the nine talented young people 
Whose stories occupy the next sixteen pages 


Continued success for the years to come. 
To each of them, 1958 was a banner year — 
The year in which fortune truly smiled 
The year Stardust fell upon them from the skies 
The year talent brought them well-won success. 
With warm good wishes, we give you . . . 
The Lennon Sisters: Mr. Welk's Little Darlings 
Connie Francis: Who's Not Sorry Now! 
Bobby Darin: The Splish Splash Success Boy 
Ty Hardin: New Hero of Cheyenne 
Jimmy Dean: That Daytime Charmer 
JacklynO'Donnell: Ed Wynn's TV Granddaughter 
Their stories on following pages — >■ 

Ty Hardin 

Christmas: Lennon Style 

Dazzling success on the Lawrence Welk shows hasn't spoiled the Lennon Sisters. 
Here, as a Christmas gift for you, is Dad Lennon' s oivn story of family love eternal 


IP I WERE A COMEDIAN, I suppose I'd Start off with a funny 
story about my daughters. But I'm not a comedian and, 
while I don't take myself too seriously, I don't like to 
make a career of joking about my family. Love and loyalty 
and sharing, plus a firm faith in God's goodness, that's 
what holds us Lennons together. Nowadays, that's no 
laughing matter. 

The finest thing my parents ever did for me was to make 
me part of a big family. We were eight boys and a girl 
and I was third from the eldest. We were a lively bunch 

and loved to roughhouse. Many's the nose was pvmchee 
in our happy home. But we had a lot in common: The 
love of our parents, our religion, a sense of hvunor and— i 
singingwise — ears that were absolutely true-tone. 

The Lennon house was big and Christmas was always 
a production to match it. After we were sent up to bedj 
our parents arranged the gifts around the tree, and ther 
about two in the morning, they'd stand at the foot of the 
stairs, ringing sleighbells, banging spoons and knives to- 
gether and generally raising a clatter. We kids would 

Christmas has deep religious meaning for the Lennons, and centers around figures of the Nativity on their mantelpiecel 
Below hang stockings for the nine children — baby Joey; Mimi, 3; Billy, 4; Pat, 7; Danny, 9; Janet, 12; Kothy, 15; Peggy| 
17; Dianne, 18 — and their parents. All eleven family members were born in different months, so everyone's hoping the nev 
baby expected in February will arrive just three days early, for then they would have a January birthday to celebrate, tool 

Holidays and birthdays are big occasions for a family which loves to share its joys. But Christmas is most significant 
of all, and the Lennons start decorating long before the glorious Day. Rehearsing, too, for the hymns and carols which are 
a large part of their celebration. Seated at the piano, the famed girl quartet — Janet, Kathy, Peggy and Dianne. Behind 
them, their mother "Sis" (holding little Mimi) and father Bill, author of the inspiring story told exclusively in these pages. 




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Peggy, Janet and Kathy prove that they've started their 
shopping and wrapping early. (Bill says that his girls — 
despite fame and fortune on the Welle shows — still spend 
little on themselves, splurge only on gifts for others.) 

"DeDe" (Dianne) hopes someday to have a happy brood 
like Sis's and Bill's. She never tires of caring for the 
younger children, or of telling wide-eyed Mimi about the 
Infant Jesus in the Holy Family "creche" on the piano. 






Do not open until Dec. 25! Danny tries to guess what's 
the package. Joey listens to the Christmas story over and 
over, hopes for lots of picturebooks. One thing sure: This 
year, there'll be plenty of everything for all the Lennons. 

Ctiristmas: Lennon Style 


Bill gratefully recalls "the years when Santa was feeling the 
pinch" — remembers that, even then, "we still managed at 
least one gift apiece ... a tree to decorate on Christmas Eve 
... a ham dinner with all the trimmings for Christmas Day." 

come dashing downstairs, looking for Santa. There would 
lie our gifts. We'd look outside. Santa was gone. We'd just 
missed him. Next year, we'd say, next year, we'll get 
down faster and catch him. Then we'd be marched off to 
bed with the flavor of a wonderful experience to dream on 
until another Christmas. "Sis" (the nickname everyone 
calls my wife Isabelle) and I have tried to preserve this 
for our children. Each year, we go through the same 
ritual. Of course, it was tough to put over when we lived 
in the one-story house, a few years back. But, now that 
we have the big house, with the bedrooms upstairs, it's 
much easier to play Santa Claus. 
My father was a writer who (^Continued on page 71) 

Happy with the gifts they can now get — particularly, for 
others — the singing sisters have known leaner times. But 
Bill emphasizes that, if they were ever disappointed in 
those days, they "kept it secret to spare the rest of us." 

Like all youngsters, Janet tries to find 
where the others have hidden her presents. 
While Bill's busy on the phone, she actu- 
ally finds one — but alas, it's for Mimi! 

Stockings are hung by the chimney with 
care — Mimi and Joey know Santa soon will 
be there. Mear(while, Peggy, Kathy and 
Janet make sure theirs are big enough. 

Bill and "Sis" Lennon with their girls — Janet, Kathy, Dianne, Mimi, Peggy — 
and, on horizontal ledge, the Birthday Saints for each member of the family. 

Lawrence Welk's Dodge Dancing Party, ABC-TV, Sat., 9 P.M. EST, is sponsored by 
Dodge Dealers of America. The Plymouth Show, Starring Lawrence Welk, ABC-TV and 
ABC Radio, Wed., 7:30 P.M. EST, is sponsored by Plymouth Dealers of America. For 
other ABC Radio programs, including Lawrence Welk Army Show, see local newspapers. 




Tk Splish Splash Boy 

Another "Splish Splash"? Bobby runs over 
some new songs he's written, for Ed Burton 
and Charles Srean, his personal managers. 

His talent for far-out humor in 
song has already hit it big with 
teenagers. Ambition and drive 
will keep him zooming to stardom 


BOBBY Darin is like a bullet violently dis- 
charged and in mid-flight. His target is 
stardom and he will not settle for less than 
a bull's-eye. . . . You know Bobby's hit disc, 
"Splish Splash," a humorous song he wrote and 
recorded himself. You've seen him on last 
summer's Boh Crosby Show and several times 
with Dick Clark. Bobby's personable and bright. 
Socially, he's the life of the party. His teachers 
were crazy about him because he was not only 
well-behaved but a lot of laughs, too. 

Yet there's another side to Bobby. 'Tm not 
a happy individual," he says. "Never have been. 
As contrived as it may soiind, I don't ever re- 
member having fun as such. My childhood 
wasn't a childhood. I always had to be ahead 
of the game. It seems that I've never had any- 
thing else to do in (Continued on page 75) 

Subject: The exciting future of a certain young man who sings on the Atco label. In conference, 
left to right: Lester Lees, national promotion director; Grean and Burton; Jerry Wexler, vice- 
president of Atlantic records; the subject himself — Bobby Darin, who finds no price too high to 
pay for success. "Being so poor," he says quietly, "is my chief impetus for wanting to be rich." 



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Television fascinates Bobby. He loved being on The Bob Crosby Show 
last summer, with stars like Bob himself (above, left) and Sretchen 
Wyler (right). He admits he felt "pretty big," after his first TV 
guest shot, 'way back when, but later found he still had far to go. 

Only twenty-one now, he's gained a mature perspective on performing 
(above) and greeting fans (below). Hard work can't frighten him, but 
there's sadness in certain memories of his childhood. Actually, that 
sadness is the basis of his humor — and his reason for writing songs. 



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The Splish Splash Boy 

His talent for far-out humor in 
song has already hit it big with 
teenagers. Ambition and drive 
will keep him zooming to stardom 


BOBBY Darin is like a bullet violently dis- 
charged and in mid-flight. His target is 
stardom and he will not settle for less than 
a bull's-eye. . . . You know Bobby's hit disc, 
"Splish Splash," a himiorous song he wrote and 
recorded himself. You've seen him on last 
summer's Boh Crosby Show and several times 
with Dick Clark. Bobby's personable and bright. 
Socially, he's the life of the party. His teachers 
were crazy about him because he was not only 
well-behaved but a lot of laughs, too. 

Yet there's another side to Bobby. "I'm not 
a happy individual," he says. "Never have been. 
As contrived as it may sound, I don't ever re- 
member having fun as such. My childhood 
wasn't a childhood. I always had to be ahead 
of the game. It seems that I've never had any- 
thing else to do in (Continued on page 75) 

Another "Splish Splash"? Bobby runs over 
some new songs he's written, for Ed Burton 
and Charles Grean, his personal managers. 


Subject: The exciting future of a r^rtnln wo.,.,., ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^^HI^^S 

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Television fascinates Bobby. He loved being on The Bob Crosby Show 
last summer, with stars like Bob himself (above, left) and Sretchen 
Wyler (right). He admits he felt "pretty big," after his first TV 
guest shot, 'way back when, but later found he still had far to go. 

Only twenty-one now. he's gained a mature perspective on performing 
(above) ond greeting fans (below). Hard work can't frighten him, but 
there's sadness in certain memories of his childhood. Actually, that 
sadness is the basis of his humor — and his reason for writing songs. 


The title of Connie Francis's latest disc, accurately phrases the price young performers 
pay for success. But, to this sweet-singing eixtrovert, life is too wonderful for words 


CONNIE Francis has two golden records on her 
charm bracelet, but not a darned thing on 
the third finger of her left hand — and Connie 
doesn't like that bareness a bit. Asked what new 
romances there are in her life, she wails, "Romances? 
Not even one. Here all my girl friends are getting 
married and having babies, and I don't so much 
as have an interesting date in sight. Isn't it terrible?" 

Since Connie's voice carries a magic which has 
caused a proven two million people — at least — 
to fall in love with her M-G-M hits, "Stupid Cupid" 
and "Who's Sorry Now?" . . . and since she is, in 
person, a five-foot-two young beauty with gardenia- 
petal skin, flashing brown eyes and that vibrant 
shade of dark auburn hair which the old Italian 
artists loved to paint . . . and, further, because 
she radiates charm and bubbles with laughter . . . 
this is a most unexpected state of affairs. 

Unprecedented, too. A year ago, she was having a 
ball. What happened to all those boyfriends? 
"Just what you'd expect," Connie sighs. "While I've 
been out on the road, they {Continued on page 77) 

Below: Howie, Connie, Gene, Neil, Gayle Anklowitz, and 
Patricia Karafky. Everyone brought favorite records and 
it seemed just like old times — except that Connie's a 
"celebrity" now. She herself had recorded some of the 
discs, and Patricia was secretary of Connie's fan club. 

Clowning around with Neil Sedaka (left) and Howard 
Greenfield — writers of "Stupid Cupid" — Connie found 
they all still fitted in with the youthful "old crowd" 
at the pizza party Gene Serpentelli (below, at right) 
gave for her in her hometown of Belleville, New Jersey. 





Changes began when her M-G-M record "Who's Sorry Now?" was a hit and Connie guest-s+arred on The Dick Clark Show. 

She and Patricia were good friends still, but now there Writing in her diary, Connie happily notes her friends' 
was fan mail to answer — and Patricia was going to college. engagements — and wonders when she'll find romance herself. 








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v^oUTH oiM THE m=>e 

Ty Hardin, the husky new hero 
of Cheyenne, in one golden year 
found stardom and married 
beautiful Andra Martin. Who 
could ask for anything more? 


TY Hardin's marriage with Andra Martin 
was not made in heaven — unless heaven 
be the offices of the Music Corporation of 
America. The romance had its beginning 
when Paramount was about to premiere 
"Teacher's Pet" and Ty's agent at M.C.A. 
thought the young actor should be seen there. 

"But I don't know any girls," Ty pro- 
tested. (This still brings a sniff from Andra. 
"He knew plenty of girls," she winks. "He 
was just after some new ones.") As it hap- 
pened, Andra's agent at M.C.A. was passing 
by, ahd suddenly an idea was born. Both 
men decided to pair their clients for the 
evening and reap some fine publicity. 

When Ty arrived to pick her up, Andra 
didn't quite know what to make of him: "It 
was pouring rain, and in strides this tall, 
strange figure in a tuxedo, raincoat, ornate 
cowboy hat, and black boots so polished I 

Just before the wedding, Mrs. Wells helps 
Andra Martin adjust traditional blue garter. 
The bride's "sonnething borrowed" is snnall 
pearl earrings, on loan fronn maid-of-honor. 

]%«:.^]v :Fito]%«: t:ex:a.{S 

Treasured pictures of Ty's and Andra's wedding at Little 
Brown Church In the Valley (North Hollywood): Above, our 
"good-luck man" receives congratulations from the Rever- 
end John hi. Wells; at left is Ty's "best man," Irving Leonard. 

Ty teases, "Careful what you sign, Irv. You may be getting 
in deeper than I ami" Small chance of any error, with Dr. 
Wells officiating — and Irv Leonard himself actually the very 
shrewd business manager for Ty and other Western heroes. 

Last "little-girr' kisses for bride-to-be 
from her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Her- 
bert Rehn of Rockford, Illinois — where 
Andra grew up as Sandra Rehn. 

Wedding hour is almost here and moid- 
of-honor Diane Cannon gives lost-min- 
ute touch to smooth Andre's queenly 
coiffure under seed-pearl bridal crown. 

Cameras click and reporters hover 
as Andra (a Warners' film star in 
her own right) enters the Little 
Brown Church on her father's arm. 




Mr. and Mrs., at last! Ty Hardin (real name, Orison Hungerford) embraces his bride, 
the former Andra Martin. Maid-of-honor is in tears, but Andra confesses she had her 
"big cry" the night before. Marriage hod to overcome many objections from those who 
sincerely believed the two were too young, too recently started in their careers. 

could see everything reflected double in them. It took a 
while before I realized this young Texan was not merely 
trying to look picturesque." She asked him to explain his 
bizarre get-up. "Well, ma'am," Ty answered, "you may as 
well know I'm not an in-between kind of fellow. With me, 
it's either barefoot or boots." 

That's Ty Hardin, the Bronco Layne of Cheyenne, one 
of Warner Bros.' top-ranking TV Westerns. 

This, too, is Ty Hardin: They were staging a fight for a 
segment of the show. "I want realism and lots of it," 
snapped the director. Claude Aikens, as the "heavy," 

braced himself for the usual simulated rush of fury. But 
he hadn't counted on an all-out charge. Six-foot-two and 
180 pounds of football-and-cowboy-tough Ty came at him 
like a rampaging steer. Aikens went sprawling, the wind 
knocked out of him. 

Instantly the fury left Ty. He bent to hejp his victim up. 
Broad shoulders slumped, he was the woebegone picture 
of regret and apology. "I forgot I was acting, for a second," 
he confessed sheepishly. Then, on an impulse which was 
quite typical, he rushed to the other extreme and begged 
the director to redo the fight (Continued on page 68) 


A small wedding, by Hollywood standards, attended only by those closest to 
the happy couple. Family, left to right, includes: Andra's parents, Mr. and 
Mrs. Herbert Rehn; Andra and Ty; his mother Mrs. Gwen Hungerford, up from 
Ty's home state of Texas; Andra's aunt, Mrs. Cara Faleen, of Rockford, III. 

Andra and Ty step out of the solemn 
candlelight of the Little Brown Church 
into the prophetically bright sunshine 
of the new life they will share together. 

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First task for the newlyweds to share: 
The cutting of their wedding coke, for 
the guests at the gracious family-style 
reception following church ceremony. 

Toast to the future, from Andra's mother (left) and Ty's mother (at his shoul- 
der). The newlyweds' home is an apartment now, may some day be a ranch. 
Meanwhile, two careers are zooming: Ty's on TV, as star of Cheyenne; Andra's 
in movies, where she recently played opposite James Garner in "Up Periscope." 

Ty Hardin stars as Bronco Layne in Cheyenne, as seen over ABC-TV, alternating with Sugarfoot on Tuesday, from 7:30 to 8:30 P.M. EST, for 

Johnson & Johnson, Harold F. Ritchie, Inc., and other sponsors. 



Daytime g 

The magic of TV means even more to the 
Deans than to most families, for it was 
Jimmy's success on the air which has made 
it possible for him to give Sue and young 
Constance and Garry the gracious life and 
spacious home he always wanted for them. 

Daytime TV performers keep hours much 
like any working husband's. Sue sees that 
Jimmy gets a good start for his day. hie's 
proud of his lovely, loyal wife, and still 
regrets that he didn't propose to her as 
"romantically" as he could have wished. 

Jimmy Dean's lovable qualities pin 
the ladies to the TV screen 
these afternoons. His night-time 
audience of three is just as loving 


Herbie Jones, on The Jimmy Dean Show, is not only a talented guitarist but 
a living link with days when Jimmy first got started and was courting Sue. 


THE QUESTION from the audience at warm-up time was so unexpected 
it rocked even Jimmy Dean back on his heels. From the depths 
of CBS-TV's Studio 51, the voice demanded, "Are you paid?" Since 
Columbia Broadcasting System had but recently annoimced that it 
had spent a highly impressive sum to buy up Dean's contract and bring 
him from Washington to New York, there was the chance that it 
might have originated with some jealous joker, administering the needle. 
But, since you never can tell who is in a studio audience, there was 
always the possibility that the query might be straight-forward, naive, 
and honest. Jimmy's perplexed look indicated he was weighing his reply. 
Then a totally beatific smile broke over his country-boy countenance 
as he decided to give it a Texas-type answer. (Continued on page 74) 

The Jimmy Dean Show is seen on CBg-TV, M-F, 2 P.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. 





Nothing can make a firmer bond between 
father and son than model trains. Garry's 
getting a full set — but it's a treat for 
Jimmy, too. He had few toys in childhood. 
On the other hand, he had jack rabbits to 
hunt, when he was a boy back in Texas! 

Bedtime prayers have special meaning in 
a household so conscious of its blessings. 
It's little Constance giving thanks here, 
but no one is more grateful than Jimmy 
and Sue themselves, who have known hard 
times but who have never lost their faith. 



Just seventeen, Jacklyn performs in distinguished company 
indeed, as granddaughter to the star of The Ed Wynn Show. 
But she's a fine trouper, too, and director William Russell 
(left) has no doubt of her ability, rehearsing this episode. 

A FEW YEARS AGO, Jacklyn O'Donnell threw a friendly 
smile at another little girl sitting across from her 
on a Los Angeles bus. The other youngster's eyes grew 
big as she tugged at her mother excitedly. "Momma . . . 
momma . . . look!" she cried out, pointing at Jacklyn. 
"Look at the holes in her head!" 

Jacklyn's face turned red. "What holes?" she asked 
her grandmother, who sat beside her. "She means 
your dimples, dear," Mrs. Pearl O'Donnell smiled, then 
whispered reassuringly, "and they are really 
very becoming. ..." 

So becoming, in fact, that they played an important 
part in helping Jacklyn land the role of Ed Wynn's pretty 
collegiate granddaughter (.Continued on page 67) 

The Ed Wynn Show is seen on NBC-TV, Thurs., 8 P.M. EST, sponsored 
alternately by Chesterfield Cigarettes and the Bulova Watch Company. 


At home, she's Grandma O'DonnelVs 
pet. On TV, she calls famous Ed Wynn 
"Grandpa.'^ And Jacklyn O'Donnell 
just couldn't be happier about it all 



Grandma Pearl O'Donnell can take a bow for bringing up 
both a talented actress and a wholesome young girl. Jack 
and Aurine O'Donnell admit they'd find it all too easy 
to spoil such a lovable, attractive daughter as Jacklyn. 





the Man who 
has Everything 

Tops on the list of George's blessings are wife 
Dinah Shore and children "Missy" and John D. He 
also has exuberant health, looks, talent — and zest 
for hard work. Result: Deserved success, and a new 
hour-long television series. Below, in a Cimarron 
City episode with June Lockhart and Gary Merrill. 

Dinah, of course, is TV's 
queen of song. At right, in 
a Chevy Show rehearsal with 
guest-star Louis Jourdan and 
Ticker Freeman, Dinah's ac- 
companist and music adviser. 

George Montgomery stars as Matt Rockford in Cimarron City, seen on NBC-TV, Sat., 
9:30 to 10:30 P.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. The Dinah Shore Chevy Show, 
on NBC-TV, Sun., 9 to 10 P.M. EST, is sponsored by Chevrolet Dealers of America. 


From a small Montana farm, George Montgomery rode off to 

film fame and Cimarron City stardom . . . marriage to lovely 
Dinah Shore . . . and a home big enough for all their dreams 


SOME MEN have jobs ihey love — com- 
pensating for lonely private lives. 
Others have wives, children, warm 
homes — ^making unpleasant jobs bear- 
able. But all too few men have every- 

One of these rare individuals is George 
Montgomery, who stars in the new hour- 
long Western series, Cimarron City, on 
NBC-TV. He's doing the only work in 
the world he's ever really wanted to do. 
When he goes home at night, it's to one 
of the most attractive, personable gals 
in the world — ^as millions of fans of 
Dinah Shore will agree. Waiting for him 
with Dinah are their two youngsters, 
Melissa and John D. — the pair of them 
a never-ceasing joy to their parents. And 
the home itself, which George designed, 
exceeds even (Continued on page 78) 



Going over the script with Silvers (facing page), I don't 
know who was more startled by my masterly reading. It was 
a bit of a letdown when the first rehearsal (above) began 
without a fanfare of bugles — or even costumes or "props." 

Zero hour at last! Cameras rolled on my big scene, as 

Jack Collins — now in supply-sergeant uniform — issued my 
Army gear. Only Silvers — now Bilko, though in "civvies" 
for plot purposes — seemed unimpressed by the occasion. 

Happily clutching my bundle, I prepared to utter the one 
line I was destined to speak. Even Bilko and his corporal 
buddies, Henshaw(AI Melvin) and Rocco (Harvey Lembeck) 
turned to hear those fourteen immortal words — as follows: 

"Wow, I never had so many clothes in my life — ^two hun- 
dred dollars' worth!" My moment of glory was over. Bilko 
could now become a sergeant again. I wasn't even a pri- 
vate, after the scene was "in the can" — as we actors say. 

Writer turned actor — for two whole 
days of shooting — / know now 
why Phil Silvers' men willingly follow 
their sergeant in his zany battles 


AT LONG LAST, I have inflicted revenge on the myopic 
grade-school teacher who once told me I couldn't act 
and the draft officer who cavalierly rejected me for 
service in the Army of the United States. In a single mas- 
terful stroke, some weeks ago, I became an actor and a 
soldier, filling both roles under the greatest military figure 
of our electronic time, Sergeant Ernie Bilko. 

The failure of the theatrical and military worlds to recog- 
nize my supreme talents had {Continued on page 63) 

The Phil Silvers Show, "You'll Never Get Rich," is seen over CBS-TV, 
Friday, at 9 P.M. EST, as sponsored by R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company 
(for Camel Cigarettes) and Schick Inc. (electric shavers and lighters). 



Sure, anybody can play. But few can play— or work— so well ai 
so many things as George Fenneman. It even stumps Groucho! 


Beverly spins a new fad. George takes her photograph — one of his 
nnony hobbies. Family round-table, on facing page, includes George 
and wife Peggy, daughters Georgia (left) and Beverly, and son Cliff. 

George did masonry alongside pool, refinished elegant table above, 
works magic in garden, too. Cliff's a real Mr. Fixit, Jr. — but model 
trains and plaster mountains may soon edge him out of his room. 

Home was built lovingly, with many artistic 
touches such as grillwork reflected above — and 
George himself painted some of those pictures. 


HE^s AS HANDSOME as a film star, as suave 
as a diplomat, as knowledgeable 
as a college professor — and as 
unpretentious as your gardener (whom he is 
entirely capable of replacing, if he 
could stretch the day to thirty hours). 
In short, versatile George Fenneman is a 
remarkable man. 

The handsomeness has long been 
apparent to followers of Groucho Marx, for 
whom George is annoimcer and "straight 
man." The suavity is very evident on his 
own new quiz. Anybody Can Play. The 
knowledgeabUity has impressed whole 
regiments of Armed Forces Radio listeners, 
to whom he regularly broadcasts informa- 
tion about the people, customs and traditions 
they will encounter while serving 
a toxu- overseas. {Continued on page 70) 

George emcees Anybody Can Play, ABC-TV, Mon., 9:30 
P.M. EST, for Salem Cigarettes. He also appears on 
Groucho Marx— You Bet Your Life, NBC-TV, Thurs., 
10 P.M. EST, and NBC Radio, Mon., 8:05 P.M. EST. 



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Who Said Ranch Style ? 

Vint Bonner, that Restless Gun, wouldn't recognize this home on the range. But it's 
just perfect for the John Paynes — and could easily set a new pattern for family living 

Privacy's a luxury, for a man like John Payne. 
As star, executive producer and sometimes 
writer of The Restless Gun, he rises early, 
works late. But John wants to be with his family, 
too. Solution? Two homes in one, high in the 
Pacific Palisades. One, a completely separate 
apartment for John and his wife Alexandra . . . 
bedroom, bath, dressing room, book-lined den. The 
other, the main house . . . living room, kitchen, 
dining and play areas, bedrooms for their 
children — Kathleen and Tom — and their house- 
keeper. Between the two units lies the pool, which 
— like all the landscaping and architecture — looks 
almost as though it had grown naturally out of its 
surroundings. Like Restless Gun's hero, Vint Bonner, 
John Payne's home is quiet, unpretentious, but ob- 
viously more than equal to any and every occasion. 

Continued w 

The Restless Gun, NBC-TV, Mon., 8 P.M. EST, is sponsored by 
Procter & Gamble Co. (Jif Peanut Butter and other products) 
and Sterling Drug Inc. (Bayer Aspirin and other products). 

Free-form pool — where dad races his young 'uns — divides the 
Payne home In two parts. In main living room (below), son Tom, 
10, sports authentic Restless Gun outfit; John, Alexandra and 
dauahter Kathleen. 12, prefer casual comfort of modern dress. 

Who Sald'Ranch Style"? 


Off to his chores on Restless Gun, John Payne kisses his 
womenfolk goodbye, leaves them to their studies — for 
Kathleen, it's schoolwork; for Alexandra, her art classes. 

John's proud of wife Alexandra's paintings — 
and they sell, too. "Sandy" holds classes at 
home, supervised by a • visiting professor. 


Plenty of homework for John, too — producer and writer, as 
well as star. But no need to shush the kiddies: His well- 
equipped den is located in "adult" section of the home. 

Who "owns" the Paynes' domain, in all its 
parts, with all its family? Poodles hiector, 
Valentino and Delilah con answer that one! 




H * ^-T- 



Bonnie Bartlett to cut some pretty cookies for her friends at holiday time. You can do the same. 




and catch this bachelor, if you can! Handsome, talented and likeable, 
Merv Griffin would be grand-prize for any miss with marriage on her mind 


WOMEN OF America, arise! Forget Elvis, school meet- 
ings, the Red menace, and that run in your stock- 
ing. There is a new threat to the peace of mind of 
American womanhood, and it is Merv Griffin ... a young 
man so content with being single that he says, "I can't 
imagine having any regrets about bachelorhood until I'm 
in my late fifties." 

On the other hand, what's so great about Merv? Well, 
he's attractive. At five-ten, with brown hair and blue 
eyes, he's kind of a cross between Perry Como and Gary 
Grant. And he's bright, talented and successful. But 
what makes Merv such a distinctive catch is his person- 
ality. There's not a temperamental bone in his body. 
He's soft-spoken, easygoing and good-humored. His dis- 
position alone rates him the Number One bachelor of the 
century. "I have a simple philosophy," he observes. "It's 

merely: Who in the heck is going to know, a hundred 
years from now? I may go to bed with big plans for the 
next day, but I promptly forget them when I wake up. 
As soon as the morning show is out of the way, I have 
lunch and go back to my apartment for a long nap." 

This is not mere talk. Last year, for example, Merv 
was part of ABC's effort to bring back "live" radio. The 
network spent about six million, programming Merv 
and several other fine talents, along with twenty-eight- 
piece orchestras and expensive guest stars. Then, sud- 
denly, a lot of important people were out of work, and 
many of them sat around chewing their fingernails. Not 
Merv. He packed his bags and took off for an extended 
vacation in the Caribbean. 

"Two months later, I got a wire from my manager to 
come home," Merv says, "and I wouldn't have cared much 

if I hadn't heard from him for another two months. I was 
having a ball. I've never pressed my luck. I've never 
felt driven by the hounds of fate. Anything important 
that's happened to me has come out of left field. I haven't 
asked for it." 

Merv stretches out in a low easy-chair. He wears 
slacks, a sleeveless sweater and an open-collared shirt. 
His apartment is on a dead-end street in Manhattan's 
East Fifties. Some of the other "dead-end kids" who 
live in the block are Greta Garbo, Noel Coward, Josh 
Logan, Mary Martin, Imogene Coca and Janet Blair. The 
French doors in the living room open on a balcony from 
which you can look over the East River and the U.N. 

The inside fiu-nishings are a little cockeyed. "The girls 
I've been dating," Merv says, "have chosen the furniture, 
and that's why liiere's a clash in colors and ideas. I'm no 
longer going with the girl who started, and that's why 
the foyer looks like a dentist's reception room. That gal 
was in love with New Orleans, so there you find a louvre 
door, black and white tiles on the floor, and a wrought- 
iron lamp. The orange tones, in the drapery and that chair 
and the sofa, cian be accounted for by my next date. The 
present one is expressed in this blue chair I'm sitting in. 
Very comfortable, but it makes the whole apartment 
kind of wild — except for the bedroom. No one's going 
to decorate that until I get married." Merv's conversa- 

He also likes people and the game of Play Your Hunch. 
Above, he and Harland Meistrell (left) wonder if players 
can guess which of the latter's dachshunds is father of 
the others. Below, Merv enjoys fan nnail more now than in 
earlier days, when he was too plump to send out pictures! 




tional tone is soft, lively and good-natured. He laughs 
easily, and quite often at himself. "The only expla- 
nation for my being this way is that I was very fat for 
a long time and enjoyed it. Matter of fact, I think I 
was much happier when I was fat. When I lost eighty 
poTinds, the first thing I noticed was that I lost my 
hearty laugh. I think that's symbolic." 

Merv was bom July 6, 1925, in San Mateo, Cali- 
fornia, the second of two children. His father was a 
stockbroker who had once been Pacific Coast tennis 
singles champion. But, as much as Mervyn Senior 
loved the strings of a racket, he hated the strings of a 
piano. Merv himself recalls, "I had a great love for 
music. I got an axmt of mine to teach me piano and 
I studied secretly for eight years. Then, one evening, 
a neighbor told my father how well I played. 'Ridicu- 
lous,' he said. She insisted, and Dad asked me to go 
to the piano and play something. I was smart. I didn't 
Mozart him. I played 'Tea for Two' and then some 
more pop tunes. He was pleased." 

As a boy, Merv was built like a tub and his popularity 

Merv knows he can trust Edith (above) for tasty dishes. "I have a cook." bachelor Griffin 
explains, "because I like to entertain and I don't like to eat out." Below, he and "Booty" 
Boatwright (of Play Your Hunch staff) light candles for a supper in his apartment. Left to 
right, Nancy Berg, Loring Buzzell and wife Lu Ann Sinnms, Jinn Olson, and Suzanne Storrs. 




Surprise! Nancy, Loring, Suzanne, Merv and Lu Ann beann as "Boaty" presents Jim's birthday 
cake. Merv naps afternoons, so he can spend such evenings with his show-business friends. 
Loring is an old schoolmate, he and Lu Ann live in the same building as Merv — and the young 
Buzzells' daughter, Cindy, is understandably the delight of godfather Merv Griffin's heart. 

was commensurate with his gu-th. "I was happy fat," 
he recalls. "I remember being elected president of the 
Latin Club — although the teacher hated me and I hated 
Latin — because I gave such good parties. Of course, 
I knew I was fat. Once I tried to do something about 
it. The night of the jimior prom, I got out all of my 
father's belts — every one of them — and I strapped 
them aroimd my middle. There was a strap and a 
bulge and a strap and a bulge and so on. I looked 
like a corkscrew." 

Merv wanted to make good as a musician. When he 
was at the University of San Francisco, he and a pal, 
Cal Tjader, who is one of the top jazz instrumentalists 
today, went down to Station KFRC for a routine audi- 
tion. Merv played the piano. The station manager said 
they didn't need instrvunentalists but were looking 
for a singer. Cal said, "Merv sings." So Merv went back 
to the mike again and sang. That same evening, a 
Thiirsday, he was put on the air. The following Mon- 
day, he began singing five days a week, on his own 

"I began making such good money I quit school," 
he says. "I was billed as 'America's romantic yoimg 
singing star.' People started writing in and asking for 
my picture, but the boss said, {Continued on page 62) 

Merv is host of Play Your Hunch, as seen on CBS-TV, Monday 
through Friday, 10:30 A.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. 

Family group from the popular CBS Radio doy+ime drama, 
Road Of Life: Dr. Jim Brent (played by Paul McSrath), 
with his pretty wife, Jocelyn (Patricia Wheel), and young 
Janie (Patsy Bruder), his daughter by d former marriage. 

Even a daytime star can't get away from that fascinoting 
Western influence — not if she hos a son just the right age 
to play cowboy! That's older boy Timothy, about to go for 
on outing with his parents, Eric and Patricia Wheel Teran. 

Patricia Wheel is Jocelyn Brent in CBS Radio's Road Of Life, heard 
Monday through Friday, at 1:45 P.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. 

For Patricia Wheel, who plays 
Jocelyn, it's a lullaby that enriches 
her life both on the air and ojf 


Baby Andrew isn't old enough yet to ride the range, even 
the city-tamed one in nearby Central Park. Below, Timmy — 
back from his own outdoor adventures ond refreshed by a 
nap — \i content to have mama Patricia play cars with him. 



Watching temporary nurse tend Andrew, Timmy can't believe he himself was once so 
helpless. "We're trying to show him," says Patricia, "that he's loved and wanted as 
much as ever." She and her husband share equal interests not only in their home but 
their respective careers — Eric Teran's an executive in field of industrial design. 

RELAXING for a moment in her Manhattan terrace 
apartment, Patricia Wheel observes with a smile 
that both she and Jocelyn — the leading role to 
which she recently returned in CBS Radio's Road of 
Life — ^have taken similar paths since Patricia origi- 
nally was with the daytime drama. 

Poised and serene, Patricia keeps her beautiful voice 
low, because her two young sons are taking a nap in 
the next rooms. "I want to. make sure Tim gets some 
rest," she explains. "We spent the morning at Central 
Park and he was a little keyed-up. If he awakens, 
the noise might upset Andrew's sleep." 

Turning her attention again to Jocelyn, Patricia 
says, "She and I were both single when I first played 
the part, a few years ago. It was kind of nice to come 
back to her and find that now she is married to Dr. 
Jim Brent and has a son . . . for — as you can see — I, 
too, am now married and have two sons." 

It's only a little more than four years ago that ac- 
tress Patricia Wheel became Mrs. Eric Teran. "A year 
and a half later, Timothy joined us, followed by An- 
drew two years later," is the way Patricia puts it. "I 
like it that way," she says. (Continued on page 64) 

Atlantic Coast Alarm Clock 


Reveille man for so many — but who wakes the bugler up? Jack 
Sterling says, "My wife's sharp elbow!" Actually, this clock 
is the culprit. It goes off at 3:30 — that's oyem, son, and no 
time to spare. Living in Connecticut, he has a twenty-minute 
drive ahead of him, to catch the 4:29 train to New York City. 

Train trip means catching up on sleep — or work. It's 
more fun on the show, when Jack interviews a pretty 
girl like Pat Davis. In control booth behind them — 
director Ken Regan (left) and engineer Lee Dressner. 

WCBS Radio's shot-in-the-arm for sleepy 
Easterners is Jack Sterling, the amiable 
waker-upper to millions. Cold shower, anyone? 


To MILLIONS of listeners along the Atlantic Coast and 
points West, as well, Jack Sterling and Company pro- 
vide a good reason for waking up in the morning. 
Jack's voice comes over the radio— friendly, unhurried, 
warm. The music weaves in and out — smooth, easy, cool. 
The inevitable commercials are lov/-pressure, low-pitched 
in the pattern of the show. The weather and time reports 
are frequent. The jokes are easy to take, the kind least 
apt to jangle any jumpy early-mcrning nerves. 

In the minds of listeners to The Jack Sterling Show — 
and it's estimated they run to a cumulative five million 
a week — the question keeps coming up: Who wakes up 
the people on this wake-up program? What happens 
when they get together in the big, bare room at the top 
of the CBS building on New York's Madison Avenue so 
early in the morning? How do they manage to keep 
going in top form from five-thirty until nine, with only 










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Music for early-morning hours: Jack himself takes over the drums with Tony Aless's combo — Mary Osborne 
on guitar; Andy Fitz, clarinet; Tony, piano; Buddy Jones, bass; Tyree Glenn, trombone. They're all top 
jazz musicians, famous in their field, but you'd never guess it from their dress or manner. Professionals 
from the word "go," they're as casual and full of fun away from the microphone as when they're really "on," 

Only out-and-out characters 
on The Jack Sterling Show 
are the ones he portrays by 
voice alone. Of course, they 
all look exactly as listen- 
ers imagined — pompous Col. 
Basil Rumplngham, bearded 
Dr. Hiawatha Hackenschmidt, 
and broad-brimmed Texan. 

After his many-hour radio marathon. Jack goes over 
mail with secretary Serry Phillips, has conferences, 
interviews, business luncheons. But Monday's his "big 
day" — the one when he tries to be back home by noon! 



Atlantic Coast Alarm Clock 



Jack stops to chat with CBS doorman Mike Donovan, 
"mayor" of Madison Avenue, Mike catches every 
rumor in broadcasting circles, says: "I've never heard 
one human being say anything against Jack Sterling." 

Going or coming. Jack must sometimes sprint against time, but 
never seems to feel the pressure of "the rat race." He enjoys 
his work and is proud of his staff. "Everybody works together," 
he says. "They like what they are doing, and they do it well." 

half an hour out while world news is broadcast? Let's 
start with the star, Jack himself. "What wakes me up in 
the morning? I said it before — and TV Radio Mirror re- 
peated it in a previous story: 'My wife's sharp elbow!' " 

Barbara Sterling has a somewhat different version. 
"I seldom have to give him that wifely shove anymore. 
The alarm clock is on my side, I set it for three-thirty, 
push in the knob when it goes off — and my job is done. 
Jack gets up, automatically. I go back to sleep. He 
catches Old Ninety-nine, at four-twenty-nine, out of 
Stamford, which is twenty minutes' drive from where 
we live in New Canaan, Connecticut. He gets in an extra 
forty winks on the train and arrives at the studio just 
before airtime." 

Usually, they don't indulge in conversation at three- 
thirty. Jack puts on a small light, tiptoes around the room 
quietly. But, one morning, Barbara heard the rain splash- 
ing and the wind howling outside and asked him, teas- 
ingly, "Why in the world are you going out in a storm 
like this?" Stumbling against a chair in the semi-darkness, 
growling a little at his clumsiness, he told her, "Because 
I love to get up and go out in the rain!" Later, he told his 
listeners, "Now I even have a 'straight man' at home — it 
isn't enough to have 'em on the show!" 

When you ask how the other members of the cast and 
crew get up in time, engineer Lee Dressner grins and 
answers for them: "We're all married, too." They come 
considerable distances — from Long Island, from the 
neighboring state of New Jersey, across the Hudson 
River, and from commuter towns in New York's West- 
chester County. Mary Osborne, sole feminine member of 
the show (Jack sometimes introduces her as "Mary, the 

all-girl guitarist") , gets an elbow-push from her musician 
husband, Ralph Scaffidi, whose own working hours start 
later in the day. Tony Aless, pianist who heads the five- 
man jazz combo, sets an alarm clock — ^but, forty-five min- 
utes later, the producer calls him on the telephone to 
check, just in case. Tyree Glenn, the one who sports the 
elegant little goatee and who is so great on the trombone 
and vibraphones (and, occasionally, the banjo), sets two 
alarm clocks, one electric and one regular. They go off 
five minutes apart and, by the time he has shut off the 
second one, he's awake. 

Buddy Jones, on the bass viol, also has two alarm 
clocks — "both under two years old and less than a year 
apart, and both boys. My wife bats one eye when I leave 
and says, 'Work hard, dear.'" Clarinetist Andy Fitz has 
five alarm clocks — all girls. 

Getting to the studio may be a fairly businesslike pro- 
ceeding, but tension and hurry drop away at the entrance 
to famed 485 Madison Avenue, at that hour, when the 
endless procession of people who will later plunge 
through the revolving doors is reduced to an occasional 
early-bird on his way to a microphone. 

Ken Regan, a CBS director for more than ten years, 
gathers the material from writers BUI Vance, Walter 
Latzko and Arthur Whitney, all long-term members of 
the staff. The music has been selected, the band has been 
warming up in a nearby studio. The show itself is strictly 
unrehearsed. Only the musicians get together to rehearse 
and discuss the number of choruses, the keys, the solo 
numbers. Everything Jack says on the air is as new and 
fresh to the people in the studio as it is to the radio 
audience. When the home (Continued on page 66) 


The Jack Sterling Show is heard over WCBS Radio (New York), Monday through Saturday, from 5:30 to 9 A.M. EST, with time out for news. 

Best of all, Jack loves his home and family. Above, with little Cathy, Patty Ann and Beth — and wife Barbara, who says, "You 
would think he would take a nap on his early day, but he's too busy doing things around the house." She points out that he's 
"really a country, homebody type." Indoors, he can be quite a chef; outdoors, he plays golf for exercise, when there's time. 

Stand with feet comfortably apart. Now, 
point right toe and raise arms over head. 
Lean as far to right as possible, then 
drop right arm to knee, and "bounce" . . . 


Fgure it out 

WHEN Sarah Hardy, stage and TV actress, returned from Italy two 
summers ago, after six months with the American Theater in 
Rome, she brought back forty-four reproductions of Renaissance 
paintings, seventeen hand-tooled leather handbags, and nineteen 
pounds of extra avoirdupois. (Oh, that irresistible pasta!) This pre- 
sented a clear-cut challenge. The only figure problems petite 21-year- 
old Sarah had ever struggled with before were in her elementary-school 
arithmetic classes back home in Columbia, S. C. Needless to say, she 
won the bout of the bulge. To see her diminutive 104-pound, size 9, 
34-24-35 proportions today, one would never guess that Sarah, who 
plays teenager Libby in NBC -TV's From These Roots, had ever given 
a thought to a "weighty" problem like torso trimming. Fortunately for 
Sarah, who frankly admits she just can't stick to a diet, getting back into 
shape required no special menus, exercise, or reducing restrictions. Five 
pounds fell off the week before the Broadway opening of her next play, 
"Love Me Little." She always gets so worried the last week of re- 
hearsal that she loses her appetite. The other fourteen pounds had 
already been danced away in the routine Sarah practices daily for 
her classes in classic ballet, primitive, jazz, and modem dance. For 
the past two years, Sarah has studied "the kind of dancing actors 
need to know" to acquire control and poise and to learn to use 
the body gracefully. Vivacious Sarah enjoys her dancing home- 
work, finds it fun to pirouette off the pounds. The ballet 
routines she demonstrates here only look hard, Sarah ad- 
vises, for actually they are not meant for "pros." "Do each 
movement slowly and deliberately," she says. "Be sure 
you feel your muscles stretch." Sarah suggests that you 
repeat each routine only three times, to start, building 
up to a count of ten. "Always stop before you are 
tired," she adds. "You needn't have acting ambitions 
to work for smooth curves, graceful posture and 
controlled movements," says Sarah. "Every woman 
has her own particular audience." 

. . body sideways, 
eft side. Repeat, 

You'll feel stretch on 
bending to the left. 

Lie on stomach, body relaxed, feet together. Bend knees and grasp ankles. 
Now, arching back, raise legs so arms ore pulled back far as possible. Rock 
gently back and forth several times, then return to starting position. 


Kneel, bock straight, knees slight- 
ly apart. Grasping heels, arch 
body forward, then backward, 
OS far as possible. Hold for 
count of five. Relax and repeat. 

Sarah Hardy's ballet-inspired exercises 
are fun to do, as well as fine figure-molders 

Lie flat, small of back pressing 
into floor. Slowly raise legs up 
and over head, knees straight, 
and try to touch floor with toes. 
Count to five; relax and repeat. 

Stand on right foot, left foot resting on choir, 
arms relaxed at chest level. Raise arms over head, 
palms touching, and stretch, keeping bock straight 
with tummy in, hips tucked under, hlold for count 
of five and relax. Repeat, with right foot on chair. 


El ^j!LJL 

As the sheriff of Cochise County, 
John Bromfield was in line for promotion. 
On the home front, says Larri, he 
more than makes the grade 

It's so nice to hove o men around the house — even if for 
only fourteen days out of 152, Larri opines (accent pines). 


THE PRODUCER insistsd it wasn't "daring." It was just a 
case of an actor outgrowing his role . . . Frank 
Morgan needing a bigger job, more scope and importance. 
In short, the Sheri§ Of Cochise deserved a promotion to 
U.S. Marshal. "In the new NTA series," explains pro- 
ducer Mort Briskin, "we move 'Frank' around the state 
more, instead of restricting him to Cochise County." 
Star John Bromfield was skeptical at first. Now, what 
he most likes about Marshal is its flavor of the modern 
West. "Everything you see today in the way of a West- 
ern is 'period,' " John explains, "but Marshal is a con- 
temporary piece, familiar and full of action." 

John himself is a contemporary in a very special way. 
Like many of his generation whose lives were inter- 
rupted by a major war, John didn't settle down to a 
definite career commitment for several years. As a youth 
growing up in Venice, California, he boxed light-heavy- 
weight, won the Golden Gloves in his senior year of high 
school, and a football scholarship to St. Mary's College. 

During the war, John was in the Navy. "You see," he 
explains, "I was raised on the beach. You might say I'm 
a regular beach rat. As a kid, I had spent my summers 
on the boats as a deckhand, right out of Santa Monica. 
So, when I got my discharge papers, I went right back 
to the only thing I knew well." But John had acting, 
too, in the back of his mind. "I saved up from my three 

years on the tuna boats, and went into stock — playing 
Danny the Sailor in 'Anna Lucasta.' It was type-casting, 
but a start." Next thing John knew, he was up in Alaska 
shooting for a film in which he hand-harpooned two 
whales. What he didn"t know was the big excitement 
this bit of "type-casting" was to cause back East, when 
the New Bedford Port Society got hold of the news. He 
was called to New Bedford and initiated into the group 
— the youngest member, and the only one to have hand- 
harpooned a whale in more than fifty years. "You know," 
says John, "whaling in the old 'Moby Dick' tradition is 
a lost way of life. And someday, most likely, I'll be the 
last member of the group alive. It's a sobering thought." 
Living quietly and unpretentiously in an apartment 
overlooking the Sunset Strip, John recounts how he and 
Larri were married, a couple of New Year's Eves ago, 
aboard the S.S. Argentina, spending their honeymoon 
on the shores of the Amazon. They are planning a 
family, but not right away. "In a couple of years," John 
estimates, "I won't be doing so much running around the 
country on promotions. The way I work now, it just 
wouldn't be right. You can't raise a family when you're 
home only fourteen days in five months. . . . Mean- 
while," says he, "the promotion to Marshal was a real 
lift. After all, it isn't every actor who can brag about 
something like this." 

Film-dancer Larri ("Guys and Dolls") doesn't worry about type- 
casting. But former "beach rat" John prefers not to be an "old 
salt" — except to keep an ancient whaling club going a bit longer. 




Enjoy your work, says 

Freeman Hover of KCSR — that's 

the better half of livin' 

Freeman enjoys his work. "1+ offers something new," he 
smiles, "and gives me o chonce to do something for others." 

"My hi-fi is my pride and joy," soys "Free," 
who has o large record collection to match. 

Free visits with Eddie Cochran, who 
hit big with "Summertime Blues." 

Checker recording star Dale Hawkins (center, left) and Free- 
man are flanked on each side by Dale's group, "The hlowks." 




NOW EVEN the adults are hopping! According to Free- 
man Hover of KCSR in Chadron, Nebraska, 
record hops — which used to be exclusively for the teen- 
age set — have suddenly become a popular pastime with 
the grown-ups, as well. And Freeman is one disc jockey 
who sees to it that they get all the hops that are coming 
to them. . . . When not busy with chores on his two 
radio programs — KCSR Bandstand, heard Monday 
through Friday, at 4:05 P.M., and Top 40 Time, heard 
Wednesdays at 6:45 P.M. and Saturdays at 7 P.M.— 
"Free" is energetically emceeing the get-togethers at 
local clubs and schools. "Although music for adults 
takes a somewhat more subdued course (Welk and 
Lombardo being two real favorites), our post-teeners," 
says Freeman, "also enjoy numbers by Duane Eddy 
and Elvis." . . . As an eleven-year-old pre-teener. Free- 
man had just wanted to be able to enjoy music all day, 
without having to spend his whole allowance on rec- 
ords. That's when he first decided to become a disc 
jockey. Throughout high-school days in Plymouth, 
Michigan, and college years at Colorado College and 
the Univer.sitv of Denver, Freeman clung to his orig- 

inal ambition and participated in radio and dramatics 
while majoring in English and radio. . . . Eventually, 
after a stint with the Air Force during the Korean War, 
his little-boy dream came true with his work at KCSR. 
However, even though he does get to play music all 
day at the station, it isn't enough. He owns a hi-fi set 
and is constantly buying new discs for his personal 
record library. . . . Home for Freeman is a bungalow 
complete with 300 books and a wall-to-wall white rug. 
"When I have time," this very un-confirnied bachelor 
admits, "I like to cook up a wide variety of dishes. 
Believe me," he adds, "some of them are pretty un- 
usual." And the coffee pot is always on — "Between the 
coffee breaks, I work," he laughs. . . . Although he 
likes to think his show makes a big splash, Freeman 
had no idea how much, until the day one of his listeners 
called him during the Top 40 Time, to tell him how 
much he was enjoying Free's show, on TV. "The picture 
is lousy," said the viewer, "but the audio is great." 
"That's the only time I have ever been on TV," com- 
ments Freeman wryly — "while broadcasting on AM 
radio only! . . . That show must have had real impact!" 




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(Continued from page 49) 
'We'll keep you mysterious.' He was think- 
ing of my forty-four-inch waistline. Well, 
you know what an imaginative medium 
radio is, and the audience had me figured 
as a lean, romantic type. I actually 
weighed 245 pounds and I was enjoying 
myself. I remember once a movie mogul, 
Bill Dozier, wrote that he was driving up 
from Hollywood to sign me to a contract. 
I knew what would happen the moment 
he saw me, but I went along for the laughs 
and that's all it amounted to. He couldn't 
put me in pictures. Even that didn't bother 
me. But then there were two incidents in 
one week that changed my attitude." 

Merv grins, sinks a little lower in his 
chair. "As I said, the boss didn't send out 
pictures. And he allowed no studio audi- 
ence for my show. But, one day, a little 
old lady got into the station through a 
back door and I met her in the corridor. 
She asked for the Merv Griffin studio and 
I explained that it wouldn't do any good 
to tell her where it was, because they 
wouldn't let her in. Just then someone 
came along and said, 'Hiya, Merv,' and the 
woman looked at me hard and said, 'Are 
you Merv Griffin?' I said, 'Yes,' and she 
got hysterical. The sight of huge me just 
shattered her imagination and she couldn't 
stop laughing. That same week, Joan Ed- 
wards, who is as frank as she is talented, 
guested on my show and she said, 'Honey, 
you sing the end, but that blubber has to 
go.' That did it and, in iowc months, I lost 
eighty pounds." 

IVIerv had the "new look" when Freddy 
Martin's secretary came around and offered 
him a hundred-and-fifty a week to sing 
with the band. "I said no," Merv recalls. 
"I was making as much as twelve hundred 
a week at KFRC, so it didn't make sense — 
dollars and cents — ^but then I gave it some 
thought. I was young and wanted the 
experience of working in clubs and theaters 
and making records, and I finally accepted 
the job. So I played clubs and theaters. 
I cut a record, 'I've Got a Lovely Bunch 
of Cocoanuts,' that sold over a million. 
But I still wasn't pushing, and again an 
opportunity came out of left field. 

"We were working at The Last Frontier, 
a club in Las Vegas, when a five- or six- 
year-old boy walked up to me and said, 
'We want you for movies.' Even for Holly- 
wood, this talent scout seemed awfully 
young. But it turned out he was talking 
for his mother, Doris Day. Doris and her 
husband, Marty Melcher, got me a two- 

Play Your Hunch . . . 

year contract with Warner Brothers, so 
that I could make a picture with her. As 
it turned out, I didn't make a movie with 
Doris Day. But I did make several others, 
including one in which I co-starred with 
Kathryn Grayson." 

He didn't enjoy working in Hollywood, 
and admits that this was probably the only 
period in his life when he wasn't com- 
pletely happy. "I almost became blase. 
I remember they said to me, 'We'll make 
you a star,' and I kept my eyes on my 
wrist watch to see how long it wovdd take. 
It had something to do with my losing 
weight and becoming normal, because I 
began to look in the mirror and think of 
myself as a leading man. This was a 
ridiculous state for me and contrary to my 
whole attitude. The fat boy suddenly be- 
comes vain. You can see how silly it was. 
I realized this and began to resist it." 

When his contract was up, he shook 
Hollywood and joined Tallulah Bankhead 
in a revue at Las Vegas. Then he headed 
for New York as the slimmer replacement 
for the Jane Froman-Jo Stafford TV 
show. He broke into musical comedy with 
a lead in the revival of "Finian's Rainbow" 
and received exuberant reviews from the 
New York critics. That led him right back 
to TV and radio with his own network 

"I'm thirty-three now," says Merv. "I'm 
not a has-been. Maybe a 'was.' I was a 
movie star, albeit a ten-minute star. I 
didn't like it. I was a recording star. I still 
record for Decca, but those days of being 
obsessed with a hit record are over. I did 
grieve about it for a while, then came to 
the conclusion that a man who sits around 
and waits for a hit record might as well 
spend his time betting at the races or 
gambling at cards. I've worked clubs and 
radio. But, for the future, there are only 
two mediums I'm interested in. I want to 
do more musical comedy on Broadway, 
and I want to stay in television. I feel 
very comfortable in TV. I love Play Your 
Hunch and I love to talk to people. Mark 
Goodson is always complaining that I let 
interviews run too long, but I like to find 
out about people. I especially like to talk 
with the kids." 

The morning show has upset Merv's 
usual routine. Many of his friends are 
actors, singers and performers who put 
the day in reverse, going to bed well after 
midnight and awaking about noon. "It 
became a problem as to whether I'd give 
up my career or friends. The few times 
I tried to go to bed aroimd midnight, I'd 


JULY 2, 1946 (Title 39, United States Code, Section 233) of TV RADIO MIRROR, published Monthly at 
New York, N. Y., for October 1, 1958. 

1. The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business managers are: Publisher, 
Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, IJ. Y. ; Editor, Ann Mosher, 205 East 42nd St., 
New York 17, N. Y. ; Managing Editor. Teresa Buxton, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. ; 
Secretary-Treasurer, Meyer Dworkin, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. 

2. The owner is: (if owned by a corporation, its name and address must be stated and also immediately 
thereunder the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 jpercent or more of total amount 
of stock. If not owned by_ a corporation, the names and addresses of the individual owners must be given. 
If owned by a partnership or other unincorporated firm, its name and address, as well as that of each 
individual member, must be given.) Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. ; 
Meyer Dworkin, c/o Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 E^ist 42nd St.. New York 17, N. Y. ; (Mrs.) Anna 
Feldman, 835 Main St., Peekskill, N. Y. : Henry Lieferant, The Hotel Hamilton, Apt. 1205, 141 West 73rd St., 
New York 23, N. Y. ; (Mrs.) Elizabeth Machlin, 299 Park Avenue, New York, N. Y. ; Irving S. Manheimer. 
205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. ; (Mrs.) Ruth B. Manheimer, Somerstown Rd., Ossining, N. Y. ; 
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3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 percent or more 
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4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books 
of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom 
such trustee is acting: also the statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant's full knowledge and belief 
as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon 
the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of 
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5. The average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the mails 
or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the 12 months preceding the date shown above was: (This 
information is required from daily, weekly, semiwcekly, and triweekly newspapers only.) 

(Signed) MEYER DWORKIN, Secretary-Treasiuer 
Sworn to and subscrit>ed before me this 23rd day of September, 1958. 


State of New York No. 03-8045500 

Qualified in Bronx Co. 

Cert. Filed in New York Co. 

Commission Expires March 30, 1960 

be wakened at one or two a.m. by the tele- 
phone, for a friendly chat. So I've solved 
it with an afternoon nap. That way, I live 
with both the day people and the night 

Merv is not a night-clubbing bachelor. 
His relaxed attitude makes impossible his 
dressing up and going out on the town 
frequently. "I have friends in for dinner al- 
most every night. I have a cook because 
I like to entertain and because I don't 
like to eat out. I may go out Saturday 
nights. This usually means a drive into the 
country for dinner. And then Sunday is 
always open-house in my apartment." 

Merv has given thought to the female 
situation and the girls he dates. He doesn't, 
in a manner of speaking, play the field. 
He says, however, "There's been a certain 
sameness about every girl I've gone with. 
I guess she's the AU-American type. I 
like a girl who enjoys sports — tennis, 
water-skiing, boating. I love a sense of 
humor. I can't stand a girl who is always 
putting on a face. If a girl is good-looking, 
she's good-looking. She shotddn't have to 
work at it. I may have a slight preference ' 
for blondes, but that's unimportant. Mostly 
I'm attracted by a girl who enjoys living. 
And I'm a travel nut. If I were married, 
I'd like to be able to pick up the phone 
and say, 'We're leaving for Paris in ten 
minutes.' I've had a passport for years and 
never used it. Four times, I've had to 
cancel reservations taking me abroad. 
Once, I cancelled fifteen minutes before 
I was to leave. But, next to traveling, I 
still like to give parties." 

Cnuests at his parties may include Carlos 
Montalban and his wife, Geoffrey Home 
and wife Nancy Berg, Susan Strasberg, 
Jaye P. Morgan, Lu Ann Simms and her 
husband Loring Buzzell. "Loring and I 
were room-mates at school. Loring and 
Lu Ann live in the same building, and I'm 
godfather to their child. Many of my 
friends are married and they are very in- 
terested in my bachelorhood. Naturally, 
they're against it. I keep asking them to 
let me make my own dates but they never 
stop trying. They mean well and I don't 
blame them, although I sometimes get 
miffed with girls who try too hard." 

Merv is old-fashioned enough to hold 
that it is the man who should pop the 
question. But his easygoing attitude and 
good nature gets girls pushing a little. 
He's been steered to jewelry stores. One 
girl got a ring out of a store on consign- 
ment and brought it over to his apartment. 
"I was embarrassed," he recalls. "She 
said, 'Wouldn't this make a nice engage- 
ment ring?' I said, 'Indeed it would.' Well, 
what could I do? I didn't want to marry 
her just to keep from hurting her feelings. 
Marriage is a very serious thing. First 
comes love, and then the ring." 

More than once, Merv has had to give 
a "pink slip" — and not the kind that she 
can wear — to a fast-moving female. But, 
if you know enough about Merv, youi 
know he's not a hopeless bachelor. Three 
times in the past, he's been engaged. Once, 
he got within walking distance of a church, 
and then it was only a parental compli- 
cation that stopped him. 

"There won't be a long engagement 
when I get married. I'll probably just do 
it impulsively and then go into a state of 
shock. But this I'm sure of: When the 
right girl comes along, I'll let her know," 
he says, then adds, "Maybe that souncls 
flip, but what I mean is that no one has 
a right to tell you that you're in love. And, 
when I am, I'll be first to talk about it." 

Merv can be had by the right woman, 
but it will require a subtle approach. And 
a touch of chloroform might help. 


I Was "Drafted" Into Bilko's Army 

(Continued from page 37) 
rankled in my breast for yeai-s. Being a 
writer is a rewarding enough profession, 
but it has never nourished the hunger 
for power— the power of spellbinding an 
audience, of being a fighting man. 

Unable to endure the privation any 
longer, I took matters into my own hands, 
one bright day, and confessed my frus- 
tration to Phil Silvers. "Write me into 
one of the scripts of the Bilko television 
series," I pleaded. "I will be able to triple 
in brass as an actor, soldier and writer. 
More, I will be able to go out and tell 
the world of the behind-the-scenes magic 
of your show." 

It was that last statement that made 
his eyebrows arch over the horizon of his 
glasses. "A capital idea!" he cried. 

The script writers of The Phil Silvers 
Show, "You'll Never Get Rich," were 
hastily sxunmoned and told of the con- 
spiracy. It just so happened that the 
script for Program No. 113 — the show is 
now in its fourth straight year — was being 
completed. Titled "Bilko, the Potato Sack 
King," the installment contained several 
parts which had not yet been filled. One 
was the role of an Army recruit who 
would appear in one scene and utter four- 
teen deathless, uninterrupted words. This 
was me. 

I filled out a three-page contract in trip- 
licate with the Columbia Broadcasting 
System, Inc., a federal withholding-tax 
form and a New York State non-resident 
tax form. I was in. 

1 wo teams of two writers each are as- 
signed to the Silvers show. Each tandem 
turns in a script of some sixty pages on 
alternate weeks. While one team actu- 
ally is writing, the other is sweating out 
an idea. It's hard work. 

Once the script is completed, it takes 
five days to get the filmed portrayal of it 
"in the can," as we actors say, for showing 
on television at a later date. The first day 
is devoted merely to a reading of the lines 
against a stopwatch. 

Silvers, producer Ed Montagne, direc- 
tor Aaron Ruben and the other members 
of the company obviously were confident 
of my ability and my dedication to show- 
must-go-on tradition, for they excused 
me from attending the reading. 

The following day, at one P.M. sharp, I 
reported to rehearsal on the sixth floor 
of Steinway Hall in midtown Manhattan. 
The rehearsal studio is a large room with 
a stage at one end; the other walls are 
rimmed with ballet bars. Except for a 
few chairs and tables, no props are used 
in the run-throughs. 

The script girl, Gertrude Black, pointed 
to my line on Page 29 and smUed benignly. 
Other members of the cast, whom I readily 
recognized as the assorted heroes of Ser- 
geant Bilko's platoon, were scattered about 
the room, chatting, reading newspapers 
or staring off into space. 

Paul Ford, who plays Bilko's command- 
ing officer. Colonel Hall, sat off in a cor- 
ner mouthing his lines. In contrast with 
most of the others, who wore sport clothes, 
he was dressed in a business suit. After 
all, he's a colonel. Silvers, wearing a 
brown suit, a striped sports shirt buttoned 
at the neck and a gray hat shoved back 
on his head, sat reading his script listlessly. 

Silvers called me over and patted my 
knee. "You'll have to forgive me," he said. 
"I'm not myself today. I've had some kind 
of a bug for the last couple of days." 

"You look pretty good to me, Sarge," I 
sa'd. I had been "drafted" only two days, 
but it doesn't take a soldier long to recog- 
nize authority, by golly. 

Maurice Gosfield, the squat, screw -faced 

pixie who plays Doberman, wandered 
over to pay his respects. "I lost fourteen 
pounds," he said, holding his trousers 
away from his midriff. "Look, you could 
put a baby kangaroo in there. Clean liv- 
ing is what does it." 

"You look more like you got caught in 
a revolving door," said Silvers. That 
took care of Private Doberman. 

1 he scenes of the show are not rehearsed 
in regular sequence, so it was some time 
before Silvers and I — get that, Silvers and 
I — were called by director Ruben. For- 
merly a writer for the show, Ruben has 
been its director the last two years. 

"Directing is wonderful," he told me. 
"It's taught me more about this business 
in a couple of years than I could learn 
in maybe fifty years of writing. But it's 
stUl the script tJFiat counts. If you haven't 
got the words, you're dead." 

My scene finds Bilko being re-issued to 
the Army after a brief and disastrous 
foray into the business world as the 
$20,000-a-year executive of a firm manu- 
facturing burlap potato sacks. As he is 
being handed his new gear, I march in 
with five other recruits to receive mine. 
Awed by the pile of clothing handed me, 
I exclaim: "Wow, I never had so many 
clothes in my life — two hundred dollars' 

Maybe Shakespeare did write better 
stuff, but he could hardly top that line, 
and I must say I delivered it with con- 
vincing gusto. Having said, I looked up at 
Silvers for approval. 

He peered down at me and smirked, 
"All right, now get the hell out of here." 

"Hey, that's not in the script," I pro- 

"If you're not careful, you won't be, 
either," he barked. 

Under the ministrations of Ruben, we 
went through the scene several times. It 
got better each time, thanks to Silvers. 
Bug or no bug, he quickly warmed up to 
the flavor of the scene, lifting the spirits 
of the other players as he did. 

"The guy is so terrific," Ruben said later, 
"that we never stop running the cameras 
when we shoot his scenes, because you 
never know when he's going to throw in 
something priceless — an extra word, cin 
extra gesture." 

It is worth mentioning, too, that Silvers 
pretty much knows his lines after a single 
reading. He is quickly transformed from 
Phil Silvers to Ernie Bilko. 

The second day's rehearsal was much 
like the first, except that more action was 
thrown into it. It was apparent, too, that 
the pressure and tension of acting had be- 
gun to set in. But Silvers, though still a 
bit under the weather, was alive with 
animation and good humor and drew 
laughter frequently to ease the strain. 

"You never get tired of this guy," 
said Harvey Lembeck, who plays Rocco. 
"Everj'thing he ever learned in show busi- 
ness is put into his work here. He's ter- 
rific, and you can't help but do well, 
working with him. That's why this cast 
has stuck together so long. You won't 
find a happier bunch in the business." 

Thus inspired, I went home to study my 
line and to act it out in front of a mirror. 
The youngest of my three sons caught me 
at it and ran crying to his mother. She 
put him to bed with a sedative, but even 
no'w he avoids me. 

Thxursday was my big day. The filming 
is done in CBS Studio A. It's a large build- 
ing in a rather dingy neighborhood on 
Manhattan's West Side, but it was on this 
same site that Adolph Zukor started his 
Famous Players long before the advent 
of talkies. The schedu'e csl'ed for shoot- 

ing to start at nine A.M., but, after a fitful 
night, I arrived fifteen minutes early. 

The floor was cluttered with sets, cam- 
eras, actors, technicians and a score of 
other supernumeraries, but it was orderly 
confusion. Ruben and Al DeCaprio, cam- 
era director, supervised the arranging of 
props and worked out camera positions, 
marking them on the floor with masking 

Here again, the scenes were not taken 
in sequence, and mine was the second on 
the roster. I spent the preliminary time 
looking over my set — an Army supply 
room with a counter and eight steel 
shelves on which were piled canteens, 
mess kits, ammo belts, shirts, pants, 
sweaters, coats and helmets. A sign on the 
wall read- "No Alterations. If It Don't 
Fit MAKE IT!" Truly inspiring, I thought. 

Suddenly we were called into action. 
My finest hour had come. 

I had been told to wear casual clothes — 
"Remember, you're being inducted into 
the Army, not the Chase National Bank" — 
but it was a keen disappointment when 
the makeup man passed me by. "Can't 
do much with that kisser," he said. 

We walked through the action twice, and 
then came the heart-palpitating com- 
mand: "AU right, everybody, this is a 
take. Quiet! Quiet on the floor! Cameras 
ready? Okay, roU it!" 

As I marched in behind another recruit, 
my mouth went dry, and my Adam's apple 
played tennis with my ears. But, when my 
cue came, I uttered my fourteen words 
loud and clear. I was nothing less than 

Still, the standards of the people who 
turn out the Silvers show are such that 
they never settle for anything less than 
perfection. So the scene was filmed three 
times before Messrs. Ruben and DeCaprio, 
obviously unworried over the chances of 
my suffering a heart attack, were satis- 
fied with it. But I must admit: We were 
better each time. 

When it was over, Ruben gave me the 
double-0 sign, and Silvers pinched my 
cheek. "See?" he said, turning to the 
others. "Everybody was worried about 
this guy's line. "This guy said his line 
better than anybody." 

The flattery drooled over me like honey 
over a bun. 

"You'd be surprised," Silvers said seri- 
ously, "at how many times an actor with 
one line will fluff it. Sometimes they 
just freeze up." 

Later he told me: "Let's face it. This 
is work I love it, but it's work. People 
watch the show Eind say, 'That must be 
easy. Everybody has a ball.' Well, we do 
have a ball, but no matter how long you're 
in the business, you feel the tension, and 
you always wonder if maybe you couldn't 
have made it a little better." 

I came away from the experience with a 
profound respect for every person who 
had even the smallest part in it. There 
was not a single untoward incident; only 
a complete dedication on the part of every- 
one, from script girl to star — that, and a 
feeling of deep pride. 

Sure, it was a lark for me. And, when 
I viewed the edited film at a private show- 
ing, my ego went into orbit. My wife now 
treats me with a respect commensurate 
with my new stature as an actor; the 
stigma of having been classified 4-F dur- 
ing World War II has been expunged, and 
I've got a thing or two to teU that grade- 
school teacher. ^ 

But, more than anything else, I've ac- * 
quired fresh esteem for television and the " 
people who labor in its tangled, cabled 


(Continued from page 51) 
"Before too long, Andrew will be • equal 
to becoming Tim's playmate. Of course, 
right now, Tim isn't sure of Andrew's 
place in the famUy. But we're trying our 
best to show Timmy that he's loved and 
wanted as much as ever. 

"Getting back to Road Of Life," she 
laughs, "I was delighted, last July, when 
I was asked if I were now available to 
return to it. There's a certain satisfaction 
in renewing a characterization. Then, too, 
since The Doctor's Wife left the air, I sort 
of missed not doing a regular radio pro- 
gram. I've been doing considerable tele- 
vision, roles in the big night-time dramas 
as well as the daytime shows. I enjoy 
television very much. But radio work is 
especially fun for an actor. One has the 
excitement of the unknown dimension — 
the listener's imagination — which doesn't 
exist in the visual mediums, where sets 
and costumes are already provided." 

Patricia stops for a moment to make 
sure she isn't awakening the children. 
"Eric thinks I should have a regular 
nurse," she says. "But I don't know. I 
like to care for my own children, when- 
ever I'm home and free to do so — which 
is whenever I'm not working. So now we 
have Anna, who helps me with the house- 
work and takes care of the children for 
me when I'm out. When I'm home, they're 
my children. I prefer it this way." 

Patricia discovered this strong aspect of 
her maternal personality shortly after 
Timothy arrived. Just before he was 
born, the Terans bought a home in Con- 
necticut, thirty-five miles out of New 

"We actually were looking for only a 
small weekend retreat," Patricia re- 
calls. "Instead, we fell in love with an 
eleven-room house in the midst of seven- 
and-a-half acres, and moved in. On the 
grounds lived a lovely family with three 
children. After Timothy was born, he 
stayed with them whenever I had to leave 
for work. Commuting began to be more 
difficxolt, because I had early rehearsals or 
Eric had to be in New York early the next 
day or work late. Soon we also found a 
small apartment in New York, to stay 
overnight on those difficult days. I knew 
Timothy was well taken care of, but, some- 
how, I found it unbearable being away 
from him for days at a time. Finally, we 
found this larger apartment right here in 
New York, and all three of us moved in. 
"And really," she muses, "I'm convinced 
Timothy and Andrew are just as well off 
living in town as in the country. A family's 
closeness seems more important to me 
than all the fresh air in the world. We 
have Central Park nearby, and a little 
park just around the corner. There are 
innumerable opportunities for wholesome 
outdoor play. 61 a city like New York, 
a child has a variety of playmates and 
meets all types of children — which I think 
is good. I was born and grew up, right 
here in Manhattan, and love it. I remem- 
ber, as a child, every Saturday morning, 
we went to the children's concerts at 
Carnegie Hall. Where can you surpass 

"I feel that, at this stage, I should be 
with my children as much as possible. 
During these first few years, before they 
enter school, the most important thing is 
to build up a strong foundation of love 
and security in the home — wherever it 
may be. It's true, as a working mother, 

^ my time with them is somewhat limited. 

* But I feel — it's not the amount of time 

" you spend with your children that counts, 
but how you spend the time you do have 
with them. I am an actress and, if I 


Song of the Road of Life 

weren't working, I'd be unhappy. My dis- 
satisfaction would have a bad effect on 
my sons, no matter how much time I spent 
with them. This way, I'm stimulated and 
can give them my wholehearted love and 
attention when we are together." 

Interrupting his mother's views of com- 
bining career and motherhood, pajama- 
clad, tousle-haired Timothy enters the 
room, sleepily making his way to her side. 
"Tim," she reproves him, "you didn't sleep 
enough." Tim coyly rubs his eyes and 
presses his head against her arm. Careful 
not to awaken Andrew, they tiptoe to Tim's 
room. Now becoming wide awake, Timothy 
reveals bright blue eyes and a dimpled 
smile, and insists that "Mommy" play 
with him. Patricia joins him on the floor 
and they take turns manipulating toy cars 
in and out of a miniature garage. 

Jratricia has found that the responsibility 
of taking care of a home and children 
helps her work. "I work quicker and bet- 
ter," she admits, her deep hazel eyes light- 
ing up with blue-green tints. "I can't in- 
dulge in mulling or worrying. I don't have 
time. So I just plunge in and concentrate 
harder. And I think I'm acquiring quali- 
ties an actress needs. As a mother, I have 
to be assured, I have to have authority. 
After all, you bring to your work what 
you are, sooner or later, whether the 
work is acting or something else." 

As Patricia and her oldest son play 
"cars," Anna comes in and offers to take 
him to the park around the corner. Tim 
makes it clear he wants "Mommy" to 
come, too. It takes a little persuasion for 
Patricia to assure him she will join him 
with Andrew later, but finally he is happily 
on his way with Anna. 

"He won't be quite that attached to me 
tomorrow, when Eric returns home from 
an out-of-town business engagement," 
Patricia smiles, returning to her spacious 
living room, smartly but simply adorned 
with bookshelves and paintings. "Some- 
times, on a Sunday, the two disappear 
after breakfast and I don't see them until 
dinner. They've gone off exploring in 
their man's-world. Real buddies. You 
know, the father is a little out of things 
with a child the first year. I began notic- 
ing that, as Tim got so that he could do 
things, they became closer. I like that." 

Patricia's husband, Eric Teran, is the 
head of a well-known industrial design 
firm, Jim Nash Associates, which designs 
everything from cereal packages to elec- 
tronic computers. At the moment, they 
are working on a simple design symbol 
for the United States in all foreign coxm- 
tries. "You know," says Pat, "we very 
much need a symbol of our country 
abroad. Since the war, all too often in 
Europe and Asia today, one sees only the 
hammer-and-sickle scribbled on fences 
and buildings. It's high time our influence 
is felt through a simple but telling symbol 
that even a child can draw. Eric is so 
talented," she continues, "and has done so 
many interesting things. At one time or 
another, he has lived in almost every 
country in Europe, and visited many 
countries in the East. He has studied in 
France, in Italy, in Switzerland, and 
speaks eight languages. Now he's very 
busy, happy and stimulated, bringing 
healthy and clean design into practical 
items. He too loves the theater — and pos- 
sesses a fine knowledge of it." 

Patricia pauses a moment. Convinced 
there isn't a sound coming from Andrew's 
room, she continues, "That's one thing I 
really miss now — not going to the theater 
as often as we did when we were first 
married. Evenings, either I have lines to 
learn or Eric is occupied with a project. 

This is a busy time in our life. Some sacri- 
fices have to be made. But the time will 
come again when we can see plays and 
opera as much as we wish. Meanwhile, 
we're both doing the work we love — and 
sharing our problems. I even hope to do 
a play this season. 

"My goal hasn't changed," she says, 
about her career. "Before I met Eric, I 
wanted to be the best actress I'm capable, 
of becoming. I still want that. I feel my' 
work is contributing something to lifi 
contributing to people's enjoyment or their 
enlightenment by portrayal of characters 
that have something to say. Naturally, 
raising happy, well-adjusted children so 
they in turn can contribute something to 
life, is very important. I'd like to continue 
to do both, if I can. You see, I realized, 
'way before I met Eric, that a career in 
itself was not sufficient for me. I knew I 
wanted to marry and have children. But 
it had to be to someone who was in sym- 
pathy with my career. Someone who 
wholeheartedly wanted me to continue 
with it." 

Before Patricia met Eric, she experi- 
enced a period of wondering if there was 
such a man. "I was in a dark frame of 
mind about men when I met Eric," she 
confesses. "I was going through an experi- 
ence familiar to many actresses- — going 
out with men who ultimately showed re- 
sentment in my work. So, when Eric and 
I met through a mutual friend, I almost 
chased him away with rudeness. Luckily, 
he was persistent. That's a lesson I hope 
I've learned. No matter how cloudy things 
look, don't give up. What you want may 
be right under your nose, and you might 
pass it up. 

"Eric is in complete accord with my 
work. He takes an interest in it and tries 
to catch me on programs whenever he 
can. I take an interest in his work. We 
have a kind of respect for each other's 
profession that is a must in a two-career 

Koth a positive and a philosophical atti- 
tude underlie Patricia's thoughts as she 
looks at the future. "I don't think anything 
is impossible. If something comes along 
that I want to do very much — such as a 
play or a motion picture — we'll work it 
out. Right now, I'm enjoying my role in 
Road Of Life and fulfilling various TV 
commitments. This time with my chil- 
dren — caring for them and playing with 
them — is a valuable growing time for me 
as an actress, as well as a person. 

"In the past, I might have spent my free 
time going to acting classes to improve my 
technique. I sincerely feel that my time 
with my children — watching them grow 
and learning from them — is as good a les- 
son as any class might teach. There is an 
extraordinary amount of wisdom and in- 
sight into human nature to be gained from 
the wide, innocent eyes of a two-year-old. 
And that's what acting is — isn't it? Por- 
traying the truth of an individual's inner 
sovd, you know. I often remember fondly 
an article written by that lovely man, 
Joseph Welch. He said, as I recall, that 
he didn't feel that he and his wife had so 
much brought up their children, but that 
their children had brought them up, and 
taught them a great deal about the true 
meaning of living." 

Patricia started acting at the age of 
fourteen, with the nonprofessional stock 
company of Rollins School of Theatre at 
Easthampton, Long Island. "Not with the 
intention of becoming an actress," she re- 
calls, "but because Leighton Rollins' schol- 
arship was something that the illustrator 
Arthur William Brown thought I shouldn't 
pass up. He felt acting was good for a 



model. I was modeling because then I 
thought I wanted to be an illustrator, and 
figured this was a good way of becoming 
familiar with the field. Several summers 
at art school had convinced me that I was 
best at pen-and-ink sketchings." 

However, as her first summer in stock 
was coming to a close, Pat forgot her 
original reason for participating and 
plunged into the work with enthusiasm. 
It was then that she got the break which 
led to her making the decision she has 
never regretted. Pat was cast as the un- 
derstudy to the lead in "The Sea Gull," 
the company's last offering of the season. 

"On dress-rehearsal night," Pat recalls, 
"the actress playing the lead came down 
with poison ivy. I went on in her place 
for the opening. Sitting in the audience 
that night was producer Jean Dalrymple. 
She knew my mother. After the show, 
she telephoned my mother to tell her she 
was impressed. That did it." 

Summer stock engagements followed, 
climaxed with a U.S.O. tour of the South 
Pacific in 1944. Then, after the war, Pat 
got her first big professional break, right 
on Broadway. And again it came about 
from the seemingly insignificant casting 
as the understudy. Pat was "standing in 
wait" for the role of Roxanne, portrayed 
by Frances Reid, in Jose Ferrer's produc- 
tion of "Cyrano de Bergerac." When 
Frances left the cast, Patricia got it. 

"It's wonderful how everything opens 
up to you after just one break like that," 
Patricia says. "Next, I did 'The Browning 
Version,' with Maurice Evans and Edna 
Best. During this play I learned what it 
was like to perform while your heart is 
heavy. Five days before the play opened, 
my father died. I'll never forget how kind 
Edna Best was to me. Everybody in the 
cast was sympathetic, but especially Edna. 
After that, more plays followed and soon 
I also began getting roles in radio and 
television. And ... if I'm not mistaken, 
I think that's my baby," Patricia inter- 
rupts herself, going into her child's room. 
In a moment the crying ceases. Patricia 
returns, carrying her youngest son. 

"He's such a good baby," armotmces Pa- 
tricia. "I think he's going to be of a more 
quiet temperament than his brother. I 
say 'think' because you really can't tell 
until he starts getting aroimd by himself." 
Smiling, Patricia informs him, "Mommy is 
going to take you to the park. Tim is 

1 he two boys are a study in contrasts. An- 
drew has pitch-black hair, like his father. 
His light brown eyes seem inclined to turn 
hazel, like his mother's. He's quite chubby, 
giving the impression of a stockier build 
than his blond-haired big brother. 

"Andrew came in the world giving me 
the same close call in my work that Tim 
caused," Patricia laughs. "Andrew arrived 
two weeks earlier than expected — and, six 
days later, I was back in the role of Sally 
Cartwright, which I was playing in the 
daytime drama, Love Of Life. Tim, though, 
had me even more worried. I was doing 
The Doctor's Wife then. We had taped 
enough shows to cover xmtil I could get 
back to work. But, here we were, down 
» only two shows and still no Timothy. 
We set a day for more recordings. And, 
)f course, that day tiirned out to be the 
fery one that Tim decided to make his 
aitrance. I completed the recordings just 
n time. I rushed to the hospital directly 
Tom the studio." 

That's the way it's been with Patricia 
jyer since — combining her busy career 
vith her busy home life, and apparently 
hnving on it. Noting the joy that lights 
ler expressive face as she cuddles her 
•aby, the thought occurs that all the di- 
ectors who told her she has a "sad face" 
id see her now. 



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Atlantic Coast Alarm Clock 

(Continued from page 54) 
audience laughs at a joke, that's the first 
time anyone on the set has heard it. The 
loudest yack that comes over the mike is 
probably Buddy's, and the girlish giggle 
is, of course, Mary's. 

Regan and Dressner will be up in the 
control room. At one side of the studio, 
just before five-thirty, Jack puts on horn- 
rimmed glasses, sits at a desk with yellow 
sheets of paper in front of him, marked 
cryptically to indicate music interludes, 
commercials, station breaks, and dozens of 
things he wants to tell his audience. The 
chairs scattered around are the not-too- 
comfortable folding variety common to 
broadcasting studios. The floor has been 
scarred by many tapping feet, except 
where a small rug strives to give a touch 
of homey-ness. 

On a long table to one side are loaves 
of bread, a bag of sweet rolls, steaming 
coffee, tea, cream and sugar. Jack is al- 
ways dieting — or so he says. He eats cot- 
tage cheese for breakfast, cheats once in 
a while by adding crisp bacon, but fore- 
goes the rolls. 

You could come into this room dragging 
your feet and a minute later be tapping 
your toes to the music, warming yourself 
in the friendliness of this early-morning, 
informal get-together. The men work in 
shirtsleeves or sweaters, and there isn't 
a real jazzy shirt in the group — they could 
be young college profs or students, or 
maybe brokers or insurance salesmen. 
Mary wears a sweater and skirt, some 
strands of pearls at her neck. 

Three top announcers for CBS work this 
show regularly — Harry Clarke, who opens 
and closes the show, and Gaylord Avery 
and Olin Tice, newscasters and alternate 
announcers. Lee Dressner, the engineer, is 
an integral part of the proceedings. He gets 
in around five, sets everything up, is pre- 
pared to drive the rest of them into hys- 
terics with bits and pieces of old com- 
mercials and recordings, to be thrown in 
at what he considers appropriate moments 
— and when least expected. "I was doing 
a commercial for an eyedrop sponsor," 
Jack said, "when suddenly, out of some- 
body's old record, heaven knows whose, 
Lee threw in a voice. 'Your eyes look like 
two cranberries in a glass of buttermilk,' 
it said. This can throw you, early in the 
morning. But that's our Lee!" 

In spite of off-the-air and on-the-air 
high jinks, and considerable sly playing 
of jokes, there is no sense of confusion. 
All these people know their jobs well. 
Jack celebrated his tenth anniversary on 
the show November 5 — it had been Ar- 
thur Godfrey's spot for seven years pre- 
vious, and Jack had approached the job 
with fear and trembling which was com- 
pletely unwarranted but understandable 
at the time, since following the Old Master 
was then considered practically suicide. 
"These people have all worked together 
so long now that they can anticipate each 
other," a staff member notes. "Everyone 
knows what Jack likes on the show, what 
music is needed, how to pace everything. 
The live music blends in with the re- 
corded music, and everything is keyed to 
the personalities of the performers. Espe- 
cially to Jack's. He has one criterion for 
a joke — it must be in good taste, and it 
must be funny enough to get a quick laugh. 
It can be a little corny, if it's fast and 
funny." When a joke falls a little flat. Jack 
explains, "They fractured me when I told 

T them this story at home — yes, they frac- 

* tared me, bone by bone." 

R Sometimes it's hard to tell whether 
they're on or off the air, because they're 
always the same. Laughing. Telling stories 


about their children. Kidding one another 
about diets and pinochle. "We have three 
experts," Mary confides. "Tony, Tyree and 
Buddy. And about sixty cents keeps chang- 
ing hands constantly. Big stuff. They won't 
teach me the game— that's the way they 
keep a woman out of it. I used to try, but 
I've decided it's strictly closed-circuit." 

Jack plays all the ridiculous characters 
that come and go in the script. Col. Basil 
Rumpingham, Her Majesty's Envoy to The 
Jack Sterling Show. John Cummerbund 
Sneezy, The Texan, Dr. Hiawatha Hacken- 
schmidt. A punchdrunk fighter by the 
name of Sweet Chariot McGillicuddy — 
"We call him 'Sweet Chariot' because he 
swings so low." 

Jack gives commercials the "soft sell." 
There are no shattering sounds to storm 
the ears. If he leaves out something he 
intended to say, he simply adds, "Oh, yes, 
I forgot to tell you" — and proceeds to tell. 
Commercials are not formalized or stylized. 
They're spoken, not recited. And, while 
everybody is cognizant of the movement 
of the hands of the clock on the studio 
wall, no one seems overburdened by it. 

"Everybody works together to make the 
show sound good," Jack says. "They are all 
conscientious workers. They like what they 
are doing and they do it well, and are 
proud to be identified with the program. 
They have professional standards, for all 
their ease. They know what they are doing 
every minute." 

Ihey come from all parts of the covmtry 
originally, from New York, Texas, Arkan- 
sas, North Dakota, Maryland, New Jersey, 
Pennsylvania. Jack himself was born in 
Baltimore. Ken Regan is the only true 
New Yorker. At last count, they had a 
collective total of twenty-nine offspring, 
with a couple more to be added shortly. 
"We're bringing up our own rooting sec- 
tion," Jack says. 

All of the orchestra members do record- 
ings, and have recently finished one to- 
gether. Tony Aless takes a band into local 
spots, writes music, is probably best known 
for his jazz "Long Island Suite." Every- 
body does some outside club work. Tyree 

Three Faces 
of Crippling 

Birth Defects Arthritis Polio 




does jazz concerts, works with greats like 
Ellington and Calloway, appears frequent- 
ly on the Art Ford show on TV. So does 
Mary Osborne. Art introduces her at times 
with phrases like: "You hardly see a jazz 
musician as pretty as Mary." 

Buddy does bass viol with Elliott 
Lawrence and Kate Smith recordings and 
a lot of others. Andy works with a small 
band in New Jersey and has been fea- 
tured on a number of TV shows, including 
Jackie Gleason's. 

Jack, who works out on the drums on 
his own show, rolling along with the band, 
makes writing his outside occupation. His 
"Jack in the Box" colxmin appears in 
thirty-eight weekly newspapers in the 
Greater New York area, has a readership 
in excess of half a million, is mostly 
anecdotal about music, radio, TV, kids 
cind country living. His autobiography, 
appropriately titled "So Early in the 
Morning," published by Crowell last fall, 
was an immediate success. 

When nine o'clock comes, and the theme 
fades out ("I'll Be Seeing You") — every- 
body has something else waiting to be 
done. They stop to talk about next day's 
plans, the musicians get together to do 
some rehearsing, Jack has meetings, agency 
and sponsor luncheons, press interviews, 
business details. On Monday, he tries to 
get home early, around noon. 

"You would think he would take a nap 
on his early day," Barbara says, "but he's 
too busy doing things around the house 
and playing with the children. If he isn't 
going into town for this or that to fix 
something, he's romping with the kids. The 
New York operation is a busy one, but 
once home, he seems able to drop it all. 
We figure we can coimt on having him 
one afternoon a week, and two becomes a 
really lucky break." 

Their social life is limited by Jack's 
hours and the fact of having four small 
children. They range from Patty (Pa- 
tricia) Ann, not yet five; Bethie (Mary 
Elizabeth), soon to be four; Cathy (Cath- 
arine Jean), who was only two when the 
newest one arrived last October — the baby, 
Susan Adele. 

"In a business that has a fast pace, my 
husband is really a country, homebody 
type," his wife says. "Jack loves golf. I took 
lessons before we were married, but what 
a waste of time for a woman who pro- 
ceeded to have four kids, one right after 
the other! Now, whUe they're small, they 
need me too much to give that much time 
to any sport. It has to wait." 

