Full text of "Radio TV Mirror (Jul-Dec 1957)"

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Scanned from the collections of
The Library of Congress

AUDIO-VISUAL CONSERVATION
at The LIBRARY of CONGRESS

Packard Campus

for Audio Visual Conservation

www.loc.gov/avconservation

Motion Picture and Television Reading Room
www.loc.gov/rr/mopic

Recorded Sound Reference Center
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PUBLISHER'S BINDING

5-DEC 11
-X 1957

>I0 MIRROR

In color:
IN DAYTIME
ADIO GREATS

leet Little
itte Funicello
isney Doll

Y JOHNSON
"dreamed"
i a storm!

RADIO
MIRROR

THE CROSBY CLAN OF SPOKANE

Tommy
Sands

BUD COLLYER

ROSEMARY RICE

25a

TOMMY SANDS AND THE DATE DEPARTMENT

A NEW, SLENDER CONTAINER EOR THE FRAGRANT SPRAY
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Breck Hair Set Mist is gentle as nature's mist, yet its delicate touch holds your
hair softly in place for hours. A damp comb renews your waves without respraying.

n *

Breck Hair Set Mist provides a quick, easy way to make lasting pin curls, too.

Fragrant as a bouquet, Breck Hair Set Mist contains lanolin, which leaves the
hair soft to the touch and brings out the natural lustre and beauty of your hair.

B R

C^BeauiiJul^lai,

C K

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or a hot bath— now you can set your mind at ease.

New Mum Cream is so gentle and safe for normal skin,
you can use it whenever you please, as often as you please.

Mum Cream gives you the kind of protection you can't
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it works a completely different way.

Mum Cream is the only leading deodorant that works
entirely by stopping odor . . . contains no astringent
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keep

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Nothing to stop you from rushing head-
long into a clear, fresh pool, a mountain
spring, a briny surf! When it's time-of-
the-month, you can still keep cool ! You
can swim wearing Tampax — the internal
sanitary protection that really protects
while it keeps your secret safe!

Doctor-invented Tampax® is invisible
and unfelt when in place. You can wear
it under the sleekest bathing suit — and
no one will ever know! You can dive,
swim, be a living mermaid — and Tampax
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Any time, anywhere, Tampax is the
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RADIO
MIRROR

JULY, 1957

MIDWEST EDITION

VOL. 48, NO. 2

Ann Higginbotham, Editorial Director

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

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

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 8

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 10

Ahoy, My Mate! (Robert Shaw) by Jennifer Bourke Shaw 18

Jack Imel From Indiana by Maurine Remenih 21

The "Dolly" Princess (Annette Funicello) by Gordon Budge 30

The Crosby Clan From Spokane by Maxine Arnold 34

Two Weeks With Play (Paul Winchell and Jerry Mahoney) 38

The Girl Tommy Sands Marries by Eunice Field 40

Families Are Fun (Bud Collyer) by Mary Temple 44

All the Things You Are (Rosemary Rice) by Frances Kish 46

Hillbilly Hero (Andy Griffith) by Fredda Balling 50

My 13 Years With Jerry Lewis by Patti Lewis 52

The Rock Rolls 'Round the World (Bill Haley and His

Comets) .by Helen Bolstad 54

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

Stars in the Daytime — Your CBS Radio Favorites 24

Faith Had the Answer (Bill Lundigan) by Dora Albert 28

Sing and Be Happy (Betty Johnson) by Martin Cohen 32

YOUR LOCAL STATION

A Weekend With Monitor (NBC) 4

Of Many Words (WBC, CBS, CBS-TV) 12

Inside New York (CBS-TV, WCBS) 14

Come Into My Kitchen (WFMJ, WFMJ-TV) 15

Deejay on the Keys ( WTCN) 58

The Personal Touch (KHOL-TV, KHPL-TV) 59

The Record Players: No Pumpkins, Please by Josh Brady 60

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 6

Information Booth 13

Movies on TV 16

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 63

Beauty: Under the Sun (Toni Campbell) by Harriet Segman 57

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 81

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 84

Cover portrait of Tommy Sands by Paul W. Bailey, courtesy of NBC

BUY YOUR AUGUST ISSUE EARLY

ON SALE JULY 5

Invented by a doctor—
now used by millions of women

_ _ PUBLISHED MONTHLY by Macfadden

.\,,D* Publications, Inc.. New York, N. Y.

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RE-ENTERED as Second-Class Matter, June 28, 1954.
at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.. under the Act of
March 3. 1S79. Authorized as Second Class mail, P.O.
Dcpt., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1957 by Mac-
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ternational Copyright Convention. All rights reserved
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registered in U.S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A.
by Art Color Printing Company.
. Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group.

Mitkt^

Years from now, passers-by will note their initials

in the birch tree's bark. And it looks as if this love affair

would last even longer. Young as they are, both Pat

and Andy have learned that unpleasant breath is a

barrier to romance. When they whisper "sweet nothings,"

you may be sure they'll stay sweet, thanks to

the security that gargling with Listerine Antiseptic brings.

The most common cause of bad breath is
germs . . . Listerine kills germs by millions

The most common cause of bad breath
by far is germs that ferment the protein always
present in the mouth. Listerine Antiseptic kills
germs instantly ... by millions.

Tooth paste can't kill germs
the way Listerine does

Tooth paste can't kill germs the way
Listerine does, because no tooth
paste is antiseptic. Listerine IS
antiseptic. That's why Listerine
stops bad breath four times
better than tooth paste.
Gargle Listerine full-strength,
morning and night.

LISTERINE

the most widely

used antiseptic

in the world.

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LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC stops bad breath 4 times better than tooth paste

Icencl with

IVIOIMIl

Here's Henry Morgan with Miss Monitor
(Tedi Thurman), Melody Girl Lorna Lynn.

Two years ago this June, an elec-
tronic "bleep" introduced Monitor to
America. NBC's weekend radio serv-
ice, it was a new and flexible concept
that offered something of everything
and for everybody. There are music,
news and sports, big names and brief
skits, visits to night clubs and jaunts
around the world. It has Dave Garro-
way to be at "peace" with the world,
Henry Morgan to satirize it, Bob Elliott
and Ray Goulding to poke fun at it, an
army of on-the-go "communicators"
to report on it — and recently welcomed
Fibber McGee and Molly to be at home
with it. With all of this, it's also the
longest program on the air. Monitor
warms up Friday from 8 to 10 P.M.,
then settles down for a siege from 8 A.M.
to midnight, Saturday and Sunday.

Man of Today, Dove Garroway is the Sunday evening "communicator,"
a low-pressure host who's at peace with everybody on the Monitor globe.

Monitor's idea paid off, cashed in on
"counterfeiting" by Bob (right) and Ray.

Glamour: Fitzgerald Smith party-hops to interview two
blondes, Monique Van Vooren and Jayne Mansfield.

Travel: George Folster, NBC correspondent in Tokyo, visits
the famous Sinza shopping district for an on-the-spot report.

£§8'

M.L1T0 PARK €

195?

TOSOM, AUE.

Exclusive: Dick Jennings flew to and from Paris for
first interview with Ingrid Bergman on her U.S. visit.

Sports: Monitor's a winner in the coverage of champions. In
Arizona, there's a run-for-the-money named for the program.

Stars: Toes of the "Nose," Jimmy
Durante, were heard coast to coast.

Bavaria: Exec Producer Al Capstaff
looses a Radio Free Europe balloon.

Sounds: Helen Hall listens to the Duffy
Square pigeons in New York's midtown.

PERIODIC PAIN

Don't let the calendar make a
slave of you, Betty! Just take a
Midol tablet with a glass of water
. . . that's all. Midol brings faster
and more complete relief from
menstrual pain-it relieves
cramps, eases headache and
chases the "blues."

"WHAT WOMEN WANT TO KNOW"

a 24-page book explaining menstruation
is yours, FREE. Write Dep't B-77, Box 280,

New York 18, N. Y. (Sent in plain wrapper).

TV.

RADIO
MIRROR

Harmony doesn't always prevail between political advisers Paul Douglas and
Darren McGavin and mayor Bob, who loves Vera Miles more than his career.

TV favorites on your theater screen

Beau James

paramount; vistavision, technicolor
On TV, Bob Hope usually sticks to his
familiar stint as the brash but likeable
clown. Now, on the theater screens, he
steps into the guise of Jimmy Walker,
New York mayor who symbolized the
spirit of the Jazz Age, when a peppy per-
sonality seemed more important than pri-
vate morality or political integrity. Pulling
no punches, Bob makes the colorful mayor
a pitifully human and very endearing
character. Playing respectively wife and
girl friend, Alexis Smith and Vera Miles
give strength to the roles of the women
in Bob's life. Among his business pals,
tough Paul Douglas and high-minded Dar-
ren McGavin are nicely contrasted. To
bring an era back to life, movie veteran
Walter Catlett is seen as Al Smith, while
Jimmy Durante and George Jessel cheer-
fully portray their own younger selves.

The Lonely Man

paramount; vistavision
Winner of the "best acting" Emmy for his
work in the TV play "Requiem for a
Heavyweight," Jack Palance now draws a

strong movie role in an unusual Western.
Circumstances have brought him a repu-
tation as a killer, yet he returns to his
home town — and to the grown son who
bitterly hates him. This part offers equally
rich opportunity for TV grad Anthony
Perkins. Also with TV experience, Elaine
Aiken makes a promising film debut as
the sensible, courageous girl loved by both
father and son. Here's all the action and
gunplay you expect of a good horse opera,
but there's also a bonus, in the picture's
serious treatment of complex relation-
ships between human beings.

The Buster Keaton Story

PARAMOUNT, VrSTAVISION

Like Bob Hope, Donald O'Connor is
currently dropping his own familiar per-
sonality to take on the mannerisms of
another celebrity. Usually adept at mug-
ging, Don goes deadpan to play the sober-
faced comic of silent-film days. As the
vaudeville-bred Keaton, Don breaks into
movies, scores a hit as a slapstick star,
but has trouble with dames and the bottle.
On the romantic side, it takes him a while
to realize that the loyal love of working

By JANET GRAVES

girl Ann Blyth is worth more than the
flamboyant charms of glamour doll Rhonda
Fleming.

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

This Could Be the Night (M-G-M; Cine-
maScope) : Sparkling romantic comedy
tosses schoolteacher Jean Simmons into the
rakish night-club world, where she's pur-
sued by young Anthony Franciosa and
guarded by boss Paul Douglas. Dashes of
song and dance add merriment.

12 Angry Men (U.A.) : Based on a TV
play, this vigorous, thought-provoking film
pits Henry Fonda against eleven fellow
jurors, all swayed by personal feelings in
their fight over a murder-trial verdict. Fine
character portrayals plus the excitement
of a whodunit.

The Bachelor Party (U.A.) : Also drawn
from a TV drama (by Paddy Chayefsky,
author of "Marty"), this close-up of ordi-
nary New Yorkers is notable for its frank-
ness and sympathetic acting. A night on
the town reveals the domestic problems
of Don Murray and his office pals, married
or not.

'm&$l

Re-enacting a Keaton scene, Donald
O'Connor nobly plays heroic mariner.

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Economical 29i, 59i, $1.

WHAT'S NEW ON

By PETER ABBOTT

Comic Ernie Kovacs, now turned author, commiserates with wife Edie Adams.
Her shoes pinch, now that she's a barefoot star on Broadway in "Li'l Abner."

Virginia's Gene Vincent is a solid
citizen in the rock 'n' roll world.

Squeeze Gently: Sonny James's most
expensive item on the road is his long
distance phone calls to his best gal in
Dallas. . . . TV execs eating their
hearts out trying to lure Cary Grant
into television. . . . Como still refuses
to let Person To Person come into his
home, so resistant is Perry to exposing
his family. . . . Percy Faith takes a
July vacation into Canada, land of his
birth. . . . An actor, big radio and TV
serial star, involved in a real off-stage
drama as he and his wife try to hold
on to adopted child. . . . Lovely Fran-
ces Wyatt, who came out of the chorus
to solo on Firestone last month, adds
her soprano to a great fun album,
"Here Comes the Showboat," pre-
sented by Epic with "thrills and sur-
prises for all the family." . . . When
Tic Tac Dough adds a night-time
stanza, Jack Barry will step aside for
another emcee. He's tired. . . . Edie
Adams, whom you'll be seeing a lot
of on TV this summer, is spreading
at the lowest extremes. Her feet are
getting bigger from dashing about
barefoot in the Broadway produc-
tion of "Li'l Abner."

Secret Sweethearts: In spite of de-
nials, our Elvis is quite serious about
his little gal back in Memphis. But
his brain-trust share the same golden
jitters that is scaring the ten-percent
out of most managers of bachelor
stars. They are convinced that teen-
age females account for as much as

75 percent of their success and they
fear that sudden marriage or an-
nouncement of a serious romance will
murder their appeal. Hipsters in the
recording biz trace Eddie Fisher's
drop in popularity to the day he
married Debbie. Prior to the wedding,
his recordings sold in the millions.
The exception, of course, is Pat Boone,
with a wife and three kids. The only
explanation for this is that Pat came
into the business with the family.
Anyway, right or wrong, our young
glamorous males are in a sweat be-
cause most of them are truly in love
and ready for marriage. About the
only young singer who hasn't a secret
sweetheart is handsome Tommy
Sands, but he's so shy and sincere
that he'll probably get picked off
first.

Lotsa Gossip: Pretty Polly Bergen
and husband Freddie Fields hoping to
adopt a child this summer. . . . Whis-
perings that the Pat Boones may
multiply again. Pat and Shirley make
no secret of the fact that they would
love to have a little boy. . . . Snooky
Lanson may wind up at ABC. . . .
Bishop Sheen wants to quit his TV
show. Why? . . . Tell the kids Rin
Tin Tin has been renewed for two
more years of adventures.

Shelter for the Stars: Nanette Fa-
bray, visiting Manhattan, noted that
she and new groom, Ranald Mac-
Dougall, have bought a tract of shore
land at Newport Beach, just an hour's
ride from Hollywood studios. They
will build a home to their own specifi-
cations. Since Rannie is a writer and
needs quiet, and since Nan is a singer
and breaks quiet, they have decided
to build their workrooms at opposite
ends of the house. . . . Rosemary
Prinz, lovely Penny of As The World
Turns, has moved into her new ranch
house in Nyack, N. Y. . . . Pity, pity
Hal and Candy March. They gave up
parties and weekend invitations to
house-hunt this past year. They were
out looking in rain, snow and sleet.
Finally, up in Westchester, they found
just the house. Fell in love with it.
And it was for sale. The sale was
ready to go through, when illness
struck in the home of the owner.
Now the deal has been postponed in-
definitely. "But, with the new baby,
we've just got to get out of the apart-
ment," Hal says. "With Candy, the
two kids, the baby, the maid and little
bit of space I take up, there's hardly
room to move. We'll just have to rent
a house." . . . And speaking of tem-
porary shelter, Scott Forbes (Jim
Bowie) reports being a bit shaken

For What's New On The West Coast, See Page MO

THE EAST COAST

Chorus gal with Voice Of Firestone,
Frances Wyatt is a solo star, too.

■ ■

Western star Scott Forbes, who's often joined on Jim Bowie by his wife,
Jeanne Moody, came East to find the wildest — a bedroom-full of Presley pix.

Sweet V lovely Martha Wright gave
her newborn her husband's nickname.

during his Manhattan stopover. Scott
and his actress-wife Jeanne Moody
stayed with Jeanne's sister and her
family. Jeanne's niece, thirteen-year-
old Diane, gave up her bedroom to
the Forbes. Scott says, "It was the
strangest feeling, waking in Diane's
bedroom. The walls are covered with
Presley pictures."

B-I-Bickey-Bi, Go, Man, Go: Capi-
tol's gold-record holder, Gene Vin-
cent, who rocks like Elvis useter, kind
of surprised Manhattan girlies. They
expected him to be as wild as his
compositions ("B-I-Bickey-Bi, Bo-
Bo-Go," "Be-Bop-A-Lula"), but Gene
turned out to be softspoken and reti-
cent. The Virginian came into the
city still favoring his bad leg, broken
when he drove his motorcycle into a
tree. Norfolk doctors want him to
give up the two-wheeler, but it's his
special fun. Medics couldn't even keep
him in bed long enough to heal the

break properly. Twice he got up to
rock against their orders. . . . Please
note that a Columbia University psy-
chiatrist describes rock 'n' roll as a
"contagious epidemic of daricy fury"
that could possibly sweep the coun-
try, ending in world chaos — except
that it's not crazy, just a craze, he
hopes, he hopes. . . . And Columbia
U.'s most famous teacher and newly-
wed, Charlie Van Doren, goes on a
$50,000 annual retainer with NBC as
educational advisor. The fee is ten
times what he makes teaching.

Call Out the Head Doctors: We've
mentioned before that the TV net-
works will be barking sixshooters like
mad next season. A whole posse of
adult shoot-em-ups are in the works.
That's only part of it. There'll also be
an onslaught of crime. Martin Kane,
Perry Mason and a slew of sleuths
come on en masse. But that's not all.
(Continued on page 79)

Home for Nanette Fabray and Ran-
ald MacDougall has two workrooms.

WHAT'S NEW ON

New wife for Danny Thomas — on
TV, that is — is pretty Marjorie Lord.

Groucho insists he won't eat Bob
Cobb's hat — the Brown Derby.

Wise investments mean Welk and
Myron Floren earn champagne.

By BUD G00DE

Traveling: Vacation time will take
Tennessee Ernie Ford and wife through
the New England states. . . . George
Gobel goes to ye jolly olde England on
a combination business-pleasure trip.
George will be present at the premiere
of RKO's "I Married a Woman," with
Diana Dors. George's young son,
Gregg, bought his Dad a monocle as a
gag gift for the trip. Or was it to help
George see Diana better? . . . Another
European camera clicker this summer
will be Lawrence Welk, who has uh-
one, uh-two weeks to tour the Con-
tinent. . . . With a flip of his cigar,
Groucho says about his vacation from
his NBC-TV show, "For three months
I know I'm not going to have to eat
in the Brown Derby at least one night
a week (show time). The show doesn't
tire me out . . . but I need a vacation
from Bob Cobb's cooking. You can
only eat so many old brown derbies."
. . . On their vacation, Desi and Lucy
moved into their new $11,000,000 home
in Palm Springs — Desi's Western Hills
Hotel. After a two-week stay, Lucy
agreed that Desi's service was pretty
good, saying, "But how come I can't
get him to do anything around the
house?" . . . Eddie Fisher and Debbie
took the baby on their Las Vegas jun-
ket. Eddie wowed 'em at the Tropicana.
Eyeful Elaine Dunn, also in the act,
will be featured on Eddie's TV show in
the fall. . . . Gale Storm, who has
traveled everywhere in the world on
Stage 1 in her Hal Roach series, Oh!
Susanna, has gone to Colorado Springs
for husband Lee Bonnell's insurance
convention.

The Shape of Things : Not-so-ama-
teur-painter, Jack Bailey, is teaching
art to the pretty Queen For A Day
models. Jack uses oranges, apples and
vases in still-life form to teach princi-
ples of composition, shape and form.
. . . Pat Boone's wife, Shirley, who has
been resting flat on her back under a
doctor's care since their last baby was
born, is now 90% recovered. A few
weeks ago, Pat went out on a personal
appearance tour, was gone 10 days.
Since their marriage four years ago,
this was the longest they had ever been
apart. . . . Jack Webb dating Jackie
Loughery, seen on TV in the Judge
Roy Bean series and the lead in his
new film, "The D.I." . . . Jack Carson
and Lola Albright together-apart again.
. . . Molly Bee introduced Tommy Sands
to her priest, Father Michael, at Holly-
wood's Blessed Sacrament. . . . And
speaking of romance: Danny Thomas
"weds" Marjorie Lord, not for life, just
five years or more with options. Mar-
jorie is Danny's new "wife" on Make
Room For Daddy.

For What's New On The East Coast, See Page 8

Books 'n' Bikes: This shuttle-flying
back and forth makes Hollywood and
New York like the two opposite ends
of a yoyo. Ernie Kovacs' wife, Edie
Adams, flew in for one night and then
back again to her Broadway play, "Li'l
Abner." Kovacs is in Hollywood star-
ring in Columbia's "The Mad Ball."
With Ernie, everything is a "mad ball."
During his last two-week vacation, he
wrote a novel, "Zoomar," a close-up of
the television industry. "Actually," says
Ernie, "the book took only thirteen days
to write. I spent the rest of the time
changing ribbons. Book will be pub-
lished by Doubleday. What's the book
about? Well, it's a different book about
the entertainment industry — the mar-
ried couple end up with each other." . . .
Clint Walker of ABC-TV's Cheyenne,
his wife Verna, and their six-year-old
daughter, Valerie, can be seen early
mornings flying along the dirt roads
near their North Hollywood home. On
horseback? No. On the latest in Italian
motor scooters. Clint's newest hobby is
the trim two-wheeler. He has "his" and
"her" models, one for wife Verna and
one for himself. Daughter Valerie rides
in a wire basket seat on the handlebars.
The Old West was never like this.

Casting: Beautiful, talented teenager
Margaret O'Brien, beginning her new
TV series, Maggie, . . . Hal March be-
gins shooting his picture, "Hear Me
Good," in mid-June. . . . Dorothy Shay,
the mad Manhattan Hillbilly, and
Michael Wilding, the veddy proper
Britisher, will share TV panel show,
What's The Occasion? . . . Charles
Bickford has the lead in Boots And
Saddles, a post-Civil War cavalry
series. . . . Don't be surprised if Tommy
Sands subs for Tennessee Ernie on his
Thursday-night Ford Show. . . . John
Payne in the Restless Gun series on
NBC -TV. . . . Joan Caulfield in Sally
on CBS -TV. . . . Bette Davis to star in
and host a dramatic series. . . . And
casting in reverse: Gordon MacRae
moves behind the Lux Video cameras
part of next season to assume direc-
torial chores. . . . Finally, Jeff Donnell
closes out the George Gobel season with
her last guest appearance. We hope this
means Jeff will be on the first show
when George and Eddie Fisher join
hands in the fall.

Bing Wings : Crosby has taken to fly-
ing. Bing has studiously ignored travel
by air before. No reason. On last trip
to Europe, he came and went by boat.
Now he has begun regularly reading
airplane magazines and the flying col-
umns in the newspapers, and recently
flew to a Las Vegas charity golf tourna-
ment. Maybe he's going to buy an air-
line. . . . Bing's youngest son, Lindsay,
in town for Easter vacation, called his

THE WEST COAST

Girls, girls, girls get in the act with Eddie Fisher at the Tropicana in Las
Vegas. Elaine Dunn (seen in center) will go on Eddie's TV show in the fall.

Dad on the M-G-M set of "Man on
Fire," asking if he and some friends
could visit. Bing said "Sure," calling
one of his assistants to look after
Linny and his pals. When Lin hit town
he called all of his old buddies to say
hello — and when he arrived on the
set, he was dragging twenty-five of
them along with him. Imagine the con-
sternation on Bing's face when he saw
the commissary lunch tag signed by his
assistant: "Twenty-six lunches, Lind-
say and friends. . . ."

Banjo-Eyes' Birthday: "I'm 26 years
older than Jack Benny," says Eddie
Cantor with a laugh. On April 22, Eddie
and his wife Ida drew their first Social
Security check— $323.40. The usually
confidential information was released
by Eddie to publicize the insurance
benefits of Social Security for all men
over age 65 (62, for women). Cantor,
who celebrated his 65th birthday last
January with an hour-long television
show, says, "My Social Security, and
yours, too, is just like any other in-
surance policy ... it pays off, and be-
believe me," says Banjo-Eyes, "I intend
to collect!"

Did You Know: That when Jack Webb
was in high school, he wrote poetry
. . . that Mercedes McCambridge al-
ways wanted to be a newspaper re-
porter . . . that George Brent breeds

race horses . . . that Edgar Bergen's
hobby is antique autos?

Postal Present: The Lennon Sisters'
Venice, California mailman, Jack Arter,
is their best buddy. The Lennons grew
up with Jack, who has delivered their
mail for the last thirteen years, whis-
tling while he did it. But during the
past few months, their fans had sent
so many letters and packages that poor
Jack could barely stagger up the front
steps, and was too out of wind to whis-
tle. So the girls invested in a present for
him — the largest mailbox they could
find — and, to save Jack steps, they
planted it next to the sidewalk. Thank
you, Jack is once again whistling.

Who's Breaking Records? Pat Boone's
"Why, Baby, Why?" over the million
mark. Pat has just bought $100,000
worth of real estate in Brentwood and
Palm Springs. . . . Tab Hunter started
taking singing lessons when he was 16.
It didn't pay off until recently, when his
two records, "Young Love" and "99
Ways," skyrocketed across the radio
and TV airways, bringing Tab a
quarter-of-a-million. . . . Breaking rec-
ords of a different sort, Climax!, on
CBS-TV, has just been signed through
1960; and Matinee Theater, brain-child
of producer Albert McCleery, has been
set through 1958 on NBC-TV. . . .
Tommy Sands' (Continued on page 75)

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OF MANY WORDS

If he has a hobby, Bergen says, it would be
sleuthing out literary facts and fallacies.

He rides a motorcycle, or falls back
on a bike — "figuratively," he insists.

Too happy for hobbies, says Bergen, "I find my satisfaction
in my work" — and with his wife Jean and sons Derek and Scott.

Address Bergen Evans in Chicago, the world of words, realm of ideas.

Teacher's dirty looks" don't bother Bergen Evans'
students — as long as they laugh at his jokes. Which
isn't hard. The jokes are funny. The wit was so
lively, in fact, that it bounded the Northwestern
University English professor into a coast-to-coast class.
Evans is still at work taking the pain out of grammar
and the bugaboos out of book learning. . . . On
radio, there is the man, the mind and the microphone
combining to deliver provocative "spoken" essays on
Of Many Things. Ranging from the nature of humor,
happiness or Hemingway to the new suburbia or the
old Machiavelli, it is heard on the Westinghouse Broad-
casting stations (WBZ-WBZA in Boston-Springfield,
KYW in Philadelphia, KDKA in Pittsburgh, WOWO
in Fort Wayne, KEX in Portland, WIND in
Chicago) and on New York City's Station WNYC. . . .
Bergen joins authors, lecturers and raconteurs on
The Last Word, seen Sunday at 3:30 P.M. on CBS-TV
and heard Saturday at 6:30 P.M. on CBS Radio.
The subject is usage and grammar, and, with Evans to
keep the arguments brewing, it's a stimulating
libation. Behind the scenes, Bergen's the man behind
the questions on $64,000 Question and Challenge. . . .
Born near Dayton, Ohio, Evans spent his boyhood
in England, where his doctor-father was in the
consular service. The elder Dr. Evans likes to tell of
how young Bergen would mumble in the London
streetcars until somebody asked him what he was
mumbling about. "Kipling," Bergen would answer,
then climb on the seat to declaim the rest of the
piece. . . . Author of "The Natural History of Nonsense,"
"The Spoor of Spooks," and a new "Dictionary of
American Usage," Bergen recalls that his initial
broadcasting adventure was unimpressive. When the
dean heard his audition record for a University radio
program, he suggested politely that Evans take a course
in remedial speech. But you can't keep an ebullient
man down. In 1949, Bergen joined the panel of
Majority Rules, then really made his mark on Down
You Go. "When I first went on the air, speech
students would approach me and tell me I had glottal
stop and such things," Bergen recounts. "When the
show succeeded, it was too bitter a blow for them."
. . . Bergen met his wife Jean when she, a Vassar grad,
was taking some extension courses — not Bergen's — at
Northwestern. They live with their two sons — Derek, 13,
and Scott, 11 — in suburban Northfield. Professes
the professor, "The besetting sin of my life is to
have a joke. It can be dangerous." It can also be fun.

information booth

Frank Lovejoy

Bull On Broadway

/ would like to know something about
Frank Lovejoy. A. S., Detroit, Mich.

It was a highly significant departure
that brought Frank Lovejoy down from
the Exchange boards of Wall Street to
the boards of Broadway prosceniums.
Frank first hit Broadway in 1934 via
Elmer Rice's "Judgment Day." The big
break had followed five years of prepara-
tion for the way of a Thespian, marked by
a stiff apprenticeship at the Brooklyn
Theater Mart, where he had served on
evenings free from runner duties along a
very depressed Wall Street. A short while
afterwards, a "Pursuit of Happiness"
touring company closed down abruptly in
Cincinnati — leaving Frank stranded. With
a knack for "turning a 'bear' into a
'bull,' " to use the brokerage vernacular,
he won a staff job at WLW. On his return
to New York, Frank found no lack of work.
His radio performances — which have in-
cluded starring roles in Gangbusters, Mr.
District Attorney, Boston Blackie and
numerous other mystery serials — now total
in excess of 5,000 separate network pro-
ductions. In 1940, he returned to Broad-
way in "The Snark Was a Bojum" — a
misleading title, it turned out, for the
play was a "turkey." But it did serve to
introduce Frank to a young stage and
radio actress, Joan Banks, whom he mar-
ried shortly after the play closed. They
have two children, Judith, now 12, and
Stephen, 9. . . . Frank is known to the
movie audiences, too, especially for his
roles in "Champion," "Julie" and "Stra-
tegic Air Command." For the past year,
he's been "Mike Barnett," private dick on
NBC-TV's Man Against Crime series, and
several other protagonists on Playhouse
90, Four Star Playhouse and Ford Theater
productions. He may star in a new TV
series come fall. Frank's often heard on
radio's Suspense and Family Theater
dramas, often co-starring with his wife. . . .
All told, it was no "walk up "he plank"
Frank elected some 20-odd years ago when
he strolled north to Broadway.

No Nonsense

The World History class at Massey Hill
High School has found programs like
NBC-TV's Bengal Lancers very helpful.
Could we have some information on Phil
Carey, who is Lt. Rhodes on that program?
J. B., Fayetteville, N. C.

Eugene Joseph Carey, known to TV
audiences as Lt. Michael Rhodes of the
77th Bengal Lancers, was always very
happy with his own given name, or, at
least, with the seemly contraction "Gene."
But his studio, Warner Bros., was adamant
and, in 1950, Gene Carey was rechristened,
albeit sans ceremony, Phil Carey, and
launched on "Operation Pacific," replete
with new moniker and new career. After
that, the sailing was smooth. Phil re-
members that stars can be very helpful to
a young actor. "Working with a Wayne or
a Cooper as I did those first few years, you
find out they're nice to you if you're nice
to work with. Those pros like to help, but
they don't like to put up with nonsense
when they're working." . . . Born in Hack-
ensack in 1925 (July 15th, to be exact),
Phil served in the Marines for three years
of World War II, planned to attend Notre
Dame on his G.I. allotment. Instead, while
awaiting admission there, he was lured by
a friend to Miami U., where he was so
successful in college dramatic productions
that he decided to chance the field. "I've
never regretted it," declares Phil. And he
never regretted Miami U., either, for it
was there he met art student Maureen
Peppier. Married in 1949, they now have
three children: Linda, almost 7, Jeffrey,
almost 6, and Lisa Ann, just over one.
They live in a ranch house in Sherman
Oaks, California, and Phil yearns for a
working-ranch life, some day. . . . With
a capacity for work matched only by his
enthusiasm, Phil Carey is a polished per-
former, self-aware and ambitious. He has
great hopes for the Lancers, but loves mov-
ies, too, is currently in "Wicked As They
Come" and "Shadow on the Window."
{Continued on page 85)

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Inside

Bill Leonard's beat is a city with as many stories as it has people.

New York is too big for a formula — and
so is a show about New York.
Taking it from there, Bill Leonard tells
tales on the tall city in Eye On New
York, seen on the CBS -TV network each
Saturday at 2 P.M. EDT, and on This Is New
York, heard on New York's Station
WCBS, Monday to Friday from 10 to
11 P.M. Earnest and outspoken, with
a warm smile and a shock of prematurely
iron-gray hair, Bill makes only one re-
striction. "I cover what interests me," he
says. "Who is so wise that they can
guess 'what the public wants'? I figure
people are not so very different." Bill may
delve into the city's history or reflect
on the future, as he did when Joe Louis
was to meet Ezzard Charles. Bill boxed
each of them to foretell the outcome.
Bill talks to men in the public eye and
men in the street. His series on West Side
slums and on graft in the housing de-
partment led to improvements in both
areas. "People said we shouldn't show
this," Bill says of his series on the mentally
retarded at Wassau. "But we did and
the world seemed to survive and maybe
learned something." Bill makes Monday-
morning headlines when, each Sunday
at 11:05 A.M., he's moderator on the
Let's Find Out panel on WCBS. . . . Born
in New York, Bill stayed for only three
weeks. Then he moved to Orange, New
Jersey, and, at age twelve, to Westport,
Connecticut. "I'm the only guy who ever
came from Westport," he grins. The early
passion of his life, and still a ruling
one, was "ham" radio. He does the Amateur
Radio Program for the Voice of America,
and holds the world's record for a single
operator, having made 842 contacts in
96 hours. ... It was Budd Schulberg,
then editor of the Dartmouth College
paper, who first got Bill interested in
journalism. Bill succeeded Budd as editor,
and, after graduation, went into the
newspaper business. Then came his own
radio production company and work
in the radio department of an advertising
agency. He began This Is New York
on December 31, 1945, when he changed
from Lieutenant Commander in the Navy
to civilian. . . . Bill's love affair with New
York isn't a blind one. He could live and
be happy elsewhere — although he isn't
over-anxious to try. "Everybody who wants
to amount to anything is trying to get to
New York," he grins, "and everybody
else is trying to get out!"

When an apartment, even a duplex,
is "home," a window is the "garden."

"I'm as good at cooking," says
Bill, "as I'm bad at gardening."

Ham radio's a passion. Bill's been to
100 countries by radio, 65 in person.

COME INTO
MY KITCHEN

To Marjorie Mariner, sharing
recipes over WFMJ-TV is just like
visiting over the back fence

Assistant "My Margaret" Hertok shares Marjorie's
love of cooking — be it muffins or more exotic fare.

At home, Marjorie tends to her mending, Janis to her
homework, Minola to training Irish setter Chet to "sit."
Janis likes to cook, too, perks up dishwashing with phone.

My only ambition," says Marjorie Mariner, "was to
get married." And Marjorie's career as a wife and
mother has always come first. That she's a television
star, too, on Station WFMJ-TV in Youngstown, Ohio, is
the icing atop her cake. "It's wonderful when a gal can
cook and talk and get paid for it," she laughs. . . . On
Kitchen Corner, seen each weekday from 1:15 to 1:45
P.M., she encourages a love for cooking and an aware-
ness of better food habits for better health. "And shar-
ing of recipes," says Marjorie, "is just like visiting over
the back fence." Each day, her "visit" is different.
Monday, it's seasonal cooking ideas; Tuesday's the day
for club ideas; Thursday, for special diets. On Wednes-
day and Friday, she invites a guest homemaker to
prepare her favorite recipe. Marjorie is also heard daily
on WFMJ Radio at 8: 45 A.M., when she joins Bob Jolly,
Bob Locke and Kathryn Leskosky on the Coffee An'
panel. . . . Marjorie's home has always been in Youngs-
town and her earliest recollection of public appearances
are times her mother, who wrote poems, lifted her over
the rostrum at church to "speak" them. Her interest in
cooking started early, too, and she baked her first cake

when she was just seven. She studied home economics
and nutrition at Ohio State and taught school for five
years. "Then I married the first love I ever had," says
Marjorie. "We had not dated for years and then we met
again after college and fell madly in love again, this
time for keeps." And so she married Minola Mariner,
a civil engineer in construction work. They have a son,
Joseph, who's a sophomore at Ohio Northern University,
where he's preparing to be a lawyer. Daughter Janis, a
senior at high school, wants to study journalism. The
Mariners' home is a remodeled farmhouse with ten
acres of land and three dogs. "Do they ever love what's
left over of my cooking," laughs Marjorie. . . . Her
broadcasting career began when Marjorie was asked to
judge some recipes in a contest on radio. This led to a
daily, five-minute show. "When TV started," she says,
"it seemed natural to do a cooking show." While teach-
ing nutrition classes for the American Red Cross, she
received what she considers her greatest compliment.
"Please send Marjorie," the women requested. "She's not
too smart and we can understand her and how she loves
to cook — just like us." Marjorie thinks that's just fine.

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showing this month

BERLIN CORRESPONDENT (RKO):
Mild World War II thriller casts Dana An-
drews as an American newsman who makes
like Superman in Nazi Germany, fooling the
Ostapo, rescuing sweetie Virginia Gilmore.

BILL OF DIVORCEMENT (RKO) : Mem-
orable acting by Katharine Hepburn and the
late John Barry more. As his daughter, she
finds her happiness threatened by his fight
with mental illness.

BORN TO KILL (RKO): Determinedly
tough crime story. Murderer Lawrence Tier-
ney snares himself a rich, innocent wife,
with the aid of equally hardboiled Claire
Trevor. Good acting, sordid plot.

DOCTOR TAKES A WIFE, THE (Co-
lumbia): Pleasantly dizzy comedy plants
bachelor Ray Milland and lady bachelor
Loretta Young in the same apartment. For
business reasons, they have to pretend they're
married. You guess what happens.

FOREVER AMBER (20th): As an ad-
venturess in 17th-century England, Linda
Darnell collects a variety of men, including
George Sanders, as King Charles II. But she
can't rapture her true love, seafaring Cornel
Wilde.

FURY AT FURNACE CREEK (20th):
Good, solid Western. Gambler Vic Mature
and Army officer Glenn Langan plot in dif-
ferent ways to save their dead father's good
name. Coleen Gray is Vic's girl.

GALLANT JOURNEY (Columbia): As a
little-known pioneer of aviation, Glenn Ford
does glider flights in the 1880's, beating the
Wright brothers into the air. Janet Blair's
his loyal wife.

GARDEN OF ALLAH (U.A.) : Colorful,
old-style love story of the desert, teaming
Marlene Dietrich with Charles Boyer, as a
renegade monk.

IN NAME ONLY (RKO): Strong, adult
treatment of a marital triangle. Cary Grant
is the well-meaning, suburban New York
husband; Kay Francis, his selfish wife; the
late Carole Lombard, a young widow who
truly loves him.

LODGER, THE (20th): The classic true
story of London's Jack the Ripper gets an
elegant film translation. The late Laird
Cregar plays the mad killer: Merle Oberon,
a potential victim; George Sanders, a Scot-
land Yard man.

MOSS ROSE (20th): Smooth murder mys-
tery, set in England. Social-climbing chorine
Peggy Cummins trails suspect Vic Mature to
a country estate where Ethel Barrymore holds
sway.

OUR WIFE (Columbia) : Frothy farce with
highly engaging players. Musician Melvyn
Douglas gets out of an alcoholic fog to find
romance with scientist Ruth Hussey. Ex-
wife Ellen Drew interferes.

TALL IN THE SADDLE (RKO): Vigor-
ous horse opera with a lively love interest.
Fighting for his inheritance, aided by pal
Gabby Hayes, John Wayne has time for
romance with rancher Ella Raines.

COOL

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Deborah and Penelope watch Bob as Dan Tempest, but they don't link this swashbuckler with their gentle dad.

Our neighbors at Hampstead Heath, a residential area
just outside of London, half expect Bob to come
home every night armed with cutlass and fierce
scowl. Instead, a tall, respectably dressed young man
strolls sedately up our walk to be greeted with shouts of
affection from our two little girls, Deborah, aged three,
and Penelope, who is two.

The wholly unwarlike gentleman is my husband, Rob-
ert Shaw. In the starring role of Dan Tempest in the
CBS-TV series, The Buccaneers, he captains the crew
of the pirate galleon, Sultana. He swings from the rig-
ging, knife in teeth, and generally operates in the midst
of ferocious violence. But always, he fights for a good
cause, the brave prototype of a seafaring Robin Hood.

Bob and I first met when both of us were touring with
the Old Vic company. I played fiery ingenues and he
called me his "red-haired vixen." . . . Bob actually en-
joys writing as much as acting, and one of his plays, "Off
the Mainland," was produced recently in London.
Brought up in Truro, very near the Cornish port of
Falmouth where most of the scenes for The Buccaneers
are filmed, Bob finds it quite natural to spend most of his
working days on a ship's deck. As for me, I plan to return
to the stage when our girls are older. Meanwhile, I'm
quite content to be both wife to Robert Shaw, a mild-
mannered and devoted husband and father, and mate to
Dan Tempest, a bold buccaneer. Either way, I hope he
never makes me walk the plank. He better not!

As buccaneer Dan Tempest,

he's swashbuckling; as my husband,

Robert Shaw, just s' wonderful !

By JENNIFER BOURKE SHAW

Perhaps I shouldn't reveal this, but Bob concocts
dishes I'm sure no pirate ever ate — much less cooked!

And what brave buccaneer ever batted at cricket or
lavished the loving care Bob does on our Rolls Royce?

As Dan Tempest, Bob spends most of his working days aboard
the Sultana. He grew up near by the port where it's docked.

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Lawrence Welk extended a welcoming hand — and a contract with his band — just as Jack's Navy duty ended.

} ' j | J j | fp 'I j J ||j Kj

IMEL from INDIANA

True to the best land-locked Hoosier

traditions, Jack joined the Navy-

to conquer the world on the Welk shows

By MAURINE REMENIH

Not many sailors make an overnight switch from
Navy anonymity to the center of a TV spotlight.
Julius La Rosa did it, some years ago. And
now comes Jack Imel, new marimba player and dancer
with the Lawrence Welk organization, on both the
Top Tunes And New Talent show on Monday nights, and
the "Champagne Music" hour on Saturday evenings.

Jack signed a contract with the Welk organization
last January 9— two days before the official termination
of his stretch in the Navy. It was a wonderful break
for Jack Imel. But the deal was hardly one-sided — the
Welk organization got, in Jack, a man who has been
preparing for twenty years for just the type of spot

Continued

Above, Jack shows son Greg his Navy "Oscars" and
photo from first appearance on Welk shows in 1957.
Below, he shows daughter Debbie "how high is up."

Norma and Jack were childhood sweethearts back in
Portland, Indiana, where both played in the school
band. They were wed in 1 95 1 , when Jack was just 1 9.

IMEL from INDIANA

(Continued)

which their big Monday and Saturday shows give him.

When you learn that Jack is only in his mid-twenties
now, it doesn't take advanced mathematics to figure he
was practically born a musician. That's what his mother
thought, back in Portland, Indiana, when she watched
her only child, as the four-year-old danced to the tunes
coming in on the radio. She sent him off to dancing
school, and saw to it that he took piano lessons. Then,
when Jack was about fifteen, his mother went to a
movie one night, and saw a young boy playing a
marimba. "That would be a good instrument for Jack
to try," she decided — and ordered one for him the very
next day.

That instrument has become as much a part of Jack
as his good right arm. He claims he'd as soon lose one
as the other. The marimba carried him through high
school, directed his course in the Navy, and now has
enabled him to hit a spot where he can assure his
family of a more-than-comfortable living. If he pats
the "vibes" (as he calls it) with an almost-personal
affection, it's understandable.

Taking lessons on the marimba wasn't the easiest
thing to do there in Portland, which had a population
of 10,000. There wasn't any teacher in town. There was,
however, a marimba instructor in Richmond, some fifty
miles away. So a compromise was effected. Both the
instructor and Jack drove to Marion, a town half-way
between. There, at the home of a girl who was also
studying marimba, Jack got his lessons.

He was an apt pupil, and in no time was playing for
school and club programs in Portland. Dorothy Durbin,
who had a booking agency in near-by Fort Wayne (and
who also started that other Hoosier, Herb Shriner, on
his way), got Jack some dates at lodge meetings and
conventions in near-by towns.

Jack's bookings became so heavy, in his last years
at high school, that it became slightly complicated, just
fitting them in with his school work. His folks would
pick him up after school, and they'd drive — usually some

"Navy wife" Norma followed where Jack's duty led. Greg was born at Great
Lakes Naval Hospital in 1953, Debbie was born in San Diego two years later.

fifty miles — to play at some Elks or Eagles lodge meeting.
Then, late at night, after the show was over, the Imels
would head back for Portland. There was one longer
trip, when Jack made it back to Portland just in time
for his first class in the morning! In all, Pop Imel drove
the family car about 100,000 miles, during Jack's years
in high school, just chauffeuring his offspring around to
his various appearances.

Jack realizes now that this was about the best "basic
training" any performer could get. At an early age,
he was trained, through these club dates, to be at ease

in front of an audience, and to be in control of himself
and his instrument.

Which is not to say that all those youthful public
appearances went smoothly, and without incident. There
was one horrible night when he was scheduled to play
for the Eagles Lodge in Richmond. He was given a big-
buildup type of introduction, and walked onstage toward
his waiting marimba. Only then did he discover he'd
left his hammers at home! And, in case you haven't no-
ticed, one just doesn't play a marimba without hammers
— those implements which look (Continued on page 66)

The Lawrence Welk Show is seen on ABC-TV, Sat., 9 to 10 P.M., sponsored by the Dodge Dealers of America. Lawrence Welk's Top Tunes And
New Talent is seen on ABC-TV, Mon., 9:30 to 10:30 P.M., for both Dodge and Plymouth. On ABC Radio, Lawrence Welk and his band are
heard Sat., at 10:05 P.M., once a week on ABC's Dancing Party, M-F, 9:30 P.M., also other times; see local papers. (All times given are EDT)

Colorful as their voices: Left to right — Teri Keane, Claire Niesen, Sandy Becker, Florence Freeman, and Claudia Morgan.

£%ctu&we{

FIRST COLOR PHOTOGRAPH EVER
TAKEN OF THE BELOVED, TALENTED
STARS OF ALL TEN CBS RADIO
DAYTIME DRAMATIC "SMASH HITS"

No theater on Broadway, not all Times Square
itself, could boast the fabulously long-run hits
represented. by these smiling stars — who hold the same
devoted audiences, day after day, while adding new
generations of listeners.

The average run of these current CBS Radio day-
time dramas is about eighteen years. The two young-
est celebrate their tenth anniversary this year. The
two oldest were premiered back in 1933, and their more
than 6,000 scripts (apiece!) are approximately the
equivalent of 350 full-length stage plays.

Into your homes every day come the fascinating characte

Jtellar quintet from five more dramas: Virginia Payne, Julie Stevens, Don MacLaughlin, Joan Tompkins, and Vivian Smolen.

For even the most successful Broadway hit, the cur-
tain must go down each night. But daytime dramas
grow and develop through the years, telling "what
happened next" to characters the audiences now know
and love. That's the secret of this hit-drama success
story: Well- written scripts about lives as real to us
as our own — superbly acted by people as warm and
true as our next-door neighbors.

The ten stars pictured here are best known for the
lives they live each day, over the magic microphone:
Teri Keane as The Second Mrs. Burton; Claire Niesen

as Mary Noble, Backstage Wife; Sandy Becker as
Young Dr. Malone; Florence Freeman in the title role
of Wendy Warren And The News; Claudia Morgan as
Carolyn Nelson in The Right To Happiness.

And, above: Virginia Payne — Ma Perkins herself;
Julie Stevens in the title role of The Romance Of
Helen Trent; Don MacLaughlin as Dr. Jim Brent in
The Road Of Life; Joan Tompkins — This Is Nora
Drake, in person; Vivian Smolen as Our Gal Sunday.

They're wonderful people in their own right, too, as
even thumbnail sketches of their lives will prove!

See Next Page

ayed by these radio "greats." Here are their personal stories

Stars in the daytime four CBS radio favorites

Colorful as their voices: Left to right-Ten Keone, Cloire NieSen, Sandy Becke, Flo,en< e IW

FIRST COLOR PHOTOGRAPH EVER
TAKEN OF THE BELOVED, TALENTED
STARS OF ALL TEN CBS RADIO
DAYTIME DRAMATIC "SMASH HITS"

man, and Claudia Morgan. IPellarqumtet from five more dramas: Virginia Payne, Julie Stevens, Don MacLaughlin, Joan Tompkins, and Vivian Smolen

^lo theater on Broadway, not all Times Square
■ ^ itself, could boast the fabulously long-run hits
represented by these smiling stars— who hold the same
devoted audiences, day after day, while adding new
generations of listeners.

t™ j averaSe ru« of these current CBS Radio day-
J^, i f"? ,s about eighteen years. The two young-
1 *ate their tenth anniversary this year. The
than fi ™nWere Premiered back in 1933, and their more
em/Ll ♦ Tl?^ (^ece!) are approximately the
equivalent of 350 full-length stage plays.

For even the most successful Broadway hit, the cur-
tain must go down each night. But daytime dramas
grow and develop through the years, telling "what
3pened next" to characters the audiences now know
*£ ,?; ,That's the secret of this hit-drama success
Moiy: well- written scripts about lives as real to us

i as our own— superbly acted by people as warm and
true as our next-door neighbors,
livt «,ten ftars P'otured here are best known for the

> Twfi?ey ve each day> over the magic microphone:
en ft-eane as The Second Mrs. Burton; Claire Niesen

as Mary Noble, Backstage Wife; Sandy Becker as
Young Dr. Malone; Florence Freeman in the title role
of Wendy Warren And The News; Claudia Morgan as
Carolyn Nelson in The Right To Happiness.

And, above: Virginia Payne— Ma Perkins herself;
Julie Stevens in the title role of The Romance Of
Helen Trent; Don MacLaughlin as Dr. Jim Brent in
The Road Of Life; Joan Tompkins— This Is Nora
Drake, in person; Vivian Smolen as Our Gal Sunday.

They're wonderful people in their own right, too, as
even thumbnail sketches of their lives will prove!

See Aext Page >

inciting cho

io "greats.'' Here are their personal stc

more than eight years, but she's been
the Backstage Wife of matinee-idol
Larry Noble (James Meighan) even
longer — ever since the drama moved
from Chicago to New York, in 1945.
Claire herself had moved to Man-
hattan from her native Phoenix,
Arizona, when she was 8. She danced
professionally during vacations, still
did so well scholastically that she was
valedictorian at her high-school
graduation. Acting was always her
first love, and she got her start in a
Shakespearean series on a local New
York station. Reversing the usual
procedure, Claire won her first
Broadway role as a result of TV
appearances. She's still very much a

back on Long Island — with Ruth, son
Curtis, older daughter Joyce and
younger daughter Annelle. . . .
Florence Freeman, who created the
title role in Wendy Warren And The
News, has the talent and training to
be a good journalist. But teaching is
the only career which ever side-
tracked her from acting. A native
New Yorker, Florence gave her first
recitation in kindergarten, won a
dramatics medal in high school —
then earned A.B. and MA. degrees
at Wells College and Columbia U.
She was teaching in Pearl River,
N. Y., when friends dared her to try
radio. She auditioned for a New
York station in earlv morning, was

Claire
Niesen

Sandy
Becker

Florence
Freeman

Claudia
Morgan

Singing has vied with acting as a
possible career for Teri Keane.
She was born in New York City,
where her mother — a leading colora-
tura from Budapest's Royal Opera
House — enrolled her at the Profes-
sional Children's School, thinking it
was for the offspring of busy show
people, rather than actual child per-
formers. Teri's talents were soon dis-
covered, and she made her stage
debut at 9 — by 19, she'd appeared in
two Broadway plays and three musi-
cals. She also got an early start in
radio, where she's best known today
as Terry in The Second Mrs. Burton
— a role she took over just this year
— and as Jocelyn in The Road Of
Life. Not so much taller than her
own six-year-old daughter Sharon,
Teri has won dancing contests, been
a featured singer at swank night
clubs, and still takes vocal lessons.
. . . Claire Niesen has been married
to popular actor Melville Ruick for

wife offstage, however, designs most
of her own chic wardrobe, enjoys
needlework — and gourmet-husband
Mel swears by (not at) her cooking.
.... Sandy Becker's father wanted
him to be a doctor, but Sandy didn't
achieve that status until he took over
as Young Dr. Malone on March 21,
1949 — the day before his own son
was born. Radio lured Sandy from
pre-medical studies at N.Y.U. in his
teens. Before that, he'd dabbled in
puppeteering and dramatics at school
in Elmhurst, on New York's Long
Island. Sandy made his mike debut
at a near-by station, was an experi-
enced announcer by the time he pur-
sued his calling to Charlotte, N.C.
There, he spotted his future wife —
and recognized her at first sight,
though pretty Ruth Venable took a
bit more persuading. They met in
June, eloped in July, had a church
wedding in August. Now, in his mid-
30's, Sandy shares a lovely home —

so successful they kept her working
until after midnight. Since then,
radio has claimed all her time — ex-
cept for her home and community
activities in near-by New Jersey.
Married to a clergyman, Florence
has two daughters, Judith and
Deana, now in college, and a seven-
year-old son, Leonard. . . . Claudia
Morgan — who has starred as Caro-
lyn in The Right To Happiness for
all but four of its eighteen years —
was born crown princess of a thea-
trical royal family. The birthplace
was New York but, by the time
Claudia was 6, she'd visited every
state of the union with her touring
parents. By 16, she'd played leading
lady to her own father, the late
Ralph Morgan, on Broadway, but re-
turned to private school after the
summer work-vacation. Following
graduation, she got good parts in
other plays "on her own" — including
the last drama ever directed by

Stars in the daytime — your CBS radio favorites

, (Continued)

David Belasco. Since then, she's been
in many a stage hit (her featured
role in Shaw's "The Apple Cart,"
last season, was her thirty-ninth on
Broadway), has been seen in most
of the leading summer theaters and
top TV playhouses. She's done some
movies and a lot of radio — where
working hours adjust better to those
of her husband, Kenneth Loane,
who's in real estate. . . . Virginia
Payne has never missed a perform-
ance, though she's been Ma Perkins
ever since the drama began in 1933
— in Cincinnati, Virginia's own birth-
place. She was only a slip of a girl
then, but she had a big, rich voice.
All her family were doctors or

gan in Chicago in 1933, but Julie's
been star since it moved to New
York in 1944). Julie was born Har-
riet Foote in St. Louis, where she
made her stage and radio debuts.
She toured to the Coast with a
Shakespearean troupe, landed a
lead at Pasadena Playhouse — -and a
contract in films. She's done both
movies and plays, but is happiest at
a Manhattan mike, just thirty miles
from home, husband and children.
Julie became Mrs. Charles Under-
bill (he was then a Navy officer, is
now a public-relations exec) the
same year she became Helen Trent.
. . . Don MacLaughlin was a doc-
tor's son, back in Webster, Iowa,

^ J*^ V

i ^^m\

Virginia
Payne

Julie
Stevens

Don
MacLaughlin

scientists, but her mother, a talented
amateur musician, taught her bits
of poetry as soon as she could talk.
Virginia made her radio debut on
WLW, while still a student. A star
pupil at Schuster-Martin School of
Drama, she also earned an A.B. and
M.A. from Cincinnati U. She studied
music at the Chicago Conservatory,
has been active in dramatic groups
wherever she lived, still does off-
Broadway and summer plays. Now
living in New York, Virginia spent
Ma Perkins' vacation last year doing
a job Ma could heartily enjoy — su-
pervising the building of a seaside
/cottage in Maine. . . . Julie Stevens
wouldn't desert The Romance Of
Helen Trent for anything — except
the birth of her babies. The first
ane, Nancy, was born in 1951. The
second, Sarah, was born last No-
vember. "Subbing" for Julie during
aiaternity leave was Virginia Clark,
e original Helen (the drama be-

but never thought of a medical
career for himself — until he became
Dr. Jim Brent in The Road Of Life.
Acting was his goal, though he took
a roundabout way to success. Don
did a variety of jobs, while attend-
ing Iowa Wesleyan, Northwestern,
Iowa U. and Arizona U. He made his
mike debut in Tucson, but tackled
many another trade — including a
stint at sea — before he found his
niche with the networks in New
York. Luck changed when he mar-
ried newspaper gal Mary Prugh.
Now he puts in a busy week, on both
radio and TV. Weekends, he makes
a beeline for the little Vermont town
where he and Mary have just the
home of which they'd dreamed for
teenagers Douglas and Janet and
younger son Britton. . . . Joan Tomp-
kins never trained to be a nurse,
though she's become very interested
in hospital work after ten years of
This Is Nora Drake. ■ Joan's has

always been a fine-arts family —
grandparents were composers and
painters, her father and mother
were professional singers, and the
latter coached amateur theatricals
after they retired to the suburbs.
Born in New York, reared in near-
by Mount Vernon, Joan spent sum-
mer vacations from school working
with the Mount Kisco Westchester
Playhouse, has since done Broad-
way dramas and toured as under-
study to Katharine Hepburn. Joan's
husband, Karl Swenson, is a well-
known actor on the airwaves, but
they've seldom appeared in the same
stories. The first — and perhaps still
the only — time they were cast as a

Joan
Tompkins

Vivian
Smolen

married couple was on nighttime TV.
. . . Vivian Smolen has been Our Gal
Sunday for all but seven of its twen-
ty years. Born in New York City,
where her father was a violinist and
conductor, she had a thorough train-
ing in music, dancing and drama.
While attending James Madison
High, in Brooklyn, she wrote to a
network for a children's-program
audition, was soon so busy on radio
she had to give up her plans for
college. She continued her study of
acting and singing, has now taken
up painting, with classes at the Mu-
seum of Modern Art. Her favorite
pastimes are traveling and collect-
ing art connected with the theater
and its history. Last year, Vivian
visited London and was shown the
sights by none other than Alastair
Duncan, who plays Sunday's hus-
band, Lord Henry — London being
the "home town" of both Alastair
and Lord Henry Brinthrope himself!

Heard on CBS Radio, Monday through Friday afternoons: Wendy Warren And The News, at 12 noon; Backstage Wife, 12:15;
The Romance Of Helen Trent, 12:30; Our Gal Sunday, 12:45; This Is Nora Drake, 1; Ma Perkins, 1:15; Young Dr. Malone,
1:30; The Road Of Life, 1:45; The Right To Happiness, 2; The Second Mrs. Burton, 2:15. (All times given here are EDT)

Unshaken belief brought Bill Lundigan
through darkest hours to brightest daivn

By DORA ALBERT

The sister at the receiving desk of the Salvatore de Mundi
Hospital in Rome took one look at the pale, thin
American woman who had arrived with her husband,
the tall, lanky, good-looking American, and her
heart was moved to pity. How pretty this one must have
been before she became so ill, she thought. How sad
that the professors had to send her here to die. (She always
thought of doctors as professors.) "We'll send you
to your room in a wheelchair," she said gently.

With a fleeting gasp of strength, the woman protested,
"I can walk." Her husband sat there dazed, as if the
world were coming to an end. He didn't seem to know
what words there were to say. {Continued on page 72)

There's humor, too, in the Lundigan home. Bill
and Rena had many a laugh together, before
they seriously contemplated matrimony. Today,
they teach Stacey to enjoy the here and now.

Three who have much to be thankful for — Bill, for one, can
never fully express his gratitude for having his lovely wife,
Rena, and a healthy, happy Stacey to hold close to his heart.

Bill Lundigan is the host on the hour-long Climax!, seen
every week over CBS-TV, Thursday, from 8:30 to 9:30
P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Chrysler Corporation,

THE
"DOLLY"

Always tiny and shy — but so talented,
too — Annette Funicello has become
a Disney star at the age of fourteen !

By GORDON BUDGE

A few years ago, the rustic two-bedroom
house on Ben Street in North Hollywood,
California, was known in the neighborhood simply
as "the Funicello place." Then, thanks to Joe
and Virginia's brood of three — Annette, Joey
and Mike — it became known as "the fun place."
Brown-eyed, curly-black-haired Annette, who
danced and sang all (Continued on page 64)

Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse Club is seen on ABC-TV, Mon.
thru Fri., 5 to 6 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Pert and lively today, on Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse Club,
Annette was once a truly timid little mouse — till her kinder-
garten teacher suggested that she study a musical instrument.

At 6, she could beat the drum for
everyone. Then her parents noticed
that Annette had too much rhythm.

At 10, she considered herself a "sec-
ond mother" to younger brother
Joey and their baby brother Mike.

At 12, she danced the "Swan Lake'
ballet — and set pointed toe on the
path which led to Disney stardom.

Letters delight her, and so do the
sweet-scented gifts from fans who
know that perfumes are her hobby.

\nnet+e, Daddy Joe (who's always called her "Dolly"), Joey, mama Virginia
jnd Mike were all slightly delirious about Daddy's birthday-gift convertible
—but it was Mike who almost lost his head, first time they put the top down!

The phone doesn't really turn her
life upside down — she sees her best
friends at the studio all day bag.

She began as gospel singer, still
doesn't think she's a glamour girl.

Charlie ©rean, her fiance and manager, wrote "1492," novelty
tune paired with "Little White Lies" on her new Bally recording.

^fimam/St

fma

Betty Johnson knows hard work hut also knows
how to lift a tired heart — including her own

By MARTIN COHEN

I hate to wear shoes," says Betty Johnson. "I can't wait
until I'm a star so I can do what I want. Now, some
of my friends say that I embarrass them — that I'm sweet but
corny. But I just like to be myself." Betty Johnson has
no intention of walking down Madison Avenue in bare feet.
But, on the other hand, she doesn't like to be told what
to do. She doesn't want to be made into something other than
what she is. Charlie Grean, Betty's fiance and manager,
remembers that, about three years ago — when his office first
began to represent Betty — they talked about sophisticating
her with a new hairdo, a new nose, and renaming her
to "Kim Something." Betty listened to the ideas and finally
said, "I want to be Betty Johnson and keep my own face.
This is what God gave me and I just want to be me."

Betty is a five-two blondeshell with beautiful blue-green
eyes that sputter like a fuse. She has (Continued on page 61)

Basically a homebody, she sews most of
her clothes and is an excellent cook, too.

the Crosby Clan

By MAXINE ARNOLD

The man in the uninhibited sport shirt got out of his
convertible and looked up and down Sharp Avenue,
casing the neighborhood for faces he'd known.
He turned into the walk of an old-fashioned white frame
house, whistling while he awaited the opening of a
door which had opened for him many times. . .

As Margaret Carroll laughingly described it later, "I had
on an old house coat. I was down on my knees,
scrubbing the kitchen floor, when the bell rang. I went
to the door — and there stood Bing."

"Hello, Margaret, what's new?" he said, picking up,
in typical fashion, where he'd left off some fifteen
years before. He'd just dropped by, he said. And added,
"I wanted to see the old neighborhood."

Sure, and Harry Lillis Crosby, Jr. — whose sentimental
heart belies the bland blue eyes and the casual, wig-
wagging left foot that accompanies him whenever he
sings — had come calling on the street where he'd lived.
Sharp Avenue, in "northside" Spokane. . . .

The leprechauns had taken very good care of him
since that day he'd rattled down the street in an old wreck
of a Ford with Al Rinker — Hollywood or bust! The
day the neighbors waved Kate Crosby's son goodbye
and Godspeed — and speculated that he was really
straining the luck of the Irish, if Bing thought that car
would ever make it. It was stripped of everything —
except the heart to get him there. . . .

Yet all that luck had been his. And more. His was
the voice of the people, and his the Americana success

Continued

Three of Washington's seven Crosby boys, in 1933:
Bob, Bing, and Everett (low man on the totem pole)
— who can't sing, but has his Irish wits about him.

Angelic, Bing looked as a Gon-
zaga High School grad— but
the Fathers had another word!

War time: Bing entertained
at Camp Pendleton and found
brother Bob in the Marines.

mm Spokane

Here, on Sharp Avenue, are
memories which will always spell
"home" for Bing and Bob

Proud moment — when Bob's mother and father came visiting
him during rehearsals of Bob's early radio show, Club 15.

Now living in the old Crosby home
in Spokane, Mrs. Margaret Higgins
watches "the boys" on her TV set.

The Sharp Avenue neighborhood is
filled with Crosby memories. Here's
Bob, at 2, with his Easter basket.

White now, the Crosby home was once
brown — but always bright with music
and laughter of frequent "clambakes."

For the boys, Sonzaga University
was favorite playground in runabout
days, "alma mater" in later years.

"St. Al's"— St. Aloysius Church-
was "soul mother" for young and
old of most families in community.

For the girls, it was Holy Names
Academy — with a big orchard in back
which youthful Crosbys often raided.

i :

Three of Washington's seven Crosby boys, in 1933:
Bob, Bing, and Everett (low man on the totem pole)
—who can't sing, but has his Irish wits about him.

the Crosby Claifrom Spokane

By MAXINE ARNOLD

As Margaret Carroll laughingly described it later, "I had
on an old house coat. I was down on my knees,
scrubbing the kitchen floor, when the bell rang. I went
to the door— and there stood Bing."

Yet all that luck had been his. And more. His was
the voice of the people, and his the Americana success

Here, on Sharp Avenue, are
memories which will always spell
"home" for Bing and Bob

Angelic, Bing looked as a Gon-
zaga High School grad— but
the Fathers had another word!

Proud moment — when Bob's mother and father came visiting
him during rehearsals of Bob's early radio show, Club 15.

The Sharp Avenue neighborhood is
filled with Crosby memories. Here's
Bob, at 2, with his Easter basket.

White now, the Crosby home was once
brown — but always bright with music
and laughter of frequent "clambakes."

i ]

War time: Bing entertoiW
at Camp Pendleton and f°ur"
brother Bob in the Man«<*

ror the boys, Gonzaga University
was favorite playground in runabout
"alma mater" in later years.

"St. Al's" — St. Aloysius Church —
was "soul mother" for young and
old of most families in community.

For the girls, it was Holy Names
Academy — with a big orchard in back
which youthful Crosbys often raided.

the Crosby Clan from Spokane

(Continued)

In 1928, Sharp Avenue was thrilled by news of Bing's
rising fame, as he toured with Whiteman. Above, "Rhythm
Boys" Al Rinker (left), Bing, and Harry Barris (right).

Later, neighbors followed the success story of Bob's own
band. Gil Rodin — playing sax in those days — is now pro-
ducer of the Award-winning Bob Crosby Show, on CBS-TV.

Home in triumph — sister Catherine, Mother, Dad, his
brother Edward J. Crosby and brother Larry were there
as Bing received honorary degree from Sonzaga in '46.

saga of all time. Many of those along Sharp Avenue
liked to think of the Crosbys as their own neighbor-
hood Cinderella story: "The way it all happened —
so suddenly . . . and the way they took it —
so beautifully." Even the skeptics took heart from
the fact that, however unlikely, it can happen here.

Here — two doors down from the Carrolls', in
an old two-storey gabled house with a wide
front porch — was where the whole story began.
Here Bing's future was molded, man and star.

Here, too, was fostered the sense of family —
the Irish wit and warmth — that was to make Bob
Crosby at home in the living room of all the
millions who watch his daily show on CBS-TV.
For it was here, in this large, old-fashioned frame
house, that George Robert Crosby made his own
first "personal appearance?'

The neighbors all agreed Bob was a pretty baby.
The Bradleys' daughter, Gladys, who lived next
door, thought him "the most beautiful baby
ever born." She was always asking Mrs. Crosby's
permission to take him over home with her. At
that time, Gladys Bradley was studying the violin,
and — though Bob Crosby was to rise to fame,
later on, directing a Dixieland band — at the age of
two months, he used to listen to her practicing on the
violin and laugh and coo. . . . (Continued on page 86 )

The Bob Crosby Show is seen over CBS-TV, Monday through
Friday, from 3 :30 to 4 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Rehearsals were on the beach. Rocky
Graziano guested on show, Florence
Chadwick kibitzed. Jerry's guard was
down as Rocky jawed him for splinters.
Paul was alert for tips from Florence.

Jerry didn't mind being the
low man on this totem pole.

Stone camel at Sahara Motel was fun.
So were Miami's lady motorcycle cops.

Florida was fun, and Jerry Mahoney had a chance to meet the palm
branch of his family tree. But, for Dorothy and Paul Winched, two weeks
was long enough to be away from their family — Stacy, 3, Stephanie, 10.

gal

■••-.■•■■

■■■-

'■-'-'.. w

the Girl Tommy Marries

Can you get a picture of the future

Mrs. Sands— comparing the favorite
dates of this dynamic young singer?

By EUNICE FIELD

A young man's mind — what a springtime world it is,
where romantic daydreams shoot up faster than
field flowers! And Tommy Sands, little more than
nineteen, is no exception. He, too, has already done
quite a lot of long wish-thinking on the subject of girls,
romance and even marriage.

And why not? It's a subject he hasn't been able to
avoid since he reached his middle teens and played the
lead in a high-school version (a very free version) of
Irving Berlin's "Annie Get Your Gun." In that musical
play, he sang the well-known ballad, "The Girl That
I Marry." This is a song Tommy has been called upon
to sing many times since. Yet, when the big question is
put to him, he flashes the mischievous grin that has
captivated a coast-to-coast audience and says crisply,
"I love that song, but only as a song. The girl it de-

Betty Moers, his "teen-
age crush" in high school.

Lynn Trosper, his first
true love — when he was 4.

scribes is exactly the kind of girl I've never dreamed
of marrying."

In the wake of his sensational hit on Kraft Television
Theater's "The Singin' Idol," and with his recording of
"Teen Age Crush" hurdling the million mark, Tommy
Sands has won the esteem of a multitude of fans for
keeping his head, his balance and his grasp on values
that few men are able to grasp until they are fully
matured. He shows this same pattern in the sensible way
he tackles that most intimate of wish -thoughts . . . the
girl, or type of girl, that he sees as his wife, helpmate,
mistress of the hearth and home, and mother of the chil-
dren he hopes to have someday.

"Listen," he says, "I was reading about a young actor.
He said he'd love to get a girl like his mother. That's
great — " and now the grin forms again and a twinkle

Continued ±.

Molly Bee — of Tennessee Ernie Ford show — his date for
this year's Oscar presentation (facing page). And Mrs.
Grace Sands (below), his mother — and all-time best gal!

Wherever he goes, fans of both sexes mob Tommy for his
autograph — and speculate about romance. Below, the cam-
era caught him in New York for The Steve Allen Show.

the Girl Tommy Marries...

(Continued)

Hollywood party, junior style: Sunlit lawn for setting,
ice cream for refreshments — and a serious discussion of
youthful problems for Molly Bee, Kathy Nolan and Tommy.

Poolside dancing, to a Sands recording: Molly says,
"He's real cool!" Tommy says, "She's the greatest!"
Judy Boutin and Ken Fredricks are the other dancers.

lights the depth of his steady dark eyes — "I love my
mother, too. I wouldn't change her for anything. She's
definitely what I want in a mother. I'm happy to say
she's an original. I mean she's herself at all times. And
there isn't a bit of the fake or copycat in her make-up.
But that's just the point. That's exactly what I want in
a wife. Above anything else, I want to. see that quality
of being herself. I feel uncomfortable with girls who
mimic actresses they admire, or strut around like some
model they saw on TV.

"I prefer the types who aren't afraid to make a few
rules of their own. I don't think I'd ever be happy with
a carbon copy, no matter how beautiful or attractive she
might be. How does Shakespeare put it? Be true to
yourself and then you can't be false to any man. . . .
That pretty much sums it up for me."

Tommy may not agree that "The Girl That I Marry"
must "wear satins and laces," but there is one phrase in
Irving Berlin's song which does strike home: "I'm a
sucker for perfume," Tommy admits. "A gal 'smelling of
cologne' gets me all fussed up." But, he adds, "I'm not
picky when it comes to clothes. I'd admire the real -life
Annie for wearing the clothes that suit her style. I think
she'd look ridiculous in satins and frills and bows. On

the other hand, some girls look awful in blue jeans. To
me, the best-dressed girl is the one who looks com-
fortable in what she's wearing — and that goes for
sweater and skirt or gown and mink stole.

"Another thing," he points out, "it's not the color of
her clothes or the fact that she's a blonde, redhead or
brunette that counts with me. I've walked down streets
where one type or another came by and, if I liked a
particular girl, this is what I'd be thinking, Boy, I bet
that one's a real sweet date. It just doesn't occur to me
to think, What a blonde, or What a redhead!

"Sometimes it's the smart, easy way she carries herself.
Sometimes it's her voice, which ripples like a guitar.
Sometimes it's the clothes, not because of the cut or
color, but because they go so fine with the girl. I was
eating in Frascati's on Sunset Boulevard the other day.
A woman in a simple black dress came through the door
and every man's eyes, including mine, jumped up to get
a look. She was the most striking woman in the place.

"A friend of mine," he smiles, "told me he flips over
the tall, high-fashion type. I said to him, 'But that's just
physical!' He jabbed me on the chin and joked, 'What
else?' Then he went into the details. She had to have
such and such measurements, (Continued on page 78)

Tommy Sands and Molly Bee both sing on The Tennessee Ernie Ford Show, as seen and heard over NBC-TV, M-F, from 2:30 to 3 P.M. EDT.

Parlor tricks, garden variety: Below, Tommy shows Molly he's a
balanced young man. Left to right, in background: Joe Maggio,
Kathy, Judy Nichols, Ken Miller, Ken Fredricks and Judy Boutin.

Ice cream for "Cindy," who really laps it up!
Then, clean-up time for Molly and Tommy — "just
good friends" — after the other guests have gone.

the Girl Tommy Marries.

(Continued)

Hollywood party, junior style: Sunlit lawn for setting,
ice cream for refreshments — and a serious discussion of
youthful problems for Molly Bee, Kathy Nolan and Tommy.

lights the depth of his steady dark eyes — "I love my
mother, too. I wouldn't change her for anything. She's
definitely what I want in a mother. I'm happy to say
she's an original. I mean she's herself at all times. And
there isn't a bit of the fake or copycat in her make-up.
But that's just the point. That's exactly what I want in
a wife. Above anything else, I want to see that quality
of being herself. I feel uncomfortable with girls who
mimic actresses they admire, or strut around like some
model they saw on TV.

Tommy may not agree that "The Girl That I Marry"
must "wear satins and laces," but there is one phrase in
Irving Berlin's song which does strike home "I'm a
sucker for perfume," Tommy admits. "A gal 'smelling of
cologne' gets me all fussed up." But, he adds "I'm not
picky when it comes to clothes. I'd admire the real-life
Annie for wearing the clothes that suit her style. I think
she'd look ridiculous in satins and frills and bows On

Tommy Sands and Molly Bee both sing on The Tennessee Ernie Ford

Poolside dancing, to a Sands recording: Molly says,
"He's real cool!" Tommy says, "She's the greatest!"
Judy Boutin and Ken Fredricks are the other dancers.

the other hand, some girls look awful in blue jeans. To
me, the best-dressed girl is the one who looks com-
fortable in what she's wearing— and that goes for
sweater and skirt or gown and mink stole.

Another thing," he points out, "it's not the color of
her clothes or the fact that she's a blonde, redhead or
brunette that counts with me. I've walked down streets
where one type or another came by and, if I liked a
particular girl, this is what I'd be thinking, Boy, I bet
that one's a real sweet date. It just doesn't occur to roe
totoink, What a blonde, or What a redhead! .

Sometimes it's the smart, easy way she carries herself.
Sometimes it's her voice, which ripples like a guitar-
Sometimes it's the clothes, not because of the cut or
color, but because they go so fine with the girl. I ?<*
eating in Frascati's on Sunset Boulevard the other day.
A woman in a simple black dress came through the door
and every man's eyes, including mine, jumped up to get
a look. She was the most striking woman in the place'
t, 7 ,f,rle"d °f mine." he smiles, "told me he flips over
the tall high-fashion type. I said to him, -But that's jorf
fet He jabbed me on the chin arid joked, 'Wna*
!,,! J h" ¥ went mt° Ae details. She had to have
such and such measurements. (Continued on page "*'

Show, as seen and heard over NBC-TV, M-F, from 2:30 to 3 P

FAMILIES are FUN

For Bud Collyer, that includes his contestants on Beat The Clock
and To Tell The Truth, as well as his wife and youngsters at home

Their home has the deepest of meanings for Bud and Marian Collyer.
For them, it's filled with memories of children growing up . . . and the
menagerie which happy children gather around them as they grow —
pets from poodles to parakeets, from alley cats to crested canaries!

By MARY TEMPLE

After years of asking questions and
posing problems on a variety of
TV and radio audience-participation
programs (presently, To Tell The Truth
and Beat The Clock, over CBS-TV),
Bud Collyer still thinks people are ex-
citing, interesting, wonderful. Good
winners, and just as good losers. Will-
ing to try their hardest in competition,
but able to laugh at themselves and
their failures. Rich in their sense of
fun and capacity for enjoyment.

It is this sense of fun, this enjoy-
ment of things, (Continued on page 80)

Bud Collyer emcees Beat The Clock, CBS-TV,
Fri., 7:30 P.M. EDT, for Hazel Bishop, Inc.
—and To Tell The Truth, CBS-TV, Tues., 9
P.M. EDT, for Pharmaceuticals, Inc. (Geritol)

With Marian at the piano, and choir-
singer Cynthia stifling a giggle, Bud
teaches Mike to play both guitar and
banjo as relaxation from mathematics.

To the Collyers, "teenagers" are really "young adults" — Mike, Cynthia and Pat prove they are right.
Pat's a gifted pianist, but concentrates primarily on getting a well-rounded education at college . . .
Cynthia plans on special art training, after finishing high school . . . Mike's young heart is already set
on a career in aero-dynamics. They can always count on warm encouragement from Bud and Marian.

r^x

Mr. and Mrs. is the name: Rosemary and Jack Merrell wed just four
weeks after they met — "My family thought he was wonderful. So did I!"

Rosemary Rice's personality blends many lives . . .

as actress ... as physician's daughter, in

Young Dr. Malone . . . and as Jack MerrelPs bride

By FRANCES KISH

A blue-eyed blonde with honey-smooth
hair — and a glowing "brunette" kind
of personality — is a happy young New
Jersey housewife who loves her home,
loves to keep it polished up, loves to cook.
She is also an eighteen-year-old named
Jill, daughter of Young Dr. Malone, the
beloved physician. For years, too, she has
been Mama's elder daughter, Katrin, now
grown up to an early widowhood.

This business of being three people
hasn't been one bit upsetting to Rose-
mary, but interesting — and fun. She's, en-
joyed being all three. As Jill, that modem
miss, she was at one time rebellious and

Continued w

Homemaking — every waking minute. "Rosie"
waters plants as Jack reads before bedtime.

wtkaJatftiam

>.-/ ..^ > .

Welcome! "I love our house so much that I make a tour every morning before I leave," Rosemary admits.

She plays drama, Jack plays golf. He hasn't tackled the air- The old-timers had a wheel for it, but a modern housewife

waves, but she'd like to keep up with him on the fairways. still finds a husband's strong arms handy for winding yarn.

■I

Rosemary claims she's "only a
fair musician," but her accor-
dion proudly bears her name —
and Jack gave her the elegant
baby grand as a birthday gift.

(Continued)

at odds with Dr. Malone's second wife, Tracey, but now
a warm understanding and friendship exists between
them. As Katrin, she had a happy childhood in San
Francisco, married, and lost her husband during World
War I — the time period recently covered in Mama.

As Rosemary Rice Merrell — married to management
consultant Jack Merrell since July 3, 1954— she is the sum
of these two other personalities added to her own. Young
and gay and enthusiastic, like Jill. Gentle, sympathetic,
and mature beyond her years, like Katrin. Honest, di-
rect, frank, poised. In short, the sum of all the things
that life has taught Rosemary Rice.

"Rosie," as everyone now calls her (though her family
called her "Roses" and she likes that better, if there must
be a nickname), can thank her acting career for bringing
romance and love into her life. An old school friend and
her husband have always been enthusiastic fans of Rose-

mary's, listening and watching whenever they could.
The husband kept saying that he knew someone who
would like Rosemary — and whom he was sure Rosemary
would like — but he hadn't seen the man for a while and
maybe he'd married in the meantime. Rosemary didn't
think much about the whole thing, anyhow. She had a
lot of beaus, and no one had ever "arranged" anything
for her that had turned out to be romance. So she
laughed it off.

One day, the friends asked Rosemary for dinner at
the country club and also invited the man — who was not
married, had never particularly noticed Rosie on tele-
vision or listened to her on radio, but now decided he
must have been missing something rather special. "Jack
doesn't like me to tell this, because it might sound a
little foolish," Rosemary confesses, "but we both fell in
love that fast and were married (Continued on page 70)

Rosemary Rice is Jill Malone in Young Dr. Malone. heard on CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, 1 :30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Above, at the snack bar, Rosemary fills the
"orders" of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Whelan,
little Carol Pfister and Linda Whelan. Rosie
and Jack built three "fun rooms" in basement.

Ping-pong club meets downstairs, too, as the Merrells take on the Whelans
for a game, with Barbara Ann Whelan as referee. There's a third basement
room for barbecues, but in fine weather they prefer eating outdoors — left
to right, Cal Wenke, Barbara Ann, the Whelans, the Merrells, and Linda.

Above, at the snack bar, Rosemary fills the
"orders" of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Whelan,
ittle Carol Pfister and Linda Whelan. Rosie
and Jack built three "fun rooms" in basement.

(Continued)

mary's, listening and watching whenever they could.
The husband kept saying that he knew someone who
would like Rosemary — and whom he was sure Rosemary
would like— but he hadn't seen the man for a while and
maybe he'd married in the meantime. Rosemary didnt
think much about the whole thing, anyhow. She had a
lot of beaus, and no one had ever "arranged" anything
for her that had turned out to be romance. So she
laughed it off.

One day, the friends asked Rosemary for dinner at
the country club and also invited the man— who was not
married, had never particularly noticed Rosie on tele-
vision or listened to her on radio, but now decided be
must have been missing something rather special. "JacK
doesn't like me to tell this, because it might sound a
ittle foolish," Rosemary confesses, "but we both fell*
love that fast and were married (Continued on po9e 70'

Rosemary Rice is Jill Malone in Youne Dr. Malone \\pnrA ™ pr« d j- \x . , ■„

g "lone, heard on CBS Rad.o, Monday through Friday, 1 :30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship

HI LI-BILLY HERO

OfF-beat role in "A Face in the
Crowd" finds Andy in jail — where
Patricia Neal discovers his talent.

Pat, a roving radio reporter,
gives Andy a boost toward fame
— and a power which he misuses.

Fun between takes — for Jeff Best
(with the guitar), Harry Stradling,
director Elia Kazan, Andy and Pat.

Andy Griffith can never be just "a
face in the crowd." It's right on
the records that everyone's got time
for Andy, his songs and his sayings

By FREDDA BALLING

At first sight, Andy Griffith would appear to be con-
i stituted like a good gelatine dessert — all one color
and clear. Investigation, however, will disclose that his
personality pattern is one of shades and shadows, that
his flavor is various, and that contradiction is probably
his most obvious component.

He looks like an ex-blocking back, yet he has never
played football — though he did try basketball, without
inspiring the rules committee to raise the hoop or di-
minish its circumference. . . . He (Continued on page 68)

Now it's the Hollywood Hills for
Andy and his Barbara — the "Bob-
by" whose name once confused him!

Sea dream: "Always wanted a
boat," says Andy. "Finally, got
one — an eighteen-foot dinghy."

Above, Barbara and Andy at home.
Facing page, Barbara visits Andy
and Pat Neal on Warner Bros. lot.

■HHHHMMHHMM|

YEARS WITH JERRY

^S^-'

Lucky, heart-filling years !• —
though being married to a comedian
isn't always a laughing matter

Joining Jerry on tour, I try to make a home for him,
whether in backstage dressing rooms or hotels. On the
recent New York stay, we even had baby Scotty with us.

Playing the Palace, Jerry was right with his audience — they loved him! But cooling off after was more of a problem.

By PATTI LEWIS

Next October, Jerry and I will have been married
thirteen years. There have been times, I'll
admit, when it has seemed much, much longer
than a mere baker's dozen. But most of the time,
when I think back, my reaction is, "Could it have been
only thirteen years ago?" When you're happy,
time goes fast.

But, having been happy during those thirteen
years doesn't mean I've led a tranquil, peaceful, well-
ordered existence. Far from it. In fact, most of the
time it's been pretty frantic. But happy-frantic
and funny-frantic, and only rarely, now and then,
hes it been sad-frantic or mad-frantic.

There have been times, for instance, when I've been
up in the air. Quite literally, that is. I've logged
more flying time than Jerry has, in the last thirteen
years. There are moments now and then, after I
get on a) plane, when I have to stop and think
whether^ Tm headed for New (Continued on page 76)

The Jerry Lewis Show, seen on NBC-TV, Saturday, June 8, from 9
to 10 P.M. EDT, is being telecast in color and black-and-white.

At New York's Essex House, we had an apartment with a
tiny kitchen. Jerry had his favorite after-show snacks—
and Scofty had his favorite toys with him (below, right).

Back in the Pacific Palisades, we can relax and Behave
Like People. Our boys, left to right, are Gary — who looks
so much like Jerry; Ronnie-the "brain"; Scotty-the baby.

»m

British tour began in London's Dominion Theater, as 3,000 fans shouted: "We
want Bill!" — and then the curtain rose on Haley, his guitar, and His Comets.

William Haley and Mrs. Haley — as listed
by dignified Cunard Line — looked forward
to a sunny though brief vacation on board
the Queen Elisabeth, sailing for England.

fti ROCK ROUS

It was three cheers and a skyrocket

for Bill Haley and His Comets

as they spread the happy beat abroad

By HELEN BOLSTAD

Australians exclaimed, "Fantabulous!" A London news-
i paper bannered, "All Haley Let Loose!" It was fun to watch
the young people of the world prove the prophets of doom all
wrong. When rock 'n' roll first burst on the scene as the freshest —
and most controversial — music in thirty-five years, these
prophets thundered that it was the drum-beat of delinquency.
None of them foresaw that, this year, it would turn into one of
America's most potent goodwill-builders — a means of communi-
cation and a bond of unity between teenagers of many lands.

Suitably, the first to carry it abroad were Bill Haley and His
Comets, the little crew from Chester, Pennsylvania, who had
also been the first to define the happy big beat in the United
States. During the first seventy-two days of 1957, they whizzed
across 42,638 miles. They were on three (Continued on page 82)

mf.Tt *

V. ft

Nature's own typhoons and earthquakes couldn't top The Comets' welcome at
the dock in Southampton (above) or on special train to London (below, left).

WUNB the WO RIO

Above, at London's Waterloo Station,
Sylvia Wakefield, 17, and Diane Thompson,
15, proudly displayed hand-lettered jeans
they'd spent all the night e.mbroidering.

MM^^^

i<J2Sj

(FYS

British tour began in London's Dominion Theater, as 3,000 fans shouted: "We
want Bill!" — and then the curtain rose on Haley, his guitar, and His Comets.

iPF^fcV

|$?fiW

Nature's own typhoons and earthquakes couldn't top The Comets' welcome at
the dock in Southampton (above) or on special train to London (below, left).

William Haley and Mrs. Haley — as listed
by dignified Cunard Line — looked forward
to a sunny though brief vacation on board
the Queen Elizabeth, sailing for England.

fie ROM ROM

It was three cheers and a skyrocket

for Bill Haley and His Comets

as they spread the happy beat abroad

By HELEN BOLSTAD

Australians exclaimed, "Fantabulous!" A London news-
r\ paper bannered, "All Haley Let Loose!" It was fun to watch

wrn ™U™fe0ple,°* ^he world Prove the prophets of doom all
wrong. When rock V roll first burst on the scene as the freshest-
r^n^T* .ue0",tr0Vfr^al-music *" thirty-five years, these
NonP oM^Unf ered th^ lt was the drum-beat of delinquency.
Arnlriol'. T !°re?W *at' ihis year- it would turn into one of.
clunn »^ k PJ°te,nt g0°dwill-builders-a means of communi-

SuLw„ tv,^ ?£ Unity b^ween teenagers of many lands.
Cometf fL rt,firSt t0 ?"" H abroad were Bil1 Haley andJH'S
abbl k^t tc?wJfr5,m Chester, Pennsylvania, who had
States S,rwflrStfit0.define the happy big beat in the United
across '^8gmhe fi"t seventy-two days of 1957, they whizzed
across 42,638 rmles. They were on three (Continued on page 82)

WW the WORM

Above, at London's Waterloo Station,
Sylvia Wakefield, 17, and Diane Thompson.
15, proudly displayed hand-lettered jeans
they'd spent all the night embroidering.

When she believes in you, you kinda start believing in yourself

It isn't just that Ma understands, even when you don't say right out what's
troubling you. She helps too. Not by telling you what to do. More by see-
ing the good in you when you can hardly see it yourself. Like Esther Hunter
said to Fay the other day, "Why, when Ma believes in you, you kinda
start believing in yourself." Everybody in town feels that way about Ma
Perkins. You would too if you met her. And you can meet her. You can
get the whole story — even while you work — when you listen to day-
time radio. Hear MA PERKINS on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time.

Special beachtime good-
grooming rules protect Toni
Campbell's young beauty
through a month of sun-days

By HARRIET SEGMAN

Toni Campbell, not yet 13, who decorates
the summer scene above, is better known in
the demure costume she wears at right, as
Mama's beloved younger daughter, Dagmar.

Under the Sun

Between Sunbonnet Sue, who never shows the
sun her face, and Lila Lobstertint, who doesn't
know when to come in out of those burning rays,
there's a happy medium in under-the-sun beauty
care. TV actress Toni Campbell, who's as smart as
she's pretty, makes the bright summer air a friend
of her good looks. The first essential for Toni's
young skin, as for any skin-under-the-sun, is an
invisible parasol — a suntan lotion or cream to
slather on before sunning and re-apply every two
hours and after each swim, with special care at
ankles, knees, thighs, shoulders, nose, forehead.
Long sun-sessions dry even well-protected skin, so
Toni times her sunbaths, then moves into the shade,
or creates her own oasis under a big hat and long-
sleeved shirt. Before sunning, she massages hair
cream into scalp and hair, treats nails and cuticle

of fingers and toes with nail oil, pats cream around
her eyes to prevent "crinkles." Sunglasses, part of
her program, belong in every bag of summer tricks
- — have lenses ground to prescription if your own
sight keeps you from spotting a tall, bronzed life-
guard at twenty paces. Toni wears soft, non-drying
lipstick and light pink polish, uses hair-spray for
neatness. In her sun-kit she carries skin lotion,
cotton balls, and fresh-scented spray cologne. She
shampoos hair as soon as possible after swimming,
to remove salt and chlorine, restores luster with
creme rinse or hairdressings, quick-sets with hair-
spray. Toni's careful of her posture, too, and her tips
can help every girl who owns a bathing suit — tuck
your sitting-spot 'way under, pull tummy in flat,
don't collapse on your hips. Sit up, not down, like
the lady you are and the sun-beauty you can be.

DEEJAY ON
THE KEYS

It takes such lovely stars as Lu Ann Simms and Peggy
King to lure Sandy away from "Simo," his talking piano.

Sandy answered a record request from Eleanor. Now,
he's speech teacher to Po Po — and kitchen apprentice.

Sandy Singer, WTCN's piano and platter
man, answered a very special request

Talk and a turntable are standard equipment for a
deejay. To this, Sandy Singer adds eighty-eight
keys and bills himself as "the Northwest's only piano-
playing disc jockey." The Sandy Singer Show is heard
on Station WTCN in Minneapolis-St. Paul each
weekday from noon to 12:30, from 2 to 5 P.M. and from
6:15 to 7 P.M. It's back again on Saturday from
8 A.M. to noon and may soon be visible on WTCN-TV.
Between the platters and the patter, Sandy wandei-s
over to his ever-ready Steinway to introduce records
with a flourish of the keys or, sometimes, to play right
along with them. Or Sandy may join in with a chorus
on the organ as well. On records, the music multiplies
and Sandy has produced discs with up to six pianos,
a la Les Paul. ... "I never tire of the letters and
phone calls and requests," says Sandy. "I love my job
and everything about it." Actually, Sandy pays
perhaps more attention to requests than most deejays —
and well he might. While launching his deejay
career on a Peoria station, he met Eleanor Drazin
at a party. Three days later, Sandy received
a letter from her asking him to play the record, "I
Want To Be Loved." Taking the request literally, Sandy
phoned for a date, and the duo of music lovers have
been happily married now for six years. . . . From
Peoria, Sandy went to Augusta, Georgia, where he
served both Uncle Sam and the listeners to Station
WBBQ. Thence to KCRG in Cedar Rapids and, in 1956,
to WTCN. Sandy and Eleanor share a modern
apartment in South Minneapolis, near Lake Calhoun,
with Po Po, a parakeet they've trained to recite
the station call letters. Tickings and chimings come from
the many unusual clocks the Singers are collecting
for that future home-of-their-own. Bowling,
swimming, golf, horseback riding and flying are Sandy's
hobbies. But Eleanor refuses to fly with him until
she learns how herself, because, as Sandy explains,
"she wants to be a back-seat flyer." ... If Sandy ever
decides to fly home, it'll be to Chicago, where his
mother was a vocalist for CBS and where Sandy began
his piano lessons at age five. A year later,
he'd narrowed his choice for the future down to either
doctoring or radio. By the time he was eleven, radio
had won out and Sandy was a pro on radio and TV.
He's been music to Midwestern ears ever since.

THE PERSONAL TOUCH

Moe Milliken's easygoing approach as
weatherman or talent emcee turns
KHOL and KHPL viewers into friends

present

WEATHER

JtW-A

Before he becomes evening weatherman, he's Cousin Moe.
With Uncle Jerry, he meets junior talent on Little Rascals.

Moe's workday starts after lunch with Jean, Stevie and Larry.
But an evening schedule means a late-hour finish for Moe, too.

The open secret to success in television is to remember
that you're a guest in somebody's living room — and
not a speaker from the rostrum at Madison Square Gar-
den. It's a "secret" nobody ever had to whisper to
Marlyn "Moe" Milliken. He knew it instinctively and
practices it for two television areas, that of KHOL-TV in
Kearney, Nebraska, and its "satellite," KHPL-TV in
Hayes Center. Though he speaks to thousands of people
each day, Moe's is a relaxed and genial intimacy of
talking to a gathering of just a few friends. . . . Heard
each evening at 6 and 10 as weatherman for Channels 6
and 13, he is constantly bombarded with the request,
"When you gonna get us some rain, Moe?" But, drought
or deluge, his viewers prove their loyalty each year in
the annual Labor Day weather-guessing contest. Last
fall, 6,323 viewers competed. Sunday evenings at 8:30,
Moe is at the helm of Talent Show, with five contestants
competing for prizes and for the eventual six-week finals
and elimination programs. Each weekday evening at 5,
he becomes Cousin Moe and joins Uncle Jerry Granger
in cavorting with puppets Ozzie, Mr. Scratch and Hoiman
the hippopotamus on Little Rascals. Add to this his chores

as production manager of KHOL-TV and here is a busy
man, indeed, carrying a lot of responsibility for someone
who's just twenty-five years old. . . . Growing up in
Naponee, a small community within the KHOL-TV area,
he acquired his present nickname of Moe while in high
school — but he's not saying how. Still, it stuck with him
through the University of Nebraska and Kearney State
Teachers College, where the program director of KGFW
spotted Moe in a radio speech class and launched him
on a broadcasting career. . . . Moe and his wife Jean met
while both were at college. Friends say their sons look
like Moe, but he insists that Larry, 3, and Stevie, 2, take
after their mother. Moe and the boys are "outdoor men,"
and, on Moe's days off, they like to take camping trips.
Moe couldn't be happier at Larry's early choice of a
career as a football and basketball player. Stevie, who
hasn't yet made up his mind about the future, was born
shortly after Moe joined KHOL-TV. Even after so brief
a time, viewers celebrated the event with 1,500 letters and
gifts, including a number of pink, baby-girl items. Asked
about these unused feminine garments, Moe just grins
and says "We're saving them for possible future use."

5fl

THE RECORD PLAYERS

Each month, four of your favorite
disc jockeys alternate this space with
views and interviews. This spin around,
it's Josh Brady of WBBM in Chicago

This singing Cinderella, Cathy
Carr, lives in an "Ivory Tower."

NO F>UIVIF>KJNS,

By JOSH BRADY

It was one of those April days when a
guy longed for a little conversation,
and I guess we all have our favorite
haunts where we can count on running
into a good listener, if nothing else.
Anyhow, this particular day, the roof
fell in.

I'm about halfway through my second
cup of coffee when I am joined by the
writing team of Jack Fulton and Lois
Steel, composers of such gems as
"Until," "If You Were But a Dream,"
"Wanted" and "Ivory Tower." After
inquiring why they look a little tired,
I ask when they are coming up with
another hit. I get an immediate answer
to both questions in one breath. Up
late last night with Cathy Carr, discing
their latest composing effort "Speak for
Yourself, John" . . . And they are quick
to add that it looks like another "Ivory
Tower" . . . And, if I stick around, Cathy
will be dropping by any minute. So I
say, sez I, "Don't nobody move" — the
customary Brady byline when some-
thing is cooking. I had asked a leading
question, and composers, song pluggers,
distributors, publishers and record
companies love them.

About then we are visited by as like-
able a guy as you'll find, singing star
Dick Noel, who also records on the
Fraternity label with Cathy. And right
on his heels is publisher's representa-
tive Al Beilin — who reaches for the
glass bowl full of sugar lumps, throws
it over his right shoulder with his right
hand and catches it behind his back
with his left. Some day he'll miss, and
I want to be there.

It is then that we move to the big
round table, and in walks our Cin-
derella girl, Cathy Carr. If I were al-
lowed two words to describe her I
would say sweet and petite. But she's
more than that. Pretty, too . . . blond
hair, a twinkle in her eyes and I guess
she'd probably wear a small-size glass
slipper.

With a little quizzing on my part,
the Cathy Carr story began to unfold.
Cathy calls the Bronx, New York,
home. It was there that this little Cin-
derella graduated from high school and
started a singing career that began with
the little bands, and some of the big
ones, including Sammy Kaye. She had
a couple of record releases, but nothing
seemed to happen. She signed with
GA.C. and was booked into clubs and
began to get the real feel of what the
audience wanted her to do. Cathy
styled her singing accordingly. Indeed,
she became a real song stylist, as op-
posed to the out-and-out commercial
bandstand songstress.

And how did she come to the atten-
tion of Harry Carlson, president of
Fraternity Records, who launched her
on her real recording career and to
whom she is so grateful? Well, it was
Harry's friend, Frank Hanshaw, who
discovered Cathy at a club in Detroit
and sent her to Cincinnati to hear
Fraternity's offer. Oh, yes, there were
record releases with Fraternity that did
very little to set our Cinderella's car-
riage in motion. But then it came, in
early '56 ... a song that was to project
Cathy to heights far exceeding that of

the Alabaster Tower she was to sing
about — that "Ivory Tower."

I was very close to that song from the
day the composers — Jack Fulton and
Lois Steel — first played the demonstra-
tion record for me. I saw record com-
panies turn them down time after time,
because they felt the song just didn't
have it. But the keen ears of Harry
Carlson perked up when he heard it,
and he said, "This is for Cathy."

You know the rest . . . the song went
right up the ladder on the Hit Parade.
It became Number One in Canada and
Australia and Cathy was on her way.
If you took the top dozen records of
1956, you would find Cathy Carr's
"Ivory Tower" among them. The
months to follow saw Cathy on The
Perry Como Show, The Lawrence Welk
Show and The Cross Canada Hit
Parade, among others.

About this time, Cathy sipped the last
of her coffee and reached into her
purse for some airline tickets to double-
check her time of departure. When I
asked where she was going, she said,
in excited tones, "Didn't you know,
Josh . . . I'm going on a tour with Stan
Kenton, Guy Mitchell and Lionel
Hampton and we're leaving for Aus-
tralia this afternoon."

And as she left, you couldn't help but
say to yourself: I do hope her latest,
"Speak for Yourself, John," is another
"Ivory Tower." She deserves it. I'm
sure the hands of time will move slowly
toward the hour of midnight for our
little, modern-day Cinderella, Cathy
Carr.

Josh Brady is heard on WBBM on weekdays at 8:45 A.M. and at 11:15 A.M. and on Saturday and Sunday from 9:30 A.M. to noon.

Sing and Be Happy

(Continued from page 33)
lovely lips, too, and through these lips
passes one of the finest voices of the day.
During the past season, this voice made
her a frequent guest on such top network
shows as Ed Sullivan's and George Gobel's.
For two years, it kept her on Don Mc-
Neill's Breakfast Club, and she could have
stayed on forever. When Betty sings a
love song, her voice breezes right up the
nape of your neck. On a rhythm number,
she belts wide and handsome. And yet
she isn't a pop singer by choice.

"I never wanted to be an entertainer or
pop singer," Betty says. "My ambition,
right up to the time I was nineteen, was
to sing religious music. But down South,
where I lived, a woman can't travel and
sing by herself. On my first trip to New
York as a soloist, I auditioned with hymns
for six weeks. No one even threw me
a bone."

But pretty, pert Betty is no softie. She
is used to handicaps, road-blocks, insuffi-
cient funds and plain bad luck. She wasn't
born with a silver spoon in her mouth and
nothing has been presented to her on a
silver platter. As young as she is — twenty-
five, this past March — her career has been
as colorful as an entertainer's twice her
age, for Betty began singing when she
was four years old.

In those days, dressed in a gingham
dress and white stockings, she sang with
her family, The Johnson Singers, at
churches, evangelical meetings, weddings,
funerals, country fairs and fish fries and
barbecues. The Johnsons were poor ten-
ant farmers who sang for the love of sing-
ing. When the crops were in, Jesse Deverin
Johnson hitched his homemade trailer to
a tired model-A Ford and the family trav-
eled and sang.

"We worked for nothing," Betty says
frankly, "but I never felt poor, because
Daddy never asked for anything. We might
be hundreds of miles from home, and it
was obvious that we had no money. We
would be there to sing at an evangelical
meeting and the preacher would collect
money so that we could get home. He
would usually put the money in an en-
velope before he gave it to Daddy. Well,
Daddy would save the envelope for an
emergency. And nearly every time, just
as he got the envelope out to buy some-
thing we simply had to have — like gaso-
line or a loaf of bread — something would
happen. We'd stop at a gas station and
start to sing, and someone would donate
the gas and someone else would invite us
in for dinner. Poor people know how to
take care of one another. And so we'd get
home with the envelope unopened. At
home, we'd have a big ceremony before
we mailed back the money, although
sometimes we had to borrow a few cents
for postage stamps."

Betty was born on a farm near Cat
Square, North Carolina. Cat Square was
more of a general store than a town. She
grew up in another area known as Possum
Walk and later went to high school at
Paws Creek. "We didn't have a home of
our own," she says. "As sharecroppers, we
moved from one farm to another and we
lived in log cabins. And Daddy really
loved real log cabins. There was usually
one big room on the ground. This was
kitchen and living room, as well as bed-
room for my parents. The kids slept in
the room overhead, kind of an attic, and
we got up there by ladder. But the cabin
was our castle and Mother kept it as
neat as the most beautiful mansion."

Betty's mother is a petite, pretty woman
and Betty resembles her. Betty has no
sisters. Her father and three brothers are

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(Please Print)

CITY STATE.

all tall, handsome men. Her older brother
Ken, a graduate of Duke University's
Divinity School, is a minister at the First
Methodist Church in Ashboro, North Caro-
lina. Betty's twin brothers, Jimmy and
Bobby, are students at Chapel Hill. Betty
herself, who is continuing her academic
studies by extension at Northwestern Uni-
versity, got in two years of resident study
at Queens College at Charlotte, North
Carolina.

"I don't know how we did those things,"
she says. "I remember Daddy said to us,
'You've got to forget about going to col-
lege. We have no money.' He loved us
and wanted us to have the best, but he
told us the literal truth. We had no money.
We couldn't possibly afford college — but
we did. Of course, we worked hard. I had
as many as five jobs at a time, and it was
worth it. I loved the school."

Betty's constant companions, until she
went to college, were her three brothers
and their male friends. With them she
swam, caught rats, rode horses. She was
a rough-and-tumble tomboy. "I had to be.
If I'd ever complained to my parents about
what the boys did to me, I wouldn't have
had anyone to play with. I remember how
they taught me to swim. They just pitched
me into a pond and it was sink or swim.
And they taught me to ride by tying me
to a saddle. The horse took off through
some trees and I was nearly broken in
half by low limbs." When Betty went to
college, she studied home economics and
made good grades, although she had a hard
time keeping her mind on her studies. "It
wasn't that I was thinking about boys. To
the contrary, I had been so starved for
female companionship that I just couldn't
stop talking and listening to my new
friends. It was just so wonderful to hear
girl-talk."

Betty always sang. Even while in col-
lege she was on two radio programs out
of Charlotte. One program was her own
and the other was with the Family. Until
1950, The Johnson Family was a CBS net-
work feature on the program, Carolina
Calling, originating from Station WBT in
Charlotte. "But radio or evangelical meet-
ings," says Betty, "it was all the same.
All fun. From the time I was four, we
went as a family to prayer meetings. We
sang until midnight or into the early
morning. It wasn't work. Work was pick-
ing cotton during the day and often we
were all in the field together. For that,
we were paid. But we sang because people
wanted to hear us, and it's wonderful be-
ing able to sing that way. People love you
for what you are doing and the happiness
it gives them. We never thought of our-
selves as entertainers."

The Johnsons became nationally famous
and started recording for Columbia Rec-
ords. It was at one of these sessions that
Percy Faith put the bug in Betty's ear
about being a soloist. "He came into the
studio to talk with us and said, 'Betty, I
think you ought to be on your own. If
you ever decide to do something about it,
call me up.' Well, that was in 1950. Next
year, I decided I had to do something for
my parents. Mother and Dad were farm-
ing, but also looking to singing for part
of their income. Well, in 1951, we were
touring Veterans' Hospitals and I remem-
ber we were in Parkersburg, West Vir-
ginia, when I took a good look at Daddy
and Mom. They looked tired. The travel-
ing was getting to be too much for them.
I had a long talk with them and said that
I was going up to New York and sing
T my way into fame and fortune and then
V take care of them. They took the practical
B attitude and told me I'd just knock my
brains out. But up I went in October."

Betty stuck it out for six weeks on forty
62

dollars. She remembers: "I was so miser-
able and lonely. I took to baby-sitting —
and not just for the money, but because I
was so homesick and, that way, I'd get
into someone's home. And I was always
hungry. Once in a while, Percy Faith
would take me out and feed me and try
to pep me up. I went around auditioning
and singing hymns. No one would give me
the toss of his hat. I gave up and went
home. Spring of the following year, I
went North again. This time I took Percy's
advice and auditioned with a popular
song. It was 'Tenderly.' I tried for Arthur
Godfrey's Talent Scouts and got on the
show and won. That was a break. That
got me a job at the Copacabana at one
hundred and fifty dollars a week for six
weeks. I sent home a hundred a week and
lived on what was left after tax, social se-
curity deductions, et cetera. Well, everyone
was wonderful to me at the Copa. I wasn't
the star in the show, by any means. I sang
in the opening production number — but
sang well enough, I guess, for they
wanted me to stay another six weeks.
But I wasn't feeling too well, and I went
back home again."

That winter, Betty stayed home, singing
and recording with the family. But, in
March of 1953, she was back in Manhattan
to audition for CBS and, this time, got a
contract to do a regular network pro-
gram. She sang with Alfredo Antonini's
orchestra on the show, On A Sunday
Afternoon. "Antonini thought I could
read music," she recalls, "but I've never
had a music lesson. The only kind of
accompaniment I was used to working
with was a guitar and, naturally, I felt
friendly toward guitar players. So I told
Antonini's guitarist about my predicament
and he used to keep an eye on me and
would give me a nod when I was to come
in. Of course, after that, I had no trouble."

She sang on the CBS Radio show, There's
Music In The Air, and was also a featured
singer on Galen Drake's program. Then
the Borden Company hired her as the
"Borden Girl" for all of their commercials.
By then it was 1954, and it was in June
of that year that she walked into the
Trinity Music Company and met Charlie
Grean and Joe Csida.

Charlie Grean's background differs from
Betty's. He was raised in Mount Vernon,
New York. That's a suburb of New York
City, and it would not make sense to call
anyone raised in Mount Vernon a hill-
billy. Charlie's father, a retired designer,
is an artist. Charlie has two older brothers
who are lawyers and a younger brother
who is a minister. Charlie was no back-
woodsman, but Betty says, "I took to
him right away because I thought he was
a real hillbilly. It was the way he talked
to me, as if he understood me. He didn't
make me feel ashamed of my background.
There is something that Charlie has in
common with country people. I know
that, where I come from, my friends think
he's one of them — unless they listen too
closely to his Yankee accent."

Charlie, who plays bass, had fiddled
with some "country" groups. He had
worked five years at Victor Records and
had spent time in the country-music
division before he moved into the pop
department. Today, Charlie and Joe Csida,
former editor of Billboard, are partners in
Trinity Music. They publish sheet music
and manage such artists as Eddy Arnold,
Jim Lowe, Norm Leyden, Kathy Godfrey
— and Betty Johnson. On the side, Charlie
Grean is also a songwriter. He penned
Betty's hit, "I Dreamed." He wrote the
Dinah Shore best-seller, "Sweet Violets,"
and the novelty hit of 1950, "The Thing."

"You might say Betty came into our
office cold," Charlie says. "I didn't know
her. Jim Leyden, Norm's brother, sent

her in, saying that she was looking for
management. And I was about an hour
late for my appointment with her. I
couldn't help it — but, when I realize now
that I might have missed her, it gives me
kind of a shock. Anyway, she was for-
giving about my late entrance. I talked to
her and liked her attitude. She was open
and frank. I listened to her recording and
she reminded me of Rosemary Clooney or
Doris Day."

Charlie went into his partner's office.
"I told Joe I wanted him to talk to this
girl and tell me if he liked her. So Joe
sat a spell with her, and I met him out-
side the office and he said, 'I like her. She's
great. Are you sure she can sing?' I told
him that I was, went back into my office,
and told Betty we wanted to sign her. She
said, 'Sure. In a few days.' Then she went
out and had us investigated."

Betty grins as he tells this story. "Well,"
she chuckles, "I knew you had a lot of
friends in the business, but I wanted to
see if you knew how to work as hard as I
did and whether you had talent."

(^harlie got to work on Betty's career
immediately. She was under contract to
Bell Records, and then made three re-
leases for RCA Victor. For Bell, she cut
every top tune that came along, which
meant a lot of good experience, as well as
working with master arranger Sy Oliver.
At RCA, she was one of about seventeen
young girls on the list, so Charlie asked
Victor to release her from contract. They
did, and Charlie got her working with
Bally Records. The first record that made
any real money for Betty was the disc,
"Please Tell Me Why," for Bally.

"She came to me then," Charlie recalls,
"and asked how much money she'd made
on that record after costs. I figured it out
for her, then she said, 'Well, I'm going to
buy myself something for the first time.'
She went out and bought a diamond soli-
taire.' In the ring band, she inscribed the
tune title and her birthday. She explained,
"This will be for my first-born girl.' "

Betty is no spendthrift. Neither she nor
her brothers have drawn heavily on their
parents, and they have always contributed
to the family kitty. Even the twins at col-
lege do not take financial assistance from
their parents — although the mink coat Bet-
ty hasn't bought has helped meet their
tuition. During the two years Betty worked
with Don McNeill, she earned a very good
salary, but she still wasn't extravagant.
She had a modest apartment in Chicago's
Loop that she decorated herself.

"I have a lot of experience in sewing
and just doing for myself," she explains.
"When I was a child, I won the state 4-H
Club prizes for my string beans and for
my own clothes that I'd made, and for
canning beets and chow-chow. The first
important thing I ever bought myself was
a portable sewing machine. That was in
college, and I've been making my own
clothes continuously. So — fixing up the
apartment was a lot of fun. It was a
charming place. It was over a coffee shop
and you had to walk through the shop to
get to my apartment."

"I thought it looked dull and depress-
ing when we first looked at it," Charlie
admits, "but Betty didn't see it that way.
She was already seeing in her mind's
eye what she would do to it, and she did
a lot."

"My favorite colors are pink and white,"
says Betty, "and those were the predom-
inating colors even to the bathroom
walls. There was a small bedroom and I
turned that into a dressing-work room.
We did a lot of sewing there. 'We' includes
my Chicago friend Mary Clinton, a young
designer. Together we made all of my
clothes. Every gown I've worn has come

from her hands and mine." Betty adds,
"The apartment turned out very nice,
very charming. Everything was antique
or secondhand, depending on your view-
point. Furnishings for the whole place
cost me only a hundred and fifty dollars."

When Betty moved to New York's
Greenwich Village this past spring, she
brought along her tremendous collection
of classical records and her library on the
Civil War. Charlie kids that she's been
trying to find a Civil War book in which
the South wins. Betty explains more ac-
curately that her interest started in child-
hood: "I saw many beautiful Southern
mansions. We lived in none, but mighty
close by in our cabins. It was the old
homes that stimulated my interest in the
Civil War period."

Being engaged to a man who was usually
half a continent distant, Betty had too
much time to read. "The trouble with our
romance," says Charlie, "was that we
were never together more than a few days
at a time. Neither of us could see any
sense in starting off a marriage with that
kind of handicap."

Betty and Charlie had hit it off well
from the beginning. "We didn't even
think anything personal the whole first
year," he says now. "It was strictly busi-
ness. But we worked so well together.
And, the second summer I knew Betty, I
invited her out on my boat. Well, she'd
never been on a boat before, but again
she was just a natural. She pitched right
in — cooking, cleaning, sailing. It was obvi-
ous that she would make a wonderful first
mate. I fell in love and renamed the boat
the 'Beejay.'"

But, once they realized they were in
love, their romance got a bit rocky. "Being
apart most of the time was terrible,"
Betty says. "I was in Chicago. Charlie was
in Manhattan. The tension got so bad that,
when we did get together, we were always
under a strain the first day. The second
day was fine. But, on the third, we'd be
faced with separating again, and so it was
a fight."

Charlie thinks it's just a matter of
months before they're married. He knows
he has a real find in Betty. "After all, I
know enough about the business to know
she has a great talent. And, when it comes
to domestic virtues, she can't be beat.
Even her cooking is great. She makes
Southern-fried chicken as good as a
Yankee. Her beef Stroganoff is angelic
and her apple pie is downright sexy. And
the way she does it! Why, she prepares the
whole meal, serves it, eats with you —
and has the table cleared off and the dishes
washed and dried before you finish your
coffee. Never any fuss."

Betty matches Charlie's enthusiasm
when she talks about Charlie, and she
notes that even her parents are crazy
about him. Her parents still make their
home in North Carolina, and today Jesse
Johnson has a hundred-acre farm of his
own, and a Cadillac instead of a model-A.
Jesse Johnson is also a deejay on Station
WDIX in Orangeburg and hasn't, by any
means, given up singing. The Johnson
Family has a standing invitation to ap-
pear on Ed Sullivan's show — and that in-
cludes Betty. They have a handsome
album on the market, issued by Victor,
named "Old Time Religion." This,- too,
includes Betty. Betty has always been
close to the family and has particularly
depended on her father for comfort and
advice. She has always called on him when
she's had a hard decision to make — which
was the case recently, before quitting Don
McNeill's Breakfast Club.

"I've wanted to study acting and danc-
ing for a long time now," Betty explains.
"I did work a couple of months on a
radio serial, a couple of years back. But.

when I decided to leave Chicago, I called
Daddy. It had been wonderful experience
being with Don McNeill two full years,
and he's so great to work with. But I
called Daddy about what I wanted to do,
and he said, 'Well, Don likes you and you
could stay on and it's great security.' So
I told him, 'I want to study for a while. I
want to go to New York.' So he said,
'Then do it now, rather than later.' "

Betty notes that her father shares her
enthusiasm for Charlie. 'What Charlie
means to me I can best tell in Daddy's
words. It came about after my first ap-
pearance on Ed Sullivan's show. That was
before Christmas last year. It was a
momentous evening for me. Sullivan in-

spires me — he's like a coach and I'm the
team. Well, I thought the show went
well and, a few days later, I had a letter
from Daddy. He loves Charlie and I
wasn't surprised at what he had to say.
He told me first that I sounded and
looked so good on the Sullivan show. He
wrote, 'Sullivan must be a wonderful
man to show your talents so well and you
must be very fond of him. But remember
one man you owe everything to — and
that is Charlie Grean, because Charlie
had faith in you. He's done the things for
you I'd have done if I'd had his talent. You
have his faith and love and you're a
lucky girl.' And that," Betty concludes,
"is hitting the nail on the head."

*Voti

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(Continued from page 30)
day long, drew the kids from blocks
around, with her pied-piper personality.
The Funicello lawn was soon the gather-
ing place for the whole neighborhood.

Annette dreamed of becoming a famous
dancer— with a chance of someday meeting
a real movie star. But, in her wildest
dreams, she never imagined that her some
fifteen admirers would so quickly grow to
some fifteen million TV fans across the
country! Through the marvel of television
—and the magic touch of Walt Disney-
Annette surprisingly found herself the
center of attention among a hundred movie
stars, just four short years later, at the
Foreign Press Awards presentation in the
Cocoanut Grove, where Mr. Disney and
his ABC-TV "Mouseketeers" were being
honored. Wide-eyed, Annette found her-
self face-to-face with Alan Ladd— and
Alan Ladd said, "My son David is a great
admirer of yours, Annette. Could I have
your autograph for him?"

Annette — who never thought she'd see
so many stars at one time, and certainly
never dreamed she'd be one — couldn't be-
lieve this was happening to her. The pert
little princess of TV had to pinch herself
to be sure she still wasn't dreaming.

Born in Utica, New York, October 22,
1942, Annette Funicello was always so tiny
for her age that her father had nicknamed
her "Dolly" before she was old enough to
walk. "When Annette was one-and-a-
half," says her mother, Virginia, "she be-
gan picking up, by ear, every pop song on
radio. The first song she learned in its
entirety was Johnny Mercer's 'Accentuate
the Positive.' The members of our family
were amazed when Annette — still only
about two feet tall — would stand and sing
at the top of her lungs, 'You've got to
accent-chew-ate the positive . . .' Yet
Annette has always been shy. She would
sing for her family. But, if a stranger
were present, she was quiet as a bird.

"When Annette was five," her mother
continues, "I started her in kindergarten.
Still shy, and surprised to find five hundred
other children on the schoolground, she
cried all day. But she was quick to adjust.
In fact, she was soon singing for the entire
student body. The principal, amazed by
her wonderful sense of rhythm and appar-
ently natural musical ability, called me
one day to say he thought we should do
something to develop it. He suggested
Annette's taking up drums.

"This was an exciting — and, at the same
time, heart-breaking — experience for all
of us," recalls Mrs. Funicello. "Annette
soon became a master, for her age. At six
and seven, she was doing rolls and per-
forming with her drums as well as a boy
of fifteen or sixteen. All her life, it had
been obvious that she possessed a natural
musical ability. Then, suddenly, we were
surprised to find that Annette had become
so involved with the rhythm of her in-
strument that she had developed rhythmic
quirks throughout her body — her eyes
blinked, her head nodded in time to such
an extent that we knew she would have
to give up the drums.

"We think one of the most soothing in-
fluences in Annette's life was her religious
faith. From the first day she went to
church, it has been an important part of
her life. Her First Communion and Con-
firmation were made at the Church of the
Blessed Sacrament in Hollywood, where
T we had moved when she was still only six.
v She was so serious about the church that,
R when she was younger, she wanted to be
a nun. Though she has given this idea up,
today she wouldn't miss mass for anything.

The "Dolly" Princess

"Roy Ball, Annette's drum instructor,"
Virginia Funicello continues, "was sorry to
lose her but agreed she should give up
drumming. He suggested, however, that
Annette continue to develop her natural
talents and thought dancing would be a
healthful outlet. Annette took to dancing
like a bird to flight, though she was still
shy. Again she was such a standout, the
instructor suggested she take private les-
sons. The first week she was with Margie
Rix, her teacher, the class put on a recital.
This was Annette's first public perform-
ance, and Joe and I watched to see how she
would react. After the recital, pink-
cheeked with excitement, she came up to
us, saying, 'Oh, dancing is fun!'

"When Annette was nine," her mother
recalls, "we were swimming at Pop's Wil-
low Lake in the Valley, one summer day,
when we saw they were preparing to have
a beauty contest. Girls between nine and
sixteen were eligible. 'Should I?' An-
nette asked me. 'I really don't think I
have a chance.' But I was pleased to see
some of the shyness leaving her, and I
encouraged her to enter. In spite of the
fact that Annette was one of the youngest
entrants, her pert personality helped her
to win. She was crowned 'Miss Willow
Lake' and 'Queen of the Valley.'

"We were both surprised to learn that a
raft of prizes came with the title: $140 in
cash, a wardrobe and a modeling course
from Lynn Terrell. Annette was thrilled
with the modeling course. Every day she
wasn't dancing, she spent modeling for the
stores around the Valley. I think that's
how her mad passion for new clothes de-
veloped. Today, she has dozens of Capri
pants and an equal number of petticoats.
"Dancing and modeling were Annette's
life," says Mrs. Funicello. "But if she had
had to choose between them at that time,
I'm sure she would have chosen dancing.
She loved it. She cracked all the tile in the
bathroom mastering new tap steps! She
has danced, at one time or another, for
every hospital and charity in Los Angeles.
"When she was twelve, Leo Damiani,
conductor of the Burbank Symphony, pre-
pared a recital for Walt Disney. He asked
Margie Rix's dancing class to perform the
'Swan Lake' ballet. The very next morn-
ing, Mr. Traver — the Disney assistant cast-
ing director — called to ask if Annette could
audition for the Disney Studios!

"We went in, the next day. There seemed
to be a thousand children there already
. . . and they all looked talented. Annette
performed, for just a few seconds, in front
of seven men. They didn't tell us how we
scored, at the time, but we were assured
we'd be notified at a later date. Two weeks
went by, before the phone rang."

Annette herself says, "I was anxious
about that second audition, too. But later,
Mr. Disney came over personally to say,
You're a very pretty girl and a good
dancer, too.' I was scared, going in — but,
after that, I felt like flying!"

"At the close of the audition," Mrs. Funi-
cello recalls, "Annette was asked if she'd
be willing to come in for a two- week trial.
At first, she was frightened — she had never
worked in front of a camera. I told her to
give it a try. If she didn't like it, she could
quit before she signed a contract."

After two years on the Mickey Mouse
Club, the pretty little princess has found
TV land to be a fabulous world of wishes -
come-true. Today, she is a star in her
own right, reportedly receives 3,500 let-
ters a week from fans across the country.
Every day, the mailman is Santa Claus.
He's always glad when he gets to An-
nette's home — because his load is so much
lighter when he leaves. On Valentine's
Day, for example, he delivered sixteen

boxes of candy. And, during Easter Week,
a lovely assortment of rosaries and prayer
books from fans who know Annette is a
Roman Catholic.

Locally, Annette has an enthusiastic
Culver City fan club of boys. Frequently,
on Saturdays, they'll ride their bikes the
twenty miles to her Studio City home to
see her. Recently they brought two dozen
roses, and two corsages — one for Annette
and one for her mother. A more distant
fan club, in Oklahoma, faithfully save up
their nickels and dimes until they have
enough money to buy Annette another
gift — usually, a bottle of perfume.

Annette answers as much of the mail
herself as she can. She sits down and per-
sonally writes long letters to some of her
first fans with whom she still stays in
touch. "I have to come in and turn off the
fights," says Mrs. Funicello, "or Annette
would be writing all night. There are some
letters she will always answer, those from
the deaf and mute, ill and injured, and
letter writers who she feels need a friend.

"She's sensitive to the feelings of others,"
Mrs. Funicello points out. "Her brother,
Joey, for example, is at that age where
he's gotten a little heavy, and is fre-
quently referred to as 'chubby.' But An-
nette comes to his defense, by saying, 'He's
not chubby, he's husky — that's all.' "

On the other hand, Joey, at eleven, is
at the age where he doesn't need anybody
to fight his battles for him. He's finally a
big Little Leaguer. He is secretly proud of
his older sister's stardom on the Mickey
Mouse Club. But, on the surface, he is a
cynic. His attitude is: "Ah, dancing — so
what? How many home runs did you hit
last season?" To Joey, success is meas-
ured by the number of yards you can hit
a ball from home plate. Annette's mother
and father think that's fine, because Joey's
attitude helps keep Annette's feet on the
ground, though they are quick to reassure
you she doesn't need it. And she doesn't.

A more well-adjusted teenager would
be hard to find. She spends a steady three-
hours-a-day in the Disney Studio school,
and is nearly a straight-A student in the
following subjects: Algebra, English,
Spanish, and Social Studies. Her teacher,
Mrs. Seamon, says, "Annette is aware . . .
she's sharp ... a serious student." An-
nette's favorite subject is English. Why?
"Because," she says, "it comes easy to me.
I feel as though nouns and pronouns are
friends of mine."

Among the Mouseketeers, Annette's
closest friends are, quite naturally, the
boys and girls nearest her own age —
Doreen, Sharon, Bobby, Lonnie, and
Tommy. Most of them are in the same
class (one teacher to ten pupils). The
Mouseketeers are much like the famed
French Musketeers. They share great
camaraderie. Their idea of a perfect day
is not missing a single ride at the fun
zone at the Ocean pier, spending the
evening roasting marshmallows around
the bonfire at the beach, all topped off,
for the girls, by a pajama party at one of
the girls' homes.

At home, Annette is still the typical
teenager. Her all-pink bedroom, her
favorite room in the new house, is her
domain. On the custom-designed dresser,
you're sure to find copies of Photoplay
and American Girl. Eighty bottles of
perfume (gifts to her hobby collection
from fans) rest on the dressing table.
Behind the door she has the typical teen-
ager's pin-ups: Elvis Presley — "He can
really sing . . . he's different!" Tommy
Sands — "He's the new Presley . . . isn't he
cute!" Pat Boone — "He's married . . .

(sigh)." Tab Hunter; the late Jimmy
Dean; Jayne Mansfield; Natalie Wood; and
Elizabeth Taylor. When asked who she'd
like to be if she could be anyone else,
Annette instantly replies, "Oh, Elizabeth
Taylor!" More than anything else in the
world, she wants to be a good actress, looks
upon her acting roles in "Spin and Marty"
and "The Dairy Story" as being the high-
lights of her Mouseketeer career.

Annette's schedule (up at 6:30, to work
at eight A.M., home at 7:30 P.M.) is so
full filming the Mouse Club series that
she has little chance to do anything more
than keep her own room picked up. "An-
nette is not the greatest housekeeper in
the world," Mrs. Funicello laughs. "If I
ask her to do the dishes, she'll do them
all right, because she is obedient, a really
good girl — but it will take her two hours.
Honestly, you've never seen so many
other things that have to be done at the
same time as the dishes — the radio has
to play on a very certain station, and the
dancing on television has to be watched,
or she'll break off for a minute to practice
a new dance step. Anything, it seems, to
keep from doing the dishes. But they do
get done.

"On the other hand, Sundays before
Mass, she's up early to whip up the best
hotcakes of any of us. She loves hot-
cakes . . . Annette's not a great cook,
but she can boil spaghetti, broil a steak,
bake a potato and prepare hotcakes.
She's learned to cook all the things she
loves to eat."

There is a warm, loving aura among
the members of the Funicello family in
their new Studio City home. Annette
loves both her brothers, Joey, 11, and
Mike, 5. Joey, though he's loathe to ad-
mit it, loves his now-famous sister, too.
He'll jump at any opportunity to play
miniature golf with her or go bicycling or
horseback riding (sports she excels in).
Mike shows his devotion by being the
greatest Mickey Mouse Club fan in the
house — he has all the Mouse Club caps,
shirts and records.

Annette's father, Joe Funicello, owns a
combination garage-gas station on Ven-
tura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks. Joe has
lovingly called his daughter "Dolly" all
her life. You can tell Annette loves her
father dearly by the way she says
"Daddy" and runs to greet him when he
comes home at night. Recently, she and
her mother surprised him on his birth-
day— when he came home to find a silver-
gray Cadillac parked in the garage. Still
amazed, Joe says, "I was so surprised, I
thought I was at the wrong house!"

The Funicellos waited for two weeks,
until they could put the top down, to go
out for a drive in Dad's new convertible.
"Mike was so excited," Annette grins, "he
almost got his head caught as we folded
up the canvas top."

To Annette, the silver Cadillac was
Cinderella's own golden coach, the night
she and her parents drove up in front of
the famous Cocoanut Grove to be present
at the Foreign Press Awards. She knew
her grandest dream had come true.

Then — to be treated like a star herself!
George Gobel, for instance, topped off the
magic evening by asking, "Annette, may
I have your autograph? It's not for me,
you know, but for my son Gregg. He's a
big fan of yours ... in fact, we have a
Mickey Mouse house. I even buy Mickey
Mouse cat food . . . and we don't have a
cat!"

It was almost too much. Surrounded
by stars, Annette Funicello had to pinch
herself to make sure she wasn't dream-
ing. But it was no dream. Joe's little
girl "Dolly" is really a star, a fourteen-
year-old princess in Walt Disney's magic
land of make-believe.

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Imel From Indiana

(Continued from page 23)
like wooden sticks stuck into small balls
of yarn.

There was another night when Jack for-
got to bring along one of the legs to his
marimba. He'd remembered the hammers
that night, however, so — while some stout
fella from the audience held up one end
of the marimba — Jack knocked out his
numbers. The audience thought the whole
thing was pretty hilarious. Jack recalls
that it didn't seem so funny to him at the
time. And it certainly wasn't amusing to
his agent — who hadn't booked him as a
comedy act. His memory improved con-
siderably after that one.

As soon as he was out of high school,
Jack's family started on him to go to
college. The prospect didn't intrigue Jack
greatly, but the persuasive powers of his
Uncle Lawrence were so great, he couldn't
think of much of an argument. Jack's
grandfather, Dr. Paddock, had once been
mayor of Portland, had run for state rep-
resentative from Indiana, and had taught
anatomy at Indiana University. Uncle
Lawrence had been graduated from that
school, too. To carry on the family tradi-
tion, everyone thought Jack should go to
Indiana U., pledge Phi Gamma Delta,
and get his degree. But, at the last min-
ute, Jack decided to go instead to the
Arthur Jordan Conservatory, which is
part of Butler University in Indianapolis.

Jack had been at the conservatory only
nine weeks when Horace Heidt came into
the area, and held auditions for his
"Youth Opportunity" shows. Jack audi-
tioned, and was offered a berth with the
traveling company. Jack felt he'd learn
faster on the job than in school. His
parents backed him up and he quit school.

This tour stretched into two years, and
included one-night stands in five or six
towns in each of the forty-eight states.
As Jack had anticipated, this rugged tour-
ing proved invaluable as training. Besides,
it proved to him he'd chosen the right
profession. "Unless you loved your work,"
he laughs now, "you couldn't possibly
stand the strain of a two-year tour made
up of one-night stands. But, even after
two years of it, I was as full of enthusiasm
about dancing and playing the marimba
as I had been the day the tour started!"

On November 29, 1951, having reached
the advanced age of nineteen, Jack was
married to Norma Denney, the pert Port-
land miss, one year his junior, he'd been
courting for five years. He remembers the
first time he ever laid eyes on her — as
she rode the ferris wheel at the Jay
County Fairgrounds the summer she was
thirteen. They had gone to different gram-
mar schools, and so had never met before.
Happily, Portland had only one junior
high school, and one senior high school —
which simplified things considerably. Of
course Jack was in the school band, and
Norma "played at" the drums. (She ad-
mits to having had no particular talent,
except for concealing her lack of talent
from the band director.) There were the
usual trips to out-of-town football games,
as well as local games, concerts, rehears-
als. After each of these, no one ever
bothered to ask to escort Norma home —
everyone knew Jack would be doing that.
Although he can't recall ever "walking"
her home, he remembers riding her home
on the handle-bars of his bike. After all,
he points out, she lived "clear across
T town" — a distance of about two miles in
v Portland — and he claims he was too lazy
R for the walking-home routine. Later, as
soon as he turned sixteen and could get
his driver's license, he'd wangle the fam-
66

ily car. Even that great opportunity was
not without its drawbacks. Pop Imel got
a new car every year, and was forever
warning Jack: "Be careful you don't
scratch the paint job!"

Finally, Jack managed to attain the ex-
alted status of a Man Who Owns a Car.
A convertible only slightly younger than
Jack himself, it was immediately dubbed
"The Yellow Peril." "I didn't even have
to buy it on time," Jack remembers, "but
that was no particular accomplishment.
For what it cost, anyone could have paid
cash!" There were no rear seats, but Coke
cases served as well. And it was with
genuine regret that Jack traded "The Yel-
low Peril" in, several years later, on a
somewhat more recent model.

Having changed his status from single
to married in November, 1951, Jack made
another abrupt change only two months
later, this time from civilian to sailor. He
was sent off to boot camp at Great Lakes
Naval Training Camp, on the shore of
Lake Michigan north of Chicago.

Eddie Peabody, then a commander at
Great Lakes, was holding auditions for
Navy personnel for entertainment units.
Jack played for him, and then — for the
next year and a half — was entertaining
recruits as they passed through Great
Lakes. Meanwhile, Norma found an apart-
ment in near-by Waukegan, and Jack
was able to live at home. Their first son,
Greg, was born at the Great Lakes Naval
Hospital in 1953.

On September 1, 1953, Jack was trans-
ferred from Great Lakes to the Navy
School of Music in Washington, D. C.
There, in the typical stepped -up fashion
of the armed forces, he compressed a
year's musical training into a six-months'
course. He studied theory, harmony, re-
hearsed with the concert and dance bands,
and had private instruction on the ma-
rimba. He'd report at school at eight
o'clock each morning, and have classes
until 4:30 each afternoon, five days a
week. Then — unless it was his turn to
stand watch — he'd have his weekends free
to join Norma and Greg at their apart-
ment in suburban Anacostia.

It was while he was in Washington that
Jack met Alex Sheftell, who was later to
become his manager. A group of Navy
musicians were playing a benefit at a
suburban country club and Sheftell, one
of the guests, heard Jack play and became
interested. Sheftell had never managed
any talent before, and Jack admits now
that he was frankly dubious about Alex's
ability to do all the things he promised.
He need not have worried — Alex had a
wide acquaintance in show business, and
whatever he promised, he delivered.

First, there was an audition for Dennis
James' television show, Chance Of A Life-
time. By a curious coincidence, the man
hearing the auditions was Frank Reeves,
who had also conducted the Horace Heidt
auditions several years before when Jack
appeared there.

Subsequently, Jack appeared on Chance
Of A Lifetime on three different occasions.
He lost out the first two tries, then won
on his third appearance. Being in the
service, he couldn't accept part of the
prize — engagements at the Moulin Rouge
and the Latin Quarter. But he could and
did take the thousand dollars which went
along with first prize. Looking back on it
now, he realizes that those three appear-
ances brought him infinitely more than
just that thousand.

"On the shows I did when I was still
in high school, and even the appearances
on the road with Horace Heidt," he ex-

plains, "I had only two or three routines,
and never had to bother to create more.
But, for those Chance Of A Lifetime
shows, which were competitions, I saw
the need to work up ideas which were
more than just good — ideas which would
win. I'd work five and six hours a day
on a new routine. After I'd finally won,
I realized I'd improved my act at least
eighty percent, and had stimulated my
thinking to the degree that ideas came
more easily when I needed them. I'd
jolted myself out of a rut — and, without
that jolt, I'd probably never have got
where I am now!"

His training completed at the Navy
Music School, Jack was transferred to
San Diego, California, where he was at-
tached to the Admiral's Cruiser and De-
stroyer band. In typical Navy-wife fash-
ion, Norma trailed after him, and they
were soon settled in an apartment in
San Diego. Their second child, a daugh-
ter, Debbie, was born in Balboa Hospital
in San Diego.

In 1955, Jack was first-place winner in
an all-Navy talent contest, pitted against
acts from all the naval districts in the
world. His award was an appearance on
Ed Sullivan's all-Navy television show.
Again in 1956, Jack won a spot on Sulli-
van's show, this time as third-prize winner
of the annual Navy talent contest.

As the end of his tour of duty came into
sight, Jack was faced with a terrific de-
cision. He had been offered a spot in the
Navy Band at Washington, D. C. This
would mean that he and Norma would
be permanently based in Washington, that
he'd have a comfortable salary, and be
eligible to retire, at thirty-eight, on a
pension of three hundred dollars a month.
He could take this, and be reasonably
secure for the rest of his life. Or he could
strike out on his own, and try for some-
thing more than just security. Jack de-
cided to take the chance.

He made a try, first, for an audition
with the Welk organization. He sent along
a record of his marimba work, and was
summoned to the Aragon ballroom to do
his stuff in person. Of the forty-five en-
tertainers who had been spotlighted on
Welk's Top Tunes And New Talent since
the show's debut, Jack was the first to
impress Welk to the extent that the band-
leader wanted to add him to the estab-
lished troupe.

Today, Lawrence Welk says, "I think
Jack Imel is a fine young man and a
credit to our orchestra. He's a hard
worker, lends variety to our show, and
has unlimited talent." Those behind the
scenes say that Welk is particularly im-
pressed by Jack's down-to-earth approach
to his music. Although he's been pound-
ing away on the marimba for ten years,
he still practices daily as if he were a
newcomer to the instrument. When the
band rehearses at the Aragon ballroom
on Wednesdays, Jack has been known
to take his marimba off somewhere, shut
the door, and get in some private practice.

Two days before his Navy duty officially
ended, Jack signed with the Welk show.
It's a one-year contract — officially. But it's
a well-known fact that the Welk players
have a way of sticking around as long
as they indicate by their enthusiasm that
they want the job.

The first Welk show on which Jack ap-
peared created a mild sensation back in
Portland, Indiana. Jack has enough rela-
tives in that area to make up a respectable
audience, all by themselves. His dad,
"Hap" Imel, has a grocery store and meat
market on Main Street, just across the

square from the court house. His Uncle
Jack is a partner in the store, his Uncle
Tom is head meat-cutter for the market,
and his Uncle Roy is in charge of the
store's deliveries. It's a cozy, family-type
arrangement all the way around. Jack's
Uncle Charlie is a partner with Hap
on the farm near Portland, where much
of the livestock for the Imel Brothers
Market is raised and butchered.