Jack loves his home life, is a fancy chef 
with a flair for foreign dishes. He listens 
to radio, watches TV, emcees community 
and charity events, likes an occasional] ei 
party if it isn't too formal or too lavish, ni 
Mostly, he's a family man who has iniinitei 
patience and understanding with the 
children. [^ 

The kind of man he is on the air is the! le 
kind of man he is at home. Full of small- fit 
talk about family doings, neighborhood ^ 
activities. Dreaming about the new house Jjj 
they're planning, with room for all the j, 
people and things that are already begin- o 
ning to spill over from the house they ^ 
thought was plenty big just a few years ^^ 
ago. Interested in everybody's kids, every- ,jj 
body's ideas, everybody's problems. jf^ 

Mike Donovan, the CBS doorman who is ,( 
practically a Madison Avenue legend, often [^ 
looks in on the show before it's time to . 
don his uniform and go on duty. "I have J; 
never heard one human being say anything ,. 
against Jack Sterling," he says. "Or against " 
any of the people he works with. The way J: 
they are on the air is the way they always r, 
are." ' 

The Blonde With the Big, Big Smile 

{Continued from page 32) 
Laurie, in NBC-TV's new Ed Wynn Show. 

However, in all fairness to the rest of 
Jacklyn, it must be added that, while the 
dimples helped, they were by no means 
entirely responsible for her lucky break. 
The producer of the show was looking for 
a girl who was intelligent and pretty, who 
could act and had a wholesome quality. 

Jacklyn — who was christened Jacqueline 
but adapted her parents' first names. Jack 
and Aurine, to somehow make it come 
out "Jacklyn" — gives her grandmother the 
major credit for her achievements. Since 
both parents were busy at work in the 
real-estate business, Mrs. Pearl O'Donnell 
looked after Jacklyn almost from the day 
she was brought home from the hospital, 
about seventeen years ago. 

When Jacklyn was two, her parents 
separated. It was mutually agreed that, 
under the circimistances, it would be best 
for Jacklyn to move in with her grand- 
mother. Although Jacklyn retained a very 
close and loving relationship with both 
her father and mother, she has stayed 
with her grandmother, even after her 
parents reconciled a short time ago. 

It was Jacklyn's good fortune that Pearl 
O'Donnell is an old-fashioned grandma, 
in the very best sense of the phrase. Says 
Jacklyn, "She is strict and gentle, yet very 
understanding about my wishes." 

Her most urgent one, to date, was to get 
into show-business. Instead of turning 
thumbs down. Grandma did all she could 
to encourage her. In fact, it was her idea 
to have Jacklyn take ballet, which got her 
started in show business. 

. J acklyn was barely four-and-a-half 
when she made her first public appear- 
ance — as a member of her ballet com- 
pany when it performed for wounded 
veterans at Los Angeles' Sawtelle Hos- 
I pital. She was too young for stage fright, 
as she hopped around the podium dressed 
as a bunny and singing, "Oh, You Beauti- 
Iful Doll." 

From ballet, she switched to piano and 
: soon visualized a career as a concert 
; pianist. Then a freak accident cut short 
, her ambitions. While attending Jefferson 
J Grammar School at Inglewood, she tripped 
; on the sidewalk one morning and broke 
i her right leg. As a result, she was in a cast 
for four months, had to be taken out of 
1 school and given private lessons, and for- 
get about the piano, for the time being, 
) because she couldn't use the foot pedal. 
When Jacklyn returned to school, she 
was heartbroken because her teacher 
i wouldn't advance her to the next grade 
5 with the other children in class. "Don't 
, you worry," Grandma O'Donnell soothed 
I her, when she came home, crying. "We'll 
I find a school for you that won't punish 
5 you for what happened." 
1 The Hollywood Professional School will- 
ingly put Jacklyn in the grade to which 
sshe would have advanced in Inglewood. 
-With her grandmother's coaching, Jack- 
I: lyn not only held her own, but did so well 
ittiat she was one of the few students to 
ihe graduated at sixteen! 

Once her leg was healed, she also re- 
sumed her piano lessons and her playing 
! improved to such an extent that she was 
ready for her first recital at ten. How- 
ever, the idea of playing before an audi- 
aence scared her so much she hardly slept 
ithe night before. 

As usual, her grandmother had a sug- 
3!gestion that solved her problem. "When 
you look at the audience," she told Jack- 
lyn, "pretend they are a bunch of cab- 
bage heads." Jacklyn did, and nearly burst 
out laughing. But she was able to relax. 

her perfoi-mance won high praise and, a 
few weeks later, she brought home $150 — 
first prize on a television contest. 

When Jacklyn became interested in act- 
ing, about four years ago. Grandmother 
urged her to go about it "the right way," 
which she interpreted as preparing herself 
properly by taking drama classes. Jacklyn 
took the next step on her own. At fifteen 
she decided to get an agent — but not hap- 
hazardly, by picking just anyone out of the 
directory. For three months, she talked to 
a lot of people in show business, till she 
convinced herself she had found the 
woman who could best handle her. On the 
advice of U-I talent scout Bob Rains, she 
phoned Jean Halliburton, who was so im- 
pressed by Jacklyn's self-assurance that 
she promptly granted her an appointment. 
One look at the attractive, blonde, brown- 
eyed young girl convinced her she had a 
potential star on her hands. 

Still, Jacklyn had no illusion about 
success. She knew nobody would offer 
her a big role overnight, that she had to 
work for it, get experience, be seen — 
even if she didn't make any money. And 
so she willingly accepted the lead in a 
play at a small Los Angeles theater, for 
which she didn't receive a cent. But it 
led to another role, that of Susan in "A 
Man Called Peter," at the Callboard 
Theater, this time for money. 

Professional recognition followed fast. 
She was cast in Matinee Theater, Father 
Knows Best, The Life Of Riley and a 
number of other TV shows, in addition to 
doing commercials and modeling clothes. 
But, while her efforts were paying off, 
Jacklyn refused to rest on her laurels. 
Even after she was cast as Laurie in The 
Ed Wynn Show, she continued her dra- 
matic lessons with John Morley, and still 
practices piano at least an hour a day. 

One of the aspects of portraying Laurie 
that delights Jacklyn most is the similarity 
between the part she plays on television, 
and her own life — even if the solutions to 
real-life problems aren't always worked 
out as neatly as on the screen. Take the 
episode where Laurie is supposed to go 
to a dance with a boy she doesn't like. 
When Grandpa Beamer (Ed Wynn) hears 
about it, he promptly helps her break the 
date without hurting the boy's feelings, 
and arrange another date with the boy of 
her choice — all within thirty hilarious 

"The counterpart in real life didn't solve 
itself as smoothly," Jacklyn admits. "I 
had a date for an important dance with a 
boy who was really very nice, except that 
he irritated me constantly, and I would 
have preferred to have got out of the 
obligation. But, even after Grandma and 
I had a p>ow-wow for two hours, we 
couldn't figure a way. So I went with him, 
and had a dreadful time!" 

Like Laurie, Jacklyn lives in an old, 
two-story, twelve-room frame house, a 
stone's throw from Grauman's Chinese 
Theater in Hollywood. The place is quaint, 
by modern standards, but Jacklyn insists, 
"I couldn't picture Grandma in any other 
kind of house." Incidentally, there is a 
man aroimd the house — occasionally. 
Grandpa Claude O'Donnell, a spry oldster 
in his early seventies, has never lost his 
wanderlust. About nine months out of the 
year, he can be found fishing in the 
Rockies, camping in the Sierras or lolling 
at the beach between La Jolla and Laguna 
. . . the rest of the time he spends at home. 

But, even at seventy. Grandma can 
handle any situation as well as when she 
first took Jacklyn home. She does it with 
firmness and kindness, and only once had 
to resort to a spanking — when her grand- 

daughter was six, and dashed out of the 
house and across the street without look- 
ing right or left. The car that shot past 
missed her by no more than two inches. 

"I guess I was lucky," Jacklyn exclaimed 
breathlessly when she fled back to the 
house and into Grandma's arms. She didn't 
think so, a few minutes later, when Mrs. 
O'Donnell got through with her spanking. 
And there was no nonsense about this 
hurting her more than Jacklyn. 

But most of the time. Grandma is far 
more inclined to spoil her. In fact, every 
member of the family does, particularly 
her father. Jacklyn remembers a morning 
when she was ten, and looked out of the 
window just as her father and another 
man carried a heavy TV console set into 
the house. Rightly guessing that it was to 
be a surprise for her, she gave a memor- 
able performance of being utterly sur- 
prised when she saw it in the living room. 

Jack O'Donnell has always spoiled his 
little girl — because she was so pretty, be- 
cause she was his only daughter, and 
sometimes because it proved the easiest 
way out. He still recalls the morning he 
stopped to see her, when she was bedded 
with the flu and giving Pearl O'Donnell 
the usual trouble with swallowing as- 

"What would you like more than any- 
thing?" he smiled. 

"A doll with a blue hat and blue dress," 
she exclaimed. 

"You swallow the aspirin — and I'll get 
you the doll. Is it a deal?" 

It was a deal . . . although he didn't 
realize what he had bargained for, till 
after he spent almost two days finding just 
that kind of doll for her. 

What will the future hold for Jacklyn? 
Aside from the fact that she will continue 
her career, she is sure about only one 
thing: "I'm not getting married till I'm old." 

And what is "old" to a seventeen-year- 
old? "At least twenty-two. I don't believe 
in girls getting married too young." 

But don't believe for a moment that, at 
seventeen, Jackljm can't take care of 
herself — with boys, or under any circum- 
stances. In the first place, she isn't taking 
many chances. "I don't go out with a boy 
unless I've known him for a little while, 
and Grandma approves of him." 

Nor does she believe a girl has to sub- 
mit to a goodnight kiss, simply because a 
boy has bought her a dinner or paid for 
a movie ticket. Just the other night, one 
boy became a little too amorous when he 
parked the car in front of her house. 
Jacklyn promptly jumped out of the car 
and loudly announced, "Grandma's wait- 
ing up for me. I better get in." 

Her disappointed suitor had no choice 
but to accompany her to the front door 
and say goodnight like a gentleman. 

How well she can take care of herself, 
even with people considerably older than 
she is, was amply demonstrated during her 
first visit to the Hollywood Brown Derby, 
which coincided with her first interview. 
When the waiter brought the check, the 
NBC publicist who accompanied her turned 
to Jacklyn, "You know the custom about 

"I'm afraid not," she replied uneasily. 

"The person who's being interviewed al- 
ways picks up the tab," the publicist 
kidded her. 

"That's a very good idea," Jacklyn 
agreed, as she reached for it. "See — I'm 
picking it up," and, after a moment, "now ^ 
I'm putting it down again, right in front " 
of you!" R 

Obviously, Grandma made sure her little 
girl knew all the angles. 


The Good Luck Man from Texas 

{Continued from page 28) 
"with Aikens clobbering me and winding 
up on top." 

"I'm not a half-way kind of fellow 
who seesaws," Ty says of himself. "When 
I'm right, I go all the way down the line 
with it. But when I'm wrong — gollee, I'm 
often real doggone wrong. But I admit it!" 

It was a conclusion he had to come to 
early. In fact, when he was only fourteen. 
His mother, Gwen Hungerford — Ty's real 
name has the poetic ring of the Old West, 
Orison Hungerford — was a divorcee who 
was hard put to earn a living for her two 
boys. But out of her salary as an insur- 
ance secretary in Houston, she managed 
to support twelve-year-old Dewey at her 
mother's home in Austin, and to send Ty 
to the Shriner Military Institute, a school 
of excellent reputation. 

He was soon in hot water. "I wasn't a 
problem child," he now recalls, "but I 
was something of a hard-head. To rebel 
at discipline was to ask for punishment 
and get it. I always seemed to be walking 
off demerits. I wore out many a pair of 
shoes in that bull-ring." After an ex- 
change of letters with his mother in which 
he wrote, "I'm leaving," and she replied, 
"You're staying," he left. He refused to 
"seesaw" and, having made up his mind 
he was right, simply vanished. The head- 
master notified Mrs. Hungerford, who 
called her mother, hoping that he had lit 
out for his grandparents' ranch. Instead, 
he was making tracks in the opposite 
direction toward Abilene. 

Gwen evidently knew her son. She was 
worried, of course — but, as she puts it, 
"not very." Being a working mother, she 
had taught both boys how to cook, clean 
house, and care for themselves. "I knew 
he'd get along all right. And I also knew 
that, as long as he thought he was in the 
right, he'd go his own way. I have always 
felt it's wrong to dominate a child and, 
while I still believed he ought to finish 
his schooling, I knew I shouldn't have 
forced him to stay at a school where the 
military discipline was not to his liking." 
In view of this, she made no attempt to 
put the police on his trail when a postcard 
came. "I was happy to learn he was safe, 
and I decided to let him work things out 
for himself." 

1 y meanwhile was earning his keep at 
various jobs — a bake shop, a filling station, 
and finally grinding lenses for an optical 

firm. He wrote to Gwen, from time to 
time, and she played the waiting game, 
holding her concern for his welfare in 
check. One day, she looked up from some 
financial reports and there, between the 
filing cabinets and her desk, stood her 
prodigal son. 

"Mama," he said softly, "I was wrong 
and I came here to tell you. It's okay 
to work and make your own living, but 
you got to get schooling if you're goin' 
to get some place. I want to stay with you 
from now on and finish school." 

"What did I do?" she chuckles. "Well, 
first I hugged him as tight as I could. Then 
I had a good cry. And then I went out 
and found us an apartment — which wasn't 
easy in war times. I was so proud of him." 

Although he was only a scrawny 145 
pounds when he entered Lamar High 
School, Ty showed such headlong drive 
and pluckiness that it soon made him a 
standout in football, baseball, tennis and 
swimming. He was also beginning to show 
the makings of a fine horseman. On the 
football field, he was a swift, slippery 
player whose thinking and all-around 
leadership attracted a good deal of atten- 
tion and won him a scholarship to Blair 
Junior College. He had begun to really 
enjoy college when br-nnng! the postman 
rang once, and Ty was drafted. 

Now came one of life's little ironies. The 
lad who had hated military school found 
he had a natural aptitude for the Army. 
The work of the Signal Corps interested 
him and, for the first time in his life, 
he felt a sense of achievement and service 
to a great cause. By the end of the three- 
year period (1951-54), he had passed 
through Officers Candidate School at Fort 
Ord, Arkansas, and been commissioned a 
second lieutenant. 

Ty might have become a career soldier, 
were it not for two events — marriage and 
fatherhood. Soon after donning uniform, he 
had married his Texas sweetheart and she 
had presented him with a girl, Mary Chris, 
and a baby son, Robert Tyson. For the 
sake of the family, argued the young wife, 
he ought to go back to college and get 
his degree in engineering. If he worked 
part-time and they dipped into their 
savings, she felt they could swing it. Ty 
agreed. "A fellow's family is like his 
conscience — just by being there, it spurs 
him along. I decided the right thing to do 
was to get an education and start to 
climb." He applied to Texas A. & M. and 

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was admitted shortly after his discharge. 

Ty's athletic prowess, especially on the 
gridiron, brought him to the fore as a 
campus personality. But more important 
to him than the laurels he won was the 
chance to play Arthur in O'Neill's "Ah, 
Wilderness!" His first thrill at speaking 
lines and his first fear of fluffing them, 
along with a new world of glamour and 
glitter where almost anything can happen, 
all combined to put a mark on his heart 
that still remains vivid and clear. Yet the 
notion of becoming an actor "for real" 
would have seemed the most arrant non-^ 
sense to him then. ■ 

But now the famUy he had treasurecf 
began to fall apart. In June, 1957, armed 
with a degree but minus a wife (she would 
not accompany him), Ty left for Cali- 
fornia to take a job in the Research 
Development Department of Douglas Air- 
craft. Six months later, he was notified 
that his divorce was final. 

Wow he stood in the bright sunlight of 
California, and the world seemed more 
bleak and grim than he had ever known 
it. He missed Texas, his children, the 
warmth and responsible joy of being head 
of a family. In his loneliness, he began to 
look about for something to fill the aching 
void. One day, a friend invited him to a 
costume party. Deciding to dress up as a 
cowboy, he went to Paramount Studio to 
rent a prop gun. "Instead of a six-shooter, 
I came out of there with a contract," he 
laughs, a tinge of wonder in his blue 
eyes. "I kept shaking my head and saying 
'You darn fool, you're dreaming, it just 
can't be.' But it could and it was." 

Seven hectic months flew by. He ap- 
peared in four film features, the first 
being "Space Children," stnd sandwiched 
these around a principal TV role on 
Playhouse 90. Then in May of 1958, Wil- 
liam Orr, TV executive at Warner's, on 
the alert for a new Western hero, spotted 
Ty, promptly took over his contract, and 
cast him as Bronco Layne in Cheyenne. 

Regarding his big break, Ty has this 
to say: "It came almost too easy for me.. I 
At first, I looked in the mirror and said^ 
'There must be something special about j 
you, Ty boy.' But, after a while, I told 
myself, 'The only thing special about you, 
brother, is good luck.' What I mean is that 
some actors have a rocky road to travel — 
but, as they go along, the climbing gets 
easier. With me, it's the other way around. 
I got oft' to a fast start, but now I've got 
to learn the business of acting thoroughly 
and master all the tricks of the art. It's 
bound to be tougher for a while. All I 
can say is I'm ready and willing to learn." 

While there is no question that "Ty is 
sincerely modest, he does take a pardon- 
able pride in his ability to do his own 
stunts and in his readiness to take what- 
ever risks are involved. He is a fine 
horseman and he can draw, shoot, fight, 
bust a bronco or teach one the job of 
herding cattle — in short, he's a genuinely 
skilled cowpuncher. The summers he spent 
on his grandparents' ranch have apparently 
paid off. "I keep in shape by a hard 
schedule of sports, workouts and careful 
dieting. I don't smoke or drink, but I have 
no prejudice against others doing it. I'm 
simply trying to stay at the peak of con- 

It was about this time that Ty began 
his serious dating of Andra Martin. Judg- 
ing by their first date, it was not love at 
first sight for either. Nevertheless, Andra 
recalls that Ty was "a pretty smooth oper- 
ator. He managed to get my phone number Jiii< 
that night of the premiere and he phoned 
me^ several times for a date. I kept saying 
'no' but I could feel myself weakening." 




r oss 
i . 


One Sunday, he called and she happened 
to be free. He spoke of an all-day outing, 
and she said she'd go. Envisioning a 
surf-and-sand party, she dressed accord- 
ingly, in her most alluring swimsuit. To 
her chagrin, it turned out to be a baseball 
game between teams of actors, with Ty 
doing the pitching for Jerry Lewis's nine. 
She found herself seated miserably on a 
hard-slatted bench, wondering why she 
had ever accepted a date with this galoot. 
"By the seventh-inning stretch, however," 
she admits, "I realized I was terribly 
drawn to him. I told myself I would have 
to see more of this cowboy actor." 

A small club in North Hollywood, with 
"hillbilly dancing" the main attraction, 
was the scene of their next date. "You 
must admit," grins Ty, "from the places I 
took her, she couldn't have been interested 
in my riches. I liked her because she has 
the rare quality of being able to enjoy 
things thoroughly, no matter how small 
they are. She struck me as the kind of 
girl a fellow could really rely on during a 

Now came the tempest in a teapot that 
broke into national headlines. It was a 
tragi-comedy with all parties rushing in 
opposite directions contradicting each oth- 
er fizriously. Somehow the news leaked 
out to the press that two clean-cut young 
kids who were very much in love and 
eager to get married had been rudely 
thrust apart by an iron edict from "above" 
(variously described as agents, studio ex- 
ecutives, and friendly advisers) . For about 
a week, everybody denied everything in 
bold black print, and the marriage stood 
at an impasse. Finally, the young lovers 
took matters in their own hands and 
announced the nuptials would take place, 
come what may. 

True to character, Ty informed his 
studio: "It's not possible for me to go on 
loving this girl from a distance. She 
imeans everything to me and, if marrying 
and raising a family is going to damage 
my career, then I'll have to go down the 
line with what I feel is right." 

Said Andra: "We're yoimg people in 
love, not just names in the paper. We have 
a right to happiness. Ty speaks for me." 

So, on August 30, in the Little Brown 
Church in the Valley, North HoUjrwood, 
with the Reverend John H. Wells officiat- 
ing, the much- publicized wedding was 
held. For once, Ty compromised, coming 
neither booted nor barefooted, but in the 
conventional garb of all beamish bride- 
grooms. The lovely bride likewise kept 
faith with tradition, in her gown of white 
net and lace over pink taffeta with a seed- 
pearl crown on her hair. Andra's parents, 
Herbert and Gertrude Rehn, and her aimt, 
-Mrs. Clara Faleen, flew down from her 
hometown of Rockford, Illinois, and Ty's 
mother came in from Texas. 

The couple drove one short mile to their 
honeymoon home, rented from movie and 
TV star Penny Singleton. Andfra, who had 
[just completed a stimning job of acting 
opposite James Garner in Warner's "Up 
I Periscope," was between pictures and there 
was, fortunately, a week's hiatus in the 
f filming of Cheyenne. 

[ Their present home is only two large 
.rooms, and Ty and Andra long for a larger 
f place for the family they hope for. Both 
feel they are starting a new life, since 
1958 not only brought them together but 
saw both their careers zoom to the promise 
of high success. 

I The problem of two careers in one fam- 
,;ily? "Doesn't bother us in the slightest," 
. says Ty. "I'm proud of Andra's talent and 
looks." As for Andra, she says, "I hope 
[3ur marriage will be like the old-fash- 
ioned tandem bikes, with Ty in front 
loing the steering and me in back pedaling 
>s hard as I can." 





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(Continued from page 39) 

But, to appreciate the full versatility of 
George Fenneman, you have to visit his 
home, see him as he works and plays with 
his family. The Fennemans are five — 
George; Peggy Clifford Fenneman; son 
Clifford, fourteen; daughter Beverly, 
eleven; daughter Georgia, eight — and they 
live on a sky-hung hill overlooking the 
San Fernando Valley. 

Ten years ago, when the Fennemans 
built their house in what was then a 
wildwood wilderness, friends joked about 
George taking to the tall timber to nurse 
his weekly Marx of combat from Groucho's 
show. At night, the superb silence was 
pvmctuated only by the wailing of coyotes 
and the crash of garbage-can lids as local 
forest life marketed for groceries. 

In the winter, deer tiptoed into the 
garden to munch on the flowers. George 
had done the landscaping himself, yet he 
viewed this sort of icebox-raiding with 
mixed emotions. He couldn't decide wheth- 
er to be furious about the flowers, or 
grateful for the opportunity to take Dis- 
ney-type flash pictures from his own patio. 

Time has passed, and so have the deer, 
the coyotes, and the raccoons. There are 
houses in every direction—none, fortunate- 
ly, in a position to block the Fenneman 
view. Nowadays, when guests power their 
way up George's steep driveway to his 
ample motor court, they are inclined to 
compliment him upon living "so close-in, 
so convenient to studios and schools." 

The architecture and decor of the Fen- 
neman house are contemporary. The ad- 
jective "comfortable" should be added. The 
atmosphere has avoided the stark function- 
alism and the geometric austerity com- 
mon to pure "modern." 

In one corner, there is a game table 
above which hangs a filigreed gold lamp 
that is a treasure; the Fennemans ac- 
quired it from a decorator who had no 
record of its history, but it was obviously 
extracted from the abandoned summer 
home of some bygone rajah. "If only it 
could talk," says George wistfully. 

Additional treasures in the room are 
the paintings. There is a large Conde cray- 
on of a kneeling girl, and a study done by 
far-famed Hans Erni. When he bought the 
latter, George knew that it had been pho- 
tographed, but he was astonished and 
gratified when he picked up an art maga- 
zine one day and spotted a reproduction 
of the portrait. "Gosh, it gives you a thrill 
to realize that you own something as 
beautiful as that," he says. 

A non- representational study, somewhat 
linear and complex, of the doorway of an 
old mansion has long been a source of 
perplexity to the Fennemans' housekeep- 
er. "I just don't get it," she says, scowling 
at the rich greens muted by shadows. 

George tries to explain. "See, stand back 
a bit . . . now, there is the archway, and 
there is the entry floor . . . the focus of 
the picture is that door. . . ." 

"What door?" 

"That goldish square . . . see that?" 

"You mean that thing that looks like a 
scrambled egg?" 

"That reminds me: What's for dinner?" 
asks George, retreating from the abstract 
to the concrete. 

George himself has had a certain suc- 
cess with a brush, and might win fame in 
the art galleries, if he had more time to 
devote to painting. He likes two of his 
studies well enough to hang them beside 
^ the works of Erni and Reep. One is a 
" vertical still-life showing ripe fruit piled 
" beside a reflective vase. The other is a 
vivid non-representational study, far 
longer than wide, which is usually identi- 

Versatility Plus 

fied by a viewer in the light of his own 

A New Yorker, spying it, said in nos- 
talgic tones, "What a wonderful abstract 
study of a city street at sunset." A student, 
visiting George's son, said, "I dig that — it's 
a row of books on a library shelf." A wom- 
an who has spent most of her life traveling 
said, "It's the only easily identifiable ab- 
stract I've ever seen; of course, it's a 
kaleidoscopic study of a country road in 
Hawaii. I don't suppose you would sell 

George is pleased by praise of his paint- 
ing, but what gives him a toe-to-finger- 
tip tingle is admiration for his dining- 
room table. A large, round family affair 
on a footed pedestal, this solid mahogany 
masterpiece somehow survived the pre- 
World War I period. 

When George is not gardening, painting, 
refinishing furniture, laying tile, or star- 
ring in Anybody Can Play, he still isn't 
idle. He is, perhaps, fulfilling his obliga- 
tions as Honorary Mayor of Sherman Oaks 
by making a speech at some commxinity 
affair. Or emceeing The Navy Swings, a 
recruiting program broadcast over six 
hundred radio stations. 

Or he is narrating a 35 mm. progress 
report to the Government for Lockheed 
Aircraft Corporation. (For that job, George 
had to be cleared by the FBI, a distinction 
that gave him a certain stature in the 
view of his teen-age son. As a direct result 
of George's association with officials at 
Lockheed, the Fennemans, father and son, 
were included in a group flown on one of 
the many performance flights by which 
the new turbo-prop transports are tested. 
For son Clifford, it was the thrill of a 
young lifetime.) 

Or he is reporting for his emcee task on 
the Groucho Marx show. This job — which 
George loves — uses up Wednesday eve- 
ning. Personnel report at seven, and film- 
ing starts around eight-thirty before a 
very live audience. By 9:30, the show is 
in reels. Thereafter, the footage is reviewed 
and edited so as to provide the best pos- 
sible thirty-minute show. 

The relationship between George and 
Groucho is roughly that between wingman 
and squadron leader. The speed is terrific, 
so there must be no doubt as to who shall 
call the next maneuver. George is present 
to preserve order, to protect the rear . . . 
and sometimes, unexpectedly, to tow the 

In the old days, when the progress of 
certain parts of the show depended upon 
a fairly involved type of lightning calcula- 
tion, George occasionally — under banter 
from Marx and pressure from the clock — 
skipped a digit. 

"ITiat's Stanford for you," Groucho 
would snarl around his cigar, his eye- 
brows yo-yoing. "No mathematics." 

George began to receive letters of pro- 
test from two quarters: from Stanford 
partisans who made it their business to 
learn that George had never attended The 
Farm; from San Francisco State College 
alumni who were proud of George and 
wanted to know why he was hiding the 
identity of his authentic alma mater. 

Finally, George had a talk with Groucho, 
explaining his predicament. Groucho said 
he would be more exact in subsequent col- 
lege allusions. "San Francisco State, huh? 
Okay, George, I'll fix it up." 

A few nights later, George transposed 
a number but managed to make a quick 
recovery. Groucho rose to the occasion by 
saying, "Never mind, George. There's a 
rumor around that you went to San Fran- 
cisco State, but you started that just to 
protect Stanford, didn't you?" 

When friends ask George why he doesn't 

counter some of Groucho's more barbed 
comments, George just grins, "Why shotild 
I? Who would be so foolish as to take on 
the man who is probably the most brillia: 
wit in America today?" 

On only one occasion has George caug] 
the Top Fox in a net of words. When a 
contestant flubbed a biblical question, 
Groucho supplied the answer, which was, 
"The Land of Canaan." He pronounced it 
Ka-nan. The audience giggled. 

"What's wrong?" Groucho asked George. 

"I think the word is pronounced Kay- 
nun," George explained. 

"I say Ka-nun — it's just a figure of 
speech," alibied Groucho with a wave of 
his cigar. 

A few moments later, George fliiffed a 
sentence and Groucho leapt at the chance 
to give his emcee a bad time. When 
Groucho paused for breath, George re- 
sponded with a twinkle. "It was just a fig- 
ure of speech, Groucho," he said. 

George received letters of congratula- 
tion for this mild triumph from — it seemed 
— half the viewers in America. He, alone, 
appeared to be unimpressed. 

"I pinch myself regularly," he says, "to 
realize that a kid who planned to be a 
schoolteacher can find himself on the same 
stage with one of the master wits of all 
time. Just being there is fun enough — who 
wants to answer back!" 

Versatile and talented as George is, there 
is one American job to which he cannot 
aspire — he can never run for the Presi- 
dency. He was born in Peking, China, dur- 
ing the time his parents were living in the 
Orient (his father was the foreign repre- 
sentative for an American importing firm) . 

He was still an infant when the Fenne- 
man family returned to The States and 
took up residence in San Francisco, where 
George completed his schooling. During his 
last three years in college, he steady- 
dated a bright and beautiful girl named 
Peggy Clifford. 

They planned to marry in two or three 
years — as soon as George had earned his 
master's degree — but, after Pearl Harbor, 
they decided not to wait at all. They were 
married on July 22, 1942. George went to 
work at once as an annoimcer at KSFO. 

George's friends have two favorite anec- 
dotes that tell clearly what George Fenne- 
man is really like. One siims up his pro- 
fessional behavior, and one highlights his 
personal life. 

In mentioning his Sunday night ABC-TV 
show. Anybody Can Play, George says, 
"John Guedel is producing, and the writers 
are Manny Manheim, Eddie Mills and 
Marian Pollock. With a team like that, 
nobody could miss." His modesty and 
eagerness to applaud the other members 
of a production team are real — but rare. 

The personal highlight is this: Recent- 
ly, the ring finger of George's left hand 
showed a broad, white band, the result of 
having been protected over the years while 
the rest of the hand was taking on a deep 
tan. The ring responsible for the white 
band has now been removed to the small 
finger of the same hand. 

George says in explanation, "As one gets 
a little older, or works a little harder in 
the garden, the knuckles enlarge. Of 
course, I couldn't part with the ring 
so I moved it over. It's comfortable on 
the little finger." 

The ring is a standard college class 
emblem. It was given to George by his 
wife, Peggy, during their senior year. 

George Fenneman remembers. And his 
phenomenal memory adds to his amazing 
versatility. But, above all, what he re- 
members best makes him the nicest kind 
of man to have around the house. 

Christmas: Lennon Style 

(Continued from page 20) 
worked for Thomas H. Ince and M-G-M. 
His death, when I was sixteen, brought 
the first really sad note into our lives. 
My mother and those of us who were old 
enough to work supported the family. 
Many's the meal Mother made of corn 
meal patties with gravy. On Sundays, she 
always managed somehow to fix us some- 
thing special. She had little tricks. Like 
diluting a small portion of strawberry 
jam until there was enough for all of us 
to have a taste. We did odd jobs, such as 
delivering handbills before school. When 
a social worker suggested that it would 
be easier on Mother if she parceled some 
of us out to homes, her reply was, "Never, 
as long as I live. We Lennons stay to- 
gether." That strong family feeling was 
inherited by not only her own youngsters, 
but by her grandchildren as well. 

I don't think it's necessary to preach to 
children. I never do, to my girls. As a 
boy, I liked to gamble. Still do, for that 
matter, but never recklessly, and there's 
a reason for that — one all my children 
know. When I was still in my teens, I 
worked in a tango parlor where they had 
bingo games. One day, I went over to 
another parlor to wait for a friend. I 
started gambling with a few cents, then, 
when I lost, figured that, with a few 
more, I'd recoup my losses. I got in deeper 
and deeper and became more reckless. 
I lost all my twelve-dollar pay. Know- 
ing how desperately the money was 
needed at home, I was too ashamed to go 
and face my mother. I walked the streets 
for hours. When I finally went home. 
Mother didn't give me the back of her 
hand, or even raise her voice. If only she 
had, it would have been easier on me. 
Instead, tears came to her eyes and she 
said, "You'll never know, Billy boy, how 
much I was counting on that money — ^h.ow 
much it was needed." Then, closing the 
subject, she said, "You'd better get to 
bed, you must be sleepy." I'll never for- 
get those words. I prayed to God to for- 
give me, and later said to my mother, "I'll 
never do anything like that again, I swear 
it." She smiled and said, "Then the twelve 
dollars was the best investment you ever 
made, son." 
Even more than in good times, trouble 
' made me realize what a wonderful power 
for security, courage and hope it is to be 
surrounded by a battalion of your own 
flesh-and-blood. When this dawned on 
me, I took a pledge that, Gk)d willing, the 
girl I married and I would have a big, 
lively, all-together family. And there's 
i nothing Sis and I would like more, for 
our five girls and four boys, than the 
■ same kind of family for each of them. 
Sis, by the way, came to want a big 
family for exactly the opposite reason I 
: did. She had only one brother and al- 
ways longed for more. When her first- 
ly born, Dianne, was placed in her arms, she 
' sighed and said, "Baby, you don't know 
^ how long I waited for you." 

11 'm filling these background details to 

answer the letters of fans who'd like to 

know "how the Lennon Sisters got to be 

[that way." I take it "that way" means 

their musical gift, their interest in other 

ithings besides a career on the stage, and 

^itheir strong family sense. While I don't 

. believe parents should take credit for the 

^ achievements of their children, I feel they 

' can't escape some responsibility for how 

the twigs are bent. For good or bad, they 

' are the first major influence. 

As I mentioned before, all my brothers 
sang. We held family competitions in 
singing. Sometimes for the best, some- 

t'mes for the worst. It was usually the 
consensus that Tom was worst at remem- 
bering the words, while Jack took low- 
man honors in the singing. Those two 
still get together and compete for the 

An interesting coincidence is that, from 
1929 to 1931, as a boy tenor, I sang under 
my father's management, just as the girls 
do now with me. In 1929, Brunswick 
Records signed me to a contract. It's 
funny the way things work out. In 1957, 
when Brunswick was reactivated — after 
being out of business for twenty-five 
years — the Lennon Sisters were the first 
artists to be signed. 

Between 1945 and 1950, Pat, Bob, Ted 
and I formed a singing quartet called "The 
Lennon Brothers." Pat still works with 
me in rehearsing the girls. At the time 
we were singing, the Lennon Brothers 
were supporting twenty-four children in 
all. It was evident that more would soon 
be making their appearances among us. 
We called a family conference. 

The issue was clearly drawn: Desire 
for a career, as against the long absences 
from our wives and children. We put the 
happiness and welfare of our families 
first. So we quit show business and have 
never had any regrets. 

Some time ago, a man told me he was 
having trouble keeping his three kids in 
line. He said, "Children nowadays want 
the sun, moon and stars on a silver plat- 
ter. It's gimme, gimme, gimme all the 
time — and no 'please,' either. I don't 
envy you with nine of them." What could 
I say? I felt sincerely sorry for him. And 
for his kids. They had lost something 
very wonderful and precious — the sense 
of pulling together and sharing the 
laughs, tears and inspirations. I wish I 
could help him, but I don't know how. 

For his sake, and maybe for others in 
his spot, I'm hoping that— no matter how 
far into space mankind goes — he will find 
his way back to the old warm all-together 
family life. I think this is a good place 
to say that I'm proud of my children. Not 
just the four who have become famous 
as "the singing Lennon Sisters," though 
they've had to face more temptations than 
the rest. Dianne, Peggy, Kathy and Janet 
have come through with flying colors. 
I've never heard them say, "Gimme." 
They don't even say, "Please Gimme." 
They've never asked for anything, really. 

I want to explain this. I know there 
will be some who will say, "These Len- 
nons can't be normal, not asking for any- 
thing." My children are the most normal 
kids you ever saw. There's nothing 
stagey about the girls. They play ball, 
swim, dance, date, and sometimes argue. 
Fame hasn't made them any less human 
than their brothers or sisters or cousins or 
friends. But we have never taught them 
to love money for itself or to make an 
ideal of piling up wealth on earth. The 
question comes up then: How can they 
learn the value of money when they don't 
have any to fool around with? 

I never said the girls have no money of 
their own. But money, to them, is not a 
thing to spend, save, play around with or 
bow down to. It's something to buy with, 
something by which they can acquire the 
essentials of good, comfortable and decent 
living. After all, it's something to share 
with. It would never occur to the girls 
that, because they earn more singing, they 
ought to spend more than the rest of the 
family. If they need something, the money 
is there for them to buy it. Twenty per- 
cent of their earnings is automatically 
saved for them. I pay myself a small 




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salary for managing their affairs, 
have had myself heavily insured so that 
all the family will be protected in the 
event anything happens to me. Then, 
whatever Sis or I feel is a legitimate ex- 
penditure, we authorize. In most cases 
we have to suggest shopping ideas to the 
girls. Their tastes are modest. 


I've been talking about their money. 
People must be wondering just how much 
money I'm talking about. Well, last year 
the girls grossed $100,000 and paid better 
than $40,000 of it to the Government in 
taxes. We've certainly come to "the fat 
years." But the older girls, DeDe, Peggy 
and Kathy, can still remember the lean 
years — not so long ago, either — -when $2.95 
for a skirt seemed a lot to spend. Nowa- 
days, when Sis gets after them to buy 
some nice new outfits, they still have a 
tendency to look solemn and ask, "Isn't 
the price too high?" 

They are far more easygoing with 
money when it comes to buying gifts for 
others. This is especially true around 
Christmas-time. They will spend long 
hours shopping for just the right thing 
for their mother or a tiny knitted suit for 
the baby, Joey. Having money hasn't 
affected their simple tastes, either. The 
one great blessing it has brought is free- 
dom from financial pressure — but this is 
more for Sis and me, because we spared 
the children from as much worry as we 
could, when things were a bit tough. In 
the years when Santa Claus was feeling 
the pinch, we stil) always managed to give 
at least one gift apiece to the youngsters, 
and always had a tree for the girls to 
decorate on Christmas Eve and a ham 
dinner with all the trimmings. 

What did we tell the girls when Santa 
didn't bring the bicycle or the doll that 
was wanted? "Santa Claus didn't have 
enough to go around this year," we ex- 
plained, "and you know he has to take 
care of poor and sick children first." They 
always accepted this and never questioned 

We have always lived amonE; people of 
different races and creeds. We Lennons 
have grown up believing not just in tol'j 
erance but in equality. We taught thaf 
to our children. As for the Lennon Sis- 
ters — prejudice simply does not exist in 
their personal world. They understand 
that, if you start by loving your own fam- 
ily, you'll end by loving God's great 
family — all men and women of good will. 

Which brings us to the present Christ- 
mas season. Sis, some time ago, tried to 
pump the girls on what they would most 
like for Christmas. They looked at each 
other with a conspiratorial twinkle in 
their eyes. Finally, DeDe spoke up. "For 
ourselves, any little thing you and Daddy 
want to get will be swell. What we rpallv 
want is something we've talked about 
many times. This Christmas we want it 
decided on and the money set aside." j 

"What's that?" asked Sis, smiling beJ£ 
cause she already knew the answer. 

"We want money put away for the boys 
to go to college." 

"Just the boys?" Sis teased. 

"Well, no," Peggy put in. "First the 
boys, because they'll be heads of families 
someday. They'll need professions the 
most. But, if any of the girls wants col- 
lege — ^why, of course, there should be 
money for them to go also." 

That's the biggest Christmas present my 
girls ever asked for. I could go further 
and say it's about the only one they ever 
asked for. And it was not for themselves. 

Good will? Christmas spirit? I think 
it's this simple, outgoing and sharing sort 
of love the Lennon sisters try to project 
in their songs all the year 'round. 

What's New On The East Coast 

(Continued from page 13) 

Quick study for Jim Garner is card- 
boo rd copy of his Maverick self. 

Carol," featuring Ernie Ford singing 
hymns. The most handsome of the season's 
albums is Victor's "Christmas with Grand- 
ma Moses." Music is by TV's Skitch Hen- 
derson, with personal reminiscences by 
the artist herself. . . . Perry Como's newest, 
"When You Come to the End of the Day" 
(Victor), contains songs of devotion and 
contentment. . . . The most beautiful, in- 
spired singing of any age is contained in 
Victor's "Deep River" with The Robert 
Shaw Chorale. These sounds are breath- 
taking. . . . For your kiddie-kats, there 
are some fine new things: ABC's Alene 
Dalton's albimi, "Fairy Tales Told by 
The Story Princess" (Cadence). Victor's 
"Mother Goose for the Swing Set," nurs- 
ery rhymes not bopped-up but tuneful 
and rhythmic. Just as creative is Vic's 
"Majors for Minors," in which duo- 
pianists Arthur Whittemore and Jack 
Lowe introduce youngsters to classical 

Quick Ones : Hugh O'Brian due in N.Y.C. 
this month but then keeps moving east- 
ward imtil he gets to London. . . . Dorothy 
Collins a little worried about what hus- 
band Raymond Scott may give her for 
Christmas. "Raymond loves timepieces. I 
have clocks to look at and watches to 
wear, pin to my dress and drop in boiling 
water. I've already got more time than 
anyone else in New York." . . . Barry 
Kaye, Pittsbiurgh deejay, almost com- 
pleted his first novel. . . . Name withheld 
but story too amusing to withhold: Ex- 
wife of a TV emcee explained one of the 
reasons for the divorce. Seemed she had 
married the star when she was seventeen 
and then an inch shorter than he, but she 
hadn't stopped growing. Three years later, 
she was two inches taller than he and it 
hurt his ego terribly. . . . Edward G. 
Robinson made his TV debut this season. 
Jimmy Stewart has agreed to guest on 
the Gobel show on January 13, but Gary 
Cooper continues to hold out, as he him- 
self admits, for love of money. . . . Van 
Heflin is set to portray the father in "Ah, 

Wilderness!", the first ninety-minute 
Eugene O'Neill play slated for television. 
Date: April 28. ... A couple more years 
and you'll have no more tube problems 
with your receiver. Industry thinks tran- 
sistors will replace all vacuvmn tubes. 

Chat with Pat: Young Mr. Boone works 
on Christmas day and notes, "It's hap- 
pened before, but I've always been lucky. 
I've never had to be away from home." 
Pat and wife Shirley go all out for holi- 
days. "Christmas is a ball, but I have the 
same painful problem every husband has 
— what to buy my wife? I've been buy- 
ing her clothes for years and haven't yet 
run into any trouble — although she ob- 
jected to a bear I bought the children 
last year " It was a bear-sized stuffed 
bear. "Cost me seventy-five dollars and I 
was intrigued by it. He was on wheels and 
kind of growled as you pushed him along. 
Well, I liked fuzzy animals as a child, and 
I wanted to create for my kids the wonder- 
ful, exciting kind of Christmas you dream 
about and remember. Shirley said they 
wouldn't like the bear. She was right. The 
only one who pushes it around is me." 
Pat discussed TV plans for the remainder 
of the season. "We want to keep the show 
simple, and I'll do some shows by my- 
self." He spoke of his happiness and bless- 
ings, then admitted there was only one 
thing missing. "I still want a boy. I've 
got four daughters I love, but each time 
I've kind of hoped it might be a son. I 
don't know, but maybe Shirley and I will 
try once more. If the fifth is a girl again, 
I think we'll adopt a boy or two. I've 
thought of it. They will be from some 
other country and of some other race. 
They will be boys who haven't the oppor- 
tunity that American children have." 

Winding It Up: About Christmas, Bob 
Cimimings says, "It's the time of the year 
when you can do without mistletoe but 
you certainly need the berries." . . . and, 
from cynical Henry Morgan, "A hen- 
pecked husband is one who wears his 
Christmas ties." 

Quiet study of Ol' Em Ford finds 
him contemplative as a "Star Carol." 

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(Continued from page 30) 
"Not exactly, sir," he drawled. "I got some 
sponsors on here, and they ship their 
products out to the house. We got us a 
general store out there." 

A few years ago, after a visit, Jimmy 
Dean complained, "New York's just too 
fast a town for me. The way they run 
around here just ain't my dish of side 
meat." But, now that he's been set down 
in the midst of its hassle, he has certainly 
proved he can take care of himself. 

Critics are comparing him with a young 
Bing Crosby or Will Rogers. The air audi- 
ence expresses its opinion with ratings. 
And the slickest of city slickers are show- 
ing their delight with his homespun wit 
by inviting him to appear on some of the 
fastest-paced panel shows. Having brought 
the country boy out of the country, no 
one wants to take the country out of the 

Jimmy, too, values that background and 
counts a poverty-stricken childhood among 
his assets. "It made me git up and git 
going to see if I could amount to some- 

1 he "get going" started early. Born 
Augvist 10, 1928, on a farm, he grew up in 
Plainview, Texas. Mrs. Ruth Dean, left 
alone to care for Jimmy and his brother 
Don who is two years younger, paid $8.50- 
a-month rent for their little house. She 
earned the money cutting the neighbors' 
hair. She didn't have a regular barber 
shop nor barber chair. She just sat folks 
down in the parlor. The little ones she 
propped up on books; the tall ones she 
told to scrounge down a little. 

Jimmy and Don helped out as best they 
could. Jimmy recalls, "I've chopped cotton 
and picked cotton emd cleaned out hen- 
houses. Anything that would make a 
buck." Always tall, he was also shy. The 
prettiest girl in school wounded his pride 
by laughing at the bib overalls he always 
wore. He had some hand-me-down clothes 
for Sunday, but his big dream was for a 
store-bought suit with extra pants. 

Skimpy though their finances were, they 
had fun. He made the most of his rich 
heritage of the big outdoors, horses and 
hunting. He handles a horse like a rodeo 
rider. When, in later years, Jimmy was 
offered early-morning programs he took 
them in stride, saying, "We used to get 
up before dawn to milk cows, and I never 
got over the habit." 

He likes to tell, too, of their jack- 
rabbit hunts. "Two of us would sit on the 
fenders of this old pick-up truck. Another 
fellow would drive and whoop away, right 
across the plains, chasin' down jack rabbits, 
poppin' them off with our old twelve- 
gauge shotguns." 

Jimmy and his mother have always been 
close. He says, "She's real, down-to-earth 
people." He respects her judgment. Speak- 
ing of a certain business transaction in 
which he felt he was cheated, he re- 
marked, "That guy sure took me in, but 
my mother was onto him, right from the 
start. My mother judges people like she 
judges horses. She said, 'He's to smooth 
emd he shows too much of the white of his 
eyes. Son, you watch out for that man.' " 

Ruth Dean also introduced Jimmy to 

music. That old mail-order ad, "They 

laughed when I sat down at the piano," 

was no gag in the Dean home. Ruth Dean 

bought the book of instructions and, after 

she had taught herself to play, she taught 

Jimmy and Don. 

^ Music was the magnet that brought 

* everyone to their house. "We used to 

1 sing with the McCarty kids and the Gar- 

retts," Jimmy recalls. "Mom would play 

all the old church songs and it was a 


Daytime Charmer 

matter of everybody grab a part and go." 

Their other favorite place to sing was 
the long, empty corridor of the First Na- 
tional Bank building. "We'd run in there 
after the movie on Saturday afternoons and 
we'd sure cut loose. The acoustics were 
great. We'd get echoes and everything." 

Jimmy quit Plainview high school when 
he was fifteen. He still regrets it. "I wish 
I could have gone to college. I could use 
it now." Instead, he dug irrigation ditches, 
worked as a merchant-marine oiler, then 
joined the Air Force in 1946, taking his 
basic at San Antonio and radio training 
at Scott Field, Illinois. He was assigned 
to Boiling Air Force Base, near Washing- 

For the most part, the Air Force and 
Jimmy got along fine. "Except," says 
Jimmy, "for one mess sergeant and one 
shavetail lieutenant." Speaking of the 
sergeant, he says, "You know those stain- 
less steel trays they gave you to eat off? 
Well, we'd just stacked them up all neat 
and tidy in their racks when this guy came 
along, and I swear he pretended to find 
some grease on one. So he tipped them 
all over on the floor and made us wash 
them over. I wouldn't have minded so 
much if he'd just made us wash them, but 
it was picking them up from the floor that 
galled me. I sure wanted to scatter his 
eye-teeth, but he was too little to hit." 

The lieutenant and Jimmy tangled at 
Scott Field. "We'd just gotten ready to 
close up the radio shop for the day," 
Jimmy recalls, "and I was up on a bench, 
giving a show, singing for all I was worth. 
You know how it is when you feel a crowd 
change, hke they're trying to warn you. 


y was^ I 


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Use zone numbers at all times. 

Wrap securely and address 

packages correctly. 

Well, I looked around, and there was this 
lieutenant and, even though I'd seen him, 
I still jumped a foot when he yelled at 
me. I painted the orderly room for that 

1 he lieutenant and Jimmy played a re- 
turn engagement in the Caribbean, and 
that time the honors went to Jimmy. 
"Honest, if you found something like this 
in a script, everybody would think it was 
so corny you'd have to throw it out. But it 
was my first trip out of the country. I was 
a civilian by then, and when I came onto 
this base to entertain, the brigadier 
couldn't do enough for me. He said if there 
was anything I wanted, or anything that 
bothered me, just let him know. 

"So I went swimming in the officers' 
swimming pool. I dived in, and when I 
came up and pulled over to the side, there 
I was face to face with this guy. Later, 
I found out he'd made captain. We looked 
at each other for the longest time, then 
I just said, 'Hello,' just using the nick- 
name we'd all given him. Not 'sir,' nor 
'lieutenant' nor 'captain.' Not even his own 
name. Just his nickname. It sure amused 
me to think what could have happened 
had I gone to the brigadier and said, 
'General, there's a little ole' shavetail 
captain over here that's giving me 
trouble.' " 

Jimmy's first pay for singing and play- 
ing piano and accordion was earned while 
he was still in the Air Force. "I got into 

this little joint near the base. My pay 
five dollars a night and tips." He made 
up a little combo, with Marvin Carroll 
playing steel guitar and Herbie Jones 
playing rhythm guitar and banjo. It was 
held intact until Jimmy's move to New 
York. Carroll dropped out, but Jones ii 
still with Jimmy on the progrsim. 

The grim days, after Jimmy received' 
his honorable discharge in 1949 and tried 
to make it in music, remain sharp in their 
memory. With the promise of "a good 
booking" in Philadelphia, Jimmy beefed 
up the band with two extra members, 
Herbie left his job with the fire de- 
partment at Alexandria, Virginia, and 
they set out. With the old car filled by 
the instruments, two of the boys had to 

They regrouped at the Greyhound bus 
terminal, only to discover the job did not 
exist. Neither did their funds. "We were 
stranded and broke," Herbie recalls. 
"Jimmy swapped his wrist watch for a 
couple of hotel rooms and his leather 
jacket for twenty hamburgers. I got rid 
of my coat and that paid for gas to get 
us home to Washington. Next morning, 
we were hungry again and all we had left 
to trade was an alarm clock. That got us 
two lemon meringue pies. They tasted 
pretty good, too." 

It was back to the joints for them, and 
Jimmy hated it. As he later remarked, "It 
was one heck of a life. Just the smell of 
those places ... I worked every joint 
in town. I never did appreciate the fact 
that I went along with a bottle of beer." 

Hate it though he might, Jimmy Dean is 
a man with an urge to improve any situa- 
tion. They found a spot and, as Herbie 
says, "We built it up. We were there 
eighteen months. That's where we both 
met our wives." 

Sue Wittauer was a student at George 
Washington University when a friend of 
Jimmy's, a young man from the Univer- 
sity of Delaware, brought her to the club 
to hear the combo. Jimmy took one look 
at tall, lovely Sue, backed his friend into 
a corner and asked, "Are you two going 
steady?" When the ifriend said no, Jimmy 
demanded, "Then give me her telephone 

When he called to ask for a date. Sue 
was willing, but the fates were not. An 
extra booking came up so suddenly that 
Jimmy didn't even have time to phone 
her. It was six months before he got nerve 
enough to call her again. Sue's under- 
standing acceptance of the situation in- 
creased Jimmy's interest in her. "You'd 
have thought she'd have chewed my ear 
off, the way I treated her, but she was just 
as sweet as she could be." 

Soon Jimmy was in love and worrying 
whether Sue loved him, too. He tried to 
keep it to himself, but one evening, when 
double-dating with another couple, it just 
burst out. They were driving down the 
highway, Jimmy and Sue in the back seat, 
when he said, "Will you marry me?" 

When Sue, too surprised to dissemble, 
gasped, "Yes," it was Jimmy's turn to be 
startled. "You will?" he said unbelieving- 
ly. "Then tell me another thing ... do 
you love me?" 

Recalling it, he says, "Now wasn't that 
a heck of a place to find out? You'd have 
thought I'd at least have had sense enough 
to wait till I got her home and could ask 
her all alone. There I was, just dying to 
tell her how crazy I was about her, but 
this other couple was listening and I didn't 
know what to say next." 

They were married July 11, 1950, at the 
Presbyterian church at Tacoma Park, 
Maryland. Herbie Jones was an usher. 


Two months later, Herbie returned the 
compliment and asked Jimmy to usher for 
him when he married Annabelle Sweeney, 
a Washington girl of Irish ancestry whom 
everyone calls "Ginger." 

Jimmy had worked a stint which he 
now thinks of as "twenty-six hours a day," 
to buy furniture for an apartment, but 
they hadn't much more than moved into it 
when both Sue and Jimmy realized that 
filing-cabinet living won't do for a Texan 
whose long stride was learned while 
roaming the plains. 

Again, both Jimmy and Sue worked and 
scrimped to make a down payment on a 
house. "I really found out what kind of a 
girl I married," says Jimmy. "She even 
went without lipstick to get that money in 
the bank." A similar situation existed 
at the Jones household. Both families 
reached their goal and bought homes just 
a few blocks apart at Arlington. 

1 1 was radio and television work which 
turned the tide toward prosperity. Head- 
ing the trio, Jimmy not only played and 
sang well, he talked well, particularly in 
defense of country music. He'd say, for 
instance, "It's the real grass-roots music of 
the United States. Early settlers didn't 
start with symphony orchestras in this 
country. Somebodly had a fiddle and some- 
body else had a banjo — that's how country 
music began." 

He got a chance to say it to the whole 
United States when Town And Country 
Jamboree, the show he worked in at a 
Washington station, became the CBS-TV 
morning opener. This was a trouble spot 

and Jimmy knew it. CBS had tried every- 
thing in those hours, but NBC's Dave 
Garroway on Today had long clobbered 
them m ratings. When Jimmy held his own 
and then forged ahead, the success paved 
the way for evening programs and his 
present five-a-week afternoon program. 
The Jimmy Dean Show. 

When making the move, the Deans — 
Jimmy, Sue, their daughter Constance, 
who is four, and son Garry, who is seven — 
have settled down on a two-acre estate 
near Greenwich, Connecticut. The Jones 
family moved to Stamford, close by. It is 
an ideal spot for them because there is 
plenty of opportunity for outdoor sports. 
Herbie plays golf, they all swim and water 

One of Jimmy's most cherished posses- 
sions is his boat, a sixteen -foot Borum 
runabout with a Mark 78 Mercury out- 
board motor, so powerful that it can pull 
a string of three or four skiers. In winter, 
hunting takes the place of water skiing. 
But the favorite recreation for Jimmy and 
his family and friends continues to be the 
typical country one of "just visiting." 

"And, man, when they all start funnin' 
and yarnin', that's the most," says Herbie 
Jones with appreciation. "Now, Jimmy 
and I got a plan for a party that we ain't 
never yet been able to manage, but maybe 
someday we can. We aim to get Tex 
Ritter, Ferlin Husky, Gran 'pa Jones and 
Hank Thompson together. Along with 
Jimmy, they're the best-talkin' men I 
know. Mjm, if they ever started, I'd just 
sit back and listen, and I wouldn't care if 
any of us ever got back on the air." 

Bobby Darin : The Splish Splash Boy 

(Continued from page 22) 
this life but learn. I would make any per- 
sonal sacrifice to make good. I don't say 
I think I will or I've got to. I will. I want 
the Academy Award and the Tony and 
the Emmy. I will be a singer, actor, musi- 
cal-comedy writer and a serious com- 

"It's my ambition to succeed at what- 
ever I choose. If it means working until 
five in the morning and then getting up at 
six to get to the next town to appear on 
a deejay show, I do it. But, outside of a 
call from my family or my close friends, 
I wouldn't get up at five except for my 
career. I won't touch liquor, because I 
want my head clear at all times so I can 
think and do my best. By the time I'm 
thirty, I want to be rich enough to re- 
tire — not that I would retire." 

Bobby was twenty-one last May four- 
teenth. Average-looking, he stands five- 
nine-and-a-half. His eyes and hair are 
brown. He's a bug for sweaters and jewel- 
ry. "I've got about twenty sweaters and 
I'm nuts for diamonds. Now I own a dia- 
mond ring. It's just a chip diamond, but 
it's a luxury I'm very unaccustomed to." 

He was bom in New York and spent the 
first seventeen years of his life in a Bronx 
slum, where the kids wore cast-off clothes 
and got their kicks bowling over ashcans 
and spreading garbage over the streets. 
"There was a rough element. Some of the 
boys are doing time in local and federal 
penal institutions, but a small percentage. 
Most were basically good, but victims of 
poverty. I was the lucky one. As poor 
as we were, that's how rich we were in 
love. And oiurs was an educated family. 
Those two things gave me an advantage 
over the other kids. But this advantage 
also made me an outsider." 

Bobby is the younger of two children. 
His sister Nina is married and has three 
children. Bobby's mother, of early Ameri- 

can stock, had been a singer in vaudeville 
and then a schoolteacher until she mar- 
ried. His father, of Italian extraction, died 
five months before Bobby was bom. 
"Mom has been both father and mother 
to me. She is gifted with one of the great- 
est virtues in the world, understanding. 

"I never remember being hit at home, 
because I never was. I remember being 
scolded twice. I was about six years old 
when I smashed six dozen eggs. I just 
let them roll off the kitchen table one at a 
time and burst on the floor It's a funny 
picture to remember, but we were so poor 
and eggs were our chief nourishment. 
And the other scolding came on the day 
Mom saw me hanging by the knees, like 
a monkey, from a fire-escape eight floors 
above the ground." 

As far back as he can remember, he was 
always at odds with children his own age. 
They didn't like his grades, for he was the 
most brilliant student in school. He did 
his last six years of elementary school in 
four and won a medal. "They called me 
a genius in the neighborhood, which 
didn't make me liked. Most of the time, 
I hung around with kids a couple of years 
older. They at least tolerated me. They 
used to think I was pretty funny and they 
liked to have me around to make them 

"On the other hand, I didn't mind being 
alone with books. I like books. Mom 
understood my problem, but she didn't 
baby me." He pauses, then says suddenly, 
"I'm not a mother's boy. She's not that 
kind of mother. Mom would let me go 
ahead with anything I wanted to try, and 
she's been there when I was knocked 
down. But that's all. I always picked 
myself up." 

Kobby was knocked over for the first 
time when he entered the Bronx High 
School of Science. Its students are Ae 
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many go on to be doctors, nuclear physi- 
cists, engineers. "That's where I learned 
that I was nowhere near being a genius," 
says Bobby. "I met guys whose I.Q.s be- 
gan at 180. They pulled grades in the 
high nineties and mine were in the 

"So there I was again. I never felt that I 
belonged in my neighborhood, and I 
found that I didn't belong with intellec- 
tuals. But it turned out to be the most 
advantageous thing that ever happened to 
me, being caught in the middle. I covild 
see both sides of the story, as Mom had 
always taught me to do, and judge both 
ends. And I learned the distasteful side 
of being too book-wise. Socially, you 
don't know people or life through books. 
You learn by living and doing. To me, 
the greatest art-form is observation." 

It was in high school that Bobby took 
an unobtrusive step toward show busi- 
ness. He worked after school for three 
months to buy himself a secondhand set 
of drums. He organized a dance band 
and got weekend jobs. He spent three 
simimers in the borscht circuit, doubling 
as busboy and drummer. Out of high 
school, he went to Hunter College for 
one year. "I still kind of figured that 
maybe there was something I could get 
from professors or college students. I was 
wrong. And I was tired of wearing dun- 
garees and the same shirt. 

"In the back of my mind, it seemed to 
me that I was always trying to decide 
whether I was meant for show business. 
My earliest memories were of Mom tell- 
ing me about her days in vaudeville. 
Anyway, after my first year at Hunter, 1 
went to Mom and told her I wasn't going 
back to school and that I wanted to leave 
home. She didn't like it. I said, 'Mom, 
it's time I got out to see what makes it 
tick.' She was hurt, but she didn't stop 

Bobby was lucky, at first. He was 
hired as an "Indian chief" for forty -five 
days in a troupe that performed for chil- 
dren in Eastern cities. "They gave me 
forty a week, and out of that I had to pay 
all of my expenses except transportation. 
But I felt good. I came out of that ex- 
perience feeling: This is where I belong. 
I had the world by the chops — and then I 
got back to the city and discovered there 
were only forty thousand other actors in 
this vast metropolis. I don't know whether 
you know how it is, when you're seven- 
teen and you find you don't belong any- 
where. But I was in a depression. I 
turned to songwriting, where I could lay 
all my gripes on the line." 

Writing at night, he lived in Manhat- 
tan and held various jobs, such as build- 
ing garage doors and cleaning machinery 
in a gun factory. This went on for a year 
and a half. Then, one afternoon, he was 
in a candy store, having a soda, when a 
friend nudged him and said, "That's Don 

Kirchner who came in. He's had some 
songs published. Why don't you show him 
some of yours?" Bobby recalls that he 
said, "What good will it do me?" — but he 
was introduced, and they found a piano 
and Bobby played his songs. Kirchner 
liked them and, as a result, they teamed 

"I didn't have any expectations," Bobby 
says. "Don said that we could write and 
sell radio commercials. I thought he was 
nuts. But, within four months, we made 
about twelve hundred dollars. We 
knocked out some songs. A couple got on 
records, but I don't think we made twelve 
dollars for the year out of those. Then 
Connie Francis took one of our songs, and 
it was her manager, George Scheck. who 
heard the demonstration record on which 
I sang. He said to me, 'Bobby, I think I can 
get you a recording contract with Decca.' 
I wanted to say, 'You're crazy,' but I'm a 
polite guy and contained my utter dis- 
belief. The next thing I know is that I'm 
signing my first recording contract." 

Bobby's entry as a performer came about 
so suddenly that it threw him off balance. 
On Monday, he signed the contract. Tues- 
day, he cut his first recordings, including 
a "cover" record of Lonny Donegan's 
"Rock Island Line " Saturday night of the 
same week, he sang on the Dorsey Broth- 
ers' network television show — which had 
featured Elvis Presley the preceding 

"That was the greatest thing that ever 
happened to me. I was hit with a hard 
taste of success. Everyone was patting 
me on the back and giving me the busi- 
ness, 'How does it feel to be a star?' And 
I was buying it. Then I went on the road, 
to play clubs, and found nobody knew me. 
Sure, I had been on television. So what — 
so had a lot of other guys. I had a rec- 
ord. Well, Donegan's recording was a 
lot bigger than mine. I began to under- 
stand, for the first time, what a star really 
is. A star is really Sinatra or Peggy Lee 
or Cary Grant. It's not someone who 
happens to have one or four hit records. 
A star is someone who comes to under- 
stand his audience through years of doing. 
I learned that you don't get it by watch- 
ing or reading or being told. You learn 
only by doing." 

With success has come money, and 
Bobby has bought his family a home in 
New Jersey. "I'm not married," he says. 
"When I say 'family,' I mean Mom and 
my sister and her family. Buying them 
the house represented something to me, 
and it meant getting the family out of the 
dirty city. The next thing I want to buy 
them is a good car, for that means get- 
ting rid of a '36 sedan. I admit this: Be- 
ing so poor is my chief impetus for 
wanting to be rich." 

Bobby's never had a vacation in his life 
and he isn't yet ready to take the time off. 


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He keep.'' up a back-breaking schedule. 
On the road, he averages five or six hours' 
sleep a night. Before and after his per- 
formance, he meets with deejays, his fans, 
and reporters. On the way home, he 
looks forward to eight or nine hour 
sleep, but usually finds his New York 
schedule just as heavy with business con^ 
ferences, meetings with songwriters, re-i 
cording sessions and more interviews. It' 
gives him little time for girls. 

"You're going to do a double-take when 
I tell you this," he warns, "but I haven't 
had more than twelve real dates in my 
life — I mean the conventional kind where 
you pick up a phone and ask a girl if 
she'd like to go to a party with you this 
coming Saturday. I go to parties, but I 
prefer to go stag and just meet a girl and 
get to talking. I love to talk to a girl, to 
get to know her, if it's a real informal 
thing where you just happen to get to- 
gether over a cup of coffee or something." 
He adds, "I like to level with a girl. I 
have no time to get serious now. I tell 
her, 'You have to understand that we are 
going out because you like me and I like 
you. But if I don't call you next week — 
or ever — you mustn't feel bad about me.' " 

He's given consideration to the kind of 
girl he'd like to marry. "I'm not going to 
be one of those guys who says, 'I don't 
care what she looks like, so long as she's 
intelligent.' To satisfy my own ego, she 
must be beautiful. But if she's smarter 
than I — and I woiildn't mind that — she 
mustn't buck me mentally. She mustn't 
ever try to out-think me. There's so much 
of me in my work that at times she may 
be giving more than she's receiving." 

Bobby admits that the one thing about 
women which scares him is the possibility 
of being hurt. "Emotionally, I can be 
slugged. Once I was in love, and only 
once. I don't want to talk about it, but 
that really murdered me. I can give you 
another example, though. I had pets as 
a kid. I had a Pekinese dog that I loved, 
and one day I saw him killed by a car. 
It hurt me so badly I decided I'd never 
have another pet." 

While Bobby refuses to let dating inter- 
fere with his career, he has more than his 
share of good friends. "I have six real 
buddies for whom I'd walk to the ends of 
the world. These are people I can really 
talk to. They can criticize me or my ideas 
and get angry with me, and I know it is 
because they are concerned for me. They 
understand my moods and my needs for 
privacy. I can say to them, 'Don't bother 
me,' and they aren't hiu-t. They under- 

When Bobby gets back to New York 
now, he stays with his family in New Jer- 
sey. He has always got along well with 
his brother-in-law, Charles, and, on a 
free evening, they will go to a movie or sit 
around and listen to records. His nieces, 
Viva and Vana, and his nephew, two- 
year-old Gary, idolize him. 

You'U find Gary's picture in Bobby's 
wallet. "Every time Gary sees a juke- 
box, he asks for my record and, if it's not 
there, he tries to beat up the box. I want 
him to be in show business. He's a beau- 
tiful kid, and already I can see he has a 
bundle of rhythm. I want him to have 
music lessons. I want him to have a 
piano. I want to cry when I thLik of my 
wasted years." 

Bobby doesn't think recent success has 
changed him. "I still don't know where 
I belong. I only know that I'm going to 
succeed at whatever I enter. I'm very 
self-sufficient, in a personal sense, and 
it's a little unfortunate at times. You 
can get too independent for your own 
good. But I guess that's what the right 
woman will be to me. She'll be someone 
I can lean on." 

Happy Days and Lonely Nights 

(Continued from page 24) 
found new girls." Didn't she meet any 
interesting new men? "Maybe," says Con- 
nie. "But I've got a formula. My mother 
is always with me and when some stranger 
asks me out, I say, 'We'd be delighted.' 
I lose more good dinners that way." 

Turning suddenly serious, she searches 
out the cause. "I guess I haven't stayed 
in one place long enough to fall in love 
or have anyone fall in love with me. I've 
been in such a whirl . . ." 

r or Connie, that whirl began long before 
the record-lDuying public put those two 
gold discs on her charm bracelet. She has 
always been the girl who did things soon- 
est. There are those who say that the 
infant Connie, born to George and Ida 
Franconero in Newark, New Jersey, on 
December 12, 1938, was even in a hurry 
to climb out of her crib. 

Certainly she was in a hurry to learn 
music. When her father, a roofing con- 
tractor and son of music-loving Italian 
immigrants, played a little squeeze-box 
concertina in the evenings, tiny Connie 
wanted to play it, too. She was only three- 
and-a-half when her parents sought out 
an accordion teacher for her. The teacher 
was appalled. "This child is much too 

George Franconero nodded. "You'd 
think so, but try her and see." Dubious, 
the teacher said, "Leave her alone with 
me for an hour." 

The next year, Connie was the tiniest 
sprite among that teacher's students, when 
they entertained at veterans' hospitals. A 
bit later, the big accordion with small 
Connie behind it, was often seen on a local 
TV station. When she was eleven, her 
adoring uncle wrote such an ardent 
letter to that other old Jerseyite, Arthur 
Godfrey from Hasbrouck Heights, that Mr. 
G. had Connie on a Christmas program. 

Her father, not to be outdone, then went 
to see George Scheck, producer of Star 
Time, a prophetically-named early kid- 
talent television show which incubated 
quite a few of today's top young per- 
formers. As Mr. Scheck tells the story, he 
was having one of those days. Thinking 
of the stack of work on his desk, he tried 
to sneak into his Broadway office by a 
side door, hoping thereby to evade a flock 
of hopeful kids and their more eager 

George Franconero, equally single- 
minded about his own mission, headed for 
that same side door at exactly the same 
time. The two Georges bumped into each 
other. With their mutual apologies came 
recognition. Franconero said, "Are you 
George Scheck? I've got a daughter . . ." 

Scheck, delayed and impatient, said, "I 
suppose she sings. I'm up to here with 

Franconero said, "Sure, she sings. But 
she plays accordion, too." 

Scheck said, "Accordion! Come on up." 

There began an association which has 
endured. George Scheck is still Connie's 
manager. She appeared on Star Tim,e as 
long as it was on the air — and, at seventeen, 
was its assistant director. She also sang 
and acted on other network programs. 

It is just possible that Connie Francis has 
genius-level I.Q. It is obvious that she 
has above-average energy and drive, for, 
at the same time she was TV-ing in New 
York, she was big-wheeling in Belleville 
high school. She edited the paper, wrote 
and starred in a school musical, and won a 
state-wide typing-shorthand contest by 
clicking ofi 175 words a minute on a 
stenograph machine. 

"That was easy," she recalls. "My fingers 

were nimble from playing accordion. But 
you should have seen me in gym. When 
I tried to play basketball, I was so short 
I thought it would give me a complex." 

Usually staying at school until six P.M., 
she was too busy to date until her senior 
year. She was graduated in June, 1956, 
receiving a scholarship to New York Uni- 
versity and her M-G-M recording con- 
tract on the same day. She couldn't decide 
whether to major in pre-med or TV 

A certain "Freddy" decided that. She 
had cut the record during graduation 
week and it built New York ratings dur- 
ing the summer. With a hope it might go 
national, Connie took three days away 
from N.Y.U. classes for a promotional tour. 
"It turned into three weeks of plugging," 
she says. "I was a big shot in New York, 
but no one knew me across the Hudson." 

That finished school. The pile-up of 
assignments and the interruptions for busi- 
ness conferences were too much for Con- 
nie to conquer. She dropped out in De- 
cember, 1956. During early 1957, she cut 
records, sang the sound tracks for a couple 
of rock 'n' roll movies, appeared on TV 
shows, played some clubs. 

She didn't get a hit, but she did have 
some fun. High-school classmates and 
boy friends were, by then, in college. 
They invited Connie to dances and house 
parties. They campaigned to name her 
sweetheart of their fraternities. Pretty 
Connie's social life was definitely A-plus. 

Her parents fully approved. Her father 
says, "It was the first time she had let 
herself take time out. Like all Italian 
families, we'd like to see our daughter 
married to a nice boy and have a home and 
family of her own." But, ironically, it was 
her father who changed her course. When 
Connie spoke of quitting show business, 
he said, "Cut one more record, just for me. 
A standard, with a beat. Adults will like 
it and the kids can dance to it." 

"Who's Sorry Now?" was released in 
November, 1957. It had some success in 
New York, where disc jockeys knew her, 
but nothing much happened in other cities, 
even when Connie went out on the road 
to promote it. A record hop in Pittsburgh 
was the killer. "We spent all that time 
and money for my mother and me to go 
there," Connie recalls, "only to discover 
that the dealer had stocked six records — 
and he didn't even have those for sale. 
He'd left them in a taxi. That was the 

Back in Belleville, she phoned her long- 
time friend. Gene Serpentelli, an out- 
standing law student at Rutgers University, 
and said, "Bring me a college catalogue. 
I'm entering in January." She chose her 
courses, aiming toward a philosophy 
major, and was enjoying her last leisure 
on a lazy Saturday when Ed Barskey, a 
Philadelphia distributor, phoned. He 
asked, "What are you doing?" Connie re- 
plied, with a giggle, "Eating breakfast." 

"At this hour?" It was then two P.M. 

"Why not?" said Connie. "The record's 
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"You're crazy if you give up on 'Who's 
Sorry Now?' " he insisted. "Dick Clark is 
playing it. The kids like it. I've already 
sold 8,000 and Dick wants you on his 

T hat started the avalanche. Connie's school 
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Connie found herself composing answers 
to fan letters. "It was the strangest thing," 
she says, "everyone asked advice. I be- 
came a sort of teen-age Dorothy Dix. The 
girls asked me what I thought of going 
steady. Boys wrote me letters like the 

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one that said, 'My girl friend's mad at me. 
I didn't take her to the dance, but I asked 
to dance with her when we got there. 
Was I wrong?' " 

Connie felt timid about giving advice. 
"I was too busy to have a date. Having a 
record go Number Three on the charts 
opened so many doors." Those doors led to 
top TV shows, top night clubs, top theaters. 
When her next disc, "Stupid Cupid," took 
off in the same fashion, the offers doubled. 

Connie toured the Northwest and Can- 
ada with Nat "King" Cole and Nelson 
Riddle. ("All I did was pester Nelson with 
questions about what Frank Sinatra was 
really like.") In late summer, she also 
toured England, where she starred on TV 
programs and played some of the best 
theaters. Conquered by her charm and 
friendliness, and impressed by the dignity 
with which this pint-sized performer car- 
ries herself, even the wild Teddy Boys 
gave her respectful adoration such as they 
might show Princess Margaret. Sell-out 
houses and no riots was Connie Francis' 
record in Britain. She cut records with 
Mantovani and sang the sound track for 
the Jayne Mansfield movie, "Sheriff of 
Fractured Jaw." 

Back home, there were many new book- 
ings and when, eventually, she turned up 
for The Jimmy Dean Show, Connie knew 
she'd had it. Even her abundant energy 
was used up. "In seven months, I hadn't 
had a single day off. I lost my voice, I ran 
a temperature, and I was plain home- 
sick." So she made her next "booking" 
herself. She told her manager, "I want to 
feel like a girl again, instead of a product. 
I'm going home and have some fun." 

That's when Connie found that "having 
fun" wasn't quite like turning on a faucet 
and having the good times flow out. After 
a few days at home, she realized that her 
friends' lives had gone on, independent of 
hers. Connie isn't, of course, the first one 
to discover that "wedding bells are break- 
ing up that old gang of mine." 

But because she loves that tree-shaded, 
flower-fragrant old town of Belleville and 
all the kids she grew up with, Connie 
tried. Not long after she had complained 
of no romances, she called this reporter to 
say, "I'm doing something about it. I've 
bought a whole new wardrobe — ^big, 
bulky sweaters, some tapered pants, some 
pretty new dresses. I'm not going to wear 
an evening gown for three weeks. And 
look what's happening . . ." 

iJie "what's happening" started with a 
pizza party which Gene Serpentelli gave 
for her in his family's rumpus room. Just 
as they used to do on Saturday nights, the 
crowd brought their favorite records and 
danced to them. In Gene's own collection 
was Connie's very first recording, a num- 
ber called "Goody Goodbye," which sold 
all of four hundred copies. 

Connie turned up, not with one date, 
but with two. She brought with her the 
writers of "Stupid Cupid" and "Fallin'," 
Neil Sedaka and Howard Greenfield. Be- 
cause Neil, a sophomore at Juilliard School 
Of Music, and Howard, who still works at 
his first office job, were of the same teen- 
twenty age, they fitted right into the 

When it was Connie's turn to entertain, 
she took everyone to Coney Island. She 
reported, "We went on every ride and we 
ate hot dogs and pizzas and floss candy." 
Later, a Belleville contingent accom- 
panied her and danced in the teen-age 
crowd when she appeared on Art Ford's 
Rate The Record, over Station WNTA-TV, 
and others went along to New York to 
Alan Freed's Asthma Fund benefit. 

On the strictly feminine side, there were 
showers for two girl friends. "One bridal, 
one baby," says Connie. "And, of course, 
the kids dropped in at the house for Coke 
or coffee." 

Was the three weeks' "fun time" a 
success? Was Connie able to break 
through the barrier which too often 

separates people in show business from 
their old friends in school or in other oc- 

To answer that question, Connie thought 
long, and she replies with searching hon- 
esty: "It was good to be back among 
people who had known me all my life. I 
didn't feel like an entertainer, I felt like 
Connie Francis again. But there was a 
difference . . ." 

She tasted the loneliness of stardoin at 
the two showers, when the girls asked for 
her autograph. "Certainly, if they wanted 
it, I'd rather give it to them than to any- 
one else, but it made me feel cut off when 
I just wanted to be one of the crowd 

She didn't fall in love. "But someday 
I will." And, when that "someday" comes, 
who will it be — a boy from home or a boy 
from show business? Connie can only 
answer, "I don't know." 

Her dual urges are revealed by two 
separate statements. One, "I just love 
show business. I'd like to have an apart- 
ment right over Times Square." And the 
other, "Jersey's so wonderful. I never 
want to live anywhere else in the world 
but here." 

It's the old conflict which every woman 
who finds success must face. A few are 
fortunate enough to achieve both home 
and career. 

Which has the stronger appeal for 

Perhaps there's a hint in the present 
Franconero family discussions about hous- 
ing. With their son leaving for college 
this year, and expecting Connie to be gone 
much of the time, her parents recently 
sold their large house and moved into 
one which they thought amply comfortable 
for the two of them. It has proved to be 
too small. George Franconero has his eye 
on one somewhat larger. But Connie dis- 
agrees. She's trying to persuade her 
father to let her join him in buying a 
really big new house in Jersey. 

The Man Who Has Everything 

(Continued from page 34) 
those wild dreams he used to conjure up 
as a boy back in Montana. Who could ask 
for anything more? 

It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. In 
Hollywood, where verbal sniping and 
backbiting are common leisure-time pur- 
suits, it's practically impossible to find 
anyone who can say an unkind word about 
him. In fact the unanimous verdict seems 
to be: "George Montgomery is one of the 
nicest men in town!" 

If anything, George Montgomery is 
more handsome today than he has ever 
been. Even more handsome than during 
the days, some ten years ago, when he was 
the darling of the drawing-room dramas 
and the musicals which came off the Fox 
lot. The commanding, arrow -straight 
height is still there, the body still lean 
and muscular as it was when he came to 
Hollywood twenty years ago. But there is 
a maturity about the face, a look of 
strength and character the younger face 
lacked. There are a few crinkling lines 
around the eyes, advertising the fact that 
here is a man who does a lot of laughing. 
The look of happiness shines through. 

Acting is all that George has ever wanted 
to do for a living. Even as a small boy, he 
dreamed of it. Reminded that his home- 
town of Brady, Montana — scarcely more 
than a wide place in the road — is hardly 
^ the usual environment to inspire the thes- 
* pian, George only grins. His laconic ex- 
" planation: "I saw a movie once when I was 
about five." 
He remembers, with embarrassing clar- 

ity, the day he started in the fourth grade 
at grammar school. He was going to school 
in nearby Great Falls then. The teacher 
asked each of the pupils to write down 
what they wanted to be when they grew 
up. Among the expected assortment of 
cowboys, railroad engineers, airplane 
pilots, and firemen, George's answer was 
really unique! He had written boldly, 
"Actress." As gently as possible, the 
teacher explained that what he wanted to 
be was an actor. It took him quite a while 
to live that one down. 

Also born during those early years in 
Montana was George's dream of a big 
house. George, his parents, his nine broth- 
ers and five sisters, were jammed into a 
small five-room farmhouse. Which is prob- 
ably one reason why the house George 
built last year for the Montgomery me- 
nage has 9,000 square feet of living space. 
There are those who jokingly accuse him 
of trying to get the feel of Montana's 
wide open spaces right under his own roof. 
But a fellow who has grown up sardine 
fashion — sharing one room, dormitory 
fashion, with six brothers — likes the lux- 
ury of a little elbow room. 

It was while George was still in his late 
teens that he got the good word from his 
brother Mike, who had gone to California, 
was making good money in construction 
work, and happened to make some friends 
in the movie industry. He wrote George 
enthusiastically that none of the cowboys 
in the Western movies could ride half as 
well as George, yet they were all paid 
well. Why not come to Hollywood and be- 

come a movie star, he asked George. 

It wasn't that easy, after George ar- 
rived. For a while, he worked on the WPA. 
Then he got a job as a carpenter's helper, 
working on the construction of the Bub- 
litchka, now a popular Sunset Strip dining 
spot. He earned ten dollars a week on that 
job, and managed to send part of his pay- 
check home each week. Then he found a 
really magnificent job, which paid board, 
room, and eighteen dollars a week. It was 
in a cafe which served beer and soft 
drinks — and George was the "bartender." 
That cushy spot was short-lived, how- 
ever. The establishment got a liquor li- 
cense — and, since George hadn't the fog- 
giest notion of how to mix a drink, he 
became an ex-bartender immediately. 

By this time, brother Mike was getting 
pretty impatient. He'd summoned George 
to Hollywood to become a movie star, and 
by golly, that's what he was going to do 
TTie two set out to make the rounds of the 
studios. They hit every small independent 
producer in town, but with uniformly in- 
effectual results. 

Finally, at Republic Studios, they did 
manage to get through to the casting di- 
rector. He sized George up, and evidently 
liked what he saw. "What experience have 
you had, young man? If you can act, I 
think I can use you." 

George was forced to admit that he'd 
never done any acting. "But I've seen a lot 
of your Westerns, and if I can't act better 
than the boys you've got doing it now, I'll 
eat my hat!" His brash attitude paid off, 
and he was told to come back for a test. 

The test, as George recalls, was not 
exactly a phenomenal success. The part 
where he rode up over the hill, the part 
where he reined in his horse abruptly, the 
part where he jximped lightly to the 
ground — ^these he managed with ease. But 
when it came to the part about "They 
went thataway!" — it was a different matter 
entirely. George opened his mouth, but 
nothing came out. Three takes later, he 
managed to get out a few syllables, and 
eventually, the whole line. 

The casting director sensed that such 
small difficulties could be overcome, and 
signed George to appear in the "Lone 
Ranger" serial, at the unheard-of salary 
of seventy-five a week. George figured 
he'd really arrived. But, in the sixth epi- 
sode, he was killed off. 

For a while, he worked as a double for 
John Wayne. He got jobs as a stand-in, 
doing small parts, anything he could cor- 
ral. Then 20th Centtuy-Fox signed him, 
and he made three Westerns there in 
rapid succession. 

In addition, a friendly soul at the studio 
arranged for George to appear in many 
screen tests of promising young actresses — 
and maneuvered it so that it wasn't just 
the back of George's head which showed 
up in these tests. The powers who review 
these tests got accustomed to seeing George 
around, and suddenly he became potential 
star material. He was cast opposite Mary 
Beth Hughes in "The Cowboy and the 
Blonde." This one proved very big at the 
box office, and George was on his way. 

1 here were probably plenty of romances 
born at the old Hollywood Canteen, the 
movie industry's entertainment center for 
servicemen during World War II. But it's 
doubtful if any romance originating there 
is more famous than the one begun the 
night George came down and met Dinah 
Shore. Dinah was singing then on the 
Eddie Cantor radio show, which originated 
in Hollywood. She'd had a king-size 
crush on movie-actor George Montgomery 
for ages, and claims she went into a reg- 
ular Tennessee twitter when he asked to 
take her home that evening. 

As far as George was concerned, the 
boy from Brady had been having a ball 
for several years, making like a movie 
star. He'd been dating glamorous movie 
queens, going through all the motions of 
being what the magazines called "one of 
Hollywood's most eligible and sought- 
after young bachelors." 

But when he met this cute little bundle 
of Southern stuff, it hit George that movie 
sirens weren't what he wanted, after all. 
This mad little mixture of dynamite, com 
pone, and wisteria blossoms was more 
like it. And, of course, when Dinah started 
serving up home-cooked meals — George 
was a goner. 

Even so, he did take the precaution of 
keeping his feelings to himself before he 
went off to the service. He asked Dinah not 
to go out with too many fellows while he 
was in the Army, but he didn't ask her to 
wait just for him. He remembered that 
one about absence and the heart growing 
fonder, and figured this might be a good 
time to find out if there was any truth in 
the proverb — or if what he felt was just 
all that Southern cooking. 

But, up in the Aleutians, a fellow has a 
lot of time to think. It didn't take George 
too long to figure out that it was Din^ 
ihe wanted, not just a good cook. He'd 
want to spend the rest of his days with 
Dinah, even if she coiild tvuTi out only 
peanut-butter sandwiches. 

When he got back to Hollywood, he 
didn't waste any time. After all, he had 
only a three-day pass. He zoomed Dinah 
up to Las Vegas and made her Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, almost before she had a chance 
to draw a deep breath. The fifteen years 

which have passed since that fast trip to 
Vegas have been years of fulfillment for 
Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery. George 
brought his list of movie credits to a 
total of more than fifty, and made dozens 
of TV appearances. Dinah got her own 
television show — first, the fifteen-minute 
spot, and now the great hour-long show in 
color Satisfying as those career triumphs 
have been, the Montgomery s enjoy even 
more another product of their fifteen-year 
marriage — their two youngsters. Melissa, 
known to all as "Missy," is ten now, and 
John D is four-and-a-half, 

George swears that Missy doesn't have 
him twisted around her little finger, not 
at all. However, a friend points out that 
recently Missy began a campaign to get 
a riding horse of her own. And when 
Missy campaigns, it's a production Not 
only did she get her horse, but it ended 
up costing George $50,000. You see. they 
can't keep horses where they live in Bev- 
erly HUls — and, of course. Missy's horse 
couldn't be boarded out at a commercial 
stable — so George had to buy a little 
ranch out in the San Fernando valley. 

But you can't really blame it all on 
Missy. One gets the definite impression 
that this is what George had in the back 
of his mind for a long time — a place 
nearby where he could take the young- 
sters on weekends. 

As for John D., George is unabashedly 
proud of the all-boy characteristics his son 
displays. As yet unacquainted with 
danger, John D. will try anything, and 
George is finding it a somewhat delicate 
task, instilling caution without arousing 
fear. The boy's vivid imagination also 
sends Dinah and George into near-hys- 
terics. One morning recently, before Mom 
and Pop Montgomery got up, John D. stuck 
his head in their bedroom doorway to an- 
nounce he was on his way to the kitchen 
to fix their breakfast. A few minutes later, 
he reappeared. "Whaddya want for break- 
fast," he asked briskly, "a rump of buf- 

Over the past few years, George has 
built up a substantial on-the-side business 
in a fiirniture factory. This started with 
the pieces he made for their home. These 
were coveted, and subsequently purchased, 
by friends. Finally, Dinah suggested that, 
if he was going to continue to sell the 
coffee tables right out from under their 
saucers, he'd better do it in a more busi- 
ness-like manner. And the furniture fac- 
tory was born. The only trouble with the 
project was that the furniture George's 
factory turned out was too good. The de- 
mand for it increased and, when that hap- 
pened, the factory required more and more 
of George's time. Time is a commodity 
with which George isn't oversupplied — 
he's too busy being an actor. He has al- 
most decided to dispose of the factory. 

Because he's been so busy the past few 
years, George has consistently resisted all 
offers to take on a television series. Half 
a dozen times he's said no to a producer 
trying to woo him for some projected 
Western saga. Several of the series he's 
turned down have hit the top ten. It took 
three attempts before the producers of 
Cimarron City managed to get George's 
signature on the dotted line. 

It's a long road between milking twenty- 
some cows on a frosty morning in Montana, 
and sitting by your own swimming pool in 
Beverly Hills, gazing out over the city 
spread beneath your terrace. But George 
Montgomery was able to make the trans- 
ition with a minimum of strain and pain, 
compared with some Hollywood sagas. In 
that, he is a lucky man. Being a level- 
headed character as well, who recognizes 
good luck when he lives with it, George 
Montgomery is also a happy man. And 
that's the best of all. 

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and handling. I agree to buy five other albums offered by the Club within the next twelve 
months, for each of which I will be billed at the nationally advertised price; usually $3.98, at 
times $4.98 (plus a small postage and handling charge). Thereafter, I need buy only four 
such albums in any twelve-month period to maintain membership. I may cancel my member- 
ship any time after buying five albums from the Club (in addition to those included in this 
introductory offer). After my fifth purchase, if I continue, for every two albums I buy 1 may 
choose a third album free. 