Jack's Aunt Lela owns the block of real
estate where the store is located, and
the wholesale grocery house where Imel
Brothers buy some of their stock. Uncle
George and Uncle Bill are retired, and
live there in Portland. Uncle Harry is a
grain broker in Muscatine, Iowa, and
Aunt Pearl Trout lives in West Palm
Beach, Florida, where her husband is a
barber. The clan is large, and devoted to
following Jack's career.

"When I signed for the Welk show,"
Jack recalls, "there was a big story in the
Portland Commercial Review about it,
with my picture and everything. But I
think the folks in Portland must be pretty
tired of reading about 'that Imel boy' by
now. Every time anything has happened
to me in the last ten years, one or an-
other of my relatives would 'just happen
to mention it' to someone at the paper.

"They sure are faithful about watching
me on the Welk show, I've got that to say
for them! I call home every week, as soon
as the show is over. Generally, I put in a
person-to-person call to Mom. And al-
most always I find her over at Aunt Lela's
house — Aunt Lela's television set works
better than some of the others."

After signing with the Welk group, Jack
and Norma Imel moved to a pleasant
apartment in suburban North Hollywood,
only minutes (via the freeway) from
Hollywood's ABC studios, where Welk
shows are staged. They hardly had a
chance to unpack, however, before Norma
was off to the hospital again. This time
she brought home another son: Lawrence
Jack, born March 15. That Lawrence is
not for Mr. Welk, however, but for Jack's
grandfather and uncle — and for Jack him-
self. "I don't think I've ever mentioned
it to Mr. Welk," Jack grins, "but my first
name is Lawrence, too."

There was one slight disappointment
connected with young Jackie's birth, so
far as Jack was concerned. When Greg
and Debbie were born, in Navy hospitals,
regulations did not permit Jack to be with
Norma after she entered the hospital.
Having attained civilian status again, Jack
anticipated that this time he'd get a chance
to see what the expectant father goes
through in the waiting room of a mater-
nity ward.

So what happens? Three days before
the baby arrived, Jack burst forth in a
glorious array of polka-dots, which the
doctor promptly diagnosed as chicken-
pox. Norma, happily, had got that sort of
thing out of the way years ago. But Jack
was not only denied the chance to go to
the hospital with Norma — he was also
assured of a fair amount of ribbing from
the Welk gang, who felt somehow that
chicken-pox is not exactly a dignified
affliction for an adult.

For at least one person, however, that
bout with the chicken pox was a silver-
lined cloud. When Lawrence Welk called
to inquire about the state of Jack's health,
Jack admitted that he wasn't feeling too
bad. But he looked a mess, he added,
and had been forbidden by the doctor to
return to work for a week.

"Good!" Welk replied cheerfully. "Now
you can get in a solid week of practicing!"

No "doctor's orders" ever reached a
more willing "patient" than young Jack
Imel, who began practicing 'way back
home in Indiana — and has never stopped.

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(Continued from page 50)
manages his farflung framework with the
easy grace of an ambling lion— but he
maintains that he is poorly coordinated
physically. . . . He married a beautiful
and talented girl — yet he insists that he
has always been afraid of "wimmin." . . .
He's a master of hilarity — guaranteed to
roll ticket-purchasers for the Warner
Bros, film version of "No Time for Ser-
geants" in the aisles — but his first screen
role, enacted for Elia Kazan's "A Face
in the Crowd," is as "a guy that every-
body said would make me hate myself be-
fore the picture was over."

The graph of his career would show a
jet trail upward, as a result of his be-
havior as the Georgia hillbilly who de-
moralized the U.S. Armed Forces in "No
Time for Sergeants" on Broadway — and
he's even formed his own production com-
pany, Manteo Productions (named for his
home town in North Carolina) — but it's
obvious he doesn't consider himself a
screen star yet. . . . He's under contract
to Capitol Records- — who will release four
sides from "A Face in the Crowd" in July
— but Andy still cannot think of himself
as a platter paragon. He says, "Sometime,
I guess, I'll make a record I like, maybe."
(The above spelling is correct. But, as
Andy speaks the sentence, it comes out
like this: "Some-torn, ah gay-us, ah'll
make a reck-aud ah lak, mebbe.")

This list of contrasting elements, existing
gene by chromosome in the Griffith make-
up, could be extended for some distance.
But the answer at the end of the column,
whether long drawn or cut short, would
be the same: Andy's essential ingredients
make up a fascinating individual.

Born in a North Carolina city with the
unlikely name of Mount Airy, Andy man-
aged to get himself through high school
undamaged, although he played Sousa-
phone and slide trombone in the school
band. (Not simultaneously.) He also sang
bass in the school choruses, and dreamed
of preparing himself for a career in opera.
One method of preparation was to catch
repeated performances of Ezio Pinza in
the picture, "A Night at Carnegie Hall,"
singing the great operatic role of Boris
Godunov. That, thought baritone-basso
Andrew Griffith, is for me.

After high-school days, Andy continued
his education at the University of North
Carolina, where he majored in music, in-
evitably encountering such cultural sacred
cows as "Hamlet," "Romeo and Juliet,"
the "Swan Lake" ballet, and "Carmen."
Yet, as he became familiar with story
and/or music, the clown side of his sin-
cere, almost solemn nature began to take
liberties with the classics. Occasionally, he
undertook to "explain" one of the stories
— in a sorghum accent.

Actually, Andy didn't think much of
his lampoonery, although it seemed to oth-
ers to be a rare talent. In his opinion,
it was merely college hi jinks. Yet, while
he was teaching at Goldsboro High School,
Andy decided to test himself by under-
taking the study of drama with Ainslee
Pryor, who was a director of the Raleigh
Little Theater. Andy told himself he was
doing it — not in hopes of a theatrical ca-
reer— but because he felt that any pointers
he could pick up from Mr. Pryor would
be useful when, as a harried music prof,
he found himself serving as referee in an
assault upon Gilbert & Sullivan by teen-
T age glee clubs.

v Came a day, one spring, when the Cha-
R pel Hill Choral was preparing a presen-
tation of Haydn's "The Seasons," and was
auditioning singers. Someone asked Andy,

Hillbilly Hero

"Have you heard Bobby Edwards sing?
Now there's a voice!"

Andy thought it over for a moment,
then admitted, "I don't know him. I don't
know any Bobby Edwards."

"You really don't know Bobby Ed-
wards," chuckled Andy's informant. "The
'Bobby' is short for 'Barbara,' and she's
quite a gal."

"What's her voice?" Andy wanted to
know, refusing to be conned into admira-
tion sight unseen and sound unheard. He
was told that Barbara's voice was a dra-
matic soprano, and that she had taken her
M.B. degree from Converse College at
Spartanburg, South Carolina.

"From then on, it developed like a 1930
movie," admits Andy.

Like this: One afternoon, Andy and Carl
Perry (tenor) were loitering around the
rehearsal hall when Carl announced be-
latedly, "By the way, there goes Bobby
Edwards." All that was to be seen was a
pair of shapely underpinnings (taking
their owner rapidly away), a matching
sweater and skirt (trim), and a mass of
shining brown hair worn in a long bob.
Naturally, Andy remembered the hair.

He knew that he was going to remem-
ber the voice, as well — probably forever —
when he heard her sing in rehearsal a few
days later. With all speed — taking into
consideration a certain Dixie deliberation
and a natural reticence — Andy asked Bar-
bara Edwards to be his guest at a coffee
break. This led to other coffee breaks, to
dinner, to moonlight conferences, to love.

In due course, Andy decided to spend
his summers on Roanoke Island, appear-
ing in Paul Green's "The Lost Colony,"
traditional presentation of the tragedy of
Sir Walter Raleigh's colonization attempt.
In the midst of this occupation, Andy
signed a teaching contract for the ensuing
year. Abruptly, it seemed a fine idea to
get married. On a summer's Saturday
morning, Andy and Barbara met at Nor-
folk and selected her wedding gown — a
rust silk afternoon frock with matching
hat, shoes, and gloves. For Andy, they
selected the traditional navy blue.

Because Andy had an evening off, on
Mondays, the ceremony was celebrated at
eleven o'clock on the morning of August
22, 1949. There was no problem of church
or sect: Barbara is Baptist, Andy is Mor-
avian— so, inevitably, the rites were per-
formed by a Methodist minister in the
only sanctuary available on short notice,
the Episcopal Church. The octet from
Westminster Choir sang, and Sal Razassi
played "Ave Maria" on his vibraharp. As
Andy recalls it: "You wouldn't expect a
vibraharp to be effective — or maybe even
ecclesiastical — but I've never heard the
'Ave Maria' played with greater solemn-
ity. It was the sort of thing you can never
forget."

The ensuing three years were both
blissful and troubled. Blissful, as the early
years of a highly compatible marriage
must always be. Troubled, because Andy
felt, in the depths of his conscientious
soul, that he was not making a success of
teaching high-school music. "It takes
talent to be a good teacher," he says,
respect in his tone. "I knew my subject,
but I couldn't seem to pass on my knowl-
edge. There were some gifted kids in my
classes, and I felt they were entitled to the
best possible instruction. Well, I didn't
feel I was the best possible instructor."

Day after day, month after month, he
and Barbara discussed their quandary. At
length they hit upon an idea: Why not
go into business for themselves, capital-
izing on their singing ability? Why not
put to use their excellent training, plus

Andy's flair for comedy? There was a
market: Throughout the South there were
civic groups needing an act or two to en-
liven a social evening. Why not provide
it?

They borrowed a thousand dollars, made
a four-hundred-dollar down payment on
a station wagon, and moved to a house
having a room remote enough from neigh-
bors to make rehearsal possible without
arousing local malice. With their remain-
ing capital, they invested in five hundred
brochures, on the cover of which appeared
the legend: "Unique Entertainment by
Barbara and Andy Griffith."

Their first professional appearance was
before the Ashboro, North Carolina Rotary
Club on October 28, 1952, and consisted
of art songs by Barbara, comic monologues
by Andy. The take was seventy-five
dollars, of which fifteen went to their
accompanist.

T avorable word of Griffith-type enter-
tainment spread. Andy's proficiency on the
guitar increased and his repertoire of
monologues was expanded. In a hillbilly
accent that could have been cut only with
a quart of mountain dew, Andy explained
to his audiences— much as he had done in
college — the highly involved plots of such
venerable classics as "Romeo and Juliet,"
"Carmen," the "Swan Lake" ballet, the
art of playing football, and "Hamlet."

After some eighteen months of guitar
barn-storming, Andy was placed under
contract by Capitol Records and waxed
his first glorious lampoon, a devastating
exposition entitled "What It Was — Was
Football." More than eight hundred thou-
sand customers applauded his effort by
buying the disc and wearing it smooth.

That success ended Andy's trips to
homebody gatherings and started him
zooming on the night-club circuit. Such a
move was supposed to represent a rung
upward on the ladder of success, but
there were times when Andy was con-
vinced that it was more like being put
through the wringer.

He was spotted on The Ed Sullivan Show
and, according to Andy, "I was a bomb.
Whoo-eeee. I laid a real bad egg." Anal-
ysis of his failure to win friends and in-
fluence applause on the Sullivan show has
turned up many possibilities. Perhaps the
Sullivan studio audience wasn't adequate-
ly hip to Shakespeare to appreciate a
parody. Or perhaps it was so conservative
that it resented the Griffith liberties taken
with monuments of English literature.
More reasonable is the suspicion that,
when Andy Griffith — a handsome, blue-
eyed, tousle-headed hunk of personality
in the super-Tab-Hunter class — ambled
onto the stage, he was expected to render
some maple-sugar love song. No one was
prepared for a murderously witty parody
delivered in a backwoods drawl.

There were other frustrations, other
problems. In Birmingham, Alabama, one
evening, a portly lady — turned 100-proof
sentimental by certain beverages — made
her way to the stage, shaking her fist and
announcing in the dialect that Andy was
using, "I just wanna tell you ... I just
wanna shay. . . ." She took up a position
on the steps, and Andy went into a revival
song, a foot-stomper called "In the Pines,"
to — well, change the subject.

Sometimes the frustrations of show
business were funny rather than painful.
On one occasion, Andy found himself
billed with a striptease act. There was the
news on the marquee: "9 — Beautiful Girls
—9."

By that time, Andy had acquired a
following of youngsters, some of high-

school age — whose mortal combat with
English Lit courses had given Andy hero
status because of his jousts with the
classics — and some even younger, who
merely enjoyed guitar, dialect, and the
sense of fun intrinsic in Andy's act.

Andy went to the management, diffi-
dently, and explained that he couldn't ap-
pear with strippers. Everybody had to
make a living in accordance with his talent
and energy, he conceded, but his con-
science wouldn't permit him to attract
youngsters to entertainment that would
not be approved (although possibly in-
dulged in) by their elders. "I was real
embarrassed," Andy remembers.

His protests were forwarded to his book-
ing agent, and thereafter Andy has found
himself sharing the boards only twice
with 15 — Beautiful Girls — 15. Friends say
that nothing is ever lost on Mr. Griffith:
In the midst of a trusted and sophisti-
cated group, Andy has been known to
provide a quakingly funny travesty of
the striptease without removing so much
as his sports coat.

When Andy read Mac Hyman's "No
Time for Sergeants," he got in touch with
Hyman to request permission to incorpo-
rate some of the more hilarious passages
in his night-club act. Inevitably, this rep-
resented one of those happy juxta-
positions of player, period, and vehicle.
Andy Griffith was the perfect person to
bring to life the Georgia hillbilly, and the
triple arts of stage, film and TV could
well agree that "No Time for Sergeants"
was a vehicle perfect for all three.

Oddly enough, Andy seemed to fit into
many other garments in addition to khaki.
Even before "Sergeants" was launched,
an actor named Robert Armstrong listened
one night to a lament from Elia Kazan.
Where, Mr. Kazan wondered, could he
find a big, blond, blustering hillbilly —
with sensitivity — to star in a segment from
Budd Schulberg's novel, "Faces in a
Crowd"? (The story was titled originally
"Your Arkansas Traveler," but its film
version was to be called "A Face in the
Crowd.")

"Easy," said Mr Armstrong. "Andy Grif-
fith could do it."

Which brings us full circle to Andy's
first picture, to be followed by "Ser-
geants," to be followed (everyone be-
lieves) by a long and satisfying career in
TV, in theater, and on film and records.

The problems will continue, of course.
Andy says that any success demands that
a man take stock of himself regularly to
make sure that he is keeping his basic
values. A degree of unvarying normalcy,
he believes, is the basis for all personal
happiness. "Keeping basic values and
remaining normal will be easy — or at least
easier for me than for some — because I'm
fundamentally lazy. It takes lots of energy
to go completely haywire."

Another safety measure is the fact that
Andy enjoys people, mobs of people or
minor numbers — it doesn't matter — but
only in job context. His working associa-
tions are felicitous, his professional per-
sonality delightful. But he loathes the
social scene. He abhors large parties,
benefits, galas. He has to be dragged to
premieres, and he leaves as quickly as
courtesy will permit. "Barbara has trouble
with me," he admits. "You should hear
her say, 'Now Andy. . . .' "

Mr. Griffith's idea of a fine evening is
one of reading while a hi-fi set plays
suitable music, or one of joining a few
friends having a community of interest.
Informality and fellowship are probably
the keynotes of Andy's social ideal.

A quick check will indicate that this
attitude is about par for American hus-
bands. In brief, Andy Griffith is the All-
American Boy, Southern Division.

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(Continued from page 48)
four weeks later! My family thought he
was wonderful. So, of course, did I."

It was a lovely wedding. Rosemary's
mother had passed on after a long illness,
but her mother's sister, Mrs. Percy Johns-
ton, and her uncle offered their house for
the wedding — the same house from which
Rosemary's mother had been married and
where Rosemary was now living. Even
the decorations were the same. There was
bitter-sweet in the memories, but mostly
there was warmth and tenderness to over-
shadow any sorrow.

"Jack and I both love our families," says
Rosemary, "and have learned to appre-
ciate them even more since some members
have passed on. His folks live only a short
drive away and my relatives are not far —
my Aunt Belle Johnston, now a widow,
my father, my sister and brother. There
are several groups of young people in our
area, too, and we get together a great deal.
With both of us so busy, and with so many
people whose companionship we enjoy,
the weeks just fly by."

Their ranch house, which sort of rambles
up a hill, was built with seven rooms, but
the Merrells have added three extra rooms
in the basement. There's a room for bar-
becue parties, done in knotty pine like the
others and decorated in red and yellow,
with a long picnic table and benches. A
ping-pong room, where they entertain
their ping-pong club. A small lounge and
bar, with tables and divans along the wall
for informal serving, and where guests
can watch Jack's collection of many kinds
of exotic and beautiful fish swimming
about in mammoth and handsome tanks.

The rest of the house is more formal, but
still gay and bright with color, and every-
where there are the Oriental touches that
satisfy something in Rosemary's soul. (She
isn't sure just what it is, but only that she
has always loved beautiful art objects
from the East and longed to own a few
of them.) There are some fine Chinese
tapestries and rare bits of ornament, and
even the dull green and gold pattern of
the foyer wallpaper has this Oriental feel-
ing.

The big living room is mostly eighteenth-
century traditional and gracious, with
Rosie's baby grand piano — a birthday gift
from Jack two years ago — over in one
corner. She describes herself as "only a
fair musician, who loves to play the piano
a little, and also the accordion," but the

All the Things You Are

piano has been a stimulus to continued
practice.

The den is filled with Early American
antiques, the kitchen is desert pink, the
porch done in charcoal with pink blinds
and pink wrought-iron furniture. Up-
stairs are three bedrooms, in such unique
and lovely colorings as burnt lemon and
aqua. One is Rosie's Valentine Room, so-
called because she decorated it in red and
white, with little hearts.

"I love our house so much that I make a
tour every morning before I leave," she
admits. "Each room is different. Each
looks beautiful to us, probably because we
started without one thing and picked the
furnishings, piece by piece, with loving
care. Everything has a special meaning
for us now."

When you ask Rosemary how she man-
ages to keeo a house so spic and span with
only the help of a cleaning woman, and
do all the cooking, too, she laughs. "I
run. All the time. I usually get up about
6: 45 and I get home just in time to do any
marketing necessary and to have dinner
on the table by 6:30. Poor Jack — he used
to have to wait until all hours while I
learned to assemble a dinner, but now I
have learned to plan better. When he is
away, I eat with friends, if I'm not too late
or too tired. I'm supposed to have one
day a week to myself, but it doesn't always
work out that way. I do my housework
in bits, a little whenever I have time. We
would like to own a dog, but we're away
so much and an animal would be lonely.
I did have a Siamese cat we called Minute
— but cats get lonely, too."

Rosemary has always been a busy little
girl on the go. Her interest in acting
started in high school, in Montclair, New
Jersey, where she was born. As a mem-
ber of a dramatic group, she was singled
out by a friend of playwright George S.
Kaufman and was soon offered a teen-age
role in a Kaufman-produced play called
"Franklin Street." Unfortunately, it closed
in Washington, D. C, before coming to
New York, but now playwright Moss Hart
had seen her, and he put her in "Junior
Miss." That ran about a year. Then Mr.
Kaufman cast her in a play written by
Gypsy Rose Lee, called "The Naked Gen-
ius," in which Joan Blondell starred. By
thio time, Rosemary was attending the
Professional Children's School in New
York, playing in summer stock when she
wasn't on Broadway, and had, all told,

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70

become a full-fledged professional actress.

Rosemary's mother was never quite sure
that acting was a career for any daughter
of hers — especially when the play had a
name like "The Naked Genius." But the
family went along with Rosie's ambitions,
and her Aunt Belle encouraged her, be-
lieving, that young people should have
the chance to do what they really wanted
to do.

"By 1944, when I opened in 'Dear Ruth'
on Broadway," Rosemary recalls, "my
mother was so ill that she was in a hospi-
tal, and I didn't know she was there in the
audience on opening night. She had asked
to be brought in an ambulance, and had
to be taken back immediately after the
performance. I was so proud when I was
told she had been there, and I am sure it
made her happy. It was the last time she
saw me perform, and a little later she
passed on. My Aunt Belle was just won-
derful to me. When I was playing in
'Dear Ruth,' I was also doing some radio
work, and my aunt used to sit in the
car and wait for me and whisk me off to
the theater in time."

Even with her aunt's help, and the help
of others in her family who loved and be-
lieved in her, and the help of many friends
she had now made in the theater, Rosie
was never a girl to wait for someone else
to do her work. She is as honest with
herself as she is with others, and she faced
the fact that an actress doesn't find much
economic security in the legitimate the-
ater. She wanted to use her talent, and
she wanted to be sure there would be a
place for her to keep on using it, so radio
seemed more and more attractive and se-
cure. She planned a campaign to get
known in radio circles.

"Over a period of time I bought many
pairs of tickets for 'Dear Ruth,' sending
them to producers and directors of radio
shows with my compliments, and suggest-
ing they might enjoy our play. I never
knew whether my first program, Grand
Central Station, was a direct result of my
campaign, but I think it was an indirect
one. Tickets were acknowledged and used,
and opportunities did begin to open. I
played a Saturday radio show for eight
years, The Adventures Of Archie An-
drews, opposite Bob Hastings. I had many
dramatic parts on radio, and not for one
week since my bold campaign have I ever
been out of work. Like other radio per-
formers, I made the step into television —
probably more easily than some, because
of my stage background."

Although she seemed destined from the
first to be the rebellious teenager, Jill, who
would learn lessons of sacrifice and fam-
ily loyalty, it was months after reading
for the part before she was finally chosen
for Young Dr. Malone. One actress after
another was tried, and later rejected, be-
cause the producers had certain qualities
in mind that seemed elusive when they
tried to pin them down to any one per-
son. Only Sandy Becker, who is Dr. Jerry
Malone himself, picked Jill from the start.
"You're Jill," he kept saying to her. By
the time everyone else was agreeing with
him, he just smiled and said, "Didn't I tell
you it would happen?"

"Radio and television have given me
roots," Rosemary says now. "I really
grew up on Mama. I loved the show from
the first moment, and never dreamed it
would have such a success. I was just so
proud to be in it. We are like a real
family by now.

"As Jill in Young Dr. Malone, I have an-
other family. Sandy Becker has been just
wonderful. And Joan Alexander, who is
Tracey. I love the talk of hospitals and

medicine. I think I have always been a
little in awe of the medical profession,
and when I was single I was attracted to
young doctors. I did volunteer work in
Roosevelt Hospital in New York and
sometimes I almost wished I had become
a doctor."

Until the time of her marriage, Rose-
mary went to New York University early
mornings before rehearsals and early eve-
nings several times a week. She found
herself learning her lines for the show in
class, and doing her class homework at the
studio. But, in spite of the confusion of
interests, she loved it all, loved to study,
used to be so pleased when "Mama" and
"Papa," as she fondly calls her TV parents,
liked her compositions, or when Sandy
Becker, her "other father," congratulated
her on her marks.

Now, of course, it's her personal life
that comes first, although she can't im-
agine any life that doesn't include her
work as an actress. "Jack is so willing to
let me be a person," she points out. "An in-
dividual, and an actress, as well as his
wife. I have always believed it is hard
for anyone out of our profession to marry
someone in it, but Jack makes it easy.
Most men I knew before him showed some
jealousy of my devotion to my work and
the way it took my time. Some men don't
like to have a wife who can earn a fair
amount, believing that this takes away their
own prestige. We haven't built up any
such problems.

"Jack is proud of me, I believe, but not
too proud. He makes it plain that he is
more proud of me as a person than as an
actress, proud that I have the ability to
work hard for what I want. When he gets
a certain twinkle in his eye, I realize that
he thinks I'm getting a little 'upstage' and
I snap right out of it. He's the most well-
adjusted person I know, without a trace of
sham."

They both worry about the state of the
world and what may happen, and they
both realize that each day should be lived
to its fullest. Both have a sense of humor,
both know that everything cannot always
be perfect — so they strive to make it as
perfect as possible, here and now.

"I like getting older, because I get hap-
pier every year," Rosie says. "I have a
husband, a home, and I hope someday to
have children. It's wonderful to have a
career, too — to create, to use what I have
learned during these past years. But I
have also learned how important a per-
sonal life is to a woman."

When Rosemary and Jack were married,
Ralph Nelson (then the director of the
Mama show) and his wife Barbara an-
nounced they had arranged to have all the
whistles in New Jersey blow at the mo-
ment the wedding began. Sure enough,
tha minister had just started the ceremony
when suddenly it seemed as if every siren
in the state began to shriek. What the
two had forgotten was that this was Sat-
urday noon, when the air raid sirens and
the warning whistles are always tested.
It almost broke them up!

"Now, when Jack and I hear the sirens
scream, we look at each other and laugh.
'Must be a wedding somewhere,' we say."

The whistles are still blowing, the bells
are still ringing for Rosemary Rice Mer-
rell — the way she hopes they will ring,
joyously, in the future of Young Dr. Ma~
lone's teen-aged daughter Jill.

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Faith Had the Answer

(Continued from page 29)

"We'll get a wheelchair for you," the
sister said firmly to the woman. Poor
thing, she thought. She probably doesn't
realize how close to death she is. And
she's so young — in her twenties. But God
must have His own reasons for summon-
ing her.

That was how close to death Mrs. Bill
Lundigan was, three years ago. At the
time, Bill Lundigan — your host on Shower
Of Stars and Climax!, the Chrysler Cor-
poration shows — had only recently com-
pleted making a picture, "Terror Ship,"
in London.

Bill didn't know how close to true terror
he and his wife, Rena, were to come in
the days and weeks that followed. They
had gone to Paris and Rome in a holiday
mood. A few signs of illness which Rena
showed had disturbed their Paris holiday,
but they had hoped it was just a passing
thing. Then, in Rome, she had become
deathly sick.

Whenever the hospital rules permitted,
Bill was by Rena's side. Between visits to
her bedside, he was on his knees in the
chapel of the hospital, praying that God
spare Rena, if it was His will.

Rena's blood count was down to 44. Ac-
cording to most medical science, with a
blood count of 44, she should have been
dead. Somehow, through Bill's faith and
her own, and with the help of the great-
est of all Physicians, she survived.

In Rome, she had six transfusions of
bljod. The doctors said she needed an
operation, but they couldn't operate on
her till they got her blood count up to
at least 72. They planned to operate on
her in the hospital in Rome. But, when
Rena learned that she would have a long
convalescence, she implored the doctor to
let her go back to Los Angeles for the
surgery. Finally, he gave his consent.

"The doctor," Bill told me, "was taking
one of the greatest chances a medical man
ever took. For going back to the United
States meant flying at a height of 22,000
feet to California. If Rena had started
again to lose blood on the plane, where
could we have gone for help? At 22,000
feet above the ground, how are you going
to get to a hospital?"

We were sitting in the living room of
the Lundigans' modest but charming
Benedict Canyon home, built in simple
French Normandy style.

"It was Bill who took the greatest
chance," said Rena simply. Her happy,
healthy face shone with the light of
fulfillment. This is the way a woman
looks when her dearest dreams have come
true.

Rena's hair was the glossy dark brown
of perfect health, and her brown eyes
danced impishly. Today, things are a far
cry, at the Lundigans', from what they
were three years ago.

It seems unlikely that Bill Lundigan
would have been able to endure the
anguish of those days, if it had not been
for his deep, abiding faith in God. "Faith,"
as he said earnestly, "is ninety-nine per-
cent of the happiness Rena and I have
found with each other, and with Stacey."

Stacey is the two-year-old bewitching
bundle of energy whom Bill and Rena
adopted about a year ago. She is some
twenty pounds and about thirty-four
inches of sheer enchantment, with reddish-
blond hair, blue eyes that change in dif-
ferent lights but look very like Bill's, and
a temperament which seems a composite
of both Bill's and Rena's.

The little house in Benedict Canyon is
filled with the presence of Stacey. There's
her photograph over the fireplace, right

in the heart of the living room. There's
a nursery filled with her toys and dolls —
she has had so many of them that the
Lundigans have given two-thirds of the
wonderful gifts away, since no one child
could ever find time to play with all of
them. And there's the pink and white bed-
room, which was ready and waiting for
Stacey a whole year before the Lundigans
found her.

Stacey is a bundle of dynamite from the
moment she wakes up in the morning till
she goes to bed at night. As soon as she
jumps out of bed, she rushes into Daddy's
room, pats his cheek, flings herself across
his chest, and begs to play "horsie." Bill,
of course, is the horsie, little Stacey the
rider. "Thank heavens she doesn't wear
spurs," he laughs.

The rest of the day, Stacey bounds
around the house with the same tireless
energy. She reaches for everything her
little hands can grasp. When told she
mustn't touch something, she walks away,
diverts your attention elsewhere, pre-
tends to have lost all interest in the object
she was told not to touch, but eventually
comes back to it.

Among her big interests in life are Bill
and Rena, pocketbooks in general, and
her life-size doll. She loves to have
breakfast with this big jointed doll, which
was exactly her size when Stacey received
it last Christmas as Bill's gift. Now
Stacey is a couple of inches taller than the
doll, which she dresses in her cast-off
dresses and shoes. This particular doll is
probably the best-dressed one in Bene-
dict Canyon.

Who would have dared predict such
complete and ecstatic joy for the Lundi-
gans during the grim days when Rena lay,
struggling for life, in her room in St.
John's Hospital? She needed transfusion
after transfusion, and it had to be whole
blood, not just plasma. There were al-
ways willing, eager donors, for Bill and
Rena have always been loved by those
who knew them. The men at 20th Century-
Fox, where Bill was then under contract,
gave quart after quart of blood.

Though Rena needed the blood desper-
ately, it was hard for her thin, wracked
body to take it. It used to take five hours
for a single transfusion; and she could
be given only one transfusion a day. There
was one day when the doctors were almost
sure that they were going to lose her. For
two or three hours, she was losing blood
more rapidly than it could be administered.

The possible danger of cancer never
worried Rena. "It just didn't occur to me,"
she says simply. "I didn't allow myself
to think of it, any more than a soldier
thinks that he is going to be killed in
battle. He knows some men will be, but
doesn't believe his number will come up."

Bill knew that it was a possibility, but
there was no way of getting a final answer
till five days after the operation. The
preliminary biopsy was hopeful, but only
the final biopsy after the . surgery would
tell the complete story.

Bill was on his knees every day in the
chapel at St. John's. Just as he had sought
God's guidance before he took the flight
with Rena to Los Angeles, so he sought
it daily while Rena lay, wavering between
life and death.

Five days after the operation, Bill
learned the merciful truth. There was not
a sign of malignancy. Bill says, "Through
those trying days, I would have buckled
under, if it hadn't been for faith. If you
don't have faith in God to live with when
you have happiness, and to fall back on
when you have sorrow, you're in trouble."

With faith, as Bill learned, you can go

through the most harrowing experience,
and your spirit and courage and sanity
will survive. The Lundigans have par-
layed faith, love and laughter into true
happiness. Without these three precious
ingredients, they would have nothing.

How thoroughly they have found hap-
piness is evident in the joyful atmosphere
of their home today. Stacey stood on the
staircase leading from the living room to
her bedroom. On her head was perched
the most audacious hat, a vivid Kelly
green, embellished with flowers.

"Macushla," said Bill to Stacey, "on what
boat did you come over?"

And truly, with those bluish-green
Irish eyes, that impossible hat, and the
pink dress that any smart little colleen
would know was just right for her to
wear, Stacey might really have come
straight from the Emerald Isle.

Actually, when the Lundigans first be-
held her, she looked altogether different.
Instead of looking like a rosy-cheeked
colleen, she was all eyes and ears, thin
and wan, with sparse, lackluster hair — and
a bald spot in back which might have been
caused by hours and days and weeks of
lying in a crib, with no one close by to
pick her up and fondle her. Of course,
things changed when she was brought to
the agency, but she had been there only a
couple of weeks — not nearly long enough
for the sisters there to give her the feel-
ing of being forever loved, forever secure.
"I'd always pictured a blue-eyed blonde,"
Rena admits. "And there was Stacey,
with straight darkish hair. She was very
apathetic. There was no expression on
her face. She looked as if she didn't give
a hoot."

The Lundigans looked at each other.
The Mother Superior said, "Why don't you
take a couple of weeks to think it over?"

"We don't want time to think it over,"
said Rena. "That's right," said Bill. For
two years, they had been searching for a
baby girl. They hadn't wanted an infant,
but a child who might sometimes be able
to travel with Bill, who covers 125,000 miles
a year on his good-will tours for Chrysler
Corporation. During those two years, it
had sometimes seemed as if they'd never
get the baby they wanted. This was the
first baby girl old enough to travel with
Bill and Rena, on at least some of his
cross-country flights.

"Let's be honest about it," says Rena.
"It wasn't that we had an instantaneous
feeling of great love for Stacey. But she
was available."

"We didn't take her because she was
the loneliest child we'd ever seen, but
in spite of it," Bill adds, with that almost
painful honesty of his, leaning over back-
ward, so he won't be credited with "noble"
motives. "Let's get one thing straight.
Nobody was doing anybody any great
favor. Least of all, were we doing any-
one a favor in taking Stacey. It was the
other way round. The good Lord blessed
us by giving her to us."

The Lundigans were not quite sure
what to name her. Bill held out for the
name Anastacia, after his grandmother.
Anastacia is also a saint's name. Rena, who
dislikes nicknames, wanted a name that
couldn't be converted into a nickname.
She'd always liked the name Stacey.
They compromised. The baby was named
Anastacia — Stacey, for short.

Stacey thrived on love. With the pass-
ing of months, her hair turned lighter, her
figure a little fuller, though she's small-
boned and will never be chubby. After a
trip to Honolulu, her hair even turned
curly. This was such a phenomenon that
friends have asked Rena what she did to

turn the straight hair curly! "I didn't do
anything," she laughs. "Actually I can
hardly get a comb through her hair now."
She believes that the vitamins in Stacey's
diet may have caught up with Stacey's
hair.

Stacey has probably traveled more than
almost any other baby her age in the
United States. When Bill went to Wash-
ington, D. C, to emcee the Inaugural cele-
bration, Rena and Stacey flew there a
few days later, to be with him.

"We confused the admirals and all the
big shots in Washington, D. C," Rena
laughs. "They just couldn't understand
why such a small child was being allowed
to take a walk in the hall on our floor of
the Mayflower Hotel at nine each night.
Of course, the reason was that there's a
three-hour difference between California
time and Eastern time. Since we were
going to be in Washington for only a few
days, I didn't think it wise to put Stacey
on Washington time. Why put Stacey to
bed at six?

"Stacey knew everybody on our floor
at the hotel, and she was always flying
around the corridor. One evening, my
brother, a professor at the University of
Maryland, came over to baby-sit for us.
He had quite a time chasing after Stacey,
especially when she wandered toward the
wrong suite at the hotel."

"As a result of that experience," Bill
chuckles, "he may remain a bachelor for
the rest of his life." But it's obvious he
really thinks an evening with Stacey
should be enough to make any man yearn
for marriage and a family, with a bounc-
ing little angel-imp like Stacey to make
things really interesting. The Lundigans
themselves are so far from being fright-
ened by their hectic experiences with
Stacey that they plan eventually to add
three more children to the family, first
a girl, then two boys.

Love, laughter and prayer have been
a part of the Lundigan life from the very
beginning.

Bill was born in Syracuse, New York,
the eldest son of Martha and Michael
Lundigan. Bill's father owned a shoe
store in Syracuse and, as a youngster, Bill
worked part time in his father's store. But
Bill became fascinated by radio very early
in his life. Jack Shannon, program direc-
tor of WFBL in Syracuse — who later be-
came Father Shannon — had great faith in
Bill, and gave him a chance to become a
full time announcer for the station.

At the beginning, however, Bill was un-
sure of himself and pulled so many boners
that the station officials asked Jack Shan-
non to fire him. Instead, the future priest
pleaded with them to give Bill more time
to get accustomed to his new chores — and
promised to coach him himself. Aided by
Jack Shannon, Bill became a very suc-
cessful announcer. In fact, he got his first
chance to act in the movies as a result
of an incident that occurred during his
days in radio.

One day on the air. Bill interviewed a
man who was publicizing one of the "Tar-
zan" pictures. The man had a number of
boxes with him, and asked Bill Lundi-
gan if he would mind his opening a couple
of the boxes. "Oh, that'll be fine," said
Bill, never guessing who was in them. Out
of the first box came Cheetah, a chim-
panzee. Out of the second box the pub-
licity man pulled a fourteen-foot python.
"Take her," he told Bill. "She's harmless,
because she's all doped up."

Bill confesses that he is a devout coward
about two things— pythons and airplanes
— airplanes because he knows quite a bit
about them and is always aware when
anything goes wrong, and pythons because
he knows nothing about them. Unwilling
to admit that he could be so frightened
of a doped-up snake, Bill picked up the

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slithery creature and put on the greatest
act of his life. He pretended to be com-
pletely unconcerned. This so impressed
the publicity ambassador from the movie
studio that he suggested Bill should have
a movie test.

The test led to a contract with Universal.
For the next six years, Bill worked first
at Universal, then at Warner Bros., and
finally at M-G-M. Then he got a much
more important contract with the U. S.
Marines.

Bill has never been known to speak
more than a sentence or two about his
service with the Marines. When eager-
beaver press agents or reporters have
asked him to discuss his war adventures,
he has politely refused. He feels that he
did only what any decent American would
and should do — and he's not going to do
any flag-waving about it.

Most writers about Hollywood claim
that Bill is just a plain, average, ordi-
nary American, exactly like your next
door neighbor and mine. But the truth
goes much deeper than that. The Lundi-
gans have proved themselves extraordi-
nary people, raising themselves above
"typical" experience in the way they have
faced both tragedy and joy with a valiant,
undefeated spirit. Watching Bill over your
TV set, admitting him into your living
room as the friendly host of Climax! and
Shower Of Stars, you are welcoming some-
one with a much deeper faith — and a
brighter sense of humor — than most people
have ever developed.

Take, for instance, the Lundigan love
story. It might have happened to any-
one— but not in just the way that the Lun-
digans tell it.

The first time they met, they were intro-
duced by friends at Schwab's drug store
on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles.
Rena was fifteen. "I was the kind of
child," she laughs, "who wore braces
on her teeth and no make-up. I was any-
thing but precocious. I had no romantic
ideas about Hollywood actors. I'd liked
Bill's personality on the screen, but I
thought he was just another Hollywood
actor."

"Thanks for the word actor," Bill grins.

"I didn't really expect him to pay any
attention to me," Rena confesses, "but I
thought he could have been a little more
polite. It seemed to me that he gave me
an awfully fast brush-off. At that time, I
thought he had some warmth on the
screen, but not much warmth off it.
Frankly, I thought he was conceited."

Bill's memory of that first meeting is
very, very hazy. However, he was older
than Rena, considered himself a mature
type, and presumably dismissed her from
his mind as a child.

Four years later, they met again. This
time, Rena was no longer the kind of
young woman who could be easily dis-
missed from anyone's mind. The braces
were gone, of course. Her dark brown hair
was lustrous. Her blue dress brought
out the sparkle of her eyes. She was
vivacious, attractive, a challenge to any
man. She had come to Quantico, Virginia,
to visit her friends, Leonard Lee, a cap-
tain in the Marine Corps, and his wife.

Bill won't sit still for any moonlight
or roses or soft music, when you discuss
his romance. The most he'll go for is his
masculine admission, "There must have
been a pretty vital attraction."

You ask hopefully, "Was it love at
second sight?"

Rena laughs. "I don't know whether

Bill loved me or not, but he certainly liked

my convertible! His car was on the Pacific

T Coast, and mine was available. Going from

* Quantico to Washington, D. C. by train

B was like traveling by train during Civil

War days — so slow it was murder. And

_ . Bill loved to travel to Washington. So we

used my car. We went together for about
a month."

During that month, Bill told Rena that
she was spoiled. It made no impression
then — but now, looking back upon her past
life, she admits she had been spoiled.
All her life, she'd had her own way. Bill
was the first person who didn't let her
have it. "It took a lot of years to change
me," she admits. "I guess that secretly
I liked his masterful ways. Or perhaps
I was just stunned. One day he decided
he'd drive my car. He didn't ask . . .
he just drove it."

"It was a mating brought about by
'mutual antagonism,' " Bill chuckles. Then,
more seriously, he adds, "All around us,
young people of eighteen or nineteen,
caught up by war emotions, were rushing
off to get married. I was almost thirty-
one. Our feeling for each other was much
more serious than just war-emotion ex-
citement."

Perhaps they would have married then
and there but Bill had to go overseas on
six hours' notice.

"Rena saved my life by writing to me
regularly while I was overseas," he says

Cool, Men, Cool!
PAT BOONE

on the cover — and an exclusive story
from Hollywood by his wife

•

TOMMY SANDS

in full color portrait — and candid
revelations by his mother

•

ALL THIS-PLUS

fifteen "hottest" new singing
sensations of 1957!

August TV RADIO MIRROR

on sale July 5

— and behind the flippant words is real
emotion.

One of the greatest links with the peace-
ful world he'd left behind was Rena. No
matter whether his letters reached her
or not — and usually they didn't — she wrote
him regularly, pouring out her thoughts,
her emotions, her beliefs, in a way that
stirred him with the knowledge that this
was the girl for him. Now he knew for
sure that, if he survived the war, he
would want her to be his wife.

Neither of them remembers the exact
time and place where Bill proposed. But
they'll never forget the wedding on August
18, 1945. By this time, Bill was considered
a pretty important Hollywood star, and
photographers and newspapermen would
have loved a tip-off on where and when
he was going to get married. Bill wanted
none of that Hollywood hoop-la. To avoid
it, Bill and Rena decided to get married
at Huntington Beach. No newspaper men
were informed; no photographers called
in.

"In fact," laughs Rena, "Bill was so
determined not to get publicity out of our
wedding that he forgot to call in a local
photographer, to take a photo for the
family album. So we have none of the

wedding. My family was unable to come,
but looked forward to getting a photo, at
least. When they learned we hadn't taken
one, they were very disappointed."

Oddly enough, there were no photo-
graphs taken of Rena on another import-
ant occasion — when she wore one of the
most beautiful gowns ever designed for
her — a dark green ballroom dress with
an embroidered lace top, and a bodice
made of an unusual Italian material. This
was the gown she wore at the President's
Inaugural. Bill selected it from a group
of designs by Howard Shoup.

In order to do his job as emcee for the
Inaugural, Bill dressed before Rena, and
went down to the hotel ballroom first.
Rena, in her beautiful gown, sat with
some friends in a box on the opposite side
of the room. Designed to hold about eight
hundred people, the room held several
thousand that night "It would have taken
the entire Notre Dame forward line to get
from me to Rena or from Rena to me,"
Bill grins.

Rena was with some friends who had to
leave early to fly to Detroit. Not wishing
to sit alone in the box, she went up to her
room, took off the gorgeous gown, sat
around in her robe, waiting for Bill. When
he finally came upstairs, her eyes were
drooping, and she was ready for slumber-
land. Bill smiled and said, "By the way,
darling, how did you look in that dress?"
To this day, he hasn't seen Rena in it.
The Lundigans are so busy devoting all
their spare time to Stacey that Rena
wouldn't dream of wasting precious time
parading in the gown for Bill's inspection.
Currently, it's very obvious that the
real ruler of the Lundigan household is
little Stacey. The real Anastasia may have
had difficulty proving she was a member
of Russia's royal family, but this par-
ticular Anastacia has no difficulty getting
everyone to treat her as a princess.

Practically every day is Christmas at
the Lundigan household. At Christmas
time, little Miss Stacey was showered with
more gifts than a quiz contestant. Among
last year's gifts were a pink and white
tricycle from a close friend of the Lundi-
gans, and a miniature pink-and-white
Plymouth, small enough for Stacey to
drive, presented by Byron Avery, head of
West Coast promotion for Chrysler.

Sometimes friends ask Rena, "Is Stacey
impressed by the fact that she can see her
father performing on TV?"

"No," laughs Rena. "She takes it for
granted."

The first time Stacey saw Bill on TV, he
was away on a trip, and she was feeling
disconsolate because she hadn't been per-
mitted to accompany him. She missed him
very much. Then, suddenly, she was
startled not so much by his picture on the
TV screen, as by the sound of his voice.
She began hunting everywhere for him,
even under the TV set.

The next time she saw Bill on TV, he
was in the room. Hastily, she patted the
TV image on the cheek, then hurried over
to Bill's lap, and patted his cheek. On the
whole, she showed a distinct preference for
Bill over his TV image. After all, who
can possibly sit on the lap of a TV picture?
Among Stacey's endearing habits is
that of taking dollar bills out of her
mother's wallet, and handing them to Bill.
"How in the world did you train her to do
that?" one friend asked Bill admiringly.
Recently, Bill was given a. certificate by
American Airlines stating that he is an
Admiral of the Flagship Fleet — this, in
honor of his many travels by plane for
Chrysler. "I really ought to give the cer-
tificate to Stacey," he smiles "I think she
has done almost as much traveling as I
have." There's not much doubt about it
— Stacey's the Admiral from whom the
Lundigans take their orders.

WHAT'S NEW ON
THE WEST COAST

(Continued from page 11)

million-selling record "Teen-Age Crush,"
being chased up the sales ladder by his
newest, "Ring-A-Ding-A-Ding," which
looks like it will set the million-mark
sales bell a-ringing, too. On the strength
of his new national prominence, Tommy
has moved out of the small Hollywood
apartment he shared with his mother,
Grace, and they have found a new home in
Brentwood. . . . Who else is moving?
George Montgomery and Dinah Shore,
celebrating the first birthday of their new
Beverly Hills home, are building a newer
place in the Hills — so the children will
have more children of their own age to
play with. . . . And in June, Groucho is
moving into his new place in the hills
above B.H. . . . And Tic Tac Dough, having
found a new night-time home in this
country, also found a home in England.
The quiz's TV counterpart overseas will be
known as Naughts And Crosses.

Music Memos: Lawrence Welk, always a
man to encourage saving and thrift among
his bandsmen, was delighted when accor-
dionist Myron Floren started the Cham-
pagne Club's Investment Fund for the
band several years ago. Each member
contributed a portion of his weekly earn-
ings, and this in turn was invested in the
club's behalf. Recently, a special dinner -
meeting of the club celebrated its earning
of $2,500 on their investment, which then
totaled $20,000. Now, that's what we call
sweet music. . . . Other dividends in the
Welk band: Larry Dean, vocalist, and his
wife Alice expect a second baby next
November. Larry will celebrate his 21st
birthday, a new baby, and a new home all
within a few months. . . . Elvis, move over,
here comes Ricky — Nelson, that is. Ricky,
the youngest son of Ozzie and Harriet
Nelson, has started on a new career. And,
from all reports, he sings a mean song.
In fact, Verve Records, with whom he's
signed, says Ricky promises to sing up a
real storm. Says Ricky, "This singing,
man, this is the life for me!" Maybe we
can get Ozzie, Harriet, and David to join in
a little four-part harmony. Mom and dad
were musical before they were mirthful.

Dinah and George Montgomery want
something finer for Missy and Jody.

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My 13 Years With Jerry Lewis

(Continued from page 53)
York or Los Angeles. I've made so many
round trips I know now to ask for a seat
on the right or the left side of the plane,
depending on which direction I'm headed,
so I avoid sitting in the sun the whole trip.

I'd really do this job a lot better if I
were twins. You see, when Jerry's playing
a date in New York, Miami, Atlantic City
or Chicago, I try to be with him most of
the week. Then I'll hop a plane for Holly-
wood, spend the weekend at home with the
children — and, on Monday morning, I'm
flying again, headed back to Jerry.

When Jerry's in Las Vegas, I spend al-
most more time in the air than I do on the
ground. I fly home Friday afternoon, pick
up the children, and fly back to Las Vegas
with them that evening. The five of us
spend a wild, wonderful weekend together.
Then, on Sunday night, I fly back home
with them. Monday morning finds me once
more in the air, streaking toward Las
Vegas and Jerry. My friends tell me I'd
save myself a lot of time and trouble if
I'd let the nurse bring the children up on
the plane, or take them back home. But,
for some crazy reason, I can't bear the
thought of them getting on a plane unless
I'm there to watch over them.

It's a good thing I like flying and the
delicious food they always serve. I can
sneak in a snooze or catch up on my read-
ing— and I'm soon on the ground again.

1 his flitting about the country is very
exciting, because I get a chance to meet
new people all the time and, most im-
portantly, I have the chance to share in
Jerry's happiness doing the work he loves
so much. Naturally, I love puttering around
my house in the Pacific Palisades, but the
house means nothing to me without my
husband. However, when he and the chil-
dren and I are all together in our beautiful
home, then my world is complete!

When Jerry is playing a date in New
York, for instance, we take a small apart-
ment at the Essex House. It has a tiny
kitchen, and I bought an electric frying
pan to use there. When we come home
from the last show, I fix up some scrambled
eggs, or Jerry's favorite tomato-and-cheese
sandwiches, and we make like newlyweds
all over again. This last time, before I left
Jerry to come home for a weekend with
the children, I cooked up a big casserole
of chicken the way he likes it best. I left
it in the refrigerator, so that, when he
got home late at night, he could have his
after-show snack just as he likes it, even
though I wasn't there.

A lot of people have made comments,
both in print and out, about how I
shouldn't "mother" Jerry so much. This al-
ways makes me smile a little. If folks
would just think a bit, they'd realize that,
in any successful marriage, the wife does
a spot of mothering. Maybe more, maybe
less of it. It all depends on how much of
it the husband requires.

One of the responsibilities of any mother
— whether a loi/e-mother or a mother-
mother — is to see that her "offspring"
matures, grows self-sufficient and able to
meet life head-on by himself. This is not
easy, believe me. The fact that Jerry has
matured magnificently in the thirteen years
we've been married is a matter of con-
siderable pride to me. Not that it's all due
to my direction — actually, only a very
small part of it can I claim credit for. But
the satisfying part is that he has matured.
T Even more satisfying, he realizes this fact,
v and realizes what part I played in his
* maturing. His giving me credit, and not
taking me for granted, makes it all very,
very worth while.
76

There's been a lot written in the last few
months about Jerry's "new maturity."
Condensed into a few well-written para-
graphs, it sounds like a fairly rapid, rela-
tively painless metamorphosis, and an ex-
citing one at that. And the impression
probably is that I must have been mighty
thrilled to have a front-row-center seat
while the whole admirable change was go-
ing on.

Oh, I was thrilled, all right. In fact, I
don't suppose there's anyone who gets
more deep and abiding satisfaction out of
the new look in Jerry's eyes, the look
which says, in a surprised way, "Hey, I'm
me, Jerry Lewis — a Something, and they
like me!"

I fell in love with, and married, a won-
derful, wild boy of eighteen. I expected
him to grow up, soon, into a wonderful
(and probably still wild) man. But he kept
on being a boy. It took Jerry nearly nine
years to grow up to be that man. I'd have
been inhuman if I hadn't run out of
patience with him, now and then, along
the way.

In fact, I am not always a patient woman,
really. I can blow up as easily as anyone.
But — when you love a man, and really try
to understand him — you find within your-
self funds of patience you never dreamed
existed. That is why, I suppose, I've been
able to put up with most of the zany things
this Lewis guy has pulled, over the years.

Oh, I won't say I've never been mad at
him. After all, I'm Italian by birth, and
no one ever accused Italians of being
placid, stolid, phlegmatic creatures. But,
just when he's made me simply furious,
he'll do something funny — and I can't de-
cide whether to laugh or cry. I don't know
how many times I've snapped at him, "Get
out of this room, you big lug, until I decide
whether I'm going to laugh at you or cry
over you!"

I don't know why I bother, really. I
almost always end up laughing.

Some of the "mads" didn't always end
up with laughter ... at least, not right
away. A couple of times, I even walked out
on him. But only to be able to get far
enough away to cool off, to think things
over. I always realized what had made
him act as he did. And I always figured
that, if I'd be patient just a little while
longer, he'd make it! And he did. Looking
back, even those rough spots seem well
worth while, now.

Most of my "mads" have been caused
by the way Jerry drives himself. He isn't
really well, you know. He was in bed for
seventy-two days last year, with hepatitis.
And he's got the kind of heart which is
sensitive to nicotine. So he drinks very
little, and smokes only lightly. But, in
other ways, he abuses himself.

When he was playing his date at the
Palace in New York last winter, for in-
stance. . . . The last show was over at
eleven P.M., and we'd sit around in the
dressing room for a while, waiting for him
to cool off, and for the stage-door crowd
to thin out. We could have made it back
to the apartment by one A.M., easily. But
no — most of the time, he'd want to go out
to a night club, where we'd sit and talk
shop with some other show-business peo-
ple until all hours. Even if we did go to
the apartment, he was all for sitting up
and talking, or watching television, until
three or four o'clock.

I worked out a pretty good system,
though, for that one. Whenever I could get
him back to the apartment right after the
show, I'd casually suggest, "Hey, why don't
you climb into bed and watch television,
while I fix you a snack?" Just getting him
into bed was the trick. Once between the

sheets, he was off to sleep in five minutes.
Half the time he wouldn't even stay awake
long enough to eat the snack I'd fixed.

It's really easier when he's making a
picture. Then he's at home for several
months at a time. He goes off to the studio
fairly early in the morning, but he's home
for dinner nearly every evening.

We have a quiet dinner, generally alone.
That's because Jerry gets home from the
studio about seven, and Gary and Ronnie
are always "starved" by five or five-thirty.
So it's just simpler to see to their dinner
when they want it. Besides, this gives
Jerry and me a few precious minutes alone
together. There are few enough of these in
any household with children — and, what
with all the extra distractions our house-
hold groans under, we must snatch these
■ times when we can. The boys are generally
deeply involved in one of their early-
evening TV shows at this hour, and don't
mind waiting until after dinner for their
romp with Dad.

When Jerry and the children romp in
the living room, Mommy is always called
upon to act as referee. I'm also the "official
pianist" when they have a singing contest.
And when they go off for baseball in the
lot next door, I'm always on hand to
applaud a good catch or a well-hit ball.
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to
see my two sons and husband enjoying
themselves together, and I can't wait for
the day when Scotty is old enough to join
in the fun. My being with them means my
little family circle is complete.

Once the boys are packed off to bed, we
settle down — like 'most every married
couple across the country — with the paper,
the new magazines which came in the mail
that day, a new book, and the television.
Once in a while, Jerry will have a script
to study. But, most of the time, he stretches
out on the couch, and watches television.

The difference here is that we are doing
something which, to us, is sheer luxury!
Because — to the Jerry Lewises — it amounts
to Behaving Like People. It's a welcome
change from the mad routine of night-club
or theater appearances, when evenings are
spent sweating out the hours between
shows in dreary dressing rooms.

Like half the husbands in the country,
Jerry never gets to see how the late movie
ends — he falls asleep halfway through. As
a matter of fact, he's lucky if he sees how
the late movie begins. It's not unusual for
him to conk out before the ten-o'clock
news. I sit there and read, or watch, until
I'm sleepy. Then, I generally just take a
robe, cover him snugly, and off to bed I
go. I swear I never make any noise, and I
leave the television set going so that the
sudden silence won't waken him. But he
seems to sense when I've left the room.
Five minutes after I've crawled into bed,
he trails right along.

I don't think he ever really wakes up
then, even so. He undresses all the way
from the den to the bedroom — you can
track him next morning by the trail of
shoes, socks, et cetera. I must remember,
some night, to cross him up, hide out
somewhere, and watch that sleep-walking
strip-tease. I'll bet it's as funny as any of
his on-stage acts.

Anyway . . . the times he's in Holly-
wood making a picture — like when he was
here last winter doing "Delicate Delin-
quent" and, this spring, working on "Sad
Sack" (both down on the Paramount lot) —
are the happiest for all of us.

Leading the kind of a life I do — part of
the time at home and part of the time on
the road — can be pretty rough. I don't
mind the temporary quarters we put up

with when Jerry's playing a date some-
where . . . actually, they're generally quite
comfortable, even luxurious. I don't mind
sitting backstage in the drafty wings while
he does a show — this is a thrill which will
never wear thin for me. The only heart-
ache for me is having half of me, my chil-
dren, separated from me by the width of a
continent. And at a time in their lives
when every minute away from them means
I'm missing some of the fun of watching
them grow up. They get away from you
too fast as it is, these days, without your
missing great chunks of their life, as I
must.

But Jerry needs me too — and when I do
come home to be with the children for a
while, I still feel like half a person, want-
ing to be where he is. I tell you, it could
tear you in two, if you'd let it!

The boys are getting old enough now
that they miss Jerry terribly when he's
gone. The last time I flew back to New
York to join Jerry, after spending a week-
end with the boys, Gary (who's eleven
and a-half now) handed me an envelope.
"I wrote Dad a note. Will you give it to
him?" I promised that I would and, since
it was sealed, I didn't read it but handed
it over to Jerry unopened.

I thought poor Dad would weep when he
finished reading the note, so painstakingly
written in Gary's still unformed scrawl. It
was all about how he missed his dad, but
how he knew it was necessary for him to
be away from home to make our living.
And it wound up: "But no matter how far
away you are, somehow I feel you are al-
ways near me!"

Everyone always comments on Gary's
resemblance to Jerry. That resemblance is
more than physical — Gary is a terrific ham,
"onstage" every chance he gets. He has a
wonderful sense of timing, for a youngster,
and I'll admit he's clowned his way out of
some discipline due him, now and then.
Ronnie (now seven) is very different — we
like to think he's the "brain" of our trio.
In the curious way adopted children often
have, of becoming like their adoptive par-
ents, he is beginning to look a little like
Jerry, too. And he tries so hard to be the
comic, mimicking Jerry and Gary. We
laugh at the proper places, but Jerry al-
ways reminds him, "You're going to be
the lawyer in the family!"

Now that they're growing up, they need
Jerry more and more. Boys that age begin
to have a fairly low opinion of being dom-
inated by a woman all the time. I suppose
they think, in their new maturity, that it's
"sissy" to take orders from a woman.
Which is not to say that the boys don't
mind me, or that they resent me. They
mind as well or as badly as the average, I
suppose. And the times they "resent" me
are the times any small male will resent
any grown female issuing edicts. But with
Jerry, it's different. Dad can do no wrong
— all his decisions are as wise as Solomon's.
And, if he says something, that's it! Final,
period, amen.

Jerry has trained me to the point where
I can make decisions for the boys when
he's not around and, since I have great
respect for my husband's opinions, I try
to do what I feel he would wish done. But
when a problem gets especially tough for
me, I simply pick up the phone, with both
my sons on extensions, and we talk it out
as though we were all in the same room.
Other times, when Jerry and I are both in
New York, Gary knows that all he needs
to do is phone us, if he gets lonesome or
wants to ask some important question
(such as can he go to the movies on a
school night) . At any rate, it all works out
beautifully and there are no hard feelings.

I try to toss in as many "substitutes" as
I can. This last weekend, for instance, I
took Gary and a pal to Disneyland for a

merry, mad day. Ronnie was supposed to
be in the party, but he carelessly picked
up a virus the day before and felt so rocky
that, at his own suggestion, he was given
a rain-check and stayed behind. The boys
had fun, that was obvious. Except I kept
• thinking how much more fun they might
have had if we all could have gone.

Jerry realizes the way he has had to
short-change the boys. And he's working
toward the time when he can spend the
bulk of the year out here, with only oc-
casional engagements at other places.

It isn't easy for him, either, being sepa-
rated from the boys. Far from it. If any-
thing, I think he misses home more than
I do, when we're away. Because this is
the first real, solid, permanent-type home
he's ever known. This is the first tightly-
knit, comfortable family relationship he's
enjoyed. When I wave goodbye to him in
New York, you've never seen anything
look so forlorn and all alone.

In fact, Jerry wrote just the other day
that he'd got so horribly lonesome he'd
gone out and bought a dog, just to have
something alive in the apartment when he
came home at night. Of course, we already
have six dogs, one cat, and assorted other
livestock the boys have accumulated — so
we really needed that dog! But I under-
stand how Jerry probably did need it . . .
temporarily!

So now, when I go back to New York,
I'll have Jerry, and the baby, and the dog,
to take care of . . . and you know what?
I'll love it. It's fun, watching Jerry with
that baby. As everyone knows perfectly
well, we were absolutely sure No. 3 would
be a girl. But I say now that I think the
good Lord had a hand in it. He knew
Jerry simply couldn't survive having a
girl-baby. Jerry's delirious enough about
this boy-baby — and I've heard all about
how dads behave with daughters!

Viewers who have never known a come-
dian off-stage probably grow to think of
him as a buffoon, with never a care in his
head, with a quip and a laugh from break-
fast to midnight snack. But from all I can
gather, after thirteen years' experience,
comedians (at least, my comedian) are
probably the most sensitive, the moodiest,
and the most sentimental characters in a
business peopled by sensitive, moody, sen-
timental people. Not just Jerry. Most co-
medians are like that. And if, like Jerry,
they're in the process of proving them-
selves, of making their name and establish-
ing their reputation — then the sensitivity,
the moodiness, and the sentimentality all
go double.

I sometimes wonder what it would be
like to be married to a man with an even
disposition. One who wakes up every
morning feeling placid, and relaxed, and
rested. One who neither goes off into gales
of laughter, nor nears the point of hunting
out an open window in the Empire State
Building. I think about it . . . and then I
decide it would probably be pretty dull,
being married to someone like that.

Because, in the last thirteen years, I
have crawled up out of the deepest, black-
est holes with Jerry, watched him fight his
way out of frighteningly depressing moods,
had him cry on my shoulder more than
once. And I have watched him come off
stage positively glowing with happiness,
because some warm, wonderful audience
loved every clowning moment he was on.

I've hit the bottom, at times, during those
thirteen years. But, more important, I've
had more chances at the top. And I
wouldn't trade any one of those thirteen
up-and-down years for a lifetime with
some placid, smooth- sailing type.

Being married to a comedian may not
guarantee 365 days a year full of laughter.
But it can guarantee 365 days annually
without a dull one in the lot!

Write it for the TRUE ROMANCE
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AT NEWSSTANDS NOW

(Continued from page 42)
have this shade hair and that color eyes —
bunk! The only color eyes I don't care
for on a girl is red. That means she's been
crying or dissipating too much. What
counts with me is the ■way those eyes
behave. I go for eyes that look straight at
you and try to understand what you're
saying. That flirty sidelong stuff with the
fluttery lids — well, that's for the birds!"
Taking Tommy at his word that he
favors no one type, it is interesting to
gaze into the crystal ball and try to see
what sort of girl is likely to dominate his
future. Three girls are known to have
been closely linked to him at one time
or another. Are there any traits they have
in common? In what respects are they
different? How do they add up when
their personalities are crossed to form
a composite image? In short, Who is the
girl in Tommy's future?

Lynn Trosper of Greenwood, Louisiana,
was only three when she caught the eye of
our young hero. Tommy was then four.
They took part in a wedding shower and
were given the pleasant duty of wheeling
in the gifts. It must have touched a chord.
They promptly invented a marriage of their
own. As with all well- wed couples, Tommy
went out to earn the wherewithall — "the
fanciest collection of mud pies ever seen"
— while his bride "poured tea" in regal
splendor.

Lynn was his first true love, and he be-
came a standard fixture at the spacious,
dignified Trosper home, which he still
calls "the big house." Now, what sort of
girl is Lynn? She is a blue-eyed brown-
ette, an active and studious type quick to
laughter or sympathy, poised but pert.
Like her mother, Mrs. Florence Trosper,
she shows a capacity for being both a
homemaker and a community leader
devoted to causes that transcend her per-
sonal interests. She is equally at home
on a horse, in a drawing room or at a
library. With it all, she has a certain air
of breeding and awareness of her pre-
rogatives that stamp her at once as the
best type of "young Southern lady." At
nineteen, she attends Shreveport Cen-
tenary College and toys with tike idea of
becoming a teacher. "Whatever I'll finally
do," she says, "I'll do it with all that's in
me."

An intriguing sidelight was cast on this
girl when she was interviewed with re-
gard to her childhood romance. "What do
you think of your Tommy now?" she was
asked. "My Tommy?" she echoed, puzzled.
Lynn broke into a hearty laugh, "Here
in Greenwood and Shreveport, we think
of him as our Tommy. He's a credit to
all of us already, as we like to think we
have some small share in his career. As
for romance, I know I teased him dread-
fully as a child — but we're too much like
brother and sister for anything like that."
Tommy's second flame was cute Betty
Moers, also brown-haired and blue-eyed.
Presently completing her education in
Houston, she is the daughter of a success-
ful physician, Dr. Arthur Moers, whose
wife still enjoys working as receptionist
and assistant in her husband's office.
Betty is very likely to follow her mother's
example and seek the satisfaction of
work well done. She first crossed Tommy's
path on a blind date while they were
juniors at Lamar High School. Light-
hearted, witty and deliciously feminine
in dress and manner, Betty was described
T by a former classmate as "getting her full
v portion of wolf whistles when she comes
• tripping by — but get this straight, they're
respectful wolf whistles!" Her laughter

The Girl Tommy Marries

feeling with gaiety. Her soft voice prom-
ises a relaxed and earnest conversation,
and her trim figure reveals the skillful
grace of a trained dancer. For Betty has
studied modern dance and, in fact, she
performed in "Annie," the high-school
musical that starred Tommy Sands.

From her father, Betty has apparently
inherited an unusual reserve of energy
and will. Once she has explored the facts
and drawn a conclusion based on them,
she will act and act firmly. It was this
quality that decided her against going
on with her dating of Tommy. By her own
account, she found it hard to adjust to be-
ing the girl friend of a young entertainer
who had to "be here today and there
tomorrow," and who obviously was be-
coming a target for scores of smitten girls.

Their parting was an unforgettable and
heartbreaking experience. It points sig-
nificantly at the words in Tommy's hit
song, "Don't call it a teen-age crush." To
Betty and Tommy, it was far more than
that. Talking about it now, Tommy's face
saddens. "You know what's hit me as the
most awful thing about life?" he says, "It's
the way we can get used to 'most anything.
We learn to live with our disappointments
and troubles — and, after a while, we even
get to believe it all happened for the best.
Maybe!"

And Betty, with her clear blue eyes
and clever laugh? She, too, adds a quiet,
"Maybe . . ." and goes on to explain:
"You see, Tommy was lucky in finding
himself so early. He knew as a child that
he'd stick with show business. But I'm
still searching, groping ... I could never
be satisfied to be nothing but a tiny part
of a husband's career. I want to be some-
one on my own, to achieve something.
Sometimes I look at the compact-cigarette
case Tommy gave me when we were going
steady. And I wonder — what if he had been
a law student or a young newspaperman,
instead of an entertainer always on the
go? Would things have turned out dif-
ferently? But then, if Tommy had been
any different, I'd probably not have felt
so deeply about him. No, I wouldn't want
to change him or have him change be-
cause of me. And I couldn't be anything
but the girl I am, without losing self-
respect. So maybe, when all's said and
done, it did happen for the best."

Like the Trospers, Betty and her family
still retain their fondness for Tommy
and consider him "one of us." As Betty
puts it, "He will always be a very special
thing to us. And, whoever she may be, the
girl that gets Tommy will get a very rare
fellow. He has a heart as great as his
talent, and he will do his level best to
make his wife and family happy."

is contagious and seems to combine deep

More Vacation Music

Exciting new stories and pictures of

POLLY BERGEN
CAROL RICHARDS

of The Bob Crosby Show
ana'

COUNTRY MUSIC COMES TO TOWN!

all in the August issue of

TV RADIO MIRROR

at your newsstand July 5

So much for the past. What now? Is
there any girl at present who might sum
up — as Lynn and Betty did in earlier
stages — the way his taste is turning? Just
what sort of girls does he favor for his
dates? Well, first it must be said that
Tommy has had little opportunity to date
at all during his year in Hollywood. At
first, he was kept "on the jump," making
the rounds of producers, agents, and stu-
dios, trying with furious zeal to get his
foot in the door. Now, he is being pulled
this way and that by people who press
him to go on various TV and radio shows,
to cut more records, to do movies, to make
personal appearances, to take and auto-
graph pictures, to give more time to his
mushrooming fan clubs, to hold more
interviews with the press, and so on.

The only girl in filmland he has dated
with some regularity is Molly Bee. The
teen-aged blond singer, who has lent both
glamour and gusto to Cliffie Stone's Home-
town Jamboree and the Tennessee Ernie
Ford Show, is the most spectacular of
Tommy's dates — perhaps because her pro-
fession requires her to be spectacular. For
what it is worth to those who have been
watching this pair for a sign of budding
romance, Molly was our young man's
choice as his companion the night he
sang "Thee I Love" (from "The Friendly
Persuasion") at the Oscar awards show.
On the other hand, aside from her blue
eyes, Molly does not conform to the pat-
tern Tommy has followed in his dates up
to now. She is as colorful as the toreador
pants she loves to swank about in, and
her performances usually bring forth a
hail of tributes that abound in words like
"sparkling" and "zippy." This is especi-
ally nice for her, since she still likes to
present herself and her songs with a
country flavor, like champagne poured
from a cider jug.

It is always hard to foresee the course
of a young man's fancy. Every month is
liable to produce a new variation or
change. If this is true, then Molly Bee
may signify a turn in the path Tommy
has been taking. But — if his taste runs
true to form — then the girl in the crystal
ball may emerge along these lines:

Physically, she is likely to prove small,
cute, blue-eyed and dainty. She will
probably be graceful in her movements,
quietly musical in her speech, and poised
in her manner. She will undoubtedly be
the type who attracts attention for her
ladylike taste and bearing over and above
beauty, exotic clothes or stunning hairdos.
It is worth mentioning here that, at the
Oscar awards, he expressed his admiration
in public for Deborah Kerr, who is uni-
versally esteemed for her knack of pro-
jecting allure without losing gentility.

The girl of Tommy's choice — providing
he doesn't change — will also be of an
independent frame of mind. She may or
may not be a career woman, but she
certainly will have a serious concern with
matters of artistic, social-welfare, political
or even religious scope. She will have an
exquisite sense of humor and a fine edu-
cation or professional training. It is more
than likely she will make his home a
castle of family security and of release
from the tensions of work. As Tommy
himself puts it, "No matter how far my
work takes me, I'm the pigeon who'll
always fly home to roost."

Quite surely, the future Mrs. Tommy
Sands will be the kind of woman who can
walk with charm, tact and determination
on any level of society at any time — the
kind whose proud husband will always
know that people are saying, "That lady
is his wife . . ."

WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST

(Continued from page 9)

We are going to be stuffed with fairy
tales until they come out of our pink
ears. NBC is readying Pinocchio, Pied
Piper and Hans Brinker. CBS will
lead off with Aladdin. And Shirley
Temple will narrate, probably on NBC-
TV, twenty hour-long fairy tales. Cow-
boys, crime and fairy tales.

Battin' the Breeze: Those delighted
with Anne Jeffreys and hubby Bob
Sterling in Topper will be delighted to
hear they're shooting a new comedy
series. . . . All of the La Rosa buddies
distressed by premature loss of baby.
. . . Plan to stay home night of No-
vember 25th. Mary Martin stars in the
jubilant "Annie Get Your Gun." . . .
Isn't Durward Kirby prime to do an
audience participation show of his
own? . . . Wonderful Martha Wright
named her newborn "Mike" after her
husband's nickname. Hubby is res-
taurateur George "Mike" Manuche.. . .
Martha Raye enthusiastic about pilot
film starring her as Baby Snooks, the
character created by Fanny Brice.

About Men Only: Jack Lescoulie wrote
himself a Broadway-type play. . . .
Sam Levenson says, "A joke isn't a
joke until they laugh." . . . Rumor rife
that Gordon MacRae may head a musi-
cal variety for Lux next fall in addition
to his emcee chores on Video Theater.
. . . Jimmy Dean, star emcee of CBS-
TV Country Style, angry at inference
he's chosen his name to cash in on
fame of actor James Dean. Jimmy (the

live one) was born in Plainfield, Texas,
1928, and christened "Jimmy Dean" and
has been singing professionally as such
since 1948. . . . John Cameron Swayze,
also, says it isn't so. He denies using
a tie once and discarding it. He's just
as thrifty as the next man. . . . One who
admits it "is so" is Lionel Wilson,
bachelor actor. Lionel admits that al-
most at any time he is up to a hundred
different voices on the air. On many
of those cartoon commercials, Lionel
is all of the voices. On toothpaste ads,
for example, he is both the villain (Mr.
Decay) and the hero (Mr. Toothpaste).
He's both rabbits for a laundry starch
and a couple million other things for
other commercials. He has starred in
several Broadway plays and acted in
Valiant Lady, Search For Tomorrow
and practically all of the top dramatic
shows. On radio, he once did a perfect
imitation of Ilona Massey's sultry sex-
tones while continuing as the private
eye in the same script. That was on
NBC's Top Secret. Lionel, a very
eligible bachelor, counts among his
close friends Jimmy Kirkwood and
Kathy McGuire and Dolores Sutton.
He lives alone in a Manhattan apart-
ment, although he was born right across
the river in Brooklyn. "I got a lucky
start as an actor," he says. "It was my
luck that our neighbor in Brooklyn
was a professional acting coach. She
took me in hand and made my career."
In the new CBS-TV Terrytoon series,
Tom Terrific, Lionel does every voice
you hear, fifty-two in all.

Old-time radio detectives, seen yesteryear (above) and
today — Staats Cotsworth (Casey, Crime Photographer),
Bret Morrison (The Shadow), Lon Clark (Nick Carter) —
re-created roles on Mysterytime, with host Don Dowd.

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Families Are Fun

(Continued from page 44)
that is so important to Bud, whether it
applies to contestants on his shows, to
his own professional life, his family life
with his pretty actress-wife, Marian
Shockley, and the three Collyer children
... or to the class of sixty-five teenagers,
from about fifteen to eighteen, which he
teaches every Sunday at the First Presby-
terian Church in Greenwich, Connecticut
— where he also serves as Sunday school
superintendent.

About contestants, Bud says: "When I
see them backstage, before I go on to do
the show, I have always tried in that
brief time to leave them with one thought.
You came here to have fun, I remind them,
so enjoy whatever happens."

It never ceases to amaze — and please —
him that losers, as well as winners, tell him
what a good time they had . . . the fun
being not so much in the winning, pleasant
as that may be, but in the doing. "When
you remind people that no one can win
at everything, every time, but everyone
can enjoy trying, they understand. It's
one of the ideas we can apply to life, as
well as to contests."

At home — although the Collyers are a
serious-minded group, with respect for
family," church and civic responsibilities,
and the responsibilities toward their coun-
try which they share with all good citi-
zens—this spirit of fun and of joy runs
through all the various personal and col-
lective activities. "Marian and I and the
children try to keep to simple solu-
tions of the problems that come up," says
Bud. "So many people tend to make
their problems more complex than they
were at the start. Perhaps one of the rea-
sons we've had no so-called 'teen-age
problems' in our home — although the three
kids fall into that age group — is that we
never built up such problems. Not Marian,
not I, not the children themselves. We
enjoy one another, and every phase of
the children's lives has been a challenge
to all of us."

About teenagers in general, Bud says:
"I sometimes think it would be a help if
we were to drop that word teenager. It
has been so over-emphasized, often so
adversely. Teenagers are really young
adults, still closer to the simple and direct
truths than most of us older adults are.
They haven't yet begun to rationalize
everything. I never close a Sunday school
year without telling the students how
much I thank them for what they have
taught me. I always learn more than I
teach."

Even too much organized teen-age ac-
tivity seems unnecessary to Bud, believing
as he does that kids are happiest when
they are doing the things which arise
naturally out of their daily lives at school
and among their own friends, and which
are the outgrowth of their own bents and
talents. "Equally important," he empha-
sizes, "they want to be allowed to join
now in more of their parents' activities,
to be accepted on a more adult level. It's
a time to make the change from the child's
dependence on the parent to the child's
need of the friendship of the parent."

Pat, short for Patricia, the eldest of the
Collyer children, is nineteen now, ready to
begin her sophomore year at Sweet Briar
College, Virginia. Cynthia, 17, is a high-
school student. So is Michael Clayton, 15,
known to all as "Mike." The name "Clay-
ton" is for Bud's lawyer-father. It's Bud's
first name, too, though a German nurse
T he had as an infant called him "Brother,"
v which soon became "Bud," and stuck —
R about the only place he ever sees the more
formal name now is on documents, such
as his law degree from Fordham Uni-
80

versity, his various other diplomas and
some legal papers.

The kids are all different, in disposition,
personality and talents. Pat is already a
fine pianist and is emphasizing music at
college, but only as part of a well-rounded
academic course. Cynthia is an artist who
plans to get more specialized art training
when she finishes high school. Mike's
present announced plans are to work so
hard that he can ultimately enter the new
air college in Denver, his goal being ad-
vanced work in aero-dynamics.

If anyone in the family is likely to
turn to show business eventually, it
might be Cynthia. Show business is in
her background, 'way back. Bud's grand-
father was actor Dan Collyer, Bud's
mother was an actress and his father
an accomplished amateur musician. His
sister, June Collyer Erwin, wife of Stu
Erwin, is, of course, a well-known per-
former, and their brother Richard is now
in the production end of films for televi-
sion. Bud himself started singing on radio
when he was still in college and then
turned to acting, before becoming famous
as a quizmaster.

"Cynthia is the family clown," he says
of his younger daughter. "She keeps
everyone laughing, has a talent for the
comic pose, the well-timed line, the quick
quip, the funny gesture." Her art work
hangs in a permanent gallery in their
upstairs hall, a revolving exhibition
changed at least twice yearly. She is
developing a fine singing voice and, when
she takes her place now in the adult choir
of their church on Sunday morning, Bud
glances over at her from his place in the
choir and smiles proudly, as he used to
smile at Pat when she sat down at the
piano. All the children have been in their
dad's Sunday school class, Mike being
the present incumbent.

"The best way to describe Mike is to
say that here is a kid who will never have
an ulcer," Bud says fondly. "My son is
easygoing, loves people, loves life, and —
like all the kids — loves and believes in
God. He has humor. He has a great
personal sense of courage, and he also has
great gentleness. Only those who are
aware of their real strength can be really
gentle, and Mike has both these qualities.
My wife has that combination of inner
strength and outward gentleness. It
shines out in her relationship with the
family and with our friends, and it
shines out in her professional work as
an actress. Marian has gone back to
dramatic work on radio recently — al-
though only briefly — but she talks about
doing more as the children grow up, one
by one."

Mike has a musical bent, in addition to a
mathematical mind. Bud has given him
his own banjo and guitar and is teaching
Mike to play them, while father himself
has decided to take piano lessons. "Just for
playing popular music," Bud hastens to add.

Live and Laugh with . . .
BILL WILLIAMS

IDA LUPINO • ZASU PITTS
SAM LEVENSON
ARLENE FRANCIS

in intimate behind-the-scenes
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August TV RADIO MIRROR

at your newsstand July 5

"I'm not going into competition with Pat."

The children have practically grown up
in the fourteen-room house at the top of a
hill in Greenwich, Connecticut. It's a rep-
lica of a French-Norman farmhouse,
complete with a round tower, and every
part of it is dear to the Collyers. The
mere mention of ever giving it up and
moving to a smaller place raises cries of
anguish. Cynthia threatens to save every
cent of her own, present and future — or
deliberately to marry someone, anyone,
with the means to buy it! — if Bud so much
as intimates that the place is getting too
big for them. The years of growing up
have been happy, and the house and all
its memories are woven into that tapes-
try. Secretly, Bud and Marian feel the
same way. Bud says to Mike, "Let's take
a walk," early on Saturday or Sunday.
"Okay— where to?" Mike asks. "Oh, just
around the place, to look at things," his
dad answers, and off they go to circle the
modest bit of property as if it were a
many-acred estate.

"Now that the children are growing up,
we have passed the phase of having many
pets," Bud starts to explain, and then
belies his own words by introducing two
French poodles, Jennie and Mark (for
Black Market); one alley cat, adored ever
since it was rescued as a tiny orphaned
kitten from a barbed-wire fence and
christened Orbus by Pat (then deep in
Latin); two parakeets named Caesar and
Pompey; two crested canaries named
George and Penelope, with head feathers
as unruly as a small boy's hair that no
amount of coaxing and water can tame.

A while back, Bud and a friend were
discussing family life, and Bud bewailed
the fact that the kids were growing up
fast and wished he could be starting all
over again and living through their child-
hood. "Don't be silly," the other man
said. "After a while, they will be really
grown up and get married and have kids
of their own, and then you'll have the
fun of watching your grandchildren grow
up — without any of the responsibilities."
Bud's comment, later, was characteristic.
"He didn't know what I wanted. All the
fun — and, with it, all the responsibility.
They belong together."

Perhaps it is because Bud shares re-
sponsibilities with his God that he doesn't
mind them, or find them burdensome.
"Man makes his own problems and then
chooses the most complex ways to deal
with them," he has said. In the Collyer
family, problems are treated as such, but
approached simply and directly.

When one of the girls faced a difficult
school examination and expressed fear
about passing it, Marian reminded her to
take her fears to God before she went to
sleep that night. There were no specific
instructions or advice, merely the sug-
gestion that she talk it over and then leave
it in God's hands. It seemed perfectly
natural when the child mentioned, quite
casually, at dinner next evening, "Oh, by
the way, it worked. I could answer all
the questions. I had no trouble remem-
bering." Such incidents are common in a
household where no one has ever been
self-conscious about asking for or re-
ceiving such help.

On the other hand, there are no false
ideas about expecting prayer to take the
place of one's own courage and stamina
and hard work, but only to help each one
make better use of these qualities. "If
you don't bet on yourself, you can't expect
anyone else to bet on you," Bud tells his
kids and his contestants.

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The Rock Rolls 'Round the World

(Continued from page 54)
continents, crossed the two great oceans
twice, and entertained more than half a
million people at their ninety -four shows
in Australia and Great Britain.

Had they accepted other invitations
from European and South American
countries, from lands as widely separated
as Japan and Lebanon, they would still
be going, non-stop. Yet this was no gov-
ernment-sponsored tour. It cost no coun-
try a cent of tax money. As Haley
explains, "We paid out our money to
travel, and the kids paid theirs to buy
tickets. We all had fun."

The overseas expedition began when
seven young men, in matching pale cash-
mere coats, caught a midnight plane at
Los Angeles International Airport. Even
at that anything-but-witching departure
hour, people recognized The Comets. Their
personal appearances, their films for Co-
lumbia Pictures, "Rock Around the Clock"
and "Don't Knock the Rock" — together
with a total sale of twenty-two million
records — had made them familiar figures.

They were, of course, Bill Haley, guitar
and bass; John Grande, accordion and
piano; Billy Williamson, electric guitar;
Al Rex, bass; Rudy Pompilli, sax; Fran
Beecher, Spanish guitar; and Ralph Jones,
drums. With them were their manager,
James H. Ferguson; his seventy-seven-
year-old mother, Charlotte S. Ferguson,
who was bound for a Honolulu vacation;
and bandboy Vincent J. Broomall, aged
seventeen and known as "Catfish."

The Comets found out how far their
music and films had preceded them when
their plane touched down to refuel, a day
out of Hawaii. To the American rock 'n'
rollers, the Fiji Islands were a remote and
storied spot on the map. But, to natives
and to the English colony alike, The
Comets were, in an electronic age, old
friends.

What a reception they gave them! The
path to the main building on the island
was lit by torches on ten-foot poles.
Sarong-wrapped natives led the way. The
English entertained at cocktails. The na-
tives prepared a South Sea Island feast.
Fish and game were followed by strange
but delicious fruits. The climax was a
scene which had photo-fan Billy William-
son wishing he could operate two cameras
at once — and cut a sound track besides.

"Man, you should have seen and heard
it," says Billy. "When we went back to
our plane, a native band headed the pro-
cession, serenading us. Now, there was
a beat and a sound for you! Maybe we'll
get a bit of it into a recording of our own
some day."

There was dancing at the airport when
they reached Australia. Welcoming The
Comets, the fans presented a furry toy
koala bear, a symbol which carries the
same good -luck wish in Australia as a
shamrock does in Ireland, or a horseshoe
in the United States. The Comets named
it Billy Koala. "We couldn't guess then
how superstitious we were going to be
about that charm," says Haley. "I carried
Billy Koala as a photographic prop at
first. Before long, we were rubbing his
ear for luck at the start of every trip."

Luck was all on their side at the big
outdoor stadiums. The summer air,
"down under," was mild, the fans enthusi-
astic. In most cities, all seats were sold
in advance and the box office never

^ opened. The Comets chalked up the big-

v gest attendance record ever achieved in

R Australia.

New to them as the country was, in
one respect The Comets felt they had

never left home. "Everyone had things
to say about those few show-offs who try
to ruin a show for the rest of the crowd,"
says manager Jim Ferguson. "Such kids
as Americans describe as 'juvenile delin-
quents,' the Australians call 'Boogie-
widgies.' The British have a phrase, too —
'Teddy boys.' We heard about them, but
that's all that happened." Haley says with
satisfaction, "I trusted the kids and the
kids trusted me. I've yet to see a rock 'n'
roll riot."

Possibly, it might be said that there
was one "incident." Jim Ferguson grins as
he tells it. "It is the custom there to
close every performance by the singing of
'God Save the Queen.' Then everyone
goes home — but, in Brisbane, they didn't.
The kids clapped and shouted until The
Comets played another encore. People
told us that had never happened before."

It was on their return journey that the
old earth and its elements first got into
the act, seemingly intent on proving to
The Comets that, in rock 'n' roll, it was
still the champ. As friends and families
waited to welcome them at New York's
Idlewild Airport, that chill January night,
a passenger agent scanned the cloudless
sky and worried: "Chicago and Cleveland
are closed down. We should be, too, right
now. I can't understand what's hap-
pened to that blizzard."

The Comets knew. They had been
through it. When they stepped out onto
the landing stage, they were trying to
clown. Each wore a vivid South Seas
shirt and a palm-frond hat. Bill carried
Billy Koala, perched on his shoulder. But
it wasn't The Comets' usual kind of
comedy. Shy "Cuppy" Haley, who had
stayed back in the shadows, out of range
of photographers, took one wifely look
at her Bill, who was trying to pin a grin
on a face blank with weariness, and moved
forward, arms open. Unaware of popping
flashbulbs, they held each other a long
time.

As The Comets claimed their baggage,
Jim Ferguson muttered a low-voiced ex-
planation: "The blizzard wasn't bad, but
we got sort of beat up by a typhoon over
the Pacific. The plane dropped flat,
Heaven only knows how many thousand
feet."

The voyage to England had been
planned as the big family vacation, a care-
free five days aboard the Cunard luxury
liner, the R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth. Four
wives were making the trip: Cuppy
Haley, Helen Grande, Kate Williamson,
and Dot Jones. The youngest generation
was represented by Linda Grande, 5, and
Billy Williamson, Jr., 4; the eldest, by
Mrs. Charlotte Ferguson. The Comets'
agent, Jolly Joyce, of Philadelphia, and
his wife, Smiles, were there. And, to give
TV Radio Mirror readers a first-hand re-
port, I was invited to come along, too.

Everyone hit the deck dead tired. There
had been an interval of only thirty-six
hours between the landing of The
Comets' plane at Idlewild and the time
set for the Queen to cast off her lines.
Driving in from Chester, they had fought
fog and slick pavements. In New York,
too, the clouds were down to street level.
That "lost" blizzard had sent its har-
bingers.

At the gangplank, they learned they
had another problem. Their luggage was
on hand — but the second bandboy, who
had brought it from Chester, had van-
ished. He left a note: "I'm too much in
love to leave my girl behind. God bless
you all. ' See you later, Alligator." They
were sailing short-handed.

They also were informed that reporters
were waiting for them in the ship's press
room. They hurried up to the sun deck.
In the midst of an interview for NBC's
Monitor, a steward attempted to summon
Haley to the purser's desk. Bill, on mi-
crophone, waved him off. Photographers
were taking pictures when the second
steward appeared. He, too, was told,
"Just a minute." The third steward broke
right into the reporters' interview. The
ship could not sail, he stated, until Mr.
Haley reported to the purser's office.

Trailing reporters, photographers, friends
and business staff — as the original Halley's
Comet trailed stars — the perplexed Bill
took off. A stern official awaited him.
Where, he demanded, was Mr. Haley's
passport?

Bill stared at him blankly. "It's in my
overnight case. Harry West has it. With
my ticket." Harry West, Bill's secretary
who runs The Comets' office in Chester,
is the kind of man who usually knows
where anything is. This time, he didn't.
"I don't have it, Bill. I've looked in
everything. It isn't here."

"You must find it," the official an-
nounced. "It is illegal to sail without it.
You'll have to leave the ship."

"But I have it. I know I have it," Bill
protested. "Maybe I left it in a desk
drawer in the library."

It was a dilemma. The Cunard crew
knew, even better than The Comets, how
many English youngsters would be hurt
if Haley were left on shore. The poten-
tial money loss, to many people, was
great. The emotional loss would be
greater. Two stewards appeared to re-
move Bill's luggage. Everyone's face was
somber. The champagne, forgotten, went
flat in the glasses.

Then Eddie Elkort, representative for
General Amusement Corporation, had an
inspiration. He phoned the State De-
partment. A deputy director, young
enough to remember how disappointed
kids can be, cut red tape. He specified
that a messenger should bring the Haley
passport to Washington. The department
would then air-mail it to England — it's
illegal for an individual to send an Ameri-
can passport through the mail. Just as
the Queen Elizabeth's big whistles blasted,
the word came through that Bill had
emergency permission to sail.

Ironically, all that fuss proved unnec-
essary. Forty-five minutes later, at life-
boat drill, Bill announced, "I found my
passport."

Still wrapped in life jackets, everyone
gasped, "Where?" Bill's grin held a
sheepishness any husband could under-
stand. "Cuppy found it. Tangled in some
clothes I hadn't unpacked since we came
from Australia."

Some intimation of the welcome which
awaited Haley in England came from the
ship's crew. Many told how their children
had "queued up" all night, carrying ther-
mos bottles and wrapped in blankets,
waiting to buy tickets to the shows. Fur-
ther indication came from the British
press. Several London newspapers made
calls to the ship every day. The largest,
The Daily Mirror, had topped its rivals
by flying a reporter to New York to re-
turn to England with The Comets on the
Queen Elizabeth.

That reporter, Noel Whitcomb, was hip
in both English and American idiom. In
daily columns, he and Bill told how
American teenagers had taught The Com-
ets what music sent them: After they had
worked out their basic big beat, they
tried it out by playing for free at one

hundred and eighty-three high schools
in the Philade^hia area, watching the
reaction. When The Comets took the kids'
favorite expre^ion, "Crazy" — and added it
to their footfall cheer, "Go! Go! Go!"—
it turned into The Comets' first hit, "Crazy,
Man, Crazy." With that, rock 'n' roll
started its sweep of America and was on
its way around the world.

Of the triD itself — that long-sought
"vacation" — the less said, the better. That
much-delayed blizzard caught up, and
gained an aHv from the Gulf Stream. We
went through two hurricanes. A stabilizer
went out of order. Off the coast of Ireland,
one radar set was swept overboard, and
the scanner of the other was damaged. It
could be that The Comets and their fami-
lies, staunch sailors through it all, added
a new term to the language of the sea.
Where the crew of the Queen Elizabeth
had originally described the ship's antics
as "rolling and Ditching," they soon were
remarking cheerfully, "She's a-rocking and
rolling today."

Jli very one was anxious to arrive in
Southampton. It would be pleasant, all
agreed, to have solid land under our feet
again. As it turned out, solid land was
what we darned near didn't have. The
Comets knew that The Mirror was run-
ning a special fan train from London to
Southampton — but surely no single train
could hold all the people v/ho lined that
dock. As they caught sight of Bill and
Cuppy, comine down the gangplank, their
shout of "Haley!" was loud enough to
drown out the ship's whistle, and that's
quite a blast.

From there on, it was frantic. In the
customs shed, members of the company
found themselves tugging at their own
luggage. The dockers who were supposed
to move it were following Haley. We
struggled through crowds of adults, not
kids, to make our way to a bus. We saw
Bill make a try for the car which was to

\ transport him. then fall back on the pro-
tection of the oolice. He couldn't even
open a door. Kids not only were on all
sides of it, they were on top of it. Some-
how, the bobbies cleared them off and the

i car moved.

At the train gates, the confusion doubled.
Teenagers who had never before been so
near their hero struggled to stay close.
Police lines broke. Bill and Cuopy were
separated. Buttons were snatched off Bill's

| coat, his gloves from his hand, his over-

] night case out of his grasp. One girl
shrieked ecstatically, "I almost got his
wedding ring."

As we sped along toward London, it

I was easy to think that this could have been
the world's super-colossal publicity job,
turning out all those teenagers. But no
press agent in the world could have got
workers to line up at the doorways of the
factories we passed, just to wave at a
train. Only one thing could do that. Bill
Haley and His Comets, through their mo-
tion pictures and recordings, must have
brought a great deal of enjoyment to a

| great many people.

As the train inched into London's
Waterloo Station, the British managers

] organized the exit on the basis of "women
and children last." By the glare of the

i klieg lights which stabbed like beacons

! through the cavernous place, we could
see that every inch was filled with young-
sters. Youngsters who, individually and
collectively, had one objective: To see,
I touch, talk to, and — most of all — seize a
souvenir from Haley. Later, people called
it "The Second Battle of Waterloo."

As The London Daily Sketch described
it, "Haley's car sped off between rows of
police. Then it happened. The fans realized
Haley was getting away. Within ten sec-

onds they had surrounded his car — a solid
wall of bodies, hundreds deep. The Haley
car stopped dead. The mob pounded the
windows. Two boys climbed on the roof.
They were swept aside by policemen. Two
more police jumped in front of the car
and helped push a way through the waves
of shrieking, rock-intoxicated teenagers.
... It was the most triumphal procession
ever given one man in peacetime."

It was a scene to be repeated, with
variations, in Dublin, in Glasgow, in
Cardiff, and in all of England's major
industrial cities. The particular situation
which I shall never forget occurred in
Coventry, England's equivalent of Detroit.
Fans followed Bill back from the theater
to the Leofric Hotel — "Europe's most
modern." (It should be. Bombs, not bull-
dozers, cleared its site.)

A bit in the distance, one could see the
staunch bell tower which refused to fall
when Coventry Cathedral was bombed
and burned to the ground. In the public
square, where she finished her bare-
backed ride in protest against an unfair
tax imposed by her husband, stood the
statue of Lady Godiva. And up on the
balcony stood Bill Haley, waving to a
crowd of at least a thousand teenagers
who were serenading him by singing,
"We're going to rock . . . right 'round the
clock . . ."

r or the real triumph had been Bill's.
Despite the triumphal welcomes, he saw
no riots. In the newspapers, he appealed
to his fans, "Take it easy . . ." and they
did. To stand at the back of the theater
and watch the crowd, as well as The Com-
ets, was a thrill for anyone who loves the
theater. Together, they formed a single
unit. One young fan expressed it best in a
letter: "When my girl friend and I left
the show, our throats were raw from
singing and our hands were sore from
clapping, but it was worth it. We never
had such a good time in our lives."

It wasn't an easy tour. The battle with
the elements continued. After the typhoon
in the Pacific, and the hurricanes in the
Atlantic, came a landslide which forced
the re-routing of that boat train from
Southampton. The day The Comets left
London for the provinces, the Thames
flooded. In Coventry, an hour after they
visited the Jaguar factory, a large portion
of the plant burned. Immediately after
their first show in Norwich, an earthquake,
unprecedented in England, rocked the
city.

It may be that this tour was the point
where rock 'n' roll grew up fast in public
estimation and, like American jazz, turned
respectable. It was the talk of London
when the august Times devoted three-
quarters of a column to a review which
was written with charming humor and
with an understanding which made the
bandboy, Catfish, exclaim: "Hey! This
cat digs us the most." When one news-
paper, ever critical of Americans, head-
lined, "Haley Go Home," another replied,
"Don't go home, Bill Haley" — and stated,
"Everyone's having fun . . . what's wrong
with that?"

In view of the way the Haley rock 'n'
roll has gone around the world, it is
pleasant to recall that The Comets' home
town, Chester, lies just beyond earshot of
the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia's Inde-
pendence Square ... a bell which our
founding fathers "rocked and rolled" un-
til it cracked, the day they proclaimed
the unalienable right — not only to life and
liberty — but also to the pursuit of hap-
piness. Happiness, as The Comets proved,
is a traditional American export which
too often is in short supply and will ever
be in great demand, in all parts of the
world.

^RADIO
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make new covers on the frames! Ten new idea
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for 10 shades or slipcovers. 25$

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INFORMATION BOOTH

(Continued from page 13)

United For Success

Please tell us about the Mello-Larks,

whom we see on Club 60 on NBC-TV.

G. W. A., New York, N. Y.

Show business may be like no other
business, but the Mello-Larks found that
one principle holds true for both: If you
don't succeed when you're in business for
yourself, try amalgamating .... A few
years ago, Tommy Hamm was singing
with Orrin Tucker and his orchestra, Joe
Eich was vocalizing for Claude Thornhill
and Bob Wollter was on Ken Murray's
TV show. Tommy, who'd majored in busi-
ness administration at the University of
California, surveyed the economic situa-
tion of the music business and concluded
that big bands were giving way to small
musical combos. He decided to form his
own quartet, with himself as top tenor,
and found eager partners in Joe, as second
tenor, and Bob, as baritone. And Tommy's
economics were right. In six months, the
Mello-Larks were earning five times what
their combined former salaries had
been . . . The only sour note was that of
trying to hang on to a girl singer. After
a couple of weeks, Karen Chandler was
snatched up by a record company. Peggy
King, Edie Adams and Judy Tyler flew
off in even less time. But, three years ago,
the problem was solved. Jamie Dina left
Vaughn Monroe's band to join the quartet,
then married its leader, Tommy Hamm, to
make it a lifetime contract. Bob Wollter,
too. is wed. Joe Eich's the sole hold-out.

Calling All Fans

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

Tommy Sands Fan Club, c/o Glenda
Bigham, 4422 Begg Boulevard, North-
woods 20, Missouri.

Tim Considine Fan Club, c/o Barbara
Lable, 77 Cedar Lane, Cheshire, Conn.

Buddy Merrill Fan Club, c/o Judie
Smyth. 2172 Fir Street, Wantagh. N. Y.

Mello-Larks: Joe Eich and Bob
Wollter and, in front, Tommy
Hamm and wife Jamie Dina.

Dane Clark, TV visitor to millions
of homes, has three of his own.

Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant . . .

Could you write something about Dane

Clark, star of ABC-TV's Wire Service?

N. M., Tampa, Florida

Dane Clark has been a star of theater,
radio, the movies and TV for nearly a
score of years. As Bernard Zanville, he
was born and raised in Manhattan, went
to college at Cornell and studied toward
a law degree at St. John's in Brooklyn.
After a major career reversal in 1935
separated him from a steady job in a
legal firm — the firm's senior member had
a nephew — Bernard became, by turns, a
construction worker, boxer, baseball
player, football pro and soda jerk. As a
result of some pick-up modeling jobs, he
became acquainted with the "Village"
bohemians. Their "artistic" way of life
appealed to him, but it struck him that
"their constant snobbish talk about the
'theatah' was a little on the phony side."
So he decided to give it a try "just to
show them anyone could do it." Before he
knew it, he was "Dane Clark" and a series
of tough guys in "Dead End," "Waiting
for Lefty" and "Golden Boy." Then came
the Broadway lead in "Of Mice and Men"
and a Warner Bros, contract. A series of
radio and TV appearances culminated this
past year in the TV role of reporter Dan
Miller in ABC-TV's Wire Service ....
Dane's been married for twelve years. His
wife Margot, whose professional name is
Veres, is one of the most accomplished
painters of circus art in the country. They
live in West Los Angeles, but keep a flat
in London and a New York apartment as
well. Dane is an avid traveler — prefers
Wire Service's location sets to the studio.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's
something you want to know about radio
and television, write to Information Booth,
TV Raoio 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 your question
concerns radio or TV.

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The Crosby Clan From Spokane

(Continued from page 36)
and show every indication of becoming a
long-hair.

George Robert was the only Crosby
born at 508 Sharp Avenue in Spokane,
Washington, but all the young Crosbys —
Larry, Everett, Ted, Bing, Catherine and
Mary Rose — grew up there. Guided by
the firm and loving hand of their hand-
some, spirited mother, Kate Harrigan
Crosby, and by their not-so-firm but ever-
loving father, Harry Lillis Crosby, Sr. —
otherwise (and deservedly) known as
"Happy Harry."

Sharp Avenue revisited. . . . Today, the
house was painted white instead of brown.
Pat Higgins, a public accountant, and his
wife Marge had bought the place from
the Crosbys, and Mrs. Higgins (now
widowed) still lives there. It was the
Higgins family who opened the door to
Bing and to his many memories.

Memories of the "Crosby clambakes" in
the large family parlor, and the "Sunday-
night sings," with Pop on the mandolin or
guitar and Catherine at the piano and all
the others joining their voices in "When
You Wore a Tulip and I Wore a Big Red
Rose." The chatter of the college crowds
who gathered at the house after a football
game. The way the whole Crosby clan
trooped across the three blocks from their
house to the gridiron, with their mother,
Kate, a solid fan, leading the way.

The woodbox that wouldn't stay filled,
and the devious ways he avoided filling
it — until his mother would pointedly put
on a heavy coat, go out into the cold, and
bring in a couple of chunks. The hot
mush Harry Crosby, Sr. used to make up
in the mornings for breakfast — and the
way every Crosby would heat it up and
make his own breakfast, when he came
down. . . .

The house on Sharp Avenue brought
back all the boyish escapades, like con-
spiring with pals about the best means
of sneaking in free to the basketball
games, and stealing cherries from the
orchard back in Holy Names Academy.
The lilac bushes in the back yard. And the
heady aroma of the plum pudding and
raisin bread Kate Crosby used to make.
To the man who went around whistling
and ringing doorbells along Sharp Avenue
that afternoon, the old-fashioned frame
house would be home — in a sense the
five more pretentious homes he owned
today had never been. Just as the Kear-
neys, the Bradleys, the Huetters, the Gia-
nellis, Albis, Sholderers, Brokmans and
Bresnahans — who'd shared those years
and the street where he'd lived — would be
part of Bing's life in a way the famous
who touched his life today could never be.
With the exception of one family — "the
brick house on the block" — those who
lived on Sharp Avenue then were poor
in material things. Pop Crosby's salary,
as bookkeeper at the brewery, took some
stretching for his brood. Father Joe
Kearney — Bob Crosby's boyhood friend,
who lived next door to the Crosbys "on
the other side" — recalls that his own dad,
as a railway inspector, was at one time
making eighty dollars a month "and feed-
ing a whole flock of us." There was "a
flock" in just about every house on the
street, and a strict bed-check was no
small responsibility, counting youthful
noses, after the sun went down.

But, if there was little money, there was
T no limit on fun. The whole campus of
v Gonzaga was their playground. And no boy
R could ask for more adventure than riding
the logs down the treacherous Spokane
River from McGolderick's Mill. The river
86

ran right back of the school — and, as one
of the Fathers who taught at Gonzaga then
recalls, "They thought it fine sport riding
those logs — the little imps." It was very
dangerous and the mill was "out of
bounds," which made it more attractive.

Bob Crosby almost drowned there, when
he was seven years old. "Bing and the
older boys would go down to the mill and
walk the logs," Bob reminisces. "I tried
to imitate them and I fell in." Which so
unnerved his brother Bing that "he took
me out to the end of the dock in Liberty
Lake the next day and threw me in, say-
ing, 'Now swim]' "

Theirs was a neighborhood thick with
brogues and a smattering of other accents.
The young Irishers nicknamed their dis-
trict "The Holy Land," inasmuch as just
about everybody there was a Catholic. The
boys went to Gonzaga, the girls to Holy
Names Academy. And, on Sunday, all of
them attended St. Aloysius Church, which
they shortened to "St. Al's." Their parents
played cards over at the parish hall and,
on weekends, the Irish lads would join the
colleens to dance at the hall or attend the
movies frequently shown there.

"Sharp Avenue was like a little town,"
Mary Bresnahan, former Crosby neighbor
and friend, remembers warmly now. "You
could go in and ask for a piece of bread in
anybody's house. It was just one of those
neighborhoods."

Nor, Father Joe Kearney adds, did they
always stop at sharing bread: "My grand-
father was in his nineties, and Bob would
come over to the house every day just to
eat breakfast with him. Then, later, the
two of us would go on over to the Hardi-
gans' — and have cold eggs or any leftovers
they had. What our parents thought of us
going around getting handouts, I don't re-
call," he laughs. "Nor do I know now why
we did it."

It was one of those neighborhoods where
"they did quite a lot of porch-sitting," too.
On a balmy summer evening, Pop Crosby
would come out on his front porch to air
out his guitar, and other sitters up and
down the street would leave their own
porches. "Dad Crosby would start singing
and playing," Gladys Bradley remembers,
"and we'd all gather there."

True to the Irish, opinion was divided
about Bing's talent. Some entertained
grave doubt that he would ever make a
living with his voice — and, later on, they
were even more fearful of Bob's chances.
One neighbor recalls warmly how she'd
hear Bing come by her house whistling
every night: "You could always tell Bing's
whistle from the other boys'. He was the
best whistler in the bunch."

However, Mary Bresnahan remembers
that, when Bing's whistle passed their
house, her father took a very dim view of
any future for him musically. "We lived
two blocks from the Crosbys," she says,
"and, when Bing would pass our house on
the way home, he'd always be whistling in
harmony or bass, and my dad would say,
'I wish that kid would sing — instead of
whistling off-key.' He didn't realize Bing
was whistling the harmony. Or he'd say,
'Why can't that kid whistle the tune?'

"Sometimes Bing would hear him," Mary
laughs, "and he'd call back, 'Someday this
is going to pay off, Mr. Bresnahan. I'll do
it someday — and I'll make it pay J too.' "
But Mary's father would just shake his
head and lament again, "If the kid would
even whistle the tune . . ."

Father Cornelius McCoy, who was then
teaching at Gonzaga, recalls that Bing was
fired from the choir there. The choir di-
rector, the late Father Lewis McCann,
came from a very musical family in San

Francisco. "He was a brilliant musician,
with a fine knowledge of the classics."
Around Bing's crowd, he was referred to
as "Frisco Louie," and considered both
strict and lacking in humor.

But there was surprise when he fired
Bing from the choir, and a few in the com-
munity wanted to know why. "For two
reasons," Father McCann told them. "The
boy never comes to rehearsal. And he
can't sing."

"Bing wasn't a bad boy," Father McCoy
adds now. "He was a good-natured, mis-
chievous boy." And the fact that he "never
came to rehearsal" was fairly indicative of
his casual temperament, even then. "He
was always relaxed about everything—
which turned out to be, I believe, largely
the secret of his success."

But — if some hometowners were dis-
paraging about Bing's future possibilities
vocally — in the beginning, they held almost
no hope at all for his brother Bob's. Never-
theless, Bob had music on his mind. From
boyhood, he'd been a fan of Bing's. "He
was always hanging over the phonograph
listening to Bing's records. And, whenever
he got a new one, he'd call up some of us
to come hear it. He was very proud of
him," says Father Joe Kearney, who not
only had lived next door but had also
worked with Bob's band before deciding
to study for the priesthood. Today, he
teaches at St. Gregory's in Los Angeles, is
chaplain with the Catholic Labor Institute,
and the two of them still keep in touch.

"A lot of people were on Bob's back
then," the red-haired priest says of those
earlier days. Even more so when Bob was
fired by Anson Weeks from his first job
with a band. "They would say, 'He ought
to get a job — he can't sing.' According to
custom then, you worked part-time to get
through school and then you got a job. To
some, Bob seemed to be just sort of hang-
ing around. Actually, he was singing
wherever he could. But, to them, he wasn't
working. He was a target for a lot of
criticism then."

But Bob wouldn't be discouraged, how-
ever depressed he may have felt person-
ally during this time. "Bob never had any
doubt, from the time he decided he was
going to do it. This was it." And, to his de-
tractors, Bob would prophesy, even as his
brother had done before: "You wait-
someday you'll be payin' to hear me sing."

Even so, there were few back in Spokane
— including George Robert himself — who
would have believed the day would come
when television sponsors would be paying
plenty for that privilege. The day when
his would be an audience of millions. When
Bob Crosby's voice and warm personality
would be a daily must for the fairer sex,
and his CBS-TV show part of the pattern
of their lives.

Nor would even the most loyal along
Sharp Avenue ever have believed that
Bob's older brother would be the most be-
loved and famous voice of his time, an in-
stitution in show business, and the donor
of a $500,000 library to Gonzaga Univer-
sity, his alma mater. Nor that the day
would come when it would take a very
large room in the Crosby library to hold
all the valuable souvenirs of Bing's suc-
cess— the "Crosbyana" which he hopes
might encourage other young bloods com-
ing up in his home town who would dream
big, like the fellow who whistled "off-key."
Bing's Oscar; his now-twenty gold records,
each representing more than a million
record sales; his Photoplay gold medals,
awarded him as the favorite motion-pic-
ture star of readers all over America. Hun-
dreds of trophies, all "wins."

Now, in television, Bob is winning his
own awards, too — including three gold
medals from TV Radio Mirror's readers as
their favorite daytime variety program,
for the past three years in a row. But Bob's
biggest victory can't be measured by
trophies. It came from earning his own
identity in show business, in the shadow
of the most famous and beloved song-man
of all time.

From the beginning, the success of both
Bing and Bob was sparked by their own
heritage. The courage, the character, the
Irish spirit that has always been Kate
Harrigan Crosby's. The warmth, the music,
the carefree charm— the bit of gypsy —
that was Pop's ... a genial gentleman
prone to smoking his dudeen and playing
his guitar, undisturbed which way the
winds might blow. Pop's gypsy strain, in
turn, dated back to his grandfather, Cap-
tain Nathaniel Crosby, Jr., a New England
salt who sailed into the Northwest, helped
found the fair city of Portland, built the
first frame house there . . . and sailed
away to China one day, and never re-
turned.

And, from the beginning, Harry Lillis
Crosby could take good care of himself —
physically, mentally and vocally. "Bing was
a pretty good fighter," recalls Jimmy Cot-
trell, Northwest ex-middleweight champ
who grew up with him in Spokane. "Good
with his right. I've always kidded him
about his left, but he was a good amateur
boxer, actually. I saw him knock out
Buddy Fitzgerald in an amateur meet at
Gonzaga, one time."

The friendship of Crosby and Cottrell
— who's been a prop man on Bing's pic-
tures ever since he hung up his gloves
twenty-three years ago — was first in-
spired when Bing saw Jimmy knock out
the neighborhood bully. "All the kids had
gangs," Jimmy recalls, "and Bing and I
belonged to different teams. I lived down
in the Logan school district, so I belonged
to the 'Logan' gang. There was also the
'Hayes Park' gang, the 'Minnehaha' gang,
and Bing's 'Mission Park' gang. We all in-
termingled and played ball."

But there was one big bully who didn't
play ball with much of anybody — and Bing
was an interested spectator when Jimmy
Cottrell took the measure of him: "This
boy was the 'ace' kid — the tough one — in
the outfit. I didn't know whether Bing
ever had any trouble with him or not, but
others did." One day, Jimmy had a fight
with him, in back of a local grocery store
— and, from then on, Bing was on his team.
In all the years he's observed Bing himself
in the clinches, Jimmy adds, "He'll always
go down in my book as the champ."

Bing early indicated that, whenever the
stakes were to his liking, he'd always fin-
ish somewhere in the money. He had both
the will and the ability to win. Pop Crosby
once told about how Bing entered a city
swimming meet, against supposedly far
superior swimmers, and brought home
every medal they gave — one for every
event he entered, plus the medal for the
entire meet.

Kate and Harry Crosby were always
anxious that their brood have a good edu-
cation and — although "there was no mid-
night-oil-burning at our house" — they
kept a vigilant eye on all report cards. As
well as on all reports of conduct at school.
Bing has given credit to the Fathers at
Gonzaga for helping condition him to fife
— "to facing whatever Fate set in my path,
squarely, with a cold blue eye." His diffi-
culty in childhood, however, was in how
to face the Fathers.

Nevertheless, Bing didn't encounter too
much difficulty in the matter of being
disciplined — though his parents had antici-
pated that he might, when he started go-

ing to Gonzaga. They tried to have a
heart-to-heart talk with him regarding
a priest who was known to be very severe.
"That guy will never see me," Bing de-
cided. "What about Father So-and-so?"
his parents went on, naming another who
was also reputedly strict. Bing thought
about it a moment, then summed up the
whole thing. "I'll be okay," he said seri-
ously. "It will work out all right. A guy
would be crazy to start anything in there."

A respect for knowledge and for dis-
cipline, for being self-relianl: and re-
sourceful, were part of the young Crosbys'
home training. Pop used to say proudly,
"None of the boys ever bothered us for
any spending money. They all earned
their own." And he'd add that Bing began
earning his, by getting up at four A.M.
to deliver the Spokesman- Review.

They all shared responsibilities of the
home to a certain extent. On Saturdays,
all the family helped. Larry and Cath-
erine helped their mother in the kitchen,
the other boys beat the carpets and helped
with the cleaning — and, by two P.M., the
work was done. There had to be system,
with so many mouths to feed . . . and their
parents never knew how many there
would be. "We never did mind how many
friends they brought home with them,"
Pop used to say. "And we didn't mind the
noise or the phonograph or dancing."
Thinking back, he didn't know how they
managed: "We didn't have much mon-
ey . . ."

rVLoney they didn't have. But, if a house
could speak, what a heartwarming story
the old place on Sharp Avenue could tell
of the family who lived there . . . the
music, the laughter, and the full, Irish
fun. "We all loved to go over there," Mary
Bresnahan says now. "Mrs. Crosby would
turn the whole house over to us. But, at
a reasonable hour, she would come and
say, 'Now it's time to go home.' "

The joint really started jumping when
Harry Lillis did his "homework" — prac-
ticing the drums. Any early opinion to
the contrary, Pop Crosby was always quick
to say proudly that his boy Bing was
born to sing and to perform. And Bing's
mother has gone on record privately, re-
futing any popular impression that he
knows nothing about music technically.
As she once pointed out. "Bing played the
drums in the Gonzaga College orchestra —
and they didn't play jazz, either — so you
know he had some knowledge of music."
Pressed, Bing has admitted to a few voice
lessons — but gallantly refuses to name
any instructor to share the responsibility.

One of the members of the Gonzaga
band — Leo Lynn, who was later to be
Bing's stand-in in Hollywood — speaks
with authority of days when they both
played the snare drum in the band. He
recalls Bing's application, mentioning one
day in particular: "We were in the Elks
parade in downtown Spokane, going down
Main Street. It was raining a touch, and
we were really beating those drums. They
wanted us to play good and loud. 'You
put a hole in those drums and we'll treat
you after the parade,' they said. Bing
and I were beating them to death."

Their freshman year in college, both
Leo and Bing were end-men in the school
minstrel show: "I was on one end of the
line, and Bing was on the other. I had
one joke. But Bing did everything. He was
really the star of the show. He told jokes,
he sang, and he'd even picked up a little
soft-shoe dancing on the side."

Then — as now, with his experience of
twenty-three years working closely with
him — it was evident to Leo that "Bing
would have been a success at anything.
He always believed whatever you do — it
was worth doing well."

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At Gonzaga, Bing put his strong rhythm
arm — and his voice — to work commer-
cially with Al Rinker's "Musicaladers."
Their first steady job was for three dollars
apiece a night, playing at Lareida's dance
pavilion a few miles from Spokane. Jim-
my Cottrell, who was "hustling bouts"
during those days when Bing was singing
for a few bucks wherever he could, used
to go out to Lareida's to hear him sing.

"Bing was an outstanding singer then,"
he says. "The only difference — his voice is
deeper now. But he was always a stylist.
He had complete control of any song he
sang. There was only one thing: Bing was
doing some of those dreamy Hawaiian
numbers, and he had a tendency to sing
with his eyes closed then." Jimmy would
dance by him and say, in a loud stage
whisper, "Keep your eyes open . . . open
up those eyes . . ."

But Bing's blue eyes were wide open —
to the music that was becoming so much
a part of him. He'd had two years of pre-
law. But he know that words without
music would hold small meaning for him.
The words had to be set to melody and a
beat — and that beat was really beckoning.
And, one day, his itchy, wig-wagging left
foot took him away . . . while his ten-
year-old brother watched, wide-eyed, from
the old front porch, and waved him off to
exciting adventure. . . .

During Bob's boyhood years, there was
even less money in the family cookie jar.
With extra space at home, Kate Crosby
rented out rooms to students who were
going to Gonzaga or Holy Names Academy.
And Bob figures that, if doing chores
builds character, he was loaded with it
during this time. "I had it tougher than
the others," he says now, of the cooperative
homework his older brothers had known.
"Larry was married and editor of the Wal-
lace, Idaho.Pr ess- Times. Everett and Ted
were out on their own. When Bing left, I
was the only boy around. I piled all the
wood and carried it to the basement."

Also, with the ranks thinned, Pop and
Kate Crosby were able to pay even closer
attention to any infraction of house rules.
Even easygoing Pop, who'd always ducked
disciplining any of them, found he had a
free hand. Bob's next-door friend, Father
Joe Kearney, remembers one day in parti-
cular when Harry Crosby, Sr. took the
situation — and George Robert — firmly in
hand: "Bud Luedcke, an adventurous type
of kid in the neighborhood, had taken
Bob for a ride on the back of his motor-
cycle, and Pop thought they'd stayed out
much too long. When they got back, Mr.
Crosby came out of the house with a stick.

"Bob was wearing coveralls, and there
was a catcher's mitt lying in the yard. Bud
said, 'Why don't you put the catcher's mitt
in your pants?' Bob thought this was great
advice," Father Kearney twinkles. "He
was reaching for the mitt — when Mr.
Crosby reached for him. Bud was laughing,
and Bob was reaching, and Bob's dad
didn't see anything humorous in that at
all. He was mad — and he really whacked
him."

The pattern of his teen years was as
Irish as theirs had always been — and Bob's
hardy Crosby heritage was to prove as
fortunate. Baseball was his forte and, one
day while he was catching, a friend recalls,
"Bob got hit in the mouth with the ball.
He lost four or five teeth, and it changed
his facial appearance somewhat, at first."
He was lucky — it could have endangered
his whole future in television later on.

Like his brothers before him, Bob went
T to dances at the parish hall. But, Irish or

* no — "There wasn't too much romance.

* About the time I got to thinking about
girls, Bing was a big success with Paul
Whiteman. And it was as tough to follow

him in romance as it was in song," Bob
explains. "The first time I tried to kiss a
girl, she looked up into my eyes soulfully
and said, 'How tall is Bing?' And that was
that." He was, however, his brother's
most enthusiastic fan. He was always
inviting pals over to hear Bing's latest
record. And, as one of them recalls,
"Whenever Bing was going to be on a
radio show, Bob would always keep us
informed, to make sure we listened in."

During the summer months, Bob was
temporarily employed picking apples or
cucumbers or strawberries — for twenty-
five cents an hour — at a crossroads called
"Opportunity," about twelve miles from
Spokane. "They called that whole area
'Opportunity Valley,' " he recalls. . . .
But, when opportunity really knocked for
George Robert Crosby, it was to be with
a beat. And, even then, he was thinking
in terms of that day to come.

One Spokane friend recalls the time the
two of them and another pal decided
to form a trio: "We all met at Bob's with
that thought in mind. But nothing hap-
pened. We didn't know what to do, or how
to put voices together, or anything. Bob's
sister, Catherine, played the piano for us
and we tried to sing 'Bye Bye Blues' in
harmony, but we just didn't know how to
be a trio."

With the help of two schoolmates, Ray
Hendricks and Bill Pollard, Bob event-
ually formed "The Delta Rhythm Boys
Trio." They played for school dances and
parties, and one of the boys: had an old
jalopy for transportation to "engagements."

One day, Bob learned that Bing was
coming to Seattle with Paul Whiteman's
band, and he went looking for Joe Kear-
ney, full of enthusiastic plans for going
there: "Bob came over to Gonzaga in an
old Ford, with another kid, and said,
'Come on, bring your banjo, and we'll go
to Seattle.' " By then, Joe Kearney could
play "a couple of things on the banjo."
And Bob had it all figured out. If their
jalopy broke down, he would sing, Bill
Pollard would play the piano, Joe Kearney
could play his banjo, and they'd work their
way on. Which wasn't necessary, fortu-
nately. For, as the priest twinkles now,
"We couldn't have made any money at all.

"Seattle was three hundred miles away
and, to us, this sounded like great ad-
venture. We got a picture of Paul White-
man and put it up in the car. We had a
big sign saying, 'Seattle or Bust'— and we
had flat tires all the way. But Bing was
very good to us. He got us a room at the
Olympic Hotel and we stayed two or three
days. We'd catch the show down at the
big auditorium at night, and we'd hang
around with all the gang during the day —
and it was a great experience. Bob was
already sold he was going to be a singer,
but meeting all these big people ... all
this was a big thrill."

Not long after, the young Irish were
again gathering at the gabled house on
Sharp Avenue — seeing another Crosby off
to glory. Bing had put in a word for Bob
with Anson Weeks, Bob had sung for him
long-distance — "with a very bad connec-
tion"— and had gotten the job. Now he
was packing excitedly to go to San Fran-
cisco and join the band. "We were all
tremendously excited," one of his pals
recalls. "Bob was going to try his luck
in the world. And we were seeing him off
and were very impressed. Later on, when
we heard he was making a fcundred a
week, we thought he'd really; , Inade it.
He was a 'smash success.'"

In no time, however, Bob was home.
Fired because "I felt I wasn't ready and
shirked the job." It was a tough homecom-
ing for Bob — who, like his brother be-
fore him, had promised the skeptical:
"Someday you'll be payin' to hear me

sing." That pay-day now seemed in-
creasingly remote. "That was really a
depressing period in Bob's life," an old
friend says. "I remember he just kind of
wandered around. He'd started his career
— in a way — and then flopped. He was
really low.

"He had range, but his voice just didn't
quite come off then. He had a vibrato and
he had to work to get rid of that. And
some people thought he was trying to
sing like Bing. He had a sound in his
voice, a quality, that reminded you of
Bing's — but Bob certainly wasn't copying
him."

During this period, Bob says now, "I
decided to learn to sing. I studied with an
Italian professor, as many lessons as I
could afford. And I sang wherever I
could get experience." He sang at the
Fifth Street Theater and at McElroy's
Ballroom in Seattle, and at Lareida's and
Liberty Lake and the Walkathon in Spo-
kane. In the face of those who kept saying.
"He should get a job and go to work . . ."

I hen, one day, Bob Crosby headed South
again, on another trial run. No triumphant
departure this time: "A dealer gave me
five dollars a day to drive a used car to
another dealer in Los Angeles, and I came
back by way of San Francisco and told
Anson Weeks I felt more qualified to sing.
Anson said, 'Until I'm sure of the same
thing, I'll just pay you ten dollars a week
and board and room.' "

Bob's job, however, was to be far
rougher than just proving he could sing. In
the years that followed, his was the chal-
lenge of building an identity of his own,
distinct from one of the most famous and
beloved in the land. He couldn't know,
when he drove out of the city limits of
Spokane that last time, just how much
heart and how much hard work that
would mean. And how long a time. . . .

True to prophecy, when Bob Crosby
and his Bobcats really got to rolling, the
folks were all "paying" to hear him sing.
Buying smash records like "Big Noise
from Winnetka" and other platters, as
fast as they came out. All along Sharp
Avenue, the younger Irish were soon
jumping to the rhythm of Bob's own beat
— a Dixieland beat. Television cinched his
fame . . . and an identity of his own. . . .

But Bob Crosby and his brother — the
chap in the wild sport shirt who goes
around ringing doorbells along Sharp
Avenue — will always feel identified with
the old neighborhood in Spokane. Here
were their green years, the nostalgic
years. Here are memories too strong to be
broken by fame or by time. Here, one
fine day, Bing Crosby — resplendent in cap
and gown, and flanked by his family — was
honored by his old alma mater. Here, in
the same building where a mischievous
boy was fired from the choir for never
showing up at rehearsal, he heard such
words as: "In token of the high regard in
which he is held by his school and his
fellow citizens, Gonzaga University con-
fers on Harry Lillis Crosby the degree of
Doctor of Music."

Here today — in token of Bing's own

high regard for youth is fast rising the

ultra-modern Crosby Memorial Library.
Here on the old playing field at Gonzaga —
the "playground" of the noisy young Irish
who used to bat balls and punt pigskins
and dream big. Here in a museum — to be
shared with those who dream — will be the
Crosbyana. All the golden "wins," brought
back here just a whistle away from the
old gabled house on Sharp Avenue, where
all the music began.

It's the Crosby way of saying to all the
ambitious young singers of today: If it
can happen to a couple of boys named
Bing and Bob, it can happen to anybody.

At last — here's an etiquette book that gives you the correct
answers to today's social questions. In this book, Elsa
Maxwell, the famous hostess to world celebrities, tells you
exactly what you want to know about good manners. Here
you find important suggestions on good manners in restau-
rants— in church — in the theatre — on the street — and when
you travel.

Elsa Maxwell's stimulating book is different from the usual
dry-as-dust etiquette volume. It's gay! It's up-to-date. It's
just chockfull of the type of information you can put to
immediate use. It brings you a thorough social education,
that will enable you to live a richer, happier life.

Good manners are one of the greatest personal assets you
can possess. Good jobs, new friends, romance, and the
chance to influence people can be won with good manners.
Ladies and gentlemen are always welcome . . . anywhere.
The encouraging thing about good manners is that anyone
can possess them.

ONLY $1.00 The price of this book that puts you at ease
no matter where you are costs only $1.00. And we pay the
postage ! Mail coupon below — today.

LEARN THE CORRECT ANSWERS TO THESE PROBLEMS

ENGAGEMENTS — Chaperons.
When He Proposes, The En-
gagement Ring, Proper Gifts
to a Fiance, The Announce-
ment, Etiquette following the
Announcement, Showers
WEDDINGS— Time and Place.
Invitations, Wedding An-
nouncements, Second Mar-
riages, Acceptance and Regrets,
Who Pays for What, Wedding
Presents, The Wedding Dress.
Bridesmaids' Dresses. What the
Groom Wears, The Best Man
and Ushers, The Trousseau,
The Bridesmaids' Luncheon,
The Wedding Rehearsal, Wed-
ding Pictures, Going to the
Church, The Best Man, The
Receiving Line, The Bride's
Table, The Parents' Table, Re-
ception, Refreshments. Wed-

ding Breakfast, Cocktail or Tea
Party, Buffet Supper, Dinner.
The Toast, The Home Wed-
ding. INTRODUCTIONS — In-
troducing Relatives, When You
Introduce Yourself, Group In-
troductions, Proper Responses
to Introductions, Hand-Shak-
ing, Who Stands— and When.
Gloves, Doffing the Hat, Say-
ing Goodbye. MANNERS IN
PUBLIC PLACES — Greetings
on the Street, Doors, In Trans-
it, Taxicabs, The Theatre, In
Church, Restaurants. VISIT-
ING CARDS AND THEIR USE
—Size, Names and Titles, The
Mr. and Mrs. Cards, The Fold-
over Card, The Message Card.
Leaving a Visiting Card. IN-
VITATIONS — Formal Invita-
tions, Telephone Invitations.

Informal Notes of Invitations
and Answers, Withdrawing an
Invitation. PARTIES — The
Tea Party, Cocktail Parties,
Buffets, Breakfast, Brunch.
Luncheon, Table Settings. Din-
ner, Bridge and Canasta, Chil-
dren's Parties. TABLE MAN-
NERS—Eating Certain Foods.
Which Fork to Use, The Nap-
kin. LETTERS — The Bread
and Butter Letter, Thank You
Letters, Letters of Condolence.
WHEN DEATH OCCURS— Ar-
rangements, Flowers, A Church
Funeral, The Funeral at Home.
Burial, Mourning. TRAVEL-
LING—Trains, Airplanes.
Ships, Passports, Hotels, Tips.
WHAT SHALL I WEAR —
Clothes for men and Women
Gifts — Childrens' Manners.

•l

J BARTHOLOMEW HOUSE, INC., Dept. WG-7-57
i 205 E. 42nd St., New York 17. N. Y.

. Send me postpaid
i ETIQUETTE BOOK

a copy of
1 enclose

ELSA MAXWELL'S
$1.00.

■ NAME

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RAU9IO
MIRROR

AUGUST, 1957

MIDWEST EDITION

VOL. 48, NO. 3

Ann Higginbotham, Editorial Director

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

Jack Zasorin, Art Director

Frances Maly, Associate Art Director

Joan Clarke, Art Assistant

Bud Goode, West Coast Editor

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

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

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

The Skiffle Boys by Lilla Anderson 8

Christmas in July (Bill Leyden visits Santa's Village) 16

Are We Afraid of Our Teen-Age Kids (Sam Levenson) . .by Gladys Hall 30

From the Fields of The Dakotas (Lawrence Welk) . .by Maxine Arnold 32

The Edge Of Night (Fiction Bonus based on the popular daytime drama) 36

In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead (Carol Richards) 38

The Pat Boones Go to Hollywood , by Shirley Boone 42

New Hot Singers of 1957 by Helen Bolstad 44

Where Adam Is King (Ida Lupino and Howard Duff) by Fredda Balling 50

Be a Cool Warm-Weather Hostess (Arlene Francis) . . . .by Frances Kish 52

Country Music Comes to Town 54

Two Hands Full of Laughter (ZaSu Pitts) by Eunice Field 58

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

Almost Like Angels (Bill Williams and Barbara Hale) by Gordon Budge 22

My Sentimental Tommy Sands by Grace Sands 26

The Truth About Polly Bergen by Martin Cohen 28

YOUR LOCAL STATION

Tempest at a Turntable (WAAF) 10

He's Got 'Em Covered (WWJ) 12

Oh, Brother! (WDGY) 14

Every Day Is Ladies' Day (KSCJ) 62

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

Movies on TV 3

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions ) 11

Information Booth 13

Churning the Channels 16B

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 20

Beauty: The Lady Dances (Kathryn Murray) by Harriet Segman 60

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 78

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 88

Cover portrait of Pat Boone by David Workman of U. S. Features

BUY YOUR SEPTEMBER ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE AUGUST 6

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Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group.

Showing this month

ASTONISHED HEART, THE (U-I) :

Adult, witty treatment of a marriage prob-
lem, from the English angle. Psychiatrist
Noel Coward, happily wed to placid Celia
Johnson, grapples with a sudden infatuation
for dashing Margaret Leighton.

BACHELOR AND THE BOBBY-SOX-
ER, THE (RKO) : Delightful clowning by
Cary Grant, as a gay blade being pursued
by ardent teenager Shirley Temple. As
the girl's sister — a judge! — Myrna Loy
adds more charm.

BIG STREET, THE (RKO): Lucille
Ball does an excellent dramatic job in the
Damon Runyon story of a gangster's ex-
sweetie, crippled, yet rebuffing the friend-
ship of bus-boy Henry Fonda.

CAREFREE (RKO): Mild plot, ribbing
the psychoanalysis routine. But who cares?
— with such exuberant dancing by the
young Astaire and Rogers. Fred's the
doctor; Ginger's the patient; Ralph Bell-
amy's her fiance.

GOOD SAM (RKO) : Likeable people put
across the story of a selfless small-towner
and his family. Gary Cooper's the gener-
ous hero; Ann Sheridan, his wife.

GUEST WIFE (U.A.) : Gentle comedy
teams Claudette Colbert with Dick Foran
and Don Ameche. War correspondent Don
has told his bosses he's married, so Dick
lends wife Claudette to keep up the hoax.

INTERMEZZO (U.A.): Touching ro-
mance-with-music stars the young Ingrid
Bergman and the late Leslie Howard, as a
pianist and a violinist, whose illicit love is
brief.

LUCKY PARTNERS (RKO): Pleasant
farce pairs Ronald Colman and Ginger
Rogers, as Greenwich Villagers who win a
sweepstakes bonanza. Jack Carson and
Spring Byington also contribute chuckles.

MATING OF MILLIE, THE (Colum-
bia) : Any bus-rider will laugh at the first
sequence. Glenn Ford's the driver; Evelyn
Keyes, the career girl who must find a hus-
band before adopting a child.

MY FAVORITE WIFE (RKO): Deftly
done laugh-fest, casting Cary Grant as an
innocent bigamist. Wed to Gail Patrick,
he's staggered by the amazing return of
Irene Dunne, long marooned on a desert
island with rugged Randolph Scott.

NOTORIOUS (RKO) : In a dandy Hitch-
cock thriller, Cary Grant and Ingrid Berg-
man play the Nazi-American spy game in
Brazil. With that famous "butterfly kiss"

TRIO (Paramount): Fine English film,
based on three Maugham stories. James
Hayter plays a gaily . successful illiterate.
Nigel Patrick's the apparently unbearable
life-of-the-party on a cruise ship. Jean
Simmons, Michael Rennie share wistful
love.

YOU WERE NEVER LOVELIER (Co

lumbia) : Graceful, featherweight musical.
As a Norte Americano dancer, Fred Astaire
romances Argentinean Rita Hayworth.

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WHAT'S NEW ON

By PETER ABBOTT

Quizzical Hal March marches on to Hollywood this summer with wife Candy.
He'll spend his vacation starring as a con man in the film, "Hear Me Good."

T Fleetfooted Marge and Sower Champion find that a tricky dance routine is
R simple compared to the swing-your-program replacement whirl on television.

For What's New On The West Coast, See Page G

Love Knows No Channels: When an
ABC cowboy falls for a CBS filly,
what can a veepee say? Such is
the case as video's most handsome
gun-toter bites the dust for a toe
dancer. Hugh O'Brian may be back
on the West Coast filming more Wyatt
Earp episodes, but his heart re-
mains in Long Island with Dorothy
Bracken, a June Taylor dancer. Hugh
admits it was Dorothy's blond beauty
that first attracted him, but adds,
"After one date, I knew this was a
girl I could really respect." The 32-
year-old bachelor denies that it's
an engagement, "but I don't deny
the fact. I mean I can't deny that I
think so much of her." Last trip
to New York City, Hugh traveled
the Long Island Railroad to meet
Dorothy's parents. This must mean
something. Ask any L.I. commuter.

Short & Sassy: Phil Silvers turning
down fabulous night-club offers to
hold wife's hand. Baby Bilko due
any minute. . . . CBS special eventer,
Bill Leonard, married Mike Wallace's
first wife, Norma "Kappy" Kaphan.
. . . Andy "Butterfly" Williams co-
stars with June Valli in Nat "King"
Cole periods over NBC -TV until Sep-
tember 5. Andy goes on singing alone
in private life. Those long-distance
phone calls he makes to San Fernando
Valley are to have a bark with his
boxer Barnaby. . . . End of season
finds Lucy still champ, ahead of run-
ners-up by over two-million viewers.
. . . Lovely Ilene Woods, frequent
singer on Arthur Godfrey Time, de-
nies anything but good friendship
with Ted Williams, but she never
misses a ball game with Ted and he
never seems to miss dinner with Ilene
when he's in Manhattan. . . . Back-
stage, Julie La Rosa relaxes playing
chess with wife Rory. ... If you didn't
know it, Bride And Groom is back,
weekdays, 2: 30 P.M. on NBC-TV. . . .
CBS-TV is sweating over possibility
that Como may expand to ninety min-
utes. What to do about the Como
power? Consider a half -hour stanza
each for Les Femmes Monroe and
Mansfield. Back to back, Marilyn and
Jayne should eclipse all TV screens.
. . . Walter Winchell dropped his
$7 -million suit against ABC since
ABC -TV scheduled his new Desilu
show for the fall. Walter hosts dra-
matic series and promises not to get
so staccatoooooo.

I Got Sands in My Head: A teen-age
gal is a gal just so long. Comes Tommy
or Elvis, the gals turn into battling
banshees, screamy weemies, frantic
fillies. During Tommy Sands' per-
sonal appearance run at New York's
Roxy Theater, it was murder. In the

THE EAST COAST

first three days, eager fans knocked
his mother over, threw Tommy to the
ground twice and stripped two jackets
from his back. Then on the fourth day
things got rough. Tommy, accom-
panied by road manager and rep from
Capitol Records, was only trying to
get back into theater to make stage
show. He cruised up to theater in car.
Stage entrance bristling with dames.
Drove to executives' entrance. Same
thing. Tommy and friends conferred.
Decided to outsmart gals by going in
main lobby. So they jumped from cab,
but gals in ticket line spotted Tommy.
Tommy and friends sprinted through
outer lobby to ticket-taker. He want-
ed tickets. Didn't recognize Tommy.
Girls stampeding. Cap rep pushed
ticket-taker aside and three men
headed into inner lobby. Horrors.
Two girls headed for popcorn-vendor
spot Tommy. Scream, "Tommy! Tom-
my!" Every door in lobby swings open
and girls pour in. Light nightmare.
One girl jumps Tommy from rear.
Cap rep pulls her off. She swings on
him with fist and splits his lip and
cracks a tooth. Tommy is flat on floor
and another jacket is shredding. His
road manager is down and trampled.
Three men finally get to feet and make
flying wedge. With girls trailing, start
up steps to mezzanine and on up to
first balcony and second balcony.
Right up to projection room, then out
on roof and lock door. Down fire
escape, through storage-room window
and finally backstage. Thereafter
Tommy checked into theater in morn-
ing and stayed all day. He got long-
distance consolation from his favorite
girl, Molly Bee. This is just about the
nicest, cutest couple in show-biz, al-
though they are only in semi-steady
stage. Both date others.