A ddress 





PLEASE NOTE: Send no money, A bill will be sent. Albums can be shtpoed only to residents of the U. S.. its * 
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VOL. 51, NO. 3 

Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Associate Editor 
Lorraine Girsch, Assistant Editor 

Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Assistant Art Director 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 


What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 7 

Triple Fun : Pre-Debut Party, Hollywood Style 20 

All at Sea With Elvis Presley by Helen Bolstad 25 

The Beauty With the Brain on Top (Shari Lewis) by Dena Reed 28 

Fun in the Afternoon (Bert Parks) by Frances Kish 30 

Marlene Dietrich the Magnificent by Gladys Hall 34 

Making a Big Splash! (Bill Leyden) 36 

In Defense of Working Mothers (Mary Stuart) by Alice Francis 54 

Teen-Age Marriages Do Pay Off by Gale Storm 56 

The Real Glamour Men of TV (Chet Huntley, Walter Cronkite, John Secondari) 

by Ruth Nathan 58 

Everybody's Princess (Jeanne Cagney ) by Dora Albert 62 

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 66 


My Son, "Sugarfoot" (Will Hutchins) by Jane Hutchason 40 

Does Father Really Know Best? (Robert Young) by Dee Phillips 42 

Gobel's Cinderella Kids by Eunice Field 46 

The Saturday Night Miracle (Perry Como) by Daniel Stern 48 


Write Your Own ]J (Dave Rodman of WNAC-TV) 8 

Scottsdale: Old and New West (Tris Coffin and 26 Men) 10 

The Record Players: Best Darn "Tire Salesman" in Town. . .by William B. Williams 17 

Our Blue Heaven (Johnny Andrews of WRCA-TV and NBC Radio) 68 

She Believes in Us (Alma John of WWRL Radio) 70 


TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies 4 

Information Booth 14 

Beauty: Martha Rountree Meets the World by Harriet Segman 64 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 78 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 96 

Cover portrait of Bert Parks by Art Selby of NBC 


Published Monthly by Mocfadden Publi- 
cations, Inc., N. Y. Executive, Adver- 
tising, and Editorial Offices at 205 E. 
42nd St., New York, N. Y. Editorial 
Branch Office, 321 S. Beverly Dr., Bever- 
ly Hills, Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, 
President; Lee Andrevi/s, Vice-Pres.; S. N. 
Himmelmon, Vice-Pres.; Meyer Dworkin, 
Secretary ond Treasurer. Advertising of- 
fices also in Chicago, and San Francisco. 

Manuscripts: All monuscripts will be carefully considered, 
but publisher cannot be responsible for loss or damage. 
It is advisable to keep a duplicate copy for your rec- 
ords. Only those manuscripts accompanied by stamped, 
self-addressed return envelopes writh sufficient postage 
will be returned. 

Foreign editions handled through Mocfadden Publica- 
tions International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, N. Y. 
17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, Pres.; Douglas Lockhart, 
Re-entered os Second Class matter, June 28, 1954, at 

the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act . 
March 3, 1879. Second-class postage paid at New Yorl 
N. Y. and other post offices. Authorized as Second Clo: 
matter by the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Ontari 
Canada. Copyright, 1959, by Mocfadden Publicotion 
Inc. All rights reserved under International Copyrigl 
Convention. All rights reserved under Pan America 
Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservodos segc 
la Convencion Pon-Americana de Propiedad Literoria 

Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. 
Printed in U.S.A. by Art Color Printing Co. 
Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group. 
Subscription Roles: In the U. S., its Possessions, & Con 
da, one yeor $3.00; two years $5.00; three years $7.0 
All other countries, $5.00 per year. 
Change of Address: 6 weeks' notice essentiol. Wfi' 
possible, please furnish stencil-impression address fri 
a recent issue. Address changes con be made only 
you send us your old as well as your new address. Wr 
to TV RADIO MIRROR, Mocfadden Publications, Inc " 
East 42nd Street, New York 17, New York. 

America's 12 Most Famous Artists 

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DO YOU like to draw or paint? If 
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-to -the 

Mardi Gras 

20th century-fox; cinemascope 

Jerry Wald's production of a young-and- 
gay story about New Orleans' famed Mardi 
Gras. Diminutive French actress, Christine 
Carere, plays a role she fits perfectly — 
that of a diminutive French movie star, a 
recent import to Hollywood. As indeed it 
might have happened, she is sent with a 
bodyguard of studio representatives to be 
one of the glamorous beauties jn the New 
Orleans Mardi Gras parade. The studio 
has no intention of letting her enjoy her- 
self, but Miss Carere gets loose on the 
town. Meantime, back at V.M.I. Military 
Academy, the cadets have optimistically 
run a raffle to raise money for one lucky 
cadet to engineer a date with Christine in 
New Orleans. The school has been invited 
to send its band to appear in the Mardi 
Gras parade. And the lucky cadet, Pat 
Boone, happens to run into the masquerad- 
ing movie actress. Fellow cadets Tommy 
Sands, Gary Crosby, Richard Sargent are 
involved in the resulting comedy of mixed 
identity. Lots of songs, lots of fun. 

First Broadway cost — Roz ond Jon H.— 

tokes "Auntie Mome" on celluloid circuit. 

Money, Women and Guns 


Western adventure-detection story, starring 
Jock Mahoney, who is familiar to TV 
viewers as the star of CBS-TV's Yancy 
Derringer. In the film, Mahoney plays a 
Western-type detective hired to track down 
the four men who have been named as 
beneficiaries of the profits of a claim 
staked out by an elderly prospecter — who 
has been bushwhacked and killed by a no- 
good Western gang. First name on the 
list is young Davey Kingman (Tim Hovey), 
who lives with his mother and grandfather 
on a rundown ranch. Love interest devel- 
ops between the detective and mother 
(played by Kim Hunter), but many an 
adventure occurs before Jock can settle 
down to a placid married life. 

With not-so-certoin smile, French Chris- 
tine is held oloft in "Mardi Gras." 

Auntie Mome 


All of the United States has had a chance 
to fall in love with Auntie Mame — the 
gamey sophisticate featured first in Pat- 
rick Dennis' two-year-plus best-selling 
novel — then as the heroine of two-year 
Broadway hit, now on film with the hi- 
larious Rosalind Russell recreating her 
stage role. As a character, Mame has be- 
come a classic, being currently perpetu- 
ated by release of a new book, the title 
of which, "Around the World With Auntie 
Mame," promises a whole new batch of 
laughs. Morton Da Costa, who directed 
the play on Broadway, performs the same 
function for the movie — and has been 
careful to preserve all the wild attraction 
of the original characterization. Eleven- 
year-old Jan Handzlik, who appeared on 
Broadway as the youthful version of 
Mame's nephew, also appears in the movie. 
The slap-happy adventures of an orphan 
turned over to a loving, nutty opportunist! 
aunt, guarantees an evening of entertain- 
ment for everybody. Excellent supporting 
cast sustains Roz Russell. 

Young heir Tim is sought by adventurej 
Jock, but Kim will have none of \f\ 



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1959 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible 

Actual photo of First Prize Silver Dollars 

IVORY soAPiSTSOOOO Give-away! 


Closest estimate wins all the cash 






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Q) $5,000 Bonus Prize. Check (•) here if your 3 Ivory Soap 
wrappers for facsimiles) — include one from each size — Large, 
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Mail to: Ivory Give-Away, Dept. Z, P.O. Box 243, Cincinnati 99, 
Ohio. Kntries must be postmarked no later than midnight, May 1, 
1909, and received no later than midnight. May 15, 1959, 

PLUS the 1959 Plymouth Convertible 

Plus $5,000 Bonus 
for 1st Prize Winner! (See Rules) 

2nd PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible 
plus half the amount of money in the pile 

3rd PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible 
plus one-third the money 

4th PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible 
plus one-fourth the money 

5th PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible 

This $80,000 GIVE-AWAY Celebrates 

Ivory Soap's 80th Anniversary! 

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180,000 Give-Away! L 


1. Estimate the total number of silver dollars in the 
pile shown in the picture. Write your estimate on 
either a printed entry blank or a plain sheet of 
paper. Print your name and address plainly. The 
estimate closest to the actual amount of money in 
the pile shown in the picture will win first prize, the 
next closest will win second prize, etc. The first five 
prizes are as follows: 

Ist PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Convertible plus the 
' amount of money in the pile. 

2nd PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Convertible plus 
half of the amount of money in 
the pile. 

3rd PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Convertible plus a 
third of the amount of money in the 

4th PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Convertible plus a 
fourth of the amount of money in 
the pile. 

5th PRIZE: 1959 Plymouth Convertible. 

Each bag shown in the picture is packed full of silver 
dollars, as obtained from a Federal Reserve Bank. 

2. Mail your completed entry, together with three 
wrappers (or facsimiles of the face panel copied from 
any source) from any size of Ivory Soap, to: Ivory 
Give-Away, P.O. Box 243, Cincinnati 99, Ohio. 


If your three Ivory Soap wrappers include one from 
each size — Large, Medium, and Personal (or fac- 
similes copied from any source), you will receive a 
$5,000 bonus if you are the 1st prize winner. 

3. Enter as often as you wish, but each entry must 
comply with all the rules and be mailed in a separate 
envelope. Entries must be postmarked no later than 
midnight, May 1, 1959, and received no later than 
midnight. May 15, 1959. 

4. In addition to the five major prizes, there will be 
75 other prizes as follows: 6th Prize will be a Natural 
Mink Stole, plus a sixth of the amount of money in 
the pUe. 7th Prize will be a Natural Mink Stole, plus 
a seventh of the amount of money in the pile. 8th 
Prize will be a Natural Mink Stole. 9th Prize will be 
an RCA Victor Color TV Set, plus a ninth of the 
amount of money in the pile. 10th Prize will be an 
RCA Victor Color TV Set, plus a tenth of the 
amount of money in the pile. 11th Prize wUl be an 
RCA Victor Color TV Set, plus an eleventh of the 
amount of money in the pile. 12th Prize will be an 
RCA Victor Color TV Set. The next 68 Prizes wUl 
be a matching set of a man's and a woman's Bulova 
Wrist Watch. All money prizes will be awarded in 
silver dollars or check, whichever is preferred. 

5. In case of ties, which are quite possible, tying 
contestants will be required to complete a statement 
about Ivory Soap. The most apt of the tie-breaking 
statements, written in the contestants' own words 
and expressing the contestants' own thoughts, will be 
selected and rated for prizes. Duplicate prizes will be 
awarded in case of ties in statements judged. Only 
one prize will be awarded to any winner or family. 

6. Entries are limited to residents of the Continental 
United States (including Alaska) and Hawaii, except 
employees of Procter & Gamble, its advertising 
agencies and their families. Government regulations 

7. Judges* decisions will be final. Mechanically re- 
produced facsimiles will be disqualified. No entries 
will be returned. Entries, contents and ideas therein 
belong unqualifiedly to Procter & Gamble for any 
and all purposes. The winners or tying entrants will 
be notified by mail about 8 weeks after close of 
contest. A list of winners will be available upon 
request approximately 3 months after close of 

t959 . . . IVORY SOAP'S 



For a Sothern saga on five little kittens and how they are growing, ask Ann 
who baby-sits with a litter brought home by teen-age daughter Tish. 

Ralph Edwards, Art Linkletter and 
Goodson-Todman have gone into the 
book pubUshing business. When asked 
what kind of books they were going to 
print, Ralph Edwards said, "All kinds." 
But the boys have no name for their 
company yet. So many important people 
involved, they didn't know whom to 
give top billing to? How about using 
the first letters of your last names, fel- 
las . . . then you could call the company 

Speaking of money — and who doesn't 
— ^now it's diamonds and Jack Benny 
that are a girl's best friends. Jack whose 
TV characterization has won him the 
"stingiest man in town" title, is in real 
life about as tight-fisted as Santa Claus 
in an orphanage. When the wives of 
Bob Hope, David Niven, Dean Martin, 
and Bill Holden guested on his show, 
he gifted them with combination pearl 
and diamond bracelets — four strands of 
pearls, at that. The pearls were separat- 
ed by diamonds and with an added clus- 

ter of flashing diamonds for a clasp. The 
girls were nervous as goose-bumps be- 
fore they went on the show. Now they 
can't wait to be asked back. Benny, by 
the way, may re-design his show next 
season and only be seen on occasional 
specs a la Lucy. 

Speaking of re-designing, actor- 
turned-architect Ray Milland — while 
waiting for Revue to find ten more 
sure-fire scripts for his under-wraps 
TV series — is designing a new Mexican 
modern home for his family. Ray has 
already built a Tahitian modem on 
Balboa's Lido Isle, lives now in a Bev- 
erly Hills modern built around a pool. 
Ray needs more room, now that his son 
Danny is back from the Air Force . . . 
though Danny's seldom home these 
holidays — he's been wrapping Xmas 
packages at I. Magnin's, all 6' 5%" of 
him. He's so tall, Ray can't look him in 
the eye to bawl him out. He doesn't 
dare. Danny lives at such a high 
altitude, it's no wonder he chose the 
Air Force. (^Continued on page 18) 

For What's New On The East Coast, See Page 66 



TV Is no one-way glass; Dave really sees his con- 
stant loyal boosters — in his mind's eye, at least. 

Wintertime, and the rhythms are hot stuff. Comes 
the thaw, Rodmans go fishing near Ashburnham. 

Dave Rodman followed his own prescription 

to top success as an announcer on WN AC-TV 

FIGURING it was just what the doctor would have 
ordered, young Dave Rodman prescribed for himself a 
big change in career plans. He's now the 11 P.M. newscaster 
for WNAC-TV in Boston, but there was a time Dave 
thought he'd study pharmacology — until he came to 
think of the corner drugstore primarily as a retreat for 
Cokes and burgers after classes at English High. 
A boy with a fine speaking voice and a wide variety of 
interests, Dave felt he could make a career in broadcasting. 
Choosing Emerson College for his liberal arts and 
specialized studies, Dave embarked on career at WLNH 
in Laconia, New Hampshire. After a stint in the Navy 
as a hospital corpsman, Dave returned to Massachusetts 
and Fitchburg's Station WEIM, where he covered sports and 
news, music, quizzes, and special events, meanwhile acting 
as program director. In his off hours, Dave did stock 
with the Lake Whalom group and the Stratton Players, 
volunteered for a full complement of community service, 
traveled — Puerto Rico and Mexico — and developed into 
a serious student of the political scene. It was his rare 
combination of broad interests and experience which won 
him the staff announcership at WNAC over some 57 
other highly qualified young applicants from all over the 
country. . . . But Fitchburg was good for Dave in other 
ways, too. While "stationed" there, he met the girl he 
was to marry. Betty Jane Solomon was WEIM's record 
librarian till she became Mrs. Dave Rodman. When they 
returned to the Hub for their wedding at Hotel Kenmore, 
Dave never figured he'd soon be working just around 
the corner at WNAC. The Rodmans have a five-year-old 
girl, Joy Lynn — a talented youngster who follows her 
dad's prescriptions for lots of singing, dancing and 
work at the drawing board. PrescrilDing for himself, 
Dave's IJ is RelaX — but not until each evening's edition 
of Late ISlews is served up hot on the airwaves. 

Three for Dave's show: Joy Lynn, five; Betty; and "the 

international set" — social-climbing poodle from Paree. 


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. State . 

. City Zone. . . 


I POSTMASTER: This Parcel May Be Opened For Postal 
. Inspection If Necessary. 

Se§ltiiil@' OH Hi MmWmt 

26 Men and their "captain" commute no more — -"on location" means all the comforts of home 


TALK ABOUT "aging gracefully," the Old West, by and 
large, never had a chance. Beset with growing pains 
from its earliest frontier days right up to modern times, 
the towns of the West had no leisure for "sentiment" — for 
worry that builders were bulldozing history in the wreck- 
age of corner saloon and hitching post. Scottsdale, Ari- 
zona, was one town with a difference. Better, it was — in 
climate, view, fresh air, and those scrupulously maintained 
landmarks and feel of the Old West. To this day, horses 
(what else!) have right of way along Mane Street. 

Who could ask for anything more? Not 26 Men and their 
Captain Tom Rynning. Scottsdale, they found, was the 
completely authentic locale for the Western series now 
syndicated to 200 stations. Long a mecca for the retired, 
the exurbanite and the average joe, it seemed forever 
summer, and the livin' was easy. 

Tris Coffin, star of 26 Men, started work on location as a 
"reverse commuter," flying home to Santa Monica on 
weekends. But recently, Tris and wife Vera, out for a 
day's shopping, were reminded once more that, behind the 
historic facade, their town was new with shops and cafes 
as chic as any Hollywood might boast of. Westerners, but 
moderns, too, Tris and Vera felt right at home with those 
contrasts of old and new, decided to buy a house and move 
to Scottsdale from their home in Santa Monica. 

Still cameras went along the day Tris and Vera Coffin 
toured Mane Street of Scottsdale. At top, note contrast 
between New West (couple at left) and Old [26 Men 
set) OS seen by mennber of the cast (figure at for left). 

26 Men, which tells the story of the famed Arizona Rangers, is filmed on location in the environs of Scottsdale and Phoenix, Arizona. It is currently 
being .syndicated to some 200 stations in the U.S. and abroad. See focal newspapers for time and station in your area. 

Nearby old cracker barrel in Bayleff's country store, Tris 
and Vera get sales talk from proprietor, who thinks a 
"pitcher and bowl for hot water" ore items they shouldn't 
be without! Next moment, country cash register rang up sale. 

But, for ease of transport — era 1959 — -who will argue with 
late-model American car? Above, the Coffins load in their 
purchases, get set for another round. Below, 26 Men fans 
finally catch up with "Captain" Tris after block-long hike. 

They're off — well, almost! Early Ford is permanent at- 
traction in front of store. But that fact won't stop Vera 
and Tris from traveling back in imagination to time when 
antiques and "museum pieces" were everyday useful objects. 

New boots for Old West series: Tris finds just what he 
wants in Scottsdale specialty store, but they'll need break- 
ing in. Below, Viva seiloral Vera catches mood of Old Mexi- 
co in gay sombrero, orders fancy baskets for every purpose. 


Helen London of Huntington, Tenn 

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Helen Landon soaked her hands in detergents 3 times a day 

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rough detergent hands . . . softens and smooths. 
Jergens is the true beauty lotion. Only 15<^ to ^1 


He Who Cares 

Dear Editors: 

Thank you very much for the story on 
Hal Hackett in the December issue of TV 
Radio Mirror. As chairman of Adult 
Recreation at Bellevue Hospital, I would 
like to tell you that Hal's tvork with the 
patients is "sensational." He does much 
more than entertain. He gives out so much 
love and warmth that he leaves the patients 
glowing with the feeling that somebody 
really cares. 

Mrs. Sumner S. Weil 

The Lady Is a Cop 

/ would like to know something about 
the actress Beverly Garland. 

L. D., Cambridge, Massachusetts 

The October 17th on which Beverly Gar- 
land was born was literally an earth-shak- 
ing day. For reasons best known to Mother 
Nature, Santa Cruz had an earthquake, 
and tiny Beverly spent the first few min- 
utes of her life buried under several 
pounds of plaster that had fallen from the 
ceiling of the delivery room. But Beverly 
was undaunted by this — she lived through 
it to eventually become a successful young 
actress and one of the busiest people in the 
business. ... At the age of five, Beverly 
again lived through a rather startling ex- 
perience. She was playing the part of 
Cupid in a kindergarten play when, in 
the middle of shooting an arrow into the 
hero's heart, her abbreviated costume fell 
off. She was, of course, the hit of the show. 
. . . During high school days, brown-eyed 
Beverly was an active member of a little- 
theater group, following this with appear- 
ances in summer stock at Laguna Beach. 
But her first really professional job in 
Hollywood was in a half-hour weekly TV 
show called Mama Rosa, and her first pic- 
ture break a role in "D.O.A." The big 
turning point in Beverly's career occurred, 
however, when she played the young leu- 
kemia-ridden mother on TV's Medic. For 
her memorable performance, she won an 
"Emmy" nomination. Since then she has 
worked almost continuously in TV and mo- 
tion pictures and at present is the star of 
the TV series Decoy, based on the life and 
adventures of a New York City police- 
woman. . . . Versatile Beverly is proficient 
at clay modeling and ceramics, loves to 
knit, designs her own clothes and likes to 
cook. Her favorite color is brilliant red. 

Really Now! 

Could you please give me some informa- 
T tion on singer Conway Twitty, whom I hear 
V so much lately on radio? 
R L. G. E., Berry, Alabama 


Conway Twitty may mourn "It's Only 

Conway Twitty 

Make Believe" on his top-selling M-G-M 
record, but there's no fantasy at all about 
his startling rise to stardom on the basis of 
one disc. It has been big, beautiful reality 
for this twenty-four-year-old Southerner. 
. . . Tall, dark, and handsome Conway 
(real name, Harold Jenkins) began to 
show talent at an early age — he was only 
four when he and his father, a ferryboat 
captain, sang and played guitar for the 
neighbors. The youngster was just ten 
when he sang his first song over the air — 
on KFFA in Helena, Arkansas. And, by 
the time he was twelve, he had formed his 
own band called the Phillips County Ram- 
blers. . . . While in the service. Conway 
formed a group called The Cimarrons. 
They entertained American GIs and even- 
tually sang their way into a radio show 
over the Far East network in Tokyo. . . . 
After the talented singer's discharge, he 
sang on Ozark Jubilee and, at about the 
same time, cut some tapes which he sent to 
Don Seat, a New York artists' representa- 
tive. On the basis of what they had heard 
on those tapes, recording companies were 
soon clamoring for him. He made a few 
discs for Mercury Records and then 
switched over to M-G-M and stardom with 
"It's Only Make Believe." . . . The quiet, 
soft-spoken Conway has appeared on the 
Dick Clark, Arthur Godfrey, and Perry 
Como shows. 

Film Study 

Could you please give me some informa- 
tion about the actor Edward Byrnes? 

G. Q., San Francisco, California 

If anyone ever heeded Horace Greeley's 
famous advice about "going West," that 
young man was Edward Byrnes. One day, 
not too long ago, he piled his clothes and 
ambitions into his convertible and headed 
due West. His destination: Hollywood and, 
he hoped, success as an actor. . . . Born in 
New York in 1933, blue-eyed Edd had 

Beverly Garland 

reached his teens before he decided, and 
for no apparent reason, to become an actor. 
But, once having made the decision, he set 
out to "study" the movies as hard as he 
could. He spent innumerable afternoons in 
darkened theaters, read every movie maga- 
zine he could get his hands on, and, at 
eighteen, was understandably an authority 
on the subject. . . . His first non-vicarious 
venture into the theatrical world occurred 
in 1954, when he won the part of a silent, 
stoical Indian on Joe E. Brown's Buick 
Circus. Later, he got a summer-stock job 
with the Litchfield Theater in Connecticut, 
following this with appearances in off- 
Broadway productions. Then he headed for 
California. . . . An executive at Warner 
Bros, saw him in a Cheyenne episode on 
TV, ordered a screen test, and, forty-eight 
hours after signing his name to a contract, 
Edward Byrnes was cast in "Darby's 
Rangers." The handsome young actor is 
currently appearing in the ABC-TV 77 
Sunset Strip series. ... A bachelor, Edd 
likes water-skiing, white Thunderbirds, and 
the music of Ravel. He seems to have lived 
up to his favorite quotation: "Don't wait 
for your ship to come in. Row out to meet 

Seven League Boots 

What can you tell us about the actor Jan 

D. M. M., Yonkers, New York 

There's a lot of difference between riding 
the waves for the Navy and "treading the 
boards" for video. But Jan Merlin traveled 
from one to the other shod in seven-league 
boots. . . . Born in 1925, he left the Grace 
Church School for Boys to become a Navy 
torpedo-man on a destroyer. During his 
service, he began to show an interest in 
show business by writing plays which were 
performed aboard ship. But the final influ- 
ence in changing from the sea to the stage 
came about as a result of his association 

Edward Byrnes 

with a theater on the outskirts of Hiro- 
shima. . . . When he was discharged, Jan 
returned to New York and entered the 
Neighborhood Playhouse. After playing 
four seasons of stock, he appeared in 
Broadway's "Mister Roberts." . . . One big 
step later and Jan was in television — even- 
tually chalking up some 500 shows to his 
credit. Another quick hop and he went 
from an off-Broadway production to roles 
in movies. The six-footer is currently ap- 
pearing on TV as Lt. Kirby in ABC-TV's 
Rough Riders series. . . . Blue-eyed Jan is 
married to the former Patricia Datz, whom 
he met at the Neighborhood Playhouse. 
Their home is jokingly described by 
friends as "Early Mau Mau" — because of 
the large collection of African weapons, 
skins, hides, and horns. Though their large 
menagerie varies in size from time to time, 
the current count is four cats and twelve 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new mem- 
bers. If you are interested, write to address 
given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Sid Caesar Fan Club, Margaret Hay, 275 
Maple Street, Kearny, New Jersey. 

Joni James Fan Clubs, International 
Headquarters, Carole Reed, c/o M-G-M 
Records, 1540 Broadway, New York 36, 
New York. 

something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, if we can, 
provided your question is of general inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — 
but be sure to attach this box to your 
letter, and specify whether it concerns 
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers. 

whatever you do... 
be ahead in beauty 

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This column alternates among 
Perry Allen of WKBW, 
Gene Stuart of WAVZ, 
Art Pallan of KDKA, and 
William B. Williams of WNEW 

Getting down to brass tacks, at 
right is one slender guy you don't 
have to agree with to respect. 





To BORROW a term from the man him- 
self, Frank Sinatra is a "gasser"! 
Loosely defined, a "gasser" is someone 
great in his own right, and Frank, 
whom I consider to be "Chairman of the 
Board" of all top singers, more than 
meets the qualification. Almost without 
exception, he has associated himself 
with only the better top songs, and has 
even refused to record the bad ones. 

Everyone knows there was a period 
between Sinatra's tenure as the teen- 
age rage of the forties and his current 
success as singer, movie star and club 
headliner, when his popularity had 
dipped. But how many know that dur- 
ing this period of near-limbo, Frank 
actually walked out on recording con- 
tracts rather than sing bad music? 

Because of this dedication to princi- 
ple, Frank is one of the few performers 
who manages to please practically 
every type of record fan. Disc jockeys 
know, if they're short of time in sched- 
uling their programs, they can choose 
a Sinatra album without even examin- 
ing the title or selections, and yet have 
no fears of alienating any segment of 
their audiences. Such is his acceptance 
by music lovers, and such is his wide 
range of audience, due to almost flaw- 
less taste. 

Though I've never interviewed Sina- 
tra on my Make Believe Ballroom 


show, I have had several long chats 
with him socially. And it is my opinion 
that if he ever were to become a tire 
salesman in Anytown, U.S.A., he would 
be the best tire salesman in said town. 
The reason is that Frank exudes a 
charm and magnetism which is prac- 
tically undeniable. For example, there 
are maybe a handful of personalities 
today who can enter a restaurant in 
such a cosmopolitan city as New York, 
and upset the equilibrium of the place. 
Frank is one of those people. 

There's no secret formula involved in 
his hold over people; he neither strives 
to be liked nor to be disliked. One fac- 
tor in his favor, I believe, is one of 
identification. Identification, that is, on 
the part of the middle-aged group — his 
contemporaries. They read so many 
stories— true or false — about his going 
out with this gorgeous creature, drop- 
ping a fortune in that gambling casino, 
or whatever-you-will, and many of 
them sigh, "Now there's a man after my 
own heart — he's leading the kind of life 
I'd love to lead ... if I had the nerve!" 
To others, he represents the cocky kid 
next door who could back up his brash- 
ness with a tremendous talent. 

Frank is an extremely loyal person. 
Stories of his devotion to his friends 
are legion. Men like Hank Sanicola 
(Sinatra's manager and confidant) and 

Ben Barton (Eileen Barton's father and 
head of Frank's publishing firm) have 
been with him from the beginning, and 
there is almost nothing they wouldn't 
do for him, and vice versa. 

With this loyalty is coupled the con- 
viction that, if you believe in some- 
thing, then it is worth fighting for. 
Frank has been known to haul off and 
slug someone who has made slurs 
against a good friend or a minority 
group. And, though it is axiomatic in 
show business not to fight with the 
press, there have been times when 
Frank has done just that — when he felt 
that the press in general, or some 
member in particular, had maligned 
him or someone close to him. As a re- 
sult, though many of them might not 
agree with him, he has attained a meas- 
ure of respect in their eyes. 

As a recording star, strange as it may 
seem, his Capitol single platters only 
occasionally reach the million -sal a 
mark, although they are consistently 
good sellers. ("Young at Heart" was 
one that topped a million, and his al- 
bums, of course, do tremendously well.) 
How does Frank feel about this scarcity 
of "gold" records in the singles field? 
"The way I look at it," he says, "a guy 
who sells 900,000 discs is just as happy 
as a guy who sells a million." 

That Sinatra sure is a gasser. . . . 

William B. Williams hosts Make Believe Ballroom, on New York's WNEW, weekdays, 10 to 11 :30 A.M. and 6 to 8 P M., 

and Saturdays, 10 to noon and 6 to 8 P.M. 



{Continued from page 7) 

Jack's best girl Randy Poor refuses to leave ice age of New York behind. 

PS: Ray will direct all of the Revue 
episodes he doesn't star in. 

Here, Kitty! Ann Sothern loves ani- 
mals. But enough is enough. When in 
Sun Valley last year, she gifted her 
teen-age daughter, ^ ish, with a colt — 
later had him delivered to a San Fer- 
nando Valley riding stable for board- 
ing, where Tish goes for weekly riding 
lessons. But that's not the story. Ann, 
because of her busy new schedule, had 
to give one of her three much-loved 
French poodles to her sister. They were 
just too much to take care of. Mean- 
while, back at the horse ranch, a stray 
cat wanders into Tish's horse's stall and 
promptly bears a litter of kittens. Tish 
naturally brings them home. The house- 
keeper refuses to look after them; Tish 
is away at school all day; so, after her 
fourteen-hour day at the studio, Ann 
has to come home to house-break her 
six new fondlings! Here, Kitty. . . . 
Second thought: Give the kits to 
Amanda Blake, Ann. She lives in the 
Valley near the stable, loves animals, 
too. At least, the kittens will be closer 
to their mother. 

Speaking of mothers — and contrary 
to rumor — Liberace is still speaking to 
Mrs. Liberace. Lee, whose life is one 
big grand piano, has a piano-shaped 
diamond ring on his left pinky, now has 
added a candelabra-shaped diamond to 
his right hand. Which only proves that 
Jack Benny and diamonds have noth- 
ing to do with Liberace. He can afford 
J his own diamonds. . . . Alan Ladd min- 
V ing the TV diamond mine with two new 
f series: Ivy League, starring Bill Ben- 
dix, and Box 13, the adventure series 
Ladd starred in on radio. Except for 

three half-hour shows he did, years 
back, Alan won't be seen on TV (ex- 
cept on rare spex). But David Ladd 
will be doing one-shots — "whenever he 
gets far enough ahead in his book 
work," says his Dad. . . . And did you 
know, Tom Tryon majored in cartoon- 
ing at Yale! Had he stayed at his draw- 
ing board, he might be a Disney artist 
instead of actor. 

Speaking of bookwork, Tommy 
Sands' accountant is wearing a big 
smile these days: Tommy's last appear- 
ance on his personal in Hawaii broke 
Elvis Presley's gate record by 203 paid 
admissions. Elvis drew 8200 to Scho- 
field barracks. Tommy drew 8403. And 
that's a lot of pineapples! ... It seems 
an equal number of people are crowd- 
ing the "Say One for Me" set at 20th 
Century-Fox, where Barrie Chase — 
who became a star overnight on the 
Fred Astaire show — is singing and 
dancing up a storm opposite young 
Bob Wagner. . . . And, except for the 
storm Jack Paar blew up on his tri- 
umphal return to Hollywood, the 
weather in sunny Southern Cal. has 
been balmy as a day in May . . . which 
led Paar's young daughter to ask, 
"Daddy, I know it's winter, but where's 
the snow?" (On your charming Daddy's 
show. Honey.) Paar, who says he's quit- 
ting in July no matter what, is rumored 
to have both an auto and a ciggie spon- 
sor standing by to pick him up on a 
weekly basis. Since Jack, on his recent 
trip, fell in love again with sunny Cal. 
(and the crowd's acclaim), maybe the 
weekly show will spring from these hot 
little Hollywood Hills. 

Speaking of the Hollywood Hills, 

Lance Reventlow, millionaire sports- 
car enthusiast, has a small group of 
friends — Ronnie Burns among them — 
whom he favors with the "secret" key 
to his Hills home. When Lance is out 
of town racing one of his cars, the kids 
(Ronnie among them) can use the 
"hidden" key to come and go at will — 
using the pool, barbecue, etc. Now 
there's a pal for you. . . . Round but not 
square: Dennis Crosby, on his local 
ABC radio show in the Hollywood area, 
refers to his brother Gary as, "My 
round little brother . . ." Gary, mean- 
while, is out drumming up business for 
the Thalians, the group of young Holly- 
wood folk who are working so hard to 
raise money for emotionally disturbed 
children. Gary was theii' first prexy, 
Debbie Reynolds, the current chief. 
Their annual ball, this year at the Bev- 
erly Hilton, raised more than $40,000 
for their Thalian Clinic — said clinic to 
train psychiatrists to go out across- 
country to help other areas which do 
not as yet have such a children's cen- 
ter. That's the young folks of Holly- 
wood for you. . . . 

Ever wonder what some doctors carry 
in those little black bags on TV? Carl 
Betz, who plays the doc in the Donna 
Reed show, uses his medic bag to carry 
his lunch. . . . And Dinah Shore makes 
lunch backstage for the entire cast on 
an electric range built into her dress- 
ing room. . . . Gale Storm takes her 
lunch in a hat box! Gale, who works 
twenty-four hours a day, on her TV 
series and recording for Dot, lunches 
from this hat-box dining table in order 
to save time; Gale uses the lid of the 
hat box to hold her lunch in her lap 
while driving to record-plugging dates 
in the middle of her filming day. . . . 
Speaking of lunches and records, Frank 
Sinatra gags (Continued on page 71) 

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Young folks and adults dance up a storm at home of Charles Correll, to music by Muzzy Marcellino of House Party fame 

Dawn Linkletter, Diane Chase and 
Dorothy Correll are honored at 
a three-way progressive party given 
by their famous parents before 
their formal ^'coming out" 
at Hollywood's famous Coronet Ball 

MOLLYWOOD has its society debut party late in the month of 
November — the Coronet Ball — sponsored by the women 
who are members of the National Charity League, for their 
lovely young daughters. For this night, their famous mothers 
dress in elegant gowns, their fathers in handsome full-dress 
suits, then proceed to take a back seat for the post-debs and 
their dates and the youthful debutantes and their dates. New 
York City has its Debutante Cotillion, Philadelphia its Assem- 
bly, St. Louis its Veiled Prophet Ball. But, out Hollywood way, 
the Coronet Ball is the season's high point for local society. The 
daughters who are to bow socially are known as "Tick Tock- 
ers" until this party turns them, in one glamour-packed eve- 
ning, into full-grown "Coronets." 

Art Linkletter's oldest daughter. Dawn, was a member of 
the debut group and so was Diane Chase, daughter of Allen 
Chase, who is a business associate of Art's. Another close 
friend and debutante was Dorothy Correll, daughter of Charles 
Correll of Amos 'N' Andy fame. All three families are friends 
and neighbors. Lois Linkletter, Dawn's mother, had the idea 
of a pre-debut party for the girls and their families and friends 
— a progressive party starting with hors d'oeuvres and non- 
lethal drinks for the young people at Linkletters', a buffet din- 
ner at Allen Chase's Bel Air home, and dancing at Charles 
Correll's. These informal pictures show what a wonderful 
time they had. 


Early arrival at Linklet+ers' was Dawn's 
date, John Zwyer, physical ed instructor 
at Andrew Jackson hl.S., E. Los Angeles, 

"Cocktail" time at the start of festivities. Lois and Art Linkletter are 
hosts, serve punch and hors d'oeuvres to the three debutantes (I. to r.) 
Diane Chase, Dorothy Correll and the Linkletters' oldest daughter Down. 

A kiss for "their girl." Father Art and 

brother Jack give two-way buss to Down. 
What better way to start gala evening? 

Second port of coll on the gala evening for debs and their dotes was honne 
of Allen Chase, where magnificent buffet dinner was served. Younger 
girls with dates dined on open porch-wing with dazzling view of Hollywood. 

Jack Linkletter and his wife Bobbie, In 
lanal of Linkletter home with Dawn and 
Diane Chase. Total guests numbered 50. 





Next stop for three-way party is Allen 
Chase's. Daughter Diane gets kiss and a 
hug from Bob Cummings, Jack Linkletter. 

At the Chases', Art end Lois Linkletter 
greet Bob and Mory Cummings, their 
old friends. Dawn, John Zwyer join group. 

J Third stop, home of Charles and Alice 

n Correll. Early comers, the "Links" and 

Allen Chase with Dr. Loriene Johnston. 


Allen Chase, a gourmet, was host at buffet dinner. Exotic turkey dress- 
ing was from special recipe. Here he serves Dottie Fernard (college 
friend of Dawn), Dawn, Diane, Dr. Loriene Johnston, Lois Linkletter. 

Charles Correll and wife Alice (center) hosted the dance which was 
wind-up of the gala evening. They greet Bob and Mary Cummings, Art 
and Lois Linkletter. Alice Correll and Lois are striking look-alikes. 

Dancing gets underway promptly for the younger set, who hod o whirl. 
Young hostess Dorothy Correll with date John Mosterson are center, 
facing the camera. All of the adults did their shore of dancing, too. 

Impromptu jam session teamed Charlie Correll on piano with orchestra- 
leader Muzzy Marcellino calling tunes. At 2 A.M., party ended with Art 
leading singing of "What Can I Say, Dear, After I Say I'm Sorry." 

Long High School, Longview, Wash., 
says: "Blemishes always seemed to 
pop up just before a big date night. I 
tried just about everything, without 
success. Then, I used Clearasil, and 
soon the blemishes disappeared. 
Clearasil has solved my skin problem." 



SKIN-COLORED, Hides pimples while it works 

CLEARASIL is the new-type scientific medication 
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all at sea 


Thirteen-year-old Janet Day, 
daughter of an Army captain, 
sailed with Elvis on 
the troopship Randall. 
Here is the story of Janet 
and the other teenagers 
who made the crossing 
with their favorite singer 

Long wait before Private Presley arrived ond smiled at the crowd. For 
Janet Day (left), it seemed a lifetime — particularly when she knew she 
was to be TV Radio Mirror's "reporter" on the voyage to Europe! 


THE BIG GRAY TROOPSHIP rode easy at the dock. Reporters and 
photographers frothed across the pier. We were there for a press 
conference with Private Elvis Presley, who was to embark for Army 
duty in Germany. Such a press conference was unprecedented, we were 
told. Since 1917, millions of men and thousands of celebrities had 
passed through Brooklyn Army Terminal with nary a flash bulb nor a 
press conference such as this. It had begun at 6: 30 A.M., when some 
one hundred photographers and reporters checked in at the 
Terminal's gates. A snafu of mis-direction sent us scurrying around 
two levels of the haK-mile-long pier. By 10: 30 A.M., three troop trains 
had arrived from Fort Hood, Texas. We had scrutinized a thousand 
yovmg faces, but still no sign of Elvis. 

We were beat-out tired and hungry, and it showed. The only 
calm persons in sight were a captain and his family who waited at the 




all at sea with ELVIS 


Janet, teen-age daughter of Army Captain Charles Day, was traveling with her 
mother, sister Judy, 9, and brother Jerry, I I — as pictured above, left, before 
sailing. But, even with every youngster on shipboard helping to locate elusive 
Elvis, she found it hard to get past M.P.'s guarding against "demonstrations." 

Working press (right) almost outnumbered autograph seekers (above), before the 
Randall sailed. Eventually, Janet got not only Presley autographs but pictures. 


top-deck gangplank to board ship. The three children perched patiently 
on their suitcases. Their slender mother must have been one of the 
prettiest brides of World War 11. The captain was broad-shouldered 
and hearty. All had a twinkle in the eye as they watched the turmoil 
about them. I would like to talk to them, I decided. 

Happily, they were willing to talk to me. They were the Charles Day 
family, boxmd for their second tour of duty in Germany. Captain Day was 
assigned to the Fifteenth Quartermaster BattalioVi. Judy was nine; 
Charles Jr. — known as Jerry — was eleven; and willowy, blonde Janet 
had just turned thirteen. I asked Janet the obvious question: "How does 
it feel to be one of the most envied teenagers in the world today — 
a girl who sails on the same ship as Elvis Presley?" (Continued on page 80) 

k ■': 


-;■ ' * y,» j y V ■ I i w aw ^^■'P'ffP^' 

How Janet envied the 

unknown fan Elvis 


kissed for cameras, boarding troopship! 

Later, on deck 

, she saw 

sadness in his face 


as he waved 


to his homeland. 







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all at sea with ELVIS 


Janet, teen-age daughter of Army Captain Charles Day, was traveling with her 
mother, sister Judy, 9, and brother Jerry, I I — as pictured above, left, before 
soiling. But, even with every youngster on shipboard helping to locate elusive 
Elvis, she found it hard to get past M.P.'s guarding against "demonstrations." 


Working press (right) almost outnumbered autograph seekers (above), before the 
Randall sailed. Eventually, Janet got not only Presley autographs but pictures. 

top-deck gangplank to board ship. The three children perched patiently 
on their suitcases. Their slender mother must have been one of the 
''''^"v^'L!'"1f,^ of World War H. The captain was broad-shouldered 
and hearty. All had a twinkle in the eye as they watched the turmoil 
about them. I would like to talk to them, I decided 

HappUy, they were willing to talk to me. They were the Charles Day 
family bound for their second tour of duty in Germany. Captain Day was 
assigned to the Fifteenth Quartermaster Battalioh. Judy was n^e 
?^ f.i"'~^°.i^/' Jerry-was eleven; and wUlowy, blonde J^et 
had just turned thirteen. I asked Janet the obvious question: "How does 
It feel to be one of the most envied teenagers in the world today— 
a girl who sails on the same ship as Elvis Presley?" (Continued on -page 80) 

How Janet envied the unknown fan Elvis 
kissed for cameras, boarding troopship! 
Later, on deck, she saw sadness in his face 
as he waved goodbye to his homeland. 






The Beauty with the Braii 


She's the darling of the lollipop set. 

Their cleverest teacher, too — ^though they know 

Shari Lewis only as a genuine living doll 



A REDHEADED, pony-tailed sprite with 
enchantment and charm and a 
stupendous assortment of talents 
packed into a five-foot, 97-poimd 
frame — ^that's Shari Lewis, the twenty- 
four-year-old ball of fire who presides 
over Hi Mom, on New York's WRCA- 
TV. She's puppeteer, ventriloquist, ac- 
tress, singer, dancer, musician (on 
seven instruments), announcer, inter- 
viewer, magician, author — and so ex- 
cellent at every one of these that she 
walked away with two Emmy Awards 
last year. No wonder she has emerged 
as guest star of the year, on such big 
variety shows as those of Pat Boone, 
Steve Allen, Patti Page, Garry Moore, 
and on occasional panel programs, as 

Besides all this, Shari recently flew 
to Hollywood to play the lead in a new 
filmed TV series, Sis, still under wraps. 
Her children's records are selling like 
hot-cakes, her books for children, her 
toys, her puppets, all have made her 
the pin-up girl of the lollipop set. And 
her breathless agent — flooded with 
offers for her from movies, night clubs, 
television and commercial firms — says 

Puppets Lamb Chop and Charley Horse 
live only in Shari's hands and voice. But 
she charms all guests — feathered, furred 
or human — on such shows as Hi Mom. 


on Top 

Hi, husband! Recent bride Shari greets 
Jeremy Tarcher, whose schedule as a TV 
producer (of other programs) is as busy 
as her own — both rise and shine at down. 

she will probably tote away a cool 
million in the next three years, if signs, 
portents and her energy hold out. 

Shari is a fine entertainer, but she 
is also and fundamentally a kinder- 
gartner extraordinary — creator and 
keeper of the kingdom of Shariland. 
The top denizens of her magic domain 
are Lamb Chop, an adorable feminine 
lamb, Charley Horse, a brash nag. Hush 
Puppy, an irresistible hound with a 
Southern accent, and Wing Ding, a 
slightly-mad crow. 

In bringing them to life with their 
distinguishing voices and characteris- 
tics, Shari has proved herself a top 
puppeteer and ventriloquist. WhUe 
others use their characters merely to 
entertain, Shari, with hers, teaches the 
small fry and their mothers, initiating 
them into the best classics for children. 
On Hi Mom, she teaches finger-play, 
chalk-talk, games, how to care for pets. 
But the chief feature, loved by every- 
one, is how to (Continued on page 84) 

Shari Lewis stars on Hi Mom, WRCA-TV (New 
York), Mon. through Fri., 9 to 10 A.M. EST. 

Plenty of pets in the Tarcher household, you may be sure. "Bop" is the biggest, 
but there are also a mink, a monkey and a cockatoo. Plenty of toys, too, created 
or collected by Shari — who still believes the best fun is what you yourself can 
make out of everyday things, ds she demonstrates on television. "I can't wait to 
hove a brood of my own," she says, "to see how my teaching will work on them." 

Noon and night, Bert has a ball on Bandstand and 
Masquerade Party. But the Parks pulse hits 
an extra beat in the atmosphere of County Fair 


Look, ma, no hoops! Bert gets down to grass-roo' 

As THIS is being written, Bert Pax-ks is doing 
eleven live, spontaneous NBC shows 
every week. Six are on television— five 
County Fair programs, Monday through Fri- 
day afternoons, Masquerade Party on Thurs- 
day night. Five are on radio— Bandstand, 
Monday through Friday before noon. By the 
time this is printed, the number of shows 

for hula lesson from Memo Howell of Honolulu, T.H. 


could very likely increase, but even that won't 
bother Bert. The only time the high-pov?ered 
Mr. Parks gets tired is when someone reminds 
him how tired he ought to be! 

It's not just the number of hours he gives to 
his work that makes people wonder how he 
does it. It's the enormous energy he puts into 
everything. He could no more attack any job 

1 ' ' '^^'^^1 


Weekday afternoons, this foursome and friends have a picnic on TV's 
County Fair grounds — emcee Parks, spieler Williams, associate producer 
Herb Landon, bandmaster Bill Sale. The latter three are all "veterans" 
from the popular radio version of same program almost a decade ago. 

Thursday nights, Bert hosts a night-time TV carnival in more sophisti- 
cated mood — Masquerade Party, in which regular and guest panelists 
try to penetrate disguise of visiting celebrities. Seated above, left 
to right — Orson Bean, Audrey Meadows, Carl Reiner, Gloria De Haven. 

Mornings, there's almost a solid hour of radio music and comedy on 
Bert Parks' Bandstand. Among the leading lights, from left — comedian 
Arnold Stang, Bert, musical director Skitch Henderson, producer Bob 
Sadoff, production assistant Patti Tossy, and director George Voutsas. 


Noon and night, Bert has a ball on Bandstand and 
Masquerade Party. But the Parks pulse hits 
an extra beat in the atmosphere of County Fair 



County Fair visitors get into the act, in community-festival spirit. 
Above, Bert and special-events man Nat Asch (in stripes) interview 
prospective participants. Below, barker-announcer Ken Williams (in 
even brooder stripes) comes in last in impromptu bothing-suit parade. 

Look, mo, no hoops! Bert gets down to gross-'' ^^h lesson from Mamo Howell of Honolulu, T.H. 

could very likely increase, but even that won't 
oother Bprt TK«» »m^1« ♦im«. thw hioh-nowercd 

AS THIS is being written, Bert Parks is o^ 
eleven live, spontaneous NBC ^^ 
every week. Six are on television-^ 
County Fair programs, Monday ^°"^L^ 
day afternoons, Masq^ierade Party on j'^ 
day night. Five are on radio — ^""^^ 
Monday through Friday before noon. Kf 
time this is printed, the number of s"^ 

^ther Bert The only time the high-powered 
*" Parks gets tired is when someone reminds 
'"m how tired he ought to be! 

«"s not just the number of hours he gives to 
•J" ^•'•ork that makes people wonder how he 
"loes It It's the enormoiis energy he puts into 
*^erything. He could no more attack any job 

Weekday ofternoons, th,$ fourjom. and friend* hov. o picnic on TVs 
County Fa,r ground_emc.. Porks, spi.l.r Willioms, ossociot. producer 
Herb London, bandmost.r Bill Golt. Th. lot+er three or. all "veteran." 
from ttie populor radio version of some proqrom almost a decade ago 

Thurtday nights, Bort hosts o mghtfimo TV carnivol in more lophiiti 
cated mood — Masquerade Party, in which regular and guett paneliiti 
try to penetrate disguiie of viiifing celebritiei. Seated above, left 
to right — Orson Bean. Audrey Meodowi, Corl Reiner. Gloria D# Haven. 

Morningi. there's olmoit a lolid hour of rodio music ond comedy on 
Bert Parks' Bandstand. Amor>g the leoding lighti. from left— comedion 
Arnold Stong. Bert, musicol director Skitch Henderion, producer Bob 
Sodoff, production osfittont PoHl To»»y, and director George Voutioi. 



Fun in the Afternoon 


Cars aren't just a hobby with busy Mr. Parks. They're a 
necessity for his daily commuting — some 45 minutes from 
Connecticut to Radio City. With eleven performances on 
TV and radio each week, Bert should be tired when he gets 
home, but his energy seems boundless, at work or at play. 


«< \ 

I 32 

County Fair is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 4:30 P.M. EST, 
Ben Parks' Bandstand heard on NBC Radio, M-F, 11 :05 
A.M. to noon EST — under multiple sponsorship. Bert 
also emcees Masquerade Party, colorcast over NBC-TV, 
Thurs., 10:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by Kent Cigarettes. 

m^j / "*sp 






The home's V^illiamsburg in style, ultra-modern 

in fittings. 

passively now than he could at a tender age, when he 
began to give spirited imitations of a dispirited little 
man with a brief mustache, oversize shoes and a cane — 
Charlie Chaplin, then the idol of small-fry movie- 

The days of impersonations are far behind Bert now, 
but the need to give a performance everything he has 
never changes. His explanation is simple: "I like to 
spend energy on something I like to do, and I like to do 
all the things I am doing." More specifically, he adds, 
"Of course, a man needs health to keep it up — and a 
wife like Annette." 

Since their marriage in June, 1942, Annette has been 
the silent partner whose actions speak louder than 
words and whose reactions remain invariably calm and 
cool. When Bert comes home with something on his 
mind, there is none of this "tell me everything right 
away" kind of prodding. She lets him let down and 
relax, and talk when he is ready. 

"The result is that, by the time I get around to 
telling what's troubling me," says Bert, "it seems much 
less complicated — and usually less important. If there 
is something she needs to take up with me — the house, 
the children, or some problem of her own — she waits 
until the red flag is down. And neither of us keeps 
going over and over the same problem. When it's 
finished, we don't keep kicking it arotmd." 

Last September, when Bert began his County Fair 
TV show, it was suggested he might hke to stay a 
little after the show each day to talk it over. It didn't 
take him long to cut that down to practically nothing. 
"Re-hashing" a program is not for him. Others can hold 
the post-mortems over cues that came a split-second 
late, or a stunt that didn't come off. As far as he is 
concerned, he has done his best, and he assumes the 
others have done theirs. The bell has rung and it's time 
to get away and prepare for (Continued on page 76) 


he wife's Annette by name and — Bert avows — a "model" for all time! 

Performer since before schooldays, Bert 
relaxes with music, even in leisure time. 
Most of all, he "unwinds" by doing chores 
around the house and playing with twin 
sons Joel and Jeffrey, I I, and daughter 
Petty, 9. "So far," he says, "they have 
shown no desire to follow In my footsteps." 



Fun in the Afternoon 



Cars aren't just a hobby with busy Mr. Parks. They're a 
necessity for his daily commuting — some 45 minutes from 
Connecticut to Radio City. With eleven performances on 
TV and radio each week, Bert should be tired when he gets 
home, but his energy seems boundless, at work or at play. 

County Fair is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 4:30 P.M. EST, 
Bert Parks' Bandstand heard on NBC Radio, M-F, 11:05 
A.M. to noon EST — under multiple sponsorship. Bert 
also emcees Masquerade Party, colorcast over NBC-TV, 
TTiurs., 10:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by Kent Cigarettes. 

The home's V^illiamsburg in style, ultra-modern in fittings, |lie wife's Annette by name and — Bert avows — a "model" for all time! 

passively now than he could at a tender age, when he 
began to give spirited imitations of a dispirited little 
man with a brief mustache, oversize shoes and a cane— 
Charhe Chaplin, then the idol of small-fry movie- 

The days of impersonations are far behind Bert now, 
but the need to give a performance everything he has 
never changes. His explanation is simple: "I like to 
spend energy on something I like to do, and I like to do 
all the things I am doing." More specifically, he adds, 
"Of course, a man needs health to keep it up — and a 
wife like Annette." 

Since their marriage in June, 1942, Annette has been 
the silent partner whose actions speak louder than 
words and whose reactions remain invariably calm and 
cool. When Bert comes home with something on his 
mind, there is none of this "tell me everything right 
away" kind of prodding. She lets him let down and 
relax, and talk when he is ready. 

"The result is that, by the time I get aroimd to 
telling what's troubling me," says Bert, "it seems much 
less complicated— and usually less important. If there 
is something she needs to take up with me — the house, 
the children, or some problem of her own — she waits 
until the red flag is down. And neither of us keeps 
going over and over the same problem. When its 
finished, we don't keep kicking it around." 

Last September, when Bert began his County Faf 
TV show, it was suggested he might like to stay f 
little after the show each day to talk it over. It didnt 
take him long to cut that down to practically "O*^"",^ 
"Re-hashing" a program is not for him. Others can hold 
the post-mortems over cues that came a split-secon 
late, or a stunt that didn't come off. As far as he is 
concerned, he has done his best, and he assumes the 
others have done theirs. The bell has rung and it's tune 

Performer since before schooldays, Bert 
relaxes with music, even in leisure time. 
Most of all, he "unwinds" by doing chores 
around the house and playing with twin 
sons Joel and Jeffrey. I I, and daughter 
Petty, 9. "So far," he says, "they have 
shown no desire to follow in my footsteps." 

to get away and prepare for (Continued on page 



»^-»..-.»c-,-..-»i.»^-_i>,- .^■,..' ^-n... 


Dietrich hit Hollywood like a bombshell in the 
I930's — ^thanks to director Josef Von Sternberg 
(above). Musician as well as actress, she later 
proved her amazing versatility as an entertainer 
both at the battlefront and in swank night clubs. 

"Dear Miss Dietrich," they write to Monitor, 
knowing she'll have the answer to their 
problems — and seeking to share the secret 
strength of "the world's most glamorous woman' 


"In person," her glamour electrifies the most sophisticated crowd. 

Now Marlene triumphs in two more 
fields — on records, as well as NBC 
Radio. Above, signing contract with 
Randy Woods which brought her 
distinctive siren voice to Dot label. 

On screen, her dramatic talent blazed again in "Witness for the Prosecution." 

THESE WINTER WEEKENDS — Saturdays and Sundays, on NBC Radio's Monitor — 
Marlene Dietrich is answering your questions about life and love and 
the pursuit of happiness. From the day it was first announced on Monitor 
that Marlehe would be on the air, the letters began to pour in . . . from 
teenagers, from young-marrieds, from men and women of all ages. And 
they continue to pour in . . . letters containing questions that range from 
how working girls can be smartly dressed, on the salaries they make, to 
what housewives who hanker to be career women can do about it, to such 
blockbusters as please tell us, dear Miss Dietrich, what is the one thing that 
makes life most worth the living — and how do you get it? 

Why do they ask Marlene? Ever since America first hailed her as a 
great new star in the German film, "The Blue Angel," some twenty-five 
years ago, Dietrich has been the synonym for glamour. Acclaimed as 
one of the world's most fabulous women, her chic and sophistication, 
her beautiful legs, her low, vibrant voice, her mystery and allure have been 
rhapsodized and have literally made headlines the (Continued on page 90) 

Marlene Dietl-ich stars on Monitor, the NBC Radio weekend service heard Fridays, from 8:05 
to 10 P.M.— Saturdays, 8 A.M. to midnight— Sundays, 10:30 A.M. to midnight. (All times EST) 

Nothing in show business has given 
more joy than daughter Maria Riva's 
own success as actress— and mother. 
Marlene's recipe for happiness? See 
story at left for the "ingredients"! 



Bill Leyden, emcee of It Could Be You, takes his first water-ski lesd 
from announcer Wendell Niles. Result: Big fun-time at Lake Arrowhead! 

.^ «"•*"' " 

"This first picture," says Leyden, 
"shows Wendell and his wife Ann in 
foreground, my wife Sue beside me." 

"Getting ready for the lesson. I'm 
looking confident, but I'm not! Just 
saw a nut skiing past on one ski!" 

"Wendell even bothered to explain 
'more speed' sign — thumbs up. Turned 
out, I didn't need that right away." 

BILL Leyden is master-of-sur- 
prises on the Ralph Edwards' 
NBC-TV show, It Could Be You. 
Devotees of the show are famiUar 
■with its format, an emotional 
mixture of reunions, anniversary 
observances, comic surprises, ful- 
fillment of sentimental wishes. The 
participants are drawn from the 
studio audience, aU being unaware 
that their dearest wish is about to 
be granted. Leyden, a natiiral ath- 
lete, goes in for hunting, skin- 
diving, sports-car racing. Here he 
gets his first taste of water-skiing — 
with It Could Be You announcer 
Wendell Niles as expert instructor. 

It Could Be You is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 
at 12:30 P.M. EST; multiple sponsorship. 

Continued k 

"Sue and Niles urge me to start the 
skiing bit, I'd just put my toes in. 
Who left the refrigerator open?" 

"Ready for the take-off. Wendell is 
telling me to keep hands tight on 
the line, knees bent for the rise." 

"A good angel must have been hovering over me. Got up on skis first try, even if I did drink an awful lot of lake water." 


- -"^ . ■^:S-^TL, 



'' -MB^i^m^^tir " ' "'^ 


- ri1iiiv'*1^ 


"Concentration, that's all. Ahd these jokers thought 
couldn't do it! Notice the form, arms straight, legs apart 
a bit, ears pointing out just a bit. I tell you, I was 
scared, but determined Mrs. Leyden's boy would succeed." 

"Everything went well until I decided I'd try to ski around 
a corner (jumping across the boat's wake). That did it! The 
trouble is, when you fall on skis you seem to go down forever 
before you come up again. Then everybody laughs at you." 

"Sue helped me out at dock. She's a 
good Q+hlete, tried skis, too, and 
did very well for a rank beginner." 

"Meanwhile, so-called 'expert' and 
friend, Wendell Niles, had fallen 
on his ear.He admits I'm a champ." 

"Susie is a real doll. She gave me 
a big hug and kiss to tell me how 
proud she was I skiied first try." 

"Back at work on It Could Be You — if work's what you call it. I had a bucketful of fun with this show, so did pal Wendell." 


l^y Son/*Si3.gsirf oot 


Any mother could be proud of such a 
shining Western star. My own pride in 
Will Hutchins goes even deeper — 
because of what he represents at heart 



Recently, I've kept house for Will — hoping he'll find "the" 
girl for the home and the children he has always wanted. 

SOMETIMES as I sit there, I still can't believe 
it! Other times, when I'm watching Sugarjoot 
on ABC-TV, I have to keep reminding 
myself that today's Will Hutchins, on our living- 
room screen, really is the same little boy we 
named Marshall Lowell Hutchason, back in 1932. 
There are many miracles in life, but none more 
amazing to me than what the magic medium of 
television has wrought in one mother's book 
of memories. 

All our old friends and relatives still call 
him "Marshall," but, to prevent confusion in this 
story, I shall refer to {Continued on page 74) 

Will Hutchins stars as Tom Brewster in Sugarfoot, seen on 9 
ABC-TV, alternate Tuesdays, from 7:30 to 8:30 P.M. EST, as * 
sponsored by American Chicle Co., Luden's, Inc., and others. 

Honest as the role he plays, Will tries 
to handle his fan mail personally. 

With his friend "Osi" — he's been 
wild about pets since he was a kid! 

His love of "theater" began with 
magic tricks before his schooldays. 

' ^^'^, 


Does Father Really Know Best 

Robert Young is as much at home on Father Knows Best as with his own 
family. Elinor, Lauren and Billy feel close to him, too — even though they 
don't all agree as to who's head of the household! "I love him more than 
anybody," says little Lauren, who considers herself Bob's pjth daughter. 

Father Knows Best, starring Robert Young and Jane Wyatt, is seen over CBS-TV, every 
Monday, at 8:30 P.M. EST, as sponsored alternately by Lever Brothers and Scott Paper. 


tures of TV's Anderson family 
live up to their title most of the 
time: Father Knows Best. High ratings 
and awards seem to prove that audi- 
ences like this concept of Dad as the 
true head of the household. But today's 
best-selling books often tell another 
story, indicating that Dad's children 
are really ruling the roost — that their 
problems and desires should always 
come first. 

There's plenty of room for argument 
among the generations and between 
the sexes. Some think the family 
should still revolve around Dad. Oth- 
ers believe it should focus on the 
children, the builders of tomorrow. 
Almost all agree on one thing: Mother 
is actually the heart of the home — but 
she swings the balance in favor of hus- 
band or children. Which way should 
she vote? 

The Andersons represent a typical 
range in age and family status, so it's 
not surprising that they're divided on 
this modem-day problem. Not quite 
as you'd expect, perhaps, since they're 
all individuals, both on and off TV. 
As Margaret Anderson, Jane Wyatt has 
become practically everyone's ideal of 
motherhood. She's a devoted mother 
in real life, too. But does she cast he^ 
ballot in favor of the children? 

Hazel eyes dancing, Jane says, 
"Everything depends on the husband- 
wife relationship . . . that's where chil- 
dren come from. A woman who thinks 
of nothing but her children is wrong 
for everyone — including herself. If ^ 
woman concentrates on her man, 
they'll both look upon their joint pro- 
ductions healthily and happily." 

One vote for Dad. But surely a 
brand-new teenager will stand up for 
children's rights? At thirteen, Lauren 
Chapin (Kathy Anderson) says firmly, 
"Neither — or both. I mean, it should 
be fifty-fifty, instead of one or the 
other. What if there was a favorite, 
and it wasn't you? There shovild be 
enough love to go aroimd. Everyone 
should love everyone." Thoughtfully, 

Continued k 

TV's beloved Andersons consider an important 

problem for these times: Who should be 

the center of the family? Parents— or children? 


Does Father Really Know Best? 


she adds, "It works the other way, too. Chil- 
dren should love their parents equally and not 
try to take over one parent." 

At the other edge of the teens, BUly Gray 
(Bud) mulls the question carefully — and 
shows an unexpected sympathy for the wom- 
an's viewpoint: "There should be a balance of 
affection and attention tending toward the 
children. If the husband is sensitive and in- 
telligent, he'll know the score. And if the 
wife has got herself a dumb, stupid guy who 
doesn't understand — then she'd better call the 
whole thing off, anyway!" 

Oldest of the Anderson offspring, Elinor 
Donahue (Betty) agrees — but for different 
reasons: "Children come first because they're 
so wonderful! If there is great love between 
husband and wife, they'll be working hard 
toward the same goal — a happy family. Of 
course," she reflects, "I'm not an average girl. 
I haven't had a father since I was five. I 
guess the observations of my mother helped 
me decide. Even as a httle girl, she wanted 
to have lots of babies when she grew up. She 
had us three and is now raising grandchildren, 
and loves it. She's {Continued on page 65) 

At 13, Lauren — happy with Mrs. Chapin and brothers Michael and Billy , , 
— refuses to take sides: "There should be enough love to go around."! 

Jane Wyatt is devoted to sons Christopher (left) and Michael (right) — but admits her first allegiance is to her husband,^ 
Edgar Ward (center). Says Jane, "A woman who thinks of nothing but her children is wrong for everyone — including herself.' 





Following her own mother's inclinations, Elinor Donahue 
votes for child-suprennacy — "because they're so wonderful!" 

More interested In hobbies than dates, at this stage, 
Billy Gray favors the children, too — for other reasons. 

So close is Bob Young's TV family to his own, there's even a similarity in names. With four daughters — Barbara and Carol 
on couch, Betty Lou and Kathy on floor — he's outnumbered by the fair sex, considers his wife Betty (right) queen of them all. 






-%•• • • • • • 


1 •••••• •! 


I* ••••■■, 

• •*•••% • 
■ #•••••*• 



Don't call him "Lonesome George," now 
that he has this lively quintet to 
keep him company — five youthful Pettits 
singing their way "next door" to fame 


There's always room on the stage," said Al 
Jolson, "for something new." So — alongside 
such delightful duos as the Everly Brothers, 
such terrific ti'ios as the McGuires, such fascinating 
foursomes as the Lennons — ^now steps a quality- 
plus quintet, "The Kids Next Door." Once 
called "The Petites," after the family name of Pettit, 
they are currently featured on NBC-TV's 
George Gohel Show. They have also rung up 
their first solid hit record, "Sweetie Pie," and are 
reaching for more of the same. 

From Emmetsburg, Iowa, with little more than 
three thousand souls, to the ghtter and throng of 
Hollywood may seem a long way to travel. 
But the Kids made it in four short jumps. As the 
Kids went, so went the family. In fact, their rise to 
fame may be charted by following the trail of 
the Pettit family from city to city in their search 
for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 

Accompanied on the piano by their mother, Marie, 
the Kids gave their first show some twelve 
years ago at a firemen's ball in their hometown. 
Only the four older children — Bob, then eight; 
Alice, 7; Patty, 6, Mary, 3 — were in the act at that 
time. They made no great splash in theatrical 
circles, but their performance was received with 
hearty applause by their good neighbors and friends. 
As a result, they began entering — and winning — 
all the local amateur contests and, before long, found 
themselves much in demand at school and 
church affairs. 

Their first "paid" performance — and, as Bob 
recalls, "What an exciting day that was in the 
Pettit family!" — was at a Lions Club meeting. The 
check was for ten dollars, but it might have 
been a million, the Kids were so thrilled. Not only 
were they doing what they most loved — singing — 
but now they were making money at it, as well. 

Then, in June of 1952, as a means of fostering 
their children's career, Claude and Marie Pettit 
decided to make their first big move, to Spencer. 
"Some big move." (Continued on page 86) 

"The Kids Next Door" sing on The George Gohel Show, seen in 
color and black-and-white on NBC-TV, eveiy other Tues., 8 to 
9 P.M. EST, for Radio Corporation of America and RCA Victor. 

Once "The Petites, " Bob and Claudia (rear), Alice, Pat+y 
and Mary (left to right) are now "The Kids Next Door" to the 
star of The George Gobel Show. Back in Iowa, dad had told 
'em the breaks were sure to come. G.S. made it certain-sure. 

Papa Pettit joins his quintet in a modern quadrille. There 
are also two younger brothers. Below, left to right: Patty, 18, 
holding Claude Jr., 5; Mary, 15; mama Marie and Claude 
Sr.; Bob, 20. On the floor: Claudia, I I ; Donny, 9; Alice, 19. 




the Saturday 



> V v,l 



:/f*, '- 



Night Miracle f 

The familiar, casual figure stands alone in center-stage. 
To each of his millions of TV fans, Perry sings directly, 

"Dream along with me . . ." 
And at that intimate high moment of stagecraft, over 200 
men and women — ^behind the scenes — are hard at work. 
Their inspiring task is to create an illusion. On the follow- 
ing pages, we look behind the color image of Perry Como 
on the TV screen to see how they do it . . . 


During hour show, major production numbers mass 
as many as 35 performers before color cameras. 

Clark Jones, producer-director, assistant 
Jim Fox. Final instructions on p. a. system. 


the Saturday Night Miracle 

Como show draws costumes from many 
sources, costume houses like Brooks, 
Eaves, 7th Avenue, or name designers. 

Design and rendering of scenery takes 
25 men, who work miles away from the 
Ziegfeld Theater on West 1 8th Street. 

In rehearsal hall near Radio City, 
dancers work all week perfecting the 
choreography set up by Louis Da Pron. 

Orchestra! By Friday each week, the 
rehearsal with director Mitch Ayres 
swings into action at the Ziegfeld. 

Singers are under direction of Ray 
Charles, who works with several ar- 
rangers for top performance on show. 

The star gives forth — all day Friday. 
All day Saturday. Here with Mitch 
Ayres and accompanist, Perry sings. 


On stage, a cast of 33. But hard at work, unseen, 
behind the cameras, is an efficient small "army": 
27 engineers, 4 men at the master control board, 
6 at the film studio handling commercials, 35 
stagehands, 7 wardrobe changers, 31 orchestra men, 
4 card -boys, 15 production people, 3 make-up men, 
1 hairdresser, 3 studio supervisors, 20 pages, 
6 maintenance men, 4 men handling air conditioning, 
3 porters, 2 ticket girls. On stage and off, 
that's 204 , . . and we're not counting the 25 men who 
have worked all week on scenery, the truckers who 
have hauled the props, the writers, the hard- 
working staff of Como's own office. Here's the 
story of everybody who makes the Como show: 


EVERY Saturday, all across the nation, families settle 
down into comfortable chairs and wait for the 
clock to point to the hour when Como is due on TV. 
For, at that moment, on the television screens of 
America, there will appear in their living rooms a 
friendly, relaxed young man. Whoever you are, 
Perry will smile at you, perhaps touch his ear in his 
familiar gesture, and gently begin to sing. 

The real truth is that behind that casual entrance 
into the homes of one of the largest audiences in tele- 
vision lies a fabulous story ... a story of a small army 
of people without whom the weekly entertainment 
blockbuster that is The Perry Como Show could never 
reach your screens. Proof that a major color show 

Continued ^ 

With final stage work beginning on 
Saturday, Perry has conference with 
Louis Da Pron and head canneraman. 

Vital to the show is Frank Gallop, 
announcer, whose voice Is familiar to 
millions, though face is seldom seen. 

Lost minute change of script? That's 
a matter for Goodman Ace, writer, 
— seen here conferring with Perry. 

Late on Friday, everybody gets together. Dancers, singers, the orchestra. Perry, guests — the show is taking its final format. 






the Saturday Night Miracle 


As show time, 8 P.M. EST, draws near, the crowd begins to 
gather outside the Ziegfeld Theater. Twenty pages, 4 air- 
conditioning men, 3 porters, 3 special police are on hand. 

They're on the air! And the images picked up by the color 
cameras are fed to NBC Master Control, four blocks away in 
the RCA Building at Radio City. Electronics goes to work. 

The show goes on, in both color and black-and-white, with 


During show backstage, Michi, Japa- 
nese beauty who handles costuming, is 
checking out players for the stage. 

Stagehands handle both large and 
small "props" during show period. 
Split-second action is required. 

today is an undertaking of fantastic 

For the first minute of that show, 
what you see is Perry, ready to enter- 
tain you. Well, let's take a look at 
what you can't see. . . . Above Perry's 
head is a dense jungle of wires, micro- 
phones and lights. In front of him are 
three color cameras, each manned by 
an expert cameraman. Past them are 
the many monitors — color sets which 
show exactly how the show looks on 
the air. 

To the side of the cameras stand the 
men holding the cue cards. (They're 
famous now, as a standard Perry joke: 
The singer who's so relaxed he often 
forgets his Hnes — a habit which has 
helped make him like one of the fam- 
ily. "You know, that's what I'd do, if I 
had to be up there on TV," any viewer 
might say to his wife.) 

Over to the right of the stage is the 
thirty-piece orchestra led by plump, 
balding Mitchell (Continued on page 92 ) 

Change of scene — and stagehands rapidly roll out 
what looks like an old Texas-range fence. At right, 
singing-and-dancing number is just finishing up. 

Perry Como as the center-stage attraction for millions every week* 

Guest star Dale Robertson, of Wells Fargo series, 
joins Perry as a fence-sitter. Note audio pick-up 
within a few feet, cameras, monitor screen at left. 

In film studio at RCA Building, 
filmed commercial segments of the 
show are monitored by technician. 

In a separate room, a crew of six 
technicians watch and control the 
visual image shown on monitor, left. 

Inspirational note at show's end is 
hymn sung by Perry. A man of genu- 
ine faith, it strikes no jarring note. 

The Perry Como Show, NBC-TV, Sat., 8 P.M. EST, for American Dairy, Chemstrand, Kimberly-Clark, Noxzema, RCA, Whirlpool and Sunbeam. 




the Saturday Night Miracle 


As show time, 8 P.M. EST, draws near, the crowd begins to 
gather outside the Ziegfeld Theater. Twenty pages, 4 air- 
conditioning men, 3 porters, 3 special police are on hand. 

They're on the oirl And the images picked up by the color 
cameras are fed to NBC Master Control, four blocks away in 
the RCA Building at Radio City. Electronics goes to work. 

During show backstage, Michi, Japa- 
nese beauty who handles costuming, is 
checking out players for the stage. 

Stagehands handle both large and 
smoll "props" during show period. 
Split-second action is required. 

today is an undertaking of fantastic 

For the first minute of that show, 
what you see is Perry, ready to enter- 
tain you. Well, let's take a look at 
what you can't see. . . . Above Perry s 
head is a dense jungle of wires, micro- 
phones and lights. In front of him ^^ 
three color cameras, each manned by 
an expert cameraman. Past them are 
the many monitors — color sets which 
show exactly how the show looks on 
the air. 

To the side of the cameras stand th^ 
men holding the cue cards. (Theyr^ 
famous now, as a standard Perry ioke- 
The singer who's so relaxed he often 
forgets his hnes— a habit which "^^ 
helped make him like one of the fan"" 
ily. "You know, that's what I'd do, « 
had to be up there on TV," any viewe' 
might say to his wife.) . 

Over to the right of the stage is t» 
thirty-piece orchestra led by plU'^R' 
balding Mitchell {Continued on page W 

O ""'"° °^ ^^^ Building. 

show „^°'"'^ercial segments of the 

^® nionitored by technician. 

In a separate room, a crew of six 
technicians watch and control the 
visual image shown on monitor, left. 

Inspirational note at show's end is 
hymn sung by Perry. A man of genu- 
ine faith, it strikes no jarring note. 

hrn rZr~7, "^ T"^ r-i, ™oir»nH Kimberly-Clark, Noxzema, RCA, Whirlpool and Sunbeam. 

'^ ^ono Show, NBC-TV, Sat., 8 P.M. EST, for American Dairy, Chemstrand, liJmDeny v.ia 


Above, as seen in Search For Tomorrow, 
Joanne Tate (Mary Stuart), husband Arthur 
(Terry O'Sullivan) and daughter Patti (Lynn 
Loring). Below, as seen at home, Mary's wed 
to Richard Krollk and has a boy and a girl. 

Daughter Cynthia was born in 1955, son Jeffrey in 1956. With two such 
lively youngsters to bring up, Mary has learned nnany valuoble pointers* 
about managing both home and career. "So far," soys the popular star, 
"Richard and I feel that none of us has missed anything . . . the time we 
spend together and with the children is doubly precious to us both." 



Mary Stuart finds fulfillment in a 
triple life which would be a challenge 
to any woman — as wife, homemaker, 
and star of TV's Search For Tomorrow 


No ONE knows better than Mary Stuart that modern 
woman has more opportunities — and more responsi- 
bilities — ^than ever before in history. As a mother in both 
private life and on CBS -TV's Search For Tomorrow, 
Mary also realizes fully that these advantages and dis- 
advantages increase proportionately when modern woman 
works outside her home. "A working mother," she points 
out, "has three jobs: Her children, her husband and 
home, and her outside job. It takes a lot of love, a lot of 
common sense, stamina and health, to swing them 
all. Arid a lot of experience, because most of us learn by 
trial-and-error and by becoming a little more mature 
every day. We also learn a little, {Continued on page 77) 

Mary Stuart stars as Joanne Tate in Search For Tomorrow, on CBS-TV, M-F, 12:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by The Procter & Gamble Company. 


But listen, girls . . . so you can make, 
the same hilarious mistakes I did • • • f 
laugh the same laughs, cry the same 
tears . . . and find a husband like mine! 


Today, Gale and husband Lee Bonnell' 
can afford to laugh at her unique but 
effective method of "getting her man." 
Right, on a cruise — Gale Storm Show 
style — with children Phillip, Peter, Paul, 
Susanna. The boys,, she says, are very 
tolerant with their young mother, but 
only a girl can really understand the 
topsy-turvy feminine point of view! 


The Gale Storm Show, CBS-TV, Sat., 9 P.M., 
EST, is sponsored by Nestle Co. (Nescafe 
Instant Coffee) and Lever Brothers (Dove). 

TEEN-AGE MARRIAGES Certainly do pay off — especially if your 
name is Josephine Owaissa (Indian for "bluebird") Cottle Bon- 
nell, known in the trade as Gale Storm. And if you solemnly 
swore not to marry until twenty-five. And if you were a level- 
headed honor student — no problem-type girl — in high school. 
And, at sixteen were definitely immature but aware of it. And 
if you met an older man (eighteen) and knew — absolutely knew— that 
was it. And threw all your plans out the window except one — 
the one to get your man. And got him. And had your children. 
And grew up with, and through them both. Then you know that 
teen-age marriages pay off . . . jackpots every day of the world. 

I can't make an all-out statement that it works for everybody. 
But, if the basics are there and the marriage is for the right 
reasons, it can be great. And if this marriage commercial needs a 
walking testimonial, I'll stand up and be counted. I know God 
had to be watching over me the day I met (Continued on page 82) 


the Real Glamour Men off 

They dig the news the most — and have women watching 
and listening to current events as never before. Among 
the top headliners with the headlines, on both TV and 
radio: Chet Huntley of NBC (above), Walter Cronkite 
of CBS (below), and John Secondari of ABC (at right). 

For personality — or fan mail — ^no one 
tops the news analysts. Take these 
jet-propelled examples: Chet Huntley, 
Walter Cronkite and John Secondari 

*;v,^ -Xi 






IN SOLID and ehduring fashion, the TV public is 
making it plain that it enjoys glamour of a higher 
order. It has fallen hard for a dashing crew of 
well-spoken, well-traveled men with brainy sex 
appeal — the globe-trotting news analysts. How many 
women have "crushes" on such headliners as Edward 
R. Murrow, John Daly, Eric Sevareid, Winston Bvir- 
dette, Daniel Schorr — ^to name just a handful? 
Plenty! How many men envy them the pace and 
challenge of their work, which can have them at 
home with the wife and kids one night, in Turkey the 
next? Plenty! 

We turned the tables on a representative trio of 
distinguished story-getters, who answered questions 
instead of asking them. The big three: Chet Huntley 
(NBC), Walter Cronkite (CBS) and John Secondari 
(ABC). This article may reveal why each has the 
pulling power of intellectual glamour and is tops in 
electronic appeal. 

The Huntley Method was described to us in the 
Huntley office at Radio City — a room virtually uphol- 
stered in ticker tapes from the wire news services. 
For all his hard-hitting coolness on camera, there is 
a surprise feeling of friendliness in Chet's personal 
presence, mingled with an unmistakable maleness 
which has earned him some of the most enthusiastic 
feminine fan mail ever received at NBC. 

As for the Huntley Method, Chet describes it as 
"depth and speed" in gathering and analyzing big- 
situatioh news. "I am seldom gone for more than ten 
days at a time," he says, unlike other rovers who go 
oflf for much longer periods. "I find that my wife, 
Ingrid, can sit out this period with great equanimity 
and it lessens our blissful battles," he smiles, giving 
one good reason why he has to work well in a hurry. 

In spite of his relatively short stays on location for 
a story, Chet certainly has proved his reportorial 
depth, wiiming many major awards in journalism and 
wide critical acclaim for his role as editor of the 
Sunday report formerly called Outlook. Chet ex- 
plains that he's a mighty thorough boy before he 

Continued k 

Left, NBC-TV's daily Huntley-Brinkley 
Report teams Chet from New York, David 
from Washington. Mr. H. considers Mr. B. 
a model young newsman, believes news- 
paper experience Invaluable in such work. 

Chet himself went straight from pre-medical studies to broad- 
casting, finds his Montana college training helpful in thorough 
research for such telecasts as Sunday's Chet Huntley Reporting. 
It's useful, too, on far-flying trips to gather news and views 
"at the source" — as in Chet's visit with Israeli youth, above. 

When it comes to "glamour," he bows to the distaff side of the 
hluntley family. Above, with his wife Ingrid and daughter Leanne 
(older girl, Sharon, is a student at Oregon U.). Chet tries not 
to be away from home more than ten days at a time, can pack in 
a minute-and-a-half, when he has to — everything's in a briefcase! 


^Tk ^^M 








PI ■ 







sH^-" .^^H 





1 kilL^H^^^^^^F'B 7' ''' 










Chief of his net's Washington News Bureau, John Secondari broadcasts daily 
on ABC Radio, is host of Open Hearing Sundays on ABC-TV (above, with 
astrononner Dr. Franklyn Branley, space-expert Willy Ley). In rare leisure 
moments, he writes such best-selling novels as "Coins in the Fountain," 


Widower Secondari is devoted to his son John. A man of deep emotion, he 
insists there's no "romance" in modern news-gathering, but admits he's had 
his share of real drama, both here and abroad. Romon-born, he speaks many 
languages, can be at home anywhere, is ready to travel in six minutes flat. 

the Real Glamour Men of TV 


John doesn't like TV make-up, submits 
only to conceal his fast-growing "beard." 

arrives on the spot, getting to know his 
subject as well as the most careful re- 
search will allow. This, he thinks, may 
be traced to a three-year pre-medical 
course at Montana State College. "I do 
not believe in doing a story off the top of 
my head," he says. "I like the time to 
weigh, study, give anguish to it, if need 
be; think it through, go dizzy, pace back 
and forth with it." 

Chet decided he would be happier in a 
more extrovert field than medicine when 
he won the National Oratory Tournament 
in 1932 and becanne steeped in speech and 
drama. "I dropped the cadavers for live 
news after I got my B.A., and did radio 
newscasts for the Seattle Star station . . . 
then other radio jobs and, finally, tele- 

Chet had a filing at two other networks 
before he came to NBC. In 1955, when he 
was employed by another network, it was 
his opinion that an interview with Tu- 
nisian President Bourguiba warranted 
coverage. His usual persuasiveness ob- 
viously failed him and he was unable to 
get an okay from the bosses. "I there- 
upon quit my job and invested nine weeks 
and sixty -five hundred dollars of my own 
money in going after the story. I had 
faith that another network would buy it." 

NBC got excited about both the film 
and newsman Huntley. He's been with 
the network ever since, under contract. 
"The Bourguiba thing is the most per- 
sonal gratification I've ever had from a 
story," Huntley says, "I guess because I 
was proving a point." Another of his 

Doily newscasts on both CBS-TV and CBS 
Radio keep Walter Cronkite "on the go." 

favorite shows was based on Israel's Tenth 
Anniversary ... "I believed in it." 

The influence of Chefs medical studies 
runs like a thread throughout his patterns 
of behavior and attitudes. About his 
most advertised scoop — ^he was the first 
newsman to cover the Nevada H-bomb 
test in the spring of 1953 — ^he says: "I'm a 
cool character in moments of disaster. 
I can look at blood objectively and at a 
person who is apparently dead — ^including 
myself! — always thinking, He's got some 
life, he can he saved. I feel I can revive 
the deadest . . . also, I'm a great one for 
applying a toxrrniquet." 

When faced with great danger and the 
real possibility of death, Chet says can- 
didly, "All I can think of is why should 
everything end in such a stupid way . . . 
what a rotten shame to go so soon ... I 
feel utter fi'ustration and forlomness. 
Resentment at fate is uppermost. My re- 
sentment, of course, stirs up my adrena- 
lins and gives me fighting courage." 

Chet has been married twenty-one 
years to Ingrid Rolin. His shapely red- 
haired Swedish wife can almost match 
him in height, being five-nine in bare feet 
and close to Chet's six-one with her high 
heels on. They have two lovely daugh- 
ters, Sharon, 19, and Leanne, 16. Sharon 
is a student at the University of Oregon 
and Leanne attends the Nightingale 
Bramford School in New York. 

Chet is most happy in his work when 
he is looked upon as honest, fearless, and 
no special pleader for anyone. "I'm never 
afraid of cutting {Continued on page 94) 

Walter's work often makes him an "absentee husband," away from wife 
Betsy, daughters Nancy Elizabeth (now 10) and Mary Kathleen (8), baby 
son Walter III. Betsy rebelled only once — after he'd been away four years 
as a combat correspondent during the war: "Then I chased him to Brussels!" 

Literally "from Missouri," Walter will fly anywhere to get first-hand infor- 
mation for such big Sunday telecasts as The Twentieth Century. Tops on 
any tailor's best-dressed list, he believes good grooming inspires confidence 
in an interviewer, takes all of twenty minutes to pack for a trip. 


Terry's really their baby: Jeanne and husband Jack Morrison; Charlie and 
Patience, Jack's children by an earlier marriage; and little Mary Ann — who 
now treasures the very same doll (right) which Grandma Cagney once gave 
three-year-old Jeanne "to keep her company while Mama's in the hospital." 

Baby Terry is the pride 
and joy of two close-knit 
"families" — ^not only mama 
Jeanne Cagney's, but the 
entire staff of Queen For A Day 


No LADY-IN-WAITING ever had so 
many delighted "assistants" as 
Jeanne Cagney, while she prepared 
for the birth of her second child, 
last summer. The Cagneys, of co\irse 
— including brother Jimmy— are 
family-minded as can be. And the 
Morrisons — ^very definitely including 
Jeanne's husband Jack — have an 
equally big heart for children. But 
nothing could surpass the enthusi- 
asm of the entire cast of Queen For 
A Day, of which Jeanne has been 
a part for more than five years, first 
as fashion coordinator and now as 
fashion commentator. 

"When I get married and have a 
baby," smiles one of the other girls 
from Queen For A Day, "if someone 
asks me if that's my first baby, 
I'll say, 'Oh, no. I had two with 

Fashion commentator Jeanne Cagney's 
baby was also "adopted" by star Jack 
Bailey and everyone else on Queen For 
A Day. Left, Jeanne and Terry — posed 
before a "painting" done by Mary Ann. 

Fans took Terry to their hearts, too. 
When they sent many precious handmade 
gifts, wise, warmhearted Jeanne bought 
bootees for Mary Ann's favorite doll, so 
that no one could feel "neglected"! 

Jeanne Cagney Morrison!' " Every- 
one shared in the joyfvil excitement, 
and Jack BaUey, the program's 
jovial emcee, was even inspired to 
heights of prophecy. Jeanne's baby, 
he confidently predicted, would be 
a boy, bom July 29, at 4:30 P.M. 
But he rejoiced as heartily as any- 
one, when wee Terry chose to arrive 
on July 27, at exactly half-past noon, 
a rosy and very feminine little girl. 
Terry, in fact, proved, to be just 
what the other Morrison children 
wanted. To Jeanne's first child, Mary 
Ann (now three), she was "my 
baby." To Charlie, Jeanne's eleven- 
year-old {Continued on ■page 88) 

Queen For A Day, as emceed by Jack Bailey, 
is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, at 4 P.M. EST, and 
heard over Mutual, M-F, 11:35 A.M. EST. 


"It's not that 1 do so much," says pretty, politics-mind- 
ed Martha. "It's thot too mony women do too little." 

Beauty and brains go together — 
when Martha Rountree produces a show 


Even during pre-show conference before Leave It To The Girls, 
Martha Rountree maintains her fresh, unruffled good looks. 

WHAT makes a woman beautiful?" we asked Martha 
Roimtree, producer of Washington news shows 
and creator of the currently popular Leave It 
To The Girls, a panel show seen on WNTA-TV in the 
New York area, featuring glamour, brains and beauty. 
Her answer came, in her well-known Southern accent, 
"Most important is a certain inner quality. If you 
notice a woman's clothes, she's probably dressed in poor 
taste." Martha herself wears mostly basics in navy blue 
and black. And for entertaining at her Washington 
home? "When I can afford it, Charlie James makes my 
party dresses, with fitted bodices, nipped-in waist, and 
very slim or full skirts. One is forty-two yards wide. 
They're green, blue, white, red, black — chiffon, silk or 
cotton. I never wear strapless dresses or jewelry." 
Make-up? "Bright red lipstick, brown eyebrow pencil 
and mascara. I need eye make-up because my lashes 
and brows are so blonde." For Martha's TV use, Eddie 
Senz has compounded a special beige liquid make-up 
that doesn't antagonize her sensitive skin. She washes 
her face three times a day with soap and water. After 
TV make-up, she takes twenty minutes to cream and 
soap her face, using a sponge for a thorough scrub-up 
without irritation. She hates bangs, wears a simple, 
medium-length hairdo, gets eight hours of sleep a night, 
drinks sixteen glasses of water a day. ("I won't say 
it makes me beautiful, but it keeps me healthy.") How 
does she do it all? Direct her Washington home. New 
York apartment, and business staff, raise two daughters, 
manage her shows, stay on top of political events — and 
still always appear lovely and unruffled. Martha finds 
that the good grooming she feels she owes to her family 
and her public takes attention to detail, rather than 
time. Besides, she doesn't feel she does so much. "It's 
that too many women do too little. You must know 
about politics. It's part of working for your home and 
your family." Has being a woman handicapped her in 
the news field? "Definitely," she answers. "I've been 
double-crossed and lied to — and I wasn't trained to be 
aggressive. You've got to be tough and ingenious. But 
my grandfather always said, "Competition is a 
compliment. No one shoots at you unless you're in 
front of a crowd.' " That's where you find Martha. 


Does Father Really Know Best? 

(Continued from page 44) 
just a natural mother," Elinor sums up. 

As a father, both on the air and off, 
Robert Young (Jim Anderson) considers 
every angle of the question. "God was 
very thoughtful to arrange a slow growth," 
he says qmetly, "to give parents and chil- 
dren time to adjust to one another. Parent- 
hood has many responsibilities and prob- 
lems. But it should be purposeful, joyful, 
exhilarating. Often, we make it a dreary 
period. We drag ourselves through. Then 
we're appalled that the children haven't 
matured. It's a little cowardly, not facing 
the fact that we ourselves haven't grown 
up. Why shoiild children mature before 
their parents? 

"As to the main question, there's no 
doubt that Betty, my own wife, comes first 
with me, and I know I come first with her. 
It's just a matter of degree. But why a 
decision on who is more important? In a 
sound, healthy family unit, none is more 
important than the other. Some mothers 
may devote too much time and attention 
to their children. But I can't help think- 
ing that most of the articles about the male 
losing his position in the home' have only 
caused confusion. There may be some 'poor 
males,' " he grins, "who occasionally chafe 
and think back longingly on bachelor 
years — but that doesn't keep them from 
being good, solid parents." 

Each member of TV's Anderson family 
has been interviewed separately and, if 
their answers differ or dovetail, it is quite 
by accident. Jane Wyatt, of course, feels 
most confident speaking of the relation- 
ship between mother and child. "A mother 
shouldn't try to be a pal to a child," she 
believes. "She's the person in authority, 
so she should relieve his confusion and 
make decisions too big for him. 

"My two boys, Christopher and Michael, 
are very unlike each other. Chris is 
moody and too shy. Mike is never 
shy — he can go anywhere, take anything 
on the chin. Yet Chris is working to be an 
engineer at M.I.T., and Mike is musical. 
So different, and yet in some areas they 
must be treated alike. 

"When they first started to date," she 
recalls, "I removed the burden of in- 
decision. They were told when to be home. 
So, even if their date's mother made no 
restrictions, they knew when to say good- 
night. A boy doesn't know when to take 
a girl home, he's not old enough. They 
could have had a perfectly miserable time 
— both wondering when to head for home, 
and being afraid to say. . . . Isn't it a 
miraculous thing for children that, through 
love, mothers are willing and happy to do 
the milhon-and-one chores they wouldn't 
dream of doing for anyone else? Not only 
helping to make decisions — but providing 
taxi service, picking up clothes, giving 
twenty-four-hour service in the sick- 
room. . . . 

"But a husband should come first with a 
woman," she continues. "If she makes her 
decision about her life before children, 
then most of that problem is taken care 
of. My husband Ed and I have always gone 
off by ourselves at times, and we never 
had a crying child clinging to the car. 
They know they're loved. A kiss, a hug, 
goodbye, and we can be off to Italy or 
camping in the High Sierras — which Ed 
and I love and the boys hate. By the same 
token, they have their fim. If Ed and I are 
out to a dinner party — say, Saturday 
night — then the boys have an oppor- 
tunity for a special activity on Sunday, I 
used to love to think up things to do with 
them. I liked reading a book aloud to 
them," she grins, "but always a book that 

was very entertaining for me, as well." 

Jane points out that she recently made 
a cross-country tour of personal appear- 
ances for the CBS-TV series. While in the 
East, she visited her folks, saw Chris at 
M.I.'T., and enjoyed everything complete- 
ly — untU she was on her way home. Then 
she became impatient to see her husband. 
Happily, she has never felt matter-of-fact 
about coming home. 

She feels it is important to remember 
that husband and wife don't have to agree 
on big things — but they must, on the little 
things. From TV to bridge, going out or 
staying in, reading or dancing, it's the 
little things that make a marriage happy, 
in her opinion. Her zest for living, intelli- 
gent attitude and obvious success as both 
wife and mother are reflected in her own 
home and on the television screen. 

"I remember when Chris was small," 
she smiles. "Our minister was talking about 
not letting children rule the roost. Dis- 
cussing when and how to let them go, he 
used the simile of the mother bird pushing 
her little ones out of the nest. Chris gave 
me a funny little look — kind of frightened. 
So, after church, I explained how a mother 
bird pushes: She teaches them to fly, to 
use tJheir own wings, first. 

"Of course, the mouse-type woman is 
rather frightening," she observes. "You 
know — the one who stays home all the 
time. Never goes out, and expects husband 
and children to do the same. Making them 
stay home with her, never letting them 
have kids in, jealously guarding all time 
for herself. Well, naturally, her husband 
is bored beyond words, and it's very bad 
for the children. 

"Then there's the other extreme — the 
mother who gets so involved in all the 
activities to help her children that she 
doesn't have time to take care of them or 
her husband. Loaded with P.-T.A., lectures, 
luncheons. Den mother. Scout leader, Sun- 
day school class and constructive clubs, 
she had better stop chiseling on her fam- 
ily! Get it all done in the daytime, and be 
home evenings. For all those extra-curric- 
ular activities eventually call for a bored, 
extra-activity man— and she can only hope 
he'll take his loneliness out in bowling. 

"Yes, to me," she concludes, "husbands 
do — they have to — come first in the fam- 
ily. However, I have a friend who says, 'I 
hope my daughter will be a good wife. 
But my prayer every night is that she will 
be a good mother.' " 

1 hat friend would be proud of Elinor 
Donahue, who says shyly, "I can tell you 
what Betty Anderson wants — she wants a 
marriage with intellectual stimulation, 
great romance, mutual respect, things in 
common and a lot of differences, too. It's 
fun to learn someone else's hobbies. Some- 
one you love. And, when the babies come, 
Betty wants to be able to love them fully 
and yet have separate areas for her hus- 
band. To have special nights when the 
children are loved and put to bed, so 
that we can do anything we care to. Watch 
TV, go out dancing — anything. And some- 
times, if the grandmother is the right kind, 
leave the baby for a weekend, just to be 
alone together. Maybe go to a nursery and 
pick out plants for the garden, take in the 
hobby show, have a barbecue steak on 
your own patio, and hold hands in a 





double-feature. That's what Betty wants. 

"I can give you an example of what I 
don't want to be, as a mother," she adds. 
"I know a fifteen-year-old girl who's 
called 'hard to handle.' She wears too much 
make-up, tight sweaters and skirts, extra- 
high heels. She stays out too late and 
you'd think she was a real mess — vmtil 
you meet her mother. She is a whiner. 
She wails, 'I don't know what's wrong with 
my daughter. We've given her everything 
— cashmere sweaters, television, watches, 
clothes, jewelry.' It's pretty simple to an- 
other girl. There's no love in that family 
— no relationship. They've tried to buy her 
without love. So, in her own teen-age way, 
she's going out to look for love." 

Already mature in her outlook, Elinor 
answers another question raised by the 
program's audiences. "People ask me if I 
feel that the Andersons are my family — 
if Mr. Young seems like my father. Al- 
though the show has opened up new and 
happy relationships for me, Betty is an 
acting job, first and foremost. When a 
scene's over, I revert to me!" 

On the other hand, youthful Lauren 
Chapin says positively, "I love Robert 
Young more than anybody. Although I 
have a father I love dearly, I don't live 
with him anymore. So Mr. Young takes his 
place for me. I like Miss Wyatt a lot, but 
I have a mother — so I don't need her like 
I do Mr. Young. He's so interested in what 
we do. Like I'm going to a dance at Black 
Fox Military Academy tonight. He's really 
interested and wants me to tell him all 
about it Monday. I've been with his daugh- 
ters and the Andersons more than my 
own family in the last five years." 

"We've always been a close family," Bob 
Young explains, "sharing each other's 
problems and joys. However, I occasion- 
ally can't escape the feeling of being a 
bit of an outsider in my own home. In a 
house full of women — we have four daugh- 
ters — it's easy to imagine the feelings of 
a lone male! Not only am I outnumbered, 
but, I'm afraid, very often outfought and 
outmaneuvered. In fairness to the girls, 
however, I must admit that they do make 
me feel necessary and very much loved. 

"I've learned a great deal from my wife, 
who is a wise person, with a delightful 
sense of hvimor. And I don't know if chil- 
dren learn from us, but we certainly learn 
from them. We tend to clutter up children 
in our thinking. We're inclined to 'group' 
them. They are separate and different 
forms of humanity. 

"Ovu" girls all have definite but different 
senses of humor," he observes. "It's in- 
teresting — four girls with the same en- 
vironment and same parents, and yet quite 
different girls. My wife and I have been 
blessed with a basic curiosity, a desire to 
learn. Only one daughter has the hungry, 
probing mind that takes in knowledge 
intravenously. So we wondered: Coiild 
we teach the others? We were trying to 
resolve how much to push, how much to 
leave alone — that's when we became really 
aware of not pushing them into any ideal 
image in our own minds." 

Bob pauses. "That's a popular £uid pleas- 
ant pastime for parents. Each child has 
special gifts. All we can do is provide the 
supplies. My wife is a firm believer in an 
extra law of compensation: Lacking in one 
place, we have abundance in another." 

Well, here is an "abxmdeince" of opinions 
about who comes first in the family — 
husband or children. Five individual, care- j 
fully considered opinions in the best tra- „ 
dition of a family TV audiences have 
learned to love and respect — even if not all 
of them believe that "Father knows best.'' 




Softly, the big beat beckons, in the 
"very elegant" mood of Hildegarde. ■ 

Congo guide Chris Pollet tells Lowell Thomas why he left farm: Croco- 
diles laid eggs and elephants tramped up the aisle after first act. 

A Hole in the Head: No recession 
in TV billings. Total income for three 
networks for past year greater than 
ever — over a biUion dollars before 
taxes. . . . Preparations already being 
made for Presley's return. Screen di- 
rector Charles O'Curran (Patti Page's 
husband) in Manhattan looking for 
Army story for Elvis. Properties al- 
ready purchased for Elvis are being 
shelved with plans to lead off with a 
GI epic. O'Curran firmly believes in 
Presley's future as an actor. . . . Phil 
Silvers' spec, January 23, CBS-TV, will 
not feature big names. It has to do with 
Phil's usual philosophy about giving 
up-and-coming talent a break. . . . The 
British, who have imported many of 
our TV shows, will retaliate by sending 
us a female-panel format titled Yakity 
Yak. . . . Richard Boone, star of TV's 
Have Gun, Will Travel, will make his 
headquarters in New York when he 
opens February on Broadway playing 
Abraham Lincoln in "The Rivalry." 
Arlene Francis's husband, Martin Ga- 
bel, plays the role of Stephen Douglas. 
(Incidentally, this does not mean Boone 
wiU give up his TV series.) . . . Peter 
Lind Hayes tui-ning down offers for an 
hour-long night show. Calls night-TV 
a "pressure cooker." ABC-TV now 
T muttering about getting Bardot for a 
V spec but odds against it. Word has it 
R she figures she is making a fortune in 
the States by keeping herself remote. 
And then, even Sinatra couldn't woo 

her to Hollywood. . . . Steve Allen will 
move himself and show to California 
during summer hiatus. The permanent 
switch will be made for personal rea- 
sons. Steve has three sons out there by 
his first marriage and he'd like to see 
more of them. Furthermore, he and 
wife Jayne think California is a better 
place to bring up their baby boy. . . . 

Tired of Love: "For the first time in 
my life, I'm not deeply in love, and this 
is odd because I'm twenty-five and all 
my life I've been falling in love." So 
speaks Kathy Nolan, green-eyed, red- 
haired beauty of The Real McCoys. 
Sitting in her suite at the Plaza, she 
was asked about her beau, Nick Adams. 
She said, "He was waiting outside the 
hotel to surprise me when I got into 
the city, but we're just very good 
friends." Speaking of love again, she 
continued, "I guess I'm tired of dating. 
I suppose most girls think of marriage 
early. I did, and I was always uncon- 
sciously hunting. But no more. Now 
I'm going to relax." She prefers men 
in their early thirties. "Those in their 
twenties are still boys. They can only 
talk of themselves." She worries that 
marriage will conflict with her career. 
"I can scare a serious date two ways. 
They will say, 'Of course, you intend to 
give up your work when you marry.' 
Well, I wouldn't and couldn't. I've been 
in show business since I was thirteen 
months old and it's part of my life. On 

the other hand, I've scared men with 
talk of a large family. I intend to have 
a lot of children. What worries me is 
how I'm going to manage both a family 
and career." 

Inside Curves: Johnny Carson will be 
considered as replacement for Paar if 
Jack decides to quit his late assignment. 
Paar's Genevieve, in meantime, may 
absent herself to make a movie. . . . 
Hard luck for Teal Ames, star of Edge 
Of Night. She got all the way to Europe 
to start a three-week vacation and was 
then flown home with pneumonia. . . . 
Behind the doors, they are no longer 
talking of network radio's revival but 
in terms of radio's survival. This month, 
CBS cuts back, deleting four serials 
plus other shows from their radio serv- 
ice The Timex Jazz Show, CBS-TV, 

January 7, includes Satchmo, Shearing, 
Dakota Staton and the Dukes of Dixie- 
land. . . . Ann Scott, Miss April in Love 
Of Life, came over from England about 
a year ago. Now she is sending for her 
furniture. Says it's less expensive than 
buying new stuff. . . . It's easy to lose 
calories if you're a TV star. It's a trade 
secret, but cameramen can make you 
look taller and slimmer. . . . Marion 
James, who has modeled on Big Pay- 
off seven years, had baby son, Jeffrey, 
and is again back on the show. . . . 
Connie Francis has an eye for one of 
the Diamonds but, to be realistic, she 
hasn't had time for a real date in nine 

Which sleuth would win in a three-way match of wits — Jack Dragnet Webb, Raymond Perry Mason Burr, or George 
Ellery Queen Nader? Ray himself (above, right) won't try to answer, but admits it would be an interesting test. 

months. And Connie is becoming big 
business. She bought two dress shops in 
New Jersey out of her record profits. . . . 
Bob Barker, of Truth. Or Consequences, 
asked a contestant, "If wives dressed to 
please their husbands, what would they 
wear?" — and got this answer, "Last 
year's clothes." 

Everyone Rocks: Anyone who hoped 
rock 'n' roll was a passing fad may as 
well give up. Now the very sophisti- 
cated Hildegarde — recently seen on 
Voice Of Firestone — has included two 
R&R items in her repertoire. For Coral, 
she has recorded a French R&R item 
titled, "Souvenirs of Summer." In her 
latest album. Design's "The Incompa- 
rable Hildegarde," she sings with a 
beat, "If I Knew You Were Coming, I'd 
Have Baked a Cake" — and in German 
yet. She said, during the interview, "I'm 
not making fun of rock 'n' roll. I've al- 
ways liked a strong beat but, of course, 
the way I do it it's not frenzied. It's 
rather elegant rock 'n' roll." She adds, 
"And when HUdegarde sings, no one 
dances. You listen. And if the beat gets 
you, then you are confined to cracking 
your knuckles. Softly, of course." . . . 
And Kathryn Murray, who contributes 
to the Encyclopaedia Britannica each 
year on the state of popular dance, told 
us, "Rock 'n' roll was bigger than ever 
in 1958, but it's no longer raucous. Now 
that it's quieted down, I'm sure it will 
have a great influence on all dancing. 

just as jitter bugging did some years 
ago. I know that Arthur, in casting our 
show, has actually turned down big- 
name ballad singers in favor of young- 
sters who sing with a beat." 

For Ears Alone: Met soprano Renata 
Tebaldi, who wiU be thrilling you Jan- 
uary 12 on NBC-TV's music spec, 
"Adventures in Sound," can be heard 
in beautiful fidelity in Victor's album, 
"Cavalleria Rusticana." . . . Rise Ste- 
vens, who starred in the film and TV 
versions of "The Chocolate Soldier," 
stars again in a double-decker Victor 
album along with Robert Merrill and 
Peter Palmer. . . . On the pop side, 
Peggy Lee has a tremendous new al- 
bimi for Capitol titled "Things Are 
Swingin'." This gal puts fever into the 
tenderest of ballads and this is one of 
her most exciting collections. . . . TV's 
Bud CoUyer, a long time favorite with 
the younger set, has compiled a delight- 
ful collection of games and songs for 
children in Victor's "Humpty Dumpty's 
Album." ... In the jazz scene, M-G-M 
introduces the Metropolitan Jazz Quar- 
tet with sounds that have everything — 
a beat, style and melody. The musicians 
—Phil Bodner, Pat Merola and the 
Garisto brothers — set their ideas down 
in five separate LPs playing themes 
from TV shows, foreign movies, Broad- 
way shows, classics and American mov- 
ies. Highly recommended: The Jonah 
Jones Quar- {Continued on page 75) 

TK 1 


...ii i^^^BB^R 

For 'What's Xew On 
The "West Coast, See Page 7 


Big-city nature walk, Andrews version, wends its way eastside, westside 

Three for the show, and 

"up in the clouds" in TV calls — that's 
Johnny, Betti and Jonathan Andrews 

THERE IS NOTHING unique about a TV-radio personality's 
being busy — it is the usual thing with many stars. 
But singer-pianist Johnny Andrews is busier than most 
— in fact, his whole family is. So busy, that he has 
had a "call board" installed so members of the family can 
keep track of one another and their television and radio 
activities. . . . Johnny himself, is host of WRCA-TV's 
Sunday's Schedule, seen from 8 to 11 A.M., and is 
communicator on the 4 to 8 P.M. Saturday segment of 
NBC Radio's Monitor. His lovely, blonde wife Betti 
(a former Miss Kentucky) is a model on the Big Payoff, 
seen on CBS. And five-year-old Jonathan does 
occasional TV commercials and has appeared with his 
father on his Saturday show. "But Jonathan is just 
getting started," smiles Johnny, "so he only has a 
small corner of the. board for his activities." . . . When 
day's work is done, however, all three retire to their 
own little "piece of heaven," a four-and-a-half room 
penthouse in New York's Tudor City. There, they can 
view the city from their two terraces, play with 
their poodle "Buttons," or just relax while Johnny 
gives out with some smooth piano playing. ... It was 
back during his four years at the New England 
Conservatory of Music that Johnny had first concentrated 
on the piano. Engagements with local bands, Johnny 
Long's orchestra and Rudy Vallee were the first stops 
in the blue-eyed Bostonian's career. After serving 
as a test pilot during the war, the handsome young 
singer-pianist worked the night clubs and did radio stints 
until 1948 when he was featured on NBC-TV's 
Easy Does It. This launched him on his successful TV 
career on all the major networks. . . . Johnny met his 
wife when they were both judges at a beauty contest held 
at the Reading State Fair in Pennsylvania. Eight weeks 
later, they were married in St. Patrick's Cathedral. 
Their son Jonathan, born two years later, is still 
seemingly unimpressed by his father's success. When 
Johnny hosted an afternoon TV show, little Jonathan 
would get all excited when he saw his father's face 
on the screen — his Dad's appearance reminded him it 
was time for Mickey Mouse and he'd promptly 
switch channels! 

Now a popular TV star, Johnny Andrews once studied 
to be a concert pianist at New England Conservatory. 

"It's a dog's life," says Buttons, the poodle, but 
with the Andrews family it's a penthouse paradise. 



Great guests are the rule on Alma's show, but never o common- 
place — teens are thrilled by poet Langston Hughes' autographs. 

Human relations genius Alma John of 
WWRL makes her strength the kids' strength 
— and they just cant let her doivn 

She counts the musical greats, too, among her 
close friends. Here, on show with Belafonte. 

"The world's our family," says Alma, but "closer to 
home" are (standing) grandniece Regina Berry, aunt 
Serena Brinson, niece Ruth Berry, with her Sheila, 
and (seated) Denise, with Alma's sister Edith Gardner, 
Charlene Berry, Lisley, Alma, niece Saundra Gardner. 



FEW ARE able to find it, but it's a sure thing everybody's 
looking. Like that much-sought-for Fountain of Youth, 
Alma John's career, with its deep sense of mission and 
continuity, is an enviable thing. Though her talents and 
good works are shared high and wide via the WWRL- 
New York airwaves — every weekday at 2:30 P.M. — it 
doesn't surprise her listeners that Alma started public 
life as a nurse. Whether the topic of the day is world- 
scale or small, or in-between. Alma's essential care for 
life is uppermost. "Engaged" and engaging, she brings 
events home to her listeners with a humane-ness and 
significance any less-personal reporting could never do. 
. . . Mrs. John's work with the teenagers of her com- 
munity is a case in point. From the very start, she had a 
feeling radio was a natural for training youngsters in 
active citizenship and care for their community. With 
the offer of studio space in an uptown store. Alma in- 
vited the teens to share her microphone, and the big de- 
bate began. Whole seventh grades and their teachers, 
foreign student guests, young professionals in different 
fields, and voluntary groups came to talk with Alma of 
everything under the sun — health and grooming, com- 
munity action, careers, other cultures. Her show had 
found itself a new double-barreled purpose: to stress 
and interpret "what's right with teenagers." "Ninety- 
eight percent of our youth," Alma believes, "are eager 

to assume responsibility and leadership." The kids don't 
let her down. The easy interchange of ideas gives them 
a tremendous sense of participation in what is, after all, 
their world. . . . Alma herself recalls a very busy but 
essentially happy teen -time in South Philadelphia. The 
child was only eleven when her mother died but, with 
pluck, she not only made a home for her dad and eight 
little brothers and sisters but finished high school at 
the top of her class. Her friend Marian Anderson en- 
couraged her to develop her fine singing voice, but 
Alma had made up her mind. She set out for New York, 
found a job at the "Y," and entered Harlem Hospital 
School of Nursing. . . . Alma was to go ahead fast in her 
chosen field, eventually becoming executive secretary of 
the National Association of Colored Graduate Nurses. 
Always attracted to radio, she spent the long train rides 
of her job putting down on bits of paper ideas for 
scripts she'd had in mind. So, when N.A.C.G.N.'s ef- 
fort to integrate the nursing profession was realized by 
1952, it dissolved itself, and its hard-working secretary 
was "at liberty" to begin her "new career at forty." . . . 
Happily married for twenty-one years. Alma and Lisley 
John have no children of their own but, as she says, 
"Everybody's children are ours." The world's at her 
doorstep, and Alma John sees to it the welcome mat 
is out and the porch light left gleaming into the night. 


(Continued from page 18) 

that he's going to cut his next record 
album on pizzas — if the audience doesn't 
hke the music they can eat them. . . . 

Art Linkletter's new show, "Odd- 
ball," will be seen in January, and Art 
plays the role of a father whose daugh- 
ter's name is Dawn. Link admits that 
"acting" is different from emceeing. "I 
take the script home at night and study 
my lines," he says, "then the next day 
director David Swift will diplomati- 
cally say, 'Link, try it this way . . .' His 
interpretations are always different 
from mine, and, after discussing the 
change with him, I find he's right 8 
times out of 10. He ought to be — he 
wrote the script, too." . . . John Conte 
to Europe for three weeks in January 
to complete his NTA Mantovani musi- 
cal series. . . . Linliletter to India in 
February for his "winter" cruise . . . 
Bob Loggia of "Elfego Baca" fame back 
from New York and a new Disney con- 
tract. . . . John Payne taking half of 
January off to be with his family more 
during the holidays. But it's not a real 
vacation for John — he hides in his 
work-room at home rewriting Restless 
Gun scripts. . . . Before Warner An- 
derson went into the Lineup series, he 
was seen in The Doctor series, which 
received only mild success and was on 
during Jack Webb's most popular 
period. Anderson said, at the time, that 
the best way to stay on the air was to 
become a detective. Proving to be his 
own best prophet, Warner has been on 
the air ever since. . . . Wyatt Earp mov- 
ing to another town? Not really — but 
a new, more authentic Western street 
is being built at the old Placeritas 
Ranch to reproduce in elaborate detail 
Tombstone City's main street. Writer 
Stuart Lake is a stickler for detail, has 
spent years in Tombstone, brought back 

Ann, here's a find for your ki+-si+ 
problem — Amanda "Kitty" Bloke, 
who, like your Tish, loves all 
pets. (See page i 8 for account.) 

photographs of the old town which will 
be reproduced and seen on the TV 
screen in 1959. Dodge City named an 
aUey after Wyatt Earp in 1957. Now an 
entire town is being rebuilt because of 
the magic television has brought to his 
name. Won't be long before we'll get 
him admitted to the Union. . . . Charlie 
Man With A Camera Bronson going 
home to Ehrenfeld, Pennsylvania, as 
the conquering hero for the holidays 
and to visit his mother, who is recov- 
ering from an operation. CharUe hasn't 
been home since he's worked his way 

up to stardom, admits that the physical 
labor involved in acting is just as tough 
as digging coal in a mine — which he did 
before turning to the boards. . . . Jack 
Smith sings! Jack, back before the 
cameras on You Asked For It, hasn't 
sung a note in two years. But so many 
letters remember "Smiling Jack" that 
he's been forced to come out of "retire- 
ment," and will sing on one of the early 
January shows. . . . John Newland 
thinks his new acting-directing assign- 
ment on the ABC-TV Alcoa show is the 
greatest. Series is built around true 
stories of unexplained experiences and 
premonitions. I have a premonition that 
this could be a hit. . . . Walter Bren- 
nan's son and four grandchildren down 
from their Oregon ranch to visit dui'- 
ing the Xmas season; Walter then took 
off for Washington, D.C., to visit his 
daughter and grandchildren there over 
New Year's. Walter's son-in-law is a 
colonel in the Army. . . . Truth Or Con- 
sequences goes on the road in January 
with emcee Bob Barker hating to leave 
his new home. The laugh of the year 
was handed Bob last month when he 
came home to find his wife, Dorothy 
Jo, trying to teach their two bassett 
hounds how to use the newly installed 
"doggie door" onto the back porch. 
"DJ," as Bob calls his bride, was on 
hands and knees pushing on the door 
with her head, then scurrying through 
to the porch. She did this two or three 
times, Bob says, but the dogs didn't 
move. They did, however, watch her 
with some concern. Dorothy Jo defends 
her un-ladylike position with, "You 
won't laugh when you lock yourself out 
someday like I did — fortunately. Bar- 
ker, I'm still thin enough to go through 
that doggie door — you never will be." 
Well, that's North Hollywood for you! 

Dr. Wise, Thalian prexy Debbie 
Reynolds, Hugh O'Brian consult. 

It's over the waves, this month, for 
hep 'n' happy John Conte, wife Ruth. 

Young Tom Tryon was fine-arts major 
at Yale, now goes way of all thespians. 


"The Mall Order Shopper" 

Once It Was My 
Betrayer-but NOW- 






THK door slammed behind Marty, and slowly I crumpled 
to the floor. The sobs tore forth — deep and convulsive. 
"Marty . . . Marty ..." I whispered, brokenly, and then 
his words came back and I shuddered and I shook my 
head violently from side to side, trying to fling what 
he had said away from me — trying not to hear him 
again. But his words h\mg in the room — toneless, cold, 
but searing my heart like dry ice pressed close against 
flesh. This had been Marty talking, I realized, numibly 
— my Marty — with whom I had planned our tomorrow 
— who would grin and tousle my hair when I insisted 
that the very first furniture we'd buy after the wedding 
would be that big, comfortable man's chair we'd seen 
at O'Rourke's downtown. The Marty whom I'd sud- 
denly surprise looking at me with the special softness 
no one else ever saw. The Marty, whose wife I thought 
I was going to be — until a half -hour ago. 

"I'm leaving, Maggie," he'd said. Unbelieving, I'd heard 
the words, but it was the deadness of his voice that made 
me understand what he was saying. "I'm leaving, Maggie — 
for good. I'm not coming around any more. And I'm sorry 
for you, for both of us." 

"Sorry? Sorry for me?" I had flared, wildly. My voice 
rose in a scream. "Well, why not? Why not you? Every- 
one else is. The fat girl! Revolting Maggie Holland, once 
petite, demure Margaret and now offending the esthetic 
senses of her friends, her family — everybody! So why not 
you Marty?" 

His words had been flat, quiet. "You've let yourself 
go, you've given up on yourself, Maggie. Oh, I know 
there was a time when you really tried. I know you've 
taken pills, and gone on diets — even tried reducing 
salons. But the brutal truth is that you've stopped 
trying. You were my girl and I fell in love with you 
and I'd still be in love with the Maggie who could 
take it and still come back and win. But the Maggie I 
fell in love with wouldn't feel sorry for herself, wouldn't 
feel she was the only girl who'd ever been cursed 


by overweight, wouldn't snap at her friends, quarrel 
with her family, permit the love affair with the man 
she was going to marry to deteriorate into irritable days 
and nasty evenings. In a simple word the Maggie I knew 
was the one I wanted for my wife, not the girl I'm looking 
at now." 

I couldn't talk. Fury was choking me. At last the 
words had come in a strangled gasp. "Get out!!" And, 
then, as I felt the tears beginning to burn my eyes I 
quickly turned my back. Just before he closed the door 
behind him, a pale shaft of sunlight came into the room, 
and then he was gone, and only greyness was left and 
that was the way it would be forever, I felt. 

I didn't hear the door open minutes later, and I 
turned, startled, when I heard Ray's voice at my side. 
Ray is Doctor Raymond Holland and my cousin, and, 
at 32, one of the most respected and best-liked prac- 
titioners in town. His sympathetic eyes took in my 
disheveled hair and tear-stained face but all he said 
was: "I was on my way over and ran into Marty as he 
was leaving. We had a talk." 

"I hope he was less beastly then when he left here." 

Ray grinned. "He was quite civilized." Then he leaned 
down and lifted my chin with his fingers. "But he was 
suffering, Maggie. It isn't easy for a guy like Marty to 
walk out on something so important." 

My laugh was as tmpleasant as before. "Sioffering, 
indeed. I'll bet he was — worrying whether my fingers 
have gotten too pudgy for me to get his ring off to 
return to him. Or wondering how many people have 
been laughing at him all the time he's been going around 
with fat Maggie Holland — or suffering over — " Suddenly 
the bitterness ran out of me, wretchedness thickened 
my throat, and burying my face in my arms, I cried 
and Ray let me. 

After a while he dried my eyes with his handkerchief. 
Very quietly, he asked me: "Did you really understand 
what Marty was trying to say?" 



The Mail Order Shopper 


"But, Ray, I have tried. You know I have. I've exer- 
cised, gone through reducing routines. Even reducing 
pills have failed to help me, although I've known some 
girls who have lost weight using them. I've tried simple 
dieting and have failed at that. I have tried!" 

He took my hand in his, affectionately. "I know you 
have, honey. Marty knows it, too." He grinned as he 
continued. "And while you haven't lost any weight you 
must admit you've acquired just about the most difficult 
disposition in the family." 

I nodded, ruefully. "That's true enough. And I hated 
Marty for saying it. But how would you feel — or Marty, 
for that matter — if day after incessant day you'd stick 
faithfully to what someone promises will take the ugly 
fat off you, only to have the scales tell you differently? 
Wouldn't you feel irritable enough to bite the cat — as I 
almost have done once or twice?" 

Ray's intelligent face broke into a chuckle. "I certainly 
would. And that's how most overweight people feel. 
And that's why they stay overweight." 

"We stay fat because we're irritable?" I asked. 

"Uh-huh. Look, Maggie — all these advertisements you 
see about losing weight — they aren't phoney. They just 
aren't enough." 


"That's right. We doctors know that most of these 
pills have methyl cellulose in them and that they can 
do as they promise — fill the stomach so that an over- 
weight person won't feel the rumblings of hunger. That's 
simple and logical enough. But despite that, these products 
fail more often than not to do the trick." 

I asked: "But why, if what you say is true?" 

"It's true, all right. The trouble is that most reducing 
products don't take into account the most important ele- 
ment of all — the unbearable tension, the irritability, the 
feeling of all's wrong with the world that a girl like 
you has hanging over her all the time she's faithfully 
following instructions — or thinks she is. Maggie, my dar- 
ling, tell Doc Holland — isn't it true that for the two 
months you were taking the pills that you bought in 
Marshall's drugstore you continued to over-eat even 
though you weren't hungry?" 

Understanding broke over me. "Why, of course. I re- 
member asking myself why in the world I kept going to 
liie refrigerator when I wasn't hungry in the least. And 
yet I had to eat. I simply had to!" 

"You see?" Ray said quickly. "You had to eat when 
you were taking the pills and weren't hungry for the 
same reason you got fat in the first place — ^by over- 
eating when you were hungry. In both cases tension, 
nervousness, irritability drove you as they drive most 
people for whom weight becomes a problem." 

"Now see here, Doctor Holland, are you telling me 
that somebody — some firm — that imderstands this has come 
up with an answer to my problem?" 

"That's just what I'm telling you, Maggie. A short 
time ago an important pharmaceutical house sent me 
several packages of their new product, SLIMTOWN. 
Doctors continually receive samples of things that are 
new. What these people had to say about SLIMTOWN 
made sense. "They had combined 3 important ingredi- 
ents into their capsule. One was Antipatin that lets 
you continue to enjoy all yotir favorite foods but the 
craving for them diminishes. . . . The second was Gas- 
trofilin — tried and true — the ingredient that fools your 
stomach — makes it feel half -full to begin with even before 
you sit down to eat. . . . And the third — wonder of 
wonders — made the job complete and sold me immediately. 
That was the sensational new ingredient called Pacifin 
and its function is to remove completely the tension, 
the high-voltage irritability you Eind I have been talk- 
ing about. They guaranteed that SLIMTOWN would 
melt off the pounds because the user would not only 
not feel like overeating — he would feel calm, easy-going, 
at peace with himself while the poxinds dropped off. 
Clara Jenkins came into my office later in the day. 
You remember Clara — she weighs 200 pounds — or at 
least she did. I told Clara to take the SLIMTOWN 1 
had received — told her to eat all she really wanted to 
eat and to take SLIMTOWN as directed. Clara pooh- 
poohed it. But finally she took the capsules. That was 
four weeks ago. Yesterday Clara was in my office. 
She had lost 23 pounds and had come to my office to 
kiss me and almost did right there in front of my 

I confess that if it had been anyone other than Ray 
Holland telling me this I simply wouldn't have believed 
it. But Ray is the most confidence-inspiring doctor I 
know — young enough to have been in recent contact 

with the newest in the medical world and old enough 
to tell the gilt from the gold. My hopes began to rise 
like a rocket. 

I said: "Let me get this straight. The pills I've been 
taking haven't helped because I was wound up like a 
clock and couldn't keep from nervous eating?" 

"Correct," said Ray. 

"And SLIMTOWN will have the calming and soothing 
effect on me that will let me eat what I want to eat and 
not go hog-wild?" 

"That's right." 

"And I'll be able to eat the things I love — steaks, 
desserts? All I really want?" 

Ray nodded vigorously. "Absolutely." 

"And the pounds will drop off in bunches?" 

"As much as 7 to 10 pounds per week," Ray said. 

"And Marty?" I asked, smiling for the first time. 

Ray grinned back, "SLIMTOWN guarantees Marty, too, 
I'll bet." 

"Well, what are we waiting for. Dr. Holland? Let's 
get over to your office and get those SLIMTOWNS 
before they're gone," 

"They are gone," Ray said sheepishly. "My enthu- 
siasm ran away with me and there's Jane Morgan and 
Mrs. Orikoff and several others who were simply made 
for SLIMTOWN. But you can buy SLIMTOWN. They 
cost only $2.98 for a full 10-day supply. And $4.98 for 
a big 20-day treatment. $6.98 for 30-Day Supply. 

Here's the address: 

SLIMTOWN, Dept. H-42, 11 E. 47 St., New York 17, N. Y. 

They're sold with an absolute money back guarantee if 
they don't do exactly as they say they'll do: take the fat 
off you quickly and agreeably. They really don't guarantee 
you'll get Marty back. That's up to you." And with a light 
kiss on my forehead, Ray left. 

How can I tell you what Ray did for me? When I 
thought of the courage it had taken for Marty to talk 
to me the way he did, and of how I had screamed in 
return, my face burned with shame. 

My impulse was to rush to the phone and call him, 
but I decided to wait, to surprise him. However, I hadn't 
reckoned on the meddling Dr. Holland. Because when 3 
weeks later and 18 pounds lighter, with an elegant dress 
that showed off my figure and a sunny, smUing face 
to match I led Marty into the living room, he didn't look 
surprised one bit. 

He said, right off: "I've arranged for my vacation in 
Jtine. We can be married then. Okay?" 

Just like that. I couldn't find words. I nodded. 

He said: "I've found an apartment. You'll love it." 

Ecstatic, I nodded again. 

"We'll be able to get all the furniture except the 
couch. That'll take three or four months more." 

I finally foxind my voice. I said demiirely: "Not every 
girl gets two proposals from the same man. Isn't this 
one rather abrupt?" 

The creases around Marty's eyes highlighted their 
twinkle. "I love you," he said. 

Mischievously, I waved my hand at myself. "My 
dress too?" 

"Love you," he repeated. "Know all about your figure. 
Knew about it first day you started. Doc Holland told me. 
SLIMTOWN, great stuff." 

We've been married 3 years now. A wonderful mar- 
riage. Marty, me, httle Martin. SLIMTOWN'S there too, 
any time I need it. 

To the reader of this story: As the creators of 
SLIMTOWN, we have been pleased to present 
Margaret Holland's story. Miss Holland's experi- 
ence is duplicated by thousands of women who 
have found new happiness through SLIMTOWN — 
whose lives have been changed by the greatest 
discovery for overweight people ever developed by 
medical science! We guarantee that you will lose 
up to 7 to 10 pounds the very first week without 
dieting, without exercise, without nervous tension. 
Never has there been any reducer like SLIMTOWN. 
You may order by sending $2.98 for the 10-day 
supply. $4.98 for 20-day supply. $6.98 for 30-Day 

SLIMTOWN, Dept. H-42 

11 E. 47 St., New York 17, N. Y. 

If SLIMTOWN does not live up to your fullest 
expectations, your money will be refunded without 
question or hesitation. 



(Continued from page 40) 
my son as "Will" — which he doesn't par- 
ticularly like, since he prefers to be called 
plain "Hutch." These days, it seems like 
I'm always being asked how it feels to 
have a Hollywood star in the family. My 
answer, in essence, is always the same: 
To me, Will was never any better or 
worse than any normal boy to whom any 
mother, anywhere, would point with 
pardonable pride. As I see it, being a 
favorite in the entertainment world is his 
job. While I respect his position and am 
grateful for his good fortune, this doesn't 
single him out for a special star in his 

On the contrary, I think God's real re- 
wards are those which are earned by the 
beat of an vmderstanding heart and the 
honesty in a man's soul. In this respect, 
Will has been blessed. Fate and faith have 
always played great parts in our lives. 
I not only am confident certain things are 
meant to be, but I believe adverse ex- 
perience often teaches a lesson. Invari- 
ably, we gain more than we lose. 

This has been proven to WiU many 
times. The most important time, I think, 
was after his discharge from the Army 
Signal Corps. During his Paris stint as a 
cryptographer, he was stimulated by his 
close contact with the top brass and 
learned a great deal. Following his dis- 
charge, there was a great letdown when 
he came home in 1954 and discovered 
his own private world had changed. Some 
of Will's good friends had moved away. 
Others were married and leading new lives 
that excluded him. Will felt lost. 

However, he was never afraid of hard 
work and, while trying to orient himself, 
he took a job delivering Christmas pack- 
ages for the post office. The hours were 
ghastly, but it isn't in Will to complain. 
Finally, he came to a decision. Having 
been graduated Phi Beta Kappa and cum 
laude — he had a B.A. degree in drama — 
he took advantage of the GI Bill and en- 
rolled at U.C.L.A. for his M.A. in motion 
picture production. (Will's love of acting 
dates back to the age of three, when he 
was already turning our garage into a 

With all my heart, I believe that faith 
and fate were at work when NBC-TV's 
Matinee Theater held auditions for the 
college drama students. Although Will 
still wasn't confident enough to try out 
himself, he agreed to accompany another 
fellow and help boost his morale. 

While the other students gave their all 
for their art. Will curled up comfortably 
behind the piano and fell asleep! The di- 
rector spotted him at the end of the ses- 
sion and, upon learning that Will was a 
drama student, too, urged him to try out 
and make the report one-hundred per- 
cent. Will read reluctantly — and came 
away with the big leading role of a psy- 
chopathic killer in "The Young And 

The hour-long show went on "live" 
TV at noon. At eight o'clock that night — 
and with no dinner — WiU was still talking 
to agents, studios and casting directors, 
who had caught his performance and 
wanted to see him the following day. Will 
couldn't have been more surprised — or, 
being a greenhorn, less impressed! He 
turned them all down, saying it was im- 
possible. It was so typical of Will: He had 
promised to take some kids to the beach 
and didn't want to go back on his word. 

T When he felt free to make appointments, 

y WiU agreed to go out to Warner Bros. 

, first — because TV producer WiUiam Orr's 
secretary had been so charming on the 
phone. In lieu of a screen test, they de- 


My Son, "Sugarfoot" 

cided to star WiU in a segment of their 
Conflict series. After that, he played two 
more parts for Matinee Theater before 
the studio signed him to a long-term con- 

Following several TV and movie roles 
at Warner's, Sugarfoot was created by 
them expressly for Will — one of the few 
times an hour-long series has been tailored 
for an "unknown." As the gentle Western- 
er with a sense of himior and a sense of 
justice. Will was on his way. Fate and 
faith had paid off! Sugarfoot— a term for 
someone who is one step below a tender- 
foot — is close to Will's heart. 

Will was bom a few miles away from 
Hollywood's studios. He went to three 
schools, each within the radius of a mile 
in the Griffith Park district. He was quite 
yotmg when he lost his father — who like 
his own father before him, was a promi- 
nent dentist, though he would have been 
happier doing something creative in the 
arts. Will's father was very good at his 
work, but it was confining, and he loved 
to be outdoors whenever possible. On days 
off, we packed Will in a Moses basket and 
toted him everywhere, including the High 
Sierras. As a result, he stiU loves being 
outdoors and close to the earth. 

I think any mother left alone, with a 
boy to raise, wiU imderstand my deep- 
rooted feeling of responsibility. His father 
had been married before, and Will has 
a stepbrother who is very close to him to- 
day. However, because of the difference 
in age, they didn't have as much in com- 
mon while Will was growing up, so he 
was, in a sense, an "only child." 

For as far back as I can remember, Will 
was shy. His teachers, aware of his shy- 
ness, put him in school plays to help out. 
One time, WiU played a jester who was 
supposed to make the queen laugh. She 
laughed, all right. His pants fell off in the 
midst of it aU, and he unbared more than 
his soul! Hasty repairs were made, with 
the help of a large safety pin, and — in the 
best tradition of the trouper Will really is 
— ^the show went on. 

Aside from the fact that WiU had no 
Uttle brothers or sisters, we are a large 
family and always try to be together on 
festive occasions. When Will was quite 
young, his grandfather used to work out 
little stunts for him to perform. I noticed 
then, whenever he was wearing a cos- 
tume or holding a prop in his hand, he 
came out of his shell. He's always loved 
slapstick and yearns to do comedy on the 
screen. Someday, I think he will, too. 

In grammar school, Will developed a 
terrific crush on a girl named Lorraine. 
He'd watch her from behind the curtains, 
but could never bring himself to go out- 
side and play with her. One evening, at 
the dinner table, he proudly announced: 
"Today I walked home with Lorraine." 
Needless to say, I was deUghted that he 
had overcome his shyness, and asked him 
if he had carried his little friend's books. 
"Oh, no," he said, in a horrffied voice, "I 
just ran ahead of her — and jumped out 
from behind the hedges!" 

He mooned over another girl in junior 
high and wrote her poetry which he was 
too shy to present. At the beginning of 
his high-school days, there was another 
big crush. Will would write out what he 
wanted to say to her — then sit by the 
phone, too shy to caU. It took a full week 
before he summoned up courage to ask 
her to go to a prom. When he finally 
blurted out his invitation, she accepted so 
fast he was less shy from that moment on. 
Will has always loved a home and home 
life. He feels that he's finaUy ready for 
marriage and I hope he has a large famUy, 

loving kids the way he does. After he 
signed his contract, he found a little hiU- 
top home overlooking the lights of Holly- 
wood. He bought it after one inspection 
tour and, when I went to see it, he said, 
"Why should you remain in your apart- 
ment when there's plenty of room for both 
of us? You took care of me — now it's my 
turn and I want to take care of you." 

That one little speech was the greatest 
reward, although I have never wanted 
any. NaturaUy, I was very touched, but 
I spoke my piece. Will's life is his own 
to live in his own way, and I never want 
him to feel responsible for me. Quite 
honestly, I enjoy being with my friends, 
playing bridge, gardening, reading, taking 
long hikes and going to the theater. Be- 
sides, I am never lonely. WiU was so dis- 
appointed, however, it was agreed that I'd 
move in and stay long enough to get 
him started in his own home. 

Fortunately, Will's house is on two floor 
levels. He occupies the upstairs apartment 
and comes and goes as he pleases. He 
never teUs me where he's been, or who 
he's been with, and this is the way it 
should be. His weekends are usually de- 
voted to making personal appearances, or 
following the different sports when he is 
free. When he is shooting, WiU works imtil 
seven or later. He's tired when he gets 
home and likes to flop on the coach and 
relax, watching sport events on television. 
Tliere are times when he's moody and 
uncommunicative, but, whatever the rea- 
son, he keeps it to himself. WiU loves play- 
ing records, and I guess Louis Armstrong 
is the great favorite in his huge collection. 
He still reads a lot and generally has about 
six books going at once. He likes animals 
and, as a kid, collected ducks, turtles, cats 
and dogs, but now there's only room for 
the dog he's keeping for neighbors who are 
in Evu-ope. He dresses too casuaUy most 
of the time, but he's showing signs of 
developing an interest in proper attire. 
Because he's friendly, courteous and 
respectful, some people get the impression 
that Will is phlegmatic. On the contrary, 
he can't be pushed around. Indeed, where 
his work is involved, he's ruthless. Al- 
though he radiates charm and innocence, 
he has a temper — which he usually di- 
rects at himself. His honesty is most dis- 
arming. If he asks anyone to watch and 
criticize his show, he expects the truth and 
flattery annoys him. He "plays at" playing 
the guitar, and his imrealized dream is to 
form his own company and help imdis- 
covered talent. 

Even as a tiny towhead with a humor- 
ous smUe which has always been a win- 
ner, Will was destined to make his mark. 
He's come a long way and he's never lost 
that humor — not even when his studio in- 
sisted on bleaching his sun-streaked hair 
to a solid corn-yellow color. It was better 
for photographic purposes, but he still 
doesn't like it. 

It was early in September of 1956 that 
Will signed his contract — and they decided 
to change his name. Being descendants of 
illustrious ancestors, we had hoped to keep 
his name in the family and so we con- 
trived a long list of suggestions. When 
they preferred something that soimded 
more like a Western star, our efforts were 
in vain. They puUed "WUl Hutchins" out 
of the hat and MarshaU LoweU Hutchason 
— being new and green — didn't feel that 
he should protest. In the final analysis, 
it's what a name stands for that really 
counts, and I hope all you fans who 
have been so good to him will agree with 
me that my son, "Sugarfoot" Will Hutch- 
ins, stands for some of the best qusdities 
a mother could ever want. 

What's New— East 

(Continued from page 67) 

tet, featured in Fred Astaire's spectacular 
spectacular, romp again in a new Capitol 
release, "Swingin' at the Cinema." . . . 
Clara Ward, the gospel singer who has 
many times sparked the Garroway show 
and also set the Newport Jazz Festival on 
its ear, has recorded for Dot, "Gospel 
Concert With Clara Ward." This is sing- 
ing that pKJsitively electrifies. . . . 
Beefcake, Burrcake: Raymond Burr (or 
Perry Mason), his shirt collar opened, sat 
behind the hotel desk and mulled this 
question: "Would you like to do a TV 
whodunit spectacular starring you, Ellery 
Queen, and Dragnet's Jack Webla? The 
idea would be to present a murder and 
see who could solve it first." Burr sud- 
denly grinned and said, "You must be kid- 
ding. Anyway, we're on different net- 
works, so it's impossible. But it would be 
interesting." He then said, "I've never had 
an inclination to do amateur sleuthing but 
I'm becoming a pretty good amateur 
lawyer. I've been reading law books by the 
pound and, you know, I think some day I 
might go after a law degree." Another time- 
consumer for Burr is answering mail. "I 
get about 2,000 letters a week. Out of those, 
about 300 require a personal answer. Ages 
of the writers range from about eight to 
eighty and a lot are from women. From 
about eighteen on up, they ask if I'm mar- 
ried." He's a bachelor and says, "Actually, 
Delia is my idea of a perfect woman — or, 
rather, a combination of Delia and Barbara 
Hale, who plays the part. Of course, Bar- 
bara is already happily married, and in 
her marriage she's a good partner who 
does things with her husband and family. 
A perfect woman would be like this." 
Offbeat: New Broadway play, "Far Away 
the Train Birds Cry," starring James Mac- 
Arthur, was written by Lionel Kranitz, 
who plays Ted Blake in Brighter Day. . . . 
N.Y. Chapter of Academy of Television 
Arts and Sciences reports film production 
in the East is on the upswing. Txi first ten 
months of '58, the Department of Com- 
merce reported 100-million dollars in bill- 
ings in N.Y.C., and this gave emplojmient 
to some 25,000 people, all told. Come East, 
young man. . . . But you don't have to 
live in N.Y.C., Chi or L.A. to be a long- 
time network star. Slim Wilson, of Jubilee, 
U.S.A., has never budged more than a 
dozen miles from Springfield in the past 
25 years but has made some 26,000 broad- 
casts. . . . ABC-TV's Johnny Carson tells 
about the woman who complained to a 
psychiatrist that her husband believed he 
was a refrigerator. "But what bothers me," 
said the woman, "is that he sleeps with 
his mouth open at night and the light 
keeps me awake." 

Come Safari with Me: A white hunter, 
Chris PoUet, came to N.Y.C. to talk about 
Lowell Thomas and safari. Chris, who 
acted as Lowell's guide in the Belgian 
Congo, was impressed by Mr. Thomas. "He 
was always moving, looking, writing and 
asking questions. And you knew, from the 
kind of question he asked, that he was 
no novice." Chris, a 27-year-old Belgian, 
is no less intriguing. Five years ago^ he 
went to the Congo to work for Sabena 
Airlines. Then he decided to start a croco- 
dile farm. A year-and-a-half later, a herd 
of rogue elephants trampled his farm and 
made an omelet out of his alligator eggs. 
He became a hunter and today takes safaris 
into the Congo for big-game hunting and 
photographic safaris. A 21-day safari for 
two costs $2,790. "And you better come 
soon," Chris says. "A few more years and 
there will be too much civilization." If you 
want to plan your summer vacation now, 
write Chris, c/o Pollet Safaris, P.O.B. 220, 
Bunia, Ituri, Belgian Congo. 


Add up the figures and 
find out! Most anybody 
can add, but can you add 
correctly? The reason 
people like number puz- 
zles is because they are 
fascinating. Fun right 
in your home and CASH 
AWARDS (now on de- 
posit) for the WINNERS. 

$69360.00 In cash prizes 

FIRST PRIZE $2000 (inclnding: bonng) 

Second Prize $1000.00 

Third Prize $500.00 

Fourth Prize _ $350.00 

6th to 8th Prize, each $200.00 

9th to 13th Prize, each $100.00 

14th to 18th Prize, each $50.00 

19th to 44th Prize, each $25.00 

45th to 75th Prize, each $10.00 


1. This Is entirely a contest of numbers, strictly 
a Game of Skill. Add together the numbers that 
make up the drawing of the Stork and get the 
SUM TOTAL, of the figures. The picture is made 
up of single digits : 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8 and 9. There 
are no sixes, no ones, no zeros. There are no 
double numbers like "23" etc. Just add 2 plus 
3 plus 5, etc., and get the SUM TOTAL. In 
real life, of course, a Stork has no feathers in 
the eye or on the beak and legs so these black 
areas are not a part of your problem. For the 
purposes of this puzzle just add together the fig- 
ures which form the body of the stork. There 
are no tricks to this puzzle, just a problem in 

2. First prize is $1,500. If you send your con- 
tribution before the date printed on the entry 
blank you will qualify for the $500 Promptness 
Bonus making the total First Prize $2,000. The 
Promptness Bonus will be added to the first prize 
only. Only persons sending a $5.00 contribution 
to our Scholarships Program are eligible for these 
cash prizes. No additional donation will be re- 
quired at any time during the contest. Checks 
and Money Orders should be made payable to 
"SCHOL.AKSHIPS, EVC." Send cash if you pre- 
fer. Write us for additional puzzle sheets if you 
need them. 

3. You should check and recheck your solution 
carefully before mailing. Once It has been sent 
it may not be changed or withdrawn. A contest- 
ant may submit an additional entry in this con- 
test with an improved score provided, each such 
entry is accompanied by the required $5.00 con- 
tribution. We will acknowledge receipt of your 
entry and contribution promptly. 

4. Any person may enter and win except where 
local laws or regulations are restrictive. (This 
means that this year in response to many re- 
quests we shall accept entries from localities out- 
side the United States.) Persons directly con- 
nected with Scholarships Inc.. their advertising 
agency, and members of their immediate families 
are ineligible. Prize winners of $500 or more in 
our previous contests are ineligible. 

5. Entries will be accepted from January 1 to 
May 10. Entries postmarked May 10 will be ac- 

6. In case of ties (which are probable) on this 
Stork Puzzle the winners will be decided by a 
tiebreaker number puzzle consisting of drawing a 

path across a chart of numbers to arrive at a 
high total. The contestant's position in the win- 
ning list will be determined by the best scores 
submitted; the best answer will receive First 
Prize, the second best answer will receive Second 
Prize, etc. In case of ties on the tiebreaker 
puzzle, prizes will be reserved for the positions 
of tied contestants and their final order of finish 
determined by additional tiebreaker puzzles until 
a definite winner for each prize is chosen. Seven 
days will be allowed for working the first tie- 
breaker puzzle and three days for each sub- 
sequent tiebreaker. If ties remain after seven 
tiebreaker puzzles, duplicate prizes will be paid. 

7. It is permissible for any contestant to re- 
ceive help from relatives or friends but ONLY 
ONE SOLUTION may be submitted to the tie- 
breaker puzzle by any group working together 
and any solution known to have been submitted 
in violation of this rule will be rejected. The 
sponsors of this contest reserve the right to de- 
cide any questions that may arise during the con- 
test and persons who enter agree to accept these 
decisions as final. 

Just as soon as the winners have been de- 
termined a complete Final Report of this contest 
including the names and scores of all winners, 
will be mailed to everyone who enters. Here is 
a contest soon over and soon paid off. The rules 
are simple and complete. It's entirely a contest 
of numbers, strictly a game of skill. A pencil is 
the only tool required and you start on an equal 
basis with everyone else. No pictures to identify, 
no statements to write. If you iiave never taken 
part in a number puzzle contest why not give it 
a try. Give yourself a fair chance to succeed. 
This may be the hobby you have been looking for. 

Scholarships, Inc. is a nonprofit corporation en- 
tirely managed by members of a local unit of a 
national veterans organization which was granted 
the Scholarships charter in 1954. Under the char- 
ter they are required to devote receipts in excess 
of prizes, advertising and legitimate expenses to 
nurses training, child welfare and other tax ex- 
empt worthy purposes. 

C. L. KITTUB, Manager 

Miss Gloria LefEler is one of over 85 nurses 
aided under our scholarships and writes; "I wish 
to thank you, Scholarships, Inc., for three most 
wonderful years and a life long dream come true. 
As a graduate nurse, I now have a bright future 
ahead of me." 

MaU to SCHOLARSHIPS, INC., BOX 241, Lawrenceburg, Ind. 

There are _ feathers on the Stork. Is $5.00 inclosed? — 

Type your name and address if possible. 




Donations mailed before Feb. 10, 1959, qualify for Promptness Bonus. 


Fun in the Afternoon 

(Continued jrom page 32) 
the next thing on the agenda for the day. 

Several days a week, this usually means 
hopping into his car and driving home to 
Greenwich, Connecticut, to the house the 
Parkses built and moved into about a year 
ago. Williamsburg in architecture and 
Space-Age in up-to-the-minute electronic 
equipment, extending from electric-eye 
doors to completely built-in hi-fi. 

Annette usually comes into New York 
one night during the week, when Bert 
can relax a little and take her to dinner 
and the theater, but none of their personal 
life, not even this one big night out, has 
any burden of urgency put upon it. Their 
social life is completely tied up with what 
Bert is able to do. 

Bert has learned the secret of pacing 
himself. "You have to find out how much 
you can do and how many hours you can 
keep going in a day, and what, for you, is 
the point of fatigue. People in television 
are plagued with a dreadful sense of 
urgency about everything. It all must be 
done today, nothing can wait until tomor- 
row. I like to get one thing done and put 
my best into that, then go on to the job 
ahead. If necessary, I'll get up and at it 
earlier the next morning. 

"All busy people learn to control their 
time — doesn't the housewife at home, with 
the kids and the chores, and the errands 
and cooking? It isn't the work that makes 
people tired, but the piling up of petty 
frustrations and annoyances. The day when 
nothing goes right is the hard one, not the 
day when you never stop from morning 
until night but everything turns out well. 
Your feet may ache, but your head prob- 
ably won't, when the work is stimulating." 

Some performers need to study more 
and rehearse longer, but it's Bert's stock- 
in-trade that he is at his best when he is 
extemporaneous. "You work out some 
good ideas and then interpret them on the 
air under pressure. That's the only way 
for me." However, if any Bert Parks' 
show looks easygoing, the preparations are 
none-the-less precise and professional. 

Masquerade Party had a long-established 
procedure into which he fitted like the 
proverbial hand-in-glove, then added 
something of his own. And the panel is ex- 
perienced and spontaneous. Bandstand has 
always been a morning romp, participated 
in by regulars such as Skitch Henderson 
and the orchestra, Dorothy Olsen, Richard 
Hayes and all the rest and produced by 
Parker Gibbs. 

But County Fair has required more prep- 
aration. The big set with its atmosphere of 
a midway, the delightful costuming, the di- 
versity of stunts, of audience-participation 
bits, the guest stars and songs and dances, 
must all be carefully planned. In the mid- 
dle of it, however, stands Bert — while 
places are being "blocked" for the cameras 
and action is being timed — putting on an 
impromptu performance which has little 
to do with the one he will later give on 
the air. 

He kids with the cast, with Ken Williams, 
the barker-announcer, who used to be on 
the old County Fair radio show v^hiich 
went off the air in 1950. With Herb Lan- 
don, associate producer, also a veteran of 
that early show, and with Bill Gale, the 
third veteran of the old show, then its 
orchestra leader and now musical director 
and co-owner. 

The studio swarms with busy people, 
each intent on his job. Producer Perry 
Cross, director Joe Durand and assistant 
Jim Gaines, art director Don Shirley, 
writers Bob Carman, Mike Marmer and 
Larry Miller. 

You hear his name called every minute. 
"Bert, you will be standing here when 
Ken makes his announcement." "Bert, do 
you know the kind of thing you will be 
doing as the camera pans to you at this 

Always, you sense that Bert's alert mind 
is trying to find out what people will en- 
joy, what they will listen to and watch, 
even when he seems to be doing nothing 
but clown around. "I made up my mind 
early that no show of mine would ever get 
static, if I could help it, or fall into a rut. 

"From the first, I've talked about County 
Fair as being 'fun in the afternoon,' and 
that's exactly what we want it to be. It's 
directed toward the whole family, the kids 
home from school, any stray husband who 
is around the house, and the woman who 
is trying to gather up her forces to meet 
the onslaught of dinner and daddy's home- 
coming and all the attendant excitement, 
and later getting the younger kids to bed 
on time and the older ones to their home- 

As a matter of fact, Bert is himself a 
homework-helper for the Parks' eleven- 
year-old twins, Joel and Jeffrey, now in 
seventh grade, and for nine-year-old Pet- 
ty (Annette, Jr.) in the fourth grade. 

He describes himself as "a fellow with 
a normally nine-to-five day that could be 
frantic if I would let it." That normal day 


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goes something like this: He drives in from 
Connecticut to the NBC studio in Radio 
City, about forty-five minutes before 
Bandstand goes on the air, unrehearsed, of 
course, as far as he is concerned, but 
carefully planned. 

At lunch time, there are the usual inter- 
views, details to discuss, people to see. 
Sometimes he sneaks out to do a little 
shopping, a bicycle he promised Petty or 
som'» thing the twins want. 

After lunch, he goes to the huge tele- 
vision studio in the same Radio City 
building, which a few hours later takes 
on all the aspects of a county fair, includ- 
ing a brightly lighted whirling ferris 
wheel. The cycle has made the full turn, 
Bert thinks, and television is back to 
personality shows. Daytime shows with 
night-time quality. Shows with lots of 
music and guests, with the illusion of big- 
ness and excitement. 

At home, he is able to forget Bert 
Parks, the performer, although he works 
just as energetically at cleaning out the 
garage or fixing an obstreperous door as 
he does before the cameras. "I never could 
take things slowly," he explains. "I don't 
really feel you have to slow down. As soon 
as you take your mind off the things you 
have to do all the time, you're relaxing. 
For me, it can be working around the 
house or yard, kicking a football with 
the boys, or driving Petty to a party. As 
long as it isn't routine and I am not tied 
down by a set of rules, then it's not work. 

He has remained himself because he's 
never over-dramatized his job. He has 
never taken any of his success big. When 
he leaves New York and goes out to the 
coimtry, he's just a family man with a 
lot of odd jobs waiting for him at home. 

"I started in show business when I was 
very young, doing amateur things," Bert 
said. "I was only three or four when my 
parents took my brother and me to a 
summer resort hotel and I used to sneak 
up toward the stage and pretend I was 
leading the orchestra. When the laughter 
gave me away, the leader would invite 
me up and let me wave his baton, solemn- 
ly. After that, neither my parents nor 
anyone else coiild stop me, I guess. In fact, 
it was my father who encouraged me to 
do imitations and helped me with the 
make-up. He was a frustrated singer and, 
I am sure, got a kick out of seeing some 
of his talent coming out in me." 

At seventeen, Bert was already an an- 
nouncer over local radio in his hometown 
of Atlanta, Georgia, and, at nineteen, a 
network radio announcer. A few years 
later, his big career was launched when 
he became straight-man and singer with 
the Eddie Cantor radio show. 

"It didn't harm me to start early, quite 
the opposite. But Annette and I are well 
satisfied that our three are just children 
yet. We think it is important for them to be 
with their friends and in their school 
area, and the rest will come. So far, they 
have shown no desire to follow in my early 
footsteps. The boys have talent for mimi- 
cry and singing, and Petty is very talented 

"As a family, we have very good times, 
although we don't do anjrthing too special 
or too earth-shaking." 

Bert has a theory about people who are 
in the entertainment business: "You have 
to participate in it actively. You have to 
work at it, but you have to remember the 
importance of pacing yourself. And you 
really have to enjoy it or you couldn't 
possibly work so hard. It's all just a lot 
of fun for me." 

In Defense of Working Mothers 

(Continued from page 55) 
if we are willing to listen, from the ex- 
periences of other working mothers." 

Since September, 1951, Mary has starred 
as Joanne Tate in Search For Tomor- 
row. A month before the premiere of 
the dramatic serial, she had married dy- 
namic, dark and handsome Richard Kro- 
lik, now head of his own public relations 
office. On July 30, 1955, their daughter 
Cynthia was born, a pretty pixie with 
light brown hair and soft gray eyes like 
her mother's. On October 17, 1956, Jeffrey 
was bom, a lively little boy very like his 
sister, and her constant shadow until she 
started to nursery school last fall. 

"I admit," says Mary, "that being a 
working mother with two little ones, only 
fourteen-and-a-half months apart, can be 
exhausting at times. When they were 
babies, I got very little sleep because I 
insisted on doing everything for them my- 
self. I would be more sensible with the 
next one, but it was a great satisfaction 
to me then. Like all mothers, I felt that 
no one could tend to their needs as well 
as I." 

Modem woman starts from the premise 
that every mother, including the home- 
staying one, needs to develop some inter- 
est of her own in order to be completely 
happy. Her work can be contained within 
her own four walls. She can star as a 
superb cook, decorator, home designer, 
hostess. She can paint or write, sing or 
play a musical instrument, keeping her 
talent alive until there is more time for it. 
She can utilize her administrative or or- 
ganizational abilities in community or club 
projects. The one requirement is that her 
activities must be personally stimulating 
and give her a feeling of accomplishment. 

That sense of satisfaction is equally 
important to the woman who has a job 
to do away from home and family — the 
working mother. "My work is fascinating 
to me," Mary says. "I love being on tele- 
vision as Joanne Tate. She is a part of 
me now. I have grown with her, after 
seven-and-a-half years. I wouldn't give 
her up lightly, unless it interfered with 
the children and our home life. So far, 
Richard and I feel that none of us has 
missed anything. He is a busy man, and 
the time we spend together and with the 
children is doubly precious to us both." 

JVlary works four mornings a week, is 
away for rehearsals and broadcast from 
8: 15 until 12: 45. She hurries home, either 
in time to have lunch with the children, 
or immediately after. To play with them, 
put them down for naps, dress them and 
take them to the park, give them their 
dinner when they come home just before 
their daddy arrives. Occasionally, there is 
an interview, a business lunch, a fitting 
or some downtown shopping. If so, she 
always explains to the children that she 
will be delayed. 

Having help, either a relative or paid 
help, has advantages and disadvantages, 
and the working mother must be ready 
to accept both: "It means coming home 
to your own house and finding another 
woman in charge of it and your chil- 
dren. It means having another woman 
working in the house with you, probably 
living there, and having to adjust to her 

"I believe, at least in the beginning, 
there is an emotional factor involved, 
a kind of competition between you. The 
first two helpers I had — and lost — were 

probably not as much at fault as I was. 
Just knowing someone else was doing 
the cooking I loved to do, and the things 
for my baby that I had been doing, made 
it hard for me. A woman has to face this 
problem and change herself before she 
changes anything else." 

In choosing the kind of person with 
whom she must leave her children, Mary 
prefers a woman who is a little slow and 
gentle, who will stop to listen to a child. 
She believes in establishing a good rela- 
tionship with that person at the outset, in 
setting up "ground rules," in letting it be 
known, kindly but firmly, what you ex- 
pect and what you will not tolerate. 

"This immediately takes away some of 
the tensions," she explains. "In my case, 
I had to learn to turn things over to 
others without making a fuss. I had to 
learn that it was Pearl's kitchen (Pearl 
being the full-time nurse-cook) and 
Martha's house (Martha being the part- 
time houseworker) and that they were 
freeing me to do the other things I wanted 
to do." 

Mary recalls the morning, early last 
spring, when they moved into the bigger, 
brighter apartment they had wanted for 
so long. It was a happy move, because it 
meant that each child would have a 
bedroom, Richard would have the library 
he'd talked about, and Mary would have 
the big living room, the dining room and 
well-equipped kitchen she had dreamed 
of. She came off the set of Search For 
Tomorrow that morning after a dramatic 
scene, in time to answer a telephone call, 
then began to cry quietly. 

"Why, Mary," director Dan Levin said, 
"I never knew you to be emotional like 
this about your work." Mary smiled a 

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bit ruefully: "I'm not — but what would 
you do if you had two sick children, it 
was moving day, and you were just told 
that the people who packed for you had 
misjudged the space so badly that you 
had to pay several hundred dollars more 
for an extra van and time?" 

The mother who can manage to be home 
in times of household crises is fortunate, 
but working mothers carmot always walk 
away from the job or even get time off. 
To avoid another such happening, Mary 
made plans for some time off when Cyii- 
thia started nursery school, until the 
little girl got used to riding back and 
forth with the other children in the 
school bus and to being away from the 
familiar faces of home for the first time 
in her life. "When Mommy can't always 
do things, sometimes Daddy can substi- 
tute — and very nicely," Mary observes. 
"Our daddy loves it when he can spare 
the time, and it's a treat for the children." 

The working mother learns to make 
compromises about everything — except the 
welfare of her children. If she starts out as 
a perfectionist, she soon learns to forget it. 
"The stuffing was beginning to poke out 
of one of my living-room chairs," Mary 
recalls, "and it stayed that way until I 
could find time to look up a man to fix it 
and to find the right fabric to re-cover it. 
There was a time when I couldn't have 
waited. I would have been impatient with 
delay. I wanted the house to be in perfect 
order all the time. But now I take these 
things quite calmly, knowing how rela- 
tively unimportant they are. As long as 
Richard and the children are all right, 
everything else can be made all right." 

The working mother with a schedule like 
Mary's has some advantages. The time she 
does spend with her children is all theirs. 
(This is especially true, if she has some 
help with the house — and the children 
are apt to be more independent and adapt- 
able, because they are exposed to other 
adults and learn to make some adjust- 
ments of their own.) "The quality of time 
spent with a child has always seemed as 
important to me as the quantity," Mary 
points out. "I said this when I had only 
one child, and I believe it even more 
firmly now." 

The mother who has outside contacts 
— not necessarily outside work or paid 
work, but something that takes her out of 
the home into an interesting environment 
— brings back a fresh viewpoint. Many 
mothers get some of this from adult groups, 
P.-T.A. meetings, community work, where 
they get together and exchange ideas, and 
it is by no means any the less stimulating 
and helpful to the children. 

Mary believes that, as children grow up, 
it is easier for the mother with a job to re- 
lease them to live their own lives. "She 
already has another focus of attention and 
she doesn't have to search for something 
to fill the empty hours. But the working 
mother has to pay for this, through the 
years, by also putting up with certain dis- 

"She often gets over-tired — but what 
mother doesn't! Her social life suffers — 
in fact, the first thing that went, for Rich- 
ard and me, was our very pleasant social 
life. We used to go out to dinner, we went 
to parties, we went to the theater. Now 
it's a treat to go to the movies occasion- 
ally. We used to dress up to go out. Now 
I sneak into the neighborhood movie 
theater with a coat thrown over my 'work- 
ing clothes.' Richard buys me a chocolate 
cocoanut bar, supplies himself with a bag 
of peanuts, and there we sit, happily. 

Having to be extra-watchful is another 
price the busy mother pays. And being 
extra-sensitive to the moods of the chil- 
dren and the first signs of trouble. For a 
whiile, Cynthia wasn't eating her lunch, and 

Pearl couldn't figure out the reason. So 
Mary watched carefully, one day, as they 
came to the table. Jeff — Pearl's very spe- 
cial baby, because she has looked after 
him practically from the beginning — got a 
little hug from her as she lifted him into 
his chair. Cynthia, considered big enough 
to climb up by herself, was left to her own 
devices. Only a mother's eye would have 
noted the difference, and only a mother's 
understanding could have suggested the 

"If you can sell Cynthie on the idea 
that she needs no babying because she 
is big and Jeff is still little, that's fine," 
Mary told Pearl. "But I don't think she's 
quite ready to absorb that. Try treating 
both children alike and see what hap- 
pens." It took about three days of identical 
hugs from Pearl to establish peace at the 
lunch table, but Cynthie began to eat 
normally again and her pleased smile at 
the embrace was proof that her mother 
was right. "Children can't tell you what's 
troubling them, so you have to be alert," 
Mary explains. 

There is always need to establish re- 
spect for the person who takes over for 
you with the children, and still not let 
that person usurp the mother's place. 
Daddy and Mommy should be looked up to 
as the people who give instructions and 
make any important decisions, who solve 
problems and answer perplexing ques- 

"I think children should be taught re- 
spect for all adults," Mary says. "The 
very fact that their parents and other 
grown people have certain rights denied 
to them gives children something to look 
forward to when they grow up. This is 
one area in which I don't believe wholly 
in equal rights!" 

JVlary never tells her children that she is 
"going to work," Daddy "works," he "earns 
the money." Mommy goes to the studio 
"because she loves to" and must be there 
for her show. "I want the children to re- 
spect my work but not to think about the 
financial aspects, or to confuse my work- 
ing with tiieir father's job. He is the 
head of the house and the real provider 
of the things we need. Little girls should 
come to know how pleasant it is for a 
woman to have a home and to be in it, 
to be close to her children during their 
formative years. If a woman is completely 
satisfied at home, there is no finer life, 
nothing more fascinating than watching 
the children grow up day by day. 

"But if she must work, or something 
within her "drives her to express herself 
beyond the opportunities that family life 
affords — or she was already launched on 
a satisfying career, as I was before the 
babies came — then she should go ahead 
without any sense of guilt. If circum- 
stances force her to be a working mother, 
then it's necessity — and everyone can live 
with a necessity. It seems important to 
me, in such a case, that the mother should 
not make the children feel she is giving 
up things for them. 

"But, no matter what the reason for 
her working outside the home, the ad- 
justments of the mother who has three 
jobs — instead of only two — are always the 
same. How well she makes them can spell 
the difference between being a successful 
all-around person and a constantly over- 
tired, over-wrought woman. 

"I learned so much the hard way. I 
am still learning," says working-mother 
Mary. Every mother has to figure out the 
best ways for her, according to her own 
temperament and to her own situation. If 
she can, the whole experience of being 
mother, wife, home-maker — and also happy 
in some work of her choosing — can be a 
wonderful thing. But no one can promise 
her it will be easy!" 



Publl«hftr*« CUtaified Department (Trademark) 
for classified advertising rates, write to William R. Stewart, 9 South Clinton Street, Chicago 6 (Women's Feb.) 1959 


1100-1500 — MORE paid for your child's photo, if selected for 
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All at Sea With Elvis 

(Continued from page 26) 
Janet took it cool. She thought it would 
be "interesting." But her eyes danced 
when I asked the next obvious question: 
"How would you like to tell the other 
kids what happens? Would you care to be 
TV Radio Mirror's reporter during this 

Captain and Mrs. Day gave their con- 
sent. "Janet likes to write," said her 
mother. It was settled. Janet would sell 
her first story to TV Radio Mirror. We 
concluded a little briefing session just be- 
fore they were called to board ship. 

Thirty minutes later, the last of the 
troop trains came in. The whole press 
pack could have saved those hours of 
staring into strange faces. The other sol- 
diers had shouldered hxmdred-pound bar- 
racks bags and marched half the length of 
the pier. The Presley train was shunted 
right down to the gangplank. Elvis piled 
off, carrying an attache case and a book. 
Flash bulbs popped and reporters shouted. 
Longshoremen yelled, "Hey, Houndog!" 
M.P.'s and brass hurried him into the ele- 

Out of breath, the reporters crowded 
into the press room. Again, no Elvis. They 
hid him somewhere off-stage while a 
spokesmian for the Army delivered an ad- 
dress to the effect that Private Presley 
was just another private. That tore it. 
With deadlines close and telephones miles 
away, reporters got frantic. Photogs who 
had to drive to distant darkrooms got 
furious. "Bring out Elvis," they demanded. 

Then, in an instant, that mood changed. 
Private Elvis Presley strode in, grinned 
and sat down at a table. There is a magic 
about that boy. A reaching out to other 
human beings which carries without the 
use of words. Reporters who had been 
irritated, a moment before, smiled back 
and turned mellow. Writers swarmed 
around Elvis, demanding his signature. 
Photographers elbowed for room to shoot. 
I have never seen anything like it. 

Questions came fast. Elvis's answers 
were deft and touched with humor. How 
did he describe his ideal girl? "Female, 
sir," said Elvis. What did the guys in his 
company call him? "They've got lots of 
nicknames, but you wouldn't want to 
print them." 

He spoke seriously about his mother, 
who had died soon after he entered the 
Army. "Because I was an only child, she 
was very close. She was a friend who 
would let me talk to her any hour of the 
day or night, if I had a problem. I would 
get mad sometimes, when she wouldn't let 
me do something. But I found out she 
was right about almost everjd;hing. She 
would try to slow me up if I thought I 
wanted to get married." He would not 
marry while in the service. "Even if I 
fall in love, I figure if she's the right sort 
of girl, she'll wait for me." 

The press and Presley were having a 
fine talk together when the Army called 
time. The pier was crowded now. Fami- 
lies who had come to say goodbye to their 
own soldiers were trying to find them. 
Presley fans who had skipped school, and 
Terminal personnel on their lunch hour, 
pressed against the guard lines. The decks 
of the TJ.S.S. Randall were filled with 
troops and Army families. 

The Army kids had appropriated the 
best spot of all. Quite a flock of them 
were clustered on the flying bridge above 
the troop deck. Right in the center of the 
J group was the Day trio. I waved. It was 
^ time for Janet to take over as the TV 
Radio Mirror reporter. 

She airmailed her diary as soon as the 

ship docked at Bremerhaven. Her report, 

80 ^ ' 

which follows, has been shortened a bit, 
but there have been few changes. We feel 
thirteen-year-old Janet's own "copy" has 
the flavor of Emily Kimbrough's "Our 
Hearts Were Young and Gay." 

Janet begins: "When Daddy received 
our orders to Germany last February, I 
didn't even imagine that I would be on the 
same boat as Elvis Presley. In fact, I 
didn't know for sure until this morning 
that he was really sailing on the Randall. 
I was never so excited in my life. Judy, 
my nine-year-old sister, was excited, too. 
She was so excited she got sick, sick, sick. 

The Days were the first of the families 
to board. "We went straight to our cab- 
ins and then back on deck. I certainly 
didn't want to miss seeing Elvis!" She 
waited impatiently for the press confer- 
ence to end. "Elvis finally came on board 
about noon. They had some other soldiers 
waiting so that pictures could be taken of 
him walking up the gangplank with them. 
When he crossed, everyone on the Randall 
and on the pier started yelling. They 
made him turn around so they could take 
more pictures of him. Elvis even kissed a 
girl! Wish it could have been me. I was 
green with envy." 

Noise subsided while Elvis, his man- 
ager and members of the RCA Victor staff 
went down to the ship's library for a final 
talk. Janet went to her cabin to unpack. 
She almost missed the second wave of ex- 
citement. "I heard a band playing and 
people yelling. Elvis was standing on the 
deck giving away autographs and pictures. 
You can bet I was on that deck in two 

Janet had caught the fever. "I never 
thought that I could go crazy over any 
singer the way you see people doing in 
the newsreels and magazines, but I really 
flipped over Elvis. He's much more hand- 
some than any of his pictures and with 
those long, black eyelashes . . . Sigh!" 

The "All ashore" call came. Sailors cast 
off the lines. Elvis was at the rail. Per- 
ceptive Janet felt the drama. For the first 
time, he was leaving his native land. "I 
finally got his picture and just stood look- 
ing at it. Then I looked at the real Elvis. 
I wasn't yelling any more — just looking 
and thinking. He was very quiet and po- 
lite to everybody, but he looked sad — and 
a little mad. 

"Suddenly I felt a great pity for him. 
He must have been terribly tired and 
even with all these people, lonely. I 
wished I could have given him my own 
wonderful mother to talk to and help him. 
As we pulled away from the pier, I 
thought his eyes seemed ready to let a lit- 
tle tear go. I wanted to cry for him. 
Maybe that isn't really the way he felt — 
probably no one will ever know, but if I 
had been Elvis I would have." 

rJy the next morning, Tuesday, Janet was 
back to being a star-hunting teenager. "I 
haven't seen Elvis since yesterday. Ru- 
mor had it that he would be working in 
the library. I went down to see and 
couldn't find him. My father has seen 
him several times, close up. I don't really 
think he cares if he sees Elvis or not. I've 
been wondering what I should say to 
Elvis if I met him. Since he's so much 
older than I am, should I say 'Mr. Presley'? 

Peter Lind Hayes 

at your newsstand February 5 

But everybody else seems just to call him 
by his first name." 

As the ship logged distance, the Army 
kids got acquainted. They were quite 
friendly, in fact. The boys had begun to 
tease the girls. One boy reported that 1| 
Elvis had been in the nursery, singing to f ' 
the small children. When Janet went to 
see, he was gone. "Was I mad! Seems I 
miss everything. Well, tomorrow is an- 
other day." 

On Wednesday, the girls joined forces. 
"Darby Barnes, Sheilah Brown and Ter- h. 
ry Bishop are some of the girls I've met. f' 
They're just as excited as I am about be- 
ing on the Randall with Elvis. We spent 
the day looking for him — with no luck. 
He's in and out of the Transportation Of- 
fice all day. Usually we're on the sun 
deck when somebody rxms up saying 
'Elvis is in the coffee lounge.' Down we 
go and arrive to the tune of, 'He's just 
left.' It is very discouraging. 

"All the boys seem to be able to see 
him whenever they want to. They keep 
telling us, 'He doesn't like you girls. All 
you ever do is scream all over the place. 
He's scared of you.' That's enough to 
drive anybody crazy. You'd think we 
wanted to tear his clothes off." 

IJy Thursday, talk centered on the va- 
riety show, set for Sunday night. Janet 
wrote: "I'm praying that Elvis will be in 
it. Rehearsals are at 1:00 P. M. and 7 
P. M. Lots of people go to watch. They're 
usually thrown out by some chief petty 
officer — you should hear everybody talk 
about him. Madder than hornets. The 
captain who is in charge of the variety 
show is really great, though. He's very 
polite cind has a terrific sense of humor." 

Sometimes it seemed to Janet that that 
captain was the only one not bent on be- 
deviling the girls. A bit of Army vs. 
Navy was also working up. "I caught a 
glimpse of Elvis today. He was just leav- 
ing the Transportation Office. "The sailor 
who works in the ship's store is always 
telling us how he plays cribbage with 
Elvis. He nearly drives us crazy saying 
that Elvis told him he hated girls. We 
just don't know what to believe." 

One boy did prove helpful. "Jerry Rich- 
ards got my 'King Creole' album auto- 
graphed by Elvis today, and on both sides 
yet. I feel sort of silly going up and ask- 
ing him for his autograph. Also I can't 
even seem to find him." But the girls, too, 
had their innings. "This afternoon, all the 
teenagers had a wonderful time. We got 
hold of some records and played them in 
the lounge. The favorites were Presley 
records and 'Johnny B. Goode'." 

Friday, wrote Janet, was simply noth- 
ing. The sea was calm and beautiful, but 
boredom had set in. By Saturday, the 
topic was the variety show. "Everyone's 
excited about it. We know that Elvis isn't 
going to be singing in it but he will play 
piano. Just seeing him is enough." 

Sunday, Janet wrote: "To start at the 
beginning of an exciting day, I shall say 
I went to church. Protestant Divine Serv- 
ices were held at 1000 hours. The chap- 
lain gave a short but thoughtful sermon 
and the choir sang very well. After din- 
ner, we attended a movie. Don't ask me 
what happened after that. It seemed to 
go by in a fast fuzz. 

"That variety show was really great. I 
overheard the captain himself say it was 
the best show they had had in ages. It 
started out with a mambo band playing 
while a sailor ate fire and glass. Even 
though you know there's a trick to it, you 
still can't believe it. A comedian was 
very funny. He had quite a bit of com- 
petition from the M.P. who used to be 

with Red Foley's Foggy Mountain Boys. 
There were lots of really good singers. 

Then came Elvis! "He sat down several 
times to play piano. I guess he just can't 
hold still because he really was shakin' it 
up on the ivories. All the females on the 
boat— adults and teenagers together— just 
flipped every time he winked at them. 
Every little bit, he'd throw up his hands 
and wiggle which sent everybody into 
sighs. We're supposed to be too grown up 
to scream over him, but I managed to let 
a little shriek out without being noticed 
too much." 

Then the chase began. "We followed 
Elvis around. Darby got his autograph on 
a stuffed dog she had bought. Jerry, my 
brother, didn't have any paper so he 
rushed in the restroom to get a paper 
towel for him to sign on. I have two pic- 
tures signed. One says, 'To Janet' and the 
other 'To Ann.' It's for my girl friend in 
Webb City, Missouri." 

Monday, according to Janet, was moody. 
Everyone realized the trip was nearly 
over. "There was a candlelight dinner this 
evening with an excellent filet mignon. I 
got all dressed up in high heels and 
everything. I thought I might go, but 
none of the boys would get dressed up in 
a suit. They couldn't get in without a 
suit on and I didn't want to go alone, so 
I just sat on the deck and listened to the 

Tuesday, It happened. Janet wrote: "I 
packed all afternoon, but I still had time 
to try to catch a last glimpse of E.P. 
Wonder of wonders, I did. 

"Sheilah, Terry, Darby and I went down 
to the coffee lounge and Elvis was in the 
Transportation office right next to it. We 
all wanted autographs and he was polite 
about giving them to us. He started to 
leave, then came over to us. He looked 
at everyone and said 'Hello.' He looked 
down at me and said, 'Hello, baby.' 

"I was acting just like a gook. I looked 
up into those beautiful eyes and said 
something that sounded like heh-heh- 
heh. This finished me. He talked to 
Sheilah while I just stared at him. He's 
so cute! I was standing right next to him 
and he moved his foot. Onto my toe. I'll 
never polish that shoe again. I'm going 
to sleep and dream about him now." 

On Wednesday, the voyage was over, 
much the same way it began. Poor Janet 
had troubles. Grown-up reporters, re- 
miembering their own problems on stories, 
might wonder if our novice caught a 
touch of "Presley luck." Dolefully, Janet 
wrote: "This was the worst day of my 
life. I couldn't say I was seasick because 
we're not on the ocean anymore. The 
whole trip and I didn't even feel rocky. So 
we get into port and I nearly die. After 
the boat docked, I was able to come up 
on deck, just in time, too. Elvis was 
standing just below the sundeck on the 
troop deck. Mother got an excellent pic- 
ture of him looking up at us. 

"Hundreds of Elvis fans were being re- 
strained by the M.P.'s. They were scream- 
ing for him and waving their arms. 
Suddenly they broke loose and came r\in- 
ning toward the train he was to board. 
One M.P. grabbed a girl and she socked 
him one, right in the jaw. I would have 
done the same thing in her place. They 
had come down to see him and were not 
allowed to come within two hundred 
yards of him. 

"At this point, I had to return to my 
cabin or get sick again. When I was able 
to come out, he was already on the train, 
waving goodbye. So Elvis Presley went 
out of my life. But he will return. Or 

Thirteen or thirty-one, a lot of women 
will echo little Janet Day. 


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Teen- Age Marriages Do Pay Off 



(Continued from page 56) 
Lee. For, when we met, I knew when I 
said, "How-do-you-do," while Lee looked 
right through me. I went home and told 
Mother, "I met the boy I'm going to mar- 
ry today!" I hadn't met his parents, knew 
nothing of his backgroxmd. In fact, I knew 
nothing about him. Except that he was 
going to be my husband. 

That was the first time in my life I had 
ever said blatantly, "This I want and will 
get." Everj^hing before sort of happened 
to me by accident. I was really afraid to 
admit right out I wanted something, be- 
cause I might be hxirt. Not so with Mr. 
Bonnell. The Gateway to Happiness was 
a little crowded for awhile, but eventu- 
ally I walked through it. 

You see, I was one of Texas' entries for 
the "Gateway to Hollywood" contest. Lee 
was South Bend, Indiana's answer to the 
movies. We were at RKO with dozens of 
other contestants, trying for that winning 
contract which would create two new 
movie stars called Terry Belmont and 
Gale Storm (please note the billing — a 
wifely touch). I was sure Lee would be- 
come Terry, and I was determined to 
make my bid for the name of Gale Storm 
last as long as possible. I didn't expect 
to win, but I knew going back to Houston 
meant the end of a beautiful romance that 
hadn't started yet. 

My campaign tactics might turn a hard- 
ened politician pale — ^but they worked. So, 
for what they're worth, I'll outline 'em 
for receptive, perceptive gals in need of a 
plan. It goes without saying, really, that 
you should try this first on a fellow you 
are not wild about. That way you can be 
objectionable — or, rather, objective — while 
you practice. It's easier to use good 
judgment if you're not too emotionally in- 

Unfortunately, in this case, I reminded 
Lee of his fourteen-year-old sister! What 
he didn't know was that I didn't think like 
his little sister. He practically patted me 
on the head, whilst he made gay-bachelor 
doings with sophisticated actresses. As I 
had nothing to lose and everything to 
gain, I started the first maneuver. Every 
time we came in contact, I gave him all 
my attention, honestly flattering, most 
carefully, his dependable male ego. In 
no time, he began to realize that I thought 
he was something very special. 

The only problem at this stage is that 
everybody else notices it, too, and it can 
get embarrassing. But the end results 
can be worth it. The producer began to 
pair us off in the contest plays. After a 
period of time, you can really take ad- 
vantage of such opportunities and lay the 
flattery and interest on pretty thick. He 
becomes accustomed to this treatment 
with the greatest of ease, kindly accepts it 
and casually expects it. 