Hot Stuff: Sonny James takes a two-
week July vacation with family in
Hackleburg, Alabama. Joining family
reunion will be best gal, Doris of Dal-
las, a beauty in image of Dorothy
Malone. . . . Big summer headache
for weekend variety shows is getting
name guest stars. Ace comics and
singers, already in high income
bracket, would rather spend Saturday
and Sunday on the beach than making
money. . . . Dig Victor's wonderful
album, "It's a Wonderful World," fea-
turing Barbara Carroll on piano.
You'll understand why she's the high-
est-paid female performer in jazz field.
. . . Mary Martin's new contract pays
her $600,000 for six spectaculars, at
the rate of one a year. . . . Charles
Van Doren having problems. Said that
his work at NBC so time-consuming
he cannot finish work on doctorate,
and a university teacher without a
Ph.D. is like a rock 'n' roller out of

jeans. Charlie may give up teaching.
. . . Canadian Mike Kane, leading man
(David Brown) in This Is Nora
Drake, temporarily out of show to
play Shakespearean stuff at Stratford
Festival in Ontario. . . . The queen of
summer ratings, Kathryn Murray, had
both NBC and CBS fighting for her
this year. Katie had been kind of
hoping Arthur would forego the sum-
mer show this year. She says, "I've
been hoping for a vacation abroad for
eight years now."

Hotter Than a Pistol: New flip-bait
is tall and slim, blond and handsome
Steve Karmen. Steve is due back on
Godfrey show this month. Just nine-
teen, the Bronx-born youngster turn-
ed to singing from starvation. He
studied to be an actor, but lack of
work led him to a guitar and folk
singing. He had worked in a few Man-
hattan clubs, Ruban Bleu, The Living
Room and The Velvet Room, when he
tried out for Talent Scouts back in
May. On the show, he was a loser but
so impressed Arthur and Jan Davis
that he was immediately booked for
three successive weeks, both morning
and night-time on the Godfrey shows.
Mercury Records came around with
a contract. But, one day on the show,
Arthur, so taken with Steve's Calypso
numbers, asked, "Have you ever been
to Trinidad?" "No." "You ought to
go." "I don't have the money." "So
you work with us until you earn
enough and go. Then when you come
back, tell us all about it." So Steve,
though hot as a pistol, took Arthur's
advice and dropped everything and
took off on a 60-day cruise. This
month, he returns to Godfrey Time
to resume a career that is causing as
much excitement over at CBS as
early Pat Boone.

Air-Conditioned Items: Hal March
spends his vacation on the Paramount
lot. Makes movie "Hear Me Good"
and stars as charming con man.
August, he returns to New York and
TV and a rented house in New Ro-
chelle. . . . McGuire Sisters get no
vacation. This month, they work ten
days in Syracuse. August, they're in
Atlantic City and Wildwood. In be-
tween personal appearances, they re-
turn to New York and Godfrey Time.
Phyl says, "The only time we get a
vacation is when one of us gets sick
and the others can't possibly work."
. -. . Ava Thomas, gravel-voice on
Robert Q's show, takes three-month
jaunt in Europe with mother. . . . The
Fred Waring aggregation takes over
the Garry Moore daily slot on July 22
and the Merry Moores take off until
September 2. Durward has a hide-
away in (Continued on page 15)

Eric had to fatten up to five pounds
before Melba Rae took him home.

Slim and svelte now, June Valli is wel-
come summer songbird on NBC-TV.

On Arthur Godfrey's advice, young
Steve Karmen traipsed to Trinidad.

WHAT'S NEW ON

By BUD GO ODE

End of an Era: Or, "We haven't lost
a daughter, we've gained a son" de-
partment: I Love Lucy, still the heavy-
weight rating champ, retires from the
ring this year. CBS-TV bought out the
Desilu interest for a reported $5,000,000.
The way the comedy flowed the past
six years, that comes to about a buck
a laugh. A good buy for CBS. . . . But
not "goodbye" to Lucy and Desi. They
were no sooner back from their Ha-
waiian vacation than Desi took off for
New York to sign their new Ford Motor
Company contract for five one-hour
shows to be seen in the '57-'58 season.
. . . And another television era seems
to be threatened: Bob Crosby is re-
ported going off CBS -TV with his day-
time show. Unless CBS can find a
night-time spot for Bob, his show won't
have a home, come the end of August.

Truth Takes a Trip: On Ralph Ed-
wards' annual junket to the Truth Or
Consequences, New Mexico, fiesta, Hol-
lywood's best turned up as guests. They
included Linda Darnell; songstress Erin
O'Brien; Rin Tin Tin's master, Rip
Masters (Jim Brown); Truth Or Con-
sequences emcee, Bob Barker; Lassie's
favorite gal, Jan Clayton; and Tommy
Sands and Molly Bee. Let it be known
that the town celebrated with "Molly
Beeburgers" and "Tommy Sand-
wiches"! . . . Later, after a local Truth
Or Consequences show, emceed by the
show's new quiz king, Bob Barker,
Ralph Edwards also did a local This
Is Your Life, surprising lovely actress
Jan Clayton (New Mexico born and
bred). When Jan went up on stage, she
still thought Ralph was kidding. Then,
realizing this was "it," she broke into
tears. Ralph reached for his ever-ready
handkerchief — and found no back pock-

Young'uns at Truth Or Consequences hospital party with Ralph Edwards, Jan
Clayton, Molly Bee, Bob Barker, Erin O'Brien, Jim Brown and Eddie Truman.

et in his Western fiesta outfit! "Seven
years I've been doing this show," he
exclaimed, "and this is the first time
I've been caught without a handker-
chief— or pockets!"

Who Sez: Tennessee Ernie says, "New
fathers are like private eyes — they're
always trying to pin something on
somebody." . . . Lawrence Welkism:
Lawrence, in describing the beauty of
the Lennon Sisters to an acquaintance,
said, "I can always tell Dianne apart
from Kathy, because, besides being
older, her nose is pointier." That it is.
Incidentally, Mama Lennon had her
tenth child (nine living) when Joseph
Lawrence Lennon was born May 9.

Casting: Bob Horton, rugged, hand-
some and talented, has been cast as the
frontier scout in NBC -TV's Wagon
Train series, starring Ward Bond. Show
begins September 14. . . . The Real
McCoys, starring Oscar-winner Walter
Brennan, debuts on ABC-TV, October
3. . . . Sally, a new comedy starring
Joan Caulfield and featuring Marion
Lome, will be seen on NBC-TV, Sep-
tember 22. . . . The Vic Damone Show
premieres July 3, on CBS-TV. . . .
Gisele MacKenzie's new Saturday-night
show on NBC-TV will debut in Sep-
tember. . . . Richard Boone of Medic
fame -will star in CBS-TV's Have Gun

— Will Travel, to be seen Saturday
nights at 9:30 this fall. This series
opens up a host of other shows. For
example, one built around a writer,
"Have Typewriter — Will Travel," and
one around a witch, "Have Broom —
Will Travel," ad infinitum. It's too bad
Sid Caesar is going off — he'd have a
ball satirizing this one. Speaking of Sid
Caesar, he and NBC decided to call it
quits. It's a sad fact, no matter how
good a show is, if it doesn't pay off,
it goes off. It's as simple as ABC. In
fact, that's probably where Sid will be
next year— at ABC-TV.

Cinderella Story: Lovely Coral Rec-
ord songstress Erin O'Brien, 23-year-
old newcomer discovered by Steve
Allen in his night-time audience, won
national recognition singing on Steve's
show, then guested once with George
Gobel, and now has signed a contract
with Warner Bros. Erin's dream of be-
coming a movie star has come true — all
in the space of six months! Erin has a
starring role in Warners' upcoming
"Marjorie Morningstar." Best described
as delicately lovely, Erin will play
Karen Blair, the amoral gal who throws
herself at "Morningstar's" wonderfully
nasty villain, Noel Airman. This strik-
ing contrast will make exciting view-
ing. But that's the way Hollywood
likes to do things — excitingly.

Champagne tickles, so do beards of
Welk's Pete Fountain, George Cates.

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

THE WEST COAST

Sink or Swim : Charming Dinah Shore
turned her TV Radio Mirror gold medal
awards into a necklace. Often a winner,
Dinah realized too late that real gold
really weighs! Hubby George Mont-
gomery said, "Don't fall in the swim-
ming pool, honey . . . you'll go
straight to the bottom!" Dinah will be
spending the summer pounding nails
with hubby George in the new Trous-
dale Estates area where they are build-
ing their new home. Dinah went to the
private screening of George's newest
picture, "Black Patch," and, though her
own show has been getting rave re-
views, she was more thrilled when Jack
Warner of Warner Bros, came up to tell
her that "Patch" would be a real hit
for George. If they can find some way
to pin a romantic ballad to the ruggedly
masculine picture, Dinah will sing the
background score.

Elvis Episodes: Girls are like a base-
ball game, or, From Tinker-to-Evers-
to-Chance Department: Last week, El-
vis Presley dated Yvonne Lime, Debbie
Smith, and Pat Mowry — in that order,
but in fewer days. . . . Has the full story
been told on the tooth-swallowing
episode? The day before he felt the
pain, Elvis was doing a typical Presley
dance routine with an all-male chorus
(that's a switch) and it created enough
excitement at the studio to send chore-
ographer Michael Kidd and dancer
Gene Kelly gawking to the soundstage.
That's when Elvis lost the tooth cap.
But he didn't feel any pain. That came

Her TV Radio Mirror gold medals
are now a necklace for Dinah Shore.

next day, during a dramatic scene (no-
body knows whether or not this was a
love scene, or whether the pain was
near his heart). At any rate, Elvis had
to sit still for a bronchoscope — which
kept him in the hospital under the eyes
of a half-dozen pretty nurses. Some
people can't win for losing. . . . Oh, yes,
Elvis now has a pet wallaby, which
looks like a live kewpie doll but packs
the kick of a mule. The wallaby hails
from Australia, (Continued on page 15)

Make room for Daddy? It was standing-room only when Danny Thomas played
the Sands night club in Las Vegas, then did an impromptu show for the overflow.

Aren't you glad you've always
been so careful with your ap-
pearance, especially your hair!
Every hair is in place, and you
know it's easiest to keep that way
by setting and securing it with
Gayla hold-bob . . . the all-pur-
pose bobby pin preferred by
more women over all others.

At first glance, bobby pins may
look alike, but women know that
Gayla hold-bob with Flexi-Grip
is the leader by superior perform-
ance... holds better, has the right
combination of strength and flexi-
bility, and is easiest to use.
Do not accept ordinary bobby
pins— insist on Gayla hold-bob.

The Cockatoos, a group of four Royal Navy men, provide music for an impromptu skiffle session in a London street.

rHISKlFMBOYS

ENGLAND HOLLERS UP A STORM

By LILLA ANDERSON

Skiffle jumped across the Atlantic
as Lonnie Donegan toured the States.

Take a washtub, a washboard, a
couple of guitars, a few writhing,
uninhibited young men belting out
songs which have crossed the Atlantic
at least twice — and you have the mak-
ings for a new teen-age musical craze
which has created a storm of contro-
versy in England and which is begin-
ning to draw enthralled young sup-
porters in the United States.

It is called — no one quite knows
why — "skiffle." The small combos which
set the kids to dancing and their elders
to deprecating are called "skiffle
groups." In Britain the fad has spread,
despite strong opposition, from sailors'
pubs along the Limehouse docks to the
stage of the Palladium and the studios
of the independent television station.
Young members of the nobility who

have taken it up are considered to be
sowing their wild oats.

In America, the young intellectuals
of New York's Greenwich Village claim
it as their own private discovery. But
it is spreading, both by personal and
recorded invasion. That skiffling Scots-
man, Lonnie Donegan, and the Charles
McDevitt skiffle group have toured the
States. The records of Bob Cort and
Dickie Bishop are beginning to catch
on. Tommy Steele, whom the British
consider their own Elvis Presley, is
contemplating a bow to America.

To define skiffle is an elusive task. It
is more illuminating to tell what hap-
pens. Ask an English teenager what
skiffle is and you'll draw that "How
square can you get?" look which is
the same on both sides of the Atlantic.

Ask an oldster and . . . well, we did.

On a recent trip to London, I had a
chance to tour the skiffle clubs. My
partner in this particular bit of musical
research was an American who con-
sidered himself a real gassed cat when
it came to New Orleans blues, progres-
sive jazz or frantic rock 'n' roll.

Said my companion, ' T know they're
in the Soho area. Let's take a cab."

To find skiffle required a confer-
ence at the end of the journey, for
London cabs are square-rigged as the
late Dowager Queen Mary's hats. A
thick plate-glass panel separates chauf-,
feur from passenger and no chatty non-
sense is allowed. Not until the cabbie
set us down at a Soho curb could my
escorting hipster inquire, "Say, Dad,
which joint swings?"

■the cabbie reacted like Colonel Blimp.
■ "I doubt if I understand, sir, but
I am sure, sir, I would not know, sir."

When we reached Soho a young
couple was crossing the street. The
question, "Hey, kids, which joint
swings?" brought eager directions. "See
that second sign— 'The Two IV? That's
the most!"

It was my first glimpse of a "coffee
bar," an angular edifice resembling an
elderly hamburger joint. Its non-alco-
holic counter was crowded with Teddy-
boys and their dolls. The boys' broad-
cloth suits, cut to follow Edwardian
styles, were in wild shades of magenta,
pale blue, mauve. (A kid will go in
hock for months to pay for having one
tailored.) Youths not of the Teddy cult
wore thick sweaters or duffle jackets.
Their girls dressed in either gray flan-
nel jumpers and black stockings or in
tight toreador pants.

We went down steep cellar stairs.
At least two hundred kids were
packed, foot-to-foot, into a space about

Like America's Elvis, Tommy Steele
gyrated his way into the spotlight.

twice as large as an average living
room. While American rock 'n' roll
grew up in big theater shows, English
skiffle gained its popularity in such
"jazz clubs."

A few determined couples danced.
Others peered through the smoke to-
ward the podium where Charlie Mc-
Devitt and his boys were whanging out
a heavy two-beat on guitars and bass.
Listeners' faces were tense with excite-
ment.

But I'll have to admit ours were not.
Said my escort, "This is skiffle?"

Said I, "This is where I came in."

And indeed it was. That same tune
had sent me when I was a kid at a
Methodist summer camp in Wisconsin.
Sitting around the campfire, we would
sing something like 97 verses to "I Am
Redeemed by the Blood of the Lamb."
The words were changed to "Hand Me
Down My Walkin' Cane" in the version
which came over the hillbilly radio
stations we heard in western Minnesota.
Now here it was again in a London
cellar. The beat and the phrasing were
identical.

Skiffle has given many an old platter
a new English accent, even when the
singers make a studied attempt to copy
American intonations. They have
picked up some of the old jazz classics,
but they also have concentrated on
some styles which were simply dull in
the beginning. Many of their numbers
have now made the round trip. Orig-
inally, they were English ballads
brought here by early settlers. Hill-
billy singers turned them into country -
and-Western recordings. The young
British skifflers have again made them
their own.

Skiffle, in Britain, has brought some
young singers the same prominence
that rock 'n' roll has done in the States.
Lonnie Donegan is one of the top pur-
veyors of the American sounds. Born
in Glasgow, he was reared in the Cock-
ney section of London. Toting his
guitar with him, he found his way
around the neighborhood jazz clubs
where the kids play for Cokes and
coffee. When "Rock Island Line" was
issued, he became the first jazz singer
to hit the British best-seller lists. His
record also caught on in the United
States. American fans of this English
hillbilly got a look at him this spring
when he brought his skiffle group over
and toured with the Harlem Globe-
trotters basketball team, entertaining
between halves. He never quite El-
vised the kids, but an impressive num-
ber of teens did squeal their delight.

Bob Cort was first heard by a talent
scout attending a "jazz barbecue" in
London and was asked to record on
the London label. In his band are
three guitars, a bass and a washboard.
He met his wife at a coffee bar in
Knightsbridge and grew his beard at
her request. His two top tunes are
"Don't You Rock Me Daddy-O" and
"It Takes a Worried Man to Sing a
Worried Blues." Newly released are
"Freight Train" and "Roll Jen Jenkins."

Tommy Steele, in England, is con-
sidered to be more rock 'n' roll than
skiffle. He is a quiet, ordinary London
lad who burst into the spotlight with

Bearded Bob Cort set a new London
fire at the Prince of Wales Theater.

the same jet propulsion exhibited here
by that quiet, ordinary Memphis lad
called Presley.

Mrs take-off point was another of those
coffee bars. The owner asked him
to sing a few rock 'n' roll numbers
and the customers started to dance.
The kid who had been a twenty-dollar- .
a-week bellhop on a ship running be-
tween New York and Bermuda sud-
denly became England's flash hit. Last
spring, he starred in a biographical
movie, "The Tommy Steele Story." In
the States, his new recording of "But-
terfingers" and "Teen-Age Party" is
catching on. Whether he follows it with
a personal appearance tour may de-
pend on the state of his health. He
was rejected for the draft because of
a heart condition. Some fans think he
should not be permitted to continue his
energy -consuming stage gyrations, but
Tommy has gone right on rocking and
rolling.

Skiffle, with its strong stimulus to-
ward American ways, draws some sharp
criticism from traditionalists. They
often voice their protests in letters to
the editors of the tabloid newspapers.

It would comfort the writers, I be-
lieve, if they could pay a visit to New
York's Washington Square on a Sun-
day afternoon. In this historic park,
there is a decommissioned fountain. Its
foundation becomes a bowl in which
students and the talented young en-
tertainers from Greenwich Village
gather. Singers surround instrumental
groups. On a recent Sunday, I counted
twelve guitars, three basses and seven
washtubs. The washtubs carry a sort
of mast — usually a broomstick — to
which is attached a single string. The
string is plucked at the same time the
rhythm is beat out by the foot on the
bottom of the tub.

Most of the girls wore gray jumpers
and black stockings. Many of the boys
had bulky sweaters and duffle jackets.
You couldn't tell from the attire
whether you were in Washington
Square or Trafalgar Square. The T
sound, too, was the same. Their favor- v
ite song was "It Takes a Worried Man R
to Sing a Worried Blues."

Skiffle has again jnmrtpd the Atlantic.

TEMPEST AT A TURNTABLE

Jerry Lewis apparently loved the Faye treatment,
came out unscathed after over an hour with Marty.

According to WAAF's outspoken deejay, Marty
Faye, broadcasting can only stand to benefit from
a good dose of "obnoxious irritation." Marty,
alternately loved and hated by his audiences, has
long been a master of the hard sell and frantic
harangue. But, by a sort of "reverse psychology,"
his heckling of Chicago airwaves has paid off. . . .
Each Monday through Friday from noon to 2 P.M.,
Marty gives the new releases a turn, then slays
'em with a caustic dig or two, and "buries" 'em in
"Marty's Morgue." Then, last year's "sacred cows"
of pop music get a going-over. But there's never
any ill will behind the barbed-wire wit, and many
top stars appreciate the fact that a rap on the
Marty Faye Show amounts to stirring up a hurri-
cane in record sales in the Windy City. . . .
Brooklyn-born Marty didn't come by his theatrical
instincts by accident. Nature planned it that way,
giving him a sister, Frances Faye, a well-known
night-club and recording star, and a cousin, Danny
Kaye. Via the circuitous route of law school and a
summer "pitch" job in Atlantic City, he found
himself in front of a TV camera with "a fire burning
inside ... I could have sold horses to an auto-
mobile dealer." Of a cross-country tour of TV
stations, Marty recalls, "They hated me in New York,
they hated me in Birmingham, they hated me in
Atlanta . . . but, they listened." ... In Chicago,
appearing up to 70 times weekly, Marty was the
man who'd pop up with his plug just when the
matinee movie reached its climax. Kids would ask
him on the street, "Hey, aren't you the guy who
ruins all the movies?" — to which Faye would reply,
faking a glower, "Yeah, that's me. The name's
Marty Faye. Don't forget it." He still haunts the
movie viewers — chases WBKB-TVs Sunday to
Thursday Late Show with forty minutes (ll:20-mid-
night) of inimitable heartburn, and no one forgets.
Once, at Soldiers' Field, 60,000 rose up in a body to
pitch pop bottles, peanuts, everything, as Marty
rode by. As he tells it, "Brother, I had arrived." . . .
When Marty arrives home at his North Side apart-
ment, he throws in the sponge for the day and enjoys
a huge record collection on hi-fi with wife Vivian.
Despite a heart-rending plea from four-year-old
daughter Sydney Fran — "Daddy, don't be so mean
to Elvis Presley, the kids at nursery school won't
like me any more" — Marty knows his own infamous
style fills a real need in broadcasting. Like his mail
pull, which runs the gamut from love letters to
threats on his life, radio should be willing to be a
little schizophrenic. Too much of the "soft sell,"
the relaxed charm, he feels, can put listeners to sleep.
To WAAF listeners, Marty Faye's no soporific.

When they sent threatening letters

and started throwing things,

WAAF's Marty Faye figured he'd arrived!

Columbia's Four Lads and bearded Mitch Miller reciprocate
Marty's "burial" of their discs by surprise birthday cake.

Sydney tries to reconcile Dad and nursery schoolers on
Elvis issue. Wife Vivian keeps clear of the "dispute."

^™

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with smooth, fitted and flaring silhouette.
Little button-front bolero completes the
ensemble. Printed Pattern in Misses' Sizes
10-20. Size 16 dress and bolero take 4
yards 39-inch fabric. State size. 35(S

SIZES
0 — 20

Send thirty-five cents (in coin) for each pattern to: TV Radio Mirror, Pattern Depart-
ment, P.O. Box 137, Old Chelsea Station, New York 11, New York. Add five cents for
each pattern for first-class mailing. Be sure to specify pattern number and size.

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When the music stops, Bob still leads a double life, as escort
for wife Patricia and pal and teammate for elder son Douglas.

Bob Maxwell is a hired musical

hand on WWJ — but he's

proprietor of his own competition

HE'S

When ebullient Bob Maxwell acquired his own
radio station in April, he found himself playing
both ends against a musical middle. Bob is on the
payroll of Detroit's Station WWJ as a deejay. He runs a
dawn patrol of "music with a melody," each Monday
through Saturday from 6 to 9 A.M., and presides over
Music Over The Weekend, each Saturday from 1 to
3:30 P.M. He's seen on TV with the Meet The Press
commercials and is heard coast-to-coast as a guest
communicator on NBC's Monitor. Then, on April Fool's
Day, 1957, he got down to the serious business of opening
his own Station WBRB in suburban Mt. Clemens. As the
station's program director, Bob finds himself in the odd
position of employing deejays to go on opposite his own
programs on WWJ .... Born June 26, 1924, in the little
town of Custer, Tennessee, where his family were
sharecroppers, Bob was brought to Detroit when he was
five. When his mother became fatally ill of tuberculosis,
Bob spent two years in an orphanage, where he occupied
himself by staging variety shows. He was spotted by
an advertising executive who offered to use him on the
dramatized commercials for the Ford Sunday evening
hour. The pay was good and so, at the ripe old age of
eleven, Bob decided to go into radio and also to study

medicine. He appeared on such Detroit-produced shows
as Lone Ranger and Green Hornet, switched to deejaying
in 1940, running an all-night show on WEXL in Royal
Oak and attending high school by day. He had just
begun college and a pre-medical course when war
came and he enlisted in the Navy, serving as a medic.
He returned to college after the war, but radio and TV
commitments prevented him from graduating .... Bob
now has two sons — Douglas, 11, and Bob, Jr., 3 — and he
hopes that one of them will realize his doctoring dreams.
Bob and his wife Patricia love to entertain at their
suburban Birmingham home, colonial in design, con-
temporary in decor. Bob collects books, mostly science-
fiction, and postage stamps, including many of Con-
federate vintage in honor of his distant relative, Col.
Breckenridge, Confederate Secretary of War. At Pa-
tricia's request, Bob sold his racing cars, but he still
owns a restored 1918 Maxwell (!) touring sedan. Bob
also owns a collie named Amber, a private pilot's license,
and a half- interest in Bluefield Farms, 418 acres in
Kentucky devoted to raising thoroughbred horses. He'd
like to retire there some day. But it's a distant future
that will find Detroiters singing the blues because Bob
Maxwell has retired to the land of the blue grass.

INFORMATION BOOTH

Oklahoma Kids

Could you please give me some informa-
tion on The Collins Kids, ivho're seen fre-
quently on TV? D. S., Boston, Mass.

That two kids are better than one, most
people will admit. That two Collins Kids
are "the best" in their field is incontesta-
ble. The eldest, Lorrie (short for Lawren-
cine ) . is almost 15, with a voice now under
exclusive contract to Columbia Records.
Larry, 13, takes over the harmony vocals,
dances a bit and handles the large double-
necked guitar like the country-music vet-
eran he is. . . . The Kids' dad is an aircraft
worker and their mother, though she plays
at the piano, never aimed for a show-busi-
ness career. But Larry and Lorrie har-
monized almost before they could read or
write the name of their home town of
Tulsa, Oklahoma. Too busy to stop for a
music lesson, the Collins Kids have been
on KTTV-Los Angeles' Town Hall Party
and heard on the NBC Radio network pro-
gram of the same name. Other appear-
ances as guests on the CBS Jack Carson
Show and Bob Crosby Show and ABC-
TV's Ozark Jubilee were followed by
movie roles for the Kids at Universal-In-
ternational. . . . When they aren't busy
televising or recording such country hits
as "Hush Money" or "The Rockaway
Rock," the Kids attend Hollywood's Pro-
fessional Children's School, where Lorrie
will be a sophomore this fall and Larry an
eighth-grader. Larry says he likes school
"'all right," but prefers driving his midget
auto or going swimming or rabbit hunting.

Free-Lance Lancer

Would you please give me some in-
formation about Warren Stevens on 77th
Bengal Lancers? C. Y., Keiser, Pa.

Scranton-born Warren Stevens — Lt.
Storm on the NBC-TV Lancers series — got
his start in the entertainment world as a

musician. Then, during high-school years,
he found himself becoming more and more
attracted to acting. Afraid to admit it to
his family, who might have considered it a
mere "boyish infatuation," he enlisted in
the Navy and made Annapolis, instead.
But only for a while. Warren met a certain
Bob Porterfield, who owned the famous
Barter Theater in Virginia, and decided to
leave Annapolis for the part of the young-
er brother in "Family Portrait." After that,
it was a sprightly hop and skip to scholar-
ship studies with Martha Graham, Sanford
Meisner and Lehman Engel at Neighbor-
hood Playhouse, and only a jump into the
"blue yonder" of the Air Corps. . . . An Elia
Kazan production was the turning point in
his career. Though termed "a flop" by the
critics, the play turned up several movie
offers for the handsome, five-foot-ten actor.
Broadway also took notice, and Warren
landed "hit" material in "Detective Story"
with Ralph Bellamy. . . . Since signing
with 20th Century-Fox in 1950, he has
been in 15 motion pictures and innumera-
ble TV dramas. Now a free-lance Lancer,
Warren lives with his wife, the former
Lydia Minevitch, in the hills above Holly-
wood. He has a son, Larry, 12, by a previ-
ous marriage.

Shavian Pin-up

/ would like some information on Joi
Lansing, one of the models on the CBS-TV
Bob Cummings Show. C. S., Throop, Pa.

Joi Lansing, a shapely blond pin-up
type, has been studying her Ibsen and
Shaw since high-school days. Complains
Joi, "People don't believe I really want to
be a dramatic actress. If you look sexy,
they give you sexy parts." . . . Born Joy
Loveland, Joi arrived in Hollywood via
Salt Lake City and Ogden, Utah. As a
Mormon, she neither drinks nor smokes.
After high-school graduation, there was a
considerable period devoted to serious
reading, followed by a world junket — "to

Warren Stevens

Larry and Lawrencine Collins

Joi Lansing-

get experience" — playing the Air Force
bases. In Hollywood, she hopes her first
starring picture, "The Brave One," will
lead to others. Meanwhile, she's in continu-
ous demand for TV dramas and has also
appeared regularly on the Bob Cummings
Show as the photographer's model. TV is
"hard work," according to Joi. "But, if
you work hard at anything you want,
you're bound to be a success at it."

Calling All Fans

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

Pat Boone Fan Club, c/o Joan Gainer,
913 N. York Rd., Willow Grove, Pa.

Bill Haley and His Comets, c/o Claire
Neveu, 201 Grove Street, Woonsocket, R. I.

Allan Copeland Fan Club, c/o Irma Al-
ber, 1600 Broadway, Watervliet, N. Y.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's
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 — - T
but be sure to attach this box to your v
letter, and specify whether it concerns B
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers.
13

Voice-wise, it's a who's who, as expert mimic Bill Ben-
nett talks to ex-"Fat Jack" E. Leonard before show.

The legal definition of "mayhem" reads threaten-
ingly, to say the least. Bill Bennett could never be
accused of "a willful and violent affliction of bodily
harm in order to annoy an adversary." Simple! He
has no adversaries. When "Brother Bill" signs on-air
at 6 A.M. for a three-hour deejay stint, and again
at 11 for Mayhem In The Ayem, even the birds in the
Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul tune in to
WDGY. The proof is in the writing: "Dear Mr.
Bennett," one note reads. "Enclosed is a picture of our
parakeet, Pixie. As you can see, he's listening to the
radio and it happens to be your program, too." To
which Bill grins, "Proof? This just goes to prove
my show is really 'for the birds.' "... One of the
most likeable in the radio business, the versatile young
emcee and entertainer was brought to WDGY by
Todd Storz, who recognized a find for his new station.
Bill was largely responsible for jumping the station's
ratings from a rocky "low" to "number one
independent" for the area. Adored by teenagers,
hounded by gag fans, besieged by phone calls,
there's a perpetual smile on the boyish face and a
joke is ready for any occasion. . . . And this, in
spite of a staggering schedule. Besides the two
morning shows, he emcees Saturday nights at the Prom
Ballroom, sharing billing with top stars. During
the week, Bill's out on the road for his "favorite
extracurricular," one-night stands of emceeing, singing
and mimicking. Paying attention to teenagers'
extracurriculars, too, he recently started a teen-
interest column circulating in 130 school papers in
the area. . . . Come Sunday and Bill folds his tent
and "steals away" home. But the comedy sneaks in by
the back door, according to his lovely wife Jo.
Sundays tempt Bill to work on his teen-slated magic
and clown routines. . . . Not so many years ago,
teenager Bill, "most popular boy" in his class, stopped
short of nothing to entertain and make people laugh.
At the time of his class play, when he fell off the
stage and landed in the pit, his sole commentary went,
"It was getting pretty dull around there." . . .
Bill's first break followed soon after a young station
manager took a look at Bill and "suggested," in his
most V.I.P. manner, "Boy, you'll never make it as
a radio personality. Let's try you in sales." So,
it was sales for two years, till he sold himself as a
deejay. Radio audiences have been buying Brother
Bill's airwaves' stock-in-trade ever since.

OH, BROTHER!

WDGTs "Brother Bill" Bennett
just slays 'era in the ayem

Bill, second from right, shines along with The Three
Suns, typical bright guest stars on his ayem show.

Kuldip Singh, at left, of Groucho fame, is emceed
by Bill, who's busy with a "favorite extracurricular."

What's New on the West Coast

(Continued from page 7)

now spends the afternoon sunning itself
on Elvis' M-G-M patio, doesn't like to go
back into its cage at night, has a glossy
gray-brown coat of fur which is made to
gleam on a diet of apples (hand fed), sits
up like a squirrel to eat, hops like a kan-
garoo, and is named "Wallaby." Rumor
has it that it was this pint-sized pet that
knocked out Presley's tooth, but he's too
embarrassed to admit it.

Beards 'n' Boots: If you think you are
seeing a younger version of the Smith
Brothers walking down Hollywood Boule-
vard, it's probably Lawrence Welk's ar-
ranger, George Cates, and Welk's newly
signed clarinetist, Pete Fountain. Both
sport goatees. Cates, musical supervisor of
Welk's shows, grew his beard during an
illness, vowed he wouldn't shave until he
was well again, and then never shaved it
off at all. Twenty-six-year-old Pete Foun-
tain grew his beard on a dare, while play-
ing jazz in New Orleans over the past five
years. . . . The moment Betty White was to
meet ABC-TV president, Leonard Gold-
enson, and introduce her new show, Date
With The Angels, on a coast-to-coast
closed-circuit hook-up, the heel of her shoe
broke. It just so happened that Alice Lon
was present, and wearing the same shade
of blue dress and matching shoes as Betty.
More coincidentally, they both have the
same Cinderella-size foot, 5A. After the
show, Betty pointed to the lovely Alice,
sitting barefoot beside the president.

Incidental Intelligence: Cheyenne's Clint
Walker added a covered wagon to his new
Vespa motor scooter, now takes his seven-
year-old daughter Valerie with him while
he prospects for uranium. Valerie thought
prospecting a bore until Clint, knowing
she adored him as "Cheyenne," got out of
blue jeans and changed into his TV cos-
tume. . . . Yvonne DeCarlo, who has a De-
cember date with the stork, has blueprinted
plans for a new TV series next season in
which she'll star as a femme Robin Hood.
. . . Cedric Hardwicke — and he likes being
called "Mister," not "Sir" — celebrated his
forty-fifth year as an actor while rehearsing
a role in Climax! The three-layer cake, in-
scribed "An Actor's Actor," was presented
by Michael Rennie. . . . They had to make
room for daddy, Danny Thomas, when he
played the Sands night club in Las Vegas.
It was S.R.O. inside, so Danny did an im-
promptu show for the people outside who
couldn't get past the velvet rope. . . .
Jeanne Cagney's daughter, Mary Ann, is
celebrating her second birthday. . . . Did
you know that Spike Jones once beat the
drums in a recording band for Bing Cros-
by? "It was a nice steady job," says Spike,
"but I kept falling asleep." . . . Gale
Storm's "Dark Moon" has passed Bonny
Guitar's original version of the same song
and gone well over the million mark. (Both
are on a Dot label.) Another record set by
Gale: Both her sponsors, Nestle Co. and
Helene Curtis, have just signed her Oh!
Susanna for ninety-one consecutive weeks.

What's New on the East Coast

(Continued from page 5)

Connecticut. Says he, "I got a brook and
I will put my feet in the water and fish
and count my money." Ken Carson will
get in two weeks of Florida golf and then
make personal appearances at state fairs.
Denise Lor stands on a woman's preroga-
tive and remains undecided. Garry, him-
self, is in a rut, or is it a trough? He will
cruise off New England with the family.
. . . There's Moore of Garry's favorite
horn-man, Wild Bill Davison, in Columbia
album, "With Strings Attached."

Backstage Drama: One serial star was
undergoing the worst kind of anguish this
season and being very mum about it.
Melba Rae, who is Marge in Search For
Tomorrow, was looking forward to the
most exciting event of her life, her first
child. With artist-husband Gil Shawn, she
shared such enthusiasm that they talked
about little else. Early spring, they moved
from a small, charming Greenwich Village
flat to a large apartment on Riverside
Drive. Suddenly, in March, Melba was
rushed to the hospital and gave birth to
premature twins. ("I'd been X-rayed, but
there had been no sign of twins.") The
baby girl weighed two pounds and eight
ounces. The boy weighed two and six.
("We were warned to wait twenty-four
hours before we told anyone outside of
her parents.") Twenty hours later, the
girl died. The boy went into an incubator
at Premature Center in the New York
Hospital. Melba was told she could not
take the baby home until he reached five
pounds, and Gil was told not to give out
any cigars until baby came home. They
had a live son, but its life was not a cer-
tain thing. At one point, the baby dropped
down to two pounds, but then began to
gain steadily. On Mother's D^v. he was

five pounds and four ounces and Melba
took him home. "He's good and lovable,"
says Melba. "He has auburn hair and
enormous blue eyes. We call him Eric
Henry. Eric after my grandfather and
Henry after Gil's father." The Monday
after the baby got home, Gil went down
to his office loaded with candy and cigars.

Bloody or Dead: Big Story cancelled end
of this summer. West Point and Bucca-
neers axed, too. Robert Montgomery Pre-
sents will definitely not return in fall.
Also death rattle for Ford Theater. ... Of
course, there are happy sponsors. Kraft
celebrated its tenth year and Godfrey is
up to his eyeballs in teaballs. It was July
25, 1947, that Lipton first sponsored Old
Ironsides. And then, Oh! Susanna and
Person To Person have had renewals and
The Lone Ranger will ride again. Gisele
MacKenzie, who debuts her show in the
fall, has been fully sponsored since spring.
So things are never so bad as they seem,
and anyway, like army generals, TV shows
don't die, they just fade away. There's the
Durante show, off TV almost two years.
It's back again this summer, replacing
Gleason, who was recently axed but who
will likely replace Steve Allen in 1959.
And see if you can follow this one: The
Champions replaced Private Secretary,
which in turn replaced The Brothers.
Private Secretary has now been replaced
by My Favorite Husband. Joan Caulfield,
once star of My Favorite Husband, re-
turns this fall in a new filmed comedy
series, Sally, co-starring Marion Lome,
on NBC-TV Sundays at 7:30. Marion
Lome gained TV fame in this same time
slot when it was occupied by Mr. Peepers,
which was replaced by Circus Boy, which
moves to ABC and replaces . . . etcetera.

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Even in July, the "North Pole" at
the Village is covered with frost.

At the Enchanted Castle, Bill and
young Robert feed the black swan.

Bill jumps as the giant Jack-in-
the-Box nods its greeting to him.

It could be you, says Bill Leyden,
enjoying the sun at Santa's Village

Santa himself welcomes Sue and Bill Leyden,
Robert Chadwick, 7, Denise and Paula Benson,
aged 6 and I I, while little John Benson finds
playmates just his size among the baby goats.

Bill Leyden is emcee of Ralph Edwards' It Could
Be You, as seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 12:30 P. M. EDT.

Yes, there is a Santa Claus. The only point of disputation is:
Where does he live? Some people plunk for the North
Pole. But, each year, a million other people take the
Rim-of-the-World Highway (State Highway 18), drive a mile-
high into the San Bernardino Mountains, and stop when
they've reached never-never land, more officially known as
Skyforest, California. Here is Santa's Village and, unlike the
North Pole, it's much more than a postal address. Fourteen
fantastical buildings nestle among the pines, and here,
together with elves and animals, live Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Santa is here to greet his visitors 364 days a year. On
Christmas Day, he's away on urgent business. In winter, the
scene is snow-covered. But even in July, it's still Christmas
here. Newlyweds Sue and Bill Leyden gathered up four
young friends to prove that, when it's a question of
the happiest kind of fairy tales coming true, it could be you!

There's a sleigh and reindeer, of course. But for a ride through
the Enchanted Forest, visitors take Cinderella's Pumpkin coach.

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A showdown must finally come in
the tangled affairs of these
three — Anthony Franciosa, Eva
MarieSaint, husband Don Murray.

RADIO
MIRROR

TV favorites on

your theater screen

By JANET GRAVES
A Hatful of Rain

20th, cinemascope
Though this powerful movie is adapted from
a Broadway play, it has the quietly realistic,
outspoken manner of the best TV dramas,
and all its leading players are familiar to
television fans. As the war veteran tor-
mented by dope addiction, Don Murray gives
a strongly emotional performance. He is
matched by Eva Marie Saint, as the wife
who could offer help and sympathy if only
she were given her husband's full confidence.
But Anthony Franciosa towers over both,
with his compelling portrayal of the brother
deeply involved in the addict's situation. And
Lloyd Nolan, as the bluff, unimaginative
father, shows why this family is threatened
by tragedy. Background scenes shot in New
York City give extra conviction to a story
of unusual force.

Bernardine

20th, cinemascope, de luxe color
Already established as a TV, radio and re-
cording personality, Pat Boone steps into
the movie-acting department with surprising

ease. He's cast as leader of a group of
teenagers — nice kids all, without a delin-
quent in the lot. Their chief problem centers
around the romantic quest of young Richard
Sargent, who has fallen madly in love with
Terry Moore. Trying to be the loyal pal,
Pat succeeds only in complicating Dick's life.
And Janet Gaynor, as Dick's widowed moth-
er, now considering a second marriage, exhib-
its the same pert charm in maturity as she
did in youth.

Dino

ALLIED ARTISTS

Widely acclaimed as a TV play, this story
of slum boyhood hits the larger screens with
equal impact. Sal Mineo does an excellent
job as the boy just released from reform
school, after serving a term on a robbery
and murder charge. As the psychiatrist at
the local settlement house, Brian Keith
takes a personal interest in Sal's case, and
the gentle attentions of young Susan Kohner,
another settlement-house worker, also ex-
ert a healing influence.

The Delicate Delinquent

PARAMOUNT, VISTAVISION

Now that Dean Martin has shown what he
can do on his own in "Ten Thousand Bed-
rooms," Jerry Lewis goes into solo action
with a hard-to-classify picture of tenement
life in New York. As a youngster who
gets hauled into a police station on a de-

linquency accusation, Jerry is utterly inno
cent. But he arouses the concern of Darren
McGavin, a crusading cop, and Martha Hyer,
a lady politico who believes in getting tough
with the trouble-making kids. Jerry's role
oddly combines serious acting with his fa-
miliar clowning. He does one song, "By
Myself," which is neatly staged and worked
logically into the course of the story.

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

Beau James (Paramount, VistaVision
Technicolor) : As New York mayor Jimmy
Walker, Bob Hope symbolizes the spirit of
the Jazz Age. Paul Douglas and Darren
McGavin take key roles in the colorful
political intrigues; Alexis Smith and Vera
Miles are the ladies in Bob's life.

The Lonely Man (Paramount, VistaVi-
sion) : Winner of TV's Emmy for best acting.
Jack Palance has a strong role as a supposed
desperado, who tries to settle down and win
the affections of his hostile son, Anthony
Perkins. Elaine Aiken is the girl that both
men love.

The Buster Keaton Story (Paramount,
VistaVision) : Donald O'Connor goes dead-
pan to play the sober-faced comic of silent-
film days. Ann Blyth and Rhonda Fleming
supply romantic interest, but fine old Keaton
gags are the big attraction.

Can a doctor live like a human being ?

an a doctor be a devoted husband to his wife, a loving father to his children?

an he ever afford to feel angry, hurt or proud? Or must he always put his
amily and his feelings second? Does a man give up his right to live like
Dther men when he takes the Hippocratic oath? Day after day, Dr. Jerry
Malone and his family live out this conflict. Live it with them on radio. You
san get the whole story — even while you work — when you listen to daytime
radio. Listen to YOUNG DR. MALONE on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time.

By GORDON BUDGE

Take one busy married couple, two successful careers,
three lively young children. Put 'em under the
same roof . . . and the result might well be bedlam.
But, for Bill Williams and Barbara Hale, it's a bit of
heaven, and their youngsters — Jody, 10; Billy, Jr., 6;
Nita, 4— are three little angels . . . well, almost angels.

Bill and Barbara are a busy couple indeed, and
both their careers have just gone into high gear,
TV-wise. Bill, long known on television as venture-
some Kit Carson, has just hurdled neatly from
horse-opera to humor, now plays opposite charming
Betty White in the rollicking new domestic comedy,
Date With The Angels, over ABC-TV. And hazel-
eyed Barbara has just been cast as Delia Street,
witty "Girl Friday" to famed lawyer-sleuth Perry
Mason, whose offbeat adventures in detection will
be seen over CBS-TV starting this fall.

Speaking of Date With The Angels — specifically,
of Bill and Betty as Mr. and Mrs. Gus Angel — Barbara
says, in mock horror, "I'd no sooner been cast as
Delia Street than my husband turned up with
another wife! I'm thinking of calling Perry Mason
in on this. Already, Betty and I kid each other about
which of us sees more of Bill. She's with him
four days each week — and I have him on weekends."

Speaking of her own three little angels at home,

Continued^

Barbara makes the most of family weekends with Bill.
Four days a week, she must share him with his TV wife,
Betty White (below, right), in Date With The Angels.

Little Nita's had a busy day — and plenty
from the barbecue — so it's one big goodni
daddy Bill, before Barbara packs her off to

of burgers
ght kiss for
dreamland.

ts.

*> ^

•"•"V

AS together: Barbara and Bill, with Nita (left), Billy Junior, Jody — and "Punch," their collie.

Heaven, for Bill Williams, is that date-for-life with

a lovely girl named Barbara Hale—and those three lively youngsters

(Continued)

Barbara adds, "Betty has offered to take the children,
too. And there are times — like today — when I
would gladly share the joys of motherhood. Look
at this house! This morning, we began a formal
weeding party in the garden. Then came the weed
fights — climaxed by tag through the living room. I feel
like the old witch of the North Woods, and I'm tired
of saying, 'No, hon. . . .' Do you know anyone
who would care to take in three really sweet-
natured but wild-horse children?"

All kidding aside, that weeding session is only
part — along with numerous other activities the
Williamses undertake together — of Barbara's and Bill's
plan to make up for the time their jobs separate them
from their family. "I joined the Perry Mason
series," Barbara says earnestly, "because I felt it
would help the children, not hurt them. To my way of
thinking, any woman with husband and children to
look after can be called a 'working mother.' For
instance, when Bill and I were at one of our infrequent
parties, the other night, I heard one of the girls say,
'I'm sorry, but we're going to have to leave now
... I have to get up at six A.M. with the kids.' Believe
me, I know that by the time her day is through —
what with PTA, church and charity work, the Camp
Fire Girls, and any dozen or more activities that
demand her time — she well deserves the
title of 'working mother.'

"Point is," Barbara stresses, "that the husband and
wife are sharing some common goal, some dream
of the future. That's why I (Continued on page 72)

Bill Williams is Gus in Date With The Angels, on ABC-TV, Fri.,
10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by the Plymouth Dealers of America.

Billy wants to be an Indian — if he
can't be Kit Carson, like his dad.

Nita and Billy love to go marketing
with Mom and Dad. Wonder why?

Niece Dianne Falness watches Barb
cut hasty sandwiches for bike ride.

rr-

Champ swimmer Bill gives Billy and Nita water-skiing
tips on Saturdays. Sundays, it's time to go to church —
and Jody and Nita give their all to some hymn practice.

Barb's own father is a top landscape architect — so
she's sure to pick a fine tree fern for their garden.

Billy just might be an Indian yet (Cleveland, that is).
He swings a big-league bat, as Bill catches and coaches.

Champ swimmer Bill gives Billy and Nita water-skiing
tips on Saturdays. Sundays, it's time to go to church-
and Jody and Nita give their all to some hymn practice

(Continued)

Barbara adds, "Betty has offered to take the children,
too. And there are times— like today— when I
would gladly share the joys of motherhood. Look
at this house! This morning, we began a formal
weeding party in the garden. Then came the weed
fights— climaxed by tag through the living room. I feel
like the old witch of the North Woods, and I'm tired
of saying, 'No, hon. . . .' Do you know anyone
who would care to take in three really sweet-
natured but wild-horse children?"

"Point is," Barbara stresses, "that the husband and
wife are sharing some common goal, some dream
of the future. That's why I (Continued on page 72)

Mill Williams is Cus in Dale With The Angels, on ABC-TV. Fri.,
10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by the Plymouth Dealers of America.

Billy wants to be an Indian-
can't be Kit Carson, like his

■if he
dad.

My Sentimental

My boy has his faults, but he's

been a good son — and, someday,

he'll be a good husband and father

By GRACE SANDS

Two little girls waved to me the other day and
said, "Hello, Tommy's mother." I used to be Grace
Sands; now I'm "Tommy's mother." That's fame.
But it has its compensations. I get special attention
these days from the young clerks at the supermarket,
and all sorts of nice people smile to me on the street
and say, "Saw you on This Is Your Life — Tommy
looked wonderful."

This change in our fortunes has not been lost on my
son. He teases me about it. "Say, Mama, you're
not doing laundry?" he'll say, in mock shocked tones,
as he comes into the kitchen while I'm washing out
his socks. "Remember, you're 'Tommy's mother'
now." Then we have a good laugh as I go right on
with my chores.

Not that I mean to talk down the wonderful success
that has been coming to my boy lately. What
mother would? It's what he worked for, dreamed
about, gave twelve years to. But, just for a change, I
can't help thinking, Wouldn't it be poetic justice if
some fine day someone rushed (Continued on page 80)

At 19, he's the youngest subject Ralph Edwards ever had
on This Is Your Life. Close friend Biff Collie (center)
is the Texas deejay who put Tommy on his TV show — at 12

Tommy and I have a deep affection, but I think he'll
marry early. He started his career early, you know, and
he'll never forget the big boost Cliffie Stone, below,
gave him — and Molly Bee— on Hometown Jamboree.

That great guy from Tennessee, Ernie Ford (right),
was proud as I was, when Ken Nelson of Capitol, gave
Tommy a gold record for his "Teen-Age Crush" success.

the Truth about POLLY

Miss Bergen is three people

in one — and a recognizable success in

each and every personification

It was dislike at first sight — until Freddie Fields played
porter and both he and Polly got carried away.

By MARTIN COHEN

About a half-dozen years ago, Polly Bergen,
then an M-G-M starlet, made a personal
appearance at a fair in Lubbock, Texas. All
over town, she saw huge posters, "Presenting the
Famous Singer, Dancer, Actress — Polly Burger."
Polly says, "Maybe twenty-five percent of it was
true. I had been singing since I was a baby,
but I was just in the elementary business of
learning to act and dance. Of course, they spelled
my last name like 'hamburger' — which proves
they were really kidding themselves about
my being famous!"

Since then, as dancer, singer and/or actress,
Polly has headlined the country's chic clubs, made a
dozen movies and starred (Continued on page 66)

Polly Bergen is a regular panelist on To Tell The Truth, as
seen on CBS-TV, each Tuesday at 9 P.M. EDT, and sponsored
by Pharmaceuticals, Inc. for Geritol and for other products.

Tinker Bell lays claim to nine lives, but Polly's happy with just
three. She mixes being a career girl, wife and mother as har-
moniously as she combines modern and antique decor at home.

m ;

Beauty and function are the keynotes. The dressing-room walls
are doors to huge closets. In the living room, below, the clay
boxer was sculpted by Polly — a photographer and pianist, too.

of Omisr Teen-age Kids?

Humorist-humanitarian Sam Levenson
has strong words for children
who rebel against authority — and
for parents who can't say "No!"

By GLADYS HALL

Mother Levenson encourages four-
year-old Emily to dress herself.

Nothing so fine as a bathroom
duet for father-and-son solidarity.

Sam Levenson has taught son Conrad to be independent.
Each week he adds to allowance money by washing fam-
ily car, taping Sam's TV show for him. The Levensons are
a musical family, love their three-guitar, piano combo.

Isn't it dangerous, as many church leaders and
teachers and social workers believe, for teenagers to
go steady? If we, the parents, also recognize the
danger, why don't we forbid them to do so?

Should twelve-year-old girls be allowed to wear lip-
stick— and falsies?

Should sixteen-year-old boys be permitted to have
cars of their own?

When a teen-age son or daughter starts to smoke at
an earlier age than we believe good for them, isn't it
up to us to say "No" — and mean it?

When we have reason to believe that our teen-age
boys and girls are making the kind of friends that will
do them no good, aren't we obligated to signal
"Thumbs down" — and keep them down?

When we tell a teen-age son or daughter that ten
o'clock is curfew, shouldn't the teenager observe the
curfew — or be penalized?

If we disapprove of our kids hanging around the
candy store on the corner, playing rock 'n' roll records
the clock around, to the detriment of their home-
work and other duties, why don't we lay down the law
to them — and see to it that the law is kept?

rB,HE proper answer to each of these questions, and

many others like them, is as clear as the difference
between right and wrong itself, yet it is obvious — as
the juvenile-delinquency problem bears sad witness —
that too many of us do not make the right answers.

Why don't we?

"Because we are afraid of these kids," says Sam
Levenson, "mortally afraid!"

As one of eight youngsters, with six brothers and
a sister, brought up in the (Continued on page 82)

Sam Levenson is the genial quipmaster of Two For The Money, as
seen -on CBS-TV each Saturday evening from 8:30 to 9 P.M. EDT.

From the Fields o

Lawrence Welk heard music in the wind, the sun, the

earth . . . and felt the very heartbeat of America

By MAXINE ARNOLD

Homesteaders Ludwig and Kristina Welk

Four hundred dollars!" The farm-
er stopped his plough and looked
at his next-to-youngest son, who
was working in the field with him.
His son Lawrence, who was afire
with this talk of an accordion he'd
seen in the new catalogue. . . . Lud-
wig Welk's face was troubled. He
looked around him in the fields, with

This farm boy's dream — an accordion.

THE DAKOTAS

with baby Lawrence in his mother's lap.

an immigrant's love for the roots
he'd put down in this generous new
land. This North Dakota farmland
he'd homesteaded for his family.
Here were their roots, top. They
should stay here with the land . . .
and harvest life here.

Now seventeen-year-old Law-
rence was turning his back on that

Eight children now: Ludwig and Kristina with — left to right — Lawrence,
little Mike, John, Louis, youngest daughter Eva (now a nurse in Aberdeen,
South Dakota), Ann Mary, Barbara, Agatha. Four sturdy sons Ludwig was
sure would farm the rich American land he and his wife had come from far-
off Europe to find . . . but Lawrence was to pioneer in quite another field.

Continued

►

Lawrence as a

musical

jtadc

It was with George Kelly (lower right) and Mrs. Kelly that the youthful
Lawrence first learned show business. If it hadn't been for their teaching,
he says with deepest gratitude, "I don't think I could ever have made it."

From the Fields of THE DAKOTAS

Lawrence Welk heard musk in the wind, the sun, the

earth . . . and felt the very heartbeat of America

By MAXINE ARNOLD

Homesteaders Ludwig and Kris+ina Well

Four hundred dollars!" The farm-
er stopped his plough and looked
at his next-to-youngest son, who
was working in the field with him.
His son Lawrence, who was afire
with this talk of an accordion he'd
seen in the new catalogue. . . • Lud-
wig Welk's face was troubled. He
looked around him in the fields, with

This farm boy's dream — an accordion.

• ¥*

f .. #

*H **

■ ,

-•w

'ith baby Lawrence in his mother's lap.

an immigrant's love for the roots
he'd put down in this generous new
land. This North Dakota farmland
he'd homesteaded for his family.
Here were their roots, too. They
should stay here with the iand . . .
and harvest life here.

Now seventeen-year-old Law-
rence was turning his back on that

Lawrence as a musical "matador."

Continued w

From the Fields of THE DAKOTAS

(Continued)

Lawrence Welk has good reason to remember South Dakota, too.
In Yankton, he broadcast from WNAX with his new six-piece band
(above) — and met his future bride. They were wed when he played
a Sioux Falls date (below, with Chuck Coffee seated beside him).

The Lawrence Welk Show, ABC-TV, Sat., 9 P.M., is sponsored by the Dodge Dealers of
America. Lawrence Welk's Top Tunes And New Talent, ABC-TV, Mon., 9:30 P.M., for
both Dodge and Plymouth. Welk's also heard on ABC Radio, including Sat., 10:05 P.M.,
and ABC's Dancing Party, M-F, 9:30 P.M.; check local papers. (All times given EDT)

Today, in California, with his two
teenagers, Lawrence, Jr. and Donna.

land for a "gypsy" future that would
never root down anywhere. And he
wanted him to invest four hundred
dollars in an accordion. ... Of
course, he would pay the money
back, every cent of it, Lawrence
was saying. There in the middle of
a wheat field, he was standing his
ground. But, watching his father's
face, he could feel that ground fast
giving way under him.

"We have no four hundred dollars
to spend," his father said sternly.
And he wouldn't buy it on credit.
Lawrence knew that. Ludwig Welk
had never bought anything on credit
in his life. There could be a drouth,
he would reason conscientiously.
Something (Continued on page 76)

Fern Renner, the girl he married —
"perfect wife and perfect mother."

Older daughter Shirley's wedding
was a red-letter day for Lawrence.

Another big occasion for the family: A visit from Person To Person

— featuring, left to right, Shirley, Lawrence, Larry Junior and Donna.

This Is Your Life! Lawrence and Fern on couch; Donna, Shirley and son-in-law Dr. Robert Emmett
Fredericks behind them. Just behind host Ralph Edwards are sister Eva Welk (in dark dress), three of
the Lennon Sisters, Larry (seated). Left to right, rear — Eddie Weisfeld, former Milwaukee theater:
manager; the George Kellys; ballroom owner Tom Archer; Chuck Coffee; Jack Minor of Plymouth.

»^H *

(

\**r

o«

<M?

The pears amounted to nothing, really — just a surprise gift to

Sara from Mike to say again, "I love you." And in

their happiness, neither sensed the growing threat to one they loved.

Inexorably, the fatal threads weave to entangle Mike
and Sara Karrs friends with Mike's duty as
Assistant District Attorney — and pull them closer to .

dg£e o-ff Ni

Sara called and, when she hung up, Mike Karr
looked across his desk at Willy and grinned at
him. He indicated the memo he'd made on his "Assis-
tant District Attorney" stationery. The memo said,
Yellow pears, the sweet and juicy kind. Mike beamed.
"It's pears this time, Willy."

Willy grunted, but Mike couldn't suppress his en-
thusiasm as he went on: "Do you know, Willy, you've
made a mistake in not getting married?"

Willy — Wilhelmus Bogart Bryan, III — did not an-
swer. Mike felt that life was very good, nowadays.
He and Sara'd had bad times, of course. Only a
couple of months ago, things had looked rough. Sara
was insisting on being a working wife, and Mike had
been absorbed in his work, and they weren't getting
along too well. But now he felt good all over.

Willy would usually share his mood. He not only
worked under Mike, as an investigator on the Dis-
trict Attorney's staff, but he liked Mike. He dourly
worshipped Sara. Now, though, he didn't smile.
"Something on your mind?" asked Mike. "What?"

Willy scowled at his fingers. In his own particular
line of work, he was a perfectionist. Nobody would
ever demand of him one-half what he demanded of
himself, when something was to be investigated.
Mike had especially asked for him when he himself
was assigned to cooperate with the Citizens' Crime
Commission in a campaign against the black market
in babies. Willy'd been gathering background mate-
rial. Now his expression was deadpan — too deadpan.

"I hit on something," said Willy, at last. "I don't
like it."

Mike leaned back in his chair. As Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney, one looked at things from a special
viewpoint. One wasn't angry because people com-
mitted crimes. One couldn't be. One had to take
people as they came. Some came pretty bad. When
Willy said he didn't like something, it didn't mean
indignation — riot necessarily.

"I think it's a black-market baby affair," said Willy,
"and you wouldn't believe it." He scowled at the
wall. "I was down in the City Hall, looking up some
records. Births and deaths and so on. The thing I
was working on called for it."

"Well?" said Mike.

"I saw the death record of a baby. Ten years back."

"Well?" said Mike again.

"I know the kid," said Willy vexedly. "He's ten
years old and plays a good game of baseball, for a
kid. But his death's on record."

Mike frowned in his turn, watching Willy. "It
smells a little," he observed. "You think it's black-
market?"

"Not the dead baby," said Willy. "The death cer-
tificate's okay. It's signed by the same doctor who
delivered the baby. I'd like to ask him, but he died
six years ago. It looks like a baby died and somebody
switched in another, without anybody finding it out.
What do I do?"

Mike understood. Willy had found a case he was
reluctant to follow because it might hurt somebody.
But he couldn't let it alone.

"You've got discretion," said Mike. "Use it. If
nobody's been hurt, if there's been no injustice — we
don't take cases to court just to broadcast family se-
crets. But if there's something wrong . . ."

Willy nodded. "I'll check. I don't like it, though.
I'd never suspected a thing, but I can make a guess
why it was done. But how? And how bad was the
how? It could be pretty bad indeed."

He stood up abruptly. Mike folded the memo he'd
made, and Willy said, "Watch that memo! Sara wants
yellow pears — I think I know a place. I'll see. But
you don't want to forget."

He went out of the office. Mike turned back to his
work. It wasn't all pleasant, the job of an Assistant
District Attorney. In this black-market business,
now. There'd been heartbreaking cases involving
advantages taken of girls who were ashamed, threats
of scandal, blackmail threats to claim a baby back
when it had wound itself into the heartstrings of
the people who'd gotten it. There isn't anything much
lower than a racketeer who'll batten on the love of
adults for children.

When Mike went home that evening, he carried
a box of pears. Each one was separately wrapped
in tissue-paper. Sara bit into one instantly and
beamed gratefully at him. "Oh, but it's good!" she
said happily. "Am I a nuisance, Mike?"

"Willy got them," Mike confessed. "It was his
idea to have them gift-wrapped." Hanging up his
coat, he asked, "What's news?"

"I had company," she told him. "Mary Harper
came over for a while. (Continued on page 61)

The Edge Of Night is seen on CBS-TV, M-F, 4:30 to 5 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by The Procter & Gamble Company for Tide, Dreft,
Spic and Span, Comet, and Lava. John Larkin and Teal Ames are pictured on opposite page in their roles as Mike and Sara Karr.

A FICTION BONUS

***■

In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead

Up at Lake Arrowhead the water's the
bluest, the mountains are the highest,
the sun the brightest. And a redheaded
singing angel named Carol Richards called
it "Heaven." Carol first rented a house
at Arrowhead to give her two daughters, Jean,
who is twelve, and Judy, ten, a bang-up
summer of fun. She and the girls fell in
love with the place, so Carol bought the
house. A housemother cares for. Jean and
Judy during the week, while Carol has
to be in Hollywood for her appearances on
The Bob Crosby Show on CBS-TV. But,
every weekend, she heads for "home" at
Arrowhead with the girls. The days are
crammed with boating, swimming, water-
skiing, horseback riding and picnic excursions
with the girls and the friends they've made
at the Lake. There's an outdoor movie,
fringed with tall pines — which frequently
serve as free "seats" for adventurous little
boys who lack the 50^ admission. Every
Saturday night, the whole Village turns out
for a community dance, the big social event
of the week. For Carol and her two blond
charmers, Arrowhead is absolute tops
for living it up — in heaven under the sun!

Carol Richards sings on The Bob Crosby Show, CBS-
TV, M-F, 3:30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Continued w

With her two daughters, Carol Richards-
singer on The Bob Crosby Show —
lives a gay life in the sun

Off for a water-skiing lesson, Carol's first attempt at the
sport. Left to right (above) are Carol, Jean, Judy, their
friend Sean Freeman and boat owner Bill Barlow. On the skis,
Carol made twenty feet, dunked. Got the knack in three tries.

In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead

(Continued)

First one up makes the beds. Carol does all
the housekeeping, with the girls' help. Next
comes sandwich time. The girls develop king-
size appetites during their morning swim.

Carol and daughter Judy lug a bale of laun-
dry to the Village laundromat each Saturday.
Both Judy and Jean help out with chores, know
sharing work adds to time for family fun.

Carol and Judy astride the mechanical horses
in the Village. Both Carol and the girls also
ride "live" horses, rented from the Village
stable. Arrowhead boasts famous bridle paths.

Dinner at "The Chalet." A treat, since the menu features
fresh-caught trout. Gourmet diners enjoy watching through
restaurant window as a fisherman catches their dinner.
(Below) Carol, pretty as a picture, for Village dance.

In Village for weekly shopping chores, Carol
stops off for cooling drink. The fountain is
spring-fed from the melting snows in near-by
San Bernardino Mountains. Tastes wonderful!

4* wSfii

■

the Booties

When we got married, we only knew
we were in love. I never guessed
Pat Boone, husband and student,
would become Pat Boone, movie star !

By SHIRLEY BOONE

as told to

Maurine Remenih

Probably 'most every girl across the country
dreams of going to Hollywood some day.
Many girls want to come out here to be
seen, but most of them just want to come
to see. That's what I'd always wanted to do.
And I must say that I've got in an awful lot
of "seeing" since Pat and I arrived in Hollywood
last spring. Looking back on it, now that
I've had a chance to settle down in our rented
house and catch my breath, I guess it has
been the most exciting, (Continued on page 63)

All dressed up (and so excited), as Pat took me to my first for-
mal Hollywood party — for Photoplay's Gold Medal Awards.

My Pat was a "celebrity," too,
singing at the Photoplay dinner.

Stars galore! Eddie Fisher and Debbie
Reynolds were just about the only ones
I met that I'd already known back East.

Come fall, Pat will head his own
show on ABC-TV — just like my dad
Red Foley, who has Ozark Jubilee.

Go to HOLLYWOOD

Our welcome. was warm — though we arrived the week Los Angeles had its first snowfall in years.
Lunching at the 20th Century-Fox commissary was a Scene from "Bernardine" — left to right, Tom Pittman,

treat for me — as well as for Lindy, Cherry and Debby. Richard Sargent, Pat, Val Benedict and Ronnie Burns.

New Hot Singers of 1957

They're flirting

with fame! Here

TV Radio Mirror presents

this year's crop

of hit-makers

By HELEN BOLSTAD

Sonny sightsees at the U.N., is sur-
prised when fans recognize him —
and consider Sonny quite a sight to
see, too! Below, he talks shop with
popular deejay Jerry Marshall.

Playing New York's fabled Palace, recording for Capitol, Sonny James has it
made — still remains a nice young bachelor "from Hackleburg, Alabama, ma'am."

ft*

BCHIDS*

Today, even Ed Sullivan smiles on Jimmy Bowen (left), Dave Alldred (center), Buddy Knox and Don Lanier —
who started out with experiments in sound on paper-box drums and garbage-can iids, back home in Texas.

Who is tomorrow's dreamboat?
Whose songs will the teenagers
choose as background music
for the school year's first romance?
Which vocalist in his twenties . . .
or even in his teens . . . will win
fame in a year when a disc-jockey's
turntable literally becomes the
wheel of fortune?

It may be someone like Sonny
James, who already has made a

dramatic bid for attention. It may
be some well-trained singer like
Johnny Mathis, who has worked
since childhood — and now, in the
language of the entertainment busi-
ness, is "ready to go." It may be
someone like Tab Hunter, whose
major interest has been in an allied
field. It may be someone like
Buddy Knox, Jimmy Bowen or
Charlie Gracie, whose debut rec-

ords "just took off." TV Radio
Mirror herewith nominates at least
fourteen such candidates bidding for
top honors. Each has youth, voice,
good looks, ambition, and a way
with a song.

Yet, promising as they are, they
may all be surpassed by someone
yet unknown . . . some lad who
right now is sitting on a beach,
holding hands with his girl, dream-

The Rhythm Orchids had to wax fast for Roulette, to stockpile discs for Buddy's six-month tour of duty in the Army.

BllSri

New Hot Singers of 1957

Tab Hunter gambled film career to
make records for Dot music director
Billy Vaughn and prexy Randy Wood.

Philadelphia's latest spectacular new-
comer, Charlie Sracie, collects go-
ing and coming. He sings on Cameo
label — and he writes hit songs, too.

Hollywood had always thought Tab was something to see, rather than hear!

ing up a song and wondering how
it would sound if he got some of the
guys together and they tried cutting
his tune on the neighbor's tape-
recorder.

Crazy? Of course, it is. Yet, be-
cause this is the craziest year the
recording industry has ever known,
the home-town lad with the home-
made song just might make it.

Buddy Knox and Jimmy Bowen —

the students who simultaneously put
two songs, "Party Doll" and "I'm
Sticking With You," into the top
hits — first worked out sound effects
by setting up tape-recorders at
night and shouting down the corri-
dors of the speech building while
their pals Dave Alldred and Don
Lanier beat out the rhythm on a
paper box and the lid of a garbage
can. Home-made sound, all the way.

Charlie's not ready to marry yet — "but when I do, I want a home-type girl." His
favorite audience is still his parents and younger brothers, Robert and Frank.

Dean now holds M-G-M contracts to
make not only records but big musicals.
Above, at studio with Lauren Baca II-.

With Dean Jones, it was his singing voice which won him a film career. Dean on Steve Allen Show — via "remote.

Johnny Cash, who can swing a
prairie ballad over into the pop
field, was a hungry young appliance
salesman when he asked two
friends, then garage mechanics, if
they'd help him out by playing
guitar and bass when he sang one
of his own songs on a demonstra-
tion record.

George Hamilton IV and Johnny
Dee were the lanky boy -wonders at

Eddie Dano (with MCA's Danny
Welk) was RCA Victor office worker.

a small TV station when Johnny
wrote "A Rose and a Baby Ruth"
and George put it on wax at a small
studio.

The story multiplies and can well
multiply further. For this is the
year when the boy next door went
to town, often in a pastel Cadillac
. . . when touring rock 'n' roll and
country-and-Western shows origi-
nated more hits than Broadway.

Scott Engel is RKO- Unique star at
13. He and mother hail from Denver.

Not long ago, when Tin Pan
Alley was a closed corporation,
these kids from the sticks wouldn't
even have won a listen from the
least important of artists -and-rep-
ertoire men. Now, the teen-age
audience is calling the turn. Thanks
to the music -business revolution
which began with Bill Haley's rock
'n' roll, which hit a financial peak
with Presley, and which found new

Bill Carey sings for Savoy, hopes
for a hit like roommate Jim Lowe's.

New Hot Singers of 1957

Teachers irked Eddie Cochran — but
out in Hollywood he works hard with
arranger and songwriter Ray Stanley.

Johnny Mathis (with Joan Wright)
studied seriously, is star athlete at
high jump and records for Columbia.