Then — you cut off his supply abruptly. 
But you must be very careful. Not be 
angry, upset or ignoring. You just don't 
see him, sort of. He begins to notice. He 
wonders. Did I make that little thing 
mad? So he migrates to you for a chat. 
You're friendly, smiling and brief, with a 
"nothing-is-wrongish" attitude. Finally, 
he has to come over and say, "Is anything 
wrong?" This is an important step. You 
are sweet, reassuring — and you go away. 
He begins to think something is wrong 
with him. For the sake of his own ego, 
he has to be reassured that he is interest- 
ing. He is forced to take an interest in 
you. When he starts in on you, he has to 
think about you. For the first time, he's 
outside his own ego and looking at you. 
And once you get his interest. . . . Well, 
girls, this is the way. Isn't that sneaky? 

Once I'd snagged my man. Mother 
stepped in and suggested rather firmly 
that we wait a year to marry, as I was 
just finishing high school on the RKO lot 
and, in a year, I'd be seventeen and one- 
half. I reluctantly agreed. We decided it 
wouldn't hurt to wait. Nothing changed 
in that year, except that Lee and I got to 
know one another much better. Arid as 
Terry Belmont and Gale Storm — we won 
— we both worked hard. It was a year 
well-spent in learning about each other 
and preparing for our marriage. But, 
when we were married, I was still very 

However, we had the ingredients that 
make a teen-age marriage continue to be 
appetizing. We had the same kind of 
background, which is pretty important. 
We had similar good, solid family founda- 
tions — not money, but right environment. 
I think it's difficult when one of a couple 
is used to money and material things and 
the other isn't. It can bring up problems 
that those with a sameness of backgroimd 
don't have to consider. We felt the same 
about raising children. Neither of us be- 
lieves in this fifty-fifty husband-wife bit. 
It's a question of which one needs the 
most at the moment. Percentages should 
become ninety-ten, when one or the other 
is in great need. Fathers who feel noth- 
ing is their job except bringing home a 
paycheck are missing the maximum 
pleasure of their children. It's the every- 
day things that are so important. Lee 
and I both sort of grew into being parents. 
And he was as eager to take care of the 
babies — from bottles to diapers — as I was. 
But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Another basic we had in common was 
religious background and a strong spirit- 
ual life. We shopped for the right church 
before we were married. I was a Meth- 
odist and Lee a Christian — and that's just 
what he said, when we settled on the 
Hollywood Beverly Christian Church: 
He'd finally made a Christian out of me! 
When the children came along, we started 
teaching Sunday School. Worked our way 
up from kindergarten to junior-high 
groups. And, even though we live in the 
Valley now, we still go in to the Holly- 
wood Beverly Christian Church on Sun- 
day. A spiritual life makes marriages so 
much fuller — more solid. For, after all, 
when we're stripped right down as in- 
dividuals — faith is all we've got. And a 
spiritual life is like marriage. It has to be 
worked at daily. 

I think the constant working for a hap- 
py marriage is buried imder a load of 
idealized, glamorous, pink and frothy 
bubble-bath today. Everybody expects 
the foam and bubbles to billow forever. 
Not so. They do fade. But that good old 
bath water iinderneath is softer and heav- 
enly scented to fulfill its primary purpose. 
If you think I'm all wet, that's your privi- 
lege! But I know it's the couple that does 
not expect life to be a perennial honey- 
moon that stays happy. There's no reason 
why a pair intent on the right life to- 
gether can't go to marriage counselors or 
ministers before the wedding. Counselors 
have a batch of questionnaires now which 
can give you a knowledge of yourself and 
one another. If there are problems you've 
been blithely ignoring, they'll show up. 
How much better to face them before 
than after! 

Because I think it's true that some 
young people marry for the wrong rea- 
sons. Of course, they have, since 5000 B.C. 
— and probably will continue to, even aft- 
er this article. But rationalization is a 
most insidious weakness. If a situation is 
bad, it's so easy to rationalize — to justify 
— to talk yourself into anything to relieve 

the present pain. It's about the age of 
thirteen that the fight to become an iden- 
tity, cin individual, sets in. "Independence" 
becomes a precious word. Because of an 
intolerable home situation, a girl, starved 
for affection, can talk herself into being in 
love with a boy who will, at least, take 
her out of the home she hates. A boy, 
smothered with the wrong kind of love at 
home, can rxin in desperation to have a 
place of his own — and find a girl to share 
his new life. Or there's just plain old re- 
bellion against authority. When rebelling, 
the grass is always greener — temporarily. 
It's easier to stay out of — than get into — 
the wrong marriage. You can always re- 
cover (even when you're sure you can't) 
from a bad marriage you didn't make. 

Iliven with real love, it sometimes seems 
hard to blend. I remember when Lee and 
I would stop by store windows before we 
were married. He'd say, "Hey, that's 
good-looking." I didn't say anything, but 
I thought: Ugh! I don't like that at all. 
Yet, after we were married, in the process 
of becoming one, our tastes came together 
easily and naturally. 

I was very immature when we were 
married. Lee is very tolerant — he says he 
was, too. I was immature, but — a very 
important point — I was aware of it and 
attempted to overcome it from the be- 
ginning. For instance, I'd always wanted 
four children. Yet, when I found out I 
was pregnant for the first time, I pan- 
icked. I thought, I'm too young to have a 
baby! Besides, Lee had just gone into 
service, and I wondered about being a 
new mother and alone with the respon- 
sibility. On thinking it over, I knew I 
could handle it somehow. 

Many teenagers are overly sensitive, 
and I was no exception. I was very emo- 
tional. In fact, I started crying just be- 
fore the wedding. I walked down the 
aisle with my nose running, tears stream- 
ing down my face, and Kleenex clutched 
under my bouquet. The minister was so 
panicked at the sight of my face that he 
made it the fastest ceremony on record. I 
cried for three days. I was happy! 

To be honest, I haven't changed much 
in that department. I was so touched 
when Ralph Edwards made me the sub- 
ject of one This Js Your Life that I cried. 
Not just then, but now. Anjd;ime someone 
says "Ralph Edwards," my throat and 
eyes fill up and I reach for the tissues. 
I'm happy about the show. Quite often, I 
cry great, salty tears just because I'm 
happy. That sort of thing Lee has learned 
to live with over the years. 

But I had to overcome sensitivity relat- 
ing to vanity. Because I was the yovingest 
of five children, I Ccime in for the real 
heavy dose of love and affection the 
"baby" usually gets. Mother and I had 
been so close, I hadn't exactly been pre- 
pared to face the world — or Lee. I was 
quite bluntly a "mother's girl." That made 
it take longer for me to develop maturity. 
If Lee said, "Your hair looked better the 
other way," my super-sensitivity would 
create a gorgeous little scene. Lee really 
had to watch what he said and how he 
said things to me. I was just palpitating 
to be hurt. In a short time, came the 
dawn. I realized how unfair I was being. 
If I remained overly sensitive about 
everything, I would make our relationship 
unnatural. And I saw it for what it was 
— plain old vanity! That did it. Mrs. 
Bonnell settled down, in that area. 

There were other areas. Like argu- 
ments. It always amazes me when some 
couple says, "We've never had a cross 
word!" My reaction is "Ick!" What kind 
of a life can they have led? To me, there 

are two kinds of arguments and Lee and 
I have had both— the destructive and the 
constructive. They can sound exactly the 
same— the anger, the tears, the histrionics. 
But the constructive goes something like 
this (and, you know, it's quite possible 
this one is real, from somewhere 'way 
back in the past): 

So I say to Lee, "You left your dirty 
clothes out all over the floor and chairs. 
I have to pick up all day long after the 
children. The least you can do is pick up 
after yourself!" 

And he says, "So what about your 
kitchen — if you're so neat and tidy? 
Stacked to the ceiling with dirty dishes 
while you listen to the radio." 

Now this can bring on recriminations, 
tears and fiu-y. But right in the middle 
of it, no matter how mad you are, you can 
ask yourself: Is this constrvx:tive or de- 
structive? (You can, because I've done 
it.) This one is constructive because, after 
you've said all the silly things and made 
up, he remembers about his clothes and, 
because he loves you, he makes a special 
effort. And you, loving him and revelling 
in his thoughtfulness, spic-and-span the 
kitchen and try to keep it that way. 

The destructive arguments tear at the 
other person's ego, touch on a subject 
where the other person is terribly sensi- 
tive, or harp on something he dislikes 
about himself. One word in anger can 
start a devastating barrage of destruction. 
One word in particular, around this 
house, can flip my wig to the beamed 
ceilings: "always." It's a trigger word. 
Like: "Why do you always wake up mean 
and moody?" The angry answer has to be 
"What do you mean 'always'?" Nothing 
happens "always" and to use it in criti- 
cism, in marriage, can start a whale .of a 
fight. Making up takes longer after one 
of these. 

Please remember, though, that a good, 
lusty argument really isn't the end of a 
marriage — it may even help cement it. 
And, of course, nothing cements marriage 
like children. If you're a teen-age bride, 
you can start your family early enough 
and be yoiing when they are grown — in 
fact, grow up with them. 

The world's largest and oldest fifteen- 
year-old just walked by and asked a 
question. Actually, this handsome hulk 
is Phillip, our firstborn. He's edging over 
the six-foot mark and treats me tenderly, 
as if I were shghtly addlepated. Occa- 
sionally, he just grins at me and says 
fondly, "Mother, you're so immature." He 
thinks he's kidding, of course, but he's so 
right. I hope he never finds out. 

Peter and Paul are adopting their older 
brother's attitude toward their mother, 
just as fast as they can swing that manly 
nonchalance without their voices crack- 
ing. But then I have Susanna, who just 
reached two — and doesn't have the male 
attitude toward her mother. My blonde 
little pixie thinks I'm quite motherly. Es- 
pecially when I am a good audience to her 
rather dramatic, though garbled rimdown 
of the day's happenings. 

We have never had what I like to call 
"The Children's Hour." That's when the 
nurse marches the children out to have a 
fast forty-five minutes "with mummy and 
daddy" and then disappear again, only to 
be produced on call. Our kids can have 
"Children's Hour" twenty-four hours a 

And now my husband has come home. 
He's settling down across from me, smil- 
ing. If I've ever doubted that a teen-age 
marriage can pay off, I need only appraise 
my own happiness and feel the surge of 
fulfillment when I see that smile of con- 
tentment on the face of my handsome 




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The Beauty with the Brain on Top 









{Continued from page 29) 
make simple toys and useful articles from 
ordinary objects to be found around every 
home — a plate, a spoon, a brown paper 
bag, daddy's old socks. 

There is no limit to the fun that can 
be had with a little ingenuity. Shari works 
on the theory that money isn't at all a 
necessary commodity in the world of 
childhood. Far more important is learning 
to use your ten fingers, your senses, your 
voice and the inanimate objects close at 

Shari is not merely the exponent of this 
philosophy, she's the living proof of it. 
Both her parents were teachers. Her 
mother is music supervisor for the Bronx 
Board of Education in the Bronx Public 
Schools. Her father, Dr. Abraham B. 
Hurwitz, has been professor of Child 
Guidance at Yeshiva University for the 
past twenty-five years. In the beginning, 
his university work took only three hours 
a day. In those difficult times, with a 
family to support, a man took on as many 
jobs as he could get. Dr. Hurwitz was 
head of Creative Education for the City 
of New York, as well as official magician — 
"Peter Pan, the Magic Man." He had 
many fine European artists working under 
him on W.P.A. And he had as great a 
facility in learning as in teaching. Little 
Shari, taught by her parents from the age 
of sixteen months, picked up a wealth of 
material, voices, imitations, tricks gladly 
shared with the Hurwitzes by the artists 
they met. 

Dr. Hurwitz also worked with problem 
boys at orphanages and with average kids 
every summer at camp. Mrs. Hurwitz was 
his right hand, teaching music and voice. 
Participating in everything was little 
Shari. "She was raised on a music box," 
her mother says. "As a baby, she went to 
sleep with it. As a tot, she'd open it and 
listen fascinated. Seeing that she took to 
music, I taught her piano. Gradually, she 
took on accordion, xylophone, violin and 
other instruments. If Shari wanted to 
change instruments, we never blocked her. 
All we insisted upon was that she stay 
with the new one till she learned to play 

r rom a survey of his problem boys, Dr. 
Hurwitz learned that magic was their big 
attraction. So he used magic to hold their 
interest and to teach. He had number 
tricks, music tricks, science tricks, word 
tricks. "You can teach a child anything 
by making it a game" has always been 
his philosophy. 

Because the Hurwitzes believed strongly 
in family life but were such active, busy 
people, they had to make Shari a part of 
all their activities. They took her along 
to camp and, when the children performed, 
Shari performed with them. When Dr. 
Hurwitz learned new magic tricks for his 
boys, Shari learned them, too. She lapped 
everything up — the magic, the music, the 
imitations, the voices. She also developed 
a pleasant voice. 

"With Shari, as with all children," her 
father says, "it was a question of going 
along with her interests. Shari's first in- 
terest was in dancing. I got her interested 
in magic by teaching her a simple trick 
that she could do while she danced — 
changing the color of scarves." 

Shari has been performing in public 
from the age of four, when she pulled a 
rabbit out of a hat at a magic show. Be- 
cause she grew up during the Depression 
and her parents couldn't give her money 
to buy every new toy that came out, they 
taught her how to make her own. "The 
joy of creating is much greater than just 
buying something," Dr. Hurwitz explains. 

"Parents can't always hand out money, 
and it's not always wise to do this, even 
if you can. The best things you can give 
your child are understanding, interest, 
improvisation. We gave Shari materials 
and the opportunity to follow her interests. 
We taught her to 'make do' with what 
she had." 

They listened to her, too, so she found 
it easy to talk. "We're a family of extro- 
verts," Shari laughs. "We're all tiny and 
we're always talking. At school, I was the 
shortest one in the class, so there was 
never any question of where I'd be found. 
Always in the front row! But what I 
lacked in height, I made up for in talk." 

She became the "Charles Laughton" of 
junior high when she was picked to read 
the Bible every week in assembly. And 
every year, from the time she was four 
till she was twenty-four, she took part 
in the magic show her father put on in 
the Central Park Mall. 

At the High School of Music and Art, 
she specialized in voice, piano and violin. 
But she also kept up her dancing at the 
School of American Ballet, and studied 
dramatics at the Neighborhood Playhouse 
and Columbia University. In her mid- 
teens, she and her father entertained for 
the U.S.O. At sixteen, she played summer 
stock at the Lambertville Music Circus 
and was sure that, when she was gradu- 
ated, she'd be a dancer. 

.'iut, a year later, she had a broken leg 
and a broken dream. Her father didn't 
let her brood over this fate for long. Be- 
fore she could say, "Woe is me!" — ^he was 
teaching her ventriloquy to amuse her 
during her convalescence. She became so 
good at it that, three months later, she 
won first prize on Arthur Godfrey's Talent 
Scouts. She began to think of having her 
own TV show and formulating one in her 

One day on Broadway, she ran into Lan 
O'Kun, whom she remembered from high 
school, though she hadn't known him well 
then. "I know you," said Shari. "Your 
father was one of my teachers and you 
used to write music and play the piano. 
What are you doing now?" 

"I'm still writing music and playing the 
piano," said Lan. "What are you doing?" 

"I'm going to have a TV show," Shari 
said airily. "Maybe we should get to- 
gether." It was a happy thought, though 
Lan insists they were both having pipe 
dreams then. Yet, from the beginning, 
the combo was a tearing success. Lan 
writes all of Shari's music — several orig- 
inal themes a week. He is her accompanist 
and head writer, as well as composer. 

A year after the Godfrey program, at 
the age of eighteen, Shari had her own 
show, Facts 'N' Fun. This was followed 
by a series of other programs, Kartoon 
Klub, Shari And Her Friends and, in 1957, 
Shariland and Hi Mom. Shari has taken 
to TV like a charm. She has the happy 
intimacy and spontaneity the mediiun calls 
for, and nothing has fazed her, from 
earliest days. 

When she was a puppeteer and a pup- 
pet's string would break, she'd ad-lib 
about his being tongue-tied. Because she 
was relaxed and could laugh over errors, 
her audiences laughed with her. Even 
today, when she's teaching her viewers 
to make things, something occasionally 
goes wrong. Shari will laugh, admit "I 
goofed!" and go on. It's an attitude that 
keeps kids and their parents from getting 
self-conscious. Even mistakes are fun, 
when you can pick yourself up and try 

In preparing their shows, Shari and her 
staff sit around breakfast at a nearby 

coffee shop and "brainstorm" each script. 
No one is over thirty. Everyone is brim- 
ming with laughter, life, original ideas. 
The staff consists of Shari's director, pro- 
ducer, husband, two writers, occasionally 
a visiting friend. Over coffee, they sug- 
gest situations, bits, puns (for which her 
"characters" are famous). They are ruth- 
less in tearing their ideas to bits and in 
saying nay to someone else's brainchild. 
They can dish it out and they can take it, 
but they are just as enthusiastic when 
they like something. The results are Uve 
scripts turned out by Lan and the other 
writer, Stan Taylor, from the group's 
brainstorming. Shari, being nearsighted, 
reads very little. She memorizes every- 
thing as fast as her writers turn it out, 
and she has a fantastic memory. 

The most natural outgrowth of her pro- 
grams is her RCA Victor children's al- 
bums. The long-playing "Fun in Shari- 
land" was an immediate best-seller, with 
an advance of 100,000. It features Shari 
with Lamb Chop and Charley Horse, in 
the songs Lan O'Kun has written for her 
shows. Shari herself has written two 
books, "The Shari Lewis Puppet Book 
(How to Pull Strings and Influence Pup- 
pets)" and "Gerty in SharUand" which 
will soon take their place with her paper- 
doll books, coloring books, plush animals, 
hand puppets and other toys, all thought 
up, to delight the small fry. 

Earlier this year, Shari married Jeremy 
Tarcher, a young television producer. 
Today, having been told about Jeremy 
and about Shari's honeymoon trip, hr^ 
young viewers inquire, when they meMj 
Shari, "How's Lamb Chop? Hows 
Jeremy?" To them, both are now an equal 
part of their beloved Shari's world. 

Jeremy is extremely proud of his pretty 
yoimg wife. Their busy life starts daily 
at 6 A.M. In spite of eighteen hours of 
telecasting, interviews, conferences, re- 
hecirsals, records and brainstorming, the 
newlyweds still find the time to talk to 
each other on the phone four or five 
times a day. 

Sundays are all their own, and they have 
such a fine time together — resting, reading 
and trying out the recipes of Josie Mc- 
Carthy, who is on Shari's show — that often 
the Tarchers don't set a foot outside their 
apartment. For all her being a career girl, 
Shari loves her new domesticity. She 
counts herself fortiinate in having Josie 
teach her how to cook and in learning about 
the care of babies from Nurse Jane, also 
on her show. At present the Tarcher 
household boasts a mink, a monkey, a col- 
lie and a cockatoo. "But I can't wait to 
have a brood of my own," Shari admits, 
"to see how my teaching wiU work on 

Once in six weeks, she and Jeremy steal 
the time to go to the supermarket and 
stock up on provisions. "We have a ball, 
buying out tiie place — we have to, since 
the food has to last tUl our next shopping 
spree!" Mothers and their kids stare at 
Shari, in her guise of housewife, puzzled 
because she is wearing horn-rimmed 
glasses. Sometimes a mother will tell her, 
"You look just like that girl on televi- 
sion — the one my kids love." 

That she should be that girl doesn't 
seem possible to her loyal admirers, for, 
to them, Shari and her puppets are in a 
world apart. Pre-schoolers write her great 
printed love notes telling her she is quite 
the prettiest lady they have ever seen — 
with the possible exception of Mommy. 
Others write to Charley Horse and Lamb 
Chop, asking how Shari is when they are 
all "let out of the glass"— meaning the 
TV screen. To these youngsters, Shari 
seems a kind of doU, just like her puppets. 

And that's Shari Lewis to the life— a 
living doll, on TV and off. 


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The brilliant new 1959 PHOTOPLAY AN- 
NUAL, is ready for you now. This is the book 
that tells you everything about Hollywood. 
This glamorous yearbook sparkles with bright 
new pictures of all the top-flight stars. Here, 
too, is all the news and gossip of Hollywood 
. . . plus exclusive stories about the screen's 
outstanding personalities of the year. This is 
a book you must have. Here's a sample of 
what's Inside this exciting yearbook: 

HOLLYWOOD MADE NEWS— Stars marry . . . divorc9 
. . . have babies. And all around the globe their doings 
are front page news. Here in pictures and stories is a 
blow-by-blow account of the exciting goings-on in the 
always- exciting world of the movies. 

PERSONALITIES OF THE YEAR— Stories and pictures 
o.' Dick Clark • Pat Boone • Kim Novak • Bock Hudson • 
Natalie Wood and Bob Wagner • James Gamer • Debbie 
Beynolds • Liz Taylor • Brigitte Bardot • Marilyn Monroe 

• Sal Mlneo • Tab Hunter • Tony Perkins • John Sason 

• James MacArthur • Hugh O'Brian. 

SINGERS OF THE YEAR— EMs Presley . Eick Nelson 

• Johnny Mathis • Jlmmle Rodgers • Frankie Avalon • 
Tommy Sands. 

ALL-TIME FAVORITES— Burt Lancaster • Ingrid Berg- 
man • Esther Williams • Alan Ladd • Cary Grant • 
Audrey Hepburn • William Holden • Eita Hayivorth • 
Glenn Ford • Deborah Kerr • Kirk Douglas • June 
Ailyson • Jennifer Jones • Yul Brynner. 


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excitement, the romance that is Hollywood is wrapped 
up in its stars. Here is a close-up of some who are "the 
most" I George Nader • Aya Gardner • Anthony Franciosa 

• Jayne Mansfield • Dorothy Malone • Marlon Brando • 
Mitzi Gaynor • Montgomery Clift. 

HAPPILY MARRI EDS — Gay, exciting pictures and 
sparkling stories about those on Cloud Nine. Joanne 
Woodward and Paul Newman • Hope Lange and Don 
Murray • Doris Day and Marty Melcher • Rory Calhoun 
;jnd Lita Baron • Richard Egan and Patricia Hardy • 
Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis • Shirley MacLaine and 
Steve Parker • Charlton Heston and Lydia Clark. 

RISING STARS — Refreshing pictures of 31 newcomers 
to the screen. See and read about them here, and then 
follow their exciting careers. 


This sensational Annual is a best -seller every year. Get 

your copy before they are all snatched up. Only 50e at 

your favorite magazine counter. Or, if more convenient, 

mail coupon, with 50c — TODAY. 

Gobel's Cinderella Kids 

(Continued from page 47) 
twinkles daughter Mary. "We journeyed 
from a town of 3,110 to one with about 
10,000— all of twenty-five miles away." To 
this, her father answers, "Your mother 
and I were high-school sweethearts in 
Emmetsburg. There are a million memories 
tying us to that little town. Even to move 
one mile away seemed like a transatlantic 

A war veteran, Claude got a job clerk- 
ing for a grocer, and the Kids, their vol- 
ume now bolstered by younger sister 
Claudia, added their bit to the family 
income with a paid singing job on Station 
KICD. Their sponsor was Stone's Shoe 
Store and, as Marie puts it, "A good chunk 
of their salary went right back to the 
store. Like most active children, they were 
always going through their shoes." At 
this period, Mary had become the "lead- 
in" singer of the group. Their favorite 
number was "Who, Who, Who Pulled the 
Light Plug Out of the Socket," and it never 
failed to set the audience tapping and 
whooping with delight. "They loved us in 
Spencer," laughs Alice. 

Then, as luck would have it, Gordon 
Gammack of the Des Moines Tribune, a 
columnist with his own show on KENT, 
came to Pocahontas for the farmers' fair. 
Glancing at the program, he grimaced. 
"Ugh, a kid act!" But the crowd was dense 
and he saw no avenue of escape. He re- 
signed himself to a bad half-hour. A mo- 
ment later, he was sitting erect, a startled 
look of interest and pleasure on his face, 
listening to a very skillful blending of 
voices giving out with a beat that was 
both new and different. In a recent col- 
umn, he recalls feeling that "the kids had 
it," and resolving to "get them to Des 
Moines." Like so many good intentions, 
this was buried under an avalanche of 
pressing duties, and it was five years be- 
fore Gammack heard them again on 
KENT'S Mary Jane Chinn show. He 
promptly invited them to appear on his 
Sunday-night program and did his best 
to get them a rousing reception. 

JHe needn't have been concerned. Public 
reaction was everything a performer 
dreams of. It seemed everybody loved 
them, everybody wanted them for all sorts 
of functions, and Ealph Zarnow, a local 
booker, took them on. Again in the cause 
of their career, the Pettits moved, this 
time to Des Moines. Here they got to work 
cutting tapes which were shipped to Ar- 
thur Godfrey's Talent Scouts, to Steve 
Allen and the Ed Sullivan show. Not a 
nibble. Somewhat downcast but still on 
the up-beat — some months, they were 
grossing as much as a thousand dollars 
at conventions, fairs and dances — they 
went on singing, dreaming, planning. 

In 1957, they made several sporadic tries 
at a breakthrough. They tried Lawrence 
Welk, who was doing a show in Des 
Moines, but his schedule was "too tight" 
to allow for auditions. Then news came 
that Godfrey's Talent Scouts were to au- 
dition in Omaha. Off to Omaha went the 
Pettits, only to find that the show had 
a rule against youngsters. Says Alice, "We 
began to feel a tiny stab in our hearts — 
I guess you could call it panic." At home, 
Marie and Claude assured them, "It takes 
a heap of work and time to make the 
tall corn grow. Your breaks will come." 

As if to bear out this lowan philosophy, 
suddenly and with dramatic speed, the 
breaks did begin to roll in on them, one 
upon the other. First of all, Zarnow, their 
booker, prevailed on his friend Len Fisher, 
a topflight theatrical manager, to give 
them a hearing. 

The Kids sang; Fisher listened. There 
was a long, thoughtful silence. The Kids 
shuffled their feet and looked anxious. 
Then Fisher slapped one hand against 
the other and said: "Well, well, well . . . 
I've been searching high and low for a 
winner, and here you come knocking on 
my door with five of them." Later, Fisher 
described how he felt at that moment. 
"Once in a long while, a manager hears 
a performance and he's gripped by a sense 
of something unusual and remarkable. I 
knew they had the stuff and, right then 
and there, I made up my mind to devote 
myself to pushing them up the ladder." 

That was February, 1958, and, by March, 
the whole Pettit family were entrenched 
in the Windy City. There was an air of 
expectancy on the part of all concerned. 
"Many a spoon dropped that month," re- 
calls Patty wryly. "Nerves — we were like 
those coeds who sit around on pins and 
needles waiting for a sorority to tap them." 
Bob's comment is a brief "To sense some- 
thing big coming is rougher than being out 
in the cold and dark altogether." 

Ten days . . . twenty days . . . the sus- 
pense suddenly was over. The columnist, 
Gammack, got a call from Zarnow. The 
Kids were going to be on the Godfrey 
show at last. Would he act as their "talent 
scout"? Would he? "Try and stop me," he 

Fisher was also pleased but skeptical. 
"I realized at once they couldn't win. The 
studio was jammed with pals of the har- 
monica player. But I was proud of the 
show the Kids put on. Even those who 
voted for their harmonica whiz were ob- 
viously impressed with my wonderful 
Pettits." To young Claudia, however, "win- 
ning didn't matter — we had five days in 
New York aiid we saw the Statue of Lib- 
erty, the Bronx Zoo and everything!" 

Another break was the signing of a con- 
tract with Spinning Eecords and the cut- 
ting of their first platter, "Blessed Are 
They," a semi- spiritual that sold over 
20,000 in the Chicago area alone. Still an- 
other came in the course of appearances 
on Chicago stations, when Marty Faye, 
brother of singer Frances Faye, invited 
them on his WAAF show, Marty's Morgue. 
He gave their record a rousing send-off 
and, since he's knovm to be absolutely 
honest and frank, it had the effect of speed- 
ing up sales. 

There comes a time when all things seem 
to conspire for the success of an act. The 
smallest details, the vaguest associations, 
all seem to tie in and add their extra little 
push. Now this happened with "The 
Petites." Along with manager Fisher, they 
had acquired an agent, Doris Hurtig. She 
happened to be a friend of David O'Mal- 
ley, and he turned out to be George 
Gobel's manager. In the early part of June, 
O'Malley and the famed comedian were 
in Chicago and Miss Hurtig convinced 
them she had an act "just perfect for 
television — and, more specifically, George's 
new show." Somewhat skeptical but never- 
theless willing to accommodate an old 
friend, O'Malley and Gobel agreed to give 
the Kids a listen. The Kids, awed at meet- 
ing Gobel in person and intent on getting 
his autograph, scarcely heard him utter 
the fateful words, "I thought you were 
great . . . wonderful . . . one of the live- 
liest groups I've heard in years." 

Two weeks later, Fisher received a call 
asking him to fly to Hollywood for a busi- 
ness talk with O'Malley and Gobel, who 
are partners in Gomalco Productions. And, 
as Patty chirps it, "Here we are!" 

Going on the Gohel Show brought three 
changes: Another move by the Pettit fam- 

ily, this time to Hollywood; the dropping 
of "The Petites," as "sounding too much 
like a foreign group," in favor of "The Kids 
Next Door"; and, finally, their incorpor- 
ation Tinder terms which allows each to 
get an individual check. "With money 
comes responsibility," Marie warned them 
sternly. "There will be no rash spending 
. . . and no strutting around with swelled 

While Marie's concern is natural from 
the parental point of view, Fisher feels 
there is no cause for worry. "These kids 
have their feet on solid ground. They're 
not likely to fly off, half-cocked. They 
are also not likely to get conceited, not 
with parents like Claude and Marie. They 
are well aware of being in the big-time 
now and that they have a lot to learn. 
They still need plenty of building . . ." 

"Building?" teases Claudia. "He built 
us up so good, we had to go on a diet. 
Every pound shows on television." Alice 
and Patty sigh and nod their heads in 
sad agreement, but Mary and Bob only 
grin. They have no weight problem. 

In line with their usual procedure, 
Claude and Marie and the two younger 
children motored across the country a 
month before the singing segment of the 
family wound up their bookings in the 
Midwest. A four-bedroom, two-bath 
home was rented, and Claude immediately 
set about landing a job as manager of 
a supermarket. "The Kids have a fine man- 
ager who takes care of their business 
affairs, and we don't interfere," he ex- 
plains. "And, if I'm working and earning 
a living for the non-singing part of the 
family, the Kids can concentrate on their 
careers with one less worry on their 

"Mr. Gobel and all the others here in 
Hollywood," says Alice, "have been un- 
believably kind to us — encouraging us and 
giving advice based on long experience. 
No matter how busy he is, everyone takes 
time out to discuss any problem that might 
arise for us." To which Bob adds, "Jim 
Backus was the guest at our first show 
and he spent hours with us telling funny 
jokes, just to get us relaxed." 

Although the Kids have already won a 
legion of admirers — because in the words 
of one reviewer, "their voices dovetail 
beautifully, an ear-thrilling, spine-tingling 
blend" — each has kept those traits that 
make for individuality. Bob, the eldest, 
and the only boy in the group, has green 
eyes, loves hunting and fishing, and shows 
artistic promise. Pointing to some sketches 
he did of his sisters, he says, "It doesn't 
look much like them but it's how I see 
them." A graduate of Roosevelt High in 
Des Moines, he plans to go to college as 
soon as the family is more settled into 
California life. If the group ever disbands, 
he'd choose sportscasting as his vocation. 

The "homebody" of the group, blue- 
eyed Alice, called "Al," is both spokesman 
and peacemaker. She helps her mother 
Tvm the house; looks after little five-year- 
old Claude; helps get Donny, 9, off to 
school; hopes to marry "one of these days" 
and raise a large family. She and Patty 
wear the same style of clothes and, with 
the sisterly resemblance, are often mis- 
taken for twins. Her manner and style are 
casual, even when "dressing up." In 1955 
and 1956, she and Bob worked in a bakery 
to help the family budget. Bob rolled 
doughnuts and Al sold them. She is a 
graduate of Spencer High. 

Third in line, Patty, called "Pat," has 
brown eyes, is a definite extrovert and 
loves bright colors. A trampoline expert 
who used to perform during halves at 
basketball games, she was a member of 
the Girls' Athletic Association at Spencer 
High. Like Al, she has no desire for col- 

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lege, wants to marry and "have one child." 
Fixing on that number gives her parents 
a laugh and they smile knowingly, saying, 
"She'll get over that, along with her yearn- 
ing for a mink coat." Though she misses 
a former boyfriend back in Des Moines, 
she allows to a "small-sized crush" on 
David Nelson. Patty's attempts at cooking 
are the joke of the family. Her Easter eggs, 
last year; were a fiasco: Claudia bit into 
one and literally "got egg all over my 
face" — they were only half done. Fighting 
the battle of the waistline, Pat goes in for 
swimming and strenuous exercising. 

Brown-eyed Mary objects to her nick- 
name of "Mare," but sighs and says, "I 
guess I'll have to live with it." A "natural," 
she began singing at three and would give 
performances standing on a soda-pop case. 
Her life moves from one song to another 
and she is warbling in the shower, while 
doing her homework, and at play. Quieter 
in manner than her sisters, Mare's inter- 
est in music extends to the classical. "Just 
as long as it's good, it's for me," she allows. 

She's a senior at Robert Fulton Junior 
High in Van Nuys. 

Claudia's brown eyes glow happily when 
she is taken for older than her eleven 
years. Someone at the studio recently mis- 
took her for Mary and she was so pleased, 
"I could have kissed him." She's called 
"Claud," but the conversation gets all 
balled-up when her name and that of 
baby brother Claude Junior are used at 
the same time. The impetuous one of the 
family, Claudia is also the most inquisitive. 
"If Mare gets a crush on a boy," says 
Alice, "Claud can be relied on to fetch 
home all the scoop on the poor victim." 
In any description of their house, Claudia 
is sure to let fall an airy, "And an eighty- 
foot pool is on the agenda." Her parents 
have stood her off with a promise to build 
one when they buy a home. She attends 
Cohasset School in Van Nuys. 

Five young individualists, but they all 
have one trait in common: No matter 
where fame may take the Pettits, at heart 
they'll remain "The Kids Next Door." 

Everybody's Princess 

(Continued from page 63) 
stepson, Terry was another potential little 
admirer like the adoring Mary Ann — who 
has made it clear she thinks there's no one 
on earth quite like Charlie! His older sister. 
Patience, turned to Jeanne with the wom- 
anly sweetness of mid-teens and said, "She 
looks exactly like you. And she has your 
hands." More complimentary words were 
never spoken. To Patience, the firm, gen- 
tle, capable hands of her youthful step- 
mother are a symbol of the great love and 
stability which Jeanne has lavished on 
everyone close to her. 

Jeanne herself says, "What a charming 
pair of girls Mary Ann and Terry make. 
Mary Ann is so blonde, with her father's 
turned-up nose and her grandmother's 
jaunty way of holding her head. And 
Terry is a brunette with blue eyes. 

"When you have one child, you think, 
That's where my whole heart is. Then 
you get another one, and it is a happy sur- 
prise to find that the heart expands. You 
love the first one just as much or more 
than before, and yet there's room for all 
the love in the world for the second one. 
You don't have to strain to be fair to the 
older child. You do it naturally." 

Months before Terry was born, Jeanne 
told all three children at once — Charlie 
and Patience, the two Morrison children 
by an earlier marriage, and Mary Ann, 
then only two-and-a-half years old — about 
the prince or princess who would be born 
late in July. 

Charlie and Patience were delighted. 
Mary Ann said, "But, Mommy, I still 
baby." Gradually, however, she became 
reconciled to the idea. With a generosity 
much like Jeanne's, Mary Ann would put 
aside a cherished doll or a little sweater 
and say, "That will be nice for the baby 
when the baby comes." 

Then July came, and Jeanne prepared to 
go to the hospital for the eight-day stay 
her doctor recommends. Jeanne sat with 
Mary Ann, twirling her beautiful blonde 
hair into two lovely ponytails that fell 
below her shoulders. She explained that 
she would be away for eight days, and 
counted the number on her fingers, so 
Mary Ann would understand. Jeanne 
went shopping, too, at a nearby toy shop, 
and bought eight inexpensive gifts, chosen 
with a loving heart. 

Several of the gifts, such as the little 
plastic nursery with cribs in it, represented 
the purpose of Jeanne's stay at the Good 
Samaritan Hospital. But she also bought 

sand toys and other presents having noth- 
ing to do with hospitals and babies. All 
the gifts were lovingly wrapped, and each 
one was numbered. Attached to each was 
a card, with a heart, drawn on it by 
Jeanne — her "signature" for Mary Ann. 

Jeanne showed her the wrappings and 
told her that, each evening at dinner, 
while Mama was in the hospital awaiting 
the baby, Mildred Davis, the maid, would 
give her one of the gifts. 

"But, Mother," asked Mary Ann, "won't 
I be able to talk to you?" 

"Yes," promised Jeanne. "I'll call you 
every day. Shall I call at dinner time?" 

"No, mother. Please call me at lunch." 

And so Jeanne did, every day except 
the one on which Theresa Cagney Morri- 
son was born. Then Jack Morrison did 
the calling. 

Grandma Morrison, a beaming, happy 
woman in her early seventies, has gone 
through joy almost equal to Jeanne's and 
her son's with the birth of their second 
daughter. It had been Jeanne's idea to 
name the first one after her — "Mary Ann" 
for "Anna Marie." Now, just before the 
new baby arrived, Mrs. Morrison said to 
Jeanne, "Please use Cagney as the baby's 
middle name. If it's a boy, name him 
Thomas Cagney Morrison." 

Jack added, "Jeanne, if the baby's a girl, 
let's name her Theresa Cagney Morrison." 

Terry has obviously been born into a 
family full of love and laughter— though 
these haven't always been come by easily. 
Watching blonde Mary Ann whirl around 
the room in her little yellow organdy 
dress, Jeanne says, "What memories that 
dance brings back! My mother had a life 
that would bowl you over. My father died 
six months before I was born. With four 
boys to raise and me on the way, she 
could have succumbed to self-pity. 

"But, if you expected anything like that, 
it would "be because you didn't know my 
mother. She might be in the middle of all 
kinds of trouble. Perhaps she'd be in an 
apron, sweeping the floor, but when the 
organ-grinder came into the back yard, 
she would grab her broom, and dance with 
it to the music. When I see Mary Ann 
dancing, I think of my mother and her 
broom. It's a funny thing — Mary Ann 
looks just like Jack. But, when she puts 
the eye on you as my mother used to do, 
she has the same X-ray gaze. She has 
purplish-blue eyes, very much like my 
mother's, too. 

"I shall have so many wonderful stories 
about my mother to pass on to the chil- 
dren," Jeanne recalls. "For instance, the 
one about my mother's earrings. We were 
very poor when we were youngsters. 
When my father died, Mother was left 
without any money. The only valuable 
possession she had was a pair of wonder- 
ful pendant diamond earrings. My mother 
was a very pretty woman, and they were 
just the thing for her to wear when she 
got dressed up. 

"Those earrings were a life-saver. At 
all moments of crisis, my mother would 
pawn them, then my brothers would work 
like mad to get them out. Through the 
years, in and out of the pawnshop those 
earrings would go. When my brother 
Harry wanted to go to medical school. 
Mama pawned the earrings for his tuition. 
Later, he bought them back. 

"Mother left the earrings to me. She 
was much taller than I, and I couldn't 
quite wear them. They were so heavy. 
But I had them made into a ring with two 
diamonds. When my little girls are grown, 
I shall pass on to them Mother's 'earrings' 
— and the story of the courage behind 
them — giving each a ring with one of the 
diamonds. I like the idea of family heir- 
looms that have stories behind them." 

Sentiment is the word for Jeanne, but 
she is never over-sentimental. Her feel- 
ings are too deep and too real for that. "At 
first," she says, "I felt almost guilty at the 
idea of bringing a second baby home — for 
fear that having a second baby might 
cause me to neglect my first one. But, on 
second thought, I was reassured. I thought 
of how grateful I am to be a member of 
a large family — of how much emptier my 
life would be if I didn't have four broth- 
ers. And then I realized, with a full 
heart, how wonderful it was that I was 
bringing home a baby sister for Mary Ann. 

"Right now, Mary Ann has the tradi- 
tional mixed, childish feelings about Terry. 
Sometimes she worships her; sometimes 
she becomes exasperated with her. At 
first, when I would nurse Terry, Mary 
Ann would resent it a little — till I told 
her that I'd nursed her, too, when she was 
a baby. Then she'd watch me and, gig- 
gling, copy me as she played with her 
dolls before she dropped off to sleep. 

"She has a girl friend of about her own 
age, Mary Margaret. Just the other day, 
Mary Margaret came over to have lunch 
on the patio with Mary Ann. The first 
thing Mary Ann wanted to do was to show 
her girl friend the baby. Frankly, Mary 
Margaret was much more interested in 
the toys on the patio than in the new 
baby. Disconcerted by Margaret's lack 
of interest, Mary Ann ordered, 'Now, 
Margaret, you look at my hahy!" 

Jciach day has surprises for Jeanne. When 
she looks at Mary Ann, she feels as if she 
is looking at the face of her beloved hus- 
band. Jack Morrison, professor of theater 
arts at U.C.L.A. And, when she looks at 
their younger daughter, she thinks in sur- 
prise. Can this he my face? But Terry 
really does look like Jeanne. 

"Our house is in a state of flux right 
now," laughs Jeanne. "When Jack and 
I first got married, it seemed such a big 
house. Now we feel as if we're short about 
two bedrooms. Temporarily, we've con- 
verted the dining room into a place for 
the baby. Later, we'll put the two little 
girls into the same bedroom, and perhaps 
build a room over the garage for Charlie." 

The relationship between Patience and 
Charlie and the two latest arrivals at the 
Morrison household is something wonder- 
ful to behold. One day, Charlie hurt his 
finger. Mary Ann looked at him with her 
big "X-ray" eyes, and asked, "Does your 
finger hurt, my brother?" 

Charlie swallowed a lump in his throat, 
and Jeanne swallowed one in hers. "As 
the little sister of four big brothers, I 
understand how she feels," says Jeanne. 
"Big brothers can be very wonderful. All 
the love and concern in the world were 
in Mary Ann's voice — and Charlie couldn't 
help responding to that. 

"Patience and Charlie have enriched my 
life immeasurably," she continues. "Of 
course, I could never take the place of 
their mother, and I would never want to, 
but I love the idea that, when they visit 
with us, I can add a little to their happi- 

Almost from the start. Patience and 
Charlie have approved of Jeanne. Jeanne 
and Jack Morrison met for the first time 
at an ANTA Theater meeting at the home 
of Kenneth Macgowan. Jeanne had been 
studying child development, and observ- 
ing children at U.C.L.A. elementary school. 
Unwittingly, she had been observing her 
future stepchildren, who were in the class. 

Jeanne went to the ANTA meeting with 
her friend Carol Stone. Jack had been 
invited to dinner; Jeanne hadn't. They 
saw each other through a crack in the 
door, and liked what they saw. "From 
the start," Jeanne recalls, "we talked like 
old friends. I said to myself, 'What a won- 
derful man. I wonder if he's married? 
If he is, I hope his wife will like me, too.' " 

Later, she found out he was divorced. 
A couple of months later, he invited her 
to lunch in the faculty dining room at 
U.C.L.A. Jeanne said forthrightly, "I'd 
like to meet your children sometime." 

After she met the children, they saw a 
lot of each other. About six months after 
meeting Jeanne, Patience — or "Peischie," 
as Jeanne calls her — pinned Jeanne with 
her father's fraternity pin. Charlie, who 
at the time was only five, was not as 
verbal or demonstrative as Peischie. But 
there was no doubt of his meaning, the day 
he came to Jeanne, bearing a magazine in 
his hand, and pointed to the cover — a 
picture of a bride and groom. "There 
never was a formal proposal," Jeanne says. 
"Jack and I knew that we'd get married 
when there wasn't any doubt, any question 
in either of our minds." 

1 hey decided that, before they married, 
they'd take Charlie and Peischie and 
brother Bill's children to the Sierra Club's 
ski hut, Keller Peak, in California. Jeanne 
was to prepare the picnic lunch. She was 
a little late in getting the lunch ready 
and, while they were waiting, the children 
decorated Jack's car all over with flowers. 

"We had a wonderftil time," Jeanne 
recalls. "It was one of the most delightful 
trips I've ever taken. Everyone smiled at 
us. The car, with all those flower decora- 
tions, looked like something from Hawaii." 

Later, Jearme's brother BiU said, "Of 
course, people smiled. They must have 
thought it was a wedding car!" 

"A wedding car," giggled Jeanne, "with 
five children!" In addition to CharUe and 
Peischie and Bill's two children, a friend 
of Peischie's had come along, too. 

Jeanne and Jack were married on June 
6, 1953, about four months after the trip 
in the decked-out Studebaker. The years 
since have been colorful, and filled with 
warmth, devotion, and love. And, now 
that the second princess has arrived in 
the Morrison household, Jeanne is inte- 
grating the baby's life into that of the 
family, as though it had always been. 

"How wonderful," Jeanne smiles, "that 
the one thing that children need most — 
love — is the thing we have so much of to 
give. It doesn't really matter whether we 
have one bedroom, or two, or three or 
four. So long as you can give your chil- 
dren love, you are giving them everything 
that they need and want most." 


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(^Continued from page 35) 
world over. . . . Why, then, should Marlene 
Dietrich, of all people, be asked for advice 
and help with problems that have never, 
you might suppose, been hers? And what 
enables Marlene Dietrich, of all people, to 
give advice and be of help with such prob- 

Recently, one of her close friends sup- 
plied the clue: "Marlene looks less basic 
and has more of the basic qualities than 
any woman I know." 

If this means love of fanlily and a 
know-how about cooking and housekeep- 
ing and the care and feeding of the young, 
then Marlene has the basic qualities in- 
deed. She is a dedicated mother, a de- 
voted grandmother, a meticulous house- 
keeper, a superb cook, a hostess to dream 
of. She is not only capable of doing the 
so-called "womanly" tasks, but she does 
them supremely well. Furthermore, she 
has a sense of values (and of humor) 
which prompts her to shrug off the glam- 
our label, whenever it tends to obscure 
the fundamental values in her life, as if 
it were a loose sequin. 

For example, in the early 1930's, when 
she was first brought to Hollywood from 
Germany, to co-star in a film with Gary 
Cooper, it was taboo for a glamorous movie 
star to admit being a mother. Quite a few 
lush-and-lovelies of that era abided by 
the taboo, but not Marlene. Against the 
rules of her studio bosses, she spoke of 
her child. 

She hasn't changed. Today, if you were 
to ask her what, in her opinion, is the 
most important and precious thing in life, 
she would say — as though surprised that 
anyone need ask — "Why, a child is. I can't 
imagine my life, I can't remember what I 
did, or what interested me, or what the 
days were like, before I had Maria." 

JVlarlene's friends can't imagine Marlene's 
life without Maria, either. On the walls 
and incidental tables in the living room 
of her Park Avenue apartment in New 
York, there are pictures of her friends — 
many of whom are world-famous for their 
achievement in various fields. One is af- 
fectionately autographed by her good 
friend and favorite author, Ernest Hem- 
ingway. Another is a recent photograph of 
Chevalier, inscribed in French: "To Mar- 
lene — always your fan, Maurice." Still an- 
other is of Sir Alexander Fleming, who 
discovered penicillin — and gave Marlene 
the mold from which it was first extracted. 
The latter, Marlene explains, removing 
from the wall a small frame under the 
glass of which is a pale green mound, is 
"one of my three most prized possessions." 

And of paramount importance in the life 
of one of the world's most fabulous women 
is the well-being of Maria and her young 
family. Whenever Maria is obliged to be 
away from home, it is Marlene who baby- 
sits for an evening — or a couple of weeks — 
with the little boys who, she smiles, have 
added life to her years, rather than years 
to her life. 

Shortly before she did her first broad- 
cast on Monitor, last October, Marlene 
spent the better part of a week supervising 
the painters and paperhangers who were 
redecorating Maria's town house (which 
is within walking distance of Marlene's 
apartment) , in order to have the job done 
before Maria and her husband and chil- 
dren returned from a vacation. And on 
more than one occasion, says Maria, her 
mother has stopped by on an afternoon 
"looking too fabulous to touch and, a few 
minutes later, was down on her hands and 
knees scrubbing my kitchen floor. Why? 
Probably because it needed scrubbing! 

Mommy's motto is: I do whatever is nec- 
essary. Or it should be. Because she 

"Duties and responsibilities," Marlene 
says, "are what make life most worth the 
living. Duties, first of all, to your family. 
Duties, also, to friends — to anyone, friend 
or stranger, who is in need of help. You 
don't have to figure out what your duties 
are. Supply -and -demand does that for 
you. For instance, when a lonesome per- 
son is sick, my duties may include cook- 
ing, or straightening out the bed — or just 
a bunch of flowers and a call. Or, if some- 
one needs someone to talk to, I sit and 
talk. Duties are what make life most 
worth the living — because, lacking them, 
you are not necessary to anyone. And this," 
Marlene says, with a perceptible shiver, 
"would be like living in empty space. Or 
not being alive at all . . ." 

Marlene is of a very relaxed and restful- 
to-be-with temperament. She speaks in 
a low, slightly husky murmur, almost as 
if she is thinking aloud. Her movements 
are leisurely and unhurried, deliberately 
so. Her pet hate is rush. "In fact, my 
only hate, the only thing that makes me 
nervous," she says, "is rushing to be here 
at 10:34, there at 12:22, somewhere else 
at 6:10 — you can't do good work this way, 
and someone has to suffer." So, quite 
simply, Dietrich avoids having "a crowded 
schedule" — if that is possible. She will 
think nothing of cancelling a business ap- 
pointment, if some private "business" 
needs more urgent attention. 

Perhaps because of her easygoing, non- 
critical temperament, she is also tolerant 
of human frailties. "So tolerant that, when 
it comes to dishing the dirt," one of her 
friends complains, "Marlene is not much 
help. She invariably takes the attitude of 
live-and-let-live or there-but-for-the- 

But Marlene is capable of becoming 
very annoyed with women who say, "I'm 
just a housewife," in a self-deprecatory 
tone of voice. "As if," says Marlene, "the 
forty-eight-hour-a-day job of running a 
house and bringing up children is not in- 
teresting enough to take pride in!" 

"I think," Marlene says, "there are only 
two valid or compulsive reasons for a 
married woman to be also a career woman. 
One is financial necessity. The other is 
the possession of a great talent. I think 
if you have a great talent, you have a 
drive inside of you that will not let you 
rest, anyway. I think Maria has a great 
talent. Because I think so, I advised her 
to have her career. But, if she had a little 
talent, I would have advised her other- 
wise. As time goes on, fewer and fewer 
women know the happiness just making 
a home can bring. It is a pity. . . ." 

In her particular case, Marlene says, 
having a career had to do with political 
happenings in her own country — or what 
was her own country before, in 1939, she 
became a naturalized American citizen. 
Marlene was born in Berlin. Her father, 
Edouard von Losch, was an officer in the 
patrician regiment of the Guards. She 
was christened Mary Magdalene von 
Losch, but changed her name when she 
began her film career. Actually, she had 
been called "Marlene" (the first and last 
syllables of Mary Magdalene) practically 
from cradle days. "Dietrich" was her 
mother's maiden name. 

rler father was killed in action on the 

Russian front, when Marlene and her 
sister were children. When revolution 
broke out in Berlin, Marlene and her sis- 
ter and mother knew privation, sometimes 
hunger, and the constant threat of dan- 

ger. Eventually, Marlene was taken to 
Weimar to attend boarding school. In 
1921, when order was restored, the mother 
and daughters again took up residence in 
Berlin and, with the hope of making a 
dream come true, Marlene decided to 
study the violin. She was making marked 
progress at the Hochschule fuer Musik 
when she broke her wrist. 

Disappointed, but with too much stam- 
ina to be defeated, Marlene turned to the 
theater, enrolling in the Max Reinhardt 
school of acting. In connection with her 
Reinhardt school training, she played 
small roles in the Berlin film studios. It 
was during this time that she met and 
married Rudolph Sieber, an assistant film 
director. After her marriage, she "gradu- 
ated" to the stage in the Reinhardt 
theaters. Josef Von Sternberg happened 
to see her in one of the small parts she 
was given to play, when he was casting 
his film, "The Blue Angel," and insisted 
on her playing the coveted leading role, 
though the company wanted a "known" 
actress for the part. Before the film was 
released, he brought her to Hollywood 
and Paramount Pictures, in 1931. 

Since the success of her first Hollywood 
film, "Morocco," there has been only one 
protracted break in Marlene's career. That 
was in 1943, when she "joined the Army" 
and was sent overseas to entertain the 
American servicemen and the Allied fight- 
ing forces. Until after V-E Day, Marlene 
made extensive tours, appearing before 
GIs in North Africa and Europe. She en- 
tertained 500,000 American soldiers, and 
became the darling of the combat troops, 
for she invariably insisted on travelling 
as close to the front as possible, risking 
her life on numerous occasions. 

When Marlene returned to America in 
1947, she was awarded the Medal of Free- 
dom, the highest decoration the War De- 
partment can give a civilian. And — from 
a grateful France — the French Medal of 
Freedom and Legion of Honor. These 
tributes to the bravery with which she 
served her country and its allies are — in 
addition to that first mold of penicillin — 
her "most prized possessions." 

Marlene — a great showwoman — doesn't 
depreciate the value of the glamour label 
to a career such as hers. But she does 
deplore it as a liability to personal happi- 
ness and fulfillment. "Being considered 
'beautiful' or 'glamorous' may be an asset 
in Hollywood," she concedes. "To the 
personal happiness and fulfillment of a 
woman, it is not only a liability but a 
threat — at least — of danger. Without it, 
you have your family. You stay in the 
same town in which you were born. That 
is to say, you stay more with your roots. 
This is, I am quite sure, an easier life. 
A more peaceful, and thus a happier life. 

"How to be loved, for example — beauty 
has nothing to do with it. I think that 
the beautiful girls are almost always less 
happy in love than their plainer sisters. 
And I think this is because they have had 
everything the easy way, the unearned 
way, without ever the need to exert them- 
selves, to try to please, to learn, to grow, 
to endure a hardship, to meet a challenge. 

"There are some beautiful women who 
are also beautiful people," Marlene points 
out. "But I claim thej' were all once Ugly 
Ducklings. Just as, in Hans Christian An- 
dersen's famous story, the apparent 'duck- 
ling' became a graceful swan, so many 
girls only become beautiful when they 
mature. They are the fortunate ones. 
They have been obliged to exert them- 
selves, to make the effort to be pleasing, 
to develop their talents. They are the 
Marthas of this world, who perform the 
needed tasks. They are the fortunate ones 

-because they have duties to perform. 

"I know," says Marlene, "because I was 
one of them. Oh, I was terribly ugly, I 
was really ugly! But, as I grew out of 
adolescence, I improved. I did not become 
beautiful — what I see when I look in a 
mirror does not appear to me to be beauti- 
ful. Nevertheless, no matter how — or in 
what degree — Ugly Ducklings become 
swanlike, they know you never get any- 
thing worth having the easy way." 

It isn't easy to picture Dietrich, at any 
age, as an Ugly Duckling. Her eyes, wide- 
set under smoothly winged brows, are 
blue. Her hair is reddish gold. Her skin 
is alabaster-pale, the year around — she 
never tans because, as she explains, she 
isn't "the outdoor type." Five-foot-five, 
she is not as tall as she appears to be on 
the screen, and isn't the "femme fatale" 
type, either, but fragile and fine. 

In her New York apartment, Marlene 
lives alone, save for a daily maid. Asked 
whether she breakfasts in bed, she laughs, 
"I make some coffee in the morning — in 
plenty of time for my maid to have a cup 
when she comes in." She doesn't diet. "I 
couldn't be bothered. I don't force myself 
to eat, that is, just because it's lunch or 
dinner time. If I'm hungry at three in the 
afternoon, I eat like a horse at three in the 

Marlene's apartment, although beauti- 
fully and imaginatively done, is of medi- 
um size. There is an entrance hall or 
foyer which also serves as a dining room, 
a large living room, a very large bedroom 
opening onto a terrace from which there 
is a breathtaking view of the city, a 
kitchen (and Marlene does the cooking, 
when she has guests). The walls of the 
foyer are panelled from floor to ceiling 
with antique mirror-glass. The walls, 
draperies and upholstery in the living 
room and bedroom are blending shades 
of beige, her favorite color. At one end 
of the living room is a grand piano, at the 
other end a fireplace flanked with book- 
shelves. In her bedroom, an enormous 
"Hollywood" bed covered with a mono- 
grammed beige satin spread is the only 
piece of furniture one of the world's most 
glamorous women might be expected to 

Her apartment, Marlene says, is the only 
home she has. "I don't own a house. I 
don't have a car. I don't have a mink 
coat. I don't care about jewels. Or exotic 
perfumes. This is not a personal achieve- 
ment of mine — I just don't particularly 
crave possessions. I have an extensive 
and, if you like," Marlene smiles, "a 'fabu- 
lous' wardrobe. I have to, because of my 
profession. But I'd be happier if all my 
wardrobe were gone — because it would 
be less bother. I go to a beauty parlor 
only when it is very, very necessary. 
Otherwise, I do my own hair and nails." 

Looking back, Marlene says that, if she 
had her life to live over again, she would 
probably live it as she has done. "I al- 
ways did what I felt like doing. I never 
did what I thought I should do. If you 
do what you think you should do, if you 
weigh it at all, it means you are not sure. 
If you follow your feelings — not just your 
feelings of the moment, but your deep 
feelings — there is no question about it. 

"As for happiness, I think that one can 
be completely happy — at moments. If you 
have high standards, I do not believe you 
can achieve happiness, or should expect 
to achieve it, all the time." 

And so, on Saturdays and Sundays, out 
of the rich and various experience that 
has been her life, Marlene answers yoiu: 
questions by radio, helping listeners to 
find both those moments of happiness and 
the high standards without which life has 
no meaning. 

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The Saturday Night Miracle 

(Continued jrom page 52) 
Ayres, Perry's genial maestro. And, that 
wall behind Perry . . . well, behind that 
wall stand the Ray Charles Singers, ready 
to be viewed as soon as the wall melts 
away via television magic. With' them, 
ready for action, is slender, dapper Ray 
Charles himself (most often out of camera 
range) . 

In the wings, perhaps nervously biting 
a nail or two, stands an exotically pretty 
Japanese girl. This is Michi, the Japanese- 
American costume designer for the show. 
She is watching closely, hoping every- 
thing looks as stylish, clever and colorful 
as they looked during the on-camera re- 
hearsal. Behind her are the stagehands, 
alert and ready for the swift scenic 
changes. And, lurking in the shadowy 
darkness of the backstage area is Paul 
Barnes, the brilliant scenic designer who 
is one of the newer members of the Como 
team. His is one of the most important 
jobs — since this is a major color show, the 
kaleidoscope of the sets must harmonize 
perfectly with the costumes. 

Somewhere, prowling in the rear of the 
theater, is gray-haired, eternally cigar- 
smoking Goodman Ace, dean of television 
writers . . . who may have been called 
in to write new lines as late as Saturday 

And like a general at his command post, 
overseeing the entire operation, is Clark 
Jones, the dynamic producer- director. 
Sitting in the control booth, flanked by 
engineers, he adjusts his earphones, leans 
towards the microphone through which 
he speaks to the cameramen and to the 
technical director; the hands of the clock 
move toward the hour and Jones tenses 
and murmurs: "Here we go . . ." 

And The Perry Como Show is on the 
air. As can easily be seen, even by the 
brief sketch above of the people involved, 
this is no simple operation. It is an 
amazing co-ordinated effort by more than 
two hundred and fifty people of varying 
backgrounds, temperaments and jobs. They 
make up almost a small town of their own, 
all devoted to one thing: A great show 
every Saturday night. 

As it does for most people everywhere, 
their week's work begins on Monday — ex- 
cept that, this being show business, start- 
ing time is one P.M. At the offices of 
RonCom Productions (Perry's own com- 
pany), the meeting starts off with a 
cheery "Hiya, gang," from Perry. The 
"gang" at the first script meeting consists 
of Goodman Ace, Clark Jones, a singer 
named Perry Como, and a short, cigar- 
chewing man named Harry Anger — whose 
name is misleading, since he's a very 
gentle man. Anger is also a very impor- 
tant man in this age of television "guest 
stars." His job is to find and sign the most 
interesting and talented guest stars for 
the show . . . and his choices are seldom 
disputed. Also at the meeting is Henry 
Howard, the assistant producer, who has 
been with the show since its inception. 

This rather small "gang" goes over the 
script, irons out its particular problems. 
They also, at this meeting, work out the 
general approach to the show for the 
following week, thus staying ahead of the 
game as much as possible. This is not 
always perfectly possible. For instance, 
the week that Pope Pius XII passed away, 
Goodman Ace, the chief writer was re- 
laxing at home. He was reading a book, 
comfortable in the knowledge that it was 
Friday, the day before the show and all 
was set. Then the phone rang. It was 
A few simple and appropriate words 

about Pope Pius were needed. Coxild Ace 
help out on this? Ace went right to the 
typewriter and, by the final rehearsal, 
Perry had a moving speech which em- 
bodied his true feelings about the passing 
of the spiritual leader. So, like this, every 
week has its own special script problems. 

But the script is only one stone in the 
great color mosaic of the show. At three 
P.M., on Monday, there is a music meet- 
ing in which Conductor Mitchell Ayres, 
Ray Charles and several arrangers are 
joined by a slim, lissome man who is re- 
sponsible for the fanciful cavorting of the 
dancers. He is the choreographer, Louis 
Da Pron. Everything to do with music 
and dance is chewed over at this confab. 
Each person's job often overlaps another's 
. . . Ray Charles has to know the general 
style of the Mitch Ayres' arrangements, in 
order to plan that of his vocal arrange- 
ments which will be sung with the orches- 
tra . . . Louis Da Pron has to be com- 
pletely conversant with the musical ideas 
in order to plan his dance patterns. 

The amazing thing about this brand of 
show-business preparation is not only 
how much planning it takes, but that 
such planning doesn't always prevent the 
unexpected. Once, after a week of exten- 
sive dance rehearsals with a very famous 
guest star, a disaster almost happened. The 
guest star went into the beginning of her 
dance routine, and suddenly . . . with 
millions of people watching her every 
movement, she forgot it . . . she drew a 
complete blank. 

Thinking fast, Louis Da Pron, hidden 
off- camera, signalled for her attention and 
did the dance right there so that she could 
follow him, step by step, movement by 
movement. The star's dance was con- 
sidered a great success . . . but only the 
crew and cast knew that it was at least 
as much Da Pron's triumph. 

"It was kind of an exciting challenge, 
that emergency was," Da Pron said at a 
recent rehearsal. "But I wouldn't go 
through it again for a doubled Nielsen 

The inventive musicians and choreog- 
rapher are joined at four P.M. by every 
creative and administrative person on the 
staff. Here Clark Jones, a man with a 
serious manner but also an underlying wit 
and humor, goes over the major problems 
facing everyone for this week's show Eind 
listens, like a good commanding officer, to 
questions and requests. This is where you 
can see his creative stamp put on the show. 

The following morning, everyone springs 
into frantic motion. Mitchell Ayres is busy 
on his arrangements for the orchestral 
music, as is Ray Charles on the vocal 
music. Michi, the Japanese beauty who 
must clothe every single person on the 
show, is off on her search. "Because of the 
time limitations," Michi confesses, "I usu- 
ally end up adapting — rather than design- 
ing and executing — costumes. I go off 
hunting for the right material and dresses 
of the right general style. My hunting 
grounds are often pretty fancy, like 
Hattie Carnegie, Dior, Fontana ... or as 
often as not, I just plunge into Seventh 
Avenue and dig, like any other buyer. 

"Sometimes, though," Michi says with a 
laugh, "the search is more exotic. Like the 
time I had to produce a jacket for Liberace. 
... a jacket with a neon-lighted sign on 
the back. That was quite a task — but I got 
it," she adds proudly. 

The guest stars, too, have quite a job 
. . . and their first one consists of getting 
accustomed to a rehearsal studio called 
Dance Players ... a typical Broadway 
center for jazz bands, stage plays and 
television show rehearsals. (Though "typi- 


cally Broadway," it woxild naturally be 
located on Sixth Avenue.) Here, in grimy, 
unglamorous surroundings, the various 
groups rehearse, separately and together. 

In one room: Twenty singers being run 
through their paces by Ray Charles. In 
another room: Anywhere from eight to 
twelve dancers leap and pirouette while 
Louis Da Pron beats time and sometimes 
flies into the air himself, to demonstrate 
a point. In still another room: Four guest 
stcirs working out their lines and song 
or dance cues. 

Then, when the basic patterns have 
been established, there is an interchange 
which is a little like the trading of base- 
ball players from team to team. "I need 
Shirley Booth," Louis Da Pron announces 
to Clark Jones. "We have to nin over that 
dance she'll do in the 'Carmen' satire." 

"Sorry, Louis," is the answer. "She's not 
through working with the chorus. Then 
she's got a fitting with Michi. But, right 
after fliat, she's yours." This sort of thing 
is inevitable when an army of people with 
apparently different jobs are working to- 
gether. But the results are always a smooth 
performance in every department . . . and 

JMeanwhile, Paul Barnes, the set de- 
signer, having completed his plans for the 
sets and props, is supervising the building 
of new ones or the discovery and requisi- 
tioning of old ones. For this aspect alone, a 
regiment of assistants and workmen is 

Finally, when Friday rolls around, every- 
one gathers at the Ziegfeld Theater (once 
a landmark of the legitimate stage, but 
now one of the most important television 
studios in New York). Here, in the morn- 
ing, can be heard the sounds of a great 
thirty-three-piece orchestra. They are 
playing, for the first time, the music which 
Mitchell Ayres and Ray Charles have 
sweated over all week. They begin at nine- 
thirty A.M. and it will be a long day for 
most of the people in the show . . . some- 
times ending as late as eleven-thirty P.M. 

In the middle of the afternoon, the 
cameramen — headed by Jack Bennett, 
who's been with the Como sKow for four 
years — arrive. For a full hour, these cam- 
eramen do something which is as mysteri- 
ous as witchcraft, to the average viewer, 
and yet is something without which no one 
would ever enjoy the blessing of color TV. 
They run a "test pattern" which is simply 
a means of testing each of the three color 
tubes in a TV color camera, to be sure that 
they will make a good picture, with clarity 
and good color. 

So much for the witchcraft. There are 
simpler things that are just as important, 
such as the fact that color cameras are 
three times as heavy as ordinary black- 
and-white cameras; and they are powered 
by three times as many cables. In fact, 
there is one man on each camera assigned 
to the task of picking up and holding 
these heavy cables. AU, so that you at 
home will not hear a distracting rumble 
whenever the camera moves in close for 
a shot of Perry, or pulls away swiftly for 

works for ijou! 

a long view of the Ray Charles Singers. 

At the same time, deep in the down- 
stairs depths of the Ziegfeld, Michi and 
her assistants, assorted seamstresses and 
so forth, are having fittings. Girls' cos- 
tumes are especially carefully checked for 
decently covered decoUetage, since the 
Como show is the most "family" of the 
feunUy shows. Once, when a very famous 
foreign beauty was a guest star, Michi 
found herself so dazzled by the woman's 
beauty that she just let her costumes go 
without checking too carefully . . . and 
there were all sorts of repercussions the 
next day. Michi has vowed: Never again. 

Perry, of course, as the star of the show, 
gets an extra-special costume going-over. 
But, even so, there have been near-dis- 
asters. On one show, he wore a glossy 
silk tie with a thin stripe. For some reason 
best known to the gods of TV, when he 
was on camera, the tie's pattern kept 
jvunping to the eye. Michi was waiting 
just off-camera and, the minute Perry 
stepped out of range, she grabbed him, 
changed his tie and got him back on 
camera exactly in time. 

Having been fitted out for his costume. 
Perry then rehearses the bantering lines 
he and Frank Gallop, the announcer, will 
have together. Their amusing raillery 
about "breaking," "bending" and otherwise 
distorting the station (in simple English: 
"station break") has become a comedy 
byword on the show, and this is one of 
the easiest parts of the rehearsal. 

The following morning — show day — all 
the parts of this gigantic jig-sa\y puzzle 
are put in place. The thirty-five to forty 
people who may appear on camera in any 
one show are subjected to the make-up 
and hair-styling that would go into the 
preparation of a major Broadway musical. 

On-stage and before the cameras, there 
is a complete, technical run-through. Then, 
Clark Jones sums up how the show looks 
and what still remains to be smoothed 
out. By the time the dress rehearsal ar- 
rives, it's running like a well-oiled ma- 
chine, and people who will witness the 
telecast are already drifting into the 
orchestra of the theater. 

1 hen, suddenly, it is almost zero hour. 
Thirty stagehands have set up the scenery 
. . . thirty engineers (including the camera- 
men) are at work on technical polishing 
. . . thirty -three musicians are tuning up 
. . . ten production assistants are doing 
last-minute checking ... a cast of thirty- 
five is in costume and ready . . . twenty 
pages have escorted members of the audi- 
ence to their seats. 

Now, the amazing scope of color TV can 
be seen. A light flashes on, and they're on 
the air. But . . . the opening credits and 
commericals are not coming from the 
stage where Perry stands in readiness. 
They are beamed from a mile away: 
Studio 4J in Rockefeller Center. Then, at 
the Ziegfeld, one of the engineers throws 
a switch — and Perry Como is on the air. 

The instant Perry's image appears on 
the screen, the Master Control department 
in NBC actually tunes your picture for 
you, adjusts the color and makes sure that 
the picture seen is the best possible. 

Then, as calmly as if he had not just 
participated in one of the greatest mass 
efforts and achievements of modern times. 
Perry steps forward and begins to sing: 
"Dream along with me . . . I'm on my way 
to a star . . ." 

In the words of a white-haired old lady 
from the Middle West, who attended a 
Perry Como telecast recently and looked 
around the stage at the swarm of people 
bringing the show to life, "Why, it's a 

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(Continued from page 61) 
off a news source by being outspoken and 
sometimes unflattering about a particular 
subject in the news. The wily propagandist 
will always talk with you, even if he feels 
you're not sympathetic. He always has the 
confidence he can sway you, and besides 
he prefers to have a showcase rather than 
not have one . . I think he also respects 
anybody who is independently courageous." 

Chefs favorite type of newsman is the 
late Elmer Davis. Of the current crop, he 
admires young David Brinkley, about 
thirty-seven and some ten years his junior, 
with whom he is seen on the daily Hunt- 
ley-Brinkley Report. "I believe I missed 
out in not having been trained on a news- 
paper first," Chet reflects. He still hankers 
to do a .stint from a city room and would, 
if he got the chance. As one of the 
exception-to-the-rule TV journalists who 
never had newspaper background, he's in 
good company — Edward R. Murrow, and 
Douglas Edwards were not grounded in 
the Fourth Estate, either. 

He is always ready to travel. In recent 
months, Chet has been to Europe four 
times — three times to Paris, once to Leb- 
anon — with plenty of domestic coast-to- 
coast traveling interspersed. Chefs pass- 
port, cluttered with visa stamps, is in 
order at all times and he gets his booster 
shots every two years. His passport photo 
is the usual unflattering, stark, prisoner- 
type, but he isn't vain about it. 

Chet didn't know it, when we asked him, 
"How fast can you pack?" — but he won 
the getaway sweepstakes from Walter 
Cronkite and John Secondari. He stated 
positively he could make it for anywhere 
in a flat minute and thirty seconds. In the 
bottom leftside drawer of his office desk 
there are two shirts, razor and razor blades. 
He stuffs them in his briefcase. He wears 
the suit he has on, and that's it. He's off. 
He's got the same arrangement at home. 

The moon? "Sure, I'd love to go," Hunt- 
ley says, albeit dispassionately. "I wouldn't 
want the story if it meant giving my life — 
not for any story. I'm not that kind of an 
eager beaver," he emphasizes without a 
blink of his ice-blue eyes. 

John Secondari has one credit in his past 
that is bound to overshadow any of his 
journalistic accomplishments. He's the 
broodily romantic fellow who wrote the 
novel, "Coins in the Fountain," from which 
the motion picture, "Three Coins in the 
Fountain," was adapted. He is no one-book 
man, either. The eligible, thirty-nine-year- 
old Chief of ABC's Washington News Bur- 
eau has written three novels and is cur- 
rently at work on his fourth, tentatively 
titled "In the Days of Our Youth." 

Literary inspirations do not encroach on 
the eleven hours daily which Secondari 
gives to preparing for his weekly half-hour 
Sunday show. Open Hearing. More and 
more televiewers are tuning in to hear the 
meticulously - constructed language, the 
educated diction, the thoughtful reports of 
soul-faced sentimentalist John Secondari. 
Born in Rome but schooled in the United 
States since the age of five, he retains 
the European respect for self-cultivation — 
instilled, no doubt, by his father. Dr. 
Epaminonda Secondari, a cardiologist, and 
his mother Dr. Linda Secondari, formerly 
a professor at the University of Rome. 

Secondari made his first appearance be- 
fore the TV cameras only two years ago, 
in a brief five-minute analysis of the 
Hungarian uprising. In spite of the fact he 
had been trained to use a mike some 
eighteen years before, television terrified 
him into vocal paralysis. "There were ten 
seconds of silence," he recalls, "then a 


squeaky voice — not at all .nine, they tell 
me — which opened up and at last carried 

These days, Secondari shows no appar- 
ent nervousness on the screen. He is more 
"humiliated" by the make-up job which 
must precede his telecast than by any- 
thing else he can think of. "The director 
forces me into it — says I must cover the 
shadow of my beard. I yell every time, 
The pancake make-up ruins my shirts and 
suits," he complains, looking dapper in a 
snappy brown tweedy suit. 

Secondari does without a writers' staff 
and prepares his own scripts. He thinks 
his background as a novelist gives him the 
advantage of being able to inject "the truth 
and believability of good fiction into non- 
fiction, making for a more dramatic pre- 
sentation of the news." He has the face of 
preoccupation and slight sadness because, 
he explains, he is a "chronic thinker." He 
feels that reporting is the hardest kind of 
hard work. "It takes constant talking to 
people, reading, thinking, extracting what 
comes out of where — above all, how to 
make information useful." 

"There is no snch thing as the romantic 
school of journalism left, no Richard Hard- 
ing Davis days," he says. "Today, it is a 
romance of the intellect, an adventure of 
the mind, rather than a physical spectacle." 
He has an instinctive distrust of the re- 
porter who is working for "thrills" — which, 
he states emphatically, is not the first 
function of the job. As an example of how 
un-thrilling a story may be, yet most 
important and tremendously satisfying, he 
cites his beat on the Orval Faubus-Little 
Rock situation. 

"Within four hours after learning of the 
Little Rock crisis, I was in Arkansas and 
had organized a panel of four newsmen to 
be with me," he says. "There was nothing 
gay or thrilling about this story, but it 
had to be told on the spot and as lucidly 
as possible." 

Secondari stayed in Little Rock another 
five days to parlay his scoop over the other 
networks. His Faubus story made the front 
pages of almost every major newspaper 
in America. This indeed helped the pres- 
tige of ABC, which has been making a huge 
effort to match the news-coverage excel- 
lence of its rival networks. In the past 
two years, the network's traveling news 
tribe has chalked up enough mileage to 
have circled the globe eight times. 

While Secondari pooh-poohs the thrill 
aspects of his work, he nevertheless comes 
by them now and then. He was the re- 
porter who investigated the still unsolved 
murder of fellow American correspondent 
George Polk. "I was in Rome at the time. 
I received a phone call at six A.M. in- 
forming me of George's tragic end. By 
ten that same morning, I had obtained a 
Greek visa, packed, and boarded a plane, 
heading for the remotest place I've ever 
been — Cavalle, Greece. After the plane, I 
took a motor boat, horse — and, finally, my 
own legs — to the point of inquiry. The 
intrigue, the whirlwind pace, the strange 
territory, had all the earmarks of a Holly- 
wood scenario." 

Although Secondari is "pro" enough to 
go along with a rush departure whenever 
need be — and can be packed in six min- 
utes — he prefers ship travel. "The gradual 
change helps me to formulate what I am 
doing, and, of course, I love the luxury of 
long days on the ocean. I think fast travel 
is a waste, anyway," he says. "It takes me 
about a week after a plane ride to assimi- 
late what I'm doing." 

Unlike other gadabout correspondents 
who often need interpreters, he speaks 
fluently in Italian, French, Spanish, Ger- 



man and, of course, English. He enjoys the 
stimulation of "switching tongues and 
adapting to the local language color" — 
which may be one reason he hasn't the 
slightest desire to get to the pale, silent 

A widower for five years, he has a good- 
looking eight-year-old son, John Gerry — 
"one of the tall Secondaris," says Senior, 
making reference to his own middle height 
of just iinder five-feet-eight. Young John 
shares his dad's six-room apartment in 
Du Pont Circle, Washington, D.C. 

Does Secondari have an advantage over 
most of his colleagues in not having wife 
trouble when he has to make a quick get- 
away? "I suppose so, but it is a hard price 
to pay for loneliness," he says frankly, his 
warm brown eyes full of remembrance. 

Somehow word gets out that a man is 
unmarried and available. Secondari's fan 
mail bulges with long six-page letters from 
women who write about everything but his 
program. Nevertheless, he stresses, "there 
are no plans for marriage." He maintains 
an apartment in Rome which he has not 
lived in since the motor-accident death 
of his beautiful young wife. "I have willed 
the house to my son, but I cannot live in 
it now." 

Walter Cronkite has an eight-year-old 
daughter Mary Kathleen — "born on the 
day of the Inchon landings" — who knows 
how to retaliate when she gets miffed with 
her daddy: She threatens to grow up and 
become a commentator on another net- 
work. This is a very perceptive glimpse 
of the vastly congenial Walter, who's 
passed on some of his teasing good humor 
and practical competitiveness to at least 
one of his three offspring. 

Cronkite is a TV journalist who's almost 
never 'been without a sponsor, since three 
days after his first TV appearance in July, 
1950. "I think the ideal sponsor for a news 
program should be something dignified," 
he says lightheartedly — ^though he him- 
self has not always been "dignified." 
Cronkite has gone from beeps to news- 
beats, having played raucous clarinet for 
the Cliff Dreschner Cowboy Band in 
Houston, Texas. 

Skinny in those days, only 135 pounds 
for a six-foot frame, Cronkite today, at a 
prime forty-two, shows what's happened to 
him since 1939, when he married "Betsy," 
the former Mary Elizabeth Maxwell of 
Missouri, his own home state. He now 
weighs 185 and wonders where it will all 
end if Betsy doesn't stop feeding him so 
enthusiastically. Pert-featured and honey- 
redhaired, Betsy stops herself at a neatly 
figured size-ten, 110 pounds. 

Frequently a "news widow" while her 
husband is off in foreign lands in pursuit 
of the big story, Betsy claims she is a 
captivated fan of Walter's and has learned 
how to live with work separations. "The 
story isn't going to last forever. I'm not 
a possessive woman," she says, wrinkling 
up her small nose coolly. 

Only once did Betsy's calm desert her. 
That was at the end of 1945, when she 
hadn't seen her combat correspondent hus- 
band in four years. "I got tired of waiting. 
I hopped a ship to England and caught up 
with him — yes, I had to introduce myself. 
Then I chased him to Brussels, where I 
stayed five months. I haven't chased him 
anywhere since. I don't like to be in his 
way when he's working . . . but I would 
like to go to the moon with him." 

Walter is prepared to face two kinds of 
shocks, physical and mental, on moon life 
and therefore discourages Betsy about 
sharing this particular story — which he's 
certain wUl come soon. "Besides, who'd 
look after our brood?" he wants to know. 
The Cronkites have baby Walter III, not 
yet two, Mary Kathleen, 8, and Nancy 

Elizabeth, 10. Firstborn Nancy arrived nine 
years after Betsy and Walter were married. 
"It's hard to get a start when you're an 
absentee husband," Walter quips, "but we 
made it." 

There is an unswerving understanding 
in the Cronkite household that, whenever 
the banner headline speaks, Walter is off, 
dragging his hastily-packed wash 'n' drip- 
dry underwear and socks and portable 
washline. "He sends everything to the 
laundry, anyway," Betsy snickers good- 
naturedly. It takes him twenty minutes 
to pack, for he picks out his most "sin- 
cere" ties — blue and brown — plus two 
button-down white shirts and a couple of 
extra ties. This is in great restraint, since 
at home he is a clothes hound with a mad 
passion for saving every old tie he's ever 
owned, especially the spotted ones. 

"I like character marks," Cronkite de- 
clares. "When I go before the cameras, 
every makeup man wants to camouflage 
the circles under my eyes which cost me a 
fortune at recreation to acquire. Why 
remove it? Lines are part of one's bear- 
ing and demeanor. I believe it is a 
mistake to wipe them out. Who wants to be 
pretty?" he asks, looking — well, almost 
"pretty," as he flashes blue eyes and wags 
a shock of sandy hair not yet thinned 
with "character." 

As an offshoot of his TV fame and 
prospective affluence, Cronkite once hired 
a press agent, thinking this might give 
more exposure to the exclusive stories 
cabled to him from the network's stable 
of deserving foreign correspondents. "What 
a mistake!" he recalls with a shudder. 
"This press agent began planting colimui 
gossip that I hired only well-built secre- 
taries, that I was seen at this and that 
place with — well, every doll but my wife." 
The press agent was fired in three weeks, 
during which time Betsy was under- 
standably having trouble being the usual 
"good scout." 

Cronkite's advice to budding TV journal- 
ists, since he is asked so often, is this: 
Get a good foundation on a medium-sized 
newspaper, then try the finishing-school 
rivalry of a news service job (Cronkite 
was a United Press man for eleven years) . 
Study history, government, economics, 
science (I'm terrible in all these subjects!" 
he confesses). Cronkite feels the success- 
ful TV reporter must also learn to be rather 
practical ("how to get and keep sponsors 
is a must"). He believes television could 
use "more diligent seekers of news who 
show consistent and reliable talent . . . 
you can't afford to dispatch someone to the 
other end of the earth and not hear from 
him for six months." 

Cronkite spent six weeks in England, 
France, Germany, Italy, Libya and other 
faroff points for this year's Air Power 
series (summer replacement for The 
Twentieth Century) and, at this writing, 
has had a home stay for longer than usual. 
Betsy and the children wonder because 
he's been such a constant sight around 
their ten- room Gracie Square home in 
Manhattan and, on weekends, in their 
Carmel, New York coimtry residence. 
"He'll disappear soon," Betsy predicts, 
"and won't write a line — never does — but 
if I just don't get any insurance, I'll be 
very happy." 

To us, it seems that our hopalong jour- 
nalists have a remarkable lot of things in 
common, while emerging nonetheless with 
their own distinct personalities, profes- 
sional methods and beliefs. They are seri- 
ous yet adventurous, curious yet not fool- 
hardy, homebodies yet restless travelers, 
romantic, yet practical, vigorously male 
yet unself conscious. They all have a sense 
of drama — but the news comes first. And 
all are blessed with resonant, attractive 
voices summoned up from confident hearts. 


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7102 — Crocheted cape to top your fash- 
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7008 — Gay little sundress with puppy-face 
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MARCH, 1959 


VOL. 51, NO. 

Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Associate Editor 
Lorraine Girsch, Assistant Editor 

Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Assistant Art Director 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 


What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 4 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 10 

Surprise! (Bob Barker's party for Bill Burch) 12 


The Real Liberace by Dora Albert 

Carol Burnett's Mystery Gift by Gregory Merwin 

Man of Many Faces (Peter Lind Hayes) by Martin Cohen 

The Very Biggest Payoff ( Bess Myerson ) by Gladys Hall 

Music to Watch a Mystery By (Hank Mancini) by Nonean Conner 

Adventures of Efrem Zimbalist Jr by Fredda Balling 

Paladin Rides the Airwaves (John Dehner) by Marcia Minnette 

Gene Barry's Dream House 

Crepes Suzette for Three (Hugh O'Brian's recipes) 52 

Doctor in the House ( Paul McGrath ) by Frances Kish 54 


Loretta Ygung, the Giant-Killer by Jerry Asher 32 

Of Time and Tennessee Ernie Ford by Eunice Field 34 

Highland Fling (Shirley MacLaine) by Peer J. Oppenheimer 38 

She Has His Heart ( Dale Robertson ) by Maxine Arnold 40 


Caught in the Line of Colonel Flack (Alan Mowbray) 7 

Merry-Go-Madness (Wally Phillips of WGN, Radio and TV) 8 

The Record Players: Jazzmen, Come Home by Torey Southwick 57 

They're "Wowing 'em" in Omaha (Joe Martin and Al Lamm of WOW Radio) 58 

Relatively Speaking (Joe McCarthy of WJR Radio) 60 


TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies 3 

Information Booth 15 

Beauty: How to Be Yourself (Nancy Malone) 56 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 68 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 84 

Cover portrait of Peter Lind Hayes by Gary Wagner 


Published Monthly by Macfodden Publi- 
cations, Inc., N. Y. Executive, Adver- 
tising, and Editorial Offices at 205 E. 
42nd St., New York, N. Y. Editorial 
Branch Office, 321 S. Beverly Dr., Bever- 
ly Hills, Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, 
^«i»^" President; Lee Andrews, Vice-Pres.; S. N. 

Himmelman, Vice-Pres.; Meyer Dworkin, 
Secretary and Treasurer. Acivertising of- 
fices also in Chicago, and San Francisco. 

Manuscripts: All manuscripts will be carefully considered, 
but publisher cannot be responsible for loss or damage. 
It is advisable to keep a duplicate copy for your rec- 
ords. Only those manuscripts accompanied by stamped, 
self-addressed return envelopes with sufficient postage 
will be returned. 

Foreign editions handled through Macfodden Publica- 
tions International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, N. Y. 
17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, Pres.; Douglas Lockhart, 

Re-entered as Second Class matter, June 28, 1954, at 

the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of 
March 3, 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, 
N. Y. and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class 
matter by the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Ontario, 
Canada. Copyright, 1959, by Macfodden Publications, 
Inc. All rights reserved under International Copyright 
Convention. All rights reserved under Pan American 
Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun 
la Convencion Pan-Americana de Propiedad Literaria y 

Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. 
Printed in U.S.A. by Art Color Printing Co. 
Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group. 
Subscription Rates: In the U. S. , Its Possessions, & Cana- 
da, one year $3.00; two years $5.00; three years $7.00. 
All other countries, $5.00 per year. 
Change of Address: 6 weeks' notice essential. When 
possible, please furnish stencil-Impression address from 
a recent Issue. Address changes can be made only if 
you send us your old as well as your new address. Write 
to TV RADIO MIRROR, Mocfodden Publications, Inc., 205 
East 42nd Street, New York 17, New York. 

1 WJ 


Beat writer Frank pairs with Shirley in big movie from big book. 

Joanne and Yul in tense scene from strong Faulkner dramatization. 

Glad news for Jimmie Komack, Jill. Paul, and Barbara Bostok. 

±h^ mo^/i' 

Some Came Running 

m-c-m; cinemascope; metrocolor 

A star-studded cast brings James Jones' novel to the 
screen. Frank Sinatra appears as a bitter beatnik-type, 
talented as a writer of fiction and equally talented at 
getting into trouble. Just discharged after a hitch in the 
Army, he comes back to his hometown accompanied by 
a good-natured floosie (played by Shirley MacLaine). 
Reunion with his stodgy, self-centered brother (Arthur 
Kennedy) and family leads to a meeting with beautiful 
schoolteacher (Martha Hyer). A gambling partnership 
with Bama Dillert (Dean Martin) grows complicated, 
and the plot thickens with the appearance of Shirley 
MacLaine's disgruntled lover from Chicago. Lots of fast 
action, and good performances throughout a complicated 

The Sound and The Fury 

20th century-fox; cinemascope 

Jerry Wald produces William Faulkner's dramatic story 
of a decaying Southern family dominated by Jason (Yul 
Brynner) — brought into the family circle in childhood as 
the son of Colonel Compson's last wife. After the 
Colonel's death, Jason takes charge to keep together a 
weird group, consisting of his own mother (the widow 
Compson ) , two Compson half-brothers ( one of them a 
childlike mental defective), and the daughter of Caddy 
Compson (Joanne Woodward). Caddy has, years before, 
deserted her daughter and left town to exist by her wits. 
Aging and broke, Caddy comes home for refuge, and 
her return sets fire to all the interlocking resentments felt 
by members of the Compson group. Excellent dramatic 
story, played superbly by a large cast. 

Senior Prom 


This lighthearted campus musical offers movie stardom 
for the first time to Jill Corey, Hit Parade regular on TV 
during the 1957-58 season. Jill is cast as a senior, about 
to inherit a boodle of money, who falls in love with an 
unsuitably penniless scholarship student (Paul Hamp- 
ton). Paul, fortunately for the plot, can also sing — and 
has one pressing made years ago which went no place on 
the hit rolls. A sudden and extraordinary revival of this 
recording leads to a golden record for Paul, which he 
accepts on Ed Sullivan's show in New York. Result: He 
corrals a lot of name talent for the senior prom, includ- 
ing Prima and Smith, Sam Butera and the Witnesses, 
Freddy Martin, Les Elgart, Jose Melis, Mitch Miller, 
Connie Boswell and Bob Crosby. Full of music and 
gaiety, this is a sure click with teenagers. 