Eddie did "Twenty Flight Rock" for Liberty, was then paged for movie role.

nQ£

fire with the sudden nationwide
success of Tommy Sands, the lads
with a fresh lyric and a new sound
are much in demand. An execu-
tive at one large recording com-
pany, which had long concentrated
only on top stars, defined his studio's
change in policy: "The kids can by-
pass Broadway. We've got our
scouts out, beating the bushes,
looking for them."

Broadway, too, went looking for
grass-roots singers, and the name of
Sonny James ("from Hackleburg,
Alabama, ma'am") blazed in lights
at the Palace. Sonny's Capitol re-
lease of "Young Love" had already
sold two million records and be-
come one of the few country-and-
Western tunes to break over into
the pop field.

With Sonny also introducing
"First Date, First Kiss, First Love,"
there were as many sighs as shrieks
from happy fans, for Sonny cut a
romantic figure up there on that
famed stage. His black hair curls
crisply. The white suit which drapes
his athletic six-foot frame enhances
the smoky blue of his eyes and the
brightness of his open smile. Being
able to knot his black string tie into

a precise bow without aid of a mir-
ror is a point of pride with him.
"That's how you tell a real Southern
gentleman," says Sonny.

He's been singing since he was
knee-high to a hammer handle.
"Mom, Pop, my sis and I were "The
Loden Family.' Used to play radio
stations and one-nighters." He
still wears his Hackleburg high-
school ring. "I started first grade
there and I graduated there. But,
in between, I went to seven differ-
ent schools."

For all their moving around,
Sonny played baseball, basketball,
football. "Pops just never would
book a show on nights the team was
playing," he explains.

When his sister married and his
parents retired to run a clothing
store, he dropped his surname and
billed himself as "Sonny James."
Big D Jamboree in Dallas, and
Ozark Jubilee on ABC-TV, built
his audience. Ed Sullivan welcomed
him and so did Bob Hope. Sonny
had a fine time with Hope. "I went
out to visit and had supper with the
family. He sure has nice kids."

"Nice" is a meaningful word to
him. "I try to be a nice person and

— ^J

Rovin' Johnny Cash sings with a lot of "go" — and a lonely sound, too. His popularity
justifies faith of Sun Records' Sam Phillips (white suit) and manager Bob Neal (right).

to live nice." His religion is real,
and he makes his contracts conform
to his beliefs. He will not appear
where liquor is served. "It wouldn't
be right. My young fans couldn't
go."

While still a bachelor, Sonny
hopes some day to build a house in
Hackleburg. "Friends there have
known me since I was just a little
tyke. I like to visit and entertain
and meet people, so I'll live where
I'm home-folks, not a celebrity."

He's applying the same common-
sense rule to Hollywood offers. "It
would be right nice to get a chance
to make a picture, providing they
let me play myself. That's all I'd
be interested in doing — singling my
own heart songs."

Two home-made hit records were
the flying discs which took Buddy
Knox and Jimmy Bowen from Can-
yon, Texas, to Broadway in one
breathless jump. "We'd never even
been on stage before we got to the
Paramount," says Buddy. "And
boy! was that a shock."

It was also a shock to the New
York police, for the boys were in
the cast of the Alan Freed rock 'n'
roll show which pulled more than
5,000 teenagers into Times Square
by eight A.M. of opening day. They
jammed adjacent streets, crashed
ticket-office windows and stamped
out the rhythm until building in-
spectors closed a theater balcony.
"You could actually see it sway,"
says Jimmy.

Center of a high-pressure part of
this enthusiasm was a little four-
man combo — Buddy, Jim, Dave All-
dred, Don Lanier, playing under the
improbable name of "The Rhythm
Orchids" — which had already per-
formed the improbable achievement
of starting two home-made songs,

"Moon" songs for Prep set a starry
trail for Bob Roubian — who serves up
real jam sessions at his restaurant.

Buddy's "Party Doll" and Jimmy's
"I'm Sticking With You," toward the
hit charts. Phil Kahl heard them
and signed the boys to a manage-
ment contract, and Roulette Records
bought their master for re-issue.
The kids of America did the rest.

Six feet tall, dark -haired and
hazel-eyed, Jimmy Bowen was born
in Animas, New Mexico, in 1937.
His father, Asa Bowen, then a labor
organizer, later became chief of
police at Dumas, Texas — pop. 7,000.
Jim darned near bursts with pride
when he speaks of his father. Don
Lanier, his home-town neighbor,
supplies the details: "The Chief has
been great with the kids, setting up
the youth center and things like

At 19, George Hamilton IV is a
living skyrocket and ABC-Paramount
thinks he's just started on way up.

that. Since he became chief in 1946,
not a single boy from Dumas has
been sent to reform school."

Jim's grandfather taught him to
play the uke, but when Don, whose
father works for the Natural Gas
Pipe Line Co., won a guitar in a
drawing, Jim started yearning: "I
had to make just as much noise as
Don did." Later, he learned to play
bass and he wishes he had done
more with piano. "The only time I
ever tried to put one over on Dad
was when he paid for lessons and
I sneaked away to football practice.
I think now he suspected and sym-
pathized, because he's great for
sports himself. But I sure could
use now the (Continued on page 85)

Eve can be happy as a
queen, says Ida Lupino—
who finds it pays to let
husband Howard Duff
be "the boss" at home

By FREDDA BALLING

IN these days of taxes, tensions
and Miltowns, many a man is
ready to blow his stack at any
moment . . . but psychiatrists
point out that a good wife has
saved the sanity of many a hus-
band. The more volatile and
talented the man, the greater his
danger . . . and in Hollywood,
where daily pressures set a new
high, a good wife really has to
dedicate herself to being a help-
meet in the fullest sense of the
word.

Hollywood wife Ida Lupino is
regarded by friends and fellow
workers as one of the most suc-
cessful keepers-of-the-even-keel
in the entertainment industry.
She is almost literally a blue-
eyed, honey-blond "domestic sta-
bilizer." It's not an accidental,
incidental talent. Ida has a guid-
ing theory which other wives, in
other areas, have — or can— put
into practice with equal success.

It would be pleasant to an-
nounce that her recipe is an easy
one to follow, but the sobering
truth is that nothing which is
completely successful in practice
•is completely easy — even if the
principle can be stated simply,
like this: Let the king be king.
Let each (Continued on page 68)

Ida and Howard star in Mr. Adams And
Eve, seen on CBS-TV, Fri., at 9 P.M.
EDT, as sponsored alternately by Camel
Cigarettes and Colgate-Palmolive Co.

Where Adam is KING...

i. *ajua*uuAAio aj<t*ajtlJJU«

<€»*i

*bi

mSWMM M^^K

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Exactly to Howard's specifications, home is a perfect setting for him, Ida, Bridget,
'Tuesday" — -and the famed candlesticks which they tote to the studio daily for TV use!

m
i i

rfiMV -■' .

Sometimes Ida wins a point, too — she got Howard to take up
art again. Her own. hobby is composing — music and words.

Bridget loves bedtime! Ida invents tales of "The Fleep"
(which Howard is now illustrating for a book they plan).

•'VVV:--' '■

BE A

WARM -

Arlene and her husband, Martin Gabel, know that
planning ahead means they can enjoy party, too.

Their summer home accommodates four overnight guests
— plus many others invited to parties during weekend.

Take these tips from Arlene Francis

— and hospitality's your line,

for weekend guests in your own home

By FRANCES KISH

Being a successful summer hostess should
be fun, according to Arlene Francis.
Dependent on three basic things:
Organization, preparation, relaxation. In other
words, simply planning ahead, getting as
much done beforehand as possible, and
enjoying everything so much yourself that it
spills over to your guests.

Arlene is hostess and editor of Home on
NBC -TV, permanent panelist on WJiat's My
Line? on CBS-TV, wife of producer-actor
Martin Gabel, mother of a ten-year-old son,
Peter, hostess and {Continued on page 70)

Arlene is editor-in-chief of Home, as seen on NBC-TV.
M-F, 10 to 11 A.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.
She is also a regular panelist on What's Mv Line?, as
seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 10:30 P.M. EDT, under the alter-
nate sponsorship of Remington Rand and Helene Curtis.

While Arlene plays hostess to such honored grownups as
her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Aram Kazanjian, son Peter
takes over the entertainment of such youthful guests as
his friend Jonathan (right), the son of Bennett Cerf.

Let 'er roll! A bus loaded with
talented singers and musicians on
the road for country-music tour.

Work goes on en route. Here, show
manager Bill Denny of Nashville is
busy typing up his daily report.

Two of the talented Tunesmiths'
group, Sonny Curtis and Bun Wilson,
catch a spot of shut-eye on the way.

Known as the "Golden Hillbilly,"
Goldie Hill is first to check in
at motel, while bus is unloaded.

The music is fast, the costumes are
fancy. Red Sovine (with back to
camera) and Slim Sutberry dress.

In makeshift dressing room at local
school, Mimi Roman and Goldie Hill
hurry^ into costumes for the show.

Meanwhile, out front, Tunesmiths
set up instruments in the school
auditorium where show goes on.

Fascinated early arrival is bare-
foot boy, determined not to miss
even one minute of the excitement.

He's soon joined by a crowd of
excited country-music enthusiasts,
hanging over the footlights to watch.

Johnny, the famous Philip Morris
bellhop, steps before the mike
to "Call for Philip Morris" and
open the show. The touring, free
Country Music Show has played
to capacity audiences everywhere.

Country and Western is here
to stay — in the towns and
cities of the South where it
was born, and in the hearts of
the much larger audience it is
earning every day. Below are
ten of the Philip Morris gang
who all sing out strong for you.

Biff Collie acts as master of ceremonies, keeps the musical high-jinks mov-
ing at fast clip. Biff is renowned as Houston country-and-Western deejay.

Slim Sutberry

Mimi Roman

Ronnie Self

Carl Smith

Best foot forward! Mimi Roman dances, plays, sings — and is also a crack rider. For her skill in horseman-
ship, Mimi was voted Queen of the Rodeo in 1954, when she appeared at Madison Square Garden, New York.

Classroom "backstage." Soldie, Mimi,
Carl Smith relax during show breaks.

Sonny Curtis

Sammy Pruett

After show, Carl Smith, who travels
in own car, packs elaborate costumes.

Goldie Hill

Rest of troupe board touring bus for
overnight hop to next engagement.

Bun Wilson

Johnny Sibert

Iujo Hands Full of Lauqhter

By EUNICE FIELD

Each time they move, the hands of ZaSu Pitts weave
a spell of magic, and thousands of new fans are
drawn toward her in a net of admiration and affec-
tion. They are the most famous hands in show business.
For over forty years, they have kept her name glowing
on marquees throughout the world, as a star of stage and
screen, and, more recently, they have won her added
acclaim on television. In her early dramatic roles, they
were called "the hands with a heart." Not long ago, a

columnist, watching her play "Nugey" Nugent, the
comedy foil to Gale Storm in the TV series, Oh! Susan-
na, remarked: "She has a laugh in every finger. . . ."
In spite of the popular notion, these hands ordinarily
do not flutter. Very little about ZaSu "flutters." In per-
son, she is rather serene, vaguely wise and vaguely
humorous, and both she and her hands are surprisingly
firm and energetic. She thinks of herself as competent,
and her friends and family (Continued on page 74)

ZaSu is "Nugey" in The Gale Storm Show, Oh! Susanna, CBS-TV, Sat., 9 P.M. EDT, sponsored alternately by Nescafe and Helene Curtis.

Fingers made her famous — and funny, long before

TV and Oh ! Susanna, but the heart that guides them

is what makes ZaSu Pitts memorable — and dear

I ^V^7-''/" ,«:

ZaSu's hands — "a laugh in every finger"
— are in motion as grandsons John and
Ralph meet Roy Roberts, who plays the
cruise commander. Below, daughter Ann
Reynolds hardly looks old enough to re-
member when a movie of her mother's
left her simply screaming— with fear!

With three sons and a baby girl for Gale
Storm and two grandsons — Ralph and John
Reynolds, aged 5 and 3 — for ZaSu, it's no
wondertheytaketurns "mothering" each other
aboard the set of Ohl Susanna. Like part of
the family, too, is Mrs. Hal Roach, Sr., be-
low, wife of the veteran movie producer.

Kathryn Murray's animated face is
rarely seen in so quiet a pose as this.

Tiny Mrs. Arthur Murray
has "grown" into a big
"little lady" and learned
how real beauty is created

By HARRIET SEGMAN

Mrs. Murray leads dancing teachers in
ankle-rotations, to keep feet flexible.

Teaching two teachers to teach, Mrs. Murray shows
how to step back — lead with the toes in a straight line.

I'd hate to live my childhood over," said the
slim, sparkling-eyed lady. "I was a sallow,
tiny, dark-haired child — always the smallest,
always the homeliest." Strange to hear this from
the charming television star with a world-wide
empire of 450 dancing studios. Clearly, a great
deal of "blossoming out" has happened to Mrs.
Arthur Murray since those early days. Actually,
Kathryn Murray made the changes happen. "I
determined to stop being background," she says.
Today, an artist on the ballroom floor, she
moves through the rest of her life also in a
lilting manner. She walks so buoyantly, her
whole body seems to (Continued on page 65)

fid

(Continued jrom page 37)
Roger's a lot better. Mike, I'm wonder-
fully lucky! When Mary was going to
have little Billy, Roger was in the vet-
erans' hospital with a heart attack, and
she expected any minute to hear he'd
simply stopped living! Instead of being
useless and happy, like me. . . ." She bit
again into the pear and nodded at it.
"This is perfect! But the doctor says Roger
is really coming along. If he takes things
easy, and doesn't get emotionally wrought
up, he may live as long as anybody else.
Isn't that wonderful? Roger said he's been
counting up to ten ten times when he
feels he's getting angry. He asked the
doctor if he could cut down to nine!"

Mike had more reason to be happy
than most, and more reason than he knew.
At that very instant, for example, Mary
Harper had reason to feel less than bliss-
ful. She'd visited Sara during the after-
noon. It was an honest visit. She was very
fond of Sara and of Mike. But the visit
to Sara also was a cover-up for being
out, while she went to another place—
a nursing home — and very politely paid
a not-small, not-excessive sum of money
to one Clayton Pike. He and his wife ran
the nursing home, and he'd been collect-
ing that money from Mary for a good many
years. His wife pretended to know noth-
ing about it, but she'd arranged it all.

Mary paid the blackmail auite com-
posedly. There was no use getting upset.
Her husband Roger was coming along
nicely now, but he had to be shielded
from things that might cause violent emo-
tion. He tried hard, but his temperament
was hardly calm. And he had to be calm.
So Mary paid blackmail. If he ever found
out why, she'd be a widow and little
Billy would be worse than fatherless.

When Mary left the office of the nursing
home, however, the subject came up im-
mediately. Clayton Pike closed the door
behind her. He crossed the office and
opened another door. "That was Mary
Harper," he said. "You were listening . . ."

The girl behind the open door smiled
blandly. "Naturally!" She entered the
office, lithe and consciously attractive,
even with Clayton Pike as the only man
around — and he was not a prize. But
though she looked at him steadily enough,
her eyes were restless. "She adopted this
brat you tell me about — the brat I'm to
weep over and claim is my own. Let me
see your file again."

Clayton Pike produced a file envelope
from a desk drawer. He took other en-
velopes out of it, large and small, some
of official size and some quite small.
The girl inspected them with a singular
cold detachment, as if already familiar
with them but looking for flaws in what
they said. She looked up. "The really
important one isn't here."

Pike brought out a new, larger en-
velope with a British stamp on it. He
handed it over. The girl read its contents.
It was not like an American business
letter. It used the stately phrasing of
someone who would call himself a solic-
itor instead of a lawyer. It was addressed
to a Mrs. Bayard Smythe. The firm of
solicitors informed her that a reversion
in interest having matured in favor of her
late husband, it was their duty to in-
quire if Mr. Smythe had left issue —
children. If so, a very considerable sum
awaited them. If there had been children,
now deceased, the sum would be due to
Mrs. Smythe. They were addressing her
at her last known address, and they re-
mained her most obedient servants. . . .

"How much?" she said crisply. He told

The Edge Of Night

her. He'd checked on the whole matter,
privately.

"You've seen Mary Harper," said Pike
exuberantly. "You know you can handle
her! You see what I've got — marriage
certificate, letters, even a snapshot of the
boy's father and when and where he died.
You're Mrs. Smythe. With the boy —
everything regular, there! — you're a rich
woman. And I'm a rich man! Smart?"

"I'd guess," said the girl acidly, "that
you were lucky. How'd you happen to be
set up for a break like this?"

"The woman died here," he said zest-
fully. "And, in this business, sometimes a
ready-made new identity can be sold for
a nice price. So I kept her papers and
trinkets. She had no friends. Nobody even
to claim her body for burial! So I simply
changed the records here from Smythe to
Jones, and I could supply an inquirer with
a name and a past and a marriage cer-
tificate and a conveniently dead husband
on request. As it turns out, I can even
supply the heir these Englishmen are so
anxious to find!"

1 he girl smiled without mirth. "But it's
going to be tricky. Children know I don't
like them, usually. The boy won't be
pleased. And you explained that this
Mary Harper wanted the baby so her hus-
band wouldn't die of a heart stoppage
when he learned he wasn't a father any
more. You say he's still not too healthy.
And I'm here to take the boy away. May-
be she likes the brat. Certainly she's been
paying to keep her husband from finding
out he isn't the father he believes. When
we demand the boy back, she's going to
be desperate! And a desperate woman — "

Clayton Pike had an answer for that.
Mary Harper would know she had no
case. She'd never adopted the boy legally.
She'd lived a lie. She wouldn't dare
fight. . . .

The girl who was to impersonate a
child's dead mother looked at him with
unenchanted eyes. Her name was really
Irene Egan, and there was not much that
enchanted her. She'd had a strange life,
that Mary Harper couldn't imagine.
There'd been trouble over men in her
life. There'd been thefts that didn't get
her what she wanted. She was hard and
selfish. Honesty was a weakness to her.

"When do we start?" she asked coldly.

And he did put things in motion at noon
next day, with a phone call to Mary Har-
per. His manner was agitated. He said
that something very upsetting had hap-
pened. He begged Mrs. Harper to come
immediately to the nursing home. It was
of the utmost importance. It was a matter
of life or death.

She couldn't imagine what had hap-
pened. Roger was improving, and Billy
was thriving, nowadays. She did not look
for better fortune than only to have her
husband and her son — he was her son,
now, by every tie but that of being born
to her — and she couldn't see any motive
that could move even Clayton Pike to
harm her. Anything he did would lose
him the money he'd been collecting for
so long. . . .

Mike was deep in the paper work that
is so great a part of an organized investi-
gation. When Willy came in, Mike looked
up and then turned. Willy looked pleased.
"I checked out the case I told you about
yesterday," he said with the crustiness
with which he expressed pleasure. "It's
all right."

Mike put down his papers, to give full
attention.

"I won't tell you the name," said Willy,
with dignity. "But there was a woman

who had a baby. Her husband was ill,
and he'd set his heart on having a son.
He got it. It was a tonic to him, when he
heard his son was born. What would hap-
pen if the baby died? You figure what
his wife thought. The kid did die, only
two weeks old. But his wife couldn't let
him know. He'd die, too! So she got an-
other baby. That's all. No case for the
office here. And," he said proudly, "no-
body knows that story but me and the
woman. I got it in scraps and pieces here
and there. It fits. It's right."

"Where'd she get the baby?" asked
Mike.

"That fits, too. Baby born right in
town here, a day before the other. . Two
weeks later, his mother died. A mother
without a baby, and a baby without a
mother. Hold on!" Willy held up his
hand. "The baby's mother hadn't a friend
in the world. No one even claimed her
body. The city buried her. It's all in
the records down at the City Hall. I don't
know what records say anywhere else, but
there they're right! Is there any reason
to go into that?

"Besides," said Willy crossly, "the kid
plays a good game of baseball, for a kid.
He might make the big leagues some day.
It'd be a dirty trick to take away the name
he's got, and make him go back to the
one he was born with. Can you imagine
a big-league player named Smythe?
S-m-y-t-h-e? It's ridiculous!"

Mike shrugged. Mike was incorrupti-
ble. There are some things an Assistant
District Attorney can legitimately fail to
inauire into. "I never heard a word," said
Mike, drily. "You never mentioned it.
If I'm an accessory. . . ."

"Don't tell your wife," Willy added.
"Women try to guess things out."

"She'd take your word, anyhow," said
Mike. "She wouldn't believe you'd do
anything wrong. Those pears you got
her just hit the spot!"

Wilhelmus Bogart Bryan III stood up
with an air of indifference. "Women'd
get along better," he said crustily, "if they
just listened to the District Attorney's
office. Your wife, now — she wanted pears
and I knew where to find 'em. A lot of
women with lot worse troubles would be
better off if they just came here!" . . .

Mike could hardly guess, then, how good
an idea that might have been for Mary
Harper. At that very moment, she stood,
ashen-faced, confronting the girl who
said she was Billy's mother.

"I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Harper," said
Irene Egan coldly, "but I want my baby!
I was desperate when I let him go. I
thought it was best for him. If Mr. Pike
let you think I had died, that is not my
affair. I'm alive. I want my baby! I
can do more for him now than you can,
since he's come into his inheritance. And,
Mrs. Harper, I'm going to have my baby!"

Mary Harper said in an anguished whis-
per: "We — love him. And — if he goes
away, Roger's heart will stop. . . ." Her
voice faltered into silence.

It did not seem that the District Attor-
ney's office could help her then. Mike
would want to, of course. But — if Roger
heard of such an attempt to take Billy
away, even though it was defeated. . . .

Mary Harper clenched her hands. She
felt herself growing more and more des-
perate as the cruelty of the trap became
more clear. A trap which must inexo-
rably close upon those she held most J
dear . . . her son — he was her son! . . . her
husband . . . and even those good friends
from whom she had withheld her lonely
secret. ...

EVERY DAY IS
LADIES DAY

The better half of Don Stone's audience
at KSCJ is the fairer half

Famed skating star Sonja Henie visits Don during Starlight
Room Party broadcast. Listeners take turns guesting, too.

Don's and Jean's homemade ice cream may spoil baby
Deanna's dinner, but big sister Donna guesses it won't.

"Gathering moss" in Sioux City, a busy and versatile
young radio man waited till the networks came to him.

To Sioux City listeners, it seemed but a "stone's
throw" from Station KSCJ news, music and
talk to more of the same on network. But, the Stone
in question "gathered moss" instead — waiting for a
network chance that would enable him, at the
same time, to stay put in Sioux City. He got it, finally,
when he subbed for Breakfast Club's Don
McNeill. . . . Don Stone of KSCJ has etched his
personality into the area's listening habits with the
brightness and durability of a diamond. Starlight
Room Party, heard Monday through Friday at 3:30
P.M., is a popular audience-participation half hour.
Shopper's Matinee, heard for the last eleven years,
from 4 to 5 P.M. each weekday, caters to a full circle
of musical tastes. Don handles both ayem and noon
newscasts and special sports events. Frequently viewed
on KTrV-TV, Don has plenty of behind-the-scenes
work as new TV Program Director. . . . An Iowan all
his life, Don was born in Whiting, went to school in
Sergeant Bluff and college at Morningside in Sioux
City. Since then, his outstanding contributions to
good causes have brought him high recognition — and,
at times, adventure of a sort. Once, in order to raise
funds for the United Campaign, he allowed himself
to be thrown into jail on trumped-up charges, so
that listeners would "bail him out" with Red
Feather pledges. The $1300 the charities collected
was fine but, Don recalls, "Even if you're there
voluntarily, those bars just don't look right." Another
"award" took the popular ladies' hour programmer
quite by surprise. In 1953, the Sioux City Journal
nominated him "Honorary Woman of Achievement."
At home, it's a pleasantly feminine society, too.
Don's wife Jean is devoted to homemaking and to
their two daughters — Donna Jean, 3, and Deanna
Lynn, going on one. Lately, little Donna has
solved the coincidence of Daddy's morning tran-
scriptions with his breakfast "presence." More
fortunate than most, she reasons, "I have two
daddies — one at home and one on the radio.". . . Out
for an evening of relaxation, Don plays bridge,
but not "for blood." He prefers "Dingstadt" — an
"obscure Swedish expert" — to the Culbertson or
Goren methods. "More 'obscure' than 'expert,' '
twinkles Don, "Dingstadt is really a 'master' of my
own invention. I quote him, and you'd be surprised
how many stuffed shirts nod wisely and say, 'Oh, yes
of course, Dingstadt!' "... Spoofing aside, Don
regards the letters and calls of congratulations on
the Breakfast Club break "the most rewarding
experience in a lifetime of big moments." Don's
followers maintain his "biggest moments" lie ahead
— really just a Stone's throw.

The Boones Go to Hollywood

(Continued from page 42)
most thrilling time Pat and I have spent
since we were married. We've had a lot
of exciting things happen to us, but never
so much in so little time.

Pat, of course, came to Hollywood to
appear in "Bernardine," being filmed on
the 20th Century-Fox lot. He was due
out here early in February, and we de-
cided it would be a good time to escape
the East Coast slush-and-snow routine
and have a family holiday in the sun in
California. As it turned out, it was a
fairly hectic way to have a holiday — and
the two months we had originally planned
to spend out here have stretched to six.
But I'd not have missed it for the world.

We were quite a party, taking off from
New York. There were Pat and myself,
our three little girls — Cherry, Lindy and
Debby — and our Eva, who is practically
one of the family. (She's taken care of
me since I was a little girl, and now she's
helping me take care of our little girls.)

.Landing at International Airport in Los
Angeles was certainly a suitable intro-
duction to the chaos which was to fol-
low for the next two months. It was sort
of like diving off the high board. We just
stepped out the door of that plane, and
were almost literally "in over our
heads" — surrounded by friends and fam-
ily and fans.

Because, you see, we have more family
and friends in the Los Angeles area than
we have anywhere else, except possibly
in Nashville! Someone wrote somewhere
that I'd said I dreaded the trip to Los
Angeles because I was afraid we wouldn't
find as many friends there as we had in
Leonia, New Jersey, where we live most
of the time. But that wasn't true at all.
In Leonia — outside of the Carletons, the
Desederios and the Youngs, who live in
our neighborhood, and Carmel Quinn,
who fives a few blocks away — we have
very few intimate acquaintances.

But in the Hollywood area — that's some-
thing else again! My Grandmother Over-
stake lives out in Inglewood, and my sister
Jenny lives with Grammy. My Uncle
Dick fives in Mafibu. And I have three
aunts out here. One aunt is only nine-
teen days older than I am, and had her
third child in April. The whole gang of
us is young — my grandmother is only
fifty-nine. We have lots of fun together,
so, naturally, I was looking forward to
seeing them as much as I was to seeing
California.

We have a lot of friends who have moved
to California, too, so that reception at
the airport was sort of like "old home
week" — everybody was there to greet us.
Including about three thousand fans, I
think. People in the Los Angeles area
seem to be a lot more celebrity-conscious
than the folks back in New York. Pat
and I could go most anywhere in New
York, and very few people would even
turn to look at us. But we soon found
out we couldn't go anywhere in Holly-
wood without being stopped for auto-
graphs or pleasant words from fans.

But I still haven't left the airport, have
I? We landed about four-thirty on a
Friday afternoon. But, by the time we'd
piled the luggage into a station wagon
and sent it off (traveling with three little
girls, we'd brought enough equipment
along to outfit an African safari), and
climbed into the limousine the studio had
sent for us, it must have been past five-
thirty. It was after six when we arrived
at Del Capri, the apartment hotel in
Westwood where we'd reserved two ad-
joining three-room suites. There were

photographers trailing us all the way, and
meeting us at the apartment.

The children were really tired — it may
have been six o'clock Los Angeles time,
but they were still operating on Eastern
time, and it was nine by their "clocks."
And they'd been up since before six that
morning. I wasn't exactly fresh as a daisy
myself, so I was pretty horrified when I
heard that we were invited to go out to
a welcoming dinner party at Romanoff's,
as soon as we could change. Our host
was to be Randy Wood, president of Dot
Records. If I hadn't known what an un-
derstanding fellow he is, I'd probably have
forced myself, and gone to dinner. But I
was too near exhaustion, so I begged off,
and Pat went on to the dinner party alone.

In a way, I was glad. It gave me a
chance to get calmed down, get the chil-
dren settled, and do a little unpacking.
I'd probably have been ill if I'd gone
out — I was that weary. But, when Pat
came home and told me Frank Sinatra
had been there, and I realized I'd missed
the chance to meet him, I almost doubted
the wisdom of my decision. We got to
meet him later, though.

Oh, yes — one thing I almost forgot! As
I mentioned, we had figured that Febru-
ary would be a wonderful time to get out
to California, since some of the winter's
worst weather often hits the East Coast
during February and March. So what
happens? We land in Los Angeles during
the week when they've had their first
snowfall in years! As a gag, someone
had dreamed up a huge cardboard snow-
man and planted it on the lawn at the
apartment building, with a "Welcome, Pat
Boone" sign in its hand. For a few short
minutes, we had doubts about the cele-
brated California climate, I'll admit. But
the snow and the cold were truly "un-
usual." In a few days, we were soaking
up sun and warmth — 80 degrees of it.

1 he day after we arrived, Saturday,
Pat had a recording date at the Dot Record
studios. That gave me a chance to get
unpacked. Eva and I explored the neigh-
borhood a little, found the handiest super-
market and laundry — that sort of thing.

Sunday, we went to church in near-by
Santa Monica, and that evening Pat was
scheduled to appear at a Youth Rally at
Pepperdine College. Late that afternoon,
we stopped off briefly at a party Hedda
Hopper was giving for Merle Oberon and
her fiance — the invitation had been handed
to us just as we got off the plane Friday.

I'm afraid we sort of took Miss Hopper
by surprise. When she came over and
asked us what she could get us to drink,
we requested either fruit juice or soda
pop, and I guess Miss Hopper doesn't get
many such requests from her guests. But,
nevertheless, she complimented us on our
stand as teetotallers.

The next evening, I got a chance to
cash in my "rain check" on that dinner at
Romanoff's which I'd missed Saturday
evening. We took Louella Parsons to din-
ner there, and later we went back to her
home and sat around the living room
listening to records.

A few evenings later, we went to the
Photoplay Awards dinner. I'll confess I
was in a bit of a state, wondering what
to wear to this one — after all, I'd never
been to a big Hollywood party before,
and hadn't the fuzziest notion whether
one went in a long formal or a short one.
I'd brought both along, and, on the advice
of a friend, I wore a short formal and a
faille evening coat, with a tulle stole sort
of draped over my head. I needn't have
worried — only the big stars who were to

be in the limelight were in ball gowns.

This is one of the gala events of the
year in Hollywood, and there were so
many fabulous people there that I could
hardly eat my dinner for checking up on
who was sitting where. The evening's
biggest thrill was having some of these
people come to our table and ask Pat for
his autograph! Alan Ladd wanted Pat's
autograph for his teenagers at home, and
so did Doris Day and Kirk Douglas. Here
I'd been bug-eyed about seeing these
stars, and they were giving us the celeb-
rity treatment!

The place was crawling with big names
— Ginger Rogers and Jacques Bergerac,
Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds (we
knew them already, having met them
back East), Rock Hudson, Jane Russell —
dozens of them. And, of course, as Pat
said, "Probably the most important peo-
ple here are the ones whose faces we
don't recognize!" The studio executives,
producers, directors — the big wheels.

I suppose a lot of people out in Holly-
wood wonder why I was so impressed
with celebrities. After all, as everybody
probably knows by now, my dad is Red
Foley, who used to have the Grand Ole
Opry program on radio out of Nashville,
and now has Ozark Jubilee on ABC-TV
and The Red Foley Show on ABC Radio,
from Springfield, Missouri. For years,
Dad's programs have been practically a
national institution, and he's always had
big-name guest stars. So folks figure I
should be accustomed to rubbing elbows
with famous people.

But that isn't true at all. Actually, I
rarely ever met any of the celebrities who
appeared on Dad's shows. And, even if
Red Foley was a household name all
over the country, he was just "Dad" to me.

Another thing people out there were al-
ways asking me: "How does it feel to be
married to a man all the girls in the
country are drooling over?" So far, I can
honestly say it hasn't fazed me. (It only
confirms what I've known for years — the
kind of a fellow Pat is, I mean.)

I suppose being able to keep a little
detached, this way, is something I did
pick up from growing up as Red Foley's
daughter. He was always such an idol to
his fans and I remember, after Mother
died, he got ever so many letters of pro-
posal. The women who wrote those letters
were completely convinced they would
make him wonderful wives, and could
mother us children.

So far, Pat hasn't had any letters of
proposal. But I think the audiences Dad
reached, and the ones interested in Pat,
are quite different. Dad's followers, who
love country-and-Western music, are very
down to earth, and apt to be more direct
and forward. Pat's fans love pop music
and, though they're interested in his per-
sonal life, I truly don't think they identify
themselves with it in any way.

One of the big thrills for me, out in
Hollywood, was going with Pat every
day to watch the "rushes" of the scenes
they'd been shooting. Since I'd never
even been through the main gate of a
Hollywood movie studio before, naturally,
I got a boot out of being in on this part of
picture -making. I guess the folks around
the studio must have thought we were a
couple of characters, the way we worked
things out!

Late every afternoon, Pat would call
me as soon as the last scene had been shot, J
and tell me about what time they'd start
running off the "rushes." I'd hop into the R
station wagon and tear off for the Fox
lot. I'd drive right to his dressing room,

and he'd be waiting outside in his white
Corvette. As soon as he saw me driving
up, he'd signal me with a wave, and give
the Corvette the gun. Off he'd streak across
the lot, with me in the station wagon right
behind him.

You see, they never knew until the very
last minute iust where the "rushes" would
be screened, and there are projection
rooms dotted all over the lot. This was
the only way we could figure out for him
to let me know which projection room to
go to. There wasn't even time for him to
slide in behind the wheel of the station
wagon. As it was, we'd always get to the
door just as the lights dimmed and the
screening started.

Of course, Pat was busy all day long,
five days a week. Weekends were often
taken up with personal appearances for
special award dinners, charity drives, that
sort of thing. And I know lots of people
thought I was probably getting pretty
bored, sitting around all day in that
furnished apartment, waiting for Pat to
come home from the studio.

But anyone who has three small chil-
dren will understand why it was I never
had time to get bored. Particularly since
we were living in an apartment building.
The girls were used to a yard, and a place
where they could run. There wasn't much
yard at Del Capri, although there was a
nice swimming pool. But a swimming
pool and toddlers can be a harrowing com-
bination, so generally, we took the girls to
a playground, or a park, or the zoo, every
morning. We'd have our lunch at a drive-
in, which the girls adored. And, before
we knew it, it would be time to go back to
the apartment for their naps. While they
were sleeping, Eva and I would catch up
on little household chores — laundry and
that sort of thing. Then, in no time at all,
Pat would be calling from the studio,
summoning me to those "rushes." The days
went very fast.

Also, I had the good luck to have a
friend, Nancy Knutzen, living near by.
Nancy's husband, Bob, is chief copy boy
at the Los Angeles Examiner — they met
a little over a year ago, when they both
took an ocean trip on a freighter. I got in
quite a few morning coffee sessions with
Nancy.

Ihere was another, considerably more
elegant-type session Nancy and Bob
shared with us. That was our first visit
to the Cocoanut Grove.

It all started one afternoon when Harry
Belafonte dropped in on the "Bernardine"
set at Fox, to ask for Pat's autograph for
his daughter. While they were chatting,
Pat mentioned that we'd wanted to catch
Harry's show at the Cocoanut Grove, but
had heard it was all sold out for his en-
tire run. Harry volunteered to see what
he could do to get us a table — and, sure
enough, a few days later, we got the word
that we had a reservation for a table for
four that evening. So we took Nancy and
Bob with us.

And what a red-carpet treatment we
got! We were ushered to a table smack-
dab at ringside, and the waiters and the
maitre de treated us like our names were
Elizabeth and Philip, instead of Shirley
and Pat. And the thing that really got me
—the management picked up the check.
A couple of years ago, when we thought
wistfully that it would be nice if some
kind, solvent individual would take us to
a good place to eat, nobody did. But —
now that we can manage to pay the check
— somebody else does it!
J The weekend we spent at Palm Springs
was much like that evening at the Cocoa-
nut Grove. We stayed at the Desert Inn,
had the governor's suite, and people just

couldn't do enough for us. And, of course,

everywhere we went, there were photog-
raphers and fans tagging along behind.

We spent several hours one morning at
Harry Brand's home there in Palm Springs
—he's head of the 20th Century-Fox stu-
dio publicity department. I think that was
the very best time of all. We just lounged
in the sun and swam in the pool. But,
for a couple of blissful hours, we were
completely alone — just the family, with
no outsiders around. This has become a
luxury.

Lying there in the sun at Palm Springs,
being deliriously lazy even if only for a
few hours, I couldn't help thinking how
different this move of ours from New
York to Hollywood was from the move
we'd made from Nashville to New York.
And that move was only two years ago.

Pat was already in New York at that
time, going to school, and Cherry and I
had stayed behind in Nashville. Then,
shortly before Lindy was due to be born,
the doctor told me that — because of the
Rh blood factor involved — there was a
chance we might lose the baby.

1 thought it over for quite a while, and
decided I'd go to New York to have the
baby. It meant inconvenience — I realized
this. Pat was living in a small hotel off
Times Square, and the quarters were
hardly what you could call luxurious. But
all I could think of was, if there was going
to be any trouble, I wanted to be with
Pat when it happened. Pat's mother under-
stood, and volunteered to keep Cherry
for us for a while.

So I went to New York, and we lived
(existed is a better word, I suppose) for
several weeks in that miserable little hotel
room. Then Pat had to go out to Chicago
to keep a recording date. That would be
the same weekend the baby was expected!
Happily, Pat was able to finish his work
in Chicago and fly back in time to be with
me at the hospital.

Everything went perfectly. Anyone who
looks at Lindy nowadays is apt to howl
at the idea that we ever had any fears
for her health. It's almost indecent to
look as healthy as that child does!

While I was still in the hospital, Pat
scouted around for more suitable living
quarters for us. What he found was a
two-bedroom, kitchenette apartment in
Manhattan. As soon as I came home from
the hospital with Lindy, Mother Boone
came up from Nashville, bringing Cherry.
Three adults and two babies in a three-
room apartment! To say we were cramped
would be the understatement of the year.

It was then that we started looking for
a house. Every spare minute we could
sneak, we'd look for a place — something
we could afford, close enough for Pat to
commute to classes and the studio, and
with a yard so the girls could play out-
doors. We didn't have many of those
spare minutes for house-hunting, so it
was a lucky break for us when Carmel
Quinn told Pat about some houses she
knew of, which were being built near
hers in Leonia, New Jersey. Sure enough,
we found what we'd been looking for!

The house wasn't finished when we
bought it. In fact, things began happening
so fast with Pat, and we got so busy, that
—even though we moved in just before
Christmas — it was the following Septem-
ber before I got all the decorating com-
pleted!

No-o-o-o, I thought, as I lay there in
the sun in Palm Springs — I'd never have
dreamed, two years ago, that such fab-
ulous things could be happening to us to-
day. And everyone is so enthusiastic, so
kind and complimentary, I'm almost be-
coming convinced, myself, that this isn't
just a temporary thing. Not that I have
any doubts whatsoever about Pat's ability

to maintain the place he's won in his fans'
affections. It's just that we'd never figured
on anything like this.

They have big plans for Pat. Of course,
he had his personal-appearance tour late
last spring — he played Blinstrub's in Bos-
ton, the Town Casino in Buffalo, the Latin
Casino in Philadelphia, and eighteen con-
certs in as many cities, strung across the
country as far west as St. Louis and Oma-
ha, and as far north as Toronto. Traveling
with him on the junket were the Four
Lads, the Fontane Sisters, comedian Gary
Morton, and an orchestra especially as-
sembled for the tour.

Then, early in June, Pat started his
second movie at Fox. We had originally
planned to go back East in April. But,
when this came up, we left the furnished
apartment and hunted up a house to rent.
We found a lovely place up in Coldwater
Canyon — five bedrooms — and it was like
living in a country club, after the cramped
quarters of the apartment. We hired a
cook. That way, Eva and I were free to
spend most of our time with the little girls.

Pat's second picture is a musical, a re-
make of "Home in Indiana," only this
time with a score by Sammy Fain and
Paul Francis Webster. Shirley Jones is
Pat's leading lady.

In August, we'll be going back to Leonia.
In September, Pat will re-enter Columbia
University, to finish working for his de-
gree. In October, he starts his new tele-
vision program for Chevy on ABC -TV. So
it will be a busy autumn for us. At the
end of the coming semester, Pat will be
graduated. (I don't care what critical
success he's made with his singing — I
know he's going to get the thrill of his
lifetime when he's achieved that degree!)

And they're already talking still more
pictures. Maybe we'll move to California
to stay. I think I'd like that, and I've heard
Pat say he would. Once we were perma-
nently settled in California, I imagine we
could manage to live a fairly normal ex-
istence— if anyone in Hollywood ever does.

But things will never be quite the same
again. Of that I'm sure. And I have the
word of an expert to back me up. I got
that word one evening when Pat and I
went out to call on Bing Crosby.

Bing has been an idol of ours for years,
and my dad has always admired him a
great deal. So I was especially thrilled
when he sent word he'd like to have us
drop in to see him. When he started talk-
ing about my dad, of course I really loved
him! He told us how he'd made a state-
ment, quoted in the press about eight
years ago, to the effect that Red Foley was
the best all-around singer in the country.
By that, he meant he thought Dad could
sing country tunes, ballads, pop music —
everything. And he went on to say that
he still holds that opinion of Dad's ability.

This made me feel warm toward him,
naturally. And I got up courage enough
to ask him a question. "How long do
you think it will be, Mr. Crosby," I asked,
"until this chaos calms down a little —
until things sort of settle back to normal?"

He looked at me and grinned that won-
derful grin of his. "Do you mean, how
long is it going to be before you get your
husband back?"

Pat tells me I blushed then — and I ad-
mitted I had meant it just about the way
Mr. Crosby put it.

He thought for a moment, looking off
into space. Then he looked me straight in
the eye, and the grin was gone, and I could
tell he was dead serious. "Pat's only
twenty-two — he's getting an earlier start
than I did. I'd say, Shirley, that you can
expect to get your husband back in about
thirty years!"

Well, maybe so. It's worth waiting for!

The Lady Dances

(Continued from, page 60)

Kathryn Murray studies script for the
Arthur Murray Party over NBC-TV.

float. She credits this to proper foot
placement — walking a straight line, with
weight forward. A friend would call her
winged walk part of her "reaching out"
toward people. Even Kathryn Murray's
face "dances." "To me, beauty is facial
expression rather than features," she
explains. "When I'm animated, I begin to
look like myself. You may be dressed by
Dior, but no one cares unless your face
shows life and motion." Kathryn Mur-
ray's husband, daughters and five grand-
children fill her days to the brim. Besides
doing TV, she prepares the Murray
teaching manuals and the daily guides
that go to studio managers. Twice a week
she bakes, to fill the cookie tin in her
husband's office. Her schedule allows only
simple, speedy make-up. She does her
own pedicures because the bending and
stretching keeps her body agile. She needs
only five or six hours of sleep — perhaps
because she knows how to go "rag-doll"
limp in a bus or car, with her feet up on
a chair or suitcase whenever possible.
Says Kathryn Murray: "I can't be
bothered by caring for a large wardrobe,
so I don't own a great many of anything.
When I buy a new black dress, I get rid
of the old. If I don't wear a pair of shoes
for three months, out they go. I like air-
spaces in my closet, and airiness in my
whole household." Never wear anything
brand new when you go out, she advises
— except a bridal gown. She "breaks in"
new clothes at home. "I don't go out with
my clothes," says Kathryn Murray, "they
go out with me. I want to rise above
them." This lady has risen above more
than clothes — she has risen above her
"tininess," her shyness, her lack of con-
ventional "glamour girl" beauty. Her eyes
dance as she says, "A girl can become
almost anything she wants to be."

KATHRYN MURRAY

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(Continued from page 29)
in the best of TV dramatic shows. Just
being herself on the panel quiz, To Tell
The Truth, has earned her the affection of
a few million more people. So a CBS
executive with a high I.Q. signed Polly to
a long-term contract, and it is a good bet
that, by the end of the coming season, she
may be TV's most "famous" newcomer.

"It doesn't matter anymore. What I mean
is that it doesn't matter in the same way
it would have before," Polly explains. "A
couple of years ago, a friend described me
as a keg of dynamite with a short fuse.
Then I was so anxious and nervous about
wanting to succeed in my career. Now my
career is my family."

Since her marriage a year-and-a-half
ago, Polly has turned down club dates,
picture contracts, personal appearances,
anything that would take her away from
home. "Like the man," Polly laughs, "who
was told that he couldn't take his money
with him when he went to heaven and he
replied, 'If I can't take it with me, I won't
go.' It's the same with me. I've left New
York just once, to do 'The Helen Morgan
Story' from Hollywood — and the family
went with me."

Home for Polly is a ten-room apartment
on Fifth Avenue just opposite Central
Park. Polly herself has chosen all the
beautiful furnishings, but she herself is the
most decorative item. A dazzling dynamo,
Polly stands five-five-and-a-half in bare
feet and weighs in at one-nineteen. Her
hair is dark brown, and her expressive
eyes a deep, rustling blue. Others in the
family picture are. husband Freddie, a
handsome six-footer with a Doug Fair-
banks mustache; his daughter Kathy, a
bright, affectionate ten-year-old — and a
menagerie which includes Buttons, a toy
French poodle; Tinker Bell, a night-black
cat; Filet, a full-size poodle; and an as-
sortment of goldfish, turtles and birds.

"As a kid there was never a chance to
have a home," Polly says. "Dad was a con-
struction engineer and we were always
on the move, with me loaded in the back
with the baggage. In one year, I was in
ten different schools. Sometimes, we lived
in cramped one-room apartments. Natural-
ly, we couldn't carry furniture with us
and so we had to do with what was fur-
nished. I remember, when I was twelve,
I had to sleep in a crib, because that's all
there was for me."

One of two daughters, Polly was born
in Knoxville, Tennessee, on July 14, 1930.
Her mother's maiden name was Lucy Law-
horn. Her father is William Burgin. Polly
changed the spelling to "Bergen" because
no one ever spelled Burgin correctly when
she launched her career at an early age.
At fourteen, she had her own radio show,
singing three times a week on Station
WKBC in Richmond, Indiana. Actually, as
her mother recalls, Polly was singing be-
fore she was talking. Her voice showed so
much promise that she was studying oper-
atic music at the age of nine.

"I got bored with formal lessons," she
says. "I didn't want to practice scales. I
was happy, just singing like my parents.
Dad and Mother sang together — they still
do. Friday and Saturday nights, you can
be sure the guitar comes out and they
blow up a country jig. Daddy and Mother
are both hillbillies, born in Tennessee.
Dad's a big man, stands six-five. He was
once a boxer. I get my extraverted per-

J sonality from him. I get my looks from
Mother. They were young parents, and

R they're only in their forties now.

"We were very close," Polly continues.
"They taught me their songs. They taught

The Truth About Polly

me to play cards with them and, when they
went visiting friends in the evening, I
went along. I didn't make lasting friend-
ships with other children. Oh, I did at first.
But they were always broken up, after a
month or so, when Dad moved. Well, you
know how kids are. They protect them-
selves against hurt. Rather than get buddy-
buddy with another little girl, I just didn't
allow myself close friends. My parents
tried to make up for it. Mother used to
play jacks with me by the hour. But, even
so, I was very lonely at times."

As a child, Polly learned the skills of a
housekeeper. She is an excellent cook and
can bake anything — including lemon me-
ringue pie and angel food cake. "When I
was twelve, both parents were working
and I kept up the home and made many
of the meals. And I took care of my sister
Barbara. She was three then. Well, frank-
ly, I didn't enjoy the cleaning chores — but
I've always found the rest of it is fun."

In her middle teens, the family moved
West. She was sixteen when they settled
in Compton, California, for four years. That
was the longest time they'd ever stopped
anywhere and so Polly thinks of Comp-
ton as her home town.

"It was then that I began to work at
being a singer," she recalls. "I guess I
was a kind of switch-singer many of those
years. Sometimes I sang hillbilly, some-
times pop. I was sixteen when I began to
work in clubs, and I had to lie about my
age. Mother came along to chaperone but
since I was pretending to be twenty-one,
she looked too young to be my mother and
so she had to pose as my sister! After two
years of that, I worked wholly in the
pop field and began to sing with society
bands."

Some TV viewers, who know Polly as
a panelist and actress, are unaware that
she has one of the finest blues voices in
show business. Her success in night clubs
was built on her voice. She was a featured
singer on TV's Hit Parade in 1954. Today,
she records for Columbia Records. Her
new album, "Bergen Sings Morgan," cap-
tures her midnight-blue treatment of
such standards as "Can't Help Lovin' That
Man," "Mean to Me," "Body and Soul,"
and "Bill." For the vintage Bergen, there
is the Jubilee album, "Little Girl Blue,"
wherein Polly also puts the flame to torch
lyrics. But, surprisingly, the big break in
her career came about when she recorded
a hillbilly song entitled "Honky-tonkin'."

"I was eighteen and a half then," Polly
explains, "and the trend was to novelty
tunes. I was making my first record for a
small company named Kem. I decided to
do 'Honky-tonkin'; a song I'd learned
from Dad when I was about four. Unfor-
tunately, I just missed the trend and the
record didn't sell much more than a dozen
copies."

But Victor liked it so much they tried
to buy up the master recording. When they
couldn't, they signed Polly to a contract.
And there was so much talk in the trade
about "Honky-tonkin' " that movie com-
panies began to look twice at Polly. What
struck them was the seeming incomraati-
bility of her sophisticated beauty and her
hillbilly recording. They were hooked, and
Hal Wallis signed her to a picture con-
tract. So began her film career, and she
made movies with Red Skelton, Dean
Jagger, Vittorio Gassman, Howard Keel,
Gig Young, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.

As a TV actress, she played Schlitz
Playhouse, Studio One, General Electric
Theater, U.S. Steel Hour and others. Her
musical and comedy talents landed her on
the shows of Durante, Ed Sullivan, Perry
Como, Steve Allen, and Martin and Lewis.

In 1953, she took up residence in New
York. The winter of 1953, she made her
debut on Broadway in John Murray
Anderson's revue, "Almanac." In the spring
of 1955, she co-starred in the play, "Cham-
pagne Complex" and won the critics' praise.
Before this, she'd sung on Your Hit Pa-
rade, and then become the "Pepsi-Cola
Girl."

"A lot of people are curious about why
I did the Pepsi stint," says Polly. "I think
it was one of the best things that ever
happened to me. It meant earning a tre-
mendous amount of money, and that
meant I could be choosey about the jobs
I took. You know, one of the worst things
about show business is its insecurity and
often a performer takes anything that is
offered, just to be working. Besides that,"
Polly adds, "it's turned out to be a fine
experience. Pepsi was growing, and it was
exciting to be on a good team."

lolly's first marriage, to actor-singer
Jerome Courtland, ran five-and-a-half
years and ended in divorce in 1955. Again,
because of the demands of the business,
the road tours, the one-nighters, picture-
making in Hollywood, TV in New York,
there was a seldom a chance of making the
real home Polly wished for. It wasn't until
1956 — when she married a man whom she
thought she detested — that she got her
home.

"Now there's a story," she says. "Fred-
die Fields had been with Music Corpora-
tion of America for seven years, and I
knew him all that time. MCA represented
me, but Freddie wasn't my personal agent.
We did run into each other, though, and
usually head-on. Whenever I walked into
his office, we had a tremendous fight."
(Polly digresses to the present for a mo-
ment, to note proudly: "Freddie is execu-
tive vice-president in charge of television,
which is quite a big job for a man of
thirty-three.")

"Anyway," she continues, "there was al-
ways trouble when I had to talk business
with Freddie. Then it was November of
1955, and Ed Sullivan asked me to sing at
a benefit at the Plaza. Well, I had a load
to tote down there — music, gown, shoes.
A friend helped me down, but I needed a
hand for the return trip. MCA had a table
at the affair and I walked over and asked
Jay Kantor if he'd help me get home. He
said that he was very sorry — he'd prom-
ised to meet his wife and mother in town
— but why didn't I let him get Freddie
Fields to help? I said, 'Oh, no. Not him!'
Jay said, 'He's not so bad.' He went over
and asked Freddie, and Freddie came over
with a big grin, for he understood how
I felt about him. He helped me home
with my things and asked me to have din-
ner with him that evening. Because we
didn't have business to discuss, we found
that we got along very well. Three months
later on February 13, 1955 — we married."

Polly, who practices interior decorating
as a hobby, has furnished their apartment
in a mixture of modern and antique. Her
idea of modern is not to the extreme, but
rather to simple lines. Two king-size
sofas exemplify this, but the sofas and
a huge ottoman surround an enormous
glass-topped coffee table which was orig-
inally an antique English door-panel.

"Both Kathy and I pick at the piano,"
Polly says. "Neither of us has had enough
lessons to be good. Incidentally, we use
the living room for living. Maybe that's
my California background."

Predominating colors in the living and
dining rooms are elephant gray, coral and
green. Polly chose the colors from her
china, now displayed in a big hutch in the

dining room, which is almost wholly deco-
rated in Early American.

Polly's own bedroom is all white and
gold, with 17th-century Italian furniture.
The bed itself is topped off with a hand-
carved Venetian headboard. On the side
tables there are tall white-and-gold
candlesticks that have been converted into
lamps. Kathy's bedroom is in pink and
white, with fruitwood furniture and a col-
lection of paintings of child musicians.

Kathy and Polly have become very close.
The morning after the wedding, Polly be-
gan getting up at 7:30 A.M.— the middle of
the night, in show business — to dress and
get Kathy off to school. It was Kathy's
own suggestion that she and Polly set
aside one day a week for themselves. They
decided on Wednesday. Then, at three
P.M., Polly picks Kathy up at school and
they carry out a pre-planned excursion.
It may be shopping, a movie, sight-seeing.
When Polly had to leave Manhattan to do
"The Helen Morgan Story," she took
Kathy out of school. Before the trip, she
went to Kathy's school and got a schedule
of lessons for the next four weeks, and
then personally tutored Kathy.

"Kathy is very grown-up for her age.
She's got a rare sensitivity about others'
feelings." Polly loves children and notes,
"What I've wanted all of my adult life is
a baby of my own. I've lost several pre-
maturely, but I still haven't given up hope.
This summer, however, we hope to adopt
a baby."

Polly is tender-hearted and sentimental
in many ways, but she definitely has a
mind of her own. "I guess I'm strong," she
says. "A woman has to be, when she is
cutting out a career. But Freddie is strong,
too, perhaps stronger. We can both be very
opinionated. Some couples skirt this dif-
ference by divvying up responsibilities.
Certain problems are hers and others are

his. We don't believe in that attitude. I
think husband and wife are meant to help
each other and overlap, even if it makes
for an occasional rumble." Polly smiles and
goes on, "But this is true, too, about me:
I need someone to lean on. Every woman
wants a man who'll take care of her. Fred-
die gives me that kind of security."

But Freddie draws the line at publicity.
He won't talk about himself and rarely
poses for pictures. "I represent a half-
dozen stars other than Pol," he explains,
"and I think I'm more useful to them
when I don't identify myself publicly."

He does share Polly's enthusiasm for
do-it-yourself decorating and makes him-
self useful wiring lamps, hanging pictures,
and just being a "handy man." He also
shares Polly's love of animals. Tinker Bell,
for instance, was just a kitten in a Hal-
loween pumpkin, a forgotten TV prop,
when Freddie rescued her and brought her
home. And then there was the night he
went oil a Broadway safari to hunt turtles.

"That was a night," Polly recalls. "Kathy
took her pet turtle into the tub with her.
I didn't know that turtles can swim on the
surface only so long before they drown
and, suddenly, Kathy was screaming in the
bathroom. She told us that she had killed
her turtle. Well, Freddie and I knew that
the turtle was dead, but we tried to make
it look alive by wiggling it in the water.
Kathy seemed to be convinced and so we
told her we'd give the turtle a rest and she
went off to bed. Oh, we knew that she
would have to find out for herself that
turtles and goldfish die — and she did short-
ly afterward — but, at that time, it both-
ered us that she thought she'd killed it.

"So, after she went to sleep, Freddie and
I sat around talking about it and finally
decided that, since we had told her the
turtle was alive, we had to replace him
before morning. It was after midnight, yet

Freddie went out to find a turtle. He got
back around two with a small, live turtle.
He had found it in one of those open-all-
night stores on Broadway. It was a frisky
turtle and we were so pleased for Kathy.
The next morning she was so happy to
find it alive — but you know children don't
miss much, and she said, T guess the bath
was really good for the turtle. It even
changed him to a nicer color.' "

Of course, it's rare that a night is spent
on a turtle chase. Polly and Freddie spend
most evenings being "small town." Polly
loves games — bridge, canasta, jotto. And
she enjoys visiting, talking, being with
family and friends. Freddie's family is
close and many evenings are spent in the
company of his brothers and sister and
their families. All of his family lives in
New York except his brother, orchestra
leader Shep Fields, who lives in Houston.
Polly's own parents are now making their
home in Circleville, Ohio, one of the
towns where they stopped over during
Polly's early years — it's also the birthplace
of Polly's sister, Barbara, who is married
to an American soldier now stationed in
Europe.

Polly's private life is stable, but her
future plans in show business aren't so
clearly determined. In addition to her
panel performance, CBS will see to it that
she also appears in dramatic and musical
productions during the coming season. If
she gets around to doing a show of her
own, she would like it to be a kind of "cap-
sule" musical comedy. However, she will
continue to turn down picture offers and
night-club dates. "I don't mind working
full time," she explains, "if the hours cor-
respond with Freddie's business hours and
Kathy's school day. But I won't work in
the evening and I won't leave town. I think
I gave up my ambition for the best reason
in the world."

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(Continued from page 50)
household have a ruler and let him rule.
Let the boss be boss.

A major test of Ida's theory was oc-
casioned by her husband, Howard Duff,
when he asked, one day shortly after their
marriage, "Why do you wear tailored,
severe clothing?"

"Because it becomes me," Ida explained.
"I'm small and slight; fussy things would
overwhelm me. Why?"

Howard considered for a few moments
before venturing an opinion that most
women dress for other women rather than
for men. He said he thought women re-
acted, subconsciously, to designs that were
a modification of masculine attire, whereas
a man reacted to designs that were pa-
tently feminine without being overdone.

That ended the discussion. But, the next
time Ida went shopping, she rejected the
severe lines she had previously favored,
and bought a pale pink chiffon gown that
clung in the right places, and floated in
the right places. When she emerged in the
dress for the first time, ready to attend a
gala party, Howard expressed his opinion
in a long, low wolf whistle.

Under the circumstance, what wife
wouldn't be happy to accept her husband s
taste as guide in lieu of her own? Since
then, Ida's wardrobe has been made up of
garments in Howard's favorite colors for
feminine gear: Black, pastel blue, pink,
and stark white.

On another occasion, he wanted to know,
"Why don't you ever wear big, clumpy
jewelry? Gold bracelets and earrings —
things like that?"

Ida refrained from expressing her per-
sonal taste. Instead, she said, "I've never
felt like buying such things for myself.
They're conversation pieces, and I've al-
ways believed that the conversation should
start with the fact that the jewelry is
a gift."

"I get it," said her husband, with a grin.
Shortly afterward, he reacted to Ida's
comment by bringing her a bracelet that
could have belonged to the Queen of
Sheba — a costume item, of course, but
handsome and impressive. "And now," she
says, "I have quite an entertaining collec-
tion of such pieces — which I would never
have acquired if I hadn't been ready to be
guided by Howard's taste. Letting the boss
be boss pays off in tangibles, as well as in
intangible satisfactions."

One of the standard domestic revolts is
that brought about by a difference of at-
titude as to what constitutes recreation.
The Duffs have no schisms, because How-
ard's leisure-hour decisions are final. He
loathes bridge, so no deck of cards mars
the order of the game-room table. He can't
endure the idea of making social commit-
ments far in advance: "How do I know
whether I'm going to feel like attending a
dinner party three weeks from tomorrow
night? I may not be in town, or I may be
dog-tired. Ask if we can call, the day
before, to give our final answer."

Nowadays, the Duffs have a wide circle
of friends who know that Ida and Howard
prefer to be called at the last minute.
Oddly enough, they have made them-
selves enormously popular among harried
hostesses who know that, ordinarily, they
are available on short notice and can fill
in when others — having accepted on a
long-range basis — find they must disap-
point.
J Conforming to the wishes of the man
of the house has provided another unex-
pected recreational experience for Ida.
One morning, Howard said to Ida, "If
you're going into Beverly today, would you
68

Where Adam Is King

mind stopping off to buy me some books?"

"What kind of books? Anything in par-
ticular?"

He suggested a novel or two, a book of
travel, a biography. "You have good judg-
ment; just browse a while and pick up
five or six volumes that look interesting."

Ida complied, and was astonished to see
her husband settle into a comfortable
chair beside a window providing excellent
light by day, and a lamp shedding com-
fortable illumination by night, and read
for three or four days steadily, taking
time out only for an occasional light lunch,
or a few minutes' cat-nap. Straight through
the day, straight through the night, in a
marathon that Ida has labeled a "word
binge."

The next time Howard asked for seventy
to eighty hours of reading matter, Ida
equipped herself with the same amount,
plus a stock of food that could be prepared
quickly, quietly, and at any hour. The
dual cramming session turned out to be
fun, and rewarding. "It's amazing how
much one can get out of a concentrated
period of absorbing information, impres-
sions, ideas, and inspiration, while shutting
out all of the usual distractions," she told
Howard.

"Good girl," he said. "I never expected
to find anyone to share my reading mara-
thons. It's great. '

The success of her early accommodations
to rule-by-husband may have contributed
to Ida's later malleability. For instance,
she had never appreciated San Francisco
before Howard undertook her Golden Gate
education. She thinks now that her dis-
affection was caused by her wartime ex-
periences, when San Francisco was
crowded by service personnel en route to
the Pacific, and the wounded en route to
hospitals throughout the country. The city
was an incredible potpourri of color and
emotion; it was gay and grim; it was noisy,
drunken, and filled with tears.

So Ida listened to Howard's glowing
descriptions of "the real" San Francisco,
and tried to keep an open mind. There
came a night when Howard — as he had
done a hundred times during his bachelor
days — came home to toss a few things
into a suitcase.

"We're going to San Francisco. I've got
the fever," he explained.

Thereafter he escorted Ida through days
of riding up and down San Francisco's
fabulous hills. He showed her the Cliff
House, Golden Gate Park, the Mission
Dolores, the Marina. At night, they visited
Fisherman's Wharf, DiMaggio's, Barnaby
Conrad's El Matador, Chinatown, Ernie's
on Montgomery Street, The Shadows, The
Blue Fox, and dozens of the little dark-
box cafes that vibrate with remarkable
music.

"And to think," mused a bedazzled Ida,
"that, if I hadn't learned how to follow
the leader, I might have teased you into
going to Palm Springs instead!"

Of course, there are times when any
wife — no matter how cooperative — is forced
to doubt the wisdom of unquestioning
agreement. Ida had moments of black
doubt when she accepted an invitation to
go fishing on the Hood Canal with her
husband and his brother.

It was her first experience in a small
boat under a leaden sky, so she asked
dubiously, "Don't you think it's going
to storm?" — being ignorant of the un-
written law among fishermen that weather
is never mentioned. Naturally, she was not
accorded an answer.

They were well out in the stream when
the storm broke. The wind roared, the
sea pounded, the rain cascaded, and the

three fishermen continued to fish — as if
their livelihood depended upon it and life
was cheap. Ida muttered under her breath,
"We're going to be swamped, that's what,"
but she would have required a coxswain's
megaphone to make herself heard, so she
fished, too. She caught four silver salmon.
Each of the men caught two, but not one
of them was as large as Ida's smallest
salmon. The consequent respect accorded
her — bedraggled, soaked, chilled, and faint-
ly blue as she was — was still so great that
she was ready to go fishing again the next
morning.

Now and then, however, it turns out
that a husband must be permitted to lead
the way in reverse.

Ida once invented an insect named The
Fleep. A cross between a fly and a flea, a
fleep lives — naturally — on sheep. He has
a corkscrew bill that is handy for spearing
small fruits or extracting olives from a
jar. His adventures, according to Ida's
stories for her daughter, are numerous,
so Ida tried to persuade Howard to illus-
strate the life and times of The Fleep.

Howard's first job was that of cartoon-
ist on his home-town newspaper, but once
having escaped the ink pot, he foreswore
it for good. Nothing Ida said seemed to
sell him the idea of capturing on paper
the bee in his wife's bonnet. "I haven't
drawn a line in years. I'm through with
all that," he said flatly.

Ida brought an easel and a supply of
drawing paper, crayons, chalk, and paints —
for Bridget, her five-year-old. For Bridget,
of course. Bridget did her best ... a best
that attracted her father's helping hand.
He spent hours teaching her techniques,
and guiding her color taste, which seemed
to run — ungoverned — to a combination of
purple and orange.

And then Ida awakened in the small
hours one morning to find her husband
missing.

Slipping into a robe, she tiptoed to the
living room, where she surprised him
deep in the job of giving The Fleep color-
ful form. And so, if all goes well, The
Fleep — in portrait and in prose — will soon
make its appearance on the nation's book-
shelves to the delight of children of all
ages.

The acid test of the value of letting the
king be king was applied when Howard
and Ida decided, some time ago, that they
had outgrown the apartment in which
they had started married life.

Howard had some explicit ideas about
where the house was to be, how much
could be invested, and how the floor plan
should be carried out. They must have
privacy, yet they could not be too isolated
from film and telecasting studios; the
price must not exceed such and such an
amount; the layout as to kitchen, dining
room, living room, den, bedrooms, pool,
patio and entrance should follow a Duff
outline — which he supplied.

"You look for the house," he told Ida,
"while I'm finishing my picture."

Ida maintained a wifely calm, but ven-
tured— in the words of the Canadian
trapper upon seeing a giraffe for the first
time — "There just ain't no such animal,"
as she scanned Howard's list of architec-
tural essentials.

Undaunted and unimpressed, Howard
replied, "Look, if I can think up a per-
fectly logical floor plan, knowing that
most floor plans aren't logical, you can
bet some first-rate architect has been
building along those lines for a long time.
Probably we'll be able to choose from
several satisfactory houses."

Mrs. Duff laughed a hollow laugh, half

in admiration of such optimistic naivete,
half in exasperation. Yet, such is her con-
cept of wifery that she set out at once
to locate Howard's dream house.

She looked and she looked. Days went
by. Weeks. Months. Years — two of them.
A lone satisfaction was discernible: Each
hour spent in the search reduced the pos-
sible number of future hours to be spent
the same way. Even in Greater Los An-
geles, there is a limit to available housing.

One late afternoon, Ida ran out of gas
in a remote section of Bel Air. She tried
to flag down several motorists, but drivers
are wary of hitchhikers. Ida had resigned
herself to removing her spike heels and
hiking "x" miles to a filling station, when
a lady stopped to offer a lift.

There is nothing so comforting to a foot-
sore, heartsore, and headaching woman
as the sympathetic ear of a cheerful
stranger. Ida poured out her woes in a
torrent.

The Samaritan, obviously supplied on
the spot by St. Jude (patron saint of the
impossible), began to smile. "Oddly
enough, I'm a realtor," she said. "In my
purse I have the key for the house you
have just described. Secluded, yet not iso-
lated. Price somewhat more than you have
mentioned, but worth it. Floor plan identi-
cal to your husband's mental blueprint.
Would you like to see it?"

Ida strolled around the house incred-
ulously. It was a miracle. Then, courtesy
of the realtor, she refueled her car and
went home to give Howard the good word.
He failed to exhibit any surprise what-
soever. (More husbands escape more lethal
accidents because of the proper training of
wives, 'way back in childhood.)

The following day, he inspected the
house, agreed to meet the slightly higher
price, told Ida that she was a genius, and
now, if she would plan the redecoration,
select the furnishings, and arrange a mov-
ing date, he would transport his own books,
recordings, and similar priceless posses-
sions.

"Oh, one thing — lots of blue around. You
know — about the color of your eyes."

"Lots of blue," agreed Ida, basking in
her spouse's obvious admiration.

The fireplace in the living room was
white fieldstone; in the den, used brick.
So Ida combined shades of blue and white
with a muted rose-red to establish a color
scheme against which to use brass ac-
cessories and Early American furniture.

The Duffs moved in, and Howard could
be located at various hours, merely stroll-
ing through the rooms. "Tomorrow night,"
he suggested, "let's ask good old Jack out
for dinner." (Good old Jack being a
tennis buddy.)

A few days later, it was "good old
George," followed by a parade of Howard's
chums. Sehor Duff, long noted for his
restlessness, his inability to stay put in
one spot for long periods of time, his gypsy
foot and gypsy heart, had become a home-
body. Sunk deep in a foam-rubber sofa,
his feet on the fireplace fender, he in-
vited the world to find its way to his
hearthside felicity.

What wife wouldn't consider two years
of research a small investment for such
rich returns!