That Jane From Maine 


With much warmth and homespun humor, this family- 
type comedy tells the amusing tale of determined if 
somewhat scatterbrained young widow Doris Day, who 
tackles an entire railroad corporation to prove a good old 
American principle — that a person has the right to fight 
for what she believes in, regardless of whether she is 
really right or not. Luckily, Miss Day is not only right 
but young, blonde, and pretty — (Continued on page 70) 



Among roster of brilliant American 
talent for Bell Tel. — Rise Stevens. 

• '' 

"Cut in pay" for Dick Clark, but 
he's not worried — always pays cash. 

For What's New On 
The West Coast, See page 8 

Hot Items: The U. S. taxpayer may 
sponsor the most spectacular show of 
'59. Willie Ley predicts a TV camera 
and transmitter will be in orbit this 
year. . . . The whisper is that there 
will be Hollywood pressure to get 
Elvis temporarily released from the 
Army to make a film. They're hungry 
for the dollars his name brings in. . . . 
StiU mulling over Hugh O'Brian's 
New Year resolution: "I hope to find 
the right girl and to marry during the 
year." He's been promising for so long. 
. . . The Pat Boones, with four misses, 
are hopeful that this time it will be a 
little mister. . . . Good old Howdy 
Doody observed his eleventh birthday, 
which may make you eleven years 
older than you care to remember. . . . 
Johnny Mathis suffocating in money. 
Six days in Australia earned him 
$50,000. . . . Keep Talking chokes up 
on February 8. CBS -TV is bringing 
back Richard Diamond Private Eye to 
buck Loretta's high ratings. . . . Anne 
Burr's absence from As The World 
Turns is no laughing matter. Broke a 
hip in a spill from a step-ladder. . . . 
$130-million, a figure that makes yovi 
wince, is an estimate of what RCA has 
spent to date in exploiting color TV. 
. . . Gisele MacKenzie's pregnancy re- 
quired her release from musical, 
"First Impression," opening on Broad- 
way February 12. Polly Bergen ac- 
cepted the part and notified producer 
of To Tell The Truth she would have 
to quit panel show because of conflict 
of time. A few days later, her phone 
rang and she was told the show would 
be taped at 7 P.M. for her sake — the 
first time this has ever been done to 
accommodate a regular panelist. In- 
side story is that one of the sponsors 
felt the show's popularity would s\if- 
fer if Polly were absent. Polly, very 
pleased, said, "I didn't know, when I 
signed up, that I had a lifetime job." 

Hamlets All : New York drama critics 
fell over each other in their rush to 
praise the Old Vic Company's Broad- 
way production of "Hamlet," which 
will be seen on CBS-TV February 24. 
Note that Shakespeare wrote "Ham- 
let" as a four and a half -hour produc- 
tion. The Broadway version was cut 
to three hours. On TV, it will run one 
and a half hours. Britain's great 
Shakespearean actor, John Neville, 
will star. TV producer Ralph Nelson 
promises, "This ninety-minute pro- 
duction will have more action than 
ten Westerns and more violence than 
a month of Hitchcock scripts." . . . An- 
other famed Hamlet, Sir Laurence 
Olivier, made TV news when NBC 
held a reception in his honor to an- 
nounce he was making a ninety-min- 
ute version of Somerset Maugham's 
"The Moon and Sixpence." Sir Laur- 

ence commanded the presence of so 
many reporters that the room looked 
like a subway during rush hours. 
Next day, everyone was trying to find 
out what Larry had said, but no one 
knew. The odd angle was that NBC 
announced it had purchased the show 
before getting a sponsor, which re- 
verses the standard procedure. Such 
a precedent could lead to bankruptcy, 
but it might eliminate some of the 
bombs that have been bought sight 
unseen and presented as "specials" to 
the nation. 

Hurry Up: The word persists that 
Garroway is tired or bored with To- 
day and would like out. . . . What 
confuses TV execs is that, while 
nighttime quiz shows are dead, day- 
time quiz continues strong. . . . On 
February 10, over NBC-TV Bell Tele- 
phone Hour pays tribute to distinc- 
tively American music with such 
outstanding interpreters as Rise Ste- 
vens, Duke Ellington, Grant Johanne- 
sen, the New York City Ballet, and 
Ella Fitzgerald. . . . Bobby Darin 
leading a double-life: For teenagersi 
he belts out rock 'n' roll. On the clu^ 
circuit, he majors in ballads. . . . Ten- 
year-old Patty Duke, now a regular 
on Brighter Day, joins her dramatic 
talents to those of Gloria Vanderbilt 
February 11 on U. S. Steel Hour's ver- 
sion of Tolstoi's "Family Happiness." 
Odd fact: Roland Winters, Peter Lind 
Hayes' announcer, has played Charlie 
Chan in fifty films. . . . Sylvania in- 
troduced the first short TV receiver 
two years ago, has now bobbed an-* 
other two and a half inches from theia 
picture tube. And they have come up 
with the first receiver to be encased in 
plastic. Advantage is that the sets are 
designed to complement home fur- 
nishings. To date, portables have been 
styled for outdoor use, although 80"^ 
of purchasers buy them to be used as 
indoor table models. . . . How much 
can you love your wife? Bill Cullen, 
fast man with a Brownie, has shot 
6,000 pictures of his wife. That's a lot 
of birdies. ' 

Clacking with Clark: Outside the 
Little Theater, fans were making a 
big noise. The reason was Dick Clark, 
and the reason, youthful and hand- 
some as ever, was saying, "One maga- 
zine reported I was making half-a- 
million a year. A week later, a news- 
paper said that it was $50,000. My 
father phoned and said, 'Son, I hear 
you got a cut in salary.' " Dick laughed 
and added, "I don't know how much I'll 
make this year, and that's the truth." 
Wryly he noted that the magazine 
with the astronomical figure had re- 
ferred to his summer mansion, a fruit 
of his success. "Actually, we bought 

Ninety minutes of Shakespeare — TV's "Hamlet" with Margaret 
Courtenay as Queen and John Neville in the title role. 

Could be Abbe Lane's husband Cugie would like to 
give U.S. "hoop" craze a South-ot-the-border twist. 

The gaiety, verve, solid TV creativity of Fred Astaire's 
big fall spec just cried for rerun. Here, with Barrie Chase. 

"Too pretty to act," producers said — but Diane 
Lodd showed em beauty and talent con go together. 




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(Continued from -page 4) 

the plot on the beach six years ago, 
and the cottage itself is a $9,000 pre- 
fab building. And I'm still driving a 
car that is three years old." Dick has 
had five movie offers. "I don't know if 
I'll have time for even one." A West- 
ern symphony orchestra in financial 
straits has asked him to do a benefit. 
"That I'm hoping to do. I always want 
to be associated with music and I 
want to be of help whenever I can." 
Asked what he expected to be doing 
when his hair turned gray and his 
current fans were mothers or busi- 
nessmen, he said, "I expect to be do- 
ing the same thing. There will always 
be dance and music. Some of our 
earliest viewers are already married 
and they've come back toting their 
infants to see us." 

Big Noise: So enthusiastic were the 
press and public that Chrysler brings 
back the Fred Astaire show on Feb- 
ruary 11, NBC-TV. It's exactly the 
same tape that was seen in October; 
not even the commercials have been 
changed. . . . NBC-TV so impressed 
by newly filmed story of Abraham 
Lincoln that, on the same date (Feb- 
ruary 11), they will pre-empt The 
Price Is Right for this special docu- 
mentary. . . . Several years ago, Candy 
Jones filmed six commercials in one 
day for a soap company. She gets paid 
every time they are televised and, to 
date, has earned a total of $24,000 for 
that single day's work. . . . Tony Mar- 
vin (still Godfrey's right hand) has 
the top-rated deejay show in metro- 
politan New York. . . . Dennis James 
plans to return to TV this spring in a 
format that will startle his friends. No 
one knows whether he intends to ap- 
pear as a rock 'n' roll singer, ballroom 
dancer, or private eye. . . . Latest to 
spin-the-hoop is a gal it might have 
been made for — Abbe Lane gyrates at 
Hess Brothers (Allentown, Pa.) shin- 
dig. . . . Brighter Day's Hal Holbrook, 
who recently completed a lecture tour 
of ten universities, will give his Mark 
Twain address at the University of 
Syracuse on February 13. . . . Actors 
worry about sibilant sounds, and Phil 
Silvers offers the following speech ex- 
ercise to preclude lisping: "She stood 
at the door of Mrs. Smith's fish-sauce 
shop while the swan swam over the 
sea; swim, swan, swim, swam, swim, 
swan." Great format for comedy. 

A Gal in Orbit: When Diane Ladd 
finished her first acting stint for 
Naked City, the producer turned to 
the director and said, "This gal must 
be submitted for the TV Academy's 
award." Diane is a beauty with long 
blonde hair that makes her look like a 
story princess and long, slender legs 
that would qualify her as a Copa girl, 
which she was. "And that was my 
problem when I asked for acting jobs. 
Casting directors didn't believe that a 
sexy-looking dancer could act. But 
I've been acting since I was a child. 


Maugham comes to TV — courtesy of 
Laurence Olivier and NBC network. 

When I was sixteen, I toured with 
John Carradine." She came to New 
York City three years ago. She has 
appeared in Verdict Is Yours, Decoy, 
Naked City and other TV dramatic 
shows. She got the jobs by clever 
make-up. "I can make myself look hard 
or aged. I can go from sixteen to sixty." 
In Hollywood, she talked contract 
with Jerry Wald. She turned it down. 
"I said, 'If I want security, I'll go back 
home to Mississippi. I want to act.' " 
She came to New York City looking 
for meaty parts. "So I got meaty parts 
and they have been unsympathetic 
things, and now casting directors say, 
'You're not pretty enough, not sympa- 
thetic enough.' " In a Naked City epi- 
sode this month, Diane gets another 
chance. She stars as a Copa girl, pretty 
and sweet, who can sing and dance. 
"An actress has to wait for the right 
showcase," she says, "and money 
means so much to a young actress. I 
mean the money to pay the grocer and 
landlady. Three times I've been broke, 
and I always prayed, 'God, please help 
me. I'll give you twenty-fours hours 
and, if you don't, I'll quit acting.' I 
guess I've been lucky. All thi'ee times. 
He came through with a part for me." 

Lend Me Your Ears: Bob Keeshan, 
CBS-TV's gift to children, has cut two 
fine albums. Golden Records' "Cap- 
tain Kangaroo" is strictly for children. 
But his other, on the same label, "A 
Child's Introduction to Jazz," has such 
fine music that the most sophisticated 
adult will be satisfied. Another prime 
Golden Record, "TV Jamboree," con- 
tains the voices of ten TV stars — in- 
cluding such strong men as Dale Rob- 
ertson, Mighty Mouse, Hugh O'Brian 
and Popeye. There are also Bugs 
Bunny, Annie Oakley, Lassie and oth- 
ers. . . . Betty Johnson, who considers 
all two years of her marriage a hon- 
eymoon, has (Continued on page 70) 

The Colonel gets pointers in pas 
de chat from Kathleen Freeman. 



WITH A preference for "the cut and polished kind," Colonel Flack 
and his distinguished "impersonator," veteran actor Alan 
Mowbray, agree they can't see live TV for anything. Like a well- 
cut gem, a film production can't be beat. "I think," Mowbray 
muses, "that the people who piefer live over film TV are like the 
Romans who hoped the Christian would eat the lion. They're 
just waiting," he explains, "to see the dead guy arise and walk off 
the set, or the stagehand move props just behind the love scene. 
Now," he adds, "with Flack on film, we can be perfectionist, 
while not sacrificing spontaneity at all." . . . On film or in person, 
Alan Mowbray never does. At lunch with Everett Rhodes Castle 
(ad exec and originator of the Colonel character for a magazine 
series years back), Mowbray gave his order to the waiter in the 
grand manner of Flack. Rhodes enjoyed this bit. "Why," 
he exclaimed, "I'll be darned if I know which is Mowbray and which 
is Colonel Flack!" Alan himself enjoys perpetuating the likeness, 
but he is cagey about it. "You know," he says, "I hate bio- 
graphicals like madness. Interviewers are always asking, 'What 
is your mother's maiden name?' or 'What are your vital statistics?' 
Well," he continues, eyebrow a-tilt with mischief, "I can tell you, 
I measured myself this morning and I was 33-36-40." . . . Jokes 
aside, Alan talks with verve about the big things in his life. 
With the children grown and living away, he and his wife have 
taken an apartment right in the heart of Hollywood. "I like to go 
down to the desert occasionally, but my wife likes '21' — so, 
we compromise and do a little of both." His daughter Patricia is 
an actress and Alan Jr. will, on the slightest provocation, according 
to his dad, "forget all about radar and want to be an actor." . . . 
As for writing, Alan tells of his magazine and newspaper 
articles and the more recent script-writing. In the works now 
is a movie on the great Polish actress Modjeska, continuing 
an interest Mowbray has had in Poland and its struggle for freedom, 
since World War I. . . . Ask how he'd best describe the Colonel, 
Alan remarks that he's been tex-med "a delightful con man," 
but is most pleased with critic John Crosby's summation, "Flack 
is surely the suavest, funniest and most adult Robin Hood around." 

It's hard to tell, says 
the man who knows him best, 
where Colonel Flack leaves off 
and Alan Mowbray begins 

It's caviar this week — with hiillary 
Brooke — cheese and crackers the next. 

Only permanent characters on series 
are Alan and "henchman" Frank Jenks. 

Boning up on day's shooting are di- r 
rector Richard Kinon, Alan and Frank. 


In a spin on the WGN carousel, 
Wally Phillips blends the corn with 
the caviar, at top speed 

Past master at fast remarks, Wally found star 
Bob Wagner ready with answer for anything. 

When "Max" (Bob Bell) is chef du jour, Wally swears off 
nnidnight snacks. This is food? says he, not expecting reply. 

Keeping up with latest releases means 
late hours in North Side bachelor digs. 

Now this is more like it, says Wal — ever 
self-sufficient with the powdered cocoa. 

s A JOKER he may be mild, but when Wally Phillips takes 
a poke at the stuffed shirt, look out! Thanks to his 
contemporary jabs, the corn goes a-flying every which way. 
Never at a loss for words, this easy-come satirist is heard 
via Windy City's WGN, five days, at 4:15 and 8:05 P.M.; 
Saturdays at 9:05 A.M.; and on WGN-TV's Midnight Ticker, 
on Friday evenings at 11:45. .. . As a youngster growing 
up in a large Ohio family, Wally was so chatty that even his 
mother, as he tells it, sighed relief when he signed up 
for the Air Force. Mrs. Phillips figured a good dose of 
barracks life would quiet her Walter down quick. . . . 
Fortunately for Wally's fans, things didn't quite work out 
that way. After leaving the service, the lad who had once 
studied for the priesthood took drama courses at 
Schuster-Martin, made some tapes and got a recommendation 
for a disc-spinning job in Grand Rapids. That was 1947. 
One year later found Wally ensconced on the Cincinnati 
airwaves, where, with fellow deejays, he did "his needling 
bit!" The next stage was WCPO, where Wally first conceived 
the notion of goofing up taped celebrity-interviews. Where 
the original tape may have had the deejay remarking, 
"I guess it's quite a thrill to have a hit record going?" 
Wally would substitute his own query, along lines of, "Don't 
you think your voice, Tiger, has got a bit shaky this past 
year?" In this new context, the star's recorded reply, 
"I'll go along with that," just panicked Wally's radio listeners. 
In '52, Wally and tapes packed off down the street to WLW. 
With fellow deejay Bob Bell, he did an hour-long TV show, 
and so successfully that, in '56, WGN brought them both 
to Chicago and fame on Midnight Ticker. . . . Wally's 
interviews with teenagers and celebrity-guests are 
generally acknowledged as some of the cleverest in the 
business. But with interviewees he's had his moments. "It's 
like pitching to Stan Musial," says he. "You serve up your 
question and pray." One time, he asked the former 
heavyweight champ, Ezzard Charles, "Who hit you the 
hardest?" and was met with the left-hook rejoinder, 
"Uncle Sam." . . . One of the probe's favorite talk-topics is 
matrimony. No fence-sitter he, our Wally has taken "a firm 
stand" on the barbed-wire of the marital controversy. 
"I'm a bachelor," he bravely asserts, "and, like Professor 
Higgins, 'most likely to remain so' . . . forever and ever . . . 
at least until . . . oops!" 

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this package 


New granddad Arf Linkletter, always on the go, to commune with Sphinx 
soon; here, planning Egypt agenda with Lois, Sharon, Lois' mother. 

T Alert to what Whispering Waters and guest Janis Paige (left) might soy 
V — owners Lloyd Bridges, Hugh O'Brian, Dennis Weaver, Carolyn Jones. 


For HVhat'tt New On The East CoasU See Page 4 


THE NEW BABY in the Lennon family 
was due February 3. If a boy, "Sis" 
Lennon wanted to name him Christo- 
pher; if a girl, Sis said, "Please don't 
ask me — we've run out of gii'ls' 
names." The girls don't care^they 
just want "a baby!" Over the holi- 
days, the girls gifted Sis with a new 
built-in oven for their kitchen. Sis 
will need it — to bake bigger and 
brighter birthday cakes. . . . On his 
last visit to the house to see Sis, the 
family doctor gave the Lennon girls 
their flu shots and polio boosters — 
session was a howling success. Next 
day, though, the kids reacted to the 
combination of shots and had to stay 
home in bed. Kathy said it was the 
best part of the whole aflfair. Dianne 
was the only one in the family who 
didn't feel the shots — too excited over 
the news that Dick Gass was home 
from the Army for three weeks dur- 
ing the holidays. Only four weeks old, 
this year had already been a big one 
for the Lennons — new baby and a 
beau home for the holidays . . . only 
proves again, the best things in life 
are free. 

Tempus fugits: Ann Sothern's 
daughter, 14-year-old Tish, had a date 
at her mother's last dinner party. . . . 
And the night Ed Murrow did Ann on 
Person To Person, the camera crew 
rolled a dolly onto her hearth; weight 
so great they cracked the flagstone. 
Contrite, Ed called Ann the next day 
to say it would be replaced immedi- 
ately. It was — that afternoon. . . . Ann 
now has her hands full with pretty 
daughter Tish, who took the camera 
crew out by the pool to show them the 
soda fountain, was complimented by 
the boys on her movie-star looks; 
later, Ann's phone was kept ringing 
by a half-dozen TV and movie pro- 
ducers all wanting to use Tish in their 
shows. Ann said, "Please, not yet . . . 
I've been dreaming of being a grand- 
mother." . . . And did you know: 
Ann Sothern collects antique guns. . . 
Edgar Bergen collects antique cars 
(I thought that was Jack Benny's 
hobby) . . . Loretta Young collects 
antiques . . . Liz Taylor collects dusty 
automobiles — at least, that's what a 
crowd in front of Romanoff's thought 
recently when Liz and Eddie parked 
Liz's Silver Cloud Rolls Royce there, 
scripts on the car floor, dogs in the 
back seat, dust-coated and looking 
like a gypsy camp that had never 
seen a bathtub. The oglers couldn't 
believe that anyone who drove a Rolls 
couldn't afford a wash job. 

Once upon a time, Shirley Temple led storybook life of her own; 
now, she reods the greot rhymes to Lori, Chorles, Linda Susan. 

No slouches Groucho and NBC pressman, Ralph 
Showhon, who get around golf course, caddy-less. 

Added incidental intelligence: Liz, 
Mrs. Ray Milland and Gary Grant 

are the only three Hollywoodites who 
drive Silver Cloud Rolls Royces. . . . 
But they are not the only three who 
can afford them: Art Linkletter, for 
example, just brought in another well 
— oil, not water. But Art's a guy who 
believes in living a little, too: He's 
adding Egypt to the itinerary of his 
February vacation — goin' to the open- 
ing of the Cairo Hilton . . . and maybe 
a little ad-libbing with the Sphinx. 
Granddaddy Art, never without a 
quip, gags about the 75 earthquakes 
which hit Guatemala on his recent 
business-vacation trip to that below- 
the-border land: "Won't have to im- 
port Elvis or modern music to the 
Guatemalans — every foot of their land 
has its own built-in rock 'n' roll." 
Meanwhile, back at the store, young 
Jack Linkletter will be standing in 
for his Dad on House Party — and 
maybe doing his own daily CBS-TV 
On The Go show. Jack and Bobbie, 
with their new baby, Mike, just moved 
into an elegantly conservative home 
in Brentwood. John Guedel, producer 
of both Art's and Jack's shows, is 
planning another daytime series, star- 
ring Ralph Story, titled What Is 
Love? John could get one answer by 
watching Jack and Bobbie with their 
little one. Ralph was an apt choice for 
What Is Love? He's been playing 
$64,000 Challenge long enough to be 
able to answer even this stumper. But 
producer (Continued on page 14) 

Once a Seton hHall basketball scholar. Rifleman Chuck Connors majored 

in Enqlish, won elocution contest, turned to acting and horsemanship. 
^ 11 

Old steamer trunk was gift to Bill (above) from 
Col Howord, who paid $30, plus $ I 2 for delivery. 

Hi all, greets host Bob at front door of new Encino manse. 
Gog outfit of tux and trunks represents advertising slogan. 

THEY fell in love with it the first time they saw^ it. 
All their married life, Bob Barker and his Dorothy Jo 
had lived in apartments, but now, with the spacious 
new home and grounds in Encino, they could really 
begin to luxuriate. "The first few weeks," says Bob, "we 
just kept walking around the place trying to get used 
to all the room." But the Barkers felt the change in 
other ways, too. "It's so quiet up here," says Bob, "I 
keep falling asleep in front of the fireplace." . . . The day 
before a holiday last winter, Bob and "DJ" broke their 
quiet routine to throw a big surprise birthday party for 
their friend, Bill Burch. The former head writer on 
Bob's Truth Or Consequences, over NBC, Bill was re- 
cently made producer of the Gobel show. Guests were 
cued to come dressed as their "favorite" ad slogan, 
and all brought hilarious gag gifts for Bill — ranging from 
a Jayne Mansfield hot- water bottle; a sock and a 
dollar bill (card read: "Sock me away; you'll never 
know when Gobel will catch up with you and your 
gags"); an old steamer trunk; and Bill's heart's desire, 
a "convertible Lincoln" (actually a '47 Pontiac with 
dead battery and a photo of our sixteenth President 
across the grillwork). 

And when the trunk was opened... "Gee," raved 
Bill, "that's just what I need — an umbrella." 


Truth Or Consequences host Bob Barker didnt quite tell all the truth when he invited TV 
writer Bill Burch ''just for a snack" — the "'consequences" ivere a bash, for everybody 

. . . and some old lace and a brush and . . ." Gay surrounding group Includes Cal, Olga Haysel (left), DJ in bockgrouno. 

Cal's pitch, "Don't be half-safe," 
draws the chuckles from Bill, Bob. 

For guests on "early call," there's 'Night all, soys Bob, perky still at late ^ 
DJ's outsize pocket-watch, set slow. hour. And that's the whole truth. ^ 



(Continued from page 11) 

Guedel is 'way ahead of him — when 
he was a student at Beverly Hills 
High, his teacher, a very wise old 
man, taught him to spell love "U-n-i- 
v-a-c." And John's never forgotten. 

Speaking of new series, here's one 
that ought to be produced — it's the 
Chuck Connors Rifleman episode 
which featured Mike Broken Arrow 
Ansara as a Harvard-educated Indian 
sheriff. Mike puts so much meat into 
this character someone really should 
build a series around him. . . . More 
pilots: Henry Jaffe wiU produce a 
$100,000 pilot to be seen as a spec 
on NBC called "The Magical Monarch 
of Mo," starring Cyril Ritchard, who 
will also direct. 

Hotels, anyone? Hugh O'Brian, 
Carolyn Jones, Lloyd Seahunt 
Bridges and Dennis Gunsmoke 
Weaver have acquired an interest in 
Whispering Waters Rancho Motel 
near Palm Springs. Hugh is roughing 
it in his own Hollywood Hills home, 
still to be filled with furniture — Hugh 
complains there's no time. He's too 
busy writing songs, the first to be 
released in this country some time 
early in 1959. Rough, tough ol' Wyatt 
apparently feels that you can fill a 
room as well with music as with fur- 
niture. Presumably, some guests could 
sit on the flat notes, but not on the 
sharps. Get the point? . . . Musical 
Anna Maria Alberghetti and Buddy 
Bregman having background prob- 
lems, but still pretty much a thing of 
the future. . . . Anna Maria will be 
seen in the title role of "Conchita 
Vasquez" on an early February Wa- 
gon Train . . . and is setting her 1959 
heart on the lead in CBS -TV's musical 
spec of "Green Mansions." . . . Anna 
Maria, now one of the highest-priced 
femme night-club entertainers, is 
talent-packed and could easily handle 
the softer, more delicate "Green Man- 


In Sugarfoot episode, Grace Ray- 
nor sugars up handsome Will Hutchins. 

sions" role. In fact, it's a natural. 

Speaking of soft hearts: The Tha- 
lians, under the direction of prexy 
Debbie Reynolds, raised $100,000 at 
their annual fund-raising ball for their 
Children's Clinic at Mt. Sinai Hospi- 
tal. . . . Thinking of others, too, Dinah 
Shore had a dinner party recently for 
Genevieve when she was here in Hol- 
lywood with the Jack Paar show. 
Dinah heard that Genevieve was a 
not-so-secret admirer of Jack Benny. 
So, unbeknownst to Genevieve, Dinah 
asked Jack to come by, too. When the 
French chanteuse saw Jack come in 
the door, her pretty eyes fell out of 
her ragamuffin head, she was that 
surprised. "Oh, Meestair Bennee!" she 
shouted, and followed him around all 
evening like a happy puppy. Now 
she's almost sure to be on one of 
Jack's upcoming shows — maybe early 
in '59 when Paar again telecasts from 

One, two three, hike! Gale Storm's 
son Phillip is the center on the Bir- 
mingham football team. And, each 
Friday night. Gale is the center of 
the cheering section. Gale's schedule 
is as busy at home as it is on the Hal 
Roach lot, where she films her "Su- 
sanna" series. In the summer, Gale 
goes out selling hot dogs at sons Peter 
and Paul's Little League games. Gale 
should be used to the routine by now. 
For some years now, young men have 
been looking at her and exclaiming, 
"hot dawg!" . . . Last day of shooting 
this season's Have Gun, Will Travel 
series, Dick Boone ran a spUnter into 
his foot and ankle seriously enough 
to need operation. Dick has splinter, 
will limp — into the Broadway play, 
"Rivalry," the story of the Lincoln- 
Douglas debates. Dick will play Lin- 
coln, whom he's admired ever since 
he started working as a kid, for pen- 
nies — Lincoln pennies? 

New Year's news: Beverly Gar- 
land, cast in a February Yancy Der- 
ringer called "Lady Pirates," may just 
steal a spot on night-time TV with the 
episode, which is being run as a pilot. 
. . . Shirley Temple thinking of doing 
a new series for Henry Jaffe after her 
Storybook series moves over to ABC- 
TV for re-runs. . . . Aaron Spelling 
blue-printing a potential series for 
his wife, Carolyn Jones — who is, in 
turn, blue-printing plans for their 
new home. Carolyn, now in Frank 
Sinatra's "Hole in the Head," is de- 
signing the house and the furniture. 
Carolyn's success brings to mind one 
question we always like to answer: 
How did they get their start? Well, 
Carolyn's first job in front of Holly- 
wood eyes was a bit part in an ama- 
teur group's presentation at the old 
Rainbow Theater on Cahuenga — above 
the Greyhound Bus depot. Greyhound 
has since moved on to bigger and bet- 
ter quarters; and, since talent will 
out, so has Carolyn. 

Grass-Roots Jazz Department: 
"This Peter Gunn jazz is 'way out, 

"MM of M," new spec with Cyril 
Ritchard — lost seen skating in park. 

man, I meant it's got roots . . ." So 
speaks drummer Shelly Manne, just 
back from a cross-country personal 
appearance tour. "The college kids — 
in fact, the kids from eight to eighty — 
came up to the bandstand out of 
curiosity, aU asking about one kind 
of music. The number-one question 
across country is, "Is this Pete Gunn 
music for real? 'It's the greatest' "... 
Shell's answer: "It's for real, man, 
and it's all scratched down by Hank 
Mancini" — about whom a story ap- 
pears in this issue. 

Who's that again? Wendell Niles, 
announcer on the Bill Leyden It Could 
Be You show, has a brother. Ken 
Niles. There was a time when Wen 
Niles and Ken Niles were confused. 
Now the problem is complicated by 
the fact that Wen's son Denny, better 
known to his Army buddies as Den, 
has entered the act via Armed Forces 
Radio. The question now is: When 
is Wen Ken and when is Ken Wen . . . 
or is it Den? Ken's old fans might 
like to know that he is "retired" and 
managing the ViUa Marina in Cali- 
fornia's Balboa Bay. . . . When do we 
get a free weekend. Wen, I mean Ken 
... or is it Den. . . . Back to the Main- 
land: Adam West, who has been ap- 
pearing in Warner Bros. Lawman and 
Sugarfoot episodes, has been signed to 
do the Doc Holliday series on ABC- 
TV. Adam, a Walla Walla boy, mar- 
ried an Hawaiian Island beauty by the 
name of Ngha Frisby (from Pukka 
Pukka); they have one little Walla 
Pukkaneaser now, are expecting an- 
other by the end of February. 

It's only money: Walt Disney 
reached into his pocket for another 
$5,500,000 to build a monorail system 
at Disneyland Park, is adding eight 
small submarines (to be built by 
Todd Shipyards), and is building a 
fourteen-story model of the Matter- | 
horn. Now Uncle Walt has his own 
railroad, (Continued on page 75) 


Mickey's Still There 

A recent "What's New on the West 
Coast" column said that Walt Disney 
dropped all the Mouseketeers' contracts. 
Does this mean no more Mickey Mouse 
Club on TV? 

J.S., Anchorage, Alaska 

Our most recent information from the 
West Coast is that all the members of the 
Mickey Mouse Club have had their con- 
tracts dropped, with the exception of An- 
nette Funicello. Her option was picked up, 
because she is appearing in three episodes 
of the Zorro series, and an Elfego Baca 
episode of Walt Disney Presents, this Feb- 
ruary and March. . . . She also has a role 
in "The Shaggy Dog" to be released to 
motion-picture houses this spring. Annette 
is also to appear in several Danny Thomas 
TV segments. . . . Mickey Mouse Club itself 
is to appear in repeats through the rest of 
the 1958-1959 season. There is a possibility 
that the Club may be revived for new pho- 
tography for the fall season of 1959. At 
this time, it is doubtful that the older mem- 
bers of the group will return, since because 
of the show's format the probability is that 
younger players will be picked for the 
new series. 

"Stardom" Begins at Home 

Canadian teenager, Sandra Cons, presi- 
dent of a Teal Ames Fan Club, writes us 
that her group has now grown to fifty mem- 
bers. Their current activities include par- 
ticipating in two essay contests — "Why I 
Like Teal Ames" and "Why I Like The 
Edge Of Night." The members have a slo- 
gan that speaks for itself — "We're here to 
say that Teal's O.K." 

But Teal Ames is much more than just 
"O.K." in the role of Sara Lane on TV's 
The Edge Of Night. Twenty-five-year-old 
Teal virtually grew up in front of the 

As stars of two different shows — Man Without A Gun and White Hunter 
■ — two talented brothers, Rex and Rhodes Reoson shore television spotlight. 

TV star Teal Ames has devoted fan 
in Canadian teen Sandra Cons, left. 

cameras. But, until recently the camera- 
man was her dad — and the theater, the 
family living room. Petite and blue-eyed 
Teal loved romping about for the home 
movies. ... At twelve. Teal organized a 
neighborhood acting group, and her inter- 
est in dramatics never wavered as she went 
through Stevens College, in Missouri, and 
Syracuse University. . . . After gaining ex- 
perience with touring companies. Teal 
went into roles on such TV programs as 
Studio One and Lamp Unto My Feet. Then 
a friend told her that producer Werner 
Michel was auditioning for The Edge Of 
Night. Producer Michel listened to her 
read and then assigned her the role. Said 
he, "Teal is a born actress — one of the 
most talented I've seen in a long time." 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new mem- 
bers. If you are interested, write to address 
given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Connie Stevens Fan Club, Sheree Wein- 
er, 1904 S. Elm Street, Alhambra, Calif. 

Jay Silverheels Fan Club, Katherine 
Klein, 2126 Orrington Avenue, Evanston, 

Right Reason 

/ would like to know if the actors Rex 
Reason and Rhodes Reason are related. 
They look, talk, and act so much alike. 

B.B., Colorado Springs, Colo. 

The stars of TV's White Hunter and 
Man Without A Gun have good "reason" 
to look, talk and act alike — they are 

Blue-eyed Rex Reason likes to think of 
himself as a native of California — although 
he was actually born in Berlin. It seems 
his parents were in Germany on a busi- 
ness trip at the time of his birth, but he 

has spent most of his life in and around 
Glendale. . . . Tall (he's 6'3"), dark and 
handsome Rex is the star of Man Without 
A Gun. Although he's a comparative 
newcomer to the field of television. Rex 
has an impressive acting background. He 
studied at Glendale's Ben Bard Play- 
house and then was selected from a large 
group of unknowns to play the lead in 
"Storm Over Tibet." Many other motion- 
picture roles followed and then came TV. 
. . . Rex lives with his wife Joan and three 
children, Andrea, Brent and Christopher, 
in a Glendale home that once belonged to 
his grandfather, Spencer Robinson, who 
was the first mayor of that city. 

Younger than his brother by just six- 
teen months, green-eyed Rhodes Reason 
really was born in Glendale, and attended 
Glendale College. During one summer va- 
cation, Rhodes studied with Charles Laugh- 
ton's Shakespeare Group, and was awarded 
the coveted role of Romeo in the famed 
actor's presentation of "Romeo and Juliet." 
Many stage and more than forty TV roles 
followed. . . . Rhodes is currently ap- 
pearing as the star of TV's White Hunter, 
but his ultimate ambition is to direct and 
produce, using his brother as the star. 

The TV spotlight is not the only thing 
shared by the two good-looking brothers. 
They also share a wardrobe of fifteen 
suits and as many pairs of shoes, and a 
love of tennis and other outdoor sports. 

something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, if we can, 
provided your question is of general inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — ^ 
but be sure to attach this box to your y 
letter, and specify whether it concerns r 
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers. 



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the REAL Liberace 

Showman as well as pianist, 
Lee found the world had a 
false picture of him, in 
person. Part of that picture 
was padded with forty 
surplus pounds — which he 
promptly proceeded to lose! 


TALENT and showmanship have 
always paid off for Liberace. 
Today, he's proving that will pow- 
er and a genuine liking for people 
can pay off even more. The will 
power to stick to a diet which 
whittled off forty surplus pounds. 
The liking for people which made 
Lee want to meet his audiences 
"just as he is," friendly and out- 

Today, instead of glittering 
rhinestone-studded jackets to dis- 
tract the eye, Lee Liberace is more 
apt to wear subdued colors su- 
perbly tailored so viewers are 
immediately aware that he's now 
slim, muscular and fit — a far cry 
from the Liberace who was some- 
times politely described as "stock- 
ily built." 

"Stocky?" laughs Liberace. 
"That's mild. At one time, I was 



the REAL Liberace 

"Before": Glitter and glamour were Lee's trademarks in 
public. Above, in beaded jacket, with his mother, Mrs. 
Frances Liberace. Below, in ermine topcoat — at his movie 
premiere — with emcee Art Linkletter, actress Lori Nelson. 


Fancy costumes were just for show — "so people would 
concentrate on what I wore, rather than how fat I 
was." He preferred casual clothes in private life, 
usually tried to avoid being photographed at home. 

just plain fat. I would allow myself to be photo- 
graphed only from certain angles — often standing 
sideways, for I thought I looked thinner that way. 
In those days, all my clothes were tailored with the 
purpose of trying to make a fat man look thin. I 
wore padding in the shoulders, and trousers that 
were pleated and fuU. But, because I was afraid my 
spare tires would still show, I tried to avoid being 
photographed at all, when I could get out of it. 

"When photographers came to take pictures of the 
piano-shaped pool at my home in Sherman Oaks, 
they often asked for a picture of me at the pool. 
Though I swam a lot, I would try to persuade them 
not to photograph me in bathing trunks." The trou- 
ble, of course, was that not only was the pool piano- 
shaped — ^Liberace felt that he was, too. 

But what's a pool without a swimmer? The pho- 
tographers insisted and, against his better judgment, 
Lee would finally agree to pose. 

In England, a newspaper ran one of these pictures, 
accompanied by such statistics as how much Liberace 
then weighed (210 pounds), {Continued on page 82) 

Lee stars in The Liberace Show, as seen on ABC-TV, Monday 
through Friday, at 1 P.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. 


"After": Forty pounds lighter, Lee's no longer otraid ot 
posing in swim trunks. Bursting with energy, he does sonne 
simple calisthenics every day. More involved gymnastic 
stunts might "develop the wrong muscles for a pianist." 

Exercise helped, but diet really did the trick. Now he 
munches an apple to satisfy between-meals hunger, finds 
he doesn't miss the sweets and midnight snacks which left 
him with no appetite for an energy breakfast next day. 

Previous diets, Lee soys, left him feeling "deprived," just 
waiting to go on a food-binge. But the present one 
allows him to eat as much and as often as he wonts — pro- 
vided he sticks to proteins, fresh fruits and raw salads. 

Result: A new-look, more quietly clad Liberace who feels 
closer to audiences than ever before. He believes today's 
viewers of his ABC-TV show ore seeing him as he really is, 
for the first time — minus the glitter and extra poundage. 









Mystery Gift 

Behind the laughter and joy this 
witty singer brings to TV viewers is 
an almost miraculous story you 
can only believe "because it's true" 


THE BUILDING is On Eighth Avenue at the edge 
of Manhattan's noisy theatrical district. You take 
the elevator to the third floor, find Apartment 
3C and lean on the buzzer. Behind the door there 
is barking, the sound of shushing, and the door 
opens. The girl, in shiny chinos and a silk blouse, is 
tall. She has reddish-brown hair and bright blue 
eyes that light up like exclamation points. A 
copperish-toned terrier is (Couttnued (m page 67) 

Well-known Burnett benefactor is Jack Paar, who 
gave Carol and her dizzy ditty that big break on TV. 

Living simply in the New York apartment they share with "Bruce" (the girl-dog with the boy-name), Carol and her 
husband, Don Saroyon, don't need pink champagne or crimson convertibles to prove that "happily ever after" is 
almost here right now. For them, the real proof of success will be the chance to repay — in spiritual kind, as 
well OS in cash — the trust and generosity of "Mr. Anonymous," that other great benefactor bock in California. 

m...:^...' ^ 



m M . 

1 ^HR^ 


is^iwi' wm 


1 P 



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-f IVIanv 

"Always something new" is the motto 
of Peter Lind Hayes — who has 
already displayed enough versatility 
in 25 years of show business 
to last any other performer a lifetime 


Peter does a host of characters — alone, or with wife Mary 
Healy (left) and fellow zanies like Frank Fontaine (above). 

WAITING for a trafl&c light to change at Broadway, 
Peter Lind Hayes suddenly turned to friend and 
press-agent Nat Fields and said, "You know, I passed 
my twenty -fifth anniversary in show business and no one 
gave me a dinner — ^not even a hamburger." Peter said 
this, not in chagrin, but rather wistfully. Above and 
beyond being an intelligent, sophisticated hximorist, he is 
a sentimental man. At forty-two, he is also the perfect 
picture of a well-groomed businessman, in his office over 
the Little Theater where his ABC -TV show originates. 
Half of the room is filled with electronic equipment — tape 
recorders, a maze of audio gear, a personal radio trans- 
mitter and other electrified items, for Peter is a nut about 

Continued k 

At work, his impersonation of a businessman is better than 
it photographs! Above, in his office with TV producer Frank 
Musiello (foreground), press representative Nat Fields — and 
Mary. As an impresario, Peter's proud of the talented 
guests he presents on TV- — such as Trude Adams, below. 

23 II 

n of IVI^nv ^^< 


gadgets. The other half of the room contains wife Mary 
Healy, producer Frank Musiello, the aforementioned Nat 
Fields, and platters of sandwiches sent up from Sardi's. 

Gesturing toward a chicken sandwich encased in burnt 
toast, he says, "Some things never change. This habit 
started when I was a child back in southern Illinois. My 
grandmother used to burn the toast and told me it would 
make my hair curly. I wanted curly hair. As you can 
see, I never got it. But I got stuck on burnt toast and, 
even today, I like everything cooked to a crisp. I have the 
worst time in restaurants, getting them to burn food for 
me. I guess Mary's just lucky," he grins. "At home, she 
burns toast all the time." 

Mary takes the comment goodhumoredly. They both 
know she is a good housewife. She explains, "One 
important thing Peter and I have in common is a desire 
for a normal life. Both Peter's father and mine died 
when we were very, very young, so our mothers had to 
work and we didn't have a normal family life. 

"Then, for many years in show business, we were 
traveling — catching meals in diners, at railroad stations, 
sleeping in drafty hotel rooms and catnapping upright in 
seats on a bus or train. So, for me, being a housewife is 
a real luxury. And, for Peter, spending an evening quietly 
at home is the essence of living." 

Mary admits that she, too, forgot Peter's silver anni- 

At home, it isn't make-believe. Peter and Mary are final 

versary. "I could excuse myself by pleading that we were 
very busy last stimmer. We were doing the Broadway 
play, two matinees and six evening performances a week 
— ^plus our daily radio show — and we weren't neglecting 
the children. But, if I had to give a testimonial for Peter, 
I could go on for hours. He's an unusual combination — in 
that, while he's brutally honest with himself and others, he 
is still gentle and thoughtful. I think of how he is in the 
morning. He hates to get up and sleeps fiercely with 
clenched eyes. But, at seven-thirty, the clock radio 
bursts out with rock 'n' roll. He gets out of bed in a blind 
stupor — and, I think, in a blind rage — but, you know, he 
actually dances out of bed, then does a funny step right 
into the bathroom! For the next hour, he'll probably be 
grim. But. he's started my day off with a laugh. What 
wife could ask for more? 

"We've been married eighteen years," she adds, "and 

enjoying that rarity in show business, 


we've never let the sun set on an argument. Again, Peter 
has a stunt to break the tension. He does an impersonation 
of an 'angry aunt.' He criticizes and wags his finger, 
makes an exit, then changes his mind and comes back to 
have the last word. He keeps this up until I break up, 
and laughs me right out of my anger." 

Peter cuts in to say, "Mary will tell you that I run the 
business end, but I'll tell you that she's my rock, my 
anchor. She is organized, a stabilizing influence. Without 
her, the whole boat would sink. I remember when we 
opened in the Broadway play. That was one of the greatest 
thrills in my life. We had a run-through before the 
opening performance but I blew my lines. We went back 
to our dressing room. There were over three hundred 
telegrams, and the walls were banked with flowers. It's a 
thrilling tradition of the theater — but it occurred to me 
that, if the show died that night, they could have buried 

! V!X* 

5i- *i^-f . '■■ ^ 


They live some thirty nninutes fronn Broadway, in the sanne 
connmunity where Peter attended school — briefly. Son Mike 
now goes to the same school but, at 9, Is seemingly more 
Interested in science than show biz. It's daughter Cathy, 7, 
who has young dreams of a stage career — as a ballerina. 

us right there. It would have made the most beautiful 
wake I'd ever seen. Fortunately, the show was a success. 
But I know that having Mary there, working with me, 
helped me pull myself together." 

"We've been working and living together for so many 
years," Mary remarks, "people ask if we don't ever get 
tired of each other. You see, we not only live together, 
rehearse and perform together — we even commute to 
and from Manhattan in the same car. Well, we don't get 
on each other's nerves. During the day, we're business 
partners. We barely say a word when we're driving into 
tov^m. Peter is thinking about {Continued on page 77) 

The Peter Lind Hayes Show, with Mary as a frequent guest, is 
on ABC-TV, M-F, 11:30 A.M. EST, under multiple sponsorship. 
The Peter Lind Hayes — Mary Healy Show is heard on ABC Radio, 
M-F, 10 A.M. EST, sponsored by A. E. Staley Manufacturing Co. 



»-f IVIanv 


gadgets. The other half of the room contains wife Mary 
Healy. producer Frank Musiello, the aforementioned Nat 
Fields, and platters of sandwiches sent up ^om Sardis 

Gesturing toward a chicken sandwich encased in burnt 
toast, he says, "Some things never change This habit 
start;d when I was a child back in southern Ilhiiois. My 
grandmother used to bum the toast and told me it would 
make my hair curly. I wanted curly hau-. As you can 
see, I never got it. But I got stuck on burnt toast and, 
even today, I like everything cooked to a crisp. I have the 
worst time in restaurants, getting them to burn food for 
me. I guess Mary's just lucky," he grins. 'At home, she 
burns toast all the time." 

Mary taltes the comment goodhumoredly. Ihey jDOtn 
know she is a good housewife. She explains. One 
important thing Peter and I have in common is a desire 
for a noi-mal life. Both Peter's father and mine died 
when we were very, very young, so our mothers had to 
work and we didn't have a normal family life. 

"Then, for many years in show business, we were 
traveling— catching meals in diners, at raiboad stations, 
sleeping in drafty hotel rooms and catnapping upright in 
seats on a bus or train. So, for me, being a housewife is 
a real luxury. And, for Peter, spending an evening quietly 
at home is the essence of living." 

Mary admits that she, too, forgot Peter's silver anni- 

At home, it isn't make-believe. Peter and Mary are final 

versary. "I could excuse myself by pleading that we were 
very busy last summer. We were doing the Broadway 
play, two matinees and six evening performances a week 
— plus our daily radio show — and we weren't neglecting 
the children. But, if I had to give a testimonial for Peter, 
I could go on for hours. He's an unusual combination— m 
that, while he's brutally honest with himself and others, he 
is still gentle and thoughtful. I think of how he is in the 
morning. He hates to get up and sleeps fiercely with 
clenched eyes. But, at seven-thirty, the clock radio 
bursts out with rock 'n' roll. He gets out of bed in a blind 
stupor— and, I think, in a blind rage— but, you know, he 
actually dances out of bed, then does a funny step rigW 
into the bathroom! For the next hour, he'll probably "^ 
grim. But. he's started my day off with a laugh. What 
wife could ask for more? „ j 

"We've been married eighteen years," she adds, "a" 

ying that rarity in show business, "a normal family life.' 

we ve never let the sun set on an argument. Again, Peter 
"3s a stunt to break the tension. He does an impersonation 
°| an 'angry aunt.' He criticizes and wags his finger, 
^ases an exit, then changes his mind and comes back to 
and^l *^ ^^^^ ^°^^- -^^ ^eieps this up until I break up, 
° laughs me right out of my anger." 
^eter cuts in to say, "Mary will tell you that I run the 
anc^^^^ end, but I'll teU you that she's my rock, my 
ho. ?r ^^e 's organized, a stabilizing influence. Without 
"er. thn ,..!._ 1 , ..... , ...1 ^g 

tk '^ organized, a stabilizing influence. Wiu 

' ^^^ whole boat would sink. I remember when .. - 
Cn ''^ *^ Broadway play. That was one of the greatest 
ODen-^ ^^ ""y life. We had a run-through before the 
to Q performance but I blew my lines. We went back 
teiJ^'' dressing room. There were over three hundred 
.grams, and the waUs were banked with flowers. It's a 
that^S ^'■adition of the theater— but it occurred to me 
' " the show died that night, they could have buried 

They live some thirty minutes from Broadway, in the same 
community where Peter attended school — briefly. Son Mike 
now goes to the same school but, at 9, is seemingly more 
interested in science than show biz. It's daughter Cathy, 7, 
who has young dreams of a stage career — as a ballerina. 

us right there. It would have made the most beautiful 
wake I'd ever seen. Fortunately, the show was a success. 
But I know that having Mary there, working with me, 
helped me pull myself together." 

"We've been working and livmg together for so many 
years," Mary remarks, "people ask if we don't ever get 
tired of each other. You see, we not only live together, 
rehearse and perform together— we even commute to 
and from Manhattan in the same car. Well, we don't get 
on each other's nerves. During the day, we're business 
nartners We barely say a word when we're driving into 
town Peter is thinking about (Continued on pagell) 

The Peter Und Hayes Show, with Mary as a frequent guest is 

Wnrrv MF 11-30 A.M. EST. under multiple .sponsorship. 

on ^^'-' ' V. Vo' _y(/„„ Heah Show is heard on ABC Radio, 

M f, 10 A.M EST.'"pon5ore'd by A. E. Staley Manufacturing Co. 


The Very Biggest Payoff 

Bess Myerson doesn't win the fabulous 
furs and trips abroad — she helps to 
give 'em away! Here's why she says, 
I'm the luckiest person in the world" 


A woman's dream may be of love 
and romance, of home and hxxs- 
band and children. It may be 
a dream of worldly wealth, or of 
success in a chosen career. It may 
be the rewards of The Big Payoff, 
on CBS-TV, ftilfilling the lovely 
dream of flying off to a foreign land 
with the man of her heart, wrapped 
in that symbol of feminine liixury, 
a mink coat. But what is the dream 
of Bess Myerson, who has been 
hostess of The Big Payoff since the 
day it was launched, in December 
of 1951. . . . Bess, who has helped 
award the {Continued on page 64) 

Loveliest of all, though, Is the time 


Bess Myerson stars on The 
Big Payoff, CBS-TV, M-F, 
at 3 P.M. EST, sponsored 
by Colgate-Palmolive Co. 





Each day, new friends: Bob Paige (right) does the real interviewing, on Tke Big Payoff, but Bess (second from left) gets to 
talk to contestants, too — and feels richer for knowing people like Mr. and Mrs. Carleton Emmons of Westbrook, Maine. 

Jess spends with daughter Barbara, 1 1. Once a camp counselor, Bess now concentrates on her home-grown class of one. 

The Veru Biggest Payoff 


Bess Myerson doesn't win the fabulous 
furs and trips abroad — she helps to 
give 'em away! Here's why she says, 
"I'm the luckiest person in the world" 


A woman's dream may be of love 
and romance, of home and hus- 
band and children. It may be 
a dream of worldly wealth, or of 
success in a chosen career. It may 
be the rewards of The Big Payof, 
on CBS-TV, fvdfilling the lovely 
dream of flying off to a foreign land 
with the man of her heart, wrapped 
in that symbol of feminine luxury, 
a mink coat. But what is the dream 
of Bess Myerson, who has been 
hostess of The Big Payoff since the 
day it was launched, in December 
of 1951. . . . Bess, who has helped 
award the {Continued on page 64) 



Bess Myerson stars on The 
Big Payoff, CBS-TV, M-F 
at 3 P.M. EST, sponsored 
by Colgate-Palmolive Co. 


Loveliest of all, though, is tl^e fa| Bess spends with daughter Barba 

mons of Westbrook, Mali 
o comp counselor. Bess now concentrotes on her home-grown class of , 


Above, Mancini (In dark coat) worked closely with expert RCA Victor 
engineers to achieve notable sound effects in hit album, "Music from 
Peter Gunn," Below, with Craig Stevens, who stars in TV title role, 
and Bloke Edwards, creator, producer and director of the series. At 
right, one authentic reason music is on intrinsic part of the drama; 
Pete's sweetheart Edie — as played by Lola Albright — is a cafe singer. 

Exciting jazz adds extra 
dimension to Peter Gunn. Enter 
composer Hank Mancini — 
off-beat, off-stage, but very 
much a part of the dramatic doings ! 




DOES MUSIC SPEAK TO YOU as clearly and understandably 
as words? If it does, undoubtedly you're watching 
Peter Gunn on Monday nights. Watching . . . and listen- 
ing intently. Craig Stevens stars as actor in the title role, 
but the show has its "unseen" star, too, in the sounds of 
Henry Mancini, who composes the track upon which the 
drama runs. Jazz is the musical metal of Peter Gunn, 
with scores so artfully woven into the fabric of the plot 
that one cannot be separated from the other. Mancini's 
beat sets the mood, heightens the suspense, speeds the 

action, sometimes puts over an actual point in the story. 
For instance, one sequence found Peter Gurm in the 
clutches of a gang determined to find out where a cache 
of stolen money could be found. The gang, doubting 
Pete's protestations that he did not have the information, 
ordered an unlicensed doctor to give him "truth serum." 
Since a man under sedative cannot be expected to carry 
a storyline, the problem in drama at that point was how 
a sense of Pete's experience could be conveyed to the 
audience. Obviously, the soundtrack must assume the 

Continued w 



tv^m^TCM: ^v iM^i-sTEirir by 

Above, Mancini (in dark coat) worked closely with expert RCA Victor 
engineers to achieve notable sound effects in hit album, ' Music tronn 
Peter Gunn." Below, with Craig Stevens, who stars in TV title role, 
and Blake Edwards, creator, producer and director of the series. At 
right, one authentic reason music is an intrinsic part of the drama: 
Pete's sweetheart Edie— as played by Lola Albright— is a cafe singer. 

Exciting jazz adds extra 
dimension to Peter Gunn. Enter 
composer Hank Mancini 
off-beat, off-stage, but very 

much a part of the dramatic 




OEs MUSIC SPEAK TO YOU as clearly and understandably 

as words? If it does, undoubtedly you're watching 

efer Gunn on Monday nights. Watching ... and listen- 

'ng mtentlj/. Craig Stevens stars as actor in the title role, 

"t the show has its "unseen" star, too, in the sounds of 

^nry Mancini, who composes the track upon which the 


a runs. Jazz is the musical metal of Peter Gunn, 

*>th scores so artfully woven into the fabric of the plot 
be ^'^f cannot be separated from the other. 

at one cannot be separated from the other. Mancini's 
^sts the mood, heightens the suspense, speeds the 

action, sometimes puts over an actual point in the stoi-y. 
For instance, one sequence found Peter Gunn in the 
clutches of a gang determined to find out where a cache 
of stolen money could be found. The gang, doubting 
Pete's protestations that he did not have the information, 
ordered an unlicensed doctor to give him "truth serum." 
Since a man under sedative cannot be expected to carry 
a storyline, the problem in drama at that point was how 
a sense of ' Pete's experience could be conveyed to the 
audience. Obviously, the soundtrack must assume the 

Continued k 

Creating a score for every episode of Peter Gunn is an 
exciting challenge. "Each segnnenf must be distinctive," 
' says Hank Mancini. "You have to try for the fresh combi- 
nation, the more effective instrument, the unique sound." 

W TO IkV^^jLTdl 

With twin girls Felice and Monica, 7, and son Chris, Hank 
is (to quote the words of no less an authority than Mrs. 
Mancini) "just a big, oversized boy himself. He's a great 
father, Indian-wrestler, story-teller, and reader-aloud." 

Hank spaces his work so there's plenty of time tor his 
family. Son Christopher wants to be a composer like Dad 
but, at 8, won't start studying piano for another year. 
Hank himself switched from flute to piano at age of 10. 

Peter Gunn, created and produced by Blake Edwards, with 
music by Henry Mancini, is seen on NBC-TV, Mon., 9 P.M. 
EST, as sponsored by Bristol-Myers for Ipana and BufFerin. 

responsibility. But Blake Edwards, originator of the 
show, felt he had no worries in that respect. "Hank will 
come up with something," he said confidently. 

Hank did. But it took some doing. In order to convey 
a sense of confusion, of woozy ineffectuality — ^like run- 
ning in a dream without being able to lift one's feet — 
he took his cue from a rock 'n' roll technique: He used 
a tape echo for effect. Have you ever seen a pair of 
mirrors so placed that a reflected object was repeated 
into infinity, so that a single dancing girl seemed like 
the first in a whole line of "Rockettes," each smaller 
than her predecessor? In essence, that's what Hank 
Mancini did for the ear, instead of the eye. The result 
was an eerie, gradually diminishing circle of out-of- 
consciousness sounds. 

In another Peter Gunn script, a hunted man slid 
along smoke-blackened buildings down a twilit alley. 
Because this was the first frame in the picture, instant 
sympathy had to be evoked for the pursued. Hank used 
a beat, carried by drums and a bass, slightly faster than 
the normal pulse at start, and accelerated it gradually 
to the pounding tempo of a terrified rabbit's heart. In- 
evitably, the viewer — the listener — became involved in 
the fate of the fleeing man. 

When Peter Gunn found it necessary to make a trip 
to Spain, Hank reached into his kit and came up with a 
background of sound embroidered by Laurindo Al- 
meida's solo guitar. In another segment, involving a 
phony spiritualist, the satiric but ominous score was 
provided by the shrill, quavering notes of the samisen, 
an instrument unfamiliar to Occidental ears. 

Mr. Mancini's comment on these antics is laconic: 
"Fortunately, we aren't tied to one idea." It is safe to 
say that Hank Mancini has never been tied to a lone 
idea. He is a taU, slender, crewcut man with piercing 
brown eyes which often look tired because of the hours 
he keeps. Music is a member of his family, as intimate 
a part of his life as his pretty (Continued mi page 74) 


fiL ]%«:TK'{STE:irifcr :iK"ir 

Still quoting his wife: Hank's very much a camera bug — 
"off and on. He'll shoot 300 pictures of the kids at age 4, 
then we won't have anything in the scrapbook for 3 years!" 
Hi-fi's more his line and he has one of the first sets made. 

Above, with hi-fi set — and lovely Mrs. Mancini, former 
singer Ginny O'Conner. Below, their family room is really 
used by all the family. Here, Hank takes the children's 
homework just as seriously as his own work on Peter Gunn. 

LORETTA the Giant-Killer 

"Teamwork" is Loretta's own typically modest explanation 
for her ever-continuing popularity. Every detail, large or 
small, of The Loretta Young Show is in the skilled hands 
of a "family" of such experts as director Richard Morris 
(above) and ace cinematogropher Norbert Brodine (below). 

Miss Young^s show holds its place in 

viewers' hearts, while others 

come — and go. How does she do it ? 



The Loretta Young Show is seen on NBC-TV, Sunday, from 10 to 
10:30 P.M. EST, as sponsored by The Procter & Gamble Company. 

The lovely gowns which have become her trademark are 
created by top designer Werle. But it's Loretta who 
wears them — and who supplies such charm and talent. 

LORETTA Young's fabulous face and figure came 
swirling into the homes of twenty-two million 
Americans early last Octolaer, at the start of her 
sixth season on the TV screen. More remarkable 
than the longevity of the show itself is the fact that 
it is on the same network, at the same Sunday 
time period, as when it originally began its long and 
vigorous run. During all this time, no sponsorship 
change has been made. 

"Loretta Young," says an admiring advertising 
agency executive, "is a veritable 'giant-killer.' She's 
succeeded in staying on top (Continued on page 66) 



of Time and Tennessee Ernie 

Forty on February 13, Ernie would like lots more time for 
his fomily and his ranch in Northern California. Above, with 
wife Betty and Mrs. and Mr. Gene Cooper, his ranch manager. 

The Ford Show (above, with Joanne Burgan and Dorothy Sill) 
is lots of fun, though, and fans keep demanding more and more 
— including more "discoveries" like sweet Molly Bee (right). 

TV's favorite Ford, now "model 40/* 
looks back fondly on a rugged trail 
to success- — and forward to a crossroads 
vital to both his career and family 


As America's best-loved peapicker passes forty, the 
k shadow of a crisis begins to loom before him. 
The singing sage of TV is coming to the place where 
the road divides. When Tennessee Ernie Ford 
gets there, he will have to ask himseK that agoniz- 
ing question aU men must face sooner or later: Which 
way shall I go? 

He will not be the first entertainer who has had 
to make the great choice between finding more time 
for the joys of family life and finding more time for 
an ever-expanding career. 

But, whatever the decision, it will be Ernie's. 
"To keep freedom of choice, even while building a 
career, is something I've always strived for," says 
Ernie. "If I thought I couldn't scratch any time I 
had the itch, I guess I'd be itching and scratching 
from morning to night. It's the thought that I can do 
what I want — or rather what I feel is 
right — that's important." 

Ernie's choice boils down to this: Will he turn 
from the golden glitter of show business, as he now 
insists he wUl, and seek happiness with his wife 
and two boys on his Northern California ranch, 
getting closer to them and to nature? Or will he 
find that the habit of success has grown too strong 
and he can't throw off the applavise, big money and 

Continued ^ 






of Time and Tennessee Ernie 


Setting "away from it all" — on a family vacation in beautiful 
Hawaii, no less! — Ernie enjoys playing the camera-totin' tourist. 

The Ford Show, starring Tennessee Ernie Ford, is seen on NBC-TV, Thurs., 
9:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by Ford Division and Ford Dealers of America. 


Tennessee's "pardner," Cliffie Stone — a good 
friend and manager, who gave Ernie a break on. 
Hometown Jamboree — ^takes a hula-holiday, too. 

glamour of a profession which has raised him 
to the heights? Or wUl he try the third way: To 
make his peace with both these desires and go 
forward in a "double lane," doing an occasional 
show or record but, in the main, sticking to 
hunting, fishing and ranching? Nobody is sure 
what he will do. So many things may change 
between now and the parting of the road. 

The key to this decision is most likely in 
Ernie's character, in his record, how he thinks, 
how he feels. To grasp this, one must study 
the trail of wisdom and laughter Ernie has 
scattered along the way, like Johnny Appleseed. 
One has only to hear a New Yorker talk of 
"eatin' high on the hog," or a Bostonian exclaim, 
"Bless your peapickin' heart," to know that 
Ernie has struck deep roots in the heart of 
America. But what are his own personal views 
on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? 

"I'm no wise man with a sack full of answers," 
he insists. "Show me a wise man who can give 
a quick answer to all your questions, and I'll 
show you a wise man that's a darn fool." 
Nevertheless, Ernie owns up to his 
own private harvest of ideas. 

For instance, politics. Unlike WiU Rogers, 
with whom he is sometimes compared, Ernie 
doesn't make politics a major theme. "I'm no 
expert on it," he says cheerfully. "But everyone 
I meet sure is. One of my neighbors says, 
'Ernie, I can tell you're a straight Republican.' 
Another says, 'Ernie, I know you're a straight 
Democrat.' All I can say is, they're both right. 
I'm trying to be straight and I'm going to 
keep on trying. 

"Power and money only make poUticians, 
not statesmen. And you don't have to be in 
politics to be a statesman. My mother wrote 
a prayer during World War II and it was about 
spring cleaning. The (Continued on page 71 ) 





Despite good fortune, Shirley MacLaine 
is true to her Scottish heritage. 
No spendthrift, she — except in talent, 
affection and generosity to others 

On loan at M-S-M for Sol C. Siegel's production o\ 
"Some Came Running," Shirley's co-starred with Frank 
Sinatra himself, directed by Vincente Minnelli (at left). 


Angeles, Shirley MacLaine bounced up and 
down on a colorftU couch. "It's very nice," she finally 
admitted. "How much is it?" The salesman consulted 
the price tag, marked down a few subtractions 
on a writing pad, then turned, to Shirley. "Three 
hundred and twelve dollars plus tax. . ." 

"Three hundred and twelve dollars plus tax!" 
Shirley cried out. "You must be out of your mind! 
I can't afford that." While the salesman knew little 
about motion-picture and television contracts, 
he vaguely remembered something about Shirley 
signing a half -million-dollar deal with NBC not lohg 
ago — which prompted his next question: "Why not?" 

"Because I've got to save up money to send my 
daughter through college. . . ." His mouth dropped 
open. Shirley hardly looked {Continued on page 12) 

Shirley's still shy — not of cash, but of spending — though 
she has long-term contracts with NBC, for such television 
star appearances as hostessing the Chevy Show February 
I, and with Hal Wallis at Paramount Pictures for movies. 

Her thrift amazes and amuses her husband, Steve Parker, 
who believes life's little luxuries are worth paying for. 
They make many a compromise — but not when it concerns 
their two-year-old daughter, or gifts for those they love. 


Daughter Rochelle holds the key to 
happiness for Dale Robertson, at the 
end of each Wells Fargo journey 



THE Wells Fargo express thundered down the highway, headed 
for home. At the wheel was a handsome, weary -faced 
man anxious to see the "little woman" he loves — ^who was 
doing her sleepy best to wait up for him. Dale Robertson 
had been on location in northern California for Tales Of Wells 
Fargo. In two days, he would be leaving again on a long 
personal-appearance tour. But ahead were those two days with 
the blithe little spirit in T-shirt and shorts who waited in 
Dale's living room now, surrounded by his favorite red- 
leather chair. A very little woman with (Continued on page 61) 

Rochelle and her dad share a love of outdoor life 
and animals — especially horses. Among their other 
four-footed pals are Dale's Australian sheep dogs, 
"Blue" and "Gipsy," his mother's French poodle, 
"Muscles," and little Rochelle's own "Smokey," a 
mongrel of definite charm but uncertain ancestry. 

Dale Robertson is Jim Hardie in Tales Of Wells Fargo, 
seen on NBC-TV, Monday, 8:30 P.M. EST, as sponsored 
by Pall Mall Cigarettes and tbe Buick Dealers of America. 


Qdventures of Qimbalist 

Ladies in distress are the specialty of 
investigator Stuart Bailey, as played by 
Efrem Zimbalist Jr. Above, the damsel is 
Dolores Donlon. Below, Erin O'Brien. 

Sunset Strip has everything — including two private-eyes. Bailey's partner ■ 
Is Jeff Spencer (Roger Snnlth), seen below with back to canopy leading to 
their office. Unofficial third sleuth is next-door parking-lot attendant, 
Kookle (Edward Byrnes), pictured above about to set off In search of clues. 

Efrem Jr. has more than 
earned his "letters" 
as a man of action^ 
en route to stardom at 
TV's 77 Sunset Strip 


Women may vary in many ways, but 
in one respect all are alike: The 
imagination of each envisions the 
ideal man "who has everything." Part 
of the charm of such a man in real life 
is that, if charged with occupying any 
such status, he would deny it vehe- 
mently and with embarrassment. 

It's a shame to embarrass Efrem 
Zimbalist Jr., but the fact remains that 
his friends say of him, warmly and as 
a matter of record, "The man has 
everything: Good looks, intellect, 
kindliness, poise, charm, a sense of 
humor about himself as well as about 
events, an unusually pleasant voice — 
and exceptionally interesting things to 
say with it." 

"Zim" has so much of everjrthing, 
it's not surprising that he has as many 
men fans as women. In fact, he's 
earned a special niche in the regard 
of members of his own sex by doing 
what every man who has ever worn 
an enlisted man's uniform has yearned 
to do at some time in his service life: 
He clobbered the company cook! 

It happened this way. Zim was in- 
ducted at Fort Dix, then was sent to 
Fort Jackson at Colvmnbia, South Car- 
olina, for basic training. The weather 
was hvimid, the insects were avid, and 
the chow was par for the tin plates — 
tasteless, greasy, monotonous. At the 
end of the chow line were two large 
metal vats, one for the scraps from 
each man's plate, the other for his 
"silver service." As Zim approached 
the end of the line, he was thinking of 
other things — dinner at "21," perhaps. 
He scraped his scraps into the silver 
vat, and dropped his utensUs into the 
scrap vat. 

Immediately realizing hig error, he 
was fishing out his silver Avhen the 
company cook struck him from behind 
and laxinched into an imprintable re- 
view of Zim and his ancestry. Zim 
swung around and returned the cook's 
punch, knocking him fiat. When the 
cook got to his feet and charged, ma- 
genta with rage, Zim stepped aside 

Continued k 


Qdventures of Bimbalist 


Friends call him "the man who has everything." But there was a time when 
life seemed empty indeed ■for Efrem Zimbalist Jr., a young widower. All that 
changed, when he met and married Stephanie Spalding. Today, their house- 
hold overflows with a happy family (baby Stephanie, older children Nancy and 
Efrem III) and pets which range from French poodle to German weimaraner. 

Their latest dream-come-true Is a newl 

and delivered a right to the jaw. By 
that time, every hungry man in the; 
company had availed himself of ringside ' 
standing room and was rooting for "the 
home team." 

"The home team" polished off the! 
cook before the company's second lieu- 
tenant, first lieutenant, and captain ar- 
rived on the double to discover that 
rumors of a fight were unfoimded. The 
cook had been tripped up by his own 
apron. Every man in the outfit was 
ready to swear to it. 

Recalling the incident nowadays, Zim 
says with a grin, 'It was an unsatisfac- 
tory fight because the cook was such a 
poor antagonist. And it's only fair to 
point out that the cook had his ven- 
geance on me," he adds poignantly. "I 
was stuck for K.P. a few weeks later. 
That single day was the longest year 
of my life." 

It's not surprising that, when ABC- 
TV was casting the urbane but ruggedly 
virile Jim Buckley in the Maverick tele- 
plays, Efrem Zimbalist Jr. should be 
chosen. It was also logical that he should 
be selected as one of the top stars to 
enliven the same network's 77 Sunset 

Where did Zim come from and where 
has he been? 

He was born in New York City, son 
of the internationally famous concert 
violinist, Efrem Zimbalist, and the 

home base for their varied activities. 

Time is the one thing "Zim" finds he has too little of. since he zoomed to 
TV popularity as Dandy Jim Buckley in Maverick, and went on to stardom in 
77 Sunset Strip. But he and Stephanie are determined that the children shall 
enjoy the same gracious living and artistic background in which Zim himself 
grew up, as son of both a world-famous violinist and a celebrated opera star. 

equally famous opera star, Alma Gluck. 
Inevitably, he grew up in the midst of 
genius and beauty. Lynn Fontanne and 
Alfred Lunt were his parents' close 
friends. Josef Hofmann and Serge Rach- 
maninoff were frequent dinner guests. 
Young Efrem assumed that everyone 
had an Aimty Lynn and Uncles Alfred, 
Josef and Serge, each of whom was 
charming, talented and witty. 

Young Efrem's mother was as amus- 
ing as any of her guests. Returning from 
a concert tour, she told of being inter- 
viewed by a young local reporter who 
rushed up to ask if he might speak to 
Madame Gluck. Smiling, the svelte and 
willowy singer — a slender rarity in 
those days of Carmens who usually 
weighed more than the buU — said, "I 
am Alma Gluck." 

"But where is the rest of you?" the 
reporter demanded. 

Living in the midst of a combination 
of fame and laughter served young Zim- 
balist well in many an emergency. Dur- 
ing the summer between completing 
prep school and matriculating at Yale, 
he went to work in the Time magazine 
offices as (Continued on page 76) 

Efrem Zimbalist Jr. is Stuart Bailey in 77 
Sunset Strip, ' as seen over ABC-TV, Friday, 
from 9:30 to 10:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by 
American Chicle Co.; Whitehall Laboratories; 
Carter Products, Inc.; Harold F. Ritchie Inc. 


Qdventures of Qimbalist 


Friends call him "the man who has everything." But there was a time when 
life seemed empty indeed for Efrem Zimbalist Jr., a young widower. AH that 
changed, when he met and married Stephanie Spalding. Today, their house- 
hold overflows with a happy family (baby Stephanie, older children Nancy and 
Efrem III) and pets which range from French poodle to German weimaraner. 

. -M^ 

Their latest drecm-come-true is a 

home base for their varied activities. 

and delivered a right to the jaw. By 
that time, every himgry man in the 
company had availed himself of ringside 
standing room and was rooting for "the 
home team." 

"The home team" polished off the 
cook before the company's second lieu- 
tenant, first lieutenant, and captain ar- 
rived on the double to discover that 
rumors of a fight were unfounded. The 
cook had been tripped up by his ow 
apron. Every man in the outfit was 
ready to swear to it. 

Recalling the incident nowadays, Zu« 
says with a grin, 'It was an unsatisfac- 
tory fight because the cook was sucn » 
poor antagonist. And it's °^\.^^^\ 
point out that the cook had his v ^^ 
geance on me," he adds Poig"f°r,er 
was stuck for K.P. a few weeks la^^ 
That single day was the longest y 
of my life." AgC- 

It's not surprising that, when . 
TV was casting the urbane but rugs • 
virile Jim Buckley in the MavencK' ^ 
plays, Efrem Zimbalist Jr- shou ^. 
chosen. It was also logical that he 

be selected as one of the top 


oe selected as one ui '^^^ ^- ' „ j^ni. 

enliven the same networks 

Strip. J ^hff 

Where did Zim come from ana 
has he been? , rjty, s* 

He was born in New YorK ^^^^. 
of the internationaUy fa"^" gnd ^ 
violinist, Efrem Zimbalist. 

equally famous opera star, Alma Gluck. 
Inevitably, he grew up in the midst of 
genius and beauty. Lynn Fontanne and 
Alfred Lunt were his parents' close 
friends. Josef Hofmann and Serge Rach- 
maninoff were frequent dinner guests. 
Young Efrem assumed that everyone 
had an Aunty Lynn and Uncles Alfred, 
Josef and Serge, each of whom was 
charming, talented and witty. 

Young Efrem's mother was as amus- 
ing as any of her guests. Returning from 
a concert tour, she told of being inter- 
viewed by a yoimg local reporter who 
rushed up to ask if he might speak to 
Madame Gluck. Smiling, the svelte and 
willowy singer — a slender rarity in 
those days of Carmens who usually 
weighed more than the bull— said, "I 
am Alma Gluck." 

"But where is the rest of you?" the 
reporter demanded. 

Living in the midst of a combination 
°f fame and laughter served young Zim- 
balist well in many an emergency. Dur- 
"ig the summer between completing 
prep school and matriculating at Yale, 
"e went to work in the Time magazine 
oaices as (Continued on page 76) 

f,!^"^ Zimbalist Jr. is Stuart Bailey in 77 
frn^'n !"■'>•'« seen over ABC-TV, Friday, 
■om y:30 to 10:30 P.M. EST, sponsored by 
Qr^^'^n'' '^'^'"^'e Co.; Whitehall Laboratories; 
^*"«r Products, Inc.; Harold F. Ritchie Inc. 

Time is the one thing "Zim ' finds he has too little of, since he zoomed to 
TV popularity as Dandy Jim Buckley in Maverick, and went on to stardom in 
7? Sunset Strip. But he and Stephanie are determined that the children shall 
enjoy the same gracious living and artistic background in which Zim himself 
grew up, as son of both a world-famous violinist and a celebrated opera star. 


Paladin Rides the Airwaves 

Both talent and temperament make John Dehner an ideal choice to carry 
the radio message of that Western knight-errant: "Have gun, will travel" 

Gratitude fills the hearts of John and Roma, as they consider their daughters: Sheila, 13, a 
promising ballet student, and Kirsten, 1 5, an excellent horsewoman who's won many a ribbon. 


FOR ONCE, Webster was wrong! According to his fatnous 
dictionary, a paladin is "one of the Knights of the Round 
Table ... a legendary hero." Hero? Yes. Legendary? 
No. Millions of modem viewers and listeners know that 
Paladin, in person, Uves and breathes on Have Gun, Will 
Travel. Specifically, as seen on CBS-TV, Paladin is a 
dashing former Medic named Richard Boone. And, oin 
CBS Radio, Paladin is a former Frontier Gentleman 
named John Dehner. 

Both Paladins are very much alive. In John Dehner's 
case, the word "former" refers only to the radio Western 

series in which he previously starred. John has always 
been, will always be a gentleman. And frontiers exist only 
for him to conquer, now and forever. He's lived so color- 
fully that his conversation is a vivid blend of travelogue, 
philosophy, adventure and humor. And that conversation 
isn't necessarily limited to his native tongue. He also 
speaks Norwegian and French, some Spanish, Italian, 
Swedish and German, even a smattering of Hopi Indian. 
He's tall (six-foot-three) and muscular (180 pounds). 
His eyes are sea-green, his hair is blondish, and the beard 
he often wears for his Western {Continued on -page 80) 


John Dehner stars as Paladin in the radio version of Have Gun, Will Travel, as heard over CBS Radio, Sunday, from 6:05 to 6:30 P.M. EST. 

■Norman Macdonnetl (left) of Gunsmoke fame also 
guides radio's Have Gun, Will Travel, starring 
Dehner — who is quite a Western expert himself, as 
rider and linguist, as well as a superlative actor. 

Versatility is John's trademark. Son of a noted painter, 
he's well-versed in art and music. Singing with their 
equally talented daughters, he and Roma recall early 
days of struggle — and give thanks for today's blessings. 



The hero of the Bat Masterson series not only dreamed up a house- 
he built most of it himself, and nicknamed it "Bat's Belfry" 


On facing page (i. to r.), the Barrys — Fred, Mike, Gene 
and Betty — stand at rear of house near swimming pool. 
Foundation of the house, above, shows start of Gene's 
building project. He himself took this "before" picture. 

BEFORK Gene Barry, star of NBC-TV's Bat Masterson, 
began to build his own house, he and his wife Betty 
lived in a succession of small apartments in New York 
and in California. Now, with their two sons Michael, 13, 
and Frederic, 6, they have moved into a handsome big 
house in Benedict Canyon near Beverly Hills. So lavish 
a house is not unusual for successful Hollywood TV 
stars, but it is extraordinary when an actor draws up 
house plans, contracts the entire building job, and then 
does a lot of the manual labor along with the construction 
crew. This Gene Barry has done — and he's justifiably 
proud of his "dream house." Gene and Betty were 
married in New York and lived as young-marrieds in a 
one-bedroom apartment on 56th Street, where their first 
son Michael was born. "Like every other one-bedroom 
apartment," says Gene, "we had twin beds in the bed- 
room, along with Mike's crib. Well, we kept waking up 
the baby with our talking. So we put the twin beds in 
the living room. For two years, when we entertained, our 
friends sat around on twin beds." The Barrys' subsequent 
apartments were larger, but they still yearned for more 
space. "When we moved to California," says Betty, "we 
had a series of houses we rented. But, one day, we set 
out to buy a home. As we were looking. Gene said, 'Why 
buy? Let's build.' And that's when we sat down to 
design the ideal house. I said to Gene, 'Just give me so 
many rooms I'll always have one I won't really need — 
just in case.' Gene did all the designing. Everything 
artistic in the house is his idea, and everything functional 
is mine. He's responsible for the high ceilings, exposed 
beams, pitched shake roof, the elegant balcony-game- 
room area. But, for me, he put in plenty of storage space. 
We have closets under the stairs, a thirty-foot wardrobe 
in our bedroom — closets everywhere. I also told Gene 
I wanted lots of windows, big ones, and we have them. 

Gene works with the construction crew hoisting the ten- 
inch-thick beams, some as much as twenty feet long. This 
is dangerous work, until the big ones are secured. Betty 
Barry said it made her so nervous thot she couldn't watch. 

I wanted access to every'bedroom from the outside, so the 
kids wouldn't have to run through the house. And I 
wanted at least five bedrooms and five baths — with a tub 
in each bathroom. Gene put all this into the plans, along 
with an enormous living-dining area, kitchen, utility room, 
two bedrooms and three baths on the main level. TJpstairs 
is the master bedroom — really a combined sitting- 
bedroom — with a den-workroom for Gene next to it. 
Then there's a sitting-bedroom and bath for the maid, 
with a staircase which leads directly to the kitchen- 
dining area and utility room below. The whole thing was 
an enormous project — 4500 square feet — but it's worth it!" 



Gene spent nearly full-time at the house during early stages of 
construction. He himself did most of trenching for foundation and 
supervised pouring of the concrete. Above, preparing to install 
heating conduit. Below, discussing problems with the work crew. 




Whole family in kitchen peeping out pass-through 
into dining area. Hutch built against the wall was 
designed to hold TV, hi-fi, radio, books. As Betty 
says, "It makes a homey area for entertainment." 

The two-hundred-foot wall at bock of house was an 
engineering feat in itself. Main entrance is at back 
to permit placement of pool and outdoor yard with 
advantage of a long view of the surrounding hills. 

Gene Barry stars in Bat Masterson, seen on NBC-TV, Wed., 
at 9:30 P.M. EST, as sponsored by the Kraft Foods and 
Sealtest Divisions of National Dairy Products Corporation. 

Gene and Bet+y sitting on stairway to balcony from main 
living room, the largest area in the house. Interior Is of 
sore-sided cedar — ^the rough-cut side of the wood. Betty 
loves comfortable couches, plans to use many In huge room. 

Work on the roof of the house had an element of danger, 
since the drop-off to front is about eighty feet. In the 
picture below, a Franklin stove which is planned as a cozy 
decorative touch for master bedroom — and useful one,~too. 

The boys, Mike and Fred, enjoyed exploring all the many 
closets. This small one is recessed under main staircase. 
Large living-room fireplace with built-in barbecue (below) 
will give Gene chance to demonstrate his prowess as a chef. 

Both Mike and Fred helped Gene with many of the tasks 
they could handle. Here, Mike and his father with $1,000 
worth of the rough-cut cedar which had to be moved inside 
for completion of the interior walls of main living room. 

Bachelor Hugh O'Brian whips up 


For friends Goody Levitan (left) and Nancy Sino+ro, Hugh O'Brian serves up a non-Western gournriet dessert. 

HUSKY SIX-FOOT STAR Hugh O'Brian doesn't claim to 
be a top-notch cook, but there's one dessert dish he 
loves and produces in his own kitchen whenever 
he has an appreciative and hungry audience. And his 
guests agree that Wyatt Earp's flaming Crepes Suzette 
add a brilliant gourmet touch to any dinner menu. 
When Hugh was an undergraduate at Kemper Military 
College in BoonvUle, Missouri, he earned spending 
money by running a profitable sandwich business — 
until a fellow student decided to enter the field in 
competition to him. When the sandwiches grew so elab- 

orate (as a lure to customers) that there was no profit 
in selling theni, Hugh gave up. Years later, when Hugh 
was still a struggling and unrecognized movie actor, 
he nearly starved himself to death, trying to economize 
on living costs. When he realized the reason for his 
sudden lack of energy and loginess, he went back to 
food in a big way, now cheerfully stows away hearty 
meals to match his husky body. So, if you're an O'Brian 
fan, take a tip from him — eat up! And why not try 
Hugh's favorite "dress" dessert for a starter? Recipe at 
right gives full instructions for sure-fire success. 

Hugh O'Brian stars in The Life And Legend Of Wyatt Earp, as seen over ABC-TV, Tues., 8:30 P.M. EST, 
sponsored by General Mills, Inc., and The Procter & Gamble Company. 


Pancake batter comes first, with eggs beaten in until blended. Tilt skillet to ensure very thin, even layer of batter, 

Arrange finished pancakes in chafing dish, then add sauce. Sprinkle with warnned cognac, ignite at table, serve while hot. 


To make pancake batter, mix in a small bowl: 

1 cup sifted flour % cup powdered sugar 
% teaspoon salt 

Add, one at a time: 

2 eggs 

Beat until blended. Add, slowly, mixing gently: 

1 cup milk 
To make sauce, blend at room temperature: 
Vz cup sweet butter 
Vz cup powdered sugar 

grated rind and strained juice of 1 orange 
14 cup curagao 
Set to one side. 
When ready to make pancakes, add to batter: 

1 teaspoon brandy grated rind of Vz lemon 

Heat a 5" heavy skillet slowly, then add a few drops 
of oil to grease it. Pour in just enough batter to cover pan 
with very thin layer. Tilt pan so that mixture spreads 
evenly. When cooked on one side, toss or turn with 
spatula and cook on other. Cook pancakes one by one. 
Roll up or fold in quarters and arrange on hot platter. 
Makes 18-24. 

To serve: 

Heat 3 tablespoons of sauce in chafing dish over low 
heat, add pancakes and heat slowly. Add more sauce as 
needed. When sauce is srrupy and pancakes are very 
hot, sprinkle with cognac or curagao and ignite. If not 
done in chafing dish at table, arrange pancakes on small 
platter, pour over some of the sauce, sprinkle with 
warmed cognac, and light just before serving. 


They were just starting out in the theater when they wed thirty 
years ago. Lulu Mae has since subordinated her career to home 
and husband. Paul has risen to stardom on stage, screen, TV, radio 
— but his voice is most familiar in long-running broadcast roles as 
a medico, starting with such popular early dramas as Big Sister. 

Although his "medical practice" 
exists only on radio, Paul McGrath 
has a prescription for happiness 
guaranteed effective for a lifetime 


DRIVING through the south of France last 
summer, Paul and Lulu Mae McGrath 
stopped at an inn for dinner. Two girls at a 
nearby table watched them rather closely. 
Mostly, their eyes turned toward Paul; — no 
surprise to his wife, well used to the 
admiring glances directed at her tall, hand- 
somely-graying husband. Besides, he had 
just finished a London run of a year in 
the hit play, "Roar Like a Dove," and the 
girls might have seen him in it. 

The McGraths didn't realize these were 
Americans, until one of them spoke to Paul. 
"I couldn't help hearing you talk," she 
apologized. "I recognized your voice. You 
are Dr. John Wayne of Big Sister, on 
radio. I would have known that voice 
anywhere in the world." 

Paul and Lulu Mae were amazed. Although 
he had been Dr. Wayne for twelve years, 
he had not played him then for a long 
time, and it didn't seem possible anyone 
would still remember how he sounded. But 
this is the kind of extraordinary thing 
that is always happening to Paul. 

When he was host of the long-running and 
enormously popular Inner Sanctum series — 
the macabre master of its creaking door 
and sepulchral sign-off, "Goodnight, pleasant 
dreams" — there were proposals of marriage 
from women who had never seen him 
but were infatuated with his voice. People 
used to telephone long-distance just to 
hear him say a few words. 

On his return from Europe late last 
summer, Paul renewed his successful radio 
career of more than twenty-five years. He 
picked up where he had left off as Dr. Phillip 
Hamilton in NBC Radio's daytime serial The 
Affairs Of Dr. Gentry, opposite Madeleine 
Carroll. He stepped into the starring role of Dr. 
Jim Brent, in CBS Radio's daytime serial. 
Road Of Life. He was (Continued on page 78) 

The Affairs Of Dr. Gentry, produced and directed bv 
Hi Brown, is on NBC Radio, M-F, 2:45 P.M. EST, 


Title role in The Affairs Of Dr. Gentry belongs to that lovely lady, Madeleine Carroll (right). Paul 
is Dr. Phillip Hamilton. Phyllis Newnnan, as Trudy Welta, is third mennber of the cast pictured above. 

Below, time ofF from American radio to do a London 
stage hit, "Roar Like a Dove," with David Hutcheson. 

Among his Broadway hits: "Command Decision." Three star 
generals were Paul Kelly (left). Jay Fasset and McSrath. 

Actress Nancy Malone spices her wholesome, girl-next-door 
personality with good -looks tricks unmistakably her own 

TPo THE television world, Nancy Ma- 
lone is Babby Dennis of The 
Brighter Day on CBS-TV. On Broad- 
way, she is understudying a major 
role in Eugene O'Neill's "A Touch 
of the Poet." Of?-stage, pert Nancy 
generates excitement by daring to 
be herself. In a staunchly "French 
poodle" town, Nancy's pets are a 
tiny African frog and a mischievous 
capuchin monkey. . . . She loves 
clothes, dressing for compliments 
rather than "to be in fashion." Her 
unorthodox wardrobe includes 35 
dresses, 16 black Italian sweaters, 30 
scarves, 15 skirts, 2 handbags (one 


tote and one dress-up), and 15 "char- 
acter" hats bought for fun instead of 
to wear. . . . Nancy's fragrance ward- 
robe never includes more than three 
scents, giving each a chance to become 
personally identified with her. She 
wears perfume 'round the clock and 
always scents her gloves. ... A firm 
believer in femininity, she considers 
street smoking strictly for the boys, 
always wears gloves, never chews 
gum, and prefers wines to cocktails. 
. . . On a date, as in acting, Nancy be- 
lieves it is better to imderplay than 
to overdo. Her escorts are always 
made to feel important. She encour- 

ages them to talk about their own in- 
terests, never corrects a beau if he 
orders incorrectly in a restaurant or 
shows a lack of savoir faire. Nancy 
feels a social error is less important 
than wounded masculine ego. Auburn- 
haired, freckle-nosed Nancy acquires 
a delicate porcelain look with pale 
powder, pearl-gray eye shadow, color- 
less nail polish. Her "barometric" 
blue eyes change color with the 
weather. She makes them outstanding 
by underplaying her mouth with light 
pink lipstick and going aU out with 
plenty of eye makeup — ^the works. 
The result, natural yet distinctive. 


The Record Players 

This page rotates among 
WBBM's Josh Brady, KYWs 
Joe Finan, WKMH's Robin 
Seymour, and now, let's hear 
from KMBCs Torey Southwich 

As "Safchmo" tells Torey, it's time for tuning in to "our own back yard." 



AMERICAN jazz artists now perform- 
ing overseas should come back 
home. Things are looking up! 

One day when Louis Armstrong, 
"Ambassador Satch," was visiting my 
show, I asked him why American jazz 
seemed to be so much more popular 
in other countries than here at home. 
"Well," he said, "it's just like havin' 
somethin' in your own back yard and 
not payin' much attention to it. Some- 
day, you'll get around to listenin' to it." 

That "someday" seems to be here. 
Lately, the American public is not only 
listening, they're buying! 

I'm happy to see it. I find that add- 
ing a little easily-understandable jazz 
to my shows adds a lot of variety and 
interest. A check of the best-selling 
music lists shows that there is certainly 
a growing audience for it. 

In TV Radio Mirror a few months 
ago, Alan Freed of WABC and Art 
Ford of WNTA, both in the New York 
area, made some predictions concern- 
ing musical trends for 1959. Freed said 
that rock 'n' roll would continue to 
dominate the nation's music, and Ford 
predicted a big move to jazz. 

Well, let's take a look at those hit 

One year ago at this time, there 
wasn't one album even remotely con- 

nected with jazz on the lists of the top 
twenty-five popular albums. However, 
during the last six months, as many as 
nine of the top twenty-five hit albums 
have been of jazz or jazz-flavored 

Wonder of wonders, there have even 
been a few jazz-flavored single records 
on the hit lists lately. Drummer Cozy 
Cole made it with one called "Topsy" 
and then followed it with another called 
"Turvy." Peggy Lee's "Fever" made 
it. Chris Connor and Count Basie both 
had a couple of discs that came mighty 
close last year. 

Jazz showed up a lot better on the 
best-selling -popular- albums lists, 
though. Trumpeter Jonah Jones did 
extremely well with four big entries: 
"Muted Jazz," "Jumpin' with Jonah," 
"Swingin' on Broadway" and "Swingin' 
at the Cinema." 

Jazz singer Dakota Staton turned out 
three successful albums: "The Late, 
Late Show," "Dynamic!" and "In the 
Night," the last one teaming her with 
the George Shearing Quintet. Pianist 
Shearing had a big package of his own 
called "Burnished Brass." 

A new jazz piano star, the boss of 
the Ahmad Jamal Trio, was discovered 
by the public in a couple of albums, 
the biggest being "But Not For Me." 

Toward the end of last year, Harry 
Belafonte turned out a terrific blues 
collection, "Belafonte Sings the Blues," 
which is still rising in popularity. 

Singer Ernestine Anderson has been 
hailed as the "find of the decade." Her 
hit album is called "Hot Cargo." 

Louis Prima and Keely Smith (Mr. 
and Mrs. Prima) were responsible for 
a couple of big ones titled "The Wildest 
Show at Tahoe" and "Las Vegas — 
Prima Style." 

Even Lawrence Welk turned off the 
bubbles to record a best-selling Dixie- 
land album and another one starring 
clarinetist Pete Fountain. 

All this in the last six months or so. 

Lately, some jazz is even showing up 
in the nation's juke boxes, developing 
even greater audiences for the idiom. 
On radio, disc jockeys aren't afraid of 
using the word "jazz" anymore, for 
fear of alienating listeners. Perhaps 
American jazz is finally getting "home." 

At any rate, the past few months 
have shown a balancing of the best- 
selling music. Rock 'n' roll has stepped 
down a bit to make room for more 
melodic music, including a good selec- 
tion of jazz for the first time in years. 

A young man from Texas even moved 
Tchaikovsky to the popular album hit 
lists. Who knows where it'll all end? 

Over KMBC in Kansas City, Time For Torey is heard Mon.-Fri. from 7 to 9 A.M.: The Torey Soiilhwick Show is heard Mon.-Fri., from 3 to 5 P.M. 


1liei|'re"uMHviiu( 'mk Owaha 

ivhich is perfectly understandable — given the electric talents of Joe Martin and Al Lamm, 
WOW's facilities, and a hep and happy city for the listenin 

A "wow" of a team — humorous, philosophizing deejay Joe Mor+in and skilled pianist Al Lamm. 


Talks with youngsters like singer 
Brenda Lee are greatly enjoyed by 
Joe, who began his own career at 12. 

RADIO MAY BE all things to all men, 
but when it tries to please all of 
the people most of the time — which 
it does, via Omaha's WOW — it's 
news! A-sparkle with talent, this 
Nebraska station combines its fore- 
most live wires, Joe Martin and 
Al Lamm, for two daily shows — 
Breakfast Bandstand, heard Monday 
through Saturday, from 7:15 to 9:30 
A.M., and Joe Martin Calling, Mon- 
day through Saturday, 12:30 to 1:30 
P.M. Joe contributes a warm and 
friendly voice and an unbeatable 
sense of timing in the telling or read- 
ing of humorous poems and stories, 
while Al switches skillfully among 
the three keyboards at his command 
— piano, organ, and celesta — with re- 

markable ease. The result is that, 
when this extraordinary team hits 
the airwaves each day, the bread- 
winners on their way to their jobs 
are not so impatient with traffic, 
housewives ease into daily routines 
less reluctantly and those "shining 
schoolboys" creep more willingly to 

*T THIRTEEN, talented and enter- 
** prising Joe Martin was doing 
public -address announcing — but for 
somebody else, till he decided he 
could do much better on his own. 
Out of old radio and telephone parts, 
he built his own P.A. system, and 
went into business. Even before that, 
Joe had shown remarkable "get up 

It's harvest time — and orchord farmer Allan Lamm has difficulty keeping the apple-eating 
Lamm family (wife Carol, sons Allan and Clarence) supplied with the "fruit of his toil." 

Keeping the barbecue fires a-burning is Joe Martin's special responsibility, but the "flames" 
of family fun ore tended by everyone — including wife Joyce, youngsters Nancy, Mickey, Danny. 

and go." At twelve, when most kids 
are actively engaged in thinking 
about little more than tomorrow's big 
game, this youngster spent summer 
vacations touring the Midwest as a 
blackface comedian with a minstrel 
show. . . . Part-time radio work at 
WFHR in Marshfield, Wisconsin, and, 
later, courses at the University of 
Wisconsin gave Joe solid training for 
what was to become his life's work. 
. . . On his two programs, Joe com- 
bines his deejaying and recitations 
into a listenable format. "I like to 
think our shows are more than just 
a jukebox operation," he says. "Rec- 
ords," he believes, "are as influential 
to immature ears as certain types of 
burlesque are to the eyes — both must 

be restrained if detrimental to good 
taste." Though it seems a regular 
"busman's holiday," Joe counts rec- 
ord-collecting as his biggest hobby. 
And that's just fine with wife Joyce, 
and their three children: Nancy, 11; 
Danny, 7; and Mickey, 5. 

To SAY merely that Alan Lamm 
"comes from a musical family" 
would be the understatement of the 
year. His mother is a pianist of merit, 
his father a singer, one brother a 
Doctor of Music teaching now at the 
University of Arizona, and another 
brother working in radio in Louis- 
ville. Allan began playing piano at 
the age of seven, and was busy de- 
veloping his skills on organ and 

celesta throughout high-school days 
in New Albany, Indiana, then at the 
University of Louisville and the Juil- 
liard School of Music. . . . During his 
two years as a leatherneck, Al had 
his own daytime radio show over 
Marine Corps Station KBOR in 
Tientsin, China. In 1951, the young 
musician joined WOW as a staff 
pianist, but it wasn't till '53 that he 
teamed up, to such great effect, with 
Joe Martin. ... A country-man at 
heart, Al lives in a seven-room house 
set on 2V2 acres. And just so wife 
Carol and children Jean, Allan and 
Clarence won't get lonely while Al's 
at work, there are two dogs, three 
cats, a bird, and a yard full of chick- 
ens to keep them company. 



J.P.'s pretty wife Sallie is Georgia-born; son John, on 
Alaskan; tiny Susan, a Detroiter, like her dad, J. P. 


DESPITE THE FACT that keeping the chill away from the 
door was a full-time job in those days, Joseph 
Priestly McCarthy has warm memories of Alaska. For 
J.P.'s stint for his Uncle Sam brought him wife, career 
and a more or less permanent immunity to continental 
winters. Nowadays, the suave, dark -haired emcee of 
WJR-Detroit's Music Hall program (heard six days, be- 
tween 6: 30 and 9 A.M. and 4 to 6 P.M., with news breaks) 
recounts how he had just completed two years of engi- 
neering studies at the University of Detroit when the 
Army called him, issued him several pairs of long-johns 
and bundled him off to the 49th to help test body reactions 
to extreme cold. . . . The days were long and dark and, 
for entertainment, J.P. and his buddy used to huddle close 
to the Yukon stove in their little tent and practice read- 
ing aloud to each other, till their breath froze on their 
lips. Thawing out in Fairbanks, J.P. was cast for the 
lead in a KFAR Radio play, "George Caldwell, 3000 A.D." 
Sealed with him in a time capsule for this futuristic bit 
of drama was his "wife," co-star Sallie Thompson. But 

Deep north tells a few tricks for staying warm 

It's five years later, but — thanks to 
a 1,000-year time-capsule — WJWs 
fun-loving, J. P. McCarthy isn't 
a day older — except in happiness 


hardly a day of rehearsals had elapsed before J.P. and 
Sallie— a pretty young dancer, living in Alaska with her 
parents — decided to make it for real. Married in Fair- 
banks in 1954, J.P. was discharged soon afterwards, stayed 
on for a while at KFAR, and returned to the Midwest late 
in 56. . . . Though he enjoys golf and follows football and 
hockey, J.P. is actually quite a homebody— constantly 
arnused and occasionally upstaged by his little son 
Johnnie, three years old. The photographer who came to 
take family shots for this feature found the toddler eager 
to jiflP- He posed obligingly with Daddy's golf clubs, 
Daddy s jazz records, with baby sister Susan, with 
Mommy, and, when the session was done and the camera- 
man ready to go, young John pleaded, "Let's take some 
more smiles. Daddy." . . . Since J.P.'s show is not the 
request type, he spends hours each day in the stacks 
selecting music to please all his listeners. His own pref- 
erence being for "the swinging kind," he ranks Sinatra 
and Ella Fitzgerald high on his list. Detroit, by the way, 
IS up in the air about J.P. 

She Has His Heart 

(Continued from page 41) 
a gay gamin face, short dark hair, and 
two chipped front teeth, Rochelle was 
watching television and trying to wheedle 
Dale's mother into divulging the "sur- 
prise" he had for her. Rochelle had ar- 
rived that afternoon with a neatly packed 
weekend bag, a shiny lunch bucket, and 
the little beat-up teddy-bear she carries 
back and forth between Dale's "Haymaker 
Farm" in the San Fernando Valley and 
her other home a mile away. 

Dale and Jacqueline Robertson are that 
cliche which so seldom works out in real 
life: Two who were once married, and 
who are now warm good friends. Know- 
ing Dale's tight schedule, Jacqueline had 
brought Rochelle over to spend the week- 
end with him. Now "Timmy," the teddy- 
bear, was in a pretty blue room among 
the kingdom of other stuifed animals 
Rochelle commands when she's there. Be- 
side the open suitcase, a pair of patent- 
leather pumps shiny for Sunday School 
and a pair of red canvas sneakers ready 
for two flying feet. The school lunch 
bucket was in the kitchen, waiting to be 
filled the following Monday morning ac- 
cording to the instructions of the pretty, 
chic, dark-haired yoxuig woman who'd 
left it there. 

Late that night. Dale Robertson turned 
into the gate and down the driveway 
under the big pepper trees. He stopped 
by the side of the rambling California 
ranch house. Then the tall dark-haired 
man and a flying six-year-old met at 
the door. "Hello, Baby!" Dale Robertson 
said, swinging Rochelle up into his arms. 
In a little while, they walked down the 
path past the swimming pool to the stable, 
where he introduced her to the "surprise" 
she'd awaited — a beautiful little pony 
named "Buttons." 

Finally, an excited little girl surren- 
dered to sleep, and her father heard her 
prayers. Looking at her, listening, the 
weariness left her father's face. "Wells 
Fargo" had gotten through the maze of 
freeways and twentieth-century trails. 
"Jim Hardie" was home. And he had two 
whole days with the little woman he 
loves, before heading out again. Two days 
to help make up for any missed. . . . 

Too many days missed, so far as her 
father is concerned. "I'm missin' the best 
part of her life," says Dale, "and yet I 
don't know what to do about it. I'm with 
her about one-third as much as I should 
be, and just about one-tenth as much as 
I'd like to be. Even on week-ends, I travel 
on personal appearances and whatnot. 
This snowball you get on, in this busi- 
ness, gets to rollin' and there's no way 
to stop it." 

Dale Robertson, of the quick gun and 
the slow melodious Oklahoma drawl, is 
riding high, fast and far, as the star of 
Tales Of Wells Fargo. As Jim Hardie, he 
makes history come alive every week, 
helping to re-win the West, see justice 
done, and make sure that the "express" 
always gets through. 

But the problem closest to Dale's heart 
is how a little girl gets through to woman- 
hood and isn't harmed by a divided home. 
Five years ago, her father could look 
at the tiny, living doll who couldn't know 
her home was breaking up around her, 
and say, "One thing sure, until she grows 
up . . . one way or another, I'll never be 
far away from her." 

And, one way or another. Dale's never 
far away now. He calls Rochelle two or 
three times weekly, from wherever he is. 
Across the miles, appearing at a rodeo 
in Indianapolis, her father gets the latest 



Ready now . . . TV-RADIO ANNUAL 1959 
. . . the thrilling yearbook that tells you all 
about your favorite stars — their wives, their 
children, their hobbies. 

For greater radio and television enjoyment, 
get TV-RADIO ANNUAL now. Here are a 
few of the features contained in the 1959 
edition : 

NEWS ROUNDUP — Here's all the news, gossip 
and chit-chat of the airwaves. The marriages 
. . . divorces . . . babies — plus inside stories 
that will make your eyes pop. 

Town (Lawrence Welk & Co., including the 
Lennon Sisters, Myron Floren, Buddy Mer- 
rill, Alice Lon) • Red-Letter Year (Pat 
Boone) • Hep, Handsome and Happy (Rick 
Nelson) • Teenage T.N.T. (Dick Clark). 

Jimmy Dean • Dorothy Collins • Kathryn 
Murray • Liberace • Milton Berle • Jackie 
Gleason • George Burns • Ronnie Burns 
• Ann Sothern • Garry Moore. 

PIUS — Pictures and stories of all your favor- 
ites on comedy, western, drama, adventure, 
musical and panel shows. 

THE YEAR'S NEW SHOWS— Peter Gunn (Craig „n^ ^^^y 50< WHIIE THEY lAST 

Stevens, Lola Albright) • The Rifleman , r , . i • -i ui . 

(Chuck Connors) • Lawman (John Russell, This exciting, colorful Annual is available at 

Peter Brown) • Lassie (June Lockhart, your favorite magazine counter now Or, if 

Hu-h Reilly) • The Texan (Rory Calhoun) mo/e convenient, mail coupon, with 5O0-- 

. Cimarron City (George Montgomery, John today. But hurry before all copies are sold 

Smith) • Walt Disney Presents (Tom Try- out. 

on) • Bat Masterson (Gene Barry) • The .,.„ ^^.m^k,. t^inav . 

Donna Reed Show • Yancy Derringer (Jock f — MAIL COUPON TODAY— Tj 

Mahoney) • Man with a Camera (Charles | BARTHOLOMEW HOUSE. INC. WG-359 • 

Bronson) • Naked City (James Franciscus, i 205 E. 42nd St.. New York 17. N. Y. • 

Suzanne Storrs) 'Man without a Gun (Rex • ^^^^ ^^ tV-RADIO ANNUAL 1959. I • 

Reason) • Steve Canyon (Dean Fredericks) I enclose 50c. J 

• Wanted— Dead or Alive (Steve McQueen) J J 

• 77 Sunset Strip (Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., Edd | Name ■ 

Byrnes, Roger Smith) • The Further Adven- j piease Pr.nt ■ 

tures of EUery Queen (George Nader) . , Address ■ 

• 5 

PERSONALITIES OF THE YEAR — One-Man Inva- I city State ■ 

sion (Elvis Presley) • A Big Time in the Big R...!.-.'-...----*---------- J 


news from the San Fernando Valley "I 
rode Buttons today," she says. Then, in 
a very grown-up little voice, "And what 
are you doing, Daddy? How are you feel- 
ing, Daddy?" 

When Dale appeared on The Perry 
Como Show, one little living-room buck- 
aroo sat glued to the TV screen, drinking 
in every note. Her father had called to 
tell her he was going to sing two songs 
just for her. And for Dale himself, the 
miles dissolve as he remembers that, when 
he gets home, a little red suitcase, a 
lunch bucket, a dog-eared teddy-bear — 
convoyed by a princess in a T-shirt — 
will be there to welcome him. 

That Rochelle is queen of Haymaker 
Farm, there is no doubt. There's a big 
redwood playhouse with a green scalloped 
roof, her own kingdom of make-believe. 
Her loyal subjects await throughout. In 
the pretty blue room furnished in Early 
American, a majestic stuffed lion and a 
whole colony of animal subjects await 
her every command. In Dale's office, 
there's a shrilling mynah bird which was 
a birthday present from her dad. In the 
stable, the beloved pony stomps and waits. 

"She's got about thirty parakeets, three 
cats, four dogs, a rabbit," her dad grins. 
"When children can love animals this 
much it's a pretty good indication that, 
when they grow up, they're gonna have a 
lot of love in 'em to give to people. So I'm 
glad. This is the best gauge I have, as 
to the girl she will grow up to be — her 
capacity for love for others, her feeling 
for others." 

And the girl Rochelle Robertson grows 
up to be, the love she will have for 
others, is her father's first thought. For 
Dale Robertson knows what it is to 
grow up in a broken home. He remem- 
bers only too well a ten-year-old Okla- 
homa boy who learned his father and 
mother had separated. How hard his 
mother had worked at the Robertson 
Convalescent Hospital in Oklahoma City, 
making a living for three small boys. But 
he remembers, even more, how much 
companionship and love she gave them. "I 
missed my father like any kid, of course," 
says Dale. "But my mother worked dou- 
bly hard to see we didn't really miss any- 
thing — and she succeeded." 

Today, other divorced parents could 
learn from the intelligent way Dale and 
Jacqueline are trying to make sure a 
little girl won't be hurt because their 
own marriage failed. There's no friction 
between them, and they work together on 
everything. They're agreed that the most 

important thing is to give a child enough 
love. As a result, Rochelle is a well- 
adjusted, happy little girl. 

She has her own room in both homes 
and, at six, it's something of a lark go- 
ing back and forth between her mother's 
three-bedroom house in Northridge and 
her daddy's five-acre place. Only once has 
she asked the all-important question: 
"Why don't you live in the same house?" 
And she got the only possible answer: 
"Well, Baby, because we aren't married 
any more . . ." 

Dale and Jacqueline Robertson had been 
so sure it was for life, when TV Radio 
Mirror's reporter covered their storybook 
marriage seven and a half years ago — 
just five weeks after the two had met. 
But life's no storybook, and the little 
things they hadn't had time to learn 
about each other soon seemed pretty 
large. Dale was going from picture to 
picture without a day off, and they really 
didn't have a fair chance to settle much 
of anything. 

But they were both so happy when they 
knew they were going to have a baby. 
Dale painted the nursery three times, 
to get just the exact desired shade of 
blue. He'd thought of a boy — just because 
he felt he would know what to say to 
a boy, what to do with a boy. But when 
a little girl arrived, Rochelle's happy 
father could only stare at her and say, 
"I wouldn't trade her for eighteen boys." 

Yet, when Rochelle was a year and a 
half old, the basic differences between 
Dale and Jacqueline began to seem too 
much for them. They went to a marriage 
counselor. They answered all the ques- 
tions—and their graphs went in exactly 
opposite directions. "How much that 
means, I don't know," Dale said later. 
"But I do know, when it comes to build- 
ing a life together, we don't exactly view 
things eye-to-eye." 

Their definition of marriage was as 
varying as their backgrounds, their sense 
of values, and their emotional make-up. 
Dale had hoped they could stick it out, 
keep on trying. "Anybody can fall in 
love," he said, "but it takes time and effort 
to make it work." It was Jacqueline who 
wanted a divorce. But, of course, we 
didn't have a marriage," she said after- 
ward, "so actually there wasn't much in 
wanting a divorce." 

Nevertheless, Dale and Jacqueline have 
remained friends, and Rochelle is a be- 
loved, growing bond between them. Time 
has given them both more understanding. 



Every Woman 
Wants My Man- 

Why do so many marriages go on the rocks? 
What makes a woman covet another's hus- 
band? Why do married men "play around"? 
These are some of the questions that are an- 
swered by the radio program "My True Story." 
And they're not answers that are born in a 
fiction writer's brain. For these are stories of 
real people — taken right from the files of 
True Story Magazine. They make exciting 
listening, so be sure to hear them. 



National Broadcasting Company 

The other woman tells her side. Don't miss "His Wife Deserves To Lose 
Him" in March TRUE STORY Magazine, now at your newsstand. 

and the'r own relationship seemed so 
happy that Jacqueline flew to Rome to 
join Dale when he was making a movie 
abroad, a year and a half ago, to talk 
things over about a reconciliation. "But 
we decided it just wouldn't work," Jac- 
queline has said. "We didn't quarrel. 
■There was no real trouble. We just 
weren't sure. And we felt, if it didn't work 
out this time, it would be even worse for 

Today neither Dale nor Jacqueline be- 
lieve they'll ever remarry, but neither 
closes the door. "I don't think there's a 
chance, as it stands now," Jacqueline says. 
"But I've learned one thing: People do 
change. We both want the same thing, 
but our concept of that just isn't the same. 
Still — it's hard to say." 

And Dale says, "We've got differences 
of opinion that keep us apart. Jacqueline's 
quite a nice person — I've never thought 
differently. She's enjoyable to be with, 
and I've always enjoyed being with her. 
But I don't know. There are just . . . 
differences. However, I'll never say defi- 
nitely, one way or the other, about the 
future. That, nobody knows." 

Their concern now is bringing up their 
six-year-old in an atmosphere of friend- 
ship and near-normalcy. Making sure she 
has both father and mother as much as 
possible, during these all-important years. 
"There's never any problem seeing Ro- 
chelle when I'm here," her dad says. They 
all celebrate the important days together 
whenever they can. Jacqueline and Ro- 
chelle spent Christmas at Dale's and had 
her tree there. They all celebrated 
Rochelle's latest birthday together, with 
a swimming party for her schoolmates at 
Dale's home. 

Jacqueline occasionally takes Rochelle 
over to the studio to spend the afternoon 
on the sound stage with Dale when Wells 
Fargo is shooting on the lot. "Dale doesn't 
have a lot of time now, you know," Jac- 
queline says, "so, every opportunity he 
gets, we just have to arrange it so she 
can be with him." 

Her parents decide together what's best 
for their daughter and there's been no 
difficulty. Dale had never shared Jacque- 
line's preference for private schools, but 
he's wholeheartedly for the school Ro- 
chelle's attending now. "What Isobel 
Buckley does for those kids, the way she 
teaches them and makes them want to 
learn — well, it's just wonderful!" 

Weekly television show or no. Dale 
participates actively in school affairs. One 
afternoon, not long ago, he got an urgent 
phone call from his daughter. "Dad," she 
said, "what are you going to be doing 
Wednesday night?" Dale had an important 
business conference in connection with 
his show, but he said, "Well, I don't know. 

"I want you to go to school," she said, 
"because we're going to have a free day." 
It developed there was a P.-T.A. meeting 
scheduled that evening and the room 
which had the most parents would get 
a free day around the swimming pool. 
Dale called off his conference, explain- 
ing, "Something very important's come 

When it comes to disciplining their 
daughter, Jacqueline laughs, "Dale's argu- 
ment is, 'Well, she's so good when she's 
with me, I don't have to discipline her.' 
So I don't know whether she's really that 
good or whether he just ignores what she 
does." If there is a small difference of 
opinion about something she's done, the 
tall man and the little girl can be ob- 
served holding a long discussion — with 
Rochelle on Dale's knee. "It's just that 
I believe it's better to reason with her," 
he says. 

"She's a little girl of extremes," her 

father tells you. "She's terribly, terribly 
affectionate, when she wants to be. Then 
she's very much of a tomboy, the rest 
of the time. Either one way or the other 
— there's no middle of the road for her." 

Like dad, like daughter? 

"Well," says Dale, a strong-minded, 
strong-principled performer who's ridden 
to fame by his own rules in Hollywood, 
"I don't know. But she's goin' to have 
a lot of get-up-and-go about her, I'm 
thinkin', when she gets older." 

In fact, she has it now. 

"I take Rochelle with me whenever I 
can." Dale goes on. "Not long ago, we 
went down to La Paz, Mexico, fishin' — 
just the two of us." During their jaunt, 
Rochelle proved a worthy adversary for 
a battling marlin. Dale hit a double-strike 
and his daughter was determined to give 
him a hand. "I grabbed one pole and she 
grabbed the other one," he recalls laugh- 
ingly. "The Mexican Isoy who was with 
us tried to get that pole away from her 
and she wouldn't let him have it. She was 
going to bring that fish in, if it killed 
her, so he had to reach up and cut the 
line. He didn't speak any English and 
Rochelle doesn't speak any Spanish, so 
he didn't know what she was sayin' — 
but he sure knew she was mad!" 

It was during this trip that Rochelle's 
two front teeth got chipped. "If something 
like this happens, it's when she's with 
me — always," her dad groans, shaking his 
head. "She has her brand-new permanent 
teeth — and she's knocked the whole mid- 
dle out of 'em now. She jumped in the 
swimming pool at my place one day and 
knocked a bottom tooth loose. Then she 
chipped the front ones while we were 
fishin' in Mexico." 

A troubled Dale called Rochelle's moth- 
er long-distance to prepare her. "How 
did it happen?" asked Jacqueline. "She 
just tripped and fell on some stairs," he 
said. There was a long pause while her 
mother tried to recover. But Rochelle's 
dad had still another concern. "She's quite 
sensitive about it," he cautioned. "So, 
when you see her, pretend not to notice." 

Dale and Jacqueline share Rochelle's 
every eventuality, whether it's a chipped 
tooth or an errant report card or any 
part of the nebulous future. Their one 
hope, one prayer — that that future won't 
suffer because of a broken home. "I don't 
believe Rochelle's been harmed by it," 
her father says slowly. "I know I've done 
everything to try to keep her from being 
harmed by it and her mother has, too. 

"The important thing is to give her love 
enough to make her secure," Dale goes 
on. "As long as they know the love is 
there and feel secure in it, then they don't 
have to go chasin' around for it and 
findin' it in wrong places later on. 

"I want Rochelle to realize the real 
values of life — the true values," Dale 
Robertson says, looking ahead. "I want 
her to know that material things aren't 
actually the things that count. That what 
counts is love and the things she can do 
for other people. These are the things that 
can bring her the most happiness." 

And this is the stake her father dreams 
about, while he's working so hard in 
television re-winning the West. The big 
adventure begins for Dale when the Wells 
Fargo Express heads finally for home . . . 
and the little woman waiting for him 
there. Adventures enough for her father, 
watching his dark-haired daughter grow 
• . . and helping her toward happiness. 


at your newsstand March 5 


Brand new stars and 

brand new pictures! 

PLUS your favorites!, 

AH handsome 4*5 photos, on 
qSossy stock, just right for 
frominq. Send your order todoy. 


5. Alan Ladd 

9. Esther Williams 
11. Elizabeth Taylor 
15. Frank Sinatra 

18. Rory Calhoun 

19. Peter Lawford 
22. Burt Lancaster 
25. Dale Evans 

33. Gene Autry 

34. Roy Rogers 
5 1 . Doris Day 

56. Perry Come 

57. Bill Holden 

66. Gordon MacRaa 
74. John Wayne 
78. Audie Murphy 
84. Janet Leigh 
86. Farley Granger 
92. Guy Madison 
105. Vic Damone 

109. Dean Martin 

110. Jerry Lewis 
121. Tony Curtis 
128. Debbie Reynolds 

135. Jeff Chandler 

136. Rock Hudson 

139. Debra Paget 

140. Dale Robertson 

141. Marilyn Monroe 
145. Marlon Brando 

147. Tab Hunter 

148. Robert Wagner 

149. RussTarablyn 

150. Jeff Hunter 
175. Charlton Heston 

179. Julius La Rosa 

180. Lucille Ball 
182. Jack Webb 
185. Richard Egan 
187. Jeff Richards 
192. Jean Simmons 
194. Audrey Hepburn 
198. Gale Storm 
202. George Nader 
205. Ann Sothern 

207. Eddie Fisher 

212. Grace Kelly 

213. James Dean 

214. Sheree North 

215. Kim Novak 

219. Natalie Wood 

220. Dewey Martin 

221. Joan Collins 

222. Jayne Mansfield 

223. Sal Mineo 

224. Shirlev Jones 

225. Elvis Presley 

227. Tony Perkins 

228. Clint Walker 

229. Pat Boone 

230. Paul Newman 

231. Don Murray 
233. Pat Wayne 

235. Anita Ekberg 

236. Corey Allen 

240. Patti Page 

241 . Lawrence Welk 

243. Larry Dean 

244. Buddy Merrill 

245. Hugh O'Brian 

246. Jim Arness 

247. Sanford Clark 

249. John Saxon 

250. Dean Stockweli 

252. Warren Berlinger 

253. James MacArthur 

254. Nick Adams 

255. John Kerr 

256. Harry Belafonte 

258. Luana Patten 

259. Dennis Hopper 

260. Tom Trvon 

261. Tommy Sands 

262. WillHutchins 
26^. lames Darren 

264. Ricky Nelson 

265. Faron Young 

266. Jerry Lee Lewis 

267. Ferlin Husky 

268. Dolores Hart 

269. James Garner 

270. Everly Brothers 

271. ErinO Brien 

272. Sandra Dee 

273. Lili Gentle 

274. Robert Culp 

275. Michael Ansara 

276. Jack Kelly 

277. Darlene Gillespie 

278. Annette Funicello 

279. David Stollery 

280. Tim Considine 

281. Nick Todd 

282. Johnny Mathis 

283. David Nelson 

284. Shirley Temple 

285. Pat Conway 

286. Bob Horton 

287. John Payne 

288. David lanssen 

289. Dick Clark 

290. Yvonne Craig 

291. Carol Lynley 

292. Jimmie Rodgers 

293. Guy Williams 

294. Frankie Avalon 

295. John Gavin 

296. Lee Remick 

297. Diane Varsi 

298. Joanne Woodward 

299. Teddy Randazzo 

300. Paul Anka 

301. Peter Brown 

302. Edd Byrnes 

303. Joni James 

304. Jock Mahoney 

305. Jim Franciscus 

306. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. 

307. John Smith 

308. Lloyd Bridges 

309. John Russell 

310. Gene Barry 

311. Chuck Connors 

312. Geo. Montgomery 

313. Craig Stevens 

314. Steve McQueen 

315. Conway Twitty 

316. Ty Hardin 



112 Main St., Ossining, N. Y. 

I enclose $ for candid 

pictures of my favorite stars and have circled 
the numbers of the ones you are to send me 
by return mail. 




Zone State 

Send cash or money order. 12 pictures for 
$1; 6 for 50c. 



The Very Biggest Payoff 

(Continued from page 26) 
fabulous fur coats and the trips to Paris, 
the Riviera, the storied Nile — to almost 
anywhere, short of the moon, the con- 
testant's heart desires? What is her own 
heart's desire? If Bess Myerson could 
make one wish, what would it be? 

"My goodness," she laughs wholeheart- 
edly, "that's easy! I would wish that 
things could go on just as they are ... so 
happily involved in my work, so happy at 
home with my eleven-year-old-daughter 
Barbara, and Maureen, our housekeeper — 
what would we do without her? — and 
Cindy, our little Schnauzer! I think I am 
the luckiest person in the world to have 
the work that I really want to go to, every 
morning, and a home that I can't wait to 
get back to, every evening. 

"I know I am the luckiest person in the 
world to have won the title of Miss Amer- 
ica, as I did in 1945 — a title that opened 
up so many avenues to me, including tele- 
vision. So what should I have to wish for? 
I have a mink coat," she smiles. "Model- 
ing them in the show as I do, five days 
a week, mink is literally my trademark. 
Alas, I didn't win it. And it wasn't a gift. 
I bought it — on time. Quite a lot of time. 
I just finished paying for it last year. So 
what happens? This year, it is out of style 
— so a remodelling job had to be done." 

Recently, a close friend said, "Bess at- 
tributes too much to luck. She isn't what 
she is, or where she is, because of luck but 
because she has worked — and of necessity 
— since she was in her early teens." 

"It's true," Bess admits, "that I've been 
working since I was thirteen, but that was 
luck, too. Born and raised in the New 
York borough known as the Bronx, I came 
from rather a humble background, so it's 
lucky for me that I was tall for my age. 
Looking older than I was enabled me to 
get my first job as a camp counselor the 
summer I was thirteen, and I continued 
to be a camp counselor every summer 
thereafter, up to and including the sum- 
mer I became Miss America." 

In her middle teens, however, Bess went 
through a period when she was "abso- 
lutely miserable" about the extra inches 
"that put a blight on my self-confidence," 
as she puts it. "I was always the last one 
on the gym line, always in the back row 
in class pictures. Being able to look over 
people's heads was an asset at basketball 
games and the movies. But when it came 
to the most vitally important thing in a 
teenager's life — dates — it was a horrid lia- 
bility. I never asked my girl-friends 
whether a blind date they'd arranged for 
me was young or old, rich or poor, hand- 
some or hideous, but only: How tall is he? 
"I remember one evening in particular, 
when a date was made for me with a boy 
who was, I was assured, at least as tall 
as I. Practically delirious at the prospect, 
I blithely discarded the customary flat 
heels in favor of my most prized but sel- 
dom-worn possession, high-heeled shoes. 
At the appointed hour, in trotted a strap- 
ping, well-dressed fellow — all of five feet, 

seven inches tall. That's a fine height, I 
know. But, standing next to me — I'm five- 
feet-ten, in my stocking feet — he suddenly 
became a midget. I was miserably disap- 
pointed, embarrassed as always, and angry, 
too — until I saw the look on his face and 
realized that he was as embarrassed and 
disappointed as I, if not more so. 

"It came to me then, for the first time, 
that I't the only one made self-con- 
scious by a difference in height. The min- 
ute I stopped thinking in terms of I and 
me, I relaxed. So did my date, and we 
went on to have a most enjoyable evening, 
a really wonderful time. When we danced, 
there were amused glances. I merely 
ignored the glances and, when it became 
apparent that we weren't ill at ease, they 
stopped — proving that it's not the altitude 
but the attitude that counts. So ended for 
me — then, there and forever — one of the 
teen-age growing pains. I haven't worn 
a pair of flat heels since." 

As she matured, young Miss Myerson 
learned to take pride in her "extra inches" 
and to carry herself accordingly. Obvious- 
ly, it paid off. In 1945, a candid photo of 
Bess won her the Miss New York City 
beauty contest and she then went on to 
capture the coveted crown of Miss Amer- 
ica. "Strikingly beautiful and talented as 
Bess was," a friend of those days recalls, 
"it was the plus of her statuesque height 
and the grace and self-confidence with 
which she carries it that eventually helped 
to win her the title — and also a five-thou- 
sand-dollar scholarship, which she used 
toward her master's degree in music at 
Columbia University." 

"The year I won the title," Bess ex- 
plains, "was the first year that talent was 
required, recognized and rewarded. I be- 
gan piano at the age of nine, and if any- 
one had asked me, at any time during 
the next seven years, 'What is your 
dream?' I would have said, 'To be a con- 
cert pianist.' Then suddenly, at sixteen, I 
decided not to make music a serious 
career, but to go to college instead. So I 
went to Hunter College and worked my 
way through by teaching piano. After I 
became Miss America, I resumed my musi- 
cal studies and career, the high spot of 
which was an appearance with the New 
York Philharmonic Orchestra at Carnegie 

"But then the tremendous activity in 
which Miss America is involved caught 
up with me. Fashion shows and personal 
appearances and auditions. Then, one day, 
I said to myself. Look, you can't take all 
this glory and excitement and not give 
something, too. So I embarked on a series 
of lecture tours. In areas where there was 
racial tension, I'd be asked — by the Board 
of Education or by The Congress of 
Christians and Jews and similar organiza- 
tions — to speak in schools or auditoriums. 
You can't hate and be beautiful — that was 
my theme — because hate is like a corrod- 
ing disease that affects the way you 
think and feel, and the way you look. 
Have you ever really looked, I'd ask, 
at a person who hates? It was a challenge, 




coming out before those teen-age kids. 
There were the whistles and the wolf 
calls, but they never lasted more than a 
few minutes. Then the kids quieted and, 
after the lecture, we'd have discussions 
which left me feeling that many of them 
got the message. If only one or two of 
them did, it was worth the doing . . . 

"Then, in 1951, Miss America opened 
up the avenue that led to television, to 
The Big Payoff. I would never have been 
in this business if it were not for Miss 
America — she gave me my career." 

You might suppose that, for Bess, who has 
put in more hours on TV than any other 
performer of her sex, boredom would be 
setting in. But you have only to feel the 
impact of her vibrant personality to fore- 
see that she herself would say, "I am 
never bored. From dawn to dark, the 
clock around, never for one moment. I 
get up at a quarter to eight in the morn- 
ing, five days a week, sit and have some 
coffee and juice with Barbara while she 
eats her breakfast. I see her off for school, 
then shower and dress. At nine-thirty, 
just as I am leaving for the studio, Mau- 
reen hands me a tall glass of malt-flavored 
milk into which she has beaten two raw 
eggs, and I'm on my way. And glad to be. 
Eager to be. 

"This is not just a cut-and-dried, five- 
day-a-week chore, this job of mine," says 
Bess. "Every day is a new challenge be- 
cause, every day, everything on the show 
is new — new fashions, new songs, new and 
fabulous prizes. Best of all, new contest- 
ants, new people to meet and talk with, 
to get to know a little. Bob Paige actually 
interviews the contestants, but I spend 
some time with them, too, so that I'll have 
the information I need for the introduc- 
tions. There's the feeling I get, when I see 
those two people take their places on stage 
— the man hoping he can answer just one 
question, to win for the woman in his 
life. The feeling I get when they do win 
— I just flip, I scream louder than the 
woman does! 

"Win or lose, however," Bess emphasizes, 
"the climate of our show is always pleas- 
ant. Perhaps this is mostly because our 
contestants are trying to win prizes, not 
money. It's more of a game, a fun thing. 
The thing that makes the show most 
meaningful to me is that the winning con- 
testants have got to be good to them- 
selves. If money was the prize, you know 
very well that the average woman wouldn't 
go out and buy herself these beautiful, 
glamorous clothes, let alone a mink coat 
and a trip to Europe. But, when she wins 
on our show, there's nothing for it but to 
walk off to Europe, or wherever, and in 
a mink coat. 

"It's not that we believe the American 
woman's dream is a mink coat. It's more 
the fabulous never-believed-this-could- 
happen-to-me feeling they get. By the 
time the average man and wife can afford 
to go to Europe, they aren't so young 
anymore — they've had to wait that twenty 
years in order to see the kids through 
school. But, when they win The Big Pay- 
off, they can leave with no feeling that 
they're depriving the little folks at home 
by using earned income or dipping into 

"After the show, then what? I may do an 
extra commercial. Or I may have an in- 
terview, or fittings for the clothes I wear 
on the show. Nowadays, I seldom make 
personal appearances, unless doing so 
serves some cause in which I am deeply 
interested — such as the League for Emo- 
tionally Disturbed Children. I often speak 
before church groups and special groups 

in order to acquaint them with the work 
being done for children who are afraid of 
the dark, afraid to go to sleep, so terrified 
of living, yet who are not hopeless but who 
— given the proper atmosphere and lov- 
ing care — can be cured. I try to talk the 
group into taking us on as a project. 

"Whatever I may be doing, however, 
I'm always home by six o'clock or, at the 
latest, six-thirty. Seven o'clock is our 
dinner hour, and I always have dinner with 
Barbara. After dinner, Barbara may have 
some homework, or she may want me to 
practice the piano with her. Or I may do 
some practicing on my own behalf. Now 
that I've been asked by several record 
companies to make a piano album, I am 
back at the piano again. By nine-thirty 
or ten, most evenings, I'm on my way to 
bed. Like every other working girl, when 
the day is done, I'm tired." 

The home that Bess can't wait to get 
back to every evening is a large apartment 
— "with a wonderful big kitchen" — in New 
York's East eighties. "The kitchen," she 
says, "is my favorite room, and the one 
most lived-in. But I love the living-room, 
too. Everything there is gold and white, 
accented with scarlet and green ... a 
very warm room and sunny, yet with a 
quiet uncluttered feeling, too. My bed- 
room — all Wedgwood blue and white — has 
a quiet feeling, too, serene and sleepable. 
I like a lot of color, yet somehow I don't 
wear bright colors. I dress almost always 
in the basic shades — gray and beige dur- 
ing the day, black and white at night. 

"We have such a good home-life, such a 
good life together, Barbara and I. We go 
horseback riding and bicycling together, 
in Central Park. We go to Chinatown for 
dinner and walk around afterwards, ex- 
ploring. We go away to the country, week- 
ends. Our most fun of all, though, is when 
we stay at home weekends and cook. Bar- 
bara will make her favorite dish, which 
is spaghetti. 

"Happily," says Bess, "Barbara and I are 
alike, in that we have no diet problem. 
Barbara is almost as tall as I was at her 
age, but her coloring is lighter than mine 
— a sort of tan-blonde — and she has freck- 
les. Whether or not she will want to be on 
television or one of the other entertain- 
ment media when she grows up, I don't 
know. At a certain age, most little girls 
like to look like Mommy, dress like 
Mommy and do what Mommy does. But, as 
they grow, they become individuals and 
to help them develop themselves as in- 
dividuals is what parents must try to do. 

"I doubt that I will have much of a 
problem in that respect," Bess adds. "Bar- 
bara plays the ukulele and the piano. She 
belongs to a modern dance group and a 
dramatic productions group. She is often 
in a school play and, when she is, I never 
miss a performance. She's in the sixth 
grade at school — in the intellectually 
gifted class. 

"Often, too, we have Sunday brunches 
at our house, with different groups. One 
of them is composed of three girls I went 
to college with, interesting girls doing in- 
teresting things — one is in psychiatry, one 
is an associate producer on a network TV 
show, another is a writer. This is kind of 
an old-shirt-and-slacks group. One or two 
of Barbara's little friends are usually 
around, too, and we talk like mad and eat 
bagels and lox, or muffins and jams. And 
talk some more . . . 

"So now you know, don't you," Bess 
asks, her dark eyes shining, "why I think 
I am the most lucky person in the world 
to have the work that I want to go to 
every morning and the home that I can't 
wait to get back to every evening. Now 
you know why, if I could make one wish, 
I would wish that things could go on just 
as they are." 



The brilliant new 1959 Photoplay Annual 
is ready for you now. This is the book that 
tells you everything about Hollywood. This 
glamorous yearbook sparkles with bright new 
pictures of all the top-flight stars. Here, too, 
is all the news and gossip of Hollywood . . . 
plus exclusive stories about the screen's out- 
standing personalities of the year. This is a 
book you must have. Here's a sample of 
what's inside this exciting yearbook: 

HOLLYWOOD MADE NEWS— Stars marry ... di- 
vorce . . . have babies. And all around the 
globe their doings are front page news. Here 
in pictures and stories is a blow-by-blow ac- 
count of the exciting goings-on in the always- 
exciting world of the movies. 

tures of Dick Clark • Pat Boone • Kim 
Novak • Rock Hudson • Natalie Wood and 
Bob Wagner • James Garner • Debbie Reyn- 
olds • Liz Taylor • Brigitte Bardot • Marilyn 
Monroe • Sal Mineo • Tab Hunter • Tony 
Perkins • John Saxon • James MacArthur 

• Hugh O'Brian. 

SINGERS OF THE YEAR — Elvis Presley • Rick 
Nelson • Johnny Mathis • Jimmie Rodgers 

• Frankie Avalon • Tommy Sands. 

ALL-TIME FAVORITES — Burt Lancaster • Ingrid 
Bergman * Esther Williams • Alan Ladd • 
Gary Grant • Audrey Hepburn • William 
Holden • Rita Hayworth • Glenn Ford • 
Deborah Kerr • Kirk Douglas • June Allyson 

• Jennifer Jones • Yul Brynner. 

excitement, the romance that is Hollywood is 
■wrapped up in its stars. Here is a close-up of 
some who are "the most": George Nader • 
Ava Gardner • Anthony Franciosa • Jayne 
Mansfield • Dorothy Malone • Marlon Bran- 
do • Mitzi Gaynor • Montgomery Clift. 

HAPPILY MARRIEDS — Gay, exciting pictures and 
sparkling stories about those on Cloud Nine. 
Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman • Hope 
Lange and Don Murray • Doris Day and 
Marty Melcher • Rory Calhoun and Lita 
Baron • Richard Egan and Patricia Hardy 

• Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis • Shirley 
MacLaine and Steve Parker • Charlton Hes- 
ton and Lydia Clark. 

RISING STARS — Refreshing pictures of 31 new- 
comers to the screen. See and read about 
them here, and then follow their exciting 
careers. Dolores Hart • Carol Lynley • Gary 
Crosby • Robert Evans • Joanna Moore • 
Ray Stricklyn • France Nuyen • Christine 
Carere • Edward Byrnes • Marjc Damon • 
Diane Jergens • Jill St. John • Barry Coe • 
Millie Perkins • David Nelson • Pat Wayne 

• Erin O'Brien • Annette Funicello • Geof- 
frey Home • Luana Patten • John Gavin 

• Dennis Hopper • Diane Varsi • May Britt 

• Dean Stockwell • Jack Lord • Sandra Dee 

• Peter Brown • Molly Bee • Bradford Dill- 
man • Dick Gardner. 


This sensational Annual is a best-seller every 
year. Get your copy before they are all 
snatched up. Only 50c at your favorite maga- 
zine counter. Or, if more convenient, mail 
coupon, with 50c— TODAY. 

Bartholomew House, Inc. Dept. WG-3S9 

205 E. 42 Sf., New York 17, N. Y. 

I enclose 50c. 

Name „ 

(Please Print) 


City State 


(Continued from page 32) 
of her success in the most competitive and 
consuming of all entertainment media. And 
where others flounder, she continues to 

It is interesting to translate this compli- 
ment more specifically into the rating 
battles The Loretta Young Show has won 
over competing shows in the same time- 
slot on Sunday evenings. When the series 
premiered in September, 1953, the competi- 
tion on the ABC network was a sustainer; 
on CBS, it was The Weh. Early in October 
of that year, ABC introduced on a tem- 
porary basis The Peter Potter Show, which 
continued the battle with Loretta's ratings 
until January, 1954. Then Break The Bank 
took over and continued until November, 
1955 — when the network changed for two 
months to Life Begins At 80. Next, still 
searching for a strong show to enter 
against the Loretta block-buster, it was 
Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour, which 
stood up only until March 1, when a sus- 
tainer was put on. At the start of the 1956- 
57 season, ABC scheduled Omnibus, which 
continued until late April of 1957, when 
the Mike Wallace interviews came on. At 
the start of 1957-58, there was Football 
Game Of The Week until November 17, 
when Scotland Yard was introduced. And, 
this past fall, a Canadian drama series 
Encounter survived only briefly after the 
season's beginning. 

Meantime, at CBS, The Web ran through 
the first season. At the start of the 1954- 
55 season, CBS entered Father Knows 
Best, a strong contender — and still a high- 
ly popular network show today, in an- 
other time period. Father, however, only 
continued opposite Loretta until April 10, 
1955, when Appointment With Adventure 
took up the struggle, until it was dropped 
on April 1, 1956 in favor of $64,000 Chal- 
lenge. With the break-up of the quiz-show 
business. Challenge yielded to the last big- 
money quiz holdout, $64,000 Question — 
which in turn yielded to Keep Talking, for 
a relatively brief space of time. 

During this five-year period. The Loretta 
Young Show commanded extremely high 
audiences and is still showing continued 
vitality into its sixth season. In terms of 
Hollywood stardom, Loretta Young her- 
self is equally remarkable. She holds an 
Oscar from the Motion Picture Academy 
and two Emmys from the Academy of TV 
Arts and Sciences. She's also won three 
nominations, and that's a record hard to 

When Loretta first entered her TV series 
in 1953, she brought to it an accumulation 
of acting experience which gives some 
clue to her great success in the new medi- 
um. She had been an actress since she 
was four, a star since she was fourteen, in 
eighty-seven major studio motion pictures. 
Wise and wary, she realized that, if she 
was to be successful on TV, she had to 
gather a distinctive production staff — pro- 
ducer, director, story editor, cinematog- 
rapher, gown designer, public relations di- 
rector and fifty-odd others concerned with 
keeping her show "on the road." 

This she set out to do. This she did. Some 

were old associates, some new. Each, she 

believed, was the best. Her faith in the 

group established a professional rapport 

among all of them that works like a charm. 

Each is a master of his own field, with a 

mutual respect for each other's judgment. 

This cooperation brings masterful results 

T — one very good reason why Loretta has 

" bested all opposition. She herself sums it 

" all up: "I've been very fortunate indeed." 

Since her show's inception, Loretta's 

letters from viewers symbolize the vast 


Loretta the Giant-Killer 

public interest in every phase of Loretta's 
TV life. She's asked why she prefers tele- 
vision to motion pictures, how she gets her 
tremendous energy and vitality, who se- 
lects the stories she appears in each week, 
what she does in her spare time, where 
she keeps those innumerable and diversi- 
fied awards — including TV Radio Mirror's 
Gold Medal for "Best Actress On Tele- 
vision," which she received for five con- 
secutive years. 

The answers from the star of one of 
TV's greatest audience-influencing pro- 
grams are as honest and straightforward 
as she is: "I love my work. But, if I could 
be any happier working in a department 
store, then I'd work in a department store. 
Anyone's job will reflect love and friend- 
ship, I think, if one puts love and friend- 
ship into it. When we started out, our goal 
was to build a show that had heart and 
motive, plus the thing that sells the 
show and sponsor products — entertainment 
value. The enthusiastic letters people write 
and the awards we have received make us 
very happy. They make us feel what 
we've tried to do is welcome. 

"Aside from the gratification I feel, I love 
television because it allows me to play 
dozens of characterizations in each season, 
instead of two or three a year, as I did in 
motion pictures. I've said it before, I'll say 
it again, because it's true: I love our flexi- 
ble format, because it lets us present 
drama, comedy and human interest for any 
size screen in the viewer's home. 

"We've tried, first of all, to entertain 
and we hope always to serve a wide audi- 
ence — to recognize and salute a wide va- 
riety of people in our stories. Being a 
welcome weekly 'visitor' is a compliment 
and not without its great responsibilities. 
I'm very grateful that every member of 
our close-knit, hard-working unit firmly 
believes in the show's standards of taste, 
example and principle. 

"TV stars, I've learned, are regarded 
with far greater affection than those of 
stage and screen ever were. TV stars be- 
long. Belonging to a 'family,' being part 
of a family-habit, gives you both the best 
and the worst of it. You know how hard 
we try, all of us, never to let the family 
down — anybody knows how it is with 
families. Well, its TV version is a con- 
tinuing challenge to an actress and it cer- 
tainly keeps her versatility in high gear!" 

It has been said, "Variety is the spice of 
life." Everyone knows how Loretta loves 

Full-size portrait in full color: 


Inside: Art Linkletter's advice to 
son Jack — and wee grandson Michael 


Just one of many exclusive features 
and photos of all your favorites in 



at your favorite newsstand March 5 

quotations, and this one she believes with 
all her heart. For her to play the same 
character each week — well! That could be 
nothing short of creating two two-headed 
monsters- — namely. Boredom and Monot 
ony. Where, she's often asked, has she 
found the hundred-odd different characters 
she's played during her years in television? 
Where, she's challenged, does she find the 
stories for The Loretta Young Show? Are 
they based on real-life incidents, pref- 
erably from her own life? The answers 
are simple. 

"Occasionally, a vignette has been right 
for a certain story," Loretta agrees, "may- 
be one out of my life, or any number of 
lives. It might even be the basis for a 
story idea, but we are not presenting docu- 
mentaries, so none of our stories are 
autobiographical. Who selects the stories? 
Well, that's easy to answer, too. Our 
viewers! Through the opinions, criticisms 
and — I'm happy to say — the compliments of 
those who are kind enough to write, we are 
guided. A single viewer's written opinion 
may influence our final choice of story 
content and help us make our future story- 
lines more purposeful. 

"I'll always be grateful to one particular 
viewer, who not only guided us in our 
story choices, but altered our direction, 
too. In his letter, which certainly did at- 
tract our attention, this man said: 'I like 
your show, but lately you've become kind 
of high-falutin' in your characters. I'm a 
bricklayer. I've got ten kids. I want some- 
thing we can all understand.' 

"At our next story conference, I read 
the bricklayer's letter. We discussed it and 
decided he was right and, in a way, his 
letter was an 'answer' to a problem. Since 
we are, primarily interested in answers, 
his letter was given our special attention. 
Since then, whenever we question a script, 
we submit our doubts to what we've 
dubbed our 'Bricklayer Test.' It works! 

"I can't deny that the demands of tele- 
vision filming schedules are ruthless. They 
are varied and unpredictable and, to meet 
them, I had to take time out for mental 
inventory. I knew that, on almost every 
vital issue in life, one must make — well, 
almost surgical decisions. Doesn't every- 
one? I had to learn that evaluating activi- 
ties in the order of their importance to my 
daily welfare, was the obvious way to 
meet the problems of the TV shooting 

"Today, my social engagements are prac- 
tically nil," Loretta admits, "except for, 
perhaps, one or two quiet Saturday-eve- 
ning dinners a month. Of course, I miss 
mingling with my friends. I've never been 
blase about social gatherings. My friends 
understand, and somehow we manage to 
keep in touch. We meet in church and 
there is a little time off between actual 
filming seasons. But, most of the time, I'm 
just a gal with a job to do and I'd best 
wear blinders about everything else!" 

Although motion pictures were her first 
love, television became Loretta's new love 
when she bought her first TV set. Gather- 
ing around the set to watch such popular 
favorites as "Hopalong Cassidy" and Kate 
Smith, a family habit was formed. Loretta 
felt these performers were friends and 
welcome visitors in her home. The "now- 
ness" of programs and the intimacy of 
the medium appealed to her, too, and 
thus her dream of going "visiting" was 

She has come to treastire these half -hour 
"visits" on Sunday night. And if you, the 
viewer, feel as if she were really entering 
your home, that's because Loretta feels like 
a friendly visitor, too. Perhaps this is the 
secret of her sho'w's great success. 


Carol Burnett's 
Mystery Gift 

(Continued from page 20) 
squirming in her arms and she says, "This 
)iis Bruce. I'm madly in love with her." 
She enjoys your double-take and adds 
quickly, "That's right. He's a she. My hus- 
band Don wanted a boy and I wanted a 
girl, so we compromised. For Don's sake, 
we call her Bruce." 

And so you meet Carol Burnett, the 
lyoung comedienne who in the past two 
seasons has been breaking up audiences on 
'the Jack Paar, Garry Moore, Ed Sullivan, 
and Dinah Shore shows. She is winsome 
and slightly mischievous but, in spite of 
the clowning, she is very warm and femi- 
nine. This is a girl who could never be 
embittered or cynical or hard — perhaps 
'because something of a minor miracle has 
happened in her life. 

' "It's something you have to believe be- 
cause it's true," she says. "It happened 
'four years ago, when I was an under- 
graduate at U.C.L.A. For my final, in one 
course, I had to do a musical skit. Well, 
■Don and I did a scene from 'Annie Get 
Your Gun.' The professor liked it so much 
he asked us to come to a party and do 
it for the guests. So we did and, after- 
Jwards. a nice, middle-aged man came up 
to us and asked, 'What would you two 
like to do with yourselves?' That was 
easy to answer. Don wanted to get to 
New York to break into the theater. I 
'wanted New York because it is the only 
'sity where you can get into musical 

■ "He said, 'What's stopping you?' I said, 
'Money.' He said, 'Money! What's money? 
I'm fifty years old now, and I came to this 
cotintry an immigrant and had no money. 
t'U give you some money.' The truth was 
that our financial status was on the minus 
side. I worked weekends to pay my way 
at school, but I was still in debt. And I 
'figured this Santa Claus couldn't be for 
real. He was sweet and seemed generous 
but, after all, it was a party and it was 
possible that he was just feeling good. 

"So I said, 'Oh, sure, you'll give us 
Tioney.' He said, 'Sure, I will. You come 
to my office in San Diego a week from 
[tomorrow.' Well, you know how the mind 
'is. You don't believe it, and yet you don't 
want to stop believing. Don kept his head 
and said, 'We'll phone you before we come 
iown.' During the next week, we made 
plans to go to San Diego — but we kept 
telling ourselves it was too good to be 

Carol was twenty at the time and she 
! wouldn't have been more deserving, for — 
ike the heroine in a fairytale — she had 
oeen good, honest and poor. "I was born 
in San Antonio," she says. "Dad was man- 
ager of a movie house and Mother was a 
writer. I was almost born during a screen- 
ing of 'Rasputin and the Empress' — Mother 
lad to get up at the most exciting part and 
leave for the hospital. When I was about 
three, I began going to the theater with 
Daddy and I would sit through the car- 
coons, go up to his office for a nap, then 
!ome down for the cartoons again. I've 
ilways loved movies. 

"I was six when my parents moved to 
Ilalifomia and left me with Grandmother. 
They were going to send for me, but they 
lad troubles and didn't. When I was 
seven, Grandmother and I moved to Los 
^Vngeles and we lived in an apartment 
icross the hall from Mother. Daddy was 
'ery ill and went to the hospital about that 
ime — he died there, a few years ago. 

"Mother had my baby sister to take care 



l*MttVt«h«r*« Ct«««ifi«d Department {Tf«dtm«rfc) 

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of then, but she was wonderful, like a big 
sister to me. She wrote for the magazines 
and did publicity. She told great stories 
and she liked to sing harmony. Evenings, 
we would sing until very late and then I'd 
go back across the hall to share the bed- 
room with my grandmother. Most of my 
life, I wanted to be a writer like Mother. 
The idea of being an actress or performer 
never occurred to me. 

"I was the biggest tomboy in the whole 
neighborhood," she recalls, "but it wasn't 
all my fault. There were only two girls in 
our immediate neighborhood, and seven 
boys. If you didn't play football, you were 
left out. So, throughout high school, boys 
were just my buddies. I dug into journal- 
ism at Hollywood High and went on to 
U.C.L.A., planning to be a writer." 

It was quite accidental that Carol be- 
came a performer. She took an acting 
course because it was required of under- 
graduates in the theater- arts department 
who wanted to write. She says, "I was so 
annoyed by the course, at first. I disliked 
everything about it, and the teacher dis- 
liked me. But, near the end of the semes- 
ter, I had to do a comedy scene and then 
I heard my first laugh — and loved it. I 
tried out for something else in which I 
played a hillbilly woman and got to use 
my old Texan accent. I got more laughs 
and won an award for the best newcomer 
of the year. To me, it felt like the Academy 
Award. That did it. I forgot about writing 
and decided to become an actress." 

She met and fell in love with Don Sa- 
royan during her junior year in college. 
Don was a graduate student, five years 
her senior, who had come to U.C.L.A. from 
Omaha. "Everyone was telling Don that 
he ought to meet and work with me," she 
recalls. "Well, the way we met! Don was 
talking to a girl-friend of mine, who was 
giving me a big build-up, when I came 
traipsing along. I saw another friend of 
mine beyond Don, and I went bounding 
over like a monkey — a silly stunt that was 
going around then. Don got an eyeful of 
this and turned to my friend. 'I ought to 
meet her?' he said. 'Are you kidding?' 

I liked him from the begimiing, but he 
thought I was the biggest idiot, so it took 
a while before I caught him." 

I I took almost a full semester. She 
horned into an act he was doing with an- 
other guy, not because she was interested 
in the act, but to be near him. She ex- 
plains, "I was hanging around so much, I 
became a habit, and then we were going 
to^e+her without even talking about it. 
He did such sweet things. He threw a 
surprise birthday party for me and in- 
vited all the schoolteachers I'd ever had, 
and my old playmates, and arranged for 
my father to come out of the hospital for 
that one evening. 

"Don and I had the same ambitions and 
knew it was essential to get to New York, 
where a young actor can make a start, but 
it didn't seem at all possible. We had no 
money. I figured I v/ould go on and grad- 
uate, try out for a couple of things, then 
settle down to teach in California. That 
was being realistic. That was — until we 
met that man at the party. And it was 
more out of curiosity than belief that we 
went down to San Diego to see him." 

They phoned the day before and con- 
firmed their date but still expected that, 
when they got there, he would merely 
take them to Itinch and that would end 
it. That Saturday morning, Don picked 
her up at five to make the drive. Carol 
says, "I told my grandmother I had to leave 
early to study for a final — the real reason 
was too crazy to talk about. We drove in 
Don's old rattletrap and had a flat on 
the way. But we got there and went into 
the man's office. 

"He questioned us for a half-hour, then 
called in his accountant and had him make 
out a thousand-dollar check for each of 
us. Then he said, 'There are four stipula- 
tions that go with these checks: First, I 
must remain anonymous. Second, it's a 
loan that I want you to feel you're working 
for, and it is due back in five years. 
Third, you must use the money to go to 
New York. Fourth, if you do make good, 
you must promise to help others.' We 
were flabbergasted. I said, 'I'll write you 
as soon as I get settled in New York.' He 
said, 'No, that won't be necessary. Just 
send me a Christmas card.' " 

From that moment, her life changed. 
"There was no question in my mind that I 
would quit school and forget about grad- 
uating," she says, "but I had to convince 
my grandmother. She had never wanted 
me to go to New York. She thought there 
would be too much heartbreak involved 
in trying to be an actress. But I came 
home and showed her the check — it repre- 
sented more money than we'd ever had — 
and I told her that it must be part of a 
plan that Someone was looking after me, 
and I really had no alternative. She then 
agreed that I should go." 

After settling some debts, getting a cou- 
ple of teeth fixed and buying a trunk and 
ticket, Carol arrived in Manhattan with 
a little more than $300. She took up resi- 
dence at The Rehearsal Club, a room-and- 
board house for aspiring actresses. Don 
arrived a couple of months later and 
moved in with a couple of friends in an 
apartment down the street. 

"Neither of us had any luck," says Carol. 
When all of our capital was gone, Don 
took a job ushering at the Roxy. I worked 
as a hatcheck girl at thirty a week. Much 
poorer we couldn't have been. One eve- 
ning, we were sitting over coffee in a 
drug store, feeling sorry for ourselves and 
angry at the agents who didn't recognize 
our talents. We got to talking about our 
benefactor and that bucked us up. We 
knew we were here to prove something 
and that we had to do something for our- 

One problem with agents had always 
been the response, "Let me know when 
you're in something." The problem was 
how to get into something if the agent 
didn't put you there. Together, Don and 
Carol worked out the idea of having The 
Rehearsal Club put on a revue. It was 
work. They had to get the girls to agree, 
then get the approval of the board of di- 
rectors. The show had to be written and 
rehearsed and money raised for a hall for 
three nights. 

It was a frantic operation, raising the 
money and getting each of the acts in 
shape, but they opened and played three 
days at Carl Fischer's Music Hall to ftill 
audiences which included some producers 
and agents. As a result, Don, who had di- 
rected the production, was hired by M.C.A. 
to direct industrial shows. Carol was signed 
by an agent and, shortly afterward, be- 
came a regular on Paul Winchell's TV 
show — as Jerry Mahoney's sweetheart. 
Four other girls in the production also got 
work. It was a success. 

"So Don and I got married the same day 
I started to work," Carol says. "We moved 
into a tiny apartment over the La Scala 
restaurant. It was an asset for me because 
I'm not much of a cook. Whatever I pre- 
pared, I just opened the window and let 
the odors come in from the restaurant, so 
we felt as though we were sitting down to 
a great Italian meal." 

Carol's next break came when she was 
booked for Garry Moore's daytime show. 
He liked her so much he brought her back 
several times, later chose her to star in 
his second show when he entered night- 

time variety. The next turning point was 
the result of an original number by her 
writer, Ken Welch — the song entitled "I 
Made a Fool of Myself Over John Foster 
Dulles." She recalls, "This was something 
unexpected. I used it as an opener at the 
Blue Angel, where I worked five months. 
The song went over well. The Republicans 
thought, Isn't that sweet of her to sing a 
love song about John. 'The Democrats 
thought. Isn't that funny. I'm an independ- 
ent voter, so it didn't bother me either way. 
"Then Jack Paar asked me to sing it 
on his night show. I was afraid it might 
offend some people, but he insisted. Well, 
I will never forget that night, because I 
was so frightened of the consequences — 
and I proved to be partly right. In the 
first fifteen minutes after I did the song, 
the NBC switchboard took 150 critical 
phone calls. I went on back to the Blue 
Angel to do my last show and found a 
call waiting for me from Washington, D.C. 
I picked up the phone and a man said, 
'This is David Watters. I'm personal TV 
advisor to Mr. Dulles.' I figured: This is 
it — I'm going to be exiled to Texas. 
Then he said, 'I saw you on the Paar 
show and loved that number and I know 
John would, too, so will you please record 
it and send us a copy?' I did, and later I 
heard from people in Washington that 
Mr. Dulles was quite tickled by the song." 

1 oday, Carol is well established as a 
night-club and TV performer. She hasn't 
accomplished her ultimate ambition, to 
play in a Broadway musical comedy, but 
she is willing and able and waiting for the 
part that fits her talents. Don, too, has 
found employment as an actor and di- 
rector. A year ago, they moved into a 
larger apartment and furnished to their 
taste. Last January, Carol's mother died. 
Carol took over the responsibility of raising 
her sister Chris, who is twelve years 
younger. Chris is in a girls' school in New 
Jersey. Carol would prefer to have Chris 
living with her, but this requires a larger 
apartment and there is the problem of who 
would look after Chris when Carol is 
working out of town. 

"By nature," Carol says, "I'm not one of 
those heartbroken comediennes who clown 
in public and cry at home. I like fun and 
have lots of it, but I'm serious, too. I 
have to be serious, as the mother of a 
thirteen-year-old sister. But things are 
going well for me and I'm grateful and 
I'm indebted to that man in San Diego. 
His faith meant so much to us in terms of 
perseverance and attitude. 

"I know show business is described as 
a dog-eat-dog business, but I've never felt 
jealous of anyone. I love the other comedi- 
ennes — Kaye Ballard, Imogene Coca, Dody 
Goodman and the others. I think there 
are enough jobs and money for everyone. 
If I hear of something that's open which 
I'm not right for, I try to think of some- 
one else who can do it and call them. I 
couldn't do otherwise. It wouldn't be me. 
And I don't think that man in San Diego 
would be very happy if I were selfish. 
Generosity, I think, should be like a chain 

"Come hell or high water," she adds, 
"on June twenty-second of this year, Don 
and I will repay that man, and we will do 
it in person. We haven't seen him since 
the day he gave us the money. He hasn't 
written us nor given any indication that 
he was watching us. I don't think he has 
been worried about us. I remember saying 
to him, when he gave us the checks, 
'You know we will pay you back.' He said, 
'I know you will. All the others have.' 

"A man who has that kind of faith in 
people seldom gets let down," she states 
as simple fact. And perhaps that's the 
best explanation of all, why life hasn't "let 
down" Carol Burnett, either. 



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What's New — East 

(Continued from page 6) 

a new Atlantic albxun fittingly titled, "The 
Songs You Heard When You Fell in 
Love." . . . Jackie Cooper, who in recent 
years has been identified with television, 
harks back to movies with a Dot album, 
"The Movies Swing!" Jackie's drums are 
supplemented with a half-dozen compe- 
tent sidemen in a happy, easy-swinging 
collection that includes the theme from 
"The Bridge on the River Kwai March," 
"Pennies from Heaven" and others . . . 
There are several fine new jazz albums in 
circulation — Victor's "Aaron Bell After 
Hours" and "Fabulous Phineas Newborn," 
Columbia's Dave Brubeck's "Jazz Impres- 
sions of Eurasia." . . . The most unusual 
new release is Dot's "And Baby Makes 
Three." Dr. John S. Kruglick, pediatrician, 
gives helpful hints to new parents and 
with a musical background yet. 

Wrapping It Up: Victor Borge now con- 
ferring with Pontiac about another show 
for late spring or fall. This would feature 
serious music and fine artists. No comedy. 
But Borge does nothing halfway and 
promises that the program will be as 
unique and exciting as his own show with 
comedy. . . . Ad agency Cunningham and 
Walsh says their research indicates aver- 
age TV viewing per week per person is 
twenty-two hours and seven minutes. Per- 
haps we will have a trend toward seven- 
minute Westerns. . . . Another fact and 
figure from Mutual's Answer Man states 
20% of 234-million tons of annual dish- 
washing in American homes is done by 
husbands. Is your man doing his share? 
. . . Cindy Robbins, former Payojf model, 
gets starring role opposite Rock Hudson in 
the film "This Earth Is Mine." In mean- 
time. Bob Paige, Payoff's emcee, has had a 
windfall. He's owner of stock in several 
oil wells and the first one hit natural gas. 
. . . When Keely Smith and Louis Prima 
turned down a contract with Berle, it was 
assumed that they would be seen fre- 
quently guesting on variety shows. This 
hasn't happened. Their asking price is 
prohibitive. Top fee on most shows this 
season for a single act is $7,500, although 
a couple of programs, including Dinah 
Shore's, have a whoppin' ten-grand ceiling. 
. . . Panel-quiz producers Goodson-Tod- 
man widen their horizons. Currently 
shooting whodunit series, Philip Marlowe, 
and will produce a musical spec for late 
spring. . . . Latest rumor on Paar show 
is that it may move to California. There 
are those who think that Jack's nerves are 
popping. Man who has been close to Jack 
says, "The reverse is true. When the show 
started, he was very nervous. Actually, 
he's mellowed a lot. He's got the security 
of success." . . . On February 15, Ed Sul- 
livan brings in from Europe Luise Rainer, 
two-time Academy Award winner. This 
will be a particularly sentimental spot, for 
Ed has often said her first appearance on 
his show was one of the high spots of his 
career. . . . Peter Lind Hayes has always 
considered the opportunity to showcase 
fine but untamed talent one of the most 
pleasant aspects of his life. Peter brought 
John Bubbles back from Europe to work 
on his current ABC-TV show. Peter is now 
particularly gratified that Bubbles has 
been chosen to star in a new Broadway 
musical slated for April premiere. . . . 
TV actors and actresses are mostly chosen 
for their appeal to female audiences. Four 
out of five of the big TV dramatic shows 
coming out of New York City have female 
casting directors, and nearly all adver- 
tising agencies have women casting their 
commercials. Who said it isn't a woman's 
world. . . . 

Some pertinent questions for pert Doris Doy — TV youngsters do the asking. 

TV Radio Mirror goes to the Movies 

(Continued from page 3) 

all of which helps her case. It seems the live 
lobsters she sent to a customer, via the E & P 
Railroad, died before they reached their des- 
tination, and widoviT Day wants restitution 
from the railroad. Though it's not exactly 
what she had in mind, Doris gets what's com- 
ing to her in the form of some hilarious mis- 
adventures which begin with a lawsuit in 
Maine, blow up into a nationwide human in- 
terest story, and chug along to a traditional 
happy ending. Doris's life is further compli- 
cated by romance in the form of suave New 
York reporter Steve Forrest, and .Tack Lem- 
mon, her good-natured but long-suffering 
boyfriend/lawyer, back home. Wisecracking 
Ernie Kovacs makes the most of his role as 
the cigar-chewing railroad tycoon who is 
finally bested by the pert Miss Day. Midway 
through the merriment, several TV person- 
alities add to the gaiety when Doris visits the 
TV programs. Youth Wants To Know, I've 
Got A Secret, and The Big Payoff. 

Rally Round the Flag, Boys! 

20th century-fox 

An Army missile project, set down in a small 
suburban town near New York, triggers off 
many a complication in this hilarious spoof 
of the commuter set. Harry Bannerman (Paul 
Newman) and his overly civic-minded wife 
(Joanne Woodward) have permitted the 
mundane matters of life to invade their mar- 
riage unduly. A community project for a new 
and improved garbage-disposal plant is the 
burning topic — until it turns out that the 
Army demands the area. Since nobody 
knows, but many suspect, that the Army 
project might harm the town, both Banner- 
man and his wife get caught up in combat- 
ing the new Army effort. Diverting Banner- 
man from good works is Angela Hoffa (Joan 
Collins), the wife of a busy TV executive 
who spends more time in overwork in New 
York and Hollywood than with his glamorous 
spou.'ie. Her open assault on the affertions of 
Bannerman implement much of tlie nutsy ac- 
tion which follows. 

The Doctor's Dilemma 


Based on the play by George Bernard Shaw 
(and much of his satirical wit is evident), 
"The Doctor's Dilemma" (set in London) is 
a clever commentary on turn-of-the-century 
physicians and the medical misconceptions 
they dogmatically upheld. The doctor in the 
case, John Robinson, has discovered a bril- 
liant new technique for the cure of "con- 
sumption." But, since the treatment must of 
necessity be limited to a few patients, he is 
forced to choose between saving the life of a 
penniless, overworked physician and a young 
artistic genius, who, though he has proved to 
be a temperamental, black-hearted rogue, 
shows promise of becoming a fine painter. 
The doctor's problem is further complicated 
by the impassioned pleas of the artist's wife, 
Leslie Caron, whose enchanting manner has 
caught the medico's more than passing fancy 
and in whom he sees a possible future bride. 
Dirk Bogarde is at his best as the uncon- 
ventional artist who in turn does his best to 
live up to the Bohemian image he believes 
all moralists expect of him. Alastair Sim, 
Felix Aylmer and Robert Morley are excel- 
lent in the roles of the well-meaning but 
anatomically misinformed doctors who strive 
to aid Robinson in making his decision. 

Of Time and Tennessee Ernie 

(Continued from page 36) 
last time went like this: "Bring them 
home. And give the world peace before 
Spring Cleaning Time comes again." That's 
the kind of politics I like. 

"Last week," Ernie continues, "I met a 
fellow who told me he was going into 
politics because he liked people and 
wanted them to like him. Now that's the 
dumdest reason I ever heard. Everyone 
knows, once you get elected, you can't 
wipe your nose without someone hating 
you. I have one piece of advice for poli- 
ticians: When you're feastin' high on the 
hog, don't forget the folks fastin' down 
around the hocks." 

On turning forty? "Well," laughs Er- 
nie, "no denyin' I'm getting up there. I 
was born February 13, 1919, and that's 
enough to make a man sit up and whistle. 
Not that I'm hurting any. It's just that 
there's a Jack Benny in all of us and we 
hate to pass thirty-nine. But what's a 
year when you consider that your whole 
life is less than a second in the mind of 
God? I'm not scared of time. I'm only 
scared of wasting it. Time's one of them 
God-given things — the more you use, 
the more you got. Still, when I'm with 
Betty and the boys, I can't get enough 

Although he has won his vast audience 
as a homespvm "cracker barrel" wit, Ernie 
is not for turning the clock back. "Even 
if it could be done, we'd be vmcomfort- 
able. We're too used to indoor pliomb- 
ing." Told that Americans see him as an 
image of the "good old days" when life 
was simpler, slower and more serene, Er- 
nie comes up with the following: "That 
sort of leaves me betwixt and between. I 
owe 'most everything to radio and TV, but 
radio and TV is making the country boy 
into a mighty hep peapicker. To the fel- 
low who's just watched a trip to the 
moon on his television set, I'm just a sen- 
timental memory, along with Huckleberry 
Finn and the country store. 

"But, you know, there must have been 
lots of good times in the old ways or 
Americans wouldn't be so sentimental 
about them. I'm all for progress, mind. 
But, if some Americans see in me a pic- 
ture of what used to be, I take it as a 
fine compliment. I once asked my daddy 
why folks cherish the past when they're 
all wound up with jet planes, missiles and 
satellites. He put his hand on the Bible 
and said. They have forgot and they love 
to remember.' " 

itirnie is moved by his own remember- 
ing. Thoughtfully, he says, "To lose my 
past would be like losing the savings of a 
lifetime. I come from hardworking. God- 
fearing stock. Many of my folks were 
farmers and millers. My daddy was a 
postman. As a boy, I worked in the com 
felds. I'd pick a pile of com, shuck it, 
?hell it, and pack it on the mule for sell- 
ing. I told that to a fellow in Hollywood 
and he said, 'Heck, Ernie, you're still do- 
ing that.' 

"We had no luxury in our home. But 
I'm not complaining. We had everything 
but money. Love, good will, fxm, and faith 
in God. We had to share the little there 
was — but, to share, you must get closer 
to each other. And that didn't hurt us a 
bit. Daddy would say, 'Hard times is a 
wonderful teacher.' When he started in 
at the post office as a sub and the rations 
got leaner, he perked up my brother 
Stanley and me by kidding. 'Boys,' he'd 
say, 'if these hard times keep on, you'll 
get a wonderful education.' And, when I 
look back on it, we sure did." 
Ernie has a sackful of fond memories. 

"Remembering," he says, "is like putting 
your hand in a box of berries — you can 
only grab a few at a time." He likes to 
recall singing at the Anderson Street 
Methodist Church in Bristol, where he was 
raised; threshing time; studying voice at 
the Cincinnati School of Music with Pro- 
fessor Hubert Kockritz; family get-to- 
gethers at Thanksgiving and the table 
stacked high with turkey, ham with red- 
eyed gravy, sweet potatoes and cranber- 
ries. He enjoys Ungering over recollec- 
tions of his first shotgun and bagging his 
first rabbit; his entrance into show busi- 
ness as a deejay on Atlanta's WATL radio 

He fondly recalls his stint in the Army 
Air Force; his meeting and romance with 
Betty Heminger, the lovely girl he mar- 
ried; the birth of his two sons, Brion and 
Buck; his warm association with Cliffie 
Stone and the real beginning of his sing- 
ing career on Hometown Jamboree; his 
smash hit recording of "16 Tons." And, 
of course, the achievement of his lifelong 
dream — the purchase of his own ranch 
in Northern California. And riding down 
the main drag of his hometown and listen- 
ing to the proud cheers of the people, on 
the day Governor Frank Clement had 
named for him. 

JTerhaps his reverence for the "good 
past" is summed up in the old clock he 
treasures. It is just a keepsake from his 
father — who, while mending it, discov- 
ered the name Thomas Jefferson on the 
back. "I can't swear that clock belonged 
to him," says Ernie, "but, to me, it stands 
for things we mustn't ever let go of. May- 
be we're only a hoot and holler from other 
planets, but there's nothing we can export 
from the good old earth that's worth more 
than the Declaration of Independence and 
the Bill of Rights — except, of course, for 
the Bible." 

Ernie is all for "personal responsibility" 
and feels that too many people today 
blame everything but themselves for the 
troubles they bear. Then there are the 
people who, he says, "are like fleas on a 
chicken. While fleas have a right to live, 
too, I suppose, I just can't admire them 
the way I do chickens. Chickens peck 
and scratch for a living, if they have to, 
but fleas just hang on to the chickens and 
say, 'I'll live off them.' 

"Betty and I try to teach our boys the 
value of personal responsibility. An in- 
surance man, a real nice fellow, told me 
something I never forgot. He said, 'Don't 
buy liixuries for your children. Buy 
enough to give them some security and 
some of the decent things of life. But 
stop at the point where they would quit 
working for themselves and try to get 
by, riding on daddy's gravy train.' I'll 
buy that. It's good horse sense." 

Besides his devotion to his family, Er- 
nie's loyalty to his friends and co-work- 
ers is proverbial in show business. "It 
would take a powerful long day to reel 
off the names of all the wonderful men 
and women who encouraged me, helped 
me over the rough spots and kept pointing 
my nose in a forward direction. There 
are some whose names wouldn't mean a 
thing to the public . . . like Mr. Hughes, 
the grocer I once worked for in Bristol, 
or my teachers, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hayes 
and Mrs. Schroetter. 

"I couldn't begin to tell all the help I got. 
There was Loyal King, who hired me as 
a deejay at KXLA in Pasadena. There's 
Cliffie Stone, who gave me my crack at 
the big time and who is still my dear 
friend and manager. There's Merle 
Travis, who wrote my biggest hit, '16 

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Tons,' and Frank Goodson, Jim Loakes. 
Ralph Edwards, who put me on his This 
Is Your Life. Mickey Freeman, my press 
agent; Milt Hoffman, Bud Yorkin, Bill and 
Wynn Thomas, and Gene Cooper, who 
manages my ranch. And so many more 
... so many more. Many are members of 
my 'television family,' and some have 
staked their futtires on my success. I 
feel very hiimble when I think of all 

When Ernie talks about his "television 
family," he not only means the people 
who work with him in producing one of 
NBC-TV's top shows. He is also includ- 
ing the "fifty-four million eyeballs" that 
take him into their homes every week and 
"treat me better'n a 99-year-old uncle 
with a million in his jeans." He speaks 
with a touch of pride about a fan letter 
from a coal miner who wrote, "I bet you're 
a man that knows what's right and does 
it." Show folks are only human, he points 
out, and they've got faults along with 
talent and virtues. "But I can't get away 
from the notion that I owe a decent life 
to the decent folks out there in television 
land, just as much as I owe it to myself." 

It is between this vast "family" outside 
his home and the small intimate flesh- 
and- blood family within that Ernie Ford 
will eventually have to choose. He sounds 
utterly sincere when he insists: "My first 
and foremost duty is to my wife and sons. 
Show business is like a fire. It can warm 
you and cook your food and light your 
house. But, if it gets out of hand, it can 
consume you. And I don't intend to let 
it do that to me. Once I have to leave 
off seeing my folks regularly or skimp on 
the time I give my wife and boys, that's 
the time I kiss show business goodbye." 

"But," Ernie is quick to add, "because I 
like to spend a lot of time on the ranch 
or out in the field hunting or fishing, that 
doesn't mean I'm for loafing as a profes- 
sion in life. I'd simply switch working 
on stage for working on the ranch. I 
been hearing about this so-called 'beat 
generation' — beatniks, they call them- 
selves. They claim everything is so mixed 
up and bad that they don't want anything 
to do with the world and they'll just sit 
the dance out cind grow whiskers. Well, 
maybe it's true that, if you stay out of the 
hurly-burly, you don't get your hands 
dirty. But I reckon life must be mighty 
puny for these beatniks. 

"Keeping aloof from life is like paying 
fifty bucks for a seat to the World Series 
and not caring a dam who wins. To be 
beat is as bad as to be dead. And I'm 
sure the good Lord has no use for dead- 
beats. It reminds me of the farmer 
walkin' behind his mule, plowing. Fel- 
low drives up in a tractor and says, 'How 
about trying this? It's better.' But this 
farmer shakes his head and says, 'My 
grandaddy walked behind his mule, and 
my daddy, and that's how I'm agonna do.' 
Well, sir, all I have to say is, people like 
that have got a mighty restricted view 
of the world." 

Ernie Ford was bom in Bristol, which 
is smack-dab on the line between Vir- 
ginia and Tennessee. It was sheer acci- 
dent that his folks settled on the Tennes- 
see side and that, as a result, he has come 
to be known as "Virginia's greatest loss 
since Appomattox." But, for all the 
praise, money and affection rolling in 
from his ocean of fans, Ernie remains a 
modest and gentle person. He beUeves 
no one is indispensable and everyone has 
his limitations. 

"I was six miles up the road in the 
direction of the Metropolitan Opera 
House," he likes to relate, "when my 
daddy caught up with me and said, 'Son, 
nothing in this world comes easy.' I took a 
long hard look at myself. Was I as good as 
my friends thought? Did I have the voice 
for opera? Could I sweat out the years 
it would take studying, learning languages 
and parts? Where would I get the money? 
And then there were other ideas pulling 
at me. I wanted to help my folks, get 
married and have a family. I wanted to 
own my farm. After a struggle, I made 
my peace with the facts. I compromised. 
I gave up studying for the opera, but I 
didn't give up singing. I walked down 
the middle of the road, you might say. 
And I've never looked back with regret. 
No ghost is haimting me." 

It may well be that no ghost is chasing 
Tennessee Ernie Ford from behind. But 
there certainly is one waiting for him at 
the crossroads, perhaps only a short way 
ahead. Will the pressure of his show, 
guest appearances, and his own produc- 
tion company force him to that ultimate 
painful decision, retirement to his farm 
and family — or to the sacrifice of those 
he loves most to the clcimor and glamour 
of his career? 

Or will he, as in the case of his study- 
ing for the opera, choose the broad middle 
road of compromise? In the words and 
actions that make up the personality of 
the man may perhaps be fovmd a clue to 
what the peapickin'-est peapicker of 
them all will do. One thing is sure. If 
the "Ck>od Lord's willin' and the creek 
don't rise," Tennessee Ernest Jennings 
Ford's decision will be as decent, sensible 
and wise as his public knows Ernie him- 
self to be. 

Highland Fling 




(Continued from page 39) 
old enough to have a daughter, let alone 
one of college age. "How old is she?" 

"Eighteen months," Shirley grinned. 

"You win," he sighed. "I'U knock off 
another twenty-five dollars." 

And so Shirley got her couch for half 
the retail price. 

This was not an isolated case. Shirley is 
known among her friends as the biggest 
bargain-himter and the most careful girl 
in town, when it comes to spending a 
dollar. She is undoubtedly the only actress 
who can claim, "My business manager has 
never put me on a budget, because he says 
I never spend any money, anyway." 

This may be a little exaggerated, but 
not much. And Shirley's attitude is 
neither of recent origin nor bom out of 
necessity during her struggling days in 
New York City — although it proved a big 
advantage then. "I guess I simply inherited 
my Scotch streak from my ancestors. But, 
then, what else would you expect from 
someone with the name of MacLaine?" 

When she was stiU living in Richmond, 
Virginia, where Shirley's father was in the 
real-estate business, her mother used to 
give her a quarter every Saturday after- 
noon to take her younger brother Warren 
to the movies. Tickets were eleven cents 
each which left Shirley three cents' change 
to be spent as she pleased. 

Only she wouldn't spend it. 

"I was putting it aside for an emer- 
gency," she recalls. It took her nine months 
to save up a dollar with which to open 
a savings account — but, on the way to 
the bank, she remembered that the follow- 
ing Sunday was her mother's birthday, 
and invested it in a present instead. In 

fact, while Shirley still has no difficulty 
talking herself out of expenditures, she 
could never resist spending on others. 

At twelve — ^now living in Arlington, 
Virginia, where she attended Washington 
and Lee High School — she was adding to 
her fifty-cents-a-week allowance by baby- 
sitting for neighbors at twenty-five cents 
an hour. When asked what she did with 
the money, she insists, "I still have it!" 

Ohirley moved to New York when she 
was barely sixteen, determined to crash 
into a Broadway musical in record time. 
She did. However — before she was signed 
for the chorus line in a revival of Rodgers 
and Hammerstein's "Oklahoma!" — her 
funds had grown so low that she had to 
watch carefully every dime she spent . . . 
which she did with ease, grace, success 
and, most important, thorough enjoyment! 

Her chief accomplishment was the ten- 
cent hot-weather lunch she acquired at an 
Automat. She would select a ten-cent 
peanut-butter sandwich, get a glass of 
ice water, take it to the beverage counter 
and demand several slices of lemon (the 
counter girls thought she was having iced 
tea), squeeze the lemons into the water 
and add sugar — which, of course, was 
available for free. 

By the time she moved to California with 
a well-paying seven-year contract in her 
purse, Shirley could have afforded to rent 
a lovely house with pool, in Beverly Hills 
or Bel Air. Instead, she talked her new 
husband, Steve Parker, into a one-bed- 
room beach apartment in Malibu, almost 
thirty miles from the studio. When their 
baby, Stephanie, was bom in the fall of 
1956, the place became too small and they 

"graduated" to a larger house, also in 
Malibu. But, with Shirley becoming more 
and more conscious of the time it took 
driving to town and the mounting gasoline 
bills, she decided to find something closer 
to home base. 

And so the Parkers rented an attractive 
but modest home in North Hollywood, 
with a beautiful view across the San 
Fernando Valley. That it was located just 
above a burlesque house didn't bother 
Shirley in the least. When asked whether 
she wouldn't feel uneasy if, let's say, some 
of the top brass from NBC were to visit her 
and she'd have to instruct them to tvu-n 
off at the burlesque house, Shirley laughed, 
"Why should I? They'd probably enjoy 
stopping there for . . . well, whatever men 
stop at burlesque houses for." 

WhUe delighted with the view and the 
general layout of the two-story house, 
Shirley completely overlooked the fact 
that a large yard like hers requires a 
good deal of care. 

It took her two hours to weed a twentj'- 
by-twenty ivy patch, the first Sunday 
morning, and five days to straighten out 
again without cries of pain. Did she finally 
quit and take a gardener? "Of course not," 
Shirley exclaims. "I just let it go. And 
you know something? I love overgrown 
places!" She believes it, too. Amazing what 
willpower can do. 