"It would have been easy, several times,"
Ida observes, "to have given up and an-
nounced that we would just have to take
what seemed to be available. But that
would have been an example of the impos-
ing of wifely will, and I felt that it would
be a mistake. As it worked out, my dogged
following of instructions has brought us
lasting satisfaction. The king is still king —
and a contented king, at that — making
possible that famous line with which all
love stories should end, 'And so they lived
happily ever after.' "

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Be a Cool Warm- Weather Hostess

(Continued from page 52)
housewife in a large New York City apart-
ment and a delightful summer home at
Mt. Kisco, New York.

In New York, there is a couple to help
run the apartment. But, in the summer,
there is only household help by the day,
as required, and Arlene is the cook. Even
for weekend guests. She likes it that way.
Homemaking and career go together for
her. Somehow, she finds time for every-
thing.

The Gabels love to entertain in their
new nine-room house, of split-level de-
sign to fit the hilltop to which it clings.
"High on a windy hill," Arlene describes it.
"I want to share the view with everyone.

"But I like to be part of my own parties,
and that means a little planning. I sup-
pose I am a good organizer, but I am not
a list-maker. I am not that methodical.
I simply jot down notes during the day,
later gathering them up and checking off
what has been done and what remains to
do. Planning menus for guests, reminding
myself to get the ingredients for some
extra-special dish I want to serve, to stock
up on several brands of cigarettes, to
check the supply of soft drinks, the paper
napkins. Reminding myself to lay in such
items as extra toothbrushes for overnight
guests who may forget theirs, tissues and
disposable powder puffs; all the small
things that add to a guest's comfort and
keep a hostess from getting flustered."

Under organization, too, comes the
choosing of guests who will be congenial.
People on somewhat chilly terms aren't
invited the same weekend. People who
enjoy the same kind of thing are usually
teamed up, although there's no hard-and-
fast rule about it. An "outsider," new to
a group, is often stimulating. You choose
friends you want to ask at the time, barring
any real maladjustment with others in-
vited, and, strangely enough, the most un-
likely combinations have been known to
click amazingly well.

Oetting a time for arrival and departure,
at the moment of issuing any invitation, is
always proper. In fact, it's highly desir-
able. A good guest comes prepared to
abide by this and, if departure must be at
some inconvenient hour, makes it known
as soon as possible, so plans may be made
accordingly. Cooperative guests are a
boon to successful weekending, and happy
is the hostess who has them!

"If one of my friends shows up a little
earlier than expected, maybe when I'm
combing my hair or putting the finishing
touches to something in the kitchen, I
would think it the height of rudeness to
act upset or embarrassed, or to embarrass
her," Arlene stresses. "Why should anyone
be flustered? She can follow me wher-
ever I'm working and we can have a
little early visit by ourselves while I go
on with whatever I'm doing. Or, if it
makes things easier, there is always a
comfortable chair and a book or magazine,
or television to entertain her while she
waits for me to catch up. Cold drinks are
ready, of course, so an early guest, male
or female, can relax and cool off. Off-beat
timing is one of the hazards of being a
hostess, and surely a minor one."

Their limit for house guests is usually
four, the capacity of their sleeping ar-
rangements, but there are always friends
who are invited to drive up for the day
or who come in for dinner. Good food
T and beverages, an easy manner, good
v conversation mingled with good humor,
R informality, a choice of outdoor activities
and indoor entertainment, rest and relaxa-
tion are what they find.
70

For weekenders, there is a flexible re-
gime for meals, compatible with country
informality, and everyone is fed with the
minimum of work and fuss. Behind the
scenes, before anyone's arrival, the work
has been going on and now all is ready.

Guests get up in the morning when they
want to, but early risers find all the in-
gredients for a quick breakfast in the
kitchen, including one of the instant
coffees for those who can hardly wait for
that first cup. Young Peter shines as a
breakfast host, especially if there is a
visiting child. He follows the household
rule of not disturbing grownups — until
the grownups disturb him! — takes com-
plete charge of the guests' comfort,
squeezes the orange juice, uses the electric
toaster, fills the glasses with milk. All
without undue noise, until the adults be-
gin to appear for their fruit and coffee,
waffles with bacon or sausages, or ham
and eggs.

If breakfast has been a late meal for all,
luncheon is often a snack when and as the
guests want it. Plates of sandwiches are
put out, salad, cookies, fruit. If everyone
wants a regular lunch, it's usually a sit-
down meal, often with additional guests
joining the house party.

Dinner in the country is almost always
served buffet style. This makes serving
easier, especially for many guests, and
eating more leisurely; gives hungry people
a chance to start early and go back for
seconds or thirds, while the ones who like
to approach a meal more slowly can take
their time.

It's Arlene's idea that, in a small house,
it is easier for the hostess to work alone, no
matter how kind a guest may be about
offering to assist: "I plan one-dish din-
ners mostly; big, satisfying casseroles, not
too fancy or too highly-seasoned in warm
weather. Something I can prepare ahead
and re-heat, such as a couple of our
favorites, beef Stroganoff or shrimp Creole.
All tried-and-tested recipes, I might add.
A hostess takes a big chance if she experi-
ments with new dishes when she has
guests.

"If, in spite of all my care, something
goes wrong with some part of the dinner,
I don't apologize. Instead, I improvise,
quickly concoct something else to take its
place. I'm sure every housewife knows
what I mean. Too many apologies about
anything that happens makes guests un-
comfortable. Somehow, they feel at fault,
just by being there."

Foods that add appetite -appeal to the
buffet are some simple canapes, olives and
celery and carrot sticks, jellied madrilene
or a cold vichysoisse topped with chopped
chives or parsley for a festive, summery
look. They take very little preparation,
can all be taken from the refrigerator at
the last moment. So can a heaping bowl
of salad, with several dressings on the side
for easy choice. And the summer desserts,
the sherbets and ice cream, fresh fruit and
berries with cream. With mints to top it
off, coffee, and tea available for those who
prefer it, the buffet is complete. Enough
to satisfy the hungriest male who has just
come in from the golf course or an after-
noon in the Gabels' big new swimming
pool. ("Not filled with water, you might
say," is Arlene's comment, "but with my
blood, sweat and toil! Because that pool I
paid for out of my work — which I love
doing, but which is, nevertheless hard work
every day.")

Guests who want to refill glasses, and
empty overflowing ashtrays (ever notice
how fast they fill up, no matter how much
bigger and deeper they get all the time?)

are always appreciated, but a good guest
never insists on going into the kitchen if
her offer to help is tactfully turned down.
There's a reason, of course. The usual
house guest doesn't know where every-
thing is kept, and how things are to be
served, and she becomes more of a hin-
drance than a help. If your hostess says yes,
that's your cue, but a no is also a cue.
Arlene usually says no, as has been stated,
not because she is unappreciative but
because she is prepared and everything
moves efficiently.

As a guest, you can perform a real
service by helping entertain the others
while your hostess is out of the room —
and maybe offering your services again,
not too insistently, of course, when the
dishes are removed.

Having three baths for the three bed-
rooms solves one hostess problem for Ar-
lene. But, in many homes, bathroom hours
must be informally allocated, early risers
getting done and out before the late ones
take over the lease. (When someone else is
waiting is no time to do your own light
laundry, by the way.) And where maid
service is limited, or non-existent, the
thoughtful guest makes up her own bed
and tidies her room. Arlene herself sees
to it that there are fresh flowers in the
bedrooms, as well as all over the house,
flowers being her passion. She puts out
magazines and books on bedside tables,
checks reading lamps, lays out extra covers
and sees that the Sunday paper is handy.

Guests who bring along comfortable
country shoes and appropriate clothes are
more appreciated than the city slickers
who have to worry about ruined high-
heeled slippers and mud-spattered silks.
Your hostess always appreciates the com-
pliment of having you dress up for some
special occasion, and usually lets you know
in advance if this is on the schedule. As
a hostess, this is a good rule to follow; as
a guest, you might ask before you pack.

There's something else important: Most
people invite both sexes because they
like that arrangement, but somehow or
other a party seems to divide itself into
two "sides," with the men on one and the
girls on the other. A good guest can help,
and a good hostess steps in and does her
part to break this up. In most cases, people
are at their best when left to talk about
the things that interest them most. How-
ever, if a subject is special to one person,
it should be dropped before it gets boring.

"Even if you are in the entertainment
business, as Martin and I are, and as many
of our friends are," Arlene notes, "the
'shop talk' can grow tiresome to people
who aren't, no matter how fascinating they
may find it at first. Conversation in a room
filled with people should include many of
them. If a couple of guests find mutual
interest in some subject, of course, don't be
a spoil-sport — up to a point. And an occa-
sional lull in general conversation doesn't
mean the party's getting dull. A little
silence can be restful, especially on a long
weekend."

General rules for guiding conversation
might include an effort to steer a too-
heated or too-personal discussion to some-
thing else less flammable, if you can! The
same goes for long discourses on petty
domestic problems, if you're dealing with
women, and petty gossip, if you're dealing
with either sex.

Planned activities are fine, if they're not
too planned or too active all the time.
Weekends are for recreation, but also for
relaxation. Hikes may be an anathema to
those who never walk a block at home.
Boats are ditto for those who fear the

water and never get into anything larger
than a bathtub. If a guest prefers to nap
while the others play tennis, let him do it.
If someone wants to watch birds, that's
recreation, too.

People who get enough television at
home should be allowed to wander into
another room, or to take a walk. Those who
wouldn't miss a favorite program for the
best party you could give should be al-
lowed to watch in at least comparative
peace and quiet. It's all optional, if the party
is to be a success and the guests happy.

Many people like games, but the Gabels
happen to prefer conversation. If games
are played, they are usually word games
of some kind, writing games, mental games.
People who think that any game is just
another form of work aren't coaxed to
join. They can read. At the Gabels', this
isn't much of a problem. It's mostly talk —
interesting, exciting, with everybody join-
ing in, and no one running out of any-
thing to say. (As it usually is with groups
of good friends.)

"We are happy to see that Peter is at
ease with adults, but even more so with
children of his own age, and the younger
ones," says Arlene. "He is flexible and
kind. If a child wants to bicycle and Peter
has suggested ball instead, he will get on
his bicycle first and merely ask if later
they might play ball. He respects the pri-
vacy of our guests, seems to sense when
adults have tired of playing a small boy's
games and want to retreat back into their
own world."

The country house was really bought
because of Peter. It began as a "token"
house put in his stocking last Christmas.
When he questioned what the tiny house
meant, Arlene told him it was the symbol
of the one they would have, so he antici-
pated every moment the summer has
brought and is enormously happy about
everything concerned with it, careful about
the furniture, interested in seeing it beau-
tifully kept. Eager to have his friends, and
his parents' friends, enjoy it.

In fact, no minor or even major accident
is allowed to mar a guest's visit — a spilled
cup of coffee, a burn from a cigarette too
carelessly laid on an ashtray, a broken
dish. Better a happy memory of a visit
than everything left in perfect condition is'
a motto every hostess should tack up in her
mind. The hostess has a responsibility to
have enough ashtrays, enough secure
places to lay empty glasses and used dishes,
enough lights in hallways and on stairs,
and the like.

The matter of a hostess gift often looms
up to dismay the guest who wants to bring
one and doesn't know what to buy. Imagi-
nation, and a little interest in your hostess'
tastes, are far more important here than
the present's value. Where there is a child,
the parents are often glad if he is remem-
bered, but with something of small value.
Actually, the hostess gift is a pleasant way
of saying thank you for an invitation ex-
tended, but it in no way takes the place
of a written or telephoned thanks quickly
following the visit. Thanks should be ex-
tended also to the host, or to a parent
or anyone else who helped to make the
visit memorable.

It might be mentioned that a good guest
checks belongings both when packing and
before leaving. It's an extra chore for the
hostess to send back all sorts of oddments
left behind by departing friends, no matter
how much she loves them.

These, of course, are merely tips on
summer hostessing and summer guesting,
not guaranteed to cover every situation.
Only a guide to getting organized and
prepared ahead of time, and having a re-
laxed and happy weekend. The kind they
have been having at Arlene Francis's
house this summer.

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(Continued from page 24)
don't differentiate between 'working
mothers' who may choose to stay at
home with their kids, cooking, and PTA —
and 'working mothers' who are off to a
nine-to-five job. Both are surely working
toward some family dream. With Bill, the
children and me, our dream is retire-
ment in five years — so we can really en-
joy and devote time to the kids when we
feel they will most need our direction:
Jody will then be fifteen; Billy, Jr.,
eleven; and Nita, nine.

"However, it wasn't necessary for me
to go to work full-time in a series, for
our own personal family plan to come to
fruit — Bill's success has been assured for
years now. Actually, I looked on the
series as being good for the children. Why?
Because they need the security of know-
ing they will see their mother at certain
definite hours. On a series, I can give
them that knowledge — whereas, when I'm
doing only occasional shows, they never
know when to expect me home. For chil-
dren our youngsters' age, this uncer-
tainty is no good."

It is for this reason that Barbara and
Bill work extra hard to come up with
ideas in which the entire family can join
forces. "Saturdays and Sundays," says Bill,
"those are the two most important days
in the week to our family. Barbara and I
are always with the kids. We swim in the
summer, have barbecues and picnics. Fre-
quently, after church on Sunday, Barbara
rushes home to make a basketful of sand-
wiches, we throw the bikes into our Ply-
mouth station wagon and drive out to
the west end of the San Fernando Valley,
where we can ride without worrying about
traffic. Even four-year-old Nita goes
along. I used to carry her in a basket on
my handlebars — now she has a three-
wheeler of her own. We literally have a
ball. Besides, the bike-riding keeps Bar-
bara's waist down." (An uncalled for re-
mark, which Barbara chooses to ignore.)
Bill, who works four days a week on
his Date With The Angels series with
Betty White, is a friendly kind of father
who looks after his cubs both proudly
and protectively. The big Early American
easy-chair in front of the living-room
fireplace is his favorite spot in the house.
One thing he says gives him the greatest
pleasure in life is curling up in that chair
with Billy under one arm and Nita under
the other, reading Mother Goose. (To

Billy, he also reads "The Tales of Kit
Carson.")

Later in the evening, during the school
season, he and Barbara sit down with
older daughter Jody for a crack at the
homework. "I handle the English, history
and social studies," says Barbara. "Bill
does the math and lit. Usually, I'll work
with Jody first — the real reason being
that, after I check Jody's answers, I
want Bill to check mine! Believe me, I'm
trying very hard right now with fractions
. . . Jody is teaching me a great deal. In
fact, I think I'm learning as much as she
is."

In summer, the family literally camps
by their pool. Barbara and Bill have a
unique system for announcing to the
neighborhood kids at large that the pool
is now "in session." Barb put up a flag-
pole last season which can be seen for
some six square blocks — or so it seems,
from the number of kids who come

J a-running. "I don't recognize half of them,"
says Barb. "When the flag is up, either
Bill or I are there— we have to get our
sun, too, so we might as well play life-

_ guard, and the kids know they are wel-

Almost Like Angels

come. Also, when the flag is flying, the
neighborhood mothers know their chil-
dren are safe."

"Last month," laughed Bill, "a new fam-
ily moved in down the street. The woman,
seeing the flag flying 'most every day and
not yet knowing its significance, remarked
to her neighbors that, having personally
found it difficult to fly the flag every
Fourth of July, she certainly respected a
woman as obviously patriotic as Barbara!"

The pool, back yard and garden are a
summer home for Bill, Barbara and the
kids. Bill laid out an area, one hundred
feet by a hundred-fifty, so there would be
room enough for all the family's activi-
ties. Barbecues and baseball, for one.
Gardening, for another — everybody joins
in the hoeing, weeding and planting fun.
"When Billy was five," Barbara recalls, "we
thought it would be a good idea if he
planted something of his own — help teach
him pride of ownership and the miracle
of growth.

"We gave him a package of corn seeds
because they were large enough for him
to hold easily in his tiny hands. Corn
becomes a giant of a plant to a little tyke
like Billy Junior, and it grows fast enough
so that he could watch its progress from
day to day — an important consideration
when you are trying to teach the miracle
of growth to a five-year-old.

"Throwing caution to the winds, I gave
Billy the entire package of seeds, saying,
'Now, Billy, you plant these just like
Mother is doing.' He started out well
enough, with a straight line of corn in the
vegetable garden. But, in five minutes, he
became tired of that part of the yard,
traipsing over to the flower bed. From
there, he threw his seedlsts willy-nilly.
Have you ever seen a yard with cornstalks
growing in the middle of the pansy plot
and coming straight out of the lawn?

"I told Bill Senior — who does most of
our gardening — that I wanted to move
them. He said he wouldn't think of it.
Freshest landscaping idea he'd seen in
years. Practical, too.

"That, by the way, was the year I bought
twenty-six packets of flower seeds — the
pictures were lovely. I intended saving
the expense of a gardener and doing the
planting myself. The last day, Nita asked,
'Mom, what you doing? May I help?' I
said, 'Sure, here is a package of some
pretty flowers. Why don't you put them
over there by the pool?' She did. She
simply threw them on the ground. You
know whose flowers grew? Nita's, of
course. Not mine. Nita's took off like wild
flowers, and that's just what they turned
out to be — now, we can't get rid of them."

Another element which helps keep the
family together is the fact that the chil-
dren sometimes work with their parents
on the motion-picture and television sets.
"We let them work with us for three
reasons," says Barbara. "First, we want
them to know that what we do is work,
not play. True, there is a certain amount
of glamour to be found in pictures; but,
as you shall see, that is all on the screen
and not behind the camera. Second, all
children want to mimic their parents —
to be the sort of man their dad is. Since
we are proud of our occupation, we en-
courage their interest. Third and last, be-
ing with the children on the set gives us
that much more precious time with them.

"Jody was the first to be after us with
the plaintive, T want a job.' So we let her
work with me one day last year, on a
picture I did with Joel McCrea called
'The Oklahoman.' To begin with, she was
upset because she thought that every-
body who worked in a Western rode a

horse. She didn't. On top of that humil-
iation, she found she had to wear a long,
old-fashioned dress — over a set of petti-
coats— plus a pair of long white wool
stockings. All this on a hot, hot day.

"Next, she discovered, to her disgust,
that — even on a movie set — she had to go
to school. That discouraged her ambition,
too. But what really sent her into a tizzy
was the check she picked up at the end of
the day for her work. Two dollars and
sixty-three cents were taken out for with-
holding. 'What's this withholding?' she
inquired. So, with the check in hand, her
daddy had a chance to explain about taxes
and the United States Government. But,
at nine, I don't suppose the children know
much about governments. She said, 'You
mean, somebody is going to keep my two
dollars?' When Bill assured her they were,
Jody just about fainted. 'But,' she ex-
claimed, 'That's eight weeks' allowance!'

"Billy, Jr., had to have his job, too,"
Barbara continues. "He said to me one
day, after Jody had had her first job, 'I
don't care what I do, I want a job.' 'What
do you want to do?' I asked. 'You're too
young to deliver papers.' 'Not that kind
of a job,' he said, 'but another kind of
job.' 'Exactly what do you mean?' 'I don't
know,' he replied, 'but I know I gotta
get me a job.'

"About five minutes later, I saw him
through the kitchen window, dressed in
his Kit Carson cowboy suit — (his favor-
ite). He was holding Nita by the hand —
she had on a red dress, red socks, red rib-
bon in her hair (everything has to match
these days, with Nita) — and they were
walking up to the minister's house in the
back. Then I lost sight. Half an hour
passed. Then, in tramped Kit Carson,
shouting, 'Well, Mom, I got my job . . .
look at this!' — and he held out his hand.
'How much money have I got?'

"He had four dimes in his little paw, and
Nita, who came in behind him, smiling,
had two dimes. 'Well,' I said, 'you have
forty cents, and Nita has twenty.' 'Boy!' he
said, 'I'm going right out again!' I looked
at him suspiciously. 'Now wait a second,
young man . . . come back here and tell
me what you did to get that money.'

"He looked up at me shyly, from under
his cowboy hat, and slowly explained,
'Well, now, Mom, you know those pictures
of Dad we have in the drawer and give
to school kids who come over?' 'Yes,' I
said. 'Well, I took a box of them and went
around to a few houses. I just ring the
doorbell and I tell them that we don't
have any money and they buy 'em.'

"I'm glad he came home to find out how
much money he had," Barbara smiles.
"Bill Senior and I laughed over this
escapade for weeks."

.Barbara Hale was born one April 18, in
DeKalb, Illinois. Her father, Luther, an
excellent landscape architect, and her
mother and older sister moved to Rock-
ford when Barbara was four. Barbara went
to public school in Rockford. She had no
desire to become an actress, but thought
she'd become an artist, a nurse, or a
newspaper reporter. When she was grad-
uated from high school, Barbara entered
the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts, where
she studied commercial art. Most of the
students, though, insisted that Barbara be
their model. She modeled more than she
painted, finally devoted all of her time to
working for Corrine and Al Seaman at
the Chicago Models Bureau.

Unknown to Barbara, Al Seaman sent
her picture to a Hollywood studio ex-
ecutive with whom he had attended school.
A few weeks later, she had a long-term

RKO contract in hand and was on her
way to the star-making town. But, before
she skyrocketed to fame as Mrs. Al Jolson
in Columbia's musical, "Jolson Sings
Again," Barbara met her future husband.

Bill was born William Katt, May 21,
1916, in Brooklyn, New York. He went to
school at P.S. 122, Brooklyn Tech High
School, and Pratt Institute in Brooklyn,
where he studied construction engineer-
ing. During his school days, Bill excelled
in sports, especially football, baseball,
hockey and gymnastics. He was Junior
National Champ in the 220 and 440-yard
free-style swimming events.

After leaving school, Bill swam for the
New York Athletic Club and Dragon
Swimming Club. He then formed an act
which played a year at the Palladium in
London, gave a command performance for
the royal family, toured the United States,
and finally opened at Earl Carroll's in
Hollywood, on Christmas Day in 1942.
While playing his club date, Bill studied
celestial navigation at the Pan-American
School, and he gave up show business to
become a shuttle pilot during the war.
After the recurrence of an old spinal
injury forced him out, he came back to
try his hand in the motion -picture field.

.Barbara and Bill met on his first pic-
ture, "Murder in the Blue Room." "Bill
was killed in the second reel," Barbara
remembers. "But he died so beautifully,
I knew I had to meet him."

Bill and Barbara were married in June,
1946, after a two-year romance which
blossomed idyllically in the studio com-
missary, on the California beaches (they
both loved swimming) and on the amuse-
ment piers (inexpensive dates) .

Barbara Johanna ("Jody"), their first
child, was born July 24, 1947. William, Jr.,
("Billy") was born February 16, 1951.
And Juanita, ("Nita"), was born Decem-
ber 22, 1953. Barbara and Bill have had
knock-down, drag-out fights over the chil-
dren's names. Bill insists on naming them
after relatives — and always wins out.

Though the children arrived without
mishaps, Barbara reports that little Nita's
appearance on the scene caused a certain
amount of consternation to Billy. "Where-
as Jody thought Nita was the most won-
derful thing in the world because she was
a little girl," says Barbara, "Billy felt just
the opposite. When we brought Nita home,
Billy packed a little bag and sat out on
the front porch. He was too afraid to leave
the porch, but he knew he had to go some
place!"

To help put across some sex education,
Bill and Barbara bought a cat last year —
in the hope that this year she would
have kittens. She will. Billy, Jr. — whose
responsibility it is to feed both Mitzi, the
cat, and Punch, their great collie dog —
says proudly, "Mitzi is going to have kit-
tens. She eats about two gallons of food
. . . but thea, she's just not normal, you
know."

A more "normal" family than Bill and
Barbara and their brood of three would
be hard to find in these United States.
Their idea of making it the family busi-
ness to do things together, as much as pos-
sible, has paid off in a profit of smiles and
happy children's laughter measured by the
year and not by the hour.

"There's just one thing," muses Barbara.
"My husband's other wife — Betty White
over at ABC. . . . I'm going to have to talk
CBS into marrying bachelor Perry Mason
off to that gal, Delia Street, he's been see-
ing so much of lately. . . ."

Which only proves there's a bit of
impishness in even the best-planned
"heaven on earth" — and that there's more
fun for any family which doesn't try to
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Two Hands Full of Laughter

(Continued from page 58)
back her up in this view. Listening to
questions, her eyes seem more active than
her hands. But when she begins to talk
about her life and the entertainment field
to which she has given so much, suddenly
her hands come alive — they begin to
weave their magic ... to weave a tapestry
of laughter, understanding and tears.

"I was born in Parsons, Kansas," she
says. "The records say January 3, at the
turn of the century. It seems a hundred
thousand years ago, doesn't it? — when you
think that we're preparing to make a land-
ing on the moon!" She stares a moment
through the window of her dressing room
on the Hal Roach lot. "I was a serious little
girl, I think . . . sort of dreamy and a little
lost in my dreams. Yet, I don't believe I
was sad or unhappy. This was in California,
you know — Santa Cruz. We had moved
there when I was six months old. And I
hadn't a notion, I'm sure, of ever going
on the stage. But when I was seventeen —
ah!"

She had been on vacation with her
parents and they had come to Los Angeles
to "see the sights." They were invited to
a party — by whom, where, she can't re-
member. All she knows is, at that party,
"the sky opened" and great good fortune
came shining down on her. She was in-
troduced to "a wonderful woman" who
sensed the talent lying dormant and ar-
ranged for her to try out for a part in
Mary Pickford's "The Little Princess."
This wonderful woman was Frances Mar-
ion, one of Hollywood's greatest writers
and star-makers. "I won the part," ZaSu
smiles, "and Frances and I are still close
friends. I admire her more than anyone
else I know. I also admire Mary, and we
see each other as often as we can."

ZaSu can truthfully be called "an over-
night success." She herself says, "I was
very, vdry lucky in my career. And, in
those days, competition wasn't so fierce."
But, if she was "lucky," it was not merely
for herself; she brought luck to others. In
1919, a short while before "Little Princess"
was released, ZaSu became the luck-charm
which director King Vidor speaks of to-
day as "my heaven-sent gift."

As Vidor recalls it, he was riding on a
Hollywood Boulevard streetcar when his
eye was taken by a strange young girl —
"pretty in a lanky kind of style" — sitting
opposite him. She was watching the street
signs anxiously as the car sped along. Each
time she turned to look, somehow she man-
aged to strike one of the passengers. When
her stop was called, she showed her ap-
preciation to the conductor by somehow
jamming her elbow into his stomach. All
this was done most innocently, and she re-
treated down the aisle, knocking hats,
heads and newspapers in embarrassment
and confusion. Most of the passengers were
in an uproar by the time she got off, and
Vidor's curiosity was so stirred that he,
too, hopped off the car and caught up with
her as she reached the corner of Holly-
wood and Gower. "This, I realized at once,
was a character," he says, "and I wasn't
about to let her walk out of my life."
He asked her name.

"ZaSu," she replied, and seeing his be-
wilderment, said again, "ZaSu, last of
Eliza, first of Susie." She twinkled at
him. "ZaSu Pitts . . . like cherry pits."
He also learned that she was looking for
work as an actress, while living at the
T Studio Club. "It's a nice place, isn't it?"
v This recommendation was accompanied
R by a hearty blow on his chest, and he stood
there, scratching his head as she went on.
To this meeting, Vidor credits his in-
74

spiration for "Better Times," his first im-
portant film. The day after, he began work
on a story about an unloved wallflower
in a boarding school who pretends to be
courted through the mails by a big-league
ball player. Brentwood Productions were
persuaded by Vidor to hire ZaSu for the
lead. She proved to be a "natural" in it —
which was no surprise to Vidor, who had
written the part for her. David Butler, now
a successful producer, played her leading
man. ZaSu went on to do several films for
Vidor, all notable hits.

The hands pause . . . fold one upon the
other in a posture of silence and medi-
tation. "I was climbing that long, high
ladder to stardom. That's what the critics,
the people in the industry said. But what
nobody seemed to realize was that I my-
self never considered myself a star in the
sense of a Pickford or a Mabel Normand.
In fact, for years, I had a monopoly on all
the fluttery maid parts which, as a sincere
actress, I felt were the utter and bitter
end." Devoted fans know that her "Yes,
m'lady" roles came later, and that they
were preceded by a flock of top dramatic
parts in major pictures. "Oh, I don't deny
I was in some good ones," she says. "But
I thank my directors for that. And, when
we talk about directors, let's never forget
one of the greatest . . . who worked to
bring out the best in me. . ."

It is Erich Von Stroheim that she re-
calls in this tribute. "He had the patience
of a saint who is dedicated to perfection.
This made him seem like a devil to some
actors. He'd resort to the harshest meas-
ures to get a scene exactly right. There's
a scene in 'Greed' — we did it sixty-two
times before he could be satisfied. And we
had no dressing rooms, you know. We'd
just rest on cots between shooting."

"Greed," one of the first films made for
Metro and Goldwyn after they consoli-
dated, is still ranked as a Von Stroheim
masterpiece. Made in 1925, it vied with
Cecil B. DeMille's "The Ten Command-
ments" (first version) for best film of the
year. The lust for money, and the destruc-
tion it can cause, was the theme, and today
ZaSu still says, "Money is good for taking
care of your needs and responsibilities. It's
no guarantee of happiness. I had plenty of
money in the old days, but I can't, in all
honesty, say I was truly happy. That came
later . . . after I met Pops . . . Mr. Woodall,
you know."

Edward Woodall, it should be pointed
out, is her husband, the man whose love
she describes as "filling my world with
goodness the way the sun fills our universe
with light." He had not yet walked into
her world at the time she was soaring to
fame in a succession of dramatic screen
roles. One of the most memorable of these,
it is generally admitted, was the tragic
part of the lame princess in Von Stroheim's
"The Wedding March." As a work of art,
the picture is still considered masterly.

"The talkies hadn't been with us very
long," ZaSu continues, "when the ax
crashed down. I was typed, and — of all
things— typed as a comedienne." It was in
a gangster picture that this "disaster"
occurred. There was a scene "of heart-
rending anguish," and she was directed
to wring her hands for effect. "I couldn't
seem to get the right tone — and blew up.
In disgust, I cupped my hands over my
forehead and let out a doleful 'Oh, dear.'
The reaction may have been unplanned
but, believe me, it was explosive. Every-
one on the set went into convulsions. They
laughed and laughed. The director was de-
lighted. He felt the plot was too heavy and
he decided to keep this 'bit' to brighten

things up. It turned out to be a big suc-
cess with the public and, in my next pic-
ture, they had me do more of the same.
Soon there was a whole slew of pictures
which showed me using those silly ges-
tures. It was opening a new career for me
as a comedienne, but it finished the career
I loved, as a dramatic actress."

But now the expressive hands and voice
weave brighter colors into the story. "If
my career took a wrong turn — if I felt
discontented with the parts I had to play,"
ZaSu recalls, "the happiness I was sudden-
ly finding in my personal life more than
made up for it." For ZaSu had met Edward
Woodall, an advertising executive — had
met and married him, and was beginning
to immerse herself in the pleasures of
that most fulfilling role — wife and mother.
She might have descended to playing
"movie maid to every star in town," but,
in her own large home on Rockingham
Road in fashionable Brentwood, she
reigned supreme as "Moms" to an ador-
ing husband and two children, Ann and
Don. She was also a much sought-after
matron in the social life of the community.

"We needed a big place then," she sighs,
"what with two lively children, cats, dogs,
ponies and what-not. Entertaining was
lavish then. It was part of the times. We
were never quite on the scale of Pickfair,
but we did live it up some, nevertheless."

Although acting still made considerable
demands on her time and energy, her
family recalls gratefully "all she did, all
she tried to do." Even when she was called
away on location or on a tour, "in small
ways all her own," she left behind a very
palpable sense of her presence. Ann — now
Mrs. John S -for- Stanford Reynolds — re-
lates that, when ZaSu was away: "Some-
how, the house seemed to develop an echo
in it . . . the rooms seemed emptier, Dad
seemed just a wee bit tireder and we kids
found our games and lessons duller. And
yet we were all filled with a feeling of
expectation ... as if, deep down, we — the
house, the servants, the pets — all of us
knew that Moms was still with us ... at
any moment, we'd hear her footstep."

It is a family joke now, but there were
tragic echoes of one childhood incident
which Ann recalls. "Don and I were kids
when we sneaked off to a movie that was
featuring Mother. I can't recall the name,
but there was a scene where she was about
to be killed. Don jumped up and began
yelling, 'Don't kill my Moms!' while I cov-
ered my face with my dress and wept
bitterly." Something of this terror was
repeated for Ann and her father and
brother, three years ago, when ZaSu
underwent three operations for cancer.
"We were suddenly back in that movie
house, terrified," Ann continues. "Only
Mom remained steadfast. She never lost
hope, and she wouldn't let us lose hope.
They had to cut into her arm and side.
But — to give you an idea of the stuff she's
made of — shortly after her last operation,
she gave a benefit at Palm Springs. She
looked all in, and we begged her not to go
on. But she couldn't be stopped."

ZaSu herself takes pride in her recovery
and explains with a chuckle how she
bought an old-style car with the standard
shift so that her arm and side would get
a proper amount of strengthening exer-
cise. But it is when she speaks of her
family that her pride takes on new dimen-
sions.

She was starring in "Out All Night," and
a dimpled, blond cherub appeared on the
set to do a bit. ZaSu took the little girl
under her wing and told anyone who
would listen, "This child will be great."

Two years later, the child — Shirley Tem-
ple— and her family moved into the house
next to ZaSu's, and they were neighbors
and friends for years. It was Don who first
taught Shirley how to ride a pony. "She
liked to run over and sample my pies," Za-
Su smiles. "And here's an odd coincidence:
My first film was "The Little Princess' —
and then, after so many years, who comes
along but little Shirley and does the re-
make in the part Mary Pickford played."

If ZaSu was both a delight and an enigma
to her own children, she is merely a de-
light to her grandchildren. "The kids are
wise to her," Ann says gleefully. "When
I get ready to administer a spanking, they
giggle and say, 'Betcha Grandmother leaves
the room.' " ZaSu herself remarks wryly,
"I guess I'm of the old school that thought
spankings were old-fashioned."

The famous hands are quiet as ZaSu re-
calls old friends. "How clever and talented
they were! And how I miss them!" Sor-
rowfully she calls the roster of the unfor-
gettable dead: "Edna Mae Oliver, Slim
Summerville, Thelma Todd . . ." And then
her hands move, and the past is reluctantly
put aside. She begins to revel in the pres-
ent, in her new friends, in her newfound
career in television. "Gale Storm is as
dear to me as my own daughter. And Hal
Roach, Senior — you know, he still drops in
on the lot for a chat about the old days.
He likes to tease me by saying I haven't
changed a bit. And I come back at him by
asking if he'd like to star me in one of his
old bathing-beauty, Keystone Cop series.
And then there's Bones Vreeland, our pro-
duction head. He's been a great help.
Would you believe it? I've begun to get
a flood of fan mail since I became 'Nugey.' "

Her smile brightens. "The way they all
take care of me around here!" ZaSu, who
eats like a bird, usually brings nothing but
a pint of buttermilk to the lot. But a day
never passes without Roy Roberts — the
captain of the luxury liner in Oh! Su-
sanna— dropping in her dressing room with
a sandwich. Or else it's Gale Storm — or
even one of the "grips" — with a piece of
homemade pie. "Well," exclaims Gale,
"we're only paying back for all the mother-
ing she's given us. How she hovered over
me when I was pregnant!"

ZaSu herself is obviously delighted by
the stories told about her. She laughs as
heartily as the rest, when Bill Seider, her
TV director, tells the following anecdote:
"I'd worked with ZaSu before, so I was
prepared. But poor Roy Roberts, he didn't
know. So when I heard her blow a line
during rehearsal, I yelled 'Look out!' — and
ducked. Roy got it square on the chest."
Gale breaks in with, "We're all on to her
now, and the second she fluffs a line —
which she seldom does — we all begin duck-
ing out of range. Imagine! She's the gen-
tlest of people. But when she goofs, ZaSu
Pitts starts swinging!"

Others recall that she's always an hour
late for appointments, because she can't
stand traffic and, like as not, will pull up
to the side of the road and patiently wait
until the rush is over. Still others tease
her slyly about her hankering to make a
comeback as a serious dramatic actress.

All of it pleases her, fills her with a
youthful zest, brings the color into her face
and the sparkle into her eyes. "Oh," ZaSu
cries, "I am so lucky. My family, my
friends, all of whom stood by me so loyally
when my acting seemed limited to maids
. . . when I was so sick . . . my dear hus-
band who, when we sold our big home and
moved into a small apartment, put his arm
around me and said, 'Moms, the smaller
the place, the closer we'll be.' I am a lucky,
happy woman!' "

The hands weave on their tapestry of
wonders . . . the hands weave out the
wonders of a life. . . .

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From the Fields of The Dakotas

(Continued from page 34)
could happen, and he wouldn't be able to
pay. But Lawrence Welk's father was even
more concerned about his son's future.
He'd seen some of those traveling musi-
cians who came through Strasburg, North
Dakota, playing barn dances and fairs.
They drank whiskey. They wisecracked.
They had no roots, these fellows. They
played their music . . . and moved on.

"Dad didn't want me to leave the farm."
Lawrence Welk says now, "and especially
for the music business. He felt it wasn't
stable enough, and that the musicians he'd
seen were a little loose and adventure-
some. He was afraid the same thing
might happen to me. My dad was trying
to save my soul, and he thought there
would be a better chance of saving it on
the farm."

But, for young Lawrence, there could
be no harvest, there could be no life . . .
without music. Even ploughing the field,
he could hear music. He heard music
everywhere. It came out of the wind and
sun and earth ... an imaginary symphony
with Lawrence directing it. His sisters
and brothers would tease him about his
imaginary bands, and about how he would
go out to the barn and dance, with some
prop or other. ... "I danced with a
pitchfork, I danced with anvthing. I just
loved music and I loved to dance," he
recalls. "Music was on my mind all the
time, whether I was cleaning out the barn
or hauling hay or harnessing the horse to
go out in the field. I had a constant
dream of music."

Alone in the barn, Lawrence Welk
would direct his imaginary band: "I would
hit the anvil, the rain barrel, a horseshoe,
anything that would make a sound. And
I used to make a 'violin' with horsehair
'strings' from a horse's tail." . . . His father
liked music, too, but music was for re-
laxing after a hard day's work in the
field — not a life's work. Lawrence, -in
fact, had first learned to play the accor-
dion on his father's old push-and-pull
squeeze box, one of the few meager pos-
sessions his parents had brought over on
the boat from the Old Country when they
came to America in search of a home.

1 o Ludwig and his pretty dark-haired
wife, Kristina, roots were the riches of
the earth. Their homeland, Alsace-Lor-
raine, had been a pawn for power be-
tween Germany and France through the
years, and they were torn back and forth,
changing nationality. Devoutly religious
and peace-loving, they had no country to
call their own. And when the Prussians
overrode their lands — they fled. . . . Along
with other German settlers, Ludwig and
Kristina Welk filed to homestead rich
farmlands just outside Strasburg, North
Dakota. Looking across the field of
buffalo grass that stretched miles on every
side of them — the prairie land that would
some day belong to them and to their
sons — they thanked God for this new land
which had opened its arms to them.

For a shelter, Ludwig and Kristina

Welk used the only material they could

afford. Earth. With their own hands,

they built the sod house, where Lawrence

Welk would one day be born. They took

long thick strips of sod and dovetailed

them together like bricks. They put

boards across the top of the thick walls

and piled very thick layers of sod on top.

Only a torrential rain would melt the

T roof down a little into the living room.

v Then Ludwig would carry more sod to the

R roof and pack it tight together again,

thankful for the buffalo grass in the sod

that helped it hold. As they could, they

built partitions, put in a floor, and built
a wood frame on the outside.

"It was a very comfortable house," re-
calls Lawrence's sister, Eva Welk, today
a nurse in Aberdeen, South Dakota. "The
walls were eighteen inches thick — it was
the warmest place in the winter and the
coolest in the summer. All eight of us
were born there. Our youngest brother,
Mike, still lives there."

And there, on March 11, 1903, the man
who was one day to make music that
would reflect the grass-roots of his own
heritage — music of the people, music all
America would love — was born. "Lawrence
worked very hard doing the farm chores,"
Eva says. "He worked in the field, he
helped with the milking, and he would go
into town to sell the cream."

Young Lawrence was early initiated to
the rewards of hard work — a lesson which
would be invaluable to him later on. Their
ground made forty bushels of wheat,
where their neighbors' made thirty. They
worked longer hours, planted earlier, and
his dad watched that land like a dedicated
man. "Not only that — but Dad was also a
blacksmith by trade," says Lawrence
Welk. "He would repair all our own
things, and those of our neighbors, too."

What he remembers most about his
parents was their great happiness, and
their gratitude to America: "They were so
happy here, and so happy about the treat-
ment they received in America. So grate-
ful for the warmth and kindness they
found here."

Ludwig taught his son how to play some
old-fashioned German waltzes on the
worn squeeze-box with the imitation
pearl buttons that young Lawrence fin-
gered so lovingly. They had an old pump
organ, too, and Eva remembers how
"Lawrence would pump the organ in the
parlor and the rest of us would gather
around and sing." She adds, with a smile,
"Lawrence used to keep our cows awake
until late at night, out in the barn, prac-
ticing on the accordion Dad brought over
from the Old Country."

But there was one grim year when the
music almost stopped for Lawrence
Welk — all music. When he almost died
from a ruptured appendix, and went
through long months of recuperation aft-
erward. A year that was to limit his
future in some ways, and make music his
whole world. This illness he remembers
very well: "I was unconscious, and, when
I came to, I was in the hospital and they
were trying to hold me down — I was. try-
ing to climb the wall. When I opened my
eyes again, I saw all of my relatives
standing around the bed. I knew some
of them had come a long way in a horse-
and-buggy — seventy miles — to get there.
It was a big relief, after seeing them,
when I heard the doctor say he thought
I was over the crisis."

After being out sick that year, Lawrence
wouldn't go back to school. As he ex-
plains now, "I was growing all that year,
and I was much taller than any of the
kids I would have been in class with. My
parents felt I should go back to school,
anyway, but I had a real complex about
it. I'd been sick before in my younger
days, I'd missed school, I was taller than
the others — and I was very uncomfortable.
So I wouldn't go. ... I regretted it later
on in life, when I got into business. I
knew how much I'd missed, and how
much easier it might have been for me
if I'd gone to school and studied, along
with my music."

Later on in life, he was to spend hours,
nightly, reading books and educating him-

self. However, in his particular case,
Lawrence Welk weighs today whether he
would have fought as hard for success —
"if I'd had the schooling. I'm not so sure
I would have had the drive and the de-
termination I've had to have, if an edu-
cation had made it all easier I'm not
sure I would have gotten this far in
music — that I would have had that much
desire."

Desire, he had. There was no other life.
He felt shy and ill-at-ease with his for-
mer schoolmates, so he was out of the
swim there. He worked on the farm — and
music was his whole world ... a world
that was threatened, too, when Lawrence
Welk broke his arm at the age of sixteen.
He was to need all that determination and
desire in the months that followed.

-Kemembering now, he says, "I was in
the field ploughing. I had a lazy horse,
and I hit him with the whip, and he took
off like a jet — taking the plough and me
with him. The plough hit a rock and
jumped up and threw me into the middle
of the horse — I landed on my arm." When
he crawled to his feet in a daze, "I saw
my arm just hanging there — and I knew it
was broken." At the moment, he could
feel no pain, because of a more agonizing
thought: "I could only think of one
thing — I wouldn't ever be able to play the
accordion again."

Luckily, his arm healed. But the inex-
pensive accordion Lawrence had "went to
pieces" the following year. "One reed
was out of tune — it used to hurt me so
much to hear it. When I hit the sour
note, it would just about kill me. I was
about ready to give up playing the ac-
cordion." Then he found his dream accor-
dion in an advertising catalogue which
manufacturers mailed to the Welk house.
"Four hundred dollars was an awful lot
of money," he says. "More money than
my parents could usually save in a whole
year." Mindful of this, Lawrence told his
dad he would play at weddings and cele-
brations around Strasburg and pay him
back. But that didn't persuade him.

"It took me quite a while to talk Dad
into it. I got Mother on my side. She
knew how much I wanted the accordion,
and she talked to him. Then I went to
him with my proposition. I promised I
would stay on the farm until I was
twenty-one if he would buy the accordion
for me. And I would also pay back every
cent it cost. . . . That was a beautiful
day!" Lawrence Welk glows, recalling
their agreement.

Ludwig Welk believed with all his heart
that to be a musician wouldn't be a
wholesome future for his son. His future
belonged to the land. Here were their
roots — here on the prairie the Welks had
homesteaded in North Dakota. . . . Fur-
thermore, the accordion was much too ex-
pensive, and Ludwig would have to buy
it on credit. This was against his prin-
ciples, and the whole family was im-
pressed when he agreed to do it. "That
was the first thing our parents had ever
bought in installments," says sister Eva.

Ludwig Welk had decided to make a
gamble. He would pay out four hundred
dollars "on time." Lawrence was seven-
teen years old — and, if this would keep
him on the farm for four more years, it
would be a worthy investment. When he
was twenty-one, he would be more ma-
ture and he would be able to see that, in
this wonderful country of America, the
land was his life. If, when he was twenty-
one, he wouldn't stay — this was America, J
too. Freedom for a man to believe as he
will, to decide his own way. . . .

But, to young Lawrence, at seventeen,
freedom was the accordion for which he
waited with such impatient eagerness. "It
was a special accordion, and it took them
three months to build it," he remembers,
as vividly as yesterday. "Then, after it
was finished, I still waited for six weeks.
Every day I would hitch up the horse and
buggy and drive into town to the depot,
to see whether my accordion had come.
I'd go to town very happy, anticipating the
accordion would be there. But, on the
way home, it wasn't unusual for me to
have tears in my eyes . . . just from dis-
appointment— and my love for the instru-
ment."

He'll never forget the afternoon the ac-
cordion finally arrived: "I got home
around four-thirty, and I played until
dinner time. I played after dinner — until
everybody was going to bed, and they
took it away from me. The next morn-
ing, I was up with the chickens . . . and
playing it again."

To Lawrence Welk, the four years be-
fore he turned twenty-one . -. . before he
was free to follow his music wherever it
led . . . seemed an eternity. He paid his
father back in two years, playing for
"barn dances and 'name day' celebrations
and wedding parties." He would make
five or ten dollars for dances — "but the
wedding parties would last three days,
and I would bring home fifty or a hun-
dred dollars."

On his twenty-first birthday, his prom-
ise to his father fulfilled, Lawrence left
the sod house where he had been born . . .
free to follow the music — somewhere,
wherever it might lead. "I didn't have
any money, and I had no special place
to go. Then I didn't have my heart set
on doing anything big in the future, really.
I just loved to play the accordion — and
went out hunting a job."

Leaving the main street of his home
town behind him, he never dreamed a
day would come when a sign there would
read: "Strasburg, North Dakota — Home of
Lawrence Welk." Ludwig Welk had told
him goodbye with a heavy heart. Law-
rence had repaid him for the accordion . . .
but not for an immigrant father's dream
of his sons farming and enriching the
land which had been so good to all of
them. As Lawrence says now, "I don't
think he was too proud of me. Not until
I quit fooling around — playing with this
group and that one — and treated music
more like a business. After a year, I be-
gan to have more purpose."

Lawrence had formed a little band and
was playing a dance at a fair in Selby,
South Dakota, when fate introduced him
to veteran showman George T. Kelly and
his wife Alma . . . two endearing people
to whom Lawrence Welk feels so indebted
today, for the part they played in giving
his music purpose — and in giving him a
springboard toward the future. "This is
the man," he says with obviously deep
emotion, "who really started me in show
business. If it hadn't been for George and
for Alma — and all the teaching they gave
me — I don't think I could ever have made
it."

During the winters, George Kelly had a
small vaudeville troupe called "The Peer-
less Entertainers," who doubled on in-
struments, playing dances after their
shows. Mrs. Kelly sold tickets, acted as
treasurer, wardrobe mistress, and gen-
erally did whatever else needed to be
done behind the scenes. During the sum-
mers, George worked with carnivals,
"barking" the attractions on the mid-
way. ... He was in Selby with a carni-
val— and dropped by the local dance hall
one evening.

"I went up front and sat down close to
the stage," he remembers. "And I no-

ticed this young fellow playing his accor-
dion. He had a lot of pep, a good smile,
and he was continually moving with the
rhythm of the music. The warmth and
music fairly poured out of him, and I be-
lieved he would be a tremendous asset
to my troupe — although, at that time, no-
body was using an accordion in traveling
aggregations."

Kelly asked Welk how he thought he'd
like show business. Well, Lawrence said,
he'd seen a medicine show under canvas
in Strasburg once . . . and he thought he
might enjoy it. "He agreed to join our
troupe," the showman grins now. "How-
ever, a difficulty arose when I found out
the salary he was expecting! Lawrence
wanted fifty dollars a week — and, at that
time, we were hiring the best of perform-
ers for twenty-five dollars a week and
expenses."

"That's pretty high," he told Lawrence.
But he "sized him up" and knew Law-
rence would be a tremendous drawing
card ... all the more so, since their troupe
would be playing German settlements
throughout the Dakotas. "I'll tell you
what I'll do," Kelly proposed. "I'll pay
all the expenses, including salaries to per-
formers, and then we'll split the net pro-
ceeds fifty-fifty."

Lawrence agreed heartily. As he laugh-
ingly says now, "I had learned that it was
good business not to be overanxious. I
would have gladly accepted George's first
offer — but I paused a little bit. And, when
I paused, George went up on the price!"

o alary seemed of small moment imme-
diately, anyway, since they were opening
in a little place in South Dakota called
Westport, where George Kelly wanted to
break in his inexperienced troupe — which
consisted of Harry Woodmancy, a saxo-
phonist, and Lawrence and himself. "They
were about as bashful as anybody could
be. And I was just as skeptical whether
I would be able to get them to say any
lines whatsoever — especially Lawrence."

They were set for the town hall in
Westport, and Kelly was anxious to have
a dress rehearsal the afternoon of the
show. But there'd been an election, and
somebody had brought the stove right up
in the middle of the stage, to keep the
city fathers warm while they counted the
votes. George and his "troupe" were car-
rying the stove and its pipe back down,
when a group of women walked in.

"I thought they had a squawk of some
kind," Kelly grins. "Some towns weren't
partial to dancing then, and I was appre-
hensive. However, they were a committee
from the Ladies' Aid, and they wanted to
know if I would have any objection to
their serving a 'supper' at the dance, with
the proceeds to be used for a local char-
ity. Naturally, I was elated, and I figured
we might have a fair little house. When
the doors opened, they literally started
piling in! Lawrence was peeking through
a hole in the curtain — and, as the crowd
grew bigger, his knees clicked louder.
The ladies sent men out to a nearby pool
hall to lug chairs in. They brought planks,
soda-pop cases — anything they could find
— for seats.

"Lawrence and Woodmancy really had
stage fright, but we went out, sat down
and started the overture behind the cur-
tain. When the curtain rose, they imme-
diately became old troupers. As long as
they could hide behind their instruments,
they felt better. They'd both been used
to playing for crowds at dances, and that
was a big help. When we started the
sketches — well, they missed lines, but it
only added to the fun."

When, at the end of the evening, Mrs.
Kelly told them they'd taken in a hun-
dred and sixty-five dollars, they were all

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elated. Lawrence couldn't get over it.
"George," he said, "we'll all be million-
aires before this is over!"

They played one-night stands in opera
halls, and often in empty bank buildings.
Lawrence Welk became increasingly ver-
satile. He played the heavy in one skit
called "The Patent Pusher," in which
Kelly portrayed a Swedish inventor and
Lawrence was the villain trying to steal
his inventions. "George was always try-
ing to make an actor out of me," Lawrence
laughs. "I gave him a hard time — but not
intentionally."

Welk's accordion specialty was "Valen-
cia." For this, he appeared in full cos-
tume, dressed as a Spanish matador. "Mom
used to wind his sash on him," George
Kelly recalls, "and Lawrence would stand
there and go 'round and 'round. On stage,
I would announce, 'And now I want you
to meet the youngest, the best-looking, the
finest, the most distinguished accordion-
ist in America — Lawrence Welk!"

Enthusiastic audiences (particularly,
Kelly observes, the lady patrons) agreed
with that glowing introduction. For four
years, an increasingly popular Lawrence
traveled with The Peerless Entertainers,
grateful for all the experience and knowl-
edge he could absorb . . . and touchingly
appreciative of Mrs. Kelly's kindness and
encouragement in helping him to use bet-
ter English and to overcome some of the
accent which now really troubled him.

His public, however, seemed completely
unaware of any such problems. "They
were all eyes for Lawrence and his ac-
cordion," Kelly smiles. "Throughout our
tour of the Dakotas, Montana and Minne-
sota, people followed us from show to
show, until we got so far away they
couldn't make it«— Lawrence always had
crowds around him, and he made them
all feel they were his friends."

That same reaction was soon apparent
in Yankton, South Dakota, as crowds
jammed the small radio studio where Law-
rence broadcast with his newly-formed,
six-piece band. So many nurses from the
hospital raved about him that attractive
but skeptical Fern Renner, who was in
training there, finally went along with
them to the studio one day. But she re-
mained the lone holdout against the mass
adulation for Lawrence Welk for some
time . . . almost until she married him.

"When the broadcast was over, but be-
fore we could leave the studio that day,"
Fern recalls, "Lawrence put down his ac-
cordion and walked straight out into the
audience to talk to us. He wanted me to
go to dinner with him, but I got the im-
pression he was conceited, and I didn't
want to go. Finally, I agreed — if he'd take
one of the other girls along." He was a
perfect gentleman, but Fern Renner saw
no future there: "I'd always felt traveling
musicians were just like sailors — a girl
in every port."

However, since they shared the same
religion, they met frequently in church
and became better acquainted. Lawrence
left South Dakota to tour with his band —
and Fern went to Texas to work in a
Dallas hospital as a laboratory technician
and anesthetist . . . but fate still kept a
friendly eye on the man who was meant
to make so much happy, sparkling music
for the world.

Fern Renner just happened to be in
Denver, Colorado, for a few days' vaca-
tion . . . and she just happened to read
in the newspapers that Lawrence and his
band were playing there. She called him.
And, the following day — while showing
her the majestic scenery — he proposed.

They were married, one April morning,
in the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Sioux
Falls, South Dakota . . . and left on a
series of one-nighters which, in the

opinion of Fern's husband, could have
fractured a more fragile bride. Today,
Lawrence pays tribute to the attractive
woman who has shared in his career story:
"She's been able to take it . . . all the
way from hardships to later on, when
things got better. Fern's a perfect wife,
as well as a perfect mother."

From the start, Fern Welk's calm cour-
age and encouragement ... as a former
nurse familiar with life and death, and
with people and crises of all kinds . . .
was always there to strengthen the confi-
dence of a shy, uneducated North Da-
kota farm boy who was moving up in
his world of music — and increasingly sen-
sitive to his own inadequacies. "You have

nothing to worry about," Fern reassured
him. "Just forget you didn't have those
advantages. You don't need to worry."
Wherever Welk played, people listened.
But there were tough years, getting his
music to enough of them. Years of weary-
ing one-nighters ... of driving all night
crosscountry ... of humid hotel rooms —
sleeping with the sun. And of nightmare
experiences, such as driving to a booking
in Phoenix, Arizona — and finding the ball-
room had closed: "We'd been driving for
two days, from Quincy, Illinois, and we'd
had nothing but trouble all the way," re-
calls Chuck Coffee, a saxophone player
who was then with Welk's band. "We'd
had eighteen flats, getting there. Then we

1/ote

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8-5

found the place had folded. Lawrence
pawned his only ring, so the band could
eat. Then he talked stockholders into re-
opening the ballroom."

Fern Welk has reasons of her own for
remembering this situation in graphic de-
tail. "We were on a spot," she under-
states it simply. "We'd managed trans-
portation for the boys, clear from the
Middle West, and it was expensive. We'd
counted on the Phoenix engagement . . .
then the place was closed up. And it had
been such a rough trip. We had no
time . . . we'd traveled all through the
night to get there." While her husband
was persuading the stockholders to reopen
their ballroom, Fern Welk went to bed —
deathly ill. "I was three months' preg-
nant, and I was feeling miserable."

She quit the tour a few weeks before
their first baby was born, going to Dallas
to stay with two nurse friends, while
Lawrence continued playing one-nighters.
He was in Denver . . . the same city in
which he'd proposed to Fern . . . when
one of the nurses phoned to tell him he
had a beautiful baby daughter.

Shirley Welk was six weeks old before
her enchanted father saw her. For a man
with Lawrence's love for home and fam-
ily, there were to be many personal sac-
rifices during those first years he was
making music. Many important family
events he couldn't share. "Dad drove all
night through the rain, trying to make my
First Communion," his beautiful, dark-
eyed Shirley remembers. "Then, when he
got there, we were just coming out of the
church. He was heartbroken."

The family was then headquartering in
Pittsburgh. Later, they moved to River
Forest, just outside Chicago. His younger
daughter Donna says, "I think Dad made
my Communion — but not my Confirmation.
He made my graduation — but not my
eighth-grade. We were always so happy
to see him . . . and always so sad when
he had to leave again." Then irrepress-
ible, teen-aged Donna laughs, "I'll never
forget the time our younger brother Law-
rence helped Dad pack. He was just three
years old and, when nobody was looking,
he put in one brown shoe and one black.
When Dad got to that engagement, he
really had some explaining to do!"

However hectic or frantic conditions
might be, the family usually spent their
summers with Lawrence, when the school
term was over. And sometimes condi-
tions were hectic indeed. Shirley recalls
the split-timing necessary when her father
flew from Denver to Chicago, just in time
for her high-school graduation: "We were
all packed to go back on the train with
him, and the 'City of Denver' was making
a special stop at the next suburb— Oak
Park — just to pick us up. As soon as the
graduation ceremony was over, we threw
our bags in the car, made a wild drive,
and boarded the train . . . bound for
Elitch's Gardens in Colorado."

Music was Lawrence Welk's life-blood,
therefore it was their way of life, too . . .
something which Ludwig Welk himself —
who made the initial investment in that
music — had come to realize before he died.
For Ludwig lived to see the beginning of
his son's success . . . though, ironically,
he died just as Lawrence was playing his
first important band date, the Hotel St.
Paul in Minnesota. But Ludwig had lived
to see his son make a thriving business of
his music. To know the pride his home
town, Strasburg, had in him. And to be
proud that his boy could contribute to the
country which had been so generous to
all of them. "Dad knew Lawrence was on
i his way — that he was achieving — that was
the important thing," says sister Eva, who
was living with her parents then.

But there were times, in those first days

of struggle, when Lawrence himself won-
dered if he'd made the right decision in
leaving his father's farm. With success
increasingly in sight, there was still an-
other battle to be won. Moving up into
the world of music, playing to a more so-
phisticated audience, there were occa-
sions— such as an important "prestige"
booking in Chicago — when Lawrence felt
that his father had been right. He should
have stayed with the land. With his lack
of education, his inadequacies, what right
did he have in this more glittering world?
He had dreamed of playing this par-
ticular booking — someday. But he was
very discouraged when he opened there.
"This was something he'd wanted so much,
but they didn't want him to play the ac-
cordion," Fern says simply. "They thought
it wasn't dignified enough for the place.
They didn't want him to shake his head
in time with the music — that wasn't 'dig-
nified enough,' either. But Lawrence loves
the accordion, and it was already his
trademark. And bobbing his head — that's
as much a part of him as anything. To
take all these things from him, well. . . ."

Though Fern could tell that Lawrence
was very worried about something, he
would say nothing about what was trou-
bling him during the first days of that
engagement: "Lawrence never did want
to worry me — he always felt somehow he
should straighten things out for himself."
But, one night, she awakened to find him
sitting up in bed and gazing out the win-
dow in an attitude of obvious despair.

And, finally, he said, "I guess I'm just
too much of a farmer. I guess I should
have stayed on the farm."

"You've done very well," his wife re-
minded him. "Just because somebody is
trying to change your ways ... I wouldn't
let that affect me. This isn't the only
place. There are many places that would
be glad to have you." She spoke of the
many other places he had played — always
successfully.

It was as true then as it is today. As
Fern Welk says now, "He was a success
everywhere he went. And, from the
audience viewpoint, he was successful
when he played that place, too!" For all
the management's preconceived ideas,
their "dignified" patrons wanted Welk and
his accordion — and Lawrence bobbing his
head in time with the beat. They kept
him all summer, by public demand.

Just as, later on, his public demanded
Lawrence Welk across the nation — on
television — when he came West and played
the Aragon Ballroom and had a local TV
show which captured them and blanked
out all network opposition in Southern
California. There was no place for bands
on network television, the top brass had
said. But ... in much the same way his
father, Ludwig Welk, had homesteaded in
North Dakota and proved that land rich
and fruitful . . . Lawrence Welk staked a
claim for bands on television — and pio-
neered for the music that is the most pop-
ular and beloved in America today. The
music that reflects the heritage of the
man who plays it . . . the language and
rhythm of the good earth.

In this month of July — with its day
honoring freedom, when flags wave with
a special meaning and purpose — a flag
waves over a plot of land in Strasburg,
North Dakota ... a park dedicated to
Lawrence Welk, the farm boy who topk
his gay polkas and music out into the
world and won a nationwide audience
with his sincerity and joy in playing that
music. This month and every month —
come Saturday, come Monday — on tele-
vision screens across the land his father
loved so much, Lawrence Welk brings to
life the happiness and gratitude of Ludwig
Welk . . . his thanks to America.

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(Continued from page 27)
up to him and asked, "Aren't you Grace
Sands' boy?" Just to give him his come-
uppance and keep his feet on firm ground.
Actually, there is little chance of suc-
cess spoiling Tommy Sands. He has had
his share of heartaches, and he has seen
the darker side of success, too. Don't for-
get he's been in show business most of
his life. At eight, he walked into a radio
station down in Shreveport, asked for a
singing job and got it. That took spunk.
At fifteen, when his voice was changing,
a lot of people were going around saying
Tommy was all washed up. Maybe he
was — as a cute little boy in a cowboy suit,
singing Western songs. But he had to
learn how to take these knocks with the
same calm, humility and good humor with
which he took the applause. And he had
to find new channels for his talent.

That's what I'm trying to tell you all
now. I want to make clear why I, his
mother, think he'll go on to even greater
success without getting a swelled head, or
why he won't lose faith if the toboggan
should happen to go down.

My boy Tommy has character. Put just
that way, I realize it sounds like a mother
bragging. But people who know me will
say that I'm as quick to point out Tommy's
mistakes as I am to take notice of his
good points. He does have character — and
that, with God's help, will see him through.

Coming home from This Is Your Life
("Life"? — he's nineteen years old!), I no-
ticed that he looked very thoughtful. I
asked him why. This is more or less what
he answered: "When Ralph Edwards was
bringing all those people on stage and
telling how they had helped me, I kept
thinking to myself, But these are just a
few outstanding ones. What about all the
others? Uncle Charlie and Aunt Bert
(who have passed on) — the friends like
Dr. and Mrs. Shavin, Lynn Trosper, Dr.
and Mrs. Moers and Betty, Harmie Smith,
my teachers and so many others?

"It keeps pounding in my head, Mama.
Why should so many fine people have
gone to so much trouble for me, encour-
aging me, cheering me on when the going
got real rough, keeping their faith in me
so long — what have I done to deserve all
that? Because, when these people did all
that for me, they expected nothing in
return — some of them probably didn't ever
expect I'd make good. They didn't care.
They did it out of friendship. Mama, I'm
the luckiest fellow in the world."

He means it, too. That I'll vouch for.
In an age when parents and children
seem to be so much at odds with each
other, and there is so much talk about
youngsters "rebelling," I feel Tommy and
I have built up a good healthy friendship
based on mutual respect and understand-
ing. I've never forced my ways on him
and I've tried to let him make his own
mistakes. Because I believe in the quality
of his character.

I just used the word "respect." For
reasons I can't understand, that seems to
have gone out of style these days. Chil-
dren are taught to treat their elders as
equals. They call their parents — and even
their grandparents — by their first names,
and sometimes by their nicknames. I'm
happy to say Tommy is not like that and
never has been. When he was a child
playing the guitar and singing on radio
and television in Shreveport, Houston and
Chicago, he had to work with older people,
y performers with years of experience. I
R tried to make it clear that he was to be
treated as a small boy, not as an equal.

And I did the same with Tommy. He
always said "Mr." and "Miss." He even
80

My Sentimental Tommy

called Biff Collie (only ten years his
senior and as dear to him as a brother)
"Mr. Collie" — that is, until last summer,
when Biff visited Hollywood and stayed
with us a while.

Tommy has consideration, too. And this
consideration hasn't been reserved for
adults, either. Recently, a school chum
from Houston came to town. Since our
phone is unlisted, the boy called a mutual
friend here and reached us that way.
Tommy was delighted to see him and
asked him along to Clime Stone's Home-
town Jamboree, where he was to sing.
After the show, Tommy was literally
mobbed by the youngsters — mostly girls,
I'm pleased to point out for the benefit of
Tommy — who is so modest (thank good-
ness!) that he's almost unconscious of his
own physical charms — that, though he came
out of the melee minus half a shirt and a
number of buttons (this is not a pun),
his only concern was for his friend, who'd
got lost in the crowd.

Tommy waited and, when the friend
didn't appear, finally returned home.
Later, the young man called to explain
that he was afraid he'd have been in the
way and had thumbed a ride back to his
hotel. Tommy was terribly upset: "What
does he mean, 'in the way'? What kind of
friend does he take me for? I was so glad
to see him, and here we've had hardly a
few words with each other. I'm going to
call him back and apologize." He did, and
wouldn't hang up until his friend swore
he was not hurt, that he understood
Tommy's predicament perfectly and would
be around in the morning for a long talk.

This is a good place for me to inject a
warning. In spite of "character," my boy
Tommy is far from growing wings and a
halo. He makes mistakes and some of
them are sure- enough whoppers. For in-
stance, horseback riding. It's one of his
favorite sports, though he hasn't had much
time for it lately. But, when he was a
boy in Louisiana and just learning to ride,
he started showing off. One of my friends
said, "Grace, do tell him to stop that
clowning."

I said, "I don't have to tell him — the
horse will." Well, just then the horse
stopped short and pitched Tommy head
over heels into a mess of briar. Nowa-
days, when he gets into a mood and seems
ready to act up a little (oh, yes, he has
his moments), I just look him in the eye
and say, "Tommy, I don't have to tell
you — the horse will."

On the subject of mistakes: When
Tommy decided to leave Lamar High
School in Houston to take a disc- jockey
job in Shreveport, I felt it was a mis-

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take. I thought he was being headstrong.
And I argued the issue with him, though
I left all decisions open for him to make.

We talked it over several times. My
side of it ran like this: "You've had little
enough fun, as it is," I pointed out. "You've
been working since you were eight. Now
you want to quit school, just a few months
before graduation, to take this deejay job.
Why not get your diploma, go to college
and have a little fun while completing
your education? There'll be other jobs.''

But Tommy was set on going. "Maybe
I missed out on some of the games other
boys play," he reasoned, "but I've had
plenty of fun. Playing the guitar and
singing, acting, studying music and
theater — all of that was fun. For me, the
best kind of fun. As for school, I promise
you that someday I'll finish my educa-
tion— but I can't miss this chance. It
might lead to something big."

I even called his principal, Mr. Wright
He, too, spoke to Tommy. That afternoon.
Tommy came home. He looked confused
and miserable. Finally, he said, "Mama,
there's only one thing that can stop me
from taking that job. If you order me
not to go, I'll give in and finish school."

It was one of the hardest decisions I
ever had to make. I was tempted to play
the heavy-handed mother and say, "All
right, I order you to finish school." But
that would have meant breaking a rule of
conduct I had always preached to him. It
would have meant that all my words about
independence of mind and learning by his
own mistakes were false. I said, "Tommy,
I won't go back on what I've taught you.
You know I'd like you to get an education,
and you know why. But it's your decision
to make, for good or bad. Follow your
conscience."

li still feel he should have gone to col-
lege. And I know that he has come to feel
it, too. But who can say that he made
this sacrifice for nothing? By taking that
job, he was able to save enough money
for our trip to Hollywood. And it was in
Hollywood that he got his big break. If,
in the years ahead, he comes to me and
asks, "Would I have done better the other
way?" — I honestly don't know what I'll
answer. Sometimes, you must make great
sacrifices to get your heart's desire. As
Browning says, "A man's reach should
exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"

Tommy is no angel, by far. For one thing,
he's the most "forgetfulest" boy. Right
at this time, it's no wonder. In the space
of a few months, he's had to rehearse the
Steve Allen and Jack Benny shows, ap-
pear twice on the Kraft Television Theater,
several times with Tennessee Ernie Ford,
and the weekly Cliffie Stone show. Then
he's had to cut a number of new records,
give dozens of interviews, and go here,
there and the other place for the sake of
his career. Naturally, he's forgetful. He'd
have to be one of those Univac machines
not to be forgetful.

The fact is, however, that he has always
been like that. When he was just a teen-
ager, working as a disc jockey for KCIJ
in Shreveport, the manager of the station
put up two signs just for Tommy's benefit,
because he was the one who closed up
shop at night. The first sign read:
"Tommy! Shut Off All Lights!" Then, on
the door our boy had to pass going out,
was the other sign: "Tommy! Shut Off
Lights, Please!"

The night he was to leave Hollywood
for New York, to go on the Steve Allen
show, he arrived home after six. The
train was to leave at eight. "Where were
you?" I asked, "And where are the slacks
and jackets you were to pick up at the

cleaner's?" After some hemming and
hawing, the truth came out. He'd been
walking along the street, daydreaming,
and finally day-dreamed his way into a
movie. By the time he got out, the cleaner
was closed. So off he went to New YoFk
with a wardrobe that would have shamed
anyone but Tommy. He took it all very
casually and bought himself a new suit
in New York.

This is an old story, of course. He has
always been casual with clothes. He
favors sports attire. But, though casual,
he's no faddist. Nor is he the type who
protests against the world by wearing
outlandish duds. When the occasion calls
for it, he can get quite dressy. At the
Academy Awards, when he sang "Friendly
Persuasion," he wore a full dress suit —
and did it with such an air, you'd think
he'd been wearing one all his life.

It's funny, but I've learned that publicity
works two ways. I've given out a good
many statements by now, on Tommy and
our struggles together and how it feels . . .
et cetera, et cetera. But I've also found
out a few things I didn't know about
Tommy, while reading stories about him.
For example, I had never realized he was
such a parsley addict. He must have de-
veloped a taste for it in Louisiana, where
we always had some growing. According
to what I read, he would just pick a sprig
from the field, wash it and eat it. I sup-
pose I never knew this because I'm not
one to take cooking seriously.

Thanksgiving and Christmas on the farm
were always very dear to Tommy as a boy.
My Aunt Bert was a genius at cooking
and would whip up batches of cookies and
candies. Tommy was the best "spoon-
and pot-licker" for miles around. He
often kids me on this score. "You sure
didn't inherit Aunt Bert's talent for cook-
ing," he tells me. It's true, you know.
Cooking is not one of my gifts. "One
good thing, son," I always tell him, "your
wife will never have to listen to that
old saw, 'Why can't you cook like my
mother? ' "

Did I say "wife"? Well, it's a little soon
for it, although I have a hunch my boy
will marry young. And I'm all for it.
Some of my friends are sure I'll be sorry
I said this. I don't agree, but I know
what's in their minds. Tommy's father
was a pianist who had to travel about a
great deal in order to earn his living. My
older boy Edward, twelve years Tommy's
senior, was almost grown when Tommy
was born. Tommy and I were left alone
a great deal and had to depend on one
another for company for years.

After his father and I divorced, this
was intensified. Tommy and I shared the
good times and the bad. We both had to
work to keep things going. It gave Tommy
a deep sense of responsibility at an early
age. We both had to make adjustments
and learned to be tolerant of each other.
We simply couldn't afford to squabble or
risk doing things that would upset the
serenity of the home we'd made for our-
selves. We managed to stay happy.

Now, it would only be natural, in these
circumstances, for some women to resent
anything breaking up such a fine arrange-
ment. But my mind is very clear on this
point. Not only won't I resent my boy
marrying — I'll be thrilled for both him
and me. That doesn't mean I won't miss
the old cozy relationship. I'll miss it, and
I'm sure Tommy will, too.

But, if a boy is to become a real man,
he must step out into the world, choose
a wife, and start a family of his own. He
shouldn't lean on his mother and she
shouldn't lean on him. I've always treas-
ured my independence and I think Tommy
will enjoy that freedom, too. And the
same is true of Tommy's future wife,
whoever she may be — I'm sure she'll love

me more for wanting my son to enjoy
the privacy of her love in their own home.
I've always had a yearning to travel.
After Tommy is twenty-one, I hope to be
able to do this. Then I'd like to go back
to Houston and Greenwood for a while,
to see old friends and revisit the old
well-loved and well-remembered places.
Hollywood is a fascinating city, and, of
course, I will be eternally grateful to it
for the way it has opened its heart to my
son. I find life here somewhat hectic, but,
for the next couple of years, I'll stick
around — if only to act as an alarm clock.
Tommy is a sound sleeper and needs a
good hard shake to get him up.

1 said Tommy might marry early. Not
that he doesn't like adventure, but I think
he likes security even better. If he does
marry young, I'm banking on his character.
It made him a good son; it will make him
a good husband and father.

Because of his hit record, "Teen-Age
Crush," which sold over a million copies,
and the quality of his new album, "Steady
Date," many of his fans (I hear thousands
of fan clubs are springing up all over)
think of Tommy primarily as a singer.
There are also lots of fans who know of
his background as a deejay, and think he
will turn out to be the pilot of a popular
variety show, on the order of Ernie Ford,
Garry Moore, Bob Crosby — or, perhaps,
even Steve Allen, Sullivan or Godfrey. It
would be grand if such a thing did happen.

But my own opinion is that Tommy's
best love is serious acting. Singing and
entertaining is a second choice. This has
been true since he did a series of sketches
on TV in Chicago called Lady Of The
Mountain. He had a small opportunity
for acting and, when the series ended, he
felt let down. But he returned to singing
as a means of earning his living until an-
other opportunity came his way. This
happened in Houston when he was twelve.
He got his wish and appeared with the
Alley Theater's production of David West-
heimer's "Magic Fallacy."

It had a fine run. After opening night,
Tommy told me, "Mama, I'm crazy about
entertaining — singing, guitar playing, kid-
ding around, ad libbing. All that's great
fun and it pays well. But there's nothing
to compare with acting. I can't tell you
what a thrill it is to really get into a part,
really feel it," he glowed, "and know it is
going across the footlights to the folks
out there, making them laugh or cry.
Acting's going to be my fife, Mama."

One of the greatest moments in both
our fives was his homecoming after his
first national triumph — the Kraft TV
Theater production of "The Singin' Idol."
The response had been immediate and
terrific. We fell into each other's arms
and cried like children. We both knew
what it meant for him, aside from success.
It had proved he was an actor. A new
highway was opening up for him. "The
only thing lacking was you, Mama," he
said. "Next trip to New York, you must
come along."

"You know I don't like to do that," I
protested. "Your career is your own busi-
ness and I've never interfered or pushed
into the front row. Besides, why do you
need me there?"

His grin turned mischievous and he
said, "Because someone's got to wake me
up in the morning."

Well, I don't mind admitting, I like
Tommy Sands, and, in a sneaky sort of
way, I even like being just "Tommy's
mother." He's a long trip from being per-
fect. But he's a nice boy with a serious
purpose in life. He may not be another
Caruso, but he certainly is a gifted young
actor with his own special knack for put-
ting over a song.

And let's face it — after all, he is my boy!

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Are We Afraid of Our Teen- Age Kids?

(Continued from page 30)
crowded quarters of a Brooklyn tenement,
humorist (and humanitarian) Levenson
knows, from close and intimate contact
with kids, how it is with them, what they
want, what they need and do not need,
what makes them tick. As a teacher in
New York high schools for ten years, he
has the understanding which only such an
experience can give of teen-age — and par-
ent— problems. As the father of a four-
teen-year-old son and a four-year-old
daughter, he also has an understanding
of the relationship — more delicate and diffi-
cult than any other — between parent and
child.

And he has compassion. Compassion for
the teen-age children we call "delinquent."
Compassion for the parents, who are afraid
of them. . . .

"We are afraid of them," Sam says, "be-
cause these kids are organized, the parents
are not. Parents have no union. The kids
have. You say to your teen-age son, 'I
do not want that you should go to the
movies on Sunday.' And you are told,
'Louie's father lets him go, and Jakie's
and Frankie's' — and so on down a list as
long as the letters of the alphabet. You
tell your teen-age daughter, You are too
young to smoke.' And she tells you,
'Sadie does it, and Frieda and Ruth and
Naomi. . . .' Teenagers come to you in a
group, as it were, and say to you, 'Look,
this is what we want to do.' They are
members of a union thousands strong. We
the parents, a father and mother, are two
alone. Under pressure of this organized
resistance to parental discipline, the par-
ent— outnumbered — gives in.

"The records released these days have
an influence on teenagers. Their favorite
recording stars influence their choice of
clothes and accessories — Elvis Presley hats
and slave bracelets, shirts and ties. To
some, the recordings also sell the idea
that their parents do not understand them.
Take the lyrics of one of the currently
popular songs — 'only a teen-age crush,' it
goes, or something like that. 'Only a teen-
age crush' is, presumably, the opinion of
the poor schnook of a parent . . . whereas
we, the implication follows, know better.
And who is "We"? "We" is the record
industry, which, as an indirect result of
releasing such records — encourages these
kids (the greatest record-buying group in
the world) to believe that only such re-
cording artists as, say, Presley, Tommy
Sands, Pat Boone, can give them the sym-
pathy and understanding and emotional
release they do not get, cannot get — don't
be silly — at home.

"Psychiatrists are also guilty of bring-
ing on this permissiveness, or lack of dis-
cipline, on the part of the parent," Sam
continues. "Let the child be free, let him
express himself, do what he wants to do,
don't frustrate him, make him happy,
keep him happy, because if you don't . . . .'
And the parents — terrified by the implied
threat to the child who is not kept happy
by being allowed to do what he wants to
do — let him do what he wants to do. This
is chaos, this is nothing, this is not free-
dom— which only comes through discipline.
This is anarchy which can lead to a big
fat zero.

"I've taught my son, and I'm teaching my
daughter," says Sam, "that I don't have to
make them happy. That's not my respon-
sibility. I have to make them good re-
sponsible citizens — and, if they are, hap-
piness will come.

"How do you go about the business
of making them good responsible citizens?
By imposing rules — children need rules
like they need vitamins and sunshine —
and by having the guts to enforce them.

By not being afraid to precipitate a 'scene.'
As parents know," Sam laughs, "everything
precipitates a scene. The allowance you
give them is not enough, the car they're
not allowed to drive — so we have the
scene. We raise our voices, my son Con-
rad and I. He slams doors, I slam doors.
My children don't have to love me every
minute — the minute they dislike me may
be the one that will pay off. In the crisis
between children and parents, better the
children should cry — remember this — than
the parents. Better the scene in the home
than in a courtroom, which spells disaster.
'Better to look at me,' my father used to
say, 'than at a judge.' If your child has
never been really angry at you, you have
never been a parent. You have not taught
him to recognize — and submit to — au-
thority.

"Who is authority? It is the answer to
this question which the so-called 'juvenile
delinquents' have not got. We, the parents,
have to give it to them — as, in our home,
it was given my sister and brothers and
me. Rich in ceremonial tradition, the
candles on the table, the Jewish holidays
kept, God lived in our house. He did. There
was no question of it. Because He is the
Supreme Being, God, we knew, is the
Supreme Authority. No question but what
parents — who are put here by God to
protect us and to teach us — are given
authority by God and must be obeyed.
Parents were once children. They have
lived once. They know.

"Any delinquency, however slight, on
the part of any one of us," Sam laughs,
"and its consequences were carried to the
ultimate! Smoking a cigarette, when we
were thought too young to smoke, must
lead to Sing Sing, to the death house. If
he was fresh to a teacher, Jovian bolts
were let loose at the culprit's head. 'You
don't appreciate America,' my father would
thunder. 'The Government pays teachers
to educate you. You are not grateful.
You are not a good American. You are
subversive!'

"In the eyes of our parents, the teacher
was always right — whether she was right
or wrong. Nowadays, you hear it said
that a teacher is 'a schnook who couldn't
make good in business.' I have heard
parents say of a teacher, who punished a
child deserving of punishment, "That
crackpot!' This is teaching respect for
authority?

"Nowadays, we're told that giving a
child an allowance teaches him the value
of money. When the eight of us were
kids," Sam recalls, "we knew the value
of money before we knew how to walk.
With us, it was real value. For a penny,
we got a paraffin whistle. We blew on it
all week — and, on Sunday, we ate it.
Today's child can't get by on less than
several dollars for a show and after-show
snack, and you're lucky if you're not also
billed for a taxicab fare.

" 'You want the good things in life,' my
father used to say, 'you work for them.
If you can't make good here in America,
you're no damn good.' So we worked in
sweatshops, anything to make a dollar. My
brother, now a doctor, worked in a post
office nights and studied medicine all day.
Another brother, a lawyer, got his shingle
by sweating for it. I went through col-
lege on the two hundred dollars I earned
summers, giving monologues.

"You hear it said that most of the teen-
age trouble-makers are underprivileged
kids who come from 'wretched tenements'
in which they are unhappy, against which
they rebel. I don't believe that physical
environment in itself makes for unhappi-
ness — or for happiness. I don't believe
it's the tenement that's 'wretched,' but the

itl

>!3.

parents. It's not the cracks in the walls
that split the personalities of these kids,
but the cracks in the parents. You give
me two loving, devoted parents, and a
child never feels underprivileged. You
give me two wise parents with the guts
to say 'no,' and the child — whether from a
Hester Street slum or a Park Avenue
penthouse — has a better than even chance
of making good and of being good.

''Nobody in the world is going to be as
kind and indulgent to a kid as a kind and
indulgent parent is," Sam emphasizes, "so
why give him a false notion of what the
world is? Why not teach him that noth-
ing is easy? Why not open his eyes to
the fact that nobody is going to assume
his responsibilities and forgive him his
sins?

"You have to begin early. When our
little Emily calls down to us, 'Come up and
dress me, I can't dress myself!' — I call back,
'Stay in your room until you are dressed!'
Sure, the left shoe is on the right foot,
when she comes down, but you never
saw such a happy kid in your life, such
pride that shines. I make her pick up
her toys. Make her do it. Who, perhaps,
will do her picking up for her when she
is thirty?

"My boy wants to be independent. Soon
now, he is going to Miami to visit his
maternal grandparents. 'Look, my son,'
I have told him, 'this is the first time on
your own. I am giving you money. I
want you to account to me for every cent
you spend; whom you tipped and how
much, how much you spent for each meal.
Then you will prove to me that you can be
trusted with money, with which we must
always be trustworthy. Be respectful to
people,' I told him. 'To the porter on your
car, to the steward in the dining-car, to
your fellow passengers, to your grandma
and grandpa.'

"You can't repeat the maxims of mor-
ality too often," Sam believes. "In teach-
ing, repetition is the necessary thing.
You must treat older people with re-
spect. You must treat money with re-
spect.' Say these things to them over and
over, then over again. Urge them. Urge
them.

"My son's allowance is a dollar a week.
He 'can't get along on that.' 'So you must
earn,' I tell him. Now, once a week, he
washes my car. On Saturday nights, he
tapes my TV show, labels it and puts it on
the shelf. So he earns a dollar a week to
add to the one that is given him.

"A thing I'm strong on — I like children
working. A job is one of the greatest
therapies in the world. Summertimes, any
time they have off, let the kids work.
Don't shelter them from work. Work is
dignified. Work is good. Let them work
in gas stations, sell papers, sell ice, dig
ditches. I am glad, when I see my son's
hands dirty from work.

"Homework," Sam adds, "is not taken
for granted in our house. 'What is your
homework?' I ask. 'Have you any prob-
lems?' If I feel Conrad isn't reading
enough, I tell him, 'Watch all the TV you
want, but make your time to read.'

"By the way," Sam laughs, "I am not
inclined to believe that the Presley craze,
which agitates many parents, does teen-
agers of either sex any real harm. It will
leave no wound. What it does do, how-
ever, is waste their time by taking them
away from the better things in life, such
as reading and outdoor activities and de-

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veloping the talents that are their own.

"I insisted that my son play a musical
instrument. 'Music,' I told him, 'is some-
thing you live with all your life.' We
tried him on three instruments without
success. The fourth instrument, the guitar,
he took to and gets great pleasure from.
'Don't force the child,' you are told. Don't
force him, and you've got an unforced idiot.
You have got to discover the ability of the
child or help him to discover it.

"I don't mind hounding my son. I don't
mind getting angry. Kids must know that
people get angry in this world. If my son
looks sloppy, he hears about it. I was the
first one to take a stand against teenagers
wearing beat-up old blue jeans and
grubby shoes to school. I mentioned it on
TV, wrote about it in the newspaper.
What is this, I said — of a group of teen-
agers at their desks — a hike or a school-
room? The way they look, I said, they'll
break windows next. Boys should wear
ties and clean shirts and shined shoes to
school, with their hair brushed, their
fingernails clean. This is self-respect, as
well as respect for the teacher. This isn't
fashionable? What is fashionable about
dirt?

"Recently, I visited a high school in Bay-
side, Long Island, and there saw the best
behaved group I have seen in my later
life. When the principal entered the room,
the class stood up. When they sang the
national anthem, they knew the words.
Too many school children are indifferent
when they sing the national anthem. They
fumble the words. Too often, also, when
the bell rings for recess, the kids don't
wait for the teacher to dismiss them — such
is the stampede, you'd think a fire had
broken out! This class waited until the
teacher dismissed them, before they left
the room. I saw them pay this respect
and it was a delight to see. These may
seem to be trivial things, but the total
effect on the teen-age boy and girl is the
exact opposite of the word trivial.

"I do not believe in teen-age kids leav-
ing the school premises during the lunch
hour. I have forbidden my son to do so.
T have seen some of the kids that hang
around the candy store in the neighbor-
hood,' I told him, 'and they look like
the type that will not do you any good.'
To this, there was so much heated protest
— 'Louie goes off the premises, and Jakie,
and Izzy,' and on through the alphabet
again — that I went down to discuss the
matter with the school principal. 'I am
glad you ask about this,' the principal said.
'I wish more parents would come down and
do the same. Only recently, a man was
caught selling dope to some of the kids in
the candy store.' My kid is no smarter
than anyone else. But, when he came in-
to the principal's office and was told what
I had just been told, he got smart. He
hasn't asked to leave the premises again.

"He can't just disappear after school,
either," Sam adds. "If you are detained
anywhere, you must call the home," he is
told "and tell where you are." We are old-
fashioned, my wife and I. When the boy
is going out of a Saturday or Sunday,
Where are you going, we want to know,
when will you be back? And I am not too
proud to go and see for myself whether
or not he is where he has said he will be.

"You know what my mother's attitude
was toward raising children? She used to
say to my father, 'Go outside and see what
Sammy's doing and tell him to stop.' It
has been handed down to me, this attitude.
Don't trust your kids too much. Kids will
lie. And the faster you call a he a lie, the
better for the kids. Besides, you don't
know who's been working on them dur-
ing the afternoon.

"I don't believe in trusting a party of
teenagers alone," says Sam. "I believe in

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supervision. 'You don't trust me!' the
teenager cries, outraged. To which the
answer is: 'I don't know the other kids.'
Parents have fallen for this 'Don't intrude'
philosophy propagated by the teenagers.
So they go away, leaving a party of teen-
agers in a house with cigarettes, liquor,
couches, bedrooms. You do this — you're
asking for it!

"We have to have restrictions. We're all
sinners. Because we are, we, as parents,
have to impose restrictions and see to it
that they are kept. Eternal vigilance
should be the parents' watchword. You
cannot trust to chance.

"I don't believe in boys of sixteen hav-
ing cars of their own. When they have,
how do you ever know where they are?
I have heard my son tell his friends, 'My
father says I can't have a car until I'm
twenty-one.' I may break down a little
sooner than that," Sam smiles, "but very
little.

"I don't believe in twelve-year-old girls
wearing lipsticks — or falsies. I was re-
cently shocked to learn that a lot of parents
buy falsies for little girls of twelve — 'be-
cause they don't look well enough to go
out otherwise.'

"I don't believe, I definitely do not be-
lieve," Sam stresses, "in teenagers going
steady. I believe parents should have the
guts to tell their teen-age girls and boys,
'You can't go steady.' When explaining to
teenagers why they can't go steady, par-
ents should use the words 'virginity' and
'pregnancy,' and not be afraid of them.
They should drum into the ear of the teen-
age girl that the boy who takes advantage
of her isn't going to marry her. He isn't.
He is still looking for a virgin.

"Going steady is a natural thing, but
that doesn't make it good. Mating is a
natural thing, too, but there are conse-
quences. We are a civilized people. There
are taboos.

"Apart from the fact that kids who go
steady neglect their school work, can't
concentrate on their school work, the
emotional upheaval caused by going
steady is very taxing on a kid — particularly
a girl — very taxing. Petting today, parents
must realize, is not what it was thirty
years ago. To use a little slogan I created
for myself, 'Dating is getting confused
with mating.' And the longer a boy and
girl go steady, isolate themselves from
the group, the greater the curiosity, the

opportunity — and the temptation. And the
more serious the girl gets, the bigger the
flop she's going to take, the deeper the
bruise she's going to get. It's a danger-
ous business. Statistics prove that a prosti-
tute is one who got smacked down early in
life — and from that time on, has thought
of love as something cheap enough to sell.
The kids who go steady run the risk of
getting hurt bad. That's the danger.

"So what can we do? We can encourage
group activities," Sam answers himself.
"The church should use every facility for
getting groups of teenagers together. At
home, there should always be an extra
place or two at the table, as there is in
our home. Teenagers must be made to
feel that their friends are welcome. Above
all, we must be honest with them. And
unafraid. When a teen-age daughter tells
us, 'I love him,' we can say, 'Yes, you
do — now.' She may insist, 'I always will.'
Then we must tell her that she is too
young to say, 'This is my man.' That she
will be in love and out of love again and
again and again. Repeat it. Urge it. Urge
it. If we get nowhere, we may say, 'Go
out with him then, but go out with others,
too, please.' This sometimes works.

"If parents were organized, as the kids
are organized, if parents should have a
union such as the kids have, how rela-
tively simple it would be!" Sam concludes.
"If parents living in the same neighbor-
hood, parents whose children go to the
same school, would agree on how to
handle the problems we have discussed,
agree on how many nights a week the
kids are permitted to date, on the hour
they must be in, on the age at which they
are permitted to smoke, to take a cock-
tail, to go steady — if we could come to
them in a group and say, 'Look, this is
what we want you to do' — well," Sam
laughs, "we might get somewhere. We
would not be outnumbered. The pressure
would be equalized. We would not be
afraid — nor would we have anything much
to be afraid of, I dare say. Parents of teen-
agers, unite!"

Off TV, as on, Sam Levenson laughs as
he talks. He laughs as he talks about
teenagers and parents and their problems,
too. But, in the laughter, you can hear
the heartbeat, the deep concern of a man
who cares about the future of the human
race— and dares to believe that some-
thing constructive can be done about it.

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all newsstands.

New Hot Singers of 1957

(Continued from page 49)
stuff I didn't learn then, back in Dumas."

Buddy Knox, son of Mr. and Mrs. Lester
Knox, was born in Happy, Texas, in 1933,
and spent his childhood on a ranch. He
was a star rodeo rider and had leads in
class plays. Like Jim and Don, he won
letters and honors in football and basket-
ball.

Dave Alldred of Lubbock, Texas, did
not — "They used me for the football."
His father, now dead, taught him to play
drums. "He rigged up his tom-tom to be
my first bass drum."

Their combo materialized at West Texas
State College. Buddy's job in the speech
department was helpful. Nights, they
turned the whole building into an echo
chamber. Such experimenting led to their
hits. Dave says, "My drum was a paper
box stuffed with cotton. We heard that
a major record company later put two
drummers to work for a week trying to
find how we made that sound."

Following their Broadway triumph, they
risked being one-hit wonders — for Buddy,
who had earned his second lieutenant's
commission in R.O.T.C., was called up for
a six-month tour of duty. They met the
problem by going into concentrated re-
cording sessions. "We cut enough plat-
ters to last until Buddy gets back," Dave
explains. The Rhythm Orchids are show-
ing the vigor and strength of a spiny
Texas cactus. They should continue to
hold their own in the galaxy of new stars.

In contrast to the Texans — who came,
recording-wise, from nowhere — Tab Hun-
ter came from headlines and Hollywood,
an extremely slippery springboard from
which to launch a new career. "To lay a
bomb," as they say in music business,
would be conspicuous and dangerous to
his motion-picture status.

And there were those in Hollywood
who would have enjoyed seeing Tab flop.
Irked with being cast as the boy next
door, he was becoming troublesome. His
noisy protests that he could act, coupled
with a habit of blowing up on set, had led
some to call him "Mr. No Talent." Tab
sing? Heard any other good jokes lately?

But Randy Wood, head of Dot Records,
who boosted his little independent studio
into a multi-million business before merg-
ing it with Paramount, is no man to take
ready-made opinions. If Tab wanted to
cut wax, Wood was extremely willing.

To anyone who has studied the story of
25-year-old Tab Hunter, the resulting hits
should have been no surprise, for Tab has
always driven hard to get what he wanted.
Born Arthur Gellen in New York City, he
grew up in Long Beach, California. His
mother worked as a physiotherapist to
support her two sons. Tab, when in St.
John's Military Academy, learned to ride.
(To pay for this expensive sport, he jerked
soda, delivered parcels, ushered in a
theater.) He won cups and ribbons.

When he got a crush on Sonja Henie, he
felt he, too, must skate well. Again, he
worked at odd jobs and won titles. When,
at 15, he enlisted in the Coast Guard and
was stationed in Groton, Connecticut, he
turned champ weekend commuter. His
objective: Broadway. He saw all the
shows and decided to be an actor.

The driving beat of rock 'n' roll was
made to order for Tab. His intensity
throbbed through to make his version of
"Young Love" a topper. Scoffers were
willing to concede him a freak hit. Tab
answered with "Ninety-Nine Ways." For
a time, both were high in the charts.

Hollywood paid him the compliment of
envy and imitation. Variety reported he

had started a new trend, and noted, "Cur-
rent disc market is apparently wide open
for names not primarily known as singers."
"Mr. No Talent" had become, most em-
phatically, "Mr. Double Talent."

With Dean Jones, it was his voice which
won him his movie contract. And, if
M-G-M plans materialize, he'll be tomor-
row's Nelson Eddy, playing the romantic
lead in musical pictures.

Born in Decatur, Alabama, he was a
high-school freshman when his voice de-
veloped into a full, rich baritone. For his
own enjoyment and that of his listeners,
Dean sang at school and church programs.
At 17, the handsome six-footer became
president of the Methodist Church Youth
Organization in North Alabama. For a
time he wondered if he had "a call," and
took over the pulpit of a church which
had no minister.

Torn between his desire to go into the
church and his wish to act, he enrolled at
Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky.
Later, Navy service swung the balance.
Stationed at San Diego, he worked on
service TV shows and won amateur com-
petitions. When his tour of duty was over,
he was knee-deep in show business.
M-G-M, on signing him, made him the
first of their players to be permitted to
appear on network television. To popu-
larize him as a star, he will make eight
NBC- TV appearances, six of them on the
Steve Alien Show. On M-G-M recordings,
he sings with a sincere warmth. Recent
discs are "The Gypsy in My Soul" and
"Young and In Love."

Dean finds his personal inspiration in a
happy family. He married "Miss San
Diego" — Mae Entwisle — in 1952, and they
have two young children.

Movies, TV and recording dates will
make 1957 an important year for Dean
Jones. Ready to claim a well-starred fu-
ture, the Decatur, Alabama lad is one to
watch.

South Philadelphia seems to have be-
come a special sort of nursery for singers
and song writers. To the names of Eddie
Fisher, Johnny Grande of Bill Haley's
Comets, Mario Lanza, Joe Valino, Frankie
Lester and Dick Lee, you can now add one
spectacular newcomer, Charlie Gracie, and
one dark horse, Eddie Dano.

Charlie Gracie, young though he is, has
been in show business long enough to
take applause and autographs in his stride.
But his eyes popped when he saw this
year's first-quarter royalty check. "I
darn near fainted," he says. "How could
there be so much money?"

Charlie's private money-mill was pow-
ered by two recordings. He wrote "Ninety-
Nine Ways" and recorded it, too. Tab
Hunter's "cover" was the big click, but
Charlie raked in royalties. Then, shortly,
Charlie's singing topped his own song. His
Cameo platter of "Butterfly" replaced
"Ninety-Nine Ways" at the top of the
charts. "It just took off," Charlie says.

It was a high triumph, for Charlie in-
herited his desire to entertain from his
father. Sam Gracie, whose performing
career was blocked by the Depression,
taught Charlie to play and sing. Then
Pops Whiteman came along with his TV
teen show, out of Philadelphia, and Charlie
won it five times. He turned down college
scholarships to concentrate on show busi-
ness. "Being on Ed Sullivan's show was
most exciting," he says. "I was scared stiff
inside, but it was good for me."

Home in the old neighborhood, Charlie
is still one of the gang. He likes sports
clothes — "I'll bet I've got ten red shirts" —
but also likes to "dress up and go formal."

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He hopes to buy a new house for his
family and eventually one for himself.
"I'm not ready to get serious yet, but
when I do, I want a home-type girl. I'm
home so seldom that, when I am, I want
a real home waiting for me."

The second South Philadelphia singer,
Eddie Dano, has the voice, the ambition,
the personality to score a big hit, once
he finds the right song. He was discov-
ered, of all places, working in the cata-
logue department of RCA Victor in New
York, during a Christmas party. "Every-
one was singing," says Eddie, "and, when
they asked me to, I sounded off. I love
to sing. It didn't matter to me there was
no piano, no music, no nothing."

Luck hit, just like in the movies. Manny
Sachs, then head of the recording com-
pany, drifted by. Had it been the movies,
Mr. Sachs would have rushed Eddie right
down to a studio and shouted for engi-
neers. In real life, the process is slower.
He advised Eddie to study and to play
club dates to get the feel of an audience.
Last fall, they had a Vik contract ready
for him. He has been on the Don McNeill,
Robert Q. Lewis and Robert Montgomery
shows. He's due for a new record release
soon. Says Eddie, "I sure could use a hit.
My dad, who used to drive a taxi, now has
arthritis and can't work. I'm sole sup-
port of the family. But I'm going to get
there. Every club date I play teaches me
that much more." Bunny Fisher, Eddie
Fisher's younger brother, is one of his
pals. He has seen what changes a hit can
make for an entire family. Eddie Dano is
determined there will be two top singing
Eddies from South Philadelphia.

Also in the "ready to go" class is Bill
Carey, who can croon a ballad, belt out a
rock 'n' roller or moan a blues with the
best of them. His springtime release for
Savoy, "The Padre of Old San Antone,"
backed with "You've Broken My Heart,"
fluttered but did not fly. He hopes that
a blues which he wrote himself, "Beyond
the Shadow of a Doubt," will be his sum-
mer contender for hit-parade honors.

Back home in Chicago, Bill's vocal ca-
reer began forcibly. The band at a fra-
ternity dance had no vocalist. Pals con-
verged on Bill and literally tossed him on
stage.

His Chicago TV shows and recordings
were done under his own name, Bill Snary.
New Yorkers, he found, habitually mis-
spelled it, so he did a slight revision to
* Carey."

Those first Manhattan days were rigor-
ous. He was making the rounds when he
ran into another Chicagoan, Jim Lowe,
who was having no better luck. Pooling
resources, they took an apartment and got
out of depressing single hotel rooms.
Working together, they almost made it
with "Witch on the Mountain," which Bill
wrote and Jim recorded. Jim, now on
WCBS, clicked with "Green Door" and—
with the same kind of rivalry which can
put two pals on a basketball team— Bill
feels he, too, has a big one upcoming.

Double-date-wise, they're enough to give
any girl schizophrenia. Said one young
lady, "I never knew which one I had the
worst crush on. They're so handsome, so
alike, so different . . ."

Both are six-two and broad-shouldered.
Both have curly hair, but Jim's is blond
and his mischievous blue eyes twinkle.
Bill is dark, with olive skin and dreamy
brown eyes. In their lean days, they wore
each other's clothes — and doubled their
effective wardrobe.

As joyous a pair of bachelors as ever
teamed up to go girling around Manhattan,
the two now occupy a swank Sutton Place
apartment. Friends predict that, for Bill,
as well as for Jim, there's many a hit rec-
ord still behind that Green Door.

In today's wide-open recording race,
even the lollipop set has its own particular
hero. He's Scott Engel, 13, who still likes
his model airplanes but is just discover-
ing girls. Scott, who gathered his own
fan clubs while appearing as star of
George Scheck's Star Time on ABC-TV,
belts out his first recording in a big voice.
Appropriately, his RKO-Unique platter is
entitled, "When Is a Boy a Man?"

Scott himself has been doing a man-
sized job ever since he was five, when he
simultaneously learned to ride a horse,
sing a song and act his first role in a Texas
production of "Ten Nights in a Barroom."
He acquired more dignified credits on
Broadway. His first role was in "Plain
and Fancy," followed by "Pipe Dream."

While still calling Denver, Colorado, his
home, he shares a New York apartment
with his mother. Scott's room is filled
with model aircraft and cars he has as-
sembled and drawings he has made. He
took to his first song-plugging tour heart-
ily. It afforded him not only an oppor-
tunity to meet disc jockeys, but also to get
out to visit friends in Ohio who had a big
farm. Scott made the most of it. His one
objection to Manhattan is: "It's no place to
own a dog, ride a horse or shoot a gun.
I'm the outdoor type."

Johnny Mathis, one of the best athletes
ever to come out of the San Francisco
public-school system, learned to soar on
the high jump. His six-feet, five-and-a-
half-inch record has been duplicated only
four times in Olympic history. In music,
too, Johnny has set his sights high. When
his Columbia recordings, "Warm and
Tender" and "Wonderful, Wonderful,"
went into the popularity charts, Johnny
took the news in stride. "Sure, I'd like a
hit, but I'd rather develop into a distinc-
tive, dynamic personality. Someone like
Nat 'King' Cole, Sinatra, Lena Home or
Belafonte."

Aided by Bob Prince, his arranger and
general advisor, Johnny chooses his songs
carefully. "If it is musically good, if it is
sincere, it will be easy to sing and easy
to keep on doing."

Appearance in the movie, "Lizzie," was
a step upward, but his biggest boost came
right from his own family. Johnny is
number four among the six Mathis chil-
dren. His father, Clem, now an interior
decorator, was once a song- and- dance
man. "Dad taught us all his routines.
We'd have a ball." Johnny, dressed up in
his best sports coat, earned many a five-
dollar fee "from Ladies' Leagues and
things like that," but refused early offers
to turn pro, either as a musician or ath-
lete. "None of them was worth quitting
school to take." At San Francisco State
College, he majored in physical educa-
tion.

He also studied classical music. Irrev-
erently, he referred to one of the most
august of masters as "Dick Wagner," pro-
voking frantic shouts from his teacher,
"You pronounce it 'Reekard Vaagner'!"
However, Johnny's pal "Dick," with his
voice-taxing arias, taught Johriny to sweep
from his highest voice range to his lowestT "
Johnny used this technique in "Caravan"
— "There's a lot of satisfaction in doing a
difficult piece well." Columbia's peri-
patetic producer of pop albums, George
Avakian, who signed Johnny, says, "He
can do as many different things as four
very different singers might — and do them
all well . . . there's tenderness in 'Autumn
in Rome,' violence in 'Babalu,' exoticism
in 'Caravan,' and downright rhythm-and-
blues in 'Angel Eyes.' His improvisational
flights in all tempos are a reflection of his
awareness of modern jazz."

Johnny's goal for a distinguished mus-
ical career interferes, he admits, with his
personal wish for the warm family life he

has always known. When he dares choose
a wife, he thinks it will be a career girl.
"They're more independent. Their minds
aren't so easily changed. It takes more
persuasion before they're ready to marry
a guy." Above all, his girl has to be a
lady: "They've found out that a girl can
be beautiful in so many ways. Such a girl
is more interesting. You always discover
new things about her."

Is there any particular girl? Johnny
admits a certain little Manhattan secre-
tary has him worried. "That Joan Wright
. . . we go to dinner, or bicycle riding in
the park . . . well, sometimes I have to re-
mind myself I haven't yet got where I
want to get in music. . . ."

Both discouragements and approval help
define a singer's style. Eddie Cochran,
the Oklahoma-born, Minnesota-reared
Californian who gave many teenagers
their song in "Sittin' in the Balcony," still
bristles about "that glee club deal." Says
Eddie, "This teacher didn't dig the music
I was singing. He gave me a bad time,
man. He wanted me to sing all this long-
hair stuff he was trying to teach me."

Eddie already knew how he wanted to
sound. "My brothers, sisters, dad and
mother liked to hear me sing. We used to
sing around the house. Home singing is
happy singing."

As an exuberant guitar player, he sat in
on recording dates of others. Song writer
Jerry Capehart, his personal manager,
sent him solo to Liberty Records with
"Twenty Flight Rock"— "then they called
me and asked if I'd be kind enough to do
a part in the movie "The Girl Can't Help
It.' It just about knocked me out. Every-
body was real great to me." Acclaim
brings problems: "You go all these places
and all these people are buttering you up
. . . the girls screaming and all. It's not
easy to keep your feet on the ground,
man." While he has worked for his suc-
cess, he also thinks he's lucky. "I feel
kind of bad about some who have been
in it longer than me, and trying hard,
that don't make it." Eddie, young as he
is, tries to take a long view. "We're just
regular people, so when this deal came
along — why, we just looked at it as some-
thing else."

Bob Roubian, too, takes a stoutly mat-
ter-of-fact view. Although Prep Records,
which launched his "Rocket to the Moon"
and "Paper Moon," considers him one of
its most promising artists, colorful Bob
maintains, "I'm in the fish business." And
indeed he is. Once a mathematics major
at Pomona Junior College, he now owns
a restaurant, "The Crab Cooker," at New-
port Beach, near Hollywood, where mu-
sicians such as Johnny Mercer and Coun-
try Washburn enjoy both good food and
jam sessions. Bob writes music and sings
in a big, booming voice. "I like good
jazz. The kind you get on Basin Street
and Bergen Street in New Orleans."

His father, a contractor, is Armenian;
his mother, an Italian. Negroes moved
into their area in Pasadena. "That's where
my music started. I'd go to their churches
to listen. They preach a lyric. I am so
happy to feel the rhythm the colored peo-
ple do. I intend to write like them." His
"Popcorn Song," recorded with Clime
Stone's aid, sold half a million. Now his
way is opening: "I have a lot of faith my
dreams will come true."

George Hamilton IV, age 19, is another
who has found dreams can come true. As
a student at the University of North
Carolina, he was working part-time at
WTOB-TV when he recorded his friend
Johnny Dee's song for Colonial. His ap-
pearance on the Arthur Godfrey shows
gave it a national hearing. "A Rose and
a Baby Ruth" sold 100,000 records in two
days and ABC-Paramount bought the
master. George scored again with "Only

One Love." He now is heard on CBS-TV's
Jimmy Dean Show.

His numerical name has provoked many
questions. Says George, "My mother had
to get me a copy of the family tree so that
I could answer them. The Hamiltons
came from Edinburgh, Scotland. The first
to be born in America was Alexander Ho-
ratio in 1756." He also can chart the
course of his own ambition: "As a kid I
thought Gene Autry was the living end."
Hank Williams was next. "I always lis-
tened to Grand Ole Opry on Saturday
nights." His reaction to his own sudden
rise is on the cool side. He lives in a
rooming house in a Washington suburb,
dislikes big cities and much prefers driv-
ing up into the mountains or seeing a
show with his girlfriend, Tinky, to going
to night clubs.

J ohnny Cash has Big River blues in
his voice . . . and the sound of the prairie
wind. On his guitar, he plays "an old
standard country beat with the rhythm
accented and intensified." But, in this,
his listeners find the drive of America on
the go ... to work, to war, to love — and,
sometimes, just to go. His song titles,
too, carry the theme: "I Walk the Line,"
"There You Go," "Next in Line," "Train
of Love," "So Doggone Lonesome," "Don't
Make Me Go."

Intense, talented Johnny has a right to
be the apostle of the uprooted. Kingsland,
Arkansas, was grim, heartbreaking coun-
try when Johnny was born February 26,
1932. With the aid of a rehabilitation
program, the family moved to forty acres
near Dyess. They found no fortune, but
they always sang. At 18, he enlisted in
the Air Force and met his girl "sixteen
nights before I was sent to Germany for
three years." Upon his return, they were
married. In Memphis, Johnny tried to
sell home appliances. He was "doing very
bad" when he went over to Sun Records,
around the corner from Beale Street, to
ask Sam Phillips (the man who discovered
Elvis Presley) for an audition. Sam, un-
impressed by Johnny's hymn singing, sug-
gested he try writing his own songs — he
had had some poems published in Stars
and Stripes. Johnny produced "Cry, Cry,
Cry," and "Hey, Porter." His friends,
Luther Perkins and Marshall Grant,
backed him on guitar and bass. Today,
the three are in demand for TV and per-
sonal appearances.

A song evolves by lonely stages for
Johnny. Out on the road with a show, he
gets homesick. Scraps of words and bits
of music "come into my head. Then, when
I get home, I fish maybe forty, fifty
scraps of paper — my notes — out of my
pockets and go to work. Then maybe
I get a tune."

Many a young hopeful follows the same
song-writing formula. Touring rock 'n'
roll and hillbilly shows give the boys a
chance to try out their tunes before an
audience of their own age. If a little
studio then cuts a few discs and the tune
takes off, both singer and studio are on
their way to a fortune.

That's the individual side of it — star-
tling, exciting, life-changing for the lucky
ones. The collective effect is overpower-
ing. About 150 new recordings — 300 songs
— are being released each week. If the
kids like the tune, it's made, whatever
its label. Trade publications such as
Variety, Billboard and The Cash Box call
it an unprecedented "grass-roots move-
ment," a musical revolution in which the
kid next door has almost as much chance
for a hit as the professional tunesmith or
big-name singer.

The field's wide open. Anyone can win
— if he has the talent and personality that
speak to America's teenagers in rhythms
which pulse with their own heartbeat.

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535 — Make your guest linens dainty and lovely.
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508 — Three graceful medallions with wide
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7003 — Gay patchwork quilt is thrifty and easy.
Use scraps. Three simple patches repeated
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Pattern, charts, directions. 250

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RADIO
MIRROR

SEPTEMBER, 1957

ATLANTIC EDITION

VOL. 48, NO. 4

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

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

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

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

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 10

Ed Sullivan's Travels by Mrs. Ed Sullivan 17

Young Man in a Hurry (Jay Barney) by Diane Isola 20

Meet the Quiz Kings Face to Face! by Frances Kish 22

Interview Subject: Mike Wallace by Gregory Merwin 26

He's Walkin' on Air (Ricky Nelson) by Fredda Balling 28

Try These Recipes by Kathryn Murray 30

Hilltop House (Fiction Bonus based on the popular daytime drama) ... 44

Come to the Aid of Your Party (The Mace School) . .by Mary Temple 46

Keeping Up With The Dick Joneses by Gordon Budge 50

Grand Ole Opry 52

A Dog's Life (Lassie ) 58

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

Sal Mineo's Really Moving by Helen Bolstad 32

Three's the Most! (The McGuire Sisters) by Martin Cohen 34

A Slightly Reformed Character (Spike Jones).... by Maurine Remenih 38

He Will Never Be a Has-Been! (Elvis Presley) by Eunice Field 40

YOUR LOCAL STATION

Spinning Around (WORD 6

From Borsht to Caviar (WWDC) 8

The Record Players: Ambassador Satch by Al Collins 12

All for Glamour (Debra Paget— NT A Film Network) 14

Morsels for Thought (WCSH, WCSH-TV) ; . . . 59

Your Pal Pallan (KDKA) 60

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

Information Booth 13

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 15

Movies on TV 16

Beauty: One Look — Two Ways (The Terry Twins) ..by Harriet Segman 57

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 68

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 80

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 88

Cover portrait of Ricky Nelson courtesy of ABC-TV

BUY YOUR OCTOBER ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE SEPTEMBER S

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O The Conqueror's Wife (129)

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• Print

WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST

By PETER ABBOTT

Schoolteacher Dorothy Olsen named that tune and hit the jackpot
— a long-term pact for Bandstand with Skitch Henderson, Bert Parks.

When Peter, the pride of Candy and Hal March,
grows up, he can see Dad's new movie as a TV oldie.

My million-dollar guy, says newlywed
Lynn Dollar of husband Doug Rodgers.

For What's New On
The West Coast, See Page H

Love, Anyone? Lovely Janette Davis
is prettier than ever, wearing that dia-
mond rock in the Tiffany setting. The
lucky guy, Frank Musiello, is one of
Godfrey's exec-producers. Frank and
Jan have been working closely since
she became producer of Talent Scouts.
Matter of fact, they've had adjoining
offices, but no one knew that Cupid
was playing the office boy. Jan will
get married without flourish and sud-
denly. "Right now," says Jan, "I'm
just getting used to being engaged.
It's such a wonderful feeling, I want
to hang onto it for a while." . . . And
Joyce Van Patten, who plays Janice
Turner in As The World Turns, is
likely any time to up and marry Marty
Balsam, Gablish-looking actor who's
been in such productions as "Middle
of the Night," "Twelve Angry Men,"
"Waterfront," etc. Joyce, herself, is
kind of wedded to the theater. Her
mother, Jo Van Patten, is a theatrical
agent, and her brother Dick has a
featured part in TV's Mama series.
Twenty-two-year-old Joyce has been
honored with the Donaldson Award
for Broadway performances. Present-
ly, she is in the hit, "A Hole in the
Head," as a sexy wench who unnerves
Paul Douglas. This month, around

Manhattan, she begins work in a new
Paddy Chayefsky movie. Busy, yes,
but about the time leaves begin turn-
ing, bells should be ringing for Marty
and Joyce. . . . And should we men-
tion that Tommy Sands and cute Ann
Leonardo, both Californians, met in
New York and then had dinner to-
gether? More than once. "Strictly
social-business," Ann says and adds
that her kind-of-steady boyfriend is
a medical student from back home in
Fresno. Tommy's semi-steady con-
tinues to be Molly Bee, which he has
confirmed with a double-diamond
friendship ring. (Note: Tommy will
be twenty on August 27th. Bet he's
married before he's twenty-one.)

Quick Passes: The new Art Carney
comedy series has Art as a bachelor
harried by mommy. ... As stated
before, Pat Boone does not give up
easily. Father of three li'l gals, he's
hoping the fourth, due late Febru-
ary, will be male. . . . TV's Paul Win-
chell, along with his sawdust cronies,
has recorded a delightful new musical
version of "Pinocchio" for Decca. . . .
And Paul's close friend, Dennis
James, is trying to sell a TV show
titled, What Makes You Tick?, in

COAST

which studio viewers volunteer to
undergo a series of questions and tests
for bravery, intelligence, etc. . . . Good
prospects for a regular Billy Graham
TV show this season. . . . And good-
looking Janet Blair negotiating to do
specs since demise of Caesar show.
. . . Terry O'Sullivan, Jan Miner's
spouse, being considered for singing
lead in Broadway musical. . . . And
Jayne Meadows asks for plug for new
Coral cooky by the McGuire Sisters,
titled, "But I Haven't Got Him."
Lyrics are by Jayne's husband, Steve
Allen. Who's him?

Bashful Buster : He's got curly brown
hair, baby-blue eyes and he's Casey
Tibbs, 27-year-old world's champion
bronco-buster. Casey stars in Gen-
eral Mills' big televised rodeo over
CBS-TV on September 14th. A shy
bachelor, Casey, since the age of ten,
has been taming colts that act as if
they're full of Sugar Jets. He has
earned over $250,000 in prize money
which he has put into Lincoln auto-
mobiles and joyful living. He played
himself opposite Brandon de Wilde
on Screen Directors' Playhouse, was
so good that he was called back to
make a pilot film for a new TV series,
Indian Scout. With a past that in-
cludes ten, broken ribs, a thrice-
cracked ankle, fractured jaw and
mangled shoulder ligament, Casey is
getting ready to settle down. He
bought himself a ranch of seven thou-
sand acres (kind of garden-size) for
a beginning at Mission Ridge, South
Dakota, and is lacking only a haus-
frau. So case Casey and remember
he's very shy.

Million-dollar Guy: Lynn Dollar,
beautiful hostess on $64,000 Question
and Weather Gal for New York's
WRCA-TV, was reported around
town with Vic Mature, Pete Forestall,
Vince Scully, etc., but turned tables
on them all and married Doug Rodg-
ers on July 14. Doug, an actor, has
worked on Matinee Theater, Chey-
enne. Says Lynn, "He is a million-
dollar guy — tall, dark, very handsome
and very talented." Doug has a six-
three physique that was voted the
best in his graduating class at An-
napolis. Since leaving the Navy, Doug
has worked as radio and TV producer
and director, then played a lead in
"Plain and Fancy." He began courting
Lynn better than a year ago. Says
Lynn, "We knew we were serious
when we began to speculate about the
kind of kids we might have since both
of us have Indian blood. Doug's is
Penobscot and mine's Sioux." Lynn,

Songbird Janette Davis, now Talent Scouts producer, only had to look as far as
an adjoining office to find romance with Frank Musiello, who's a Godfreyite, too.

born Florence Anderson, has two am-
bitions— to be an Arlene Francis-type
femcee and make a good home. "I like
informality and will furnish in 'early
nothing'!" And she wants babies.
"Children don't interfere much with
a TV career," she notes. "All you
have to do is raise the camera and no
one but the studio crew knows that
you're pregnant."

Summer Stew: Barry Sullivan got
himself a good way to make a living.
Barry stars in the prime new series,
Harbourmaster, which replaces Bob
Cummings' show on NBC -TV next
month, with R. J. Reynolds as sponsor.
The sequences are being shot off the
beautiful coast of Gloucester, Mass.,
on a 30-foot boat. . . . And, speaking of
making hay in the sunshine, Victor
Borge bought himself a piece of Den-
mark that includes a castle and 15,000
apple trees. Meanwhile, at his Con-
necticut poultry farm, he has devel-
oped a new product called "Mink's
Mix." It's an animal food and, if you
can't afford to buy a mink stole, you
might consider buying Victor's prod-
uct and do-it-yourself. . . . Madeleine
Carroll returns from her Spanish
castle end of this month and goes live

again on NBC's Affairs Of Dr. Gentry.
She bought her castle during the
Spanish Civil War and everyone
thought she was crazy, expecting the
government would confiscate it, but
they didn't. Every summer she and
her husband spend six weeks in the
castle. Her moat is a mere two-and-
a-half miles of Mediterranean.

That Jones Boy: Dean of the Jones
Boys, M-G-M recording and movie
artist, is a test case. He's their first
star to get a video build-up and
M-G-M has contracted with NBC for
Dean to make a half-dozen appear-
ances this year. That accounts for his
guesting with Dinah and Steve. Ed
Sullivan first tried to get Dean, but
then M-G-M was nixing TV. Visiting
Manhattan, Dean talked frankly about
why he gave up the ministry. "I didn't
feel that I had the call. I enjoyed
preaching as a lay minister. I would
have been the seventh generation of
preachers, but I couldn't feel fervent
about it. It was really singing that I
wanted to do." Dean, tall and hand-
some, is prime star material. You have
seen or can see him in the films "Tea
and Sympathy," "Ten Thousand Bed-
rooms" and, (Continued on page 7)

Three to make merry — Steven, Norm and Joan — the Tulins build boats and, come summer, sail 'em.

Anyone who knows
beans about Boston
knows that WORUs
Norm Tulin is tops

SPINNING AROUND

The boss thinks I'm a wit," shrugs Norm Tulin, "and who's to argue
with the boss?" Nobody argues — least of all the pleased-as-punch
Pilgrims who tune in to Norm daily from 6 to 9 A.M. on Boston's
Station WORL. They get an earful of the aforementioned "wit," as
well as what Norm calls "music to needle the noodle." This is perhaps
best explained as "standards" or the new instrumental by the bands
of Count Basie, Dick Maltby, Ralph Marterie, Percy Faith and Hugo
Winterhalter. When words are put to the music, Norm likes them
sung by Frank Sinatra, Kay Starr or Patti Page. He's also receptive
to the newer sounds being made by such groups as the Hi-Lo's and the
Conley Graves Trio. . . . Norm's work never becomes "humdrum"
to him — or his listeners. He was the first deejay to do an international
record hop. Norm accomplished this when a small Piper Clipper
flew him, his records, and Jerry Vale to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to do the
first record hop at the Dalhousie University gymnasium. In the
same Piper Clipper, Norm did the first record hop from an airplane.
This was last July, when he broadcast from the plane, buzzing the
beaches of Cape Cod and answering record requests written out on
the sand. . . . Norm's career may find him flying high now, but it all
began with his feet firmly planted on a platform at an American Legion
Oratorical Contest which Norm won when he was a high-school
senior in Hartford, Connecticut. This was the "spark," says Norm,
who went on from there to major in speech at Emerson College. He
won an A.B. degree in 1951, then spent two years with the Army Signal
Corps. In Korea, he was officer-in-charge of Radio Seoul. . . . While
at Emerson College, Norm attended a sociology class and heard a pretty
speech-therapy major deliver a lecture on the male animal. Happy
to find someone who understood him, and also looked that good, Norm
married Joan three years ago. They have an heir named Steven
Randy, and Norm reports that he inherits Joan's good looks and that
the timbre of his one-year-old wail is appreciated by everyone in
their Wellesley Hills, Massachusetts neighborhood. The Tulins have
a seven-room, split-level ranch house and Norm has been spending
much of his spare time finishing off the pine-paneled basement play-
room. When not thus engaged, his hobby is building small speedboats
and sailing larger sailboats. On land, on the sea or in the air, Norm
Tulin is undeniably a wit. So who's arguing?

?ia

■H

WHAT'S NEW— EAST

(Continued jrom page 5)

to come, "The Boy Friend." His latest
M-G-M recording, an exciting one, is the
theme from the movie, "Gunsight Ridge,"
and it is Dean you also hear on the sound-
track. Dean has a very beautiful wife, a
runner-up for title of Miss California, and
two very young daughters. While travel-
ing, Dean writes home daily. He says,
openly, "I write every day because I can't
afford long-distance phone calls. Every-
thing is so expensive I've got to be thrifty
in some ways."

Mr. M & Mr. M: Hal and Garry are two
of the nicest guys in the business. Both
are old acquaintances from California
Gold Rush Days when Mr. Moore teamed
with Durante and Mr. March with
Sweeney. Every once in a while, their
paths cross. For example, Garry turned
down $64,000 Question before Hal even
auditioned for the show. Garry was doing
so well with the morning stanza that he
didn't feel he needed the quiz. Hal, how-
ever, was just making the transition from
radio to TV. $64,000 Etc. fit him like a
glove and, just being himself, he was an
overnight sensation. This month, Hal re-
turns from Hollywood after making a
movie, "Hear Me Good," and he will sub
for Garry all of August as emcee of Tve
Got A Secret, in addition to doing $64, etc.
Hal moves into his rented home in New
Rochelle and is delighted to get back. He
wasn't very pleased to be separated from
Candy just a couple of weeks after his
first baby arrived. The baby, Peter
Lindsey, delivered by $64,000-winner Dr.
Francis Salvatore, weighed in at five
pounds and thirteen ounces. Hal was so
thrilled he presented Candy with an un-
usual gold charm. It is a gold carving of
Candy holding the baby in her arms. The
charm is circled with freshwater pearls
and inscribed, "Darling, we love you and
thank you, Peter and Daddy."

Clipping Along: Como's big problem on
vacation is keeping his weight down. . . .
Perry's sub, Julie La Rosa, keeps his black
Caddy purring at the stage door so he and
Rory can head out to his parents' beach
home. . . . Milton Berle wants $52,000
for his new half-hour comedy series.
That's $52,000 for each week's episode. . . .
Patti Page gets $30,000 a week to spend
for singers on The Big Record when it
preems next month. . . . Hal Holbrook,
who plays Grayfing Dennis of The Brighter
Day, journeys to Hannibal, Missouri, late
this month to do his famed impersonation
of Mark Twain on Tom Sawyer Day. . . .
Wonderful success story is that of Dorothy
Olsen, schoolteacher and Name That Tune
winner in 1955. With no pro experience,
she cut a couple kid records for RCA
Victor, made appearances on Ding Dong
School, then, this past spring, joined
Skitch Henderson and Bert Parks on
NBC's Bandstand. She has so ingratiated
herself with the public that, this June,
NBC gave her a long-term contract. "And
with so little fanfare," she says. "I just
got a phone call and was told, 'You've
been with us since March and we'd like
to keep you around and want to negotiate
a year's contract with you.' " And that's
how success came to Dorothy Olsen.

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One word from Fred and the mail pours in. Promoting a
clock-radio giveaway, he heard from some 75,000 listeners.

He snubs the idea of

a smash success, but Fred Fiske

of WWDC has gone

From Borsht
to Caviar

When Dame Fortune winked a mascaraed eye,
Fred Fiske played hard to get. "I don't want
to be a smash success," Fred announced when he
was promoted to his own deejay shows on Wash-
ington's Station WWDC. "I merely want to be a
pleasant guy to be with every day. There are guys
in radio and television who are great big hits.
Then they die. I'd rather be the guy who lasts."
. . . That was three years ago and Fred seems to
have had it both ways — in a lasting success. He's
heard Monday through Saturday from 10 to noon
on The Fred Fiske Show and from 1 to 4 P.M. on
Club 1260. For the time periods he's on, he's rated
Number One deejay in the capital and he's rated,
too, in Pulse's Top Ten Daytime Shows. . . . Fred's
earliest ambition was to be a schoolteacher and
he believes he hasn't strayed very far afield. "The
kids listen to their favorite platter spinners more
and for longer hours than they listen to their
teachers," he explains. "And, by indirection, a
radio performer must help mold the personality of
the younger generation." . . . Fred has made the
full circuit from borsht to caviar, with a stopover
at the martini avenue known as Madison. At thirty-
six, he's an "old timer" in show business. He got
an early start when, at the age of fifteen, he took
a summer job as a stagehand in a Catskill Moun-
tain resort. Before the month was out, he was on
stage as a straight man to such young and "un-
known" comics as Danny Kaye, Red Buttons,
Henny Youngman and Gene Baylos, all of whom
were working for eats and experience. Actors
have to be versatile in the Borsht Belt and the
teen-age Fred also found himself playing an Army
general in a production of Irwin Shaw's "Bury
the Dead." ... At summer's end, he combined
studies at Brooklyn's Lincoln High School with
roles in such daytime dramas as Young Dr. Malone,

Politicos or performers, Fred has shared his mike with
most of them. Here, he chats with actor-singer Tab Hunter.

Teenagers crowded the studio to celebrate Fred's sixth
birthday on WWDC. He has an Old Timers Club, too.

Perry Mason and Just Plain Bill. He continued his
radio work while he earned a B.A. in Speech and
Education at Brooklyn College. After service in
the Air Force, he taught speech at his old alma
mater, Lincoln High, eai-ned an M.A. in Speech at
Columbia University's Teachers College, and re-
turned to radio. It was the time when "returning
veteran" plays were all over the dial and Fred
played these roles on many of the top shows.
When the vogue died out, Fred found that he was
typed. He decided to stay out of drama until
producers could forget him as a "returning vet-
eran." . . . He landed a radio job in Lexington,
Kentucky, and was returning from there to New
York in 1947 when he stopped off in Washington
for one day. "Just for kicks," he took auditions at
three stations and found himself with three job
offers as an announcer. He took the one with WOL
and, when WWDC purchased that station's oper-
ation, he and morning-man Art Brown were the
only two personalities they kept on. Fred was
heard on Reporters' Roundup, mangled the Eng-
lish language as the Capitol Hillbilly, and then
launched his record shows. . . . Much in demand
as an emcee and toastmaster, Fred avoids com-
mercial events and appears free of charge at
legitimate public service and civic functions. "I
make my living through radio," he says, "and it
would be indecent to charge people who are kind
to me." . . . Fred and his wife Ruth have two
children, Peggy, 3, and Warren, 2. Peggy's the
first to react to her father's occupation and can be
heard explaining to playmates "how Daddy fits
into the radio in the car." Striking proof of Fred's
"success" is the Fiskes' brick Colonial home in
Chevy Chase, Maryland. The house features five
bedrooms and an equal number of baths. Grins
Fred, "Brooklyn was never like this."

If this be success, then Fred, his wife Ruth and young
piggy-back riders Peggy and Warren make the most of it.

WHAT'S NEW ON THE WEST COAST

By BUD GOODE

Lassie meets Jon Provost, a seven-
year-old "veteran" who'll join show.

Ernie and Betty Ford enjoy a night
out just before pop got the measles!

For fan-clubbers, the arrow wasn't
Michael Ansara's or John Lupton's.

News Beat: Molly Bee, 17-year-old,
plays her first love scene with hand-
some young Rod McKuen in Univer-
sal-International's "Summer Love." Is
it summer love? When Tommy Sands
returned after four weeks of knock-
ing 'em dead at New York's Roxy
Theater, he gave Molly a "friendship"
ring. She wears it on the pinky of
her left hand. "Friendship Ring," a
good title for a love song? . . . Speak-
ing of singing, Hugh O'Brian has
recorded his first album for the ABC-
Paramount label, "Wyatt Earp Sings."
After the session, Hugh was nervous,
didn't like the way he sounded. But
press agent Joe Hoenig says, "Wyatt,
I mean Hugh, is really good. I was
pleasantly surprised." Actor-dancer-
singer O'Brian can now be billed as
the baritone with the fastest draw. . . .
For the first time in fifteen years, Eve
Arden changed the color of her hair —
to red. It's for her new video series,
which of course is in black and white.

On the Links: Art Linkletter's son
Jack has set the date, December 21,
when he and young UCLA physical -
education major, Bobbie Hughes, will
wed. Meantime, Jack is continuing
on his dad's CBS-TV and Radio
House Party show, Bobbie coaches
the kids at Griffith Park, and both are
in Prof. Peterson's marriage class. . . .
Art recently returned from his vaca-
tion and trip to the Far East. While
in Japan he and Lois didn't stay at the
more standard tourist hotel. Instead,
they picked a small Japanese hotel
where the custom is to remove shoes
when entering the lobby. Practical-
minded Art took the idea home — three
pairs of shoes belonging to the three
youngest Links — Robert, Sharon and
Dianne — now rest on the back porch.
Says Art, "Keeps the carpet clean."
. . . Next season, Art, with producer
John Guedel, will do six specs for
CBS, to be called "People and Places."
One will deal with all those wonderful
millionaires down Dallas way. Which
reminds Art of the gag about the poor
Texan who owned only 30 acres — the
heart of Houston.

Doctors' Dilemmas: Concussion is
not the title of a new TV series, but a
near-tragedy for pretty Kathy Nolan
who appears in the new ABC -TV se-
ries, The Real McCoys. While filming
one of the shows with star Walter
Brennan, Kathy made a hasty exit,
ran into a prop door, found it was the
real McCoy. Kathy's pretty head hit
the concrete floor with a loud crash.
She spent the next ten days at Cedars
of Lebanon Hospital. Happy to report,
Kathy is back on the job — with a

healthy respect for all "prop" doors

Tennessee Ernie thought his young
son Buck was about to catch the

measles from younger son Brion. To
lessen the impact of each little measle,
Ernie and wife Betty took Buck to
the doctor for a shot of gamma globu-
lin. Buck howled; but it was worth it
— he never broke out. Just before his
vacation — Ernie did.

Cupid's Unbroken Arrow: Hugh
O'Brian publishes a Wyatt Earp
newspaper avidly read by his fans.
Each issue contains a rundown on
some other Western star. Recently,
features have appeared about Clint
Cheyenne Walker and John Lupton,
star of Broken Arrow. Somehow, as a
result of the Lupton story, the presi-
dent of his fan club, Roy St. John,
met the president of Hugh O'Brian's
fan club, Irene Jackson. They found
they had much more in common than
fan club presidencies and, after a
brief courtship, were married! Seems
Cupid shoots straight, too. . . . Speak-
ing of John Lupton, he and his wife
Anne are about to buy their first
home in picturesque Mandeville Can-
yon. What's holding them back? The
baby-sitter problem. In their present
apartment, neighbor Beverly Gar-
land has developed into an ace, num-
ber-one sitter and they're reluctant to
give her up. Recently, John and Anne
celebrated their first wedding anni-
versary, combined with the celebra-
tion of their first night out since
Rollin was born. Naturally, Beverly
was the sitter. Everybody had a ball,
including Beverly, who dearly loves
little Rollin and who would hate to
see the Luptons move. Answer to the
moving problem: Beverly will be
buying a lot in Mandeville Canyon.

Business and Pleasure: Tony Cur-
tis, bearded for a movie role, visited
London's Palladium to congratulate
Eddie Fisher on his third triumphant
return there. Eddie and spouse Deb-
bie Reynolds subsequently toured Eu-
rope on a talent search for musical
artists and novelties for his hour-long
NBC-TV show this fall. One of the
big prizes they've come up with is
Dickie Valentine, a very popular
British singer. . . . Lawrence Welk
went to England and the Continent,
where he'll do some thinking about
bringing back a new show called
Music For Teenagers, and the details
for an international dance contest —
with winners to come to his Aragon
Ballroom for a dance-off. If this in-
ternational idea is as successful as
his Saturday-night waltz contests, he
could help raise the iron curtain in
three-quarter time. . . . David Niven
also in Europe, combining vacation
with a role in the film "Bonjour Tris-
tesse." Then it's back to join Jane
Powell, Charles Boyer, Robert Ryan
and Jack Lemmon in the new half-

In London, bearded Tony Curtis visits
Eddie Fisher and Dickie Valentine, a
singer Eddie will import for fall TV.

hour Alcoa-Goody ear Playhouse, or
should we say "Five-Star Theater"?

Casting: Hundreds of youngsters
were auditioned before seven-year-
old Jon Provost was chosen to play
the role of "Timmy," a new character
to be introduced in the fall Lassie se-
ries. Blond and blue-eyed, Jon is
forty -four inches tall and weighs
thirty-nine pounds. His four months
in Japan recently marked the com-
pletion of his tenth movie role.
Continuing in the Lassie cast are
fourteen-year-old Tommy Rettig, Jan
Clayton and George Cleveland. But,
after the first thirteen episodes, Tom-
my and Jan will probably be retired
for a new set of characters built
around young Jon. Lassie, of course,
remains. . . . Elvis Presley casts Dean
Martin as his favorite singer; Dean
Martin says Sinatra is his favorite
singer; Sinatra says Pat Boone is the
best of the new crop; and Boone likes
Presley. They go round 'n' round,
but where's Como?

Incidental Intelligence : Dinah Shore
was a star fencer at Vanderbilt Uni-
versity. Dinah goes to the Akron
Soapbox Derby this summer. Does
she expect a Chevrolet to win? Mean-
while, back at her new home, Dinah
is building in a rehearsal hall — so she
can be closer to her children while
working on the series of 20 shows she
has planned for next season. . . .
When maestro Lawrence Welk want-
ed to find out what little Janet Len-
non wanted for her birthday, he
asked Alice Lon to see if she could
cadge the answer, quote, ". . . with-
out being snoopish." . . . The Thalians,
a group of young Hollywood people
taken from all the industry trades,
have joined together to see what they
can do to help the mentally ill, espe-
cially children. Under the guidance
of the newly-elected president, Deb-
bie Reynolds, vice-president Buddy
Bregman, and secretary Sammy
Davis, Jr., they recently voted $5,000
of their hard-earned money to help
disturbed children at Halfway House.
That's the heart of Hollywood.

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

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THE RECORD PLAYERS

This space rotates among
Gene Stuart of WAVZ,
Art Pallan of KDKA,
Bill Mayer of WRCV
and Al "Jazzbo" Collins
of WRCA and NBC

Al: Well, now, The Man is here.
We're saluting the great Louis Arm-
strong— lately of New Orleans and a
little later of the entire world — on his
fortieth anniversary in show business
and music business. Louis, do you
remember the first time that you
knew music had a message for you?
Louis: Well I remember 'way early
back when we used to sing in the
quartets. We used to go two by
two, singing — and somebody would
call us and pass the hat. In 1915,
a kid pulling a dollar and a half the
night, he was making some money!
Al: How about your first cornet job?
Louis: That was in a honky-tonk.
The cornet was one of the old beat-
up ones . . . got out of a pawnshop.
And the cornet man didn't show up.
You know, in those days, a cat'd
liable to wake up and can't get up!
So they said, go get that li'l old boy
out there to blow here. I had just
come out of the orphanage and I had
been taking music there. I had a
brass band and we use to play on
Sundays for the boys to march to
church. I'd play "The Saints."
Al: About your tour . . . when was
the first time you had a European job?
Louis: First time? 1952.
Al: And how has it changed?
Louis: Well, you know, them wars
kind of tore up things a little over
there and none of the countries is the
same. But they're still jumping.
Al: They said in the papers, Louis,
T that your job of spreading the Amer-
v ican word was more effective than
R some of the money they've spent on

Here'show Ambassador Satch looks
on Columbia album of the same
name. Above — it's me, sans beard.

By AL COLLINS

envoys and ambassadors, that you
got the people on a level that had not
been reached before. And you said
that if you could get into Russia,
you'd thaw some of the cats out . . .
Louis: Them Russians, they can
swing. What about "Otchi Tchor-
niya"?

Al