El very once in a while, Shirley's love for 
the dollar gets her into a bit of trouble. 
Like the afternoon in New York when the 
producer of her very successful Broadway 
show handed her a hundred-dollar gift 
certificate for Saks Fifth Avenue, figuring 
the time had come for Shirley to buy a 

new dress, since she hadn't spent a dime 
on her wardrobe the previous twelve 

The next evening, he anxiously waited 
for her to arrive in a chic new outfit. His 
disappointment, when she showed up in 
the same well-known, well-worn dress, 
was somewhat eased by the conviction that 
she'd get a new dress the following day. 
He might have been waiting in vain for 
the run of the show, if he hadn't finally 
asked her what she did with the gift 

"Cashed it in," Shirley informed him 

"Cashed it in for what?" he burst out. 
"For cash . . . what else?" 
Not that Shirley refuses to spend any 
money on her wardrobe. She does, when 
absolutely essential — and after making 
sure she gets the biggest available bar- 
gain. Sometimes her bargain hunts bring 
about the most unexpected results. That 
happened a couple of years ago, when she 
heard of a fashionable store in Beverly 
Hills advertising a sale. 

As usual, she was one of the first cus- 
tomers to crash through the door and, ten 
minutes later, rescued a loosely hanging 
black chiffon dress from an equally deter- 
mined customer. "What's wrong with it?" 
Shirley asked the salesgirl, suspicious be- 
cause the price had been cut almost fifty 
peicent. "You wouldn't want it," the girl 
explained. "The belt is missing." 

"For this price — who cares?" Shirley re- 
torted As a result, she was the first Holly- 
wood star to appear in what later became 
high fashion — a sack dress. 

As fate would have it, Shirley married a 
man with just the opposite attitude to- 
ward expenditures. Steve loves expensive, 
well-tailored clothes, custom-made fur- 
niture — in fact, most things that cost 
money. The effect this has on his wife can 
be easily imagined. But he's learned his 
lesson . . . 

Last spring, he decided they should get 
some hand-made Korean furniture. An- 
ticipating Shirley's reaction, he took the 
easy way out. He had it sent to the house 
the day after he left for Japan! And, just 
to make sure she couldn't refuse the biiffet 
and portable bar he had ordered, it was 
delivered while Shirley was out for limch 
with a friend who had conspired on the 
plan with Steve. 

When Shirley came back and saw the 
pieces in the living room, she cried out, 
"Oh, the price it must have cost!" A couple 
of weeks later, she had grown so fond of 
it no one could have got it away from her 

Nobody, but absolutely nobody, has ever 
put anything over on Shirley, outside her 
private life, although a good number of 
people have tried. Take the cab driver who 
drove her to the Majestic Theater in New 
York, while she appeared in "The Pajama 
Game." When he stopped in front of the 
theater during the busiest hour of the day, 
he pulled the age-old trick of not finding 
the right change — while other drivers an- 
grily and impatiently honked their horns 

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behind him. Speculatively, he looked at 
Shirley. "I don't know what I can do, 
lady . . ." 

"I do," she replied. "You can go out and 
get some change." 

"But we are holding up traffic," he 

"Not we. You are." And she wouldn't 
budge till he suddenly found some extra 
change in the pocket, and gave it to her. 

That Shirley is imafraid to speak up 
on money matters was even more evident 
to the owner of a pet shop, which Shirley 
had visited to get a cage for her cat, who 
had to be taken to a veterinarian twice a 
week. He showed her several models, from 
the most expensive to his cheapest cage. 
They were all "too high," for Shirley. 

""Too bad the cat won't fit into a ham- 
ster cage," he told her kiddingly. "I could 
let you have that for two-fifty." 

One look convinced Shirley it was big 
enough, but she still balked at the price. 
"How much will you take off if you take 
out the little wheel?" 

"Fifty cents," he agreed. 

He'd made himself a deal. 

W hile people react to Shirley's money 
consciousness with various degrees of 
surprise and shock, most are terribly im- 
pressed by it. Like the waiter at one of 
Los Angeles's better restaurants, who has 
known Shirley and Steve since they moved 
to town. He still remembers the first time 
they walked into the restaurant. Instead 
of sitting down, Shirley demanded to see 
the menu. When he asked, "Why?" she 
replied she wanted to make sure the prices 
weren't too high, because if they were, 
they wouldn't stay, in which case there 
was no need to sit down and mess up the 

Shirley's Scottish ancestry also shows 
through in her travels. One winter week- 
end, she and Steve decided to drive into 
the San Bernardino Mountains. It was 
just getting dark when they reached the 
resort, but still light enough to decipher 
a motel sign announcing "Cabins — $3 a 

"It's too cheap," Steve decided. "There's 
something wrong with it." The next place 
charged fifteen dollars, which prompted 
Shirley to talk Steve into driving back to 
the previous motel. After they had paid 
the bill in advance, a boy showed them to 
the cabin. It didn't take them long to find 
out the hitch. No plumbing. With the tem- 
perature hovering close to zero, this was 
nothing to look forward to. They decided 
to write off the three dollars as a total 
loss, and splurge on the more expensive 
cabin instead. By the time they got there, 
it was rented. They finally had no choice 
but to live primitively that night. . . . 

Probably the biggest sensation she ever 
caused happened on a recent trip to Las 
Vegas, when Shirley's penchant for saving 
money lost out temporarily to her love for 
gambling. As the little white ball crazily 
flipped around the roulette wheel, Shirley 
carried on as though her whole future de- 
pended on whether or not it would land 
on red. 

When it did, she let out a warwhoop that 
brought half the casino to her side. "I 
won. I won. I won," she cried out. 

"How much?" an impressed bystander 

"One dollar," Shirley exclaimed, de- 

He didn't believe her tUl she collected 
her one white chip. "Tell me," he asked, 
"just what you are going to do with all 
the money you save?" 

"Who knows?" Shirley shrugged. "Some- 
day I may want to buy NBC. Or maybe 
Paramount. Or maybe both. . . ." 

At the rate she is going, that day may 
not be far off. 


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Music to Watch a Mystery By 

{Continued from page 30) 
wife, his son, his twin daughters, and it is 
given equal devotion. His dedication was 
accomplished in an unorthodox fashion. 
Cleveland-born, Hank was still an infant 
when his family moved to West Aliquippa, 
Pennsylvania. Like so many Italians, the 
Mancinis were musical. Father Mancini — 
named Quinto because he was his mother's 
fifth child — was resolved that Henry should 
have a musical education. Beginning in- 
strument should be, he decided, the flute. 
He himself would instruct the boy as soon 
as time permitted. 

The permission of time was granted in 
an unexpected way: Mumps! "Into bed 
with you," the doctor told Quinto, "and 
there you stay until I give permission for 
you to get up." Quinto Mancini took to 
his bed, but inactivity annoyed him. Al- 
ways a vital man, he felt that there must 
be something he could do to improve his 
time. At that point, his eye fell on Hank. 
"Bring the piccolo and come sit beside 
me," he said. 

As Hank remembers it, "It was novel 
for the first hour. After that, it was pure 
drudgery. I decided, right then, to become 
a writer instead of a musician." 

The decision was reinforced a few days 
later when Hank came down with mumps. 

Yet father Mancini was adamant. He 
saw to it that Hank practiced every day. 
(Hank doesn't remember whether the 
neighbors reacted negatively or not. "We 
lived in the Italian section of town, so 
there was always an opera blaring away 
on a phonograph or the radio. I suppose 
one small piccolo wasn't noticed much.") 

When Hank was ten, he was turned 
over to a piano teacher. He foiuid that 
instrument more to his liking. For one 
thing, the bass could be handled to give 
vent to rebellion. However, as time went 
by and his proficiency increased, Hank 
found that there were drawbacks involved 
even in an instrument capable of crashing 
chords. He proved to be good enough — 
talented with a beat — to impress his con- 
temporaries: Wherever he went, he Was 
asked to play piano while the other young- 
sters danced or merely sat and listened. 
The only time he could get away from the 
piano was when he marched with the 
school band. Then he played i^ute. 

1 here were compensations. He joined a 
dance band and was paid sixty cents for 
his first evening's work. In the depths of 
the Depression, sixty cents was no trifling 
sum; it would buy two pounds of ham- 
burger, two dozen eggs, many miles of 
spaghetti, six malted milks. 

As times grew somewhat better, Hank 
often took in as much as two dollars for a 
night of piano-playing. That was impor- 
tant money, and father Mancini told his 
son, "You see? Like I tell you, stick to 
music and you will be happy and rich, too." 
Hank nodded. He had discovered jazz, 
and that had changed his attitude — up to 
a point. He was still introverted enough to 
yearn for the solitary room and the lone 
dedication of the writer, but he had found 
that composing and arranging were the 
literature of music and also required an 
"ivory tower." His scripts began to emerge 
in notes and bars, instead of words and 

He attended Carnegie Tech's School of 
Music, then Juilliard in New York. Then 
he was drafted. Having heard of the Armed 
Services' management of manpower. Hank 
T confidently expected to find himself in an 
* underwater demolition unit, where at least 
R he could learn to swim. The Personnel De- 
partment surpassed itself. It assigned Hank 
to an Army Band unit. 

He thought that his high-school band 
days had taught him all he needed to know 
about marching in heat, cold, rain, snow, 
and heavy traffic, but the Army provided 
a surprise: Marching over open fields, 
some plowed, some rock-strewn and punc- 
tuated by stubble or roots from harvested 
trees — and all frozen solid. 

Men who had come into the unit, loving 
martial music, tried to get out, cursing 
Sousa; tried to transfer to the infantry, 
where a foot soldier could carry a rifle in- 
stead of a bassoon. But practically nobody 
made it. 

In adversity, musicians do what they 
can to help one another. One of the worst 
military tests was standing Retreat in a 
driving blizzard — gloveless, so as to be able 
to play a brass instrument. Hank had an 
idea. Just before reporting on the parade 
grounds, he poured a little water into the 
valves of the brass instruments. They 
froze before Retreat could be sounded. 
Bandsmen, gesturing helplessly at their 
instruments when the conductor lifted his 
baton, were able to pull on gloves and 
listen to a few wild, sweet notes sounded 
on the Mancini flute — which couldn't be 
frozen without awakening official sus- 

Hank's unit wound up in the European 
Theater of Operations. After the war, he 
spent his weekend-pass time scouting small 
cafes in search of music indigenous to the 
region. On one occasion, he was briefly 
stumped by a melody that was familiar, 
yet elusive. He listened more closely for 
several seconds before he had to choke 
back laughter. The "indigenous" folk song 
was "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" played with 
a "Frere Jacques" beat! 

"I found," he reports, "that much of the 
European music played in the cafes had 
been borrowed from the U. S. — our only 
export, you might say, which has been ac- 
cepted everywhere with whole-hearted 
enthusiasm. A lot of it was Glenn Miller 
music as heard over the American Forces 
Network and arranged to satisfy local 
tastes. It seemed to me that European 
music was over-romanticized, over-senti- 
mentalized. The melody was the chief con- 
sideration, not the beat or the mood, and 
the inclination seemed to be to hark back 
to the sound patterns of the past." 

Jjack in the U.S., Hank joined the Glenn 
Miller band as reorganized by Tex Beneke. 
Singing with the Beneke aggregation was 
a young lass who caught Hank's eye — Gin- 
ny O 'Conner. Hank remembered that a 
good many Italian boys had married Irish 
girls with complete success — and was pon- 
dering a discussion of this fact — when 
Ginny O'Conner left for California and 

Hank resigned from the band and fol- 
lowed. "Whatcha going to do?" he was 
asked by people who believed that East 
Coast jazz was a light-year ahead of West 
Coast jazz. "Oh . . . something," he said. "I 
can always play flute in a military band." 

He and Ginny were married in Holly- 
wood and went to Las Vegas for their hon- 
eymoon. When they returned, the bride- 
groom found in the accumulated mail a 
notice from his bank to the effect that he 
was overdrawn twenty-five cents. He was 
righteously indignant and marched off to 
discuss their error with the bank. Turned 
out the bank was right. Hank squared ac- 
coimts by paying them the last quarter in 
his pocket. 

Between that moment and this. Hank 
Mancini has composed the title songs or 
soundtracks for eleven motion pictures 
which have been recorded on major la- 
bels: "Too Little Time" (the love theme 

from "The Glenn Miller Story"), "Six 
Bridges to Cross," "Foxfire," "Toy "Tiger,' 
Pretty Baby," and "Summer Love." 

He has done record arrangements for 
such top-drawer performers as Dinah 
Shore, Tony Martin, Tex Beneke, The 
Modernaires. He has written special ar- 
rangements for the club acts of such stars 
as Betty Hutton, Anna Maria Alberghetti, 
Gloria De Haven, Marilyn Maxwell, Jane 
Powell, Kathryn Grayson, Peggy Ryan 
and Ray McDonald. 

His movie scores include "The Glenn 
Miller Story," for which he received an 
Academy Award nomination, "The Benny 
Goodman Story," Orson Welles' "Touch of 
Evil," and "Damn Citizen." 

In collaboration with other composers, 
he has provided the musical soundtracks 
for another thirty-nine movies, among 
them such special-sound.-demanding yarns 
as "Francis Joins the Wacs," "It Came from 
Outer Space," "Creature from the Black 
Lagoon," "The Great Sioux Uprising." It's 
not at all amazing that a man able to con- 
jure up ear-ticklers for everything from 
barrack-rooms to Mars should be chosen 
to give sound to Peter Gunn, a series that 
ranges almost as widely in time and space 

Even before the TV program premiered 
the theme music was recorded by Ray An- 
thony for Capitol Records. This January 
the LP "Music From Peter Gunn" was re- 
leased by RCA Victor, featuring some of 
the country's most creative jazzmen: 
drummer Jack Sperling, bassist Roily 
Bundock, Pete Candoli on trumpet, Ted 
Nash on alto sax, Dick Nash and Milt 
Bernhart on trombone, Ronnie Lang on 
sax, vibist Larry Bunker and pianist 
Johnny T. Williams. 

1 his is the way the music is achieved for 
Peter Gunn: Each thirty-minute segment 
averages fifteen minutes of music. Once a 
segment is filmed. Hank and his associates 
take the film into a projection room and 
measure the time of each situation which 
demands background music to assist in 
establishing mood or to heighten drama. 
The music is then composed, recorded, and 
cut to fit the situation. 

"Each segment must be distinctive,' 
Hank contends. "You can't fall back on 
what you've done. You have to try for the 
fresh combination, the more effective in-> 
strument, the unique sound. Sometimes, youi 
sit in front of a piece of paper and you 
wonder what on earth you're going to do i 
At such times, it's helpful if you have a 
pretty good knowledge of 'source' music." 

Associates say that Hank's memory for 
source music is phenomenal. Give him four 
notes and he can call back the entire opera. 
Incidentally, the one opera he hears again 
and again is "Madame Butterfly," He saysj 
"It's the World Series of opera. I never get 
tired of it. It has everything. Besides,'' 
he says, "I'm also a sucker for the French 
impressionists — Ravel and Debussy — and I 
get a lot out of Bartok and Stravinsky." 

But, like any parent, he's having musical 
trouble with his children: They don't like 
to practice. Grandfather Mancini — who 
lives in the San Fernando Valley not far 
from his son, daughter-in-law, and three 
grandchildren — has an explanation. He 
tells Hank, "You should have started them 
on the flute, like I started you. See how 
good you turn out!" 

Every musician in Hollywood is inclined 
to agree. Peter Gunn is said to have the 
largest audience of professional musicians 
in television. Monday-night watching and 
listening is a must; something new in 
sound is almost certain to be heard. 

You'd better listen also — to the sounds 
of Hank Mancini. 




{Continued jrom page 14) 

mountains and navy. . . . Jim Mave- 
rick Garner, ex-ruglayer, won't let 
his wife have white carpeting in more 
than one room of their apartment. 
Reason why — says Jim — "because they 
get too dirty too soon." . . . Groucho 
Marx, moving into his new Palm 
'Springs home in early February, 
quips, "It's a small house — one room 
.and bath — but has a four-car garage." 
/Wednesday nights, Groucho can usu- 
ally be found as a guest in NBC Pub- 
licity Director Ralph Shawhan's of- 
^fice, watching the fights. Knew Groucho 
'was interested in medicine, but never 
knew he was that interested. Next 
summer, Groucho goes to San Fran- 
cisco to do "Time for Elizabeth," the 
jiplay he co-authored with Norman 
.Krasna. . . . Efrem Zimbalist's wife 
nStephanie (see story on Zim, this 
"issue) is studying acting with Jeff 
'Cory. . . . Edd Byrnes went home to 
Brooklyn for New Year's — and missed 
lAsa Maynor, all the while. 

Andra Martin and hubby Ty Har- 
Jiin appeared in a Cheyenne together 
l( — she as the love interest (but in love 

One whom RCA Victor's Mannle Sacks 
Doos+ed — "troubadour" Jerry Lewis. 

Proud they "also ran" on Sacks' 
booster shots- — Sinatra, Dinah Shore. 

with another character). After the 
shooting, Ty said he wasn't sure he 
wanted his wife to be an actress. . . . 
After his recent appearance on the 
Jerry Lewis Show, Harry James gave 
Jerry a gold trumpet copied after his 
own — with little gold locks on all the 
valves? . . . Bob Hope quipped that, 
a hundred years ago, all of our an- 
cestors were crossing the country by 
v/agon train, today they are home 
watching it. . . . Favorite fan: Will 
Hutchins' mother hand-colored every 
one of the pictures in this month's fan 
journal, which Will sends to his thou- 
sands of friends. . . . You've got to be 
taught: George Fenneman and his 
family are off to snowy Yosemite for 
skiing. His children — Cliff, 14; Bev- 
erly, 11; and Georgia, 9 — all learned 
to ski as soon as they could stand. 
George says they all want to be en- 
tertainers, so he's preparing them for 
their slippery life ahead. ... Derby 
Day: Gene Bat Master son Barry, is 
bringing out a line of ladies' derbies 
for next season, inspired by his own 
dapper chapeau. Anyone for Epsom 

The heart of Hollywood: Many of 
Hollywood's singing stars were dis- 
covered or encouraged by one man, 
the late Mannie Sacks of RCA rec- 
ords. Among those he helped along 
were Dinah Shore, Perry Como, 
Frank Sinatra, Eddie Fisher and 
Jerry Lewis. This gang, with many 
others, will appear the first week of 
March on an NBC spec titled, "Man- 
nie's Friends." The proceeds from this, 
probably the greatest show of its kind 
ever to be seen, will be given over to 
the Albert Einstein Foundation for 
Cancer Research in Philly — and that's 
the Heart of Hollywood. 

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76 * ' 

Adventures of Zimbalist 

(Continued from page 45) 
as errand boy and mail-room functionary. 

The telephone rang one morning and — 
because there was no one else around — 
the green but eager Zim answered. 

"Who is this?" demanded the voice at 
the other end of the wire. 

"Efrem Zimbalist, sir." 

Came the prompt answer: "Okay, kid, 
this is Toscanini. Get up here and sharpen 
some pencils." 

The lad who had studied violin for seven 
years with the father of Jascha Heifetz, 
before concluding that the violin was not 
for him, hot-footed upstairs and sharp- 
ened pencils. 

General rebellion against established 
order did not set in until that fall, when 
Zim entered Yale. Until that time, he had 
lived under an extremely rigid discipline; 
his prep school had been a no-nonsense 
institution, and his simmiers had been de- 
voted to musical cultivation. 

In college, the seventeen-year-old found 
that he had become his own disciplinarian. 
Courses of study were optional; hours of 
study were left to the discretion of the 
student; even non-attendance at classes 
was permitted up to a certain point. Zim 
took advantage of every established loop- 
hole and manufactured a few that im- 
pressed certain of his classmates in search 
of escape. 

Other escapees may have wasted their 
truant time, but Zim simply converted it 
to his own unique uses. He read volumes 
of plays; he spent enough hours on the 
tennis courts to advance himself to near- 
pro standing; he took tubes, brushes and 
canvas and established himself on a hill- 
side to record New England fall and New 
England spring. Unfortunately, an appre- 
ciation of do-it-yourself education had not 
penetrated faculty thinking. Zim was sus- 

When he returned for his second year, 
he found first-year practices natural and 
comfortable. There came a day when he 
realized that he had exceeded allowable 
class cuts and must resort to the infirm- 
ary for an excuse. The doctor stepped to 
his files, then pinned Zim with a glance. 
"I find here," he said, "that you reported 
to my office forty times last year for ail- 
ments ranging from a headache to acute 
appendicitis. Get out of here, and don't 
come hack." 

Inevitably, Zim was again suspended for 
non-attendance of classes. 

"I was afraid to go home," he says now- 
adays, with a reminiscent grin, "so I got 
a job in New York as a pageboy for 
NBC. Salary, fifteen dollars per week. I 
found a room for four dollars a week, and 
a restaurant where I could eat for a dol- 
lar a day, so I lived very well. I was in 
fine company; three of my fellow pages 
were Gregory Peck, Gordon MacRae and 
Thomas Merton, who wrote 'The Seven 
Storey Mountain.' " Between paging chores, 
Zim studied at the Neighborhood Play- 
house, along with fellow employee Peck 
and another talented youngster named Eli 

During his patrol of the NBC corridors, 
Zim was noticed by casting directors. One 
tabbed him for an acting part in Renfrew 
Of The Mounted (on radio) and Zim 
quickly accepted. A day or so later, he 
learned that company rules forbade an 
employee to appear on a show. Zim 
promptly resigned his page job — but not 
in time to get the Renfrew job. 

Instead, he became a part of the crowd 
noises used in Du Pont's Cavalcade Of 
America. "On cue, I muttered. I had a 
good, deep voice, so I saved the pro- 

ducers money. I sounded like several guys 
when I muttered such things as 'What's 
going on here?' or 'The man's right!' or 
'Who wants war?' " That latter query was 
stUl floating in the air, as originally broad- 
cast, when Zim was inducted and sent to 
South Carolina. 

Eventually, as infantrymen wUl, he 
found himself in the Hertgen Forest, which 
was part of the Siegfried Line. Orders 
came down from battalion headquarters 
for the men to dig in for the night. Mov- 
ing around for a presumably better spot 
was strictly forbidden because, according 
to Intelligence, the entire area was mined. 
Lt. Zimbalist transmitted the orders to his 
platoon leaders, who snapped to. Lt. Zim- 
balist returned the salute and stepped 
backward one pace. The night split wide 
open as a mine exploded, spinning the 
lieutenant like a Fourth of July pinwheel. 

Zim regained his feet, brushing himself off 
and laughing like a banshee. The whole 
business struck him as being typical of a 
comedy war scene: the sense of deadly 
peril, the crisp orders, the well-trained 
troops— and the brisk lieutenant, blowing 
up the works. 

He was still laughing when he noticed 
that the hand with which he had been 
brushing off the leaves and dust was also 
wet with blood. "I'll walk back to the aid 
station with you," he told a fellow casual- 
ty. (The fellow casualty had been struck 
on the elbow by a bazooka shell. The 
elbow was badly bruised. The shell had 
failed to detonate.) 

The lieutenant had to have help to reach 
the aid station. From there, he was shipped 
to a base hospital in England where his leg 
was patched up. (One piece of shrapnel 
was not removed imtil several years later, 
when Zim decided that he could no longer 
endure the sensation that he was wearing 
an ice cube just above his knee, winter 
and simimer.) 

Once Zim was able to walk around the' 
hospital corridors in London, he begged 
to be returned to his unit. The best deal 
he could extract was a desk job in Paris. ^ 
At first, he was fairly bitter about it, as J" 
he was bitter about the fact that the war ^ 
appeared to have taken six highly im- jj' 
portant years out of his life. Yet it was '" 
in Paris that he met director Josh Logan — J' 
a meeting which was to have a profound J 
influence on his career aiter the war. "5 

It was also in Paris that Zim met the ',, 
noted playwright, Garson Kanin. And it '"' 
was Kanin who got him his first Broad-' .' 
way role, a few weeks after Zim re4 |, ' 
turned to New York and civilian life, iii "' 
1946. The play was Sherwood's "The '.^ 
Rugged Path," starring Spencer Tracy ^; 
There followed a number of roles with' " 
the American Repertory Theater and "on ,' 
the road." Then, in association with i"' 
Chandler Cowles, Zim co-produced Gian-j 
Carlo Menotti's "The Medium" and "Th^ 
Telephone," and later "The Consul." Thcj 
latter won the Critics Award and the 
Pulitzer Prize of 1950. j "^ 

But, in the midst of triumph, Zim suf- \^f 
fered a crushing tragedy. His wife of ter ^^ 
years, mother of his son and daughter ^ 
died suddenly. Unable to endure manu- 
factured drama in the depths of his per- 
sonal misery, he gave up the theater anc 
joined his father at the Curtis Institute ^^ 
of Music. He remained there four years i^r 
studying, composing and teaching. |j, 

Occasionally, he made a trip to Con- ^' 

necticut to visit his mother's grave and tc ^ ; 

ponder the epigram engraved on it ir ^' 

timeless granite: "From all my masters . 

have learned." Gradually, it came to hin ' 



flthat he, too, had learned from all his mas- 
ters, even from that most pitiless of all 
tyrants, grief. What he had learned, he 
felt, could be put to use — not only for him- 
self, but for others — by his return to the 
profession for which he was best equipped. 
He joined a stock company for a sum- 
mer in New Jersey, then was given the 
lead in a daytime TV series. Concerning 
Miss Marlowe, starring Louise Allbritton. 
A short time later. Josh Logan learned 
that Warner Bros, was looking for a lead- 
ing man to play opposite Natalie Wood in 
"Bombers B-52." Mr. Logan recommended 
his wartime Paris friend for the job. Zim 
came to Hollywood. He starred in "Bomb- 
ers B-52," and followed that with a part 
in "Band of Angels," which starred an- 
other war veteran, Clark Gable. 

The road was open again. 

In 1956, Zim married Stephanie Spald- 
ing and, late in 1957, Stephanie Jr. was 
born. Currently Zim, Stephanie, Stephanie 
Jr., Nancy (now fourteen) and Efrem 
III (now eleven) are living in a new 
home in Encino. Ironically, Zim has little 
time to enjoy the family or the house be- 
cause he is so busy with the TV 77 Sun- 
set Strip and such motion pictures as 
"Home Before Dark." 

But there are always Sundays, during 
which the Zimbalist house is filled with 
the wit, talent and beauty of an era, so 
the young Zimbalists are growing up 
amid all the advantages — and the anec- 
dotal material — which have made their 
father one of the most-worth-knowing 
gentlemen in a fascinating industry. 

Man of Many Faces 

{Continued from page 25) 
what he will do on the show. I'm con- 
centrating on my songs, or planning the 
clothes I will need for the show, or just 
thinking about the children. While we're 
in town, it's all work. Coming home, we're 
still concentrating on our problems. But, 
when we get back into the house, I say, 

' 'Hello, dear, how are you today?' Then 
we're domestic." 
Peter grins broadly. "This power of con- 

j centra tion sometimes gets a little out of 

'hand. Last Sunday, Mary was dressed for 
church first and went to the garage to 
get the car. Mike, Cathy and I came out 
on the porch — and Mary drove right by 
us. She went three blocks before she 
realized she had left us behind. Mary 

^explains, "Well, I'm so used to having 
Peter with me in concentrated silence that 
I didn't really miss him!" 


11 he Hayeses live in New Rochelle, about 
thirty minutes out of Manhattan, with 
jjjjjtheir children Peter Michael, who is nine, 
jj^and Cathy, seven. Peter says, "It's not a 
.jjjPretentious house. It can laughingly be 
referred to as a ten-room English Tudor, 
■but two of the rooms are so small you 
can't lie down in them. Then we have 
two small maid's rooms, with one maid. 
But the house is the right size for us. If 
"^jwe ever lost our help, we could take care 
"^of it by ourselves. Actually, we're not 
trying to prove anything, so we don't need 
a larger house. And it's more than coin- 
cidence that we wound up living in New 

"Mike is going to the same school Peter 
did," Mary points out. "Of course, Mike 
is going there for a different reason." 

"My father died when I was two," says 

/Peter. "I was born and raised in Illinois 

by my mother and grandmother. Then 

^Mother made a killing when she was in 

''■''the movie, 'King of Jazz,' and bought a 

oeautiful house in southern California for 

Jis. But, one day, she said she was fed 

ap with my Midwestern accent. She 

Drought me East and put me in lona, an 

irish-Catholic school in New Rochelle. 

d- \nd if it weren't such a good school, I 

tff^ouldn't have quit high school to go into 

'•.how business! I was a terrible student. 

-■''d go home at four in the afternoon, turn 

)a- m the radio and listen until' one-forty- 

antf'ive in the morning so I could hear Cab 

>alloway from the Cotton Club. 

'' "Well, back in Illinois, I had smiled my 

vay through classes with a sixty-five 

iverage. My first day in lona, I gave a 

tupid answer, turned on my Davy Crock- 

lil'f'itt grin and a Brother threw an eraser at 

ae. But, at home, I was developing im- 

•ressionistic powers, listening to radio, 

hinj'nd could do imitations of all the singers 



and comedians. I wrote an act for my 
mother and myself and the Brothers came 
to see the show at Fordham RKO Theater. 
Afterward, they told Mother that I 'be- 
longed' in the theater. Well, Mother 
couldn't afford the school any longer — so 
it was all to the good, and I quit." 

The way vaudeville worked then, book- 
ers caught the act the first day at the 
Fordham and, if it clicked, it got the 
w^hole tour. Peter's act clicked. He and 
his mother, Grace Hayes, moved into the 
famous Palace Theater on Broadway, three 
days later. "My mother was so furious 
with me," Peter recalls, "for I was just a 
fresh sixteen-year-old and not the least 
impressed with our success. She said, 
'Peter, it took me twenty years to make 
the Palace. You did it in three days and 
you aren't even nervous.' Well, a good 
professional is supposed to suffer from in- 
security, but I was just too brash and 
young to understand." 

They completed a fourteen-week tour — 
but that was in 1932, the year vaudeville 
began to die. A few years later, in 1936, 
Peter's mother hocked their cars, house 
and insurance, and leased a club in the 
valley which she named the "Grace Hayes 
Lodge." This was home for Peter until 
1940, when he married Mary. At this 
point, Mary speaks up: "Peter, I think you 
should tell the story of how you handled 
our 'triangle.' " 

"The triangle," Peter says, "was myself, 
Mary and my mother. Mother didn't take 
to Mary. I was working at the Lodge, 
which had become very popular, and it 
was natural for me to take my wife there. 
But Mother kept aloof. When the three 
of us sat down to talk, Mother always went 
to a corner as far away from Mary as she 
could get. I felt awful, of course. I wanted 
her to like Mary, so I figured out a plan. 
I told Mary to act as if she hated me and 
just to sit there in sour silence. 

"She did, and Mother got me aside and 
asked what was wrong. I said, 'Marriage 
isn't for me. You know, she washed out 
my pipes with soap and water, and now 
I find out she thinks I play too much 
goK. I think I was meant to be a bachelor.' 
Well, Mother said nothing, but Mary kept 
up the 'silent hatred' bit and, on the third 
night, my mother suddenly pointed a finger 
at me and exploded, 'Peter, you're not so 
much of a bargain yourself!' That did it. 
And, a couple of months later, I overheard 
her telling a friend, 'You know, I saved 
their marriage.' " 

"We've had a very normal marriage," 


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Mary comments. "By that, I mean we've 
had our share of problems and adjust- 
ments. In the very beginning, we were 
misrepresented to each other. I was a 
starlet at 20th Century-Fox and somehow 
— perhaps because of the publicity stills of 
me in swim suits, tennis shorts and so 
forth— Peter got the idea that I was the 
outdoors type. Well, by inclination, I'd 
rather putter around the house than a golf 
course. On the other hand, I got the im- 
pression Peter was on the quiet side, and 
it brought out the sympathetic mother in 
me. I couldn't have been more wrong! 
Peter turned ou- to be cheerful, amusing, 
and hadn't the least desire to be mothered. 
We made our adjustments. But, today, 
I think Peter needs a mother's hand more 
than ever. And he still resists." 

She explains that, once Peter gets out of 
bed in the morning, it's full speed ahead. 
"He won't take care of himself. I'm always 
after him to take a rest. I say, 'Take off 
your shoes. Lie down for a spell.' He 
won't. I can't even get him to dress prop- 
erly. On cold days, he doesn't wear 
enough. And I've seen him on a warm 
day in a sweater and coat. Everyone is 
sweating, but not Peter. 

"He just ignores ordinai-y things. He 
had a cold and temperature for an entire 
week, when the TV show first started, but 
he didn't pay any attention to it. He's got 
a mind of his own and knows what has to 
be done. Yet he will throw himself com- 
pletely oflE schedule to talk to a stranger. 
We'll be getting out of a cab to keep an 
appointment and, if someone walks up to 
him and says, 'I knew your mother 
when — ' he'll stand there and talk until 
the moon comes up." 

Peter has a mind of his own where his 
family is concerned, and this led him to a 
decision that surprised show business. 
After eleven years of working with Mary 
and being billed as "Peter Lind Hayes 
and Mary Healy," his current television 
show is called simply The Peter Lind Hayes 
Show. He explains, "In our early years, 
Mary and I worked separately and so our 
marriage was threatened. We were always 
half-a-continent apart. I didn't want Mary 
to give up her career, and I didn't want 
to give up Mary. So, eleven years ago, I 
wrote an act for us as a team. Since then, 
we've always worked together. I wouldn't 
let the business break up our home. When 
the children were younger, they traveled 
with us. Now that they are in school, we 
make out-of-town dates only during 
school vacations. 

"Even so, the work has sometimes been 
a strain on Mary. Twice we had to call 
on grandmothers to take care of Mike 
and Cathy because they were too ill to 
travel. Mary wanted to stay home with 
them but couldn't, because the contract 
called for both of us. Then there were 
times when she didn't feel like working 
but couldn't get out of it. Now she is 
on a day-to-day contract. There is no 
pressure on her." 

"So far this season," Mary says, "my 

working hasn't interfered with my chores j 
as a mother. The children are in school ' 
until four and I'm always home for dinner 
— earlier, if they have a date with the 
dentist or something. Peter is always home 
for dinner and the children eat with us. 
They understand that this is a privilege 
and they must conduct themselves as 
young adults. Actually, Peter is the only 
one who doesn't obey my dinner rules. 
He still gets up to answer the phone, and 
I still don't understand why any business 
matter can't wait twenty or even thirty 

Mary doesn't depend on Peter for help 
around the house. "He isn't very good at 
it. Once I asked him to hang a picture 
and, when I came back, he had a hole in 
the wall the size of a grapefruit. I know 
that, if I ask him to bring up some wood 
for the fireplace, he'll cart up enough for 
a month, which I don't need." 

Except for Sunday afternoons, when 
Peter may play golf, weekends are spent 
with the children. Saturday, Peter may 
take Mike and Cathy fishing. Sunday 
morning, they all go to church. Peter 
says, "The children are different types. 
Cathy says she wants to be a ballerina 
and a mother. She is good at creative 
things — dancing, singing, painting. 

"Mike, on the other hand, is a gimmick- 
nut, same as I am. But, at nine, he already 
knows twice as much about astronomy 
and electronics as I ever intend to know. 
The other day, there was a school holiday 
and he was in the studio. In the evening, 
I quizzed him about the show — but he 
hadn't really seen it. He was too busy 
watching the camera crew and the engi- 
neers and all of that. He's always been 
that way. The first time we put him on a 
merry-go-round, instead of riding his 
horse, he just stared at the motor." 

The pressure of five-day-a-week shows 
has forced Peter to give up many of his 
extra- cur rictilar activities. He has am- 
bitions as a writer. He has started a book 
of reminiscences titled "Hayes Seed." He 
wrote three teleplays with Robert J. Crean, 
one of which was produced on Kraft 
Theater. He has written several songs in 
collaboration with Robert Alan. Their 
"Come to Me," recorded by Johnny Math- 
is, sold a half-million copies. "This need 
to write is an earnest thing with me," 
Peter says. "I'd like to get in the position, 
within a few years, where I can afford to 
sit down and seriously try my hand at it." 

But he doesn't imply that he has any 
intention of giving up show business. He 
says, "The exciting thing about it, after 
twenty-five years, is that you're just be- 
ginning. There is always something new, 
something unexpected to challenge you. In 
the past, there have been clubs, movies, 
and the Broadway production, as well as 
radio and TV. But, of them all, I like 
television best, because there must be a 
different show every day. Oh, it's ener- 
vating, but it's exciting, too. And that's 
the thing about being in show business 
— it's never-ending." 

Doctor in the House 

(Continued from page 54) 
featured in the Sunday radio drama. The 
FBI In Peace And War, with which he 
has long been associated. He went back 
into television, on which he has played 
innumerable dramatic roles, one of the 
most recent being in the Hall Of Fame's 
"Kiss Me, Kate." He was also thinking, 
even then, about a stage play, in which 
he may be performing by the time you 
read this. Paul McGrath is one of those 
actors who believe that the more many- 

sided a performer is and the busier he 
keeps, the better off he will be artistically, 
and certainly economically. 

"To survive today and continue work- 
ing at his craft, an actor almost has to 
have that kind of versatility," he says. 
"I like radio very much and am de- 
lighted to be in it. As entertainment, I 
feel it is a great medium, and it is also 
a great medium for the actor who wants 
'to keep his hand in' — who wants to use 
his talents regularly, rather than let them 

lie fallow. There are some fine actors who 
have not been able to adapt themselves 
to it. Radio requires the fast and sure 
attack. I was lucky to adapt early. And 
I quickly learned that a part which may 
take only fifteen minutes on the air must 
be worked out in microcosm, but just as 
perfectly, as any role on the stage." 

Paul was born in Chicago, from which 
city his parents moved about six months 
later, and he grew up in a number of 
cities, principally New York. He became 
interested in acting when some of his 
school friends turned to it — but only 
mildly, because he was then enrolling at 
Pittsburgh's Carnegie Tech, stressing en- 
gineering subjects. Theater had long been 
fascinating to him — especially Shake- 
speare — but he had no intention of making 
it a career. 

Along about the second semester, he 
dropped one engineering subject for a 
drama course, and gradually drama be- 
came dominant. Some stock-company ex- 
perience finished off engineering entirely. 
At nineteen, he was making his Broadway 
debut in a play called "Made in America," 
which promptly fell apart in New York. 

Following this, there was a chance to 
join a company just completing its Broad- 
way run and going on tour. In the cast 
was a very young ingenue, a stunning 
hazel-eyed blonde from Texas, recently 
graduated from New York's American 
Academy of Dramatic Arts. Six weeks 
later, while the show was playing Denver, 
the promising young actor Paul McGrath 
and the pretty ingenue Lulu Mae Hub- 
bard were married, in nearby Boulder, 
Colorado. They chose Boulder in an effort 
at secrecy, because the older members of 
the cast were clucking their tongues and 
insisting these two were much too young 
to know their own minds. "Isn't it dread- 
ful?" they heard one woman comment. 
"Two such nice kids, but both just begin- 
ning — and they hardly know each other. 
What a chance to take!" 

That was thirty years ago, this March 
of 1959. A friend of long standing said 
of them recently, "You never think of 
one without the other. It has always been 
that way. They're always together and, 
where Paul goes, Lu follows." 

"Lu has given up her career for mine," 
her husband says, "except for doing an 
occasional play. But we wanted to remain 
together, and separate careers would cer- 
tainly have kept us apart many times." 

"I knew from the beginning that one 
must make the sacrifices," Lulu Mae adds. 
"And I knew I must be the one to do 
it. As a rule, it's the wife who should. 
The husband must be free to go ahead, 
if there has to be a choice." 

Paul comments, "The pattern has to be 
established fairly early. Typical of our 
married life have been the times when 
Lu had fine opportunities and gave them 
up for me. She went into 'Kiss and Tell,' 
which turned out to be an enormous hit 
on Broadway — and then, six months later, 
I got a good offer to play Professor Frame, 
the male lead in 'Tomorrow the World,' 
in the national touring company. 'To- 
morrow' was scheduled to go as far as 
the West Coast, which would have meant 
a long separation for us. Lu left her 
show, with all its opportxmities for her, 
to go with me. It just happened that she 
got the part of the sister in my play, but 
she would have gone, anyhow." 

Lulu Mae was in "A Girl Can Tell," 
and "Goodbye, My Fancy," among other 
plays. Paul now has a long list of stage 
successes. Even as a very young actor, 
he seemed to get into very good plays 
with top names — Helen Hayes, in "The 
Good Fairy"; Ruth Gordon, in "Here To- 
day"; Frances Starr, in "Lady Jane"; Ina 
Claire in "Ode to Liberty"; George M. 

Cohan, in "Pigeons and People"; Dorothy 
Stickney in "Small Hours." He moved into 
Osgood Perkins' role in "Susan and God," 
opposite Gertrude Lawrence, when Per- 
kins died suddenly during the play's 
Washington, D. C, run. Later he ap- 
peared again with Miss Lawrence in 
"Lady in the Dark." When he was play- 
ing "Command Decision," in New York, 
he was also doing two radio shows, the 
second of which was off the air at exactly 
8:30. At 8:40, he was due at the Fulton 
Theater for his role of General Garnett, 
racing by taxi through the gutted mid- 
town traffic, wearing his general's uni- 
form — only minus the stars, since that 
would have made him guilty of imperson- 
ating an officer! 

Paul's advent into radio was early and 
unexpected and happened through a class- 
mate of Paul's at Carnegie Tech, Herb 
Polesie, now well known as a producer 
for such performers as Crosby and Sin- 
atra. Herb called him one day and asked, 
"What about radio? Would you like to 
try it?" Paul answered, "I think so — but 
how do you do it?" Herb's reply was 
brief: "You just stand up in front of a 
microphone and read from a paper." 

"I believed him," Paul says now. 'I was 
too yoting and too dimib to be scared. So 
that's how I broke in, with a part in what 
I think was the first serial on radio, a 
show caUed The Luck Of Joan Christo- 

Since then, there have been many parts 
for Paul in many radio dramas and serials. 
Frequently, he has played a doctor — a 
real-life ambition he once thought about 
seriously. Dr. Wayne in Big Sister; Dr. 
Allison in My Son Jeep; now Dr. Brent 
in Road Of Life; and some others in be- 
tween. He was The Crime Doctor for some 
time, and in This Is Nora Drake he was 
Detective Claudhill. 

His movies include "No Time for Love," 
with Claudette Colbert, and "This Thing 
Called Love," with Rosalind Russell. More 
recently, there was "A Face in the 
Crowd," in which he played Macy, the 
advertising executive. A long time ago, 
Paul made three Charlie Chan pictures, 
during one of his rare opportunities to 
take a vacation from radio and get out 
to Hollywood, and now the films keep 
popping up on television. "Nelson Case 
called one night," he laughs, "to tell us 
to look quick if we wanted to see someone 
we used to know. There I was, in one of 
those old Chan epics. It was fascinating 
to watch." 

The McGraths like to look at TV, to 
listen to radio, to read, to enjoy their 
home. For sixteen years, they have kept 
the same midtown apartment in New 
York, always coming back to it and feel- 
ing as if they had never been away. 
Now, as with many btiildings in that 
neighborhood, business is encroaching 
steadily and their building will soon be 
turned into office suites. 

"We hate to leave," Lulu Mae mourns, 
looking around the comfortable living 
room, done in soft greens, with the glow 
of two handsome ruby-glass lamps re- 
flecting the brightness of a wood fire, the 
comfortable chairs and the books and 
pictures and grand piano which seem so 
much a part of their surrotmdings. "We 
even have a real dining room here, not 
the dinette or makeshift 'dining corner' 
which some new apartments offer. But 
everything changes, and I suppose we 
must change with it." 

They have wanted to live in the coun- 
try, but that's difficult for an actor as 
busy as Paul, who sometimes scarcely 
has time for lunch between rehearsals 
and shows. "We love New York, any- 
how, with its bursting vitality. You feel 
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fell in love with London, too, but London 
is a city that has to grow on you. Unlike 
Paris and Rome, it doesn't woo you — 
you are the one who has to learn the 
secret of its quiet and relaxed ways. We 
were fortunate during our year there to 
get a fiat which had color and charm. 
Their housing shortage is as bad as ours, 
but Zachary Scott and his wife had this 
flat once and they told us about it. We 
had delightful experiences in London, 
and we loved the people." 

One experience, which they think could 
happen only in London, concerned Paul's 
passion for "collecting" performances of 
"Hamlet." He believes he must have seen 
between thirty-five and forty "Hamlets" 
since the age of twelve. So it was entirely 
fitting that he should go with a friend 
to catch a particularly fine one at the 
Old Vic — although knowing he would just 
about make his own curtain call in "Roar 
Like a Dove." 

After the show, one of the best he had 
ever seen, they ran for their bus, continu- 
ing their conversation about the play they 
had just seen while they were getting 
back their breath. Paul's friend asked, "By 
the way, you have seen so many Hamlets, 

but have you ever seen one based on the 
theory that this man was quite insane 
and the King was really a very decent 
chap?" Paul, curiously enough, had just 
read a book about it that week. "I know 
the book," his friend went on, "but who 
is the author?" Paul tried to remember, 
shook his head. "I don't know. Only that 
he was an Oxford don and an authority 
on Shakespeare." He shook his head again. 
"I just can't think of the name." 

A bus rider two seats away leaned over 
at that moment and whispered, "It's 
Dover Wilson." 

"It was extraordinary," Paul observes. 
"And I imagine it could only happen in 
a London bus. Here was this abstruse 
and certainly obscure book, and a total 
stranger knew the author's name." 

But extraordinary things are always 
happening to Paul McGrath. Like start- 
ing out to be an engineer and winding 
up as an actor. Like going into radio 
hardly knowing what it was about, and 
winding up as one of its most sought- 
after performers. Like marrying a girl he 
knew six weeks and celebrating a thirtieth 
wedding anniversary. Here is one "doctor" 
who has certainly found an effective pre- 
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Paladin Rides the Airwaves 

(Continued from page 46) 
roles on TV is reddish and inclined to curl. 
He plays piano, composes and arranges 
music (he operated three dance bands 
during his college days at the University of 
California) . 

His pictorial background deserves men- 
tion, too. John's father was a painter of 
note, and John himself studied at the 
Grand Central School of Fine Arts in New 
York. At one point in his career, he 
worked for Walt Disney as an "in-be- 
tweener." (That, according to John, "is a 
guy who draws everything that goes 'in 
between' bits of action as sketched by the 
animators. Sometimes I spent days merely 
drawing curly lines to simulate waves, or 
leaf outlines, or horizons.") 

He has also been a disc jockey and a 
radio news editor and broadcaster. He was 
sent to San Francisco to cover the first 
United Nations conclave, an assignment 
which resulted in John's winning the Pea- 
body Award for his station. Added Dehner 
experience: As a parking-lot attendant, a 
tobacco-store clerk, an auxiliary police- 
man, and a gunnery instructor. Inevitably, 
he became an actor, because acting is one 
profession which demands versatility above 
all other characteristics. 

John was born on Staten Island, in New 
York Harbor, second of three children of 
an artist father and a singularly patient 
mother. John was eight when the family 
moved to Oslo, Norway, where the senior 
Dehner was commissioned to illustrate a 
commemorative edition of Grieg's music. 

John learned the language quickly. 
"European schools tolerate no nonsense," 
he remembers. The students were en- 
couraged to read, read, read. The encour- 
agement came not only from teachers but 
from the climate. "In the dead of winter, 
it was black when we walked to school at 
eight in the morning, and darkness had 
returned when we came home around four 
in the afternoon." 

When John's father completed his illus- 
trating assignment, the family moved to 
Stockholm. From there, they continued to 
Copenhagen, thence to London, and finally 
to Paris, where two pivotal events took 
place. John's parents separated, and John 
made his show-business debut (although 
he had already emerged unscathed from 

playing in musicales for the diplomatic set 
in Oslo). 

As a member of the First Baden-Powell 
Troop, British Boy Scouts of Paris, he 
made the annual trek to Strasbourg. When 
it was discovered that the troop was short 
of entertainment in the evenings. Scout 
Dehner rendered a group of selections on 
the Swannee whistle. Won an Entertain- 
ment Badge. 

It is one of the few pleasant memories of 
his thirty months spent in Asnieres, a 
suburb of Paris. John says, "American 
delinquents should be sent to French 
schools. At the first infraction of a rule, 
a boy's face is banged against his desk top. 
Or his knuckles are soundly rapped with 
an oak ruler. Kids learn — at a formative 
age — that discipline is the first law of life; 
the second and third laws are application 
and accomplishment. We had Thursdays 
and Sundays off, but we left school on 
Wednesday and Saturday afternoons with 
enough school work to keep us busy for 
a week instead of a day." 

Mrs. Dehner was persuaded to return to 
the U.S. the day she heard John refer to 
the Hudson River as the "Odd-sawn Ree- 
vaire." Back in the U.S. John completed 
his intermediate schooling at Hastings-on- 
Hudson High School, where a production 
of "Monsieur Beaucaire" — with John in 
the title role — won the drama competition 
in their geographical division. Unfortu- 
nately, the school couldn't amass enough 
cash to forward the troupe to the state 
drama finals at Ithaca. "This was my in- 
troduction to the fact that you can't eat 
laurel leaves," John says. "That rave 
notices and roast beef don't always go 

After high-school graduation, the Deh- 
ners moved to Berkeley, California, where 
John enrolled at the University. In his 
spare time, he organized and supervised 
three dance bands, and worked with one 
of Berkeley's little-theater groups. 

John was finishing his sophomore year 
when he was beckoned to New York by 
a former little -theater associate who had 
gone east with success and thought John 
could do the same. It took some persuad- 
ing for John's mother to give her consent, 
but she said finally, "Go, if you must — 

you may count on me to finance your next 

two years exactly as if you were still in 

college. You're entitled to that much help, 

^ and I'm afraid you're going to need it." 

■ As John recalls it, his masculine dignity 

m suffered from this gentle hint that failure 

on Broadway was a possibility. Still, he 

permitted himself to accept help for two 

years. "At the end of that time," he told 

his mother, "I'll be on my own. You've 

been wonderful, and I'm appreciative, but 

I'll get along just great." 

There came a bitter winter morning when 
John stood in the kitchen of a friend's 

» apartment, stirring up a king-size bowl of 
his friend's instant cereal, and wondered 
if the flavor of steak had changed much in 
past months. "That cereal was my first 
bite of food in three days, and I had to eat 
hearty because I couldn't foresee a sub- 
stantial meal in the immediate future, un- 
less conditions changed fast. I told myself, 
'Boy, you've made some silly mistakes in 
your life, but the silliest was using pride 
as scissors to cut off the life-line from 
California.' " 

Then he laughed. Like the poet Francois 
Villon, standing in tatters, he laughed at 
himself, and at an unpredictable universe, 
but mainly he laughed because he was 
young and he knew that triumph often 
dawned with the morning sun. 

John's particular triumph consisted of 
getting a daytime job in a cigar store, with 
subsidiary candy department which sus- 
tained John until payday. On his days off, 
he searched for a theatrical job, but all he 
found at better pay was work as a parking- 
'ot attendant at the World's Fair. 

hen the Fair closed, John found stock- 
I company work here and there, and in the 
iprocess fell in love. The object of his af- 
Ifection was a beauty from Texas who was 
lalso trying to win a Broadway break by 
Icracking the touring companies. "They 
Iworked together in several plays, but pa- 
rental disapproval put a damper on their 
plans to get married. John kissed his 
beloved goodbye and flew westward. 
"There's gold in California," he said. "Be 
back as soon as I've located some." 

He had some idea of becoming a rich 
.and powerful film tycoon and returning in 
la Cadillac twenty-two feet long. Mean- 
fwhile, he took a job at Disney Studios, 
where he worked furiously, hoping to ad- 
rance himself quickly to animator ranks. 
Occasionally, when John's fingers grew 
Tiumb and his eyes saw five lines where 
bione actually were, he swore softly in 
The man at the next drawing board said 
[sympathetically, "You should meet Roma 
. Meyers. She's traveled a great deal- 
speaks French. She's a secretary in the 
front office. Tall girl with the greatest 
smile I've ever seen." The next time she 
came in to pick up the time cards, John 
jwas introduced to her. 

It wasn't long before notes were being 
passed back and forth under cover of the 
time cards, simply because John and 
■Joma couldn't seem to discuss their mu- 
'lal interests fully enough during their 
j^ening dates. There was always a post- 
cript to be added. To improve com- 
nunications, they were married on Feb- 
uary 22, 1941, and — foiling their plans — 
Bohn was drafted on March 2, 1941. 
r For a while, John was a gunnery in- 
structor. Then, just a week before Pearl 
larbor, he became a civilian again. It had 
been discovered, while he was undergoing 
tests preparatory to shipping east to Offi- 
cers Candidate School, that he had a stom- 
ach ulcer. He was given a medical 
aischarge and with it drove north to Los 
Angeles and Roma. 
He still remembers, vividly, that Christ- 
aas of 1941. They spent the day hovering 
pver the radio, tuned to catch the news- 

casts about the war developments. "'If 
there was only something I could do," he 
growled. "Never mind. You'll find some- 
thing — some way to serve," Roma an- 
swered comfortingly. 

John found his place before a mike, 
serving as anouncer and newscaster. At 
the end of five years, he had acquired 
thousands of fans and wide experience 
with three major stations. Yet he still 
wanted to act, so his agent lined up a 
Western role at Republic. John loved it, 
even if he did break a bone in his right 
hand during a fight scene. 

He was "decked" by Hugh Marlowe on 
another occasion when principals fought in 
place of stunt men. That brief period of 
unconsciousness has inspired the following 
Dehner philosophy: "No actor should ever 
fight another actor. A competent actor 
crawls into the skin of the character he is 
portraying and reacts with authentic emo- 
tion to scenes of violence. Stunt men 
know that he who fights and pulls his 
punch will live to eat another lunch." 

Since 1946, when he made his film debut, 
John has worked in more than a hundred 
motion pictures, and he has lost count of 
the number of his TV appearances. Num- 
bers don't matter, but the fact that he is 
supremely happy in his profession does. 

Another reason for John's contentment 
is his family. Kirsten, the Dehners' elder 
daughter, was born January 16, 1944, and 
Sheila was born March 2, 1946. Kirsten 
rides like a lady centaur. So far, she has 
won twenty-three ribbons and four 
trophies in competition. 

In addition to horseback riding, Kirsten 
shares another interest with her father. 
She is studying French, so it was natural 
for her to ask Daddy's assistance with 
vocabulary and pronunciation at the be- 
ginning of the course. For several months, 
he was the fair-haired linguistic hero 
around the house. Then, one evening, Kirs- 
ten regarded John thoughtfully and said, 
"Your accent is terrific. But, Daddy — your 

Sheila, the yotmger daughter, hopes to 
become a ballerina. She is studying with 
Madame Nijinska, sister of the immortal 
Nijinski. Sheila decided early that Daddy 
wouldn't be much help in the terpsi- 
chorean department, but he was someone 
to help with her math — briefly. "Halfway 
through the semester. Sheila was solving 
her percentage and fraction problem in 
half the time it was taking me to 'help' 
her," says John. 

Roma Dehner has her own accomplish- 
ment. She is the family chauffeur. On 
New Year's Day, she was figuring out how 
many thousands of miles she'd driven, just 
moving the family around to its various 
destinations. Suddenly, she and John 
looked into each other's eyes and smiled. 
In unison, they said, "Remember Christ- 
mas, 1941?" 

Roma nodded, glancing from Kirsten to 
Sheila. "Little did I dream that, eighteen 
years later, I'd be living with an equestri- 
enne, a ballerina, and the star of a Western 
radio series," she said. 

John's reply revealed another facet of a 
remarkable personality. Quoting from the 
Bible, he said in simple solemnity, "Con- 
sider the lilies how they grow; they toil 
not; and yet I say imto you that Solomon 
in all his glory was not arrayed like one 
of these. If then God so clothe the grass, 
which is today in the field, and tomorrow 
is cast into the oven; how much more will 
he clothe you, O ye of little faith?" 

With deep conviction, he recited the 
glowing words of St. Luke, concluding 
reverently: "Seek ye the kingdom of God; 
and all these things shall be added unto 
you. Fear not, little flock; for it is your 
Father's good pleasure to give you the 



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{Continued from page 18) 
the size of his waistline (then 38). The 
British writer candidly concluded: "Liber- 
ace could afford to lose a couple of stone." 
(That's twenty-eight pounds, in American 
measurements.) Recently, when Liberace 
visited England, the newspapers raved 
about how well he looked. Said the news- 
paperman who'd formerly criticized him: 
"You look about 1000 percent better than 
you used to. What did you do to your- 

Liberace smiled and said, "I took your 
advice, and lost a couple of stone." Actu- 
ally, he did better than that. In three 
months, he lost forty pounds! 

"I decided to reduce for two reasons," 
says Liberace. "I didn't have the energy 
I needed — I was listless, short-winded, and 
I tired easily. My added weight made me 
look older than I actually was — asked to 
guess my age, people would add a couple 
of years to what it was." (Actually, he's 
38, now looks several years younger.) 
"Friends said, 'You're getting fat.' A few 
even started to call me 'Fatso.' 

"I finally decided to reduce when 1 
wanted to take out additional insurance. 
My doctor gave me a clean bill of health, 
but strongly recommended that I lose 
weight. He said that, while my overweight 
hadn't injured my health so far, it could 
become dangerous in time. He gave me a 
thorough physical examination, including 
metabolism tests, and said I would thrive 
on a high-protein diet." 

Now, Liberace had been on other diets 
in the past. Sometimes he'd lost as much 
as twenty pounds. He's tried almost every 
kind of freak diet, including pills. They 
worked for a while. But, as soon as the 
diet was over, the appetite would come 
back, and with it the weight. 

"It was partly a mental thing," he ex- 
plains. "I call those diets I used to go on 
'starvation diets.' They make you feel de- 
prived. When the diet is over and you 
want to stop feeling deprived, you go back 
to the same eating habits as before." 

1 his time, Liberace's doctor gave him no 
special pills. There was no printed list 
saying he had to eat grapes for break- 
fast, lunch and dinner. But the diet placed 
the following restrictions on Liberace: No 
potatoes, no rolls, no biscuits, no bread- 
no starches of any kind. For Lee, this was 
a bit of a hardship, since he had always 
loved spaghetti and pastas, and used to 
eat them about three times a week, par- 
ticularly at family meals. 

There were to be no desserts except fresh 
fruits and, once in a while, gelatins. But 
the banana cream pies he had always 
enjoyed were definitely banished. So were 
all other cream pies. He's always loved 
creamed soups. Any soup, so long as it was 
cream-of-something. All such soups were 
banished. Substituted were simple, clear 

Prohibited were the midnight snacks 
which had formerly been dear to Liberace's 
heart. He used to have a sandwich, a piece 
of pie, candy or cookies before he retired. 
The following morning, he would awaken 
feeling logy. Coffee would often constitute 
his entire breakfast. With the midnight 
snacks eliminated, Liberace found him- 
self waking up hungry. For breakfast, he'd 
have eggs, plenty of fruit, and coffee. With 
starches and sweets completely eliminated, 
he could even have butter on his eggs. 

"The difference between my diet and 
most diets," Lee says, "was that there were 
not so many difficult things to do. For in- 
stance, I didn't have to spread tasteless 
dressing 'substitutes' on my salads. And I 
was not told that I'd have to go hungry 
most of the time. Quite the contrary!" 

Knowing Liberace's fondness for food, his 
doctor had said, "You can eat whenever 
you are hungry — ^provided you stick to 
proteins, fresh fruits, and raw salads." 

"At first," said Liberace, "I ate every 
two hours. One thing that made it easier 
for me to stick to my diet was that I was 
on tour at the time. I could pick my pro- 
teins — meat, fish, fowl or eggs — from any- 
thing the restaurants served. And I could 
tell my waiters, 'No bread, rolls or potatoes, 
please.' Yes," he grins. "I could tell that 
to my waiters — but it didn't always work. 
There were those who said, 'But the rolls 
are wonderfully hot,' or, "The baked po- 
tato is delicious.' And those who didn't say 
anything, but brought French-fried onions 
and fried potatoes with every meat order. 

"I found that if I ate my salad first, then 
the meat, I could develop some will power. 
If the waiters were particularly persua- 
sive, I'd say: 'After I've eaten what I 
should, if I'm still hungry, then I'll eat the 
fried potatoes.' But, after I'd eaten a good 
salad and meat, I no longer wanted them. 

"However, I had a rude shock, the first 
week. When I got on those bathroom scales 
one morning, I discovered that — on my re- 
ducing diet — I'd gained three pounds! I 
was in Chicago at the time, and at once 
made an appointment to see a doctor friend 
of mine. 'My doctor in California,' I told 
him, 'believes that I can lose weight, even 
though I eat whenever I am hungry. I 
have been following his instructions, and 
now look at me! I've gained, instead of 

"My friend reassured me. 'You have to 
give your system time to adjust itself to 
the new diet,' he said. 'It sometimes takes 
a week, ten days, possibly even two weeks. 
But, if you continue to foUow directions, 
you should soon see an improvement.' " 

The second week was more reassuring. 
Each time Liberace stepped on the scales, 
he found he was losing. Day after day, he 
lost weight. Soon his clothes were so loose 
on him that he had to have a couple of 
suits altered. His skin and complexion be- 
gan to take on a glow. Previously, his 
skin had often "broken out" from the 
effect of too many sweets. Now that no 
longer happened. 

In two months' time, he lost about thirty- 
three pounds. Instead of looking flabby, 
he began to look trim and slim. As he 
noted that his muscles were beginning 
to tone up, Liberace came to the conclu- 
sion that he ought to help build up his 
muscular development. "Not through 
weight-lifting," he laughs. "That develops 
the wrong muscles for a pianist. But I de- 
cided to go in for simple calisthenics." 

He started with three very simple exer- 
cises: Push-ups, leg-raises, and bending 
exercises. Push-ups, familiar to every 
Army man, consist of lying with your face 
facing the floor, and then pushing your- 
self up on your elbows. For the leg-raises, 
you lie on a flat bench and raise your legs. 
The bending exercises consist of bending 
from the waist, and touching the tips of 
the toes with the extended hands. 

On tour at the time, Liberace would 
breakfast at his hotel, rehearse, then start 
his daily exercises. He'd continue them till 
they became an effort to do. At first, he 
could do only five or six exercises at a 
time. Later, he was able to do each exer- 
cise twenty times without becoming short- 
winded or exhausted. But he never tried 
to do a half hour's calisthenics all at one 
time. He'd exercise for ten minutes or so 
at a time, then again later in the day. 

Soon his friends and the members of his 
group suggested that he go with them to 
various gymnasiums. He followed their 
suggestion, and added steam baths and 

massages to his exercise program. He still 
continues this regime from his home in 
Palm Springs, which is only a short dis- 
tance away from a gymnasium run by two 
friends of Liberace's — a married couple 
who have available every possible piece of 
equipment a muscular-minded man could 

Liberace's extraordinary loss of weight 
brought one problem with it. At first, he 
thought he'd have to have his entire ward- 
robe altered, but his tailor took one look 
at the slim, lithe man with the muscular 
body and said, "You can't do it." 

"Why not?" said Liberace. 

"You can't take six inches out of a 
waistline," said the tailor. "You used to 
have a 38 waistline. Look at you now!" 

Liberace looked — and saw what the 
tailor meant. Where, previously, all his 
clothes had been tailored in a desperate 
effort to conceal his spare tires, he was 
now a man with no spare tires to con- 
ceal. All the lines of his wardrobe were 
wrong for him now. He gave away most 
of his street clothes to friends and acquaint- 

However, in his closet there still hangs 
his stage wardrobe — a glittering assem- 
blage of some of the most glamorous 
clothes ever collected by one man. 
Liberace used to say, "Every actor should 
dress glamorously." On stage, he dressed to 
the hilt. Among his seventy different out- 
fits, there was one solid gold jacket, which 
cost about $2,700 — and was worth it, in 
terms of the publicity it attracted. There 
were also two jackets with glass bugle - 
beads, and one jacket with hand-made 
rhinestones imported from abroad. 

"I used to try to glitter on the outside," 
says Liberace, with a shrug of his no- 
longer-padded shoulders, "because I was 
self-conscious about what my body looked 
like, under the glittering clothes. I wanted 
my clothes to gleam and sparkle so that 
people would concentrate on what I wore, 
rather than on how fat I was." 

It may very well cost Liberace $100,000 
to replace his wardrobe. So far, he has been 
able to salvage only two jackets — those 
with the glass bugle-beads. His tailor took 
those completely apart, cut the jackets 
down and reset the sleeves. His other stage 
costumes hang in the closet, mute testi- 
monials to the fact that Liberace was once 
a fat man. Today, every outfit Liberace 
wears, whether on the stage or at home, 
is made to fit, not conceal the contours of 
his body. 

'In addition to looking better, Liberace 
feels infinitely more energetic since he 
lost those forty pounds. "Formerly," he 
admits, "if anyone asked me to undertake 
something that sounded like a lot of work, 
I'd turn it down. I just didn't have the 
energy for anything that was too strenu- 

Now Lee is bursting with energy. It was 
after he'd lost about forty pounds that ABC 
came to him with an exciting offer for the 
new TV show. However, the program 
would be on five days a week. To film it, 
Liberace would have to come in from 
Palm Springs to Los Angeles three times 
a week. And, on two of those days, he'd 
have to prepare four of the shows. "Where 
formerly I'd turn down anything that 




*'^*'^¥■4■^^^^^^■i^i^^>^>^.l^.l^.l^.4■'^■'^■**'^■><■^<^■>' » 

strenuous, now I regarded it as a chal- 
lenge," he says. "Though it meant working 
twelve or fourteen hours a day, I was 
happy to sign." 

Not only does Liberace put on two shows 
a day each Monday and Thursday, but 
when he has an audience, he entertains 
especially for it after the show, giving 
encore after encore of the audience's fa- 
vorites. For these special studio audiences, 
Liberace puts on performances for which 
thousands of dollars would ordinarily be 
paid by concert-goers. 

When Liberace first began breaking box- 
office records all over the country, some 
of the critics scoffed at the idea of a man 
parlaying a beatific smile, a melting look 
and candelabra into a fortune. However, 
they were wrong. It takes far more than a 
smile and candelabra to win public love. 

"The personality people assume I have," 
says Lee, "is the exaggerated side of my 
real personality. I think I have more depth 
than has been made known to the public. 
When I made personal appearances, people 
who had preconceived ideas about me 
seemed to re-discover me. Even when those 
preconceived ideas were favorable, many 
of them told me that they had never real- 
ized the more serious, deeper side of my 
personality. So now, in my television ap- 
pearances, I try to emphasize not only 
those qualities for which I have become 
known, but also that side of me which 
appealed to audiences when I appeared 
on various stages." 

So different is the real Liberace from 
the exaggerated idea that most of the 
public has held that even his voice is 
different. Not long ago. Jack Benny, plan- 
ning a show in which the voice of Liberace 
would sneer at him from a TV set, asked 
Liberace to record some lines for Colum- 
bia Records. Lee duly recorded them. 

When Jack Benny heard the so-called 
"wild lines," he said, "But they don't 
sound the way I wanted you to sound. You 
just don't sound exaggerated enough." As 
it turned out, the real Liberace sounded so 
little like the publicized concept of him that 
Jack Benny had to use Dave Barry to 
sound the way Liberace was supposed to! 

In the new Liberace program, Lee has as 
much verve, enthusiasm and eagerness to 
please as ever; but he hasn't the ex- 
aggerated effervescence that was once 
pinned on him by some critics. Even the 
candelabra on the new program appear to 
be somewhat subdued, in keeping with this 
new, fascinating side of Liberace's per- 

Jdowever, the change in the candelabra 
effects is not due to any attempt on his 
part to give the public a different impres- 
sion of himself. "The effect is subdued," he 
says, "because this is a daytime show and 
doesn't call for romantic lighting effects. 
At night, one might want to go in for 
dramatic heightening or lowering of can- 
dle light. But that wouldn't be appropriate 
in a daytime show. 

"Losing forty pounds changed my entire 
life," Liberace concludes. "My whole men- 
tal attitude has changed. Where former- 
ly I felt listless and tired, I now want to 
be on the go all the time." 

In spite of all the strenuous work called 
for by his show, Liberace now has energy 
to spare for other things. When he isn't 
appearing on TV or going to a gym, you'll 
sometimes find him lugging furniture from 
one of his homes in Palm Springs to an- 
other, or landscaping. As he digs into the 
soil to get it ready for some favorite desert 
plant, his smile flashes and seems to light 
up the landscape. 

Now that he's lost those forty surplus 
pounds, Liberace has discovered that the 
real sparkle — on TV or in person — comes 
from within, not from glittering "props" 
and rhinestone-studded jackets. 





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APRIL, 1959 


VOL. 51, NO. 5 

Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Associate Editor 
Lorraine Girsch, Assistant Editor 

Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Assistant Art Director 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 


What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 4 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 8 

This Is My Son (Johnny Desmond) by Mrs. Lillian DeSimone Buccellato 21 

A Toast to Teenagers (Kathryn Murray) by Gregory Merwin 24 

Today's Biggest Family (Frank Blair) by Thomas Peters 26 

Maestro of The Music Shop (Buddy Bregmaii i by Peer J. Oppenheimer 30 

Funny Thing About Fathers by Art Linkletter 32 

Never Bet on a Bachelor (Bruce Gordon) by Polly Terry 48 

"Reader, I Married Him!" (Millette Alexander) by Frances Kish 50 

Casseroles You Can Prepare Ahead (recipes by Ellen Demming) 52 

Wanted — Very Much Alive (Steve McQueen) by Eunice Field 54 

Carnival of TV Animals by Charlotte Barclay' 58 


Long-Distance Marriage (Patti Page) by Martin Cohen 36 

Go, Kookie, Go (Edward Byrnes) by Nancy Anderson 38 

California Hillbilly (Dick Crenna) by Peter Orkney 42 

"Most Civilized Man" (Hugh Downs) by Martin Cohen 44 


Sound the Alarm ... (Ed Rider of WNBF) 12 

Danger Is My Business (Colonel John Craig) 13 

Tick Tock Tempos (John Lascelles of WGR-TV and Radio ) 14 

The Record Players : Room and to Spare at the Top by Gene Stuart 16 

Here's Alice . . . and This Is Patty Ann Gerrity 62 

Wizard of Wonderama (Sonny Fox of WNEW-TV) 64 


TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies. . , 15 

Information Booth 17 

Beauty: Blueprint for Glamour (Eydie Gorme) by Harriet Segman 60 

New Patterns for You ( smart wardrobe suggestions ) 70 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 84 

Cover Portrait of the Linkletters by Gabi Rona of CBS 



Published Monthly by Macfadden Publi- 
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42nd St., New York, N. Y. Editorial 
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Re-entered as Second Class matter, June 28, 1954, at 

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Full speed aheod toward water-ski lesson — Shirley Boone, Sue Secondino, Patty Godfrey, Pete S., Pat B. and coptain 


by Peter Abbott\ 

Asthma & Passion: The scene Miami, 
moon over, stars on high, stars on foot — 
Godfrey, Pat Boone, Red Skelton, Car- 
mel Qutnn, Rossina DaRimini, Tony 
Marvin. Why Miami? The Boones are 
Arthur's guests at the Kenilworth 
Hotel and, not incidentally, to accept a 
distinguished award at Fort Lauderdale 
from the Jaycees. Arthur, Carmel, Ros- 
sina and Tony are there to gather sun- 
shine and reroute it via TV throughout 
the nation. Why Skelton? Red says, "I 
left California because of asthma and 
found it here." He grins and adds 
quickly, "I'm only joking. I've had 
asthma for years but I was always ego- 
tistical about it. I liked to think I was 
just passionate." 

Godfrey's Miami: Maybe it's a se- 
cret, maybe not, but N.Y.C. is a town 
that frustrates Mr. G. Arthur likes to 
move in the sun, feel his muscles and 
the open air and the pulse of a boat and 
a helicopter. In warm and sunny Miami 
Beach, all of this becomes possible. He 
has the energy and zest of a teenager. 
Chaises longues by the hundreds sur- 
round the Kenilworth pool, but none 
has felt the weight of Mr. G. After the 
show, he plunges into the pool. He takes 
lunch at the wheel while steering his 
42-foot Matthews. "I feel so good and 
happy here," he says. "I told Mary (Mrs. 
Godfrey) that next year we will come 
down the first of December and stay 
until spring — if it were only possible." 

Sudden Dignity: On a Saturday 
afternoon, the Boones boarded Arthur's 
boat and were motored up to the yacht 

basin in beautiful Fort Lauderdale. A 
police escort, with sirens screaming, de- 
livered the Boones to the War Memorial 
Auditorium where the National Junior 
Chamber of Commerce was honoring 
the ten outstanding young men of the 
year. The honored included scientists, 
educators, journalists and doctors. Pat 
was the first entertainer to be so dis- 
tinguished in fourteen years. After- 
ward, Pat tells you, "This is the most 
moving thing that has ever happened to 
me. Not that I think I really deserved 
the award. I felt out of place, for the 
others had really done something sig- 
nificant, world-shaking. I've done the 
best I can, which to me, in a sense, is 
outstanding. I honestly believe that any 
man anywhere who has an honorable 
job and does his best at it, is an out- 
standing man." On the program, Pat 
was last to make an acceptance speech 
and his sincerity won him the audience. 
Commenting on the Jaycee trophy, a 
plaque with two hands clasping, he said, 
"To me, this is the symbolic difference 
between the Russians' education of 
youth and democracy's way. For the 
Russians, it is merely the way to bolster 
their scientific progress. For us, with 
the hands clasping and touching, it is 
the wish to be helpful and encouraging." 
Red plus Red : At breakfast, the word 
was out that Red Skelton would join 
redheaded Godfrey on the morning pro- 
grams, and the results were memorable. 
It was a wedding of philosophies. Red 
said, "When we're rehearsing a show, 
we never say, 'This is funny.' We say. 

For What's New on the West Coast, See Page 8 

'I think it is funny,' and we say it hope- 
fully. Then we pray. After all these 
years, I get down to a show at least an 
hour before we go on and they ask me, 
'Why are you here so soon?' Well, it's 
just because I want to worry." Red went 
on, "Why do you do it? If you can make 
a few people forget their troubles for a 
minute, it's worth all of it. Besides, 
there's That Man and that little boy up 
in heaven. I'm always working for 

Candid Shot: A very pretty girl 
dashes into the surf. A very beautiful 
woman walking on the beach waves her 
hand. The teenager, redhaired, is Ar- 
thur's daughter Patty. The blonde is 
Arthur's wife, Mary. 

A Lot of Bull: In February of '56, 
Pete Secondino and Sue Lenderman 
were married in Scircleville, Indiana. 
Pete's wedding gift to his bride was a 
Hereford calf, cost $100. A year-plus 
later, at the International Livestock Ex- 
position, the full-grown calf was named 
grand champion. When the bidding got 
up to $24 a pound, Mr. Godfrey, occa- 
sionally impulsive, impulsed, "Enough 
of this shilly-shallying. $30." The steer 
weighed 1100 pounds and Mr. G. phoned 
his lawyer to get together $33,000— a lot 
of cash for a lot of bull, which he then 
donated to the National Cowboy Hall 
of Fame. When Pete and Sue met Ar- 
thur again in Chicago this past Decem- 
ber, Mr. G. invited them to Miami as 
his guests. Says Pete, "My eyes popped 
out like turnips." Pete is twenty-three 
and Sue, twenty-one. They flew to 
Miami in Arthur's plane, set up in 
the luxurious {Continued on page 6) 

.We ponies, dead air are Snooks O'Brien's 
ililemma, while wife and kids soak up the sun. 

Inhere Mom goes, there go Fuller kids — here 
vith mother, Carmel Quinn, and Tony Marvin. 

Ak lUhM^m 

With Pot for Jaycee awards at Fort Lauder- 
dale, Shirley Boone wos lovely in white chiffon. 

Arthur G. loves to move in sun, and amongst good friends and red- 
heods — Skelton, ond Rossino DaRimini, to whom flying is for birds. 


This porpoise is for reol — and no baloney — and lots of fun for Sue 

and Pete Secondino, who hail from landlocked state of Indiana. 


(Continued from page 4) 

Kenilworth, clothed at Saks Fifth Ave- 
nue, and then were escorted around 
town by Patty Godfrey. Sue said, 
"Next to Daddy and Pete and my 
brother, Arthur is the nicest man I 
know. Some people, when they do 
something for you, expect something in 
return, but Mr. Godfrey seems to just 
do things because he likes us." With 
Patty, they had a ball. Sue said, "Patty 
is so close to our age. We have the 
same feeling about school. Patty wants 
to get out and we don't want to go 

Mellifluous Marvin : Most decorative 
sight about the Kenilworth was Tony 
Marvin. Everyone was buzzing. Tony 
said, "It's become a trademark. I'm 
afraid if I were to show up in a floppy 
jacket, they'd think I was sick." Tony 
notes, "We come down to relax, to 
catch our breath. We take things as 
they come. Once Arthur was doing a 
commercial for a TV receiver and the 
stagehand awkwardly pushed the set 
into the pool. Arthur dived right in and 
continued the commercial. Another 
morning, I was all dressed up, really 
polished, and someone gave the word — 
it must have been Arthur — and I was 
pushed in the pool with a brand new 
pair of silk trousers, new, white buck 
shoes and a tailored shirt. Once in the 
pool, I didn't get out until the show 
was over. Now, how much more relaxed 
can you get?" 

Arthur Observes: "I'm looking at 
Rossina and her pretty red hair and I'm 
thinking of the redheaded McGuire 
Sisters. It seems to me they were once 
all brunettes and what I'm thinking of 
is that somehow, after a girl is in show 
business a few years, her hair begins 
to grow in red." 

March will roar, but like a dove, 
for Mary Martin's two-in-one Sundoy. 

The Unexpected: Snooks O'Brien, 
stage director, says, "This is the most re- 
laxed, unrehearsed show on the air. 
Monday, Arthur may say, 'Have a black 
horse here Wednesday.' The next day, 
he says; 'Don't forget that pair of Shet- 
land ponies.' So I don't say I already 
ordered a black staUion! With Arthur, 
you just take it from the present and 
go. And you don't even know what he's 
going to do with the horses when they 
get there." Snooks stares across the 
pool where his children are playing, also 
as Arthur's guests. "Only time we ever 
goofed was on a simulcast. Arthur went 
underwater at the Seaquarium to play 
with some sharks. The TV picture was 
fine, but everyone forgot about radio 
and all the listeners got was five min- 
utes of dead air. Up in New York, they 
were screaming." 

Yet Another Redhead: Carmel 
Quinn came into the bedroom, her hair 
pinned up. Her husband Bill Fuller 
stretched across a bed watching news 
on TV. No sound, just pictures, so Car- 
mel could talk. "All three children are 
in the next room. We always travel to- 
gether. Even Terry, who is only four 
months old, is with us." Then she 
notes, "It's been hard on Shirley Boone 
seeing mine. You know, she and Pat 
are taking their first vacation alone 
since they were married. But, when she 
sees my children, I can feel the loneli- 
ness come into her eyes." Carmel, still 
as ebullient as the day she crashed into 
show business five years ago via Ar- 
thur's Talent Scouts, says, "I can take 
everything here but the sailing. Yester- 
day I was out with Arthur and he said, 
'Honey, do you want me to turn back 
the boat?' I was feeling awful but I 
said, 'No, I feel fine.' I don't care what 
Arthur does — sailing, flying, swimming 
with sharks, high-diving — so long as he 
goes first, I'll do it." 

Candid Shot: Red Skelton comes 
over to tape an evening show with Ar- 
thur. Red looks up at the Kenilworth, 
where guests are rubbernecking from 
their balconies. Red chides, "All you 
patients get back into your rooms. 
Nurse, get those patients back to their 

In a Cabana: She was swarmed by 
autograph hunters, and delighted them 
with her beauty and her Portuguese- 
Italian accent. Then Rossina DaRimini 
took refuge in a cabana. "I give fifty- 
two concerts in twenty-seven states be- 
fore I get here," she said breathlessly. 
She won national recognition with her 
appearance on Talent Scouts three years 
ago. Breathlessly, she went on, "I sacri- 
fice marriage for my career. The Latin 
people is too much jealous. Besides, I 
love children and, for this reason, I 
don't trust myself. If I marry tomorrow 
and have children is end of my career." 
She is twenty -seven and has only one 
fear. "I worry about death all time in 
air and I fly all time. When I go into 
plane I say, 'Mamma mia,' and I cry like 
baby. Sometimes I say, 'Oh, God, I'm 

He for whom bell tolls March 12 — 
Jason Robards won't answer phone. 

so young to die. Can't you wait little 
while longer?' " She adds, "Mr. God- 
frey so very patient with me. He sits 
down and explains how safe is flying. 
I love him. To me, there is a God in the 
sky but Mr. Godfrey is mine on ground." 

Sound-Off: Pink, smooth-skinned Pat 
Boone says, "There are a couple of 
things I want to correct about those 
teen-age stories about me. I discussed 
my teen-age problems because I 
thought it would be helpful to others if 
they knew you could make a mistake 
and not go bad. But one writer said I 
'guzzled beer in bed.' Not true. I ex- 
perimented with beer like a kid will ex- 
periment with a cigarette in his bed- 
room, and then hid the beer can under 
my bed. And then that business about 
my sneaking a couple of things off a 
store counter, like a lot of other kids 
looking for excitement. That's all there 
was to it. It was kid stuff. But I wasn't 
preaching at that time, as one writer 

Aboard the Mary B.: So named, the 
Mary B. pulls away from the dock at 
four P.M. with Arthur at the helm. He 
notes, "It'll be just lovely when the sun 
sets." He takes you into the sea for a 
few minutes, then heads back into the 
channels for a water tour of Miami 
Beach. "Can you imagine, this was once 
all ugly. It shows you what beauty man 
can make for himself." He points out 
the handsome buildings, identifies trees 
and shrubbery and flowers. TV critic 
John Crosby reminisces about his child- 
hood in Miami. Arthur notes, "You're 
just a kid. I'm fourteen years older 
than you." Crosby says, "You look ten 
years younger than you did ten years 
ago." Arthur says. "That was after 
the hip operation. You know, I went 
into shock twice. That took a lot out of 
me. But now I feel great. I never felt 
better." Carmel Quinn comes up and 
Arthur insists she steer for a while. The 
sky has turned deep red and you go be- 
low. The talk is about Arthur. Pat 
Boone says, "Arthur was saying that he 
has no talents. He was telling that to 
Red Skelton. I know Arthur isn't a 
great comedian or a great singer, but 
he's got a great talent. He makes people 

fiappy." When the boat docks, Carmel 
Quinn comes down Smiling and takes 
tiusband Bill's hand. "Wasn't I a fine 
Captain? I just followed the green 
lights. They reminded me of Mother 

Mad for March: For no good reason, 
the wild month of March will contain 
several of the best television shows of 
the season. Most money ever spent on 
a TV dramatic show— $350,000— goes 
into a three-hour production of Hem- 
ingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls." 
CBS-TV's Playhouse 90 spreads this 
over two evenings, March 12 and 19. 
The show will star Jason Robards Jr., 
Maria Schell and Maureen Stapleton. 
Most exciting aspect is the appearance 
of Robards, who currently stars in the 
Broadway play, "The Disenchanted." 
Previously, he was in O'Neill's "Long 
Day's Journey into Night." New York 
critics have raved over him and call him 
the finest young actor in the country. 
Though he did many TV jobs early in 
his career, he has turned down most 
oflEers lately, contending there are so 
many dramatic limitations in television. 
On the personal side, he is a very quiet 
'man who keeps off to himself — not even 
his agent has his phone number or 
jhome address. ... On March 15, Frances 
(sLangford returns to TV with a spec- 
°' tacular on NBC -TV. She has with her a 
jtremendous cast of stars, including Bob 
[Hope, Hugh O'Brian and Edgar Bergen. 
. Menotti opera, which debuted last 

year in Europe will be colorcast on 
NBC-TV, March 8, at 5 P.M. Franca 
Duval sings title role of "Maria Golo- 
vin." . . . Last season, the TV musical 
production of the Pulitzer Prize play, 
"Green Pastures," won almost every 
award in the business as the finest TV 
musical of the year, but very few people 
saw it. Reason for this was the late Mike 
Todd, who scheduled his Madison 
Square Garden birthday party for 
"Around the World in 80 Days" at the 
same time. The Todd show turned out 
to be noisy and not very entertaining, 
and many hundreds of thousands re- 
gretted missing "Green Pastures." The 
good news is that on March 23, NBC- 
TV again brings "Green Pastures" to 
your screen, and again "live" and in 
compatible color. Don't goof again. . . . 
Look this month for an exciting new 
film project over CBS-TV. Andre Gi- 
rard has painted directly on film a kind 
of running mural for "The Sermon on 
the Mount" and "The Resurrection and 
the Passion," produced by the National 
Council of Catholic Men. While these 
programs are usually carried on Sun- 
day, at press time, CBS was so enthusi- 
astic that they were considering pre- 
empting nighttime programs to show 
off this new process. . . . On Sunday, 
March 29, NBC-TV boasts two different 
performances by the most cherished 
Mary Martin. In the afternoon, between 
four and five, she will sing for children. 
In the evening, from eight-thirty to ten, 
she'll go sophisticated for the adults. 

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Dancer Borrie Chase chases rumors. 

Who's to corry the nome? Ty Hordin. 

Yogurt or lettuce? asks Clint Walker. 


by Bud Goode 

^ Eddie's here — a i ire, doing guest shots on big shows ond Vegos club dote. 


For What's New on the East Coast, See Pase 4 

JACK Benny off March 1 for this year's 
charity junket. Jack will play the 
fiddle for real — that's the Virginia Reel 
—in San Francisco, March 1, Washing- 
ton D.C., March 28, and Carnegie Hall, 
April 6. Jack has been practicing for 
months for this concert tour — practicing 
running. . . . Clint Walker, back at 
Warner Bros., is hopeful of doing a fea- 
ture picture — the lure that brought him 
back to the studio. Plans now are to 
have Clint alternate in the Cheyenne 
series with Ty Hardin, who will carry 
the Bronco Layne name. . . . Clint's 
salary, rumored to be $1,500 a week, is 
the same pay now as when he left the 
studio nearly a year ago. Clint, on his 
way east to help out in his sister's 
health-food store, was saved by the 
bell-like sound of jingling silver. . . . 
Speaking of health foods, newcomer 
John Compton of The D.A.'s Man raises 
his own salads high in the Hollywood 
Hills. When John was odd-jobbing 
around in the real-estate business, he 
sold Will Hutchins his home in the hills 
but was recently seen out front trans- 
planting some of his own rare cacti in 
Will's garden. Anyone for cactus apples? 
. . . Jack Webb says he's found complete 
happiness for the first time in his career, 
credits it all to his new wife, "Miss 
America" Jackie Loughery. Jack 
wasn't even upset when his new engine- 

Lennons hove new sister, Dot contract — and George Burns ond Dole Robertson "live." Who could osk for more? 

driven lawnmower sheared off half-a- 
dozen sprinkler heads. And that's a fact, 

Lads 'n' Lasses: Westei^n detective 
Dale Robertson dating private eye's 
gal, Lola Albright from the Peter Gunn 
show; Judi Meredith and Barry Coe 
rantin' and ravin' — about one another. 
Speaking of Barries, Fred Astaire and 
Barrie Chase deny the rumors. . . . In- 
teresting sidelight on the hit Fred As- 
taire show: Producer Bud Yorkin has 
been flooded with six-figure offers, has 
backed off from all — still waiting on the 
NBC-TV deal to produce a five-a-week 
strip with Red Rowe, a combination 
Ernie Ford and Arthur Godfrey. Red 
doesn't play the uke as well as Arthur, 
nor does he pick peas as fast as Ernie. 
But then, who wants to be a pea-pickin' 
ukulele player? 

Shades of Bob Cummings: Dwayne 
Hickman will have a new girl every 
week in his TV series, Affairs Of Dohie 
Gillis. Quips Dwayne, "I learned a lot 
fiom Uncle Bob." . . . Brother Darryl 
Hickman, cast in the CBS-TV pilot, 
"World in White," says. "No, it's not 
about a New York snowstorm. Dick 
York and I play medical intei'ns, with 
accents on humor and romance, not 
medicine." Sort of a "Dr. Desi-Lucy." 

. . John Bachelor Father Forsythe, 
back from filming "The Avenger" in 

Europe with co-star Rosana Chifano, 
says Rosie is going to be bigger than 
MM. Guesting on the Bill Leyden show. 
It Could Be You, John "Dimples" For- 
sythe received one of the biggest wel- 
comes the show has ever seen. Smile, 
John. . . . Meanwhile, back at the track, 
sportscar driver Leyden has received 
an invite to drive in the Las Vegas In- 
vitational Road Race first week of 
March. Bill will drive his indomitable 
"77," a copy of the car which won the 
Le Mans race last year. Souped-up and 
ready to go, "Ol" 77" is about as lucky 
a number as you can get in Las Vegas. 
Why don't they make a TV spec out of 
the race — call it, "77 Las Vegas Strip"? 
. . . Despite Eddie Fisher's cancelling, 
he's being seen on more TV screens than 
ever — in one week, guesting with Breg- 
man, Berle and Gobel. His last show of 
the current contract is March 17; on 
March 18, he guests again for Berle, and 
from there to the Vegas Tropicana for 
four weeks. But don't fret for Eddie, 
boy — his contract with NBC has twelve 
years to go. . . . Tom "John Slaughter" 
Tryon now starring in Disney's new 
epic, "Gold," drew his own caricature 
for a Sunday supplement and was asked 
as a result to pen his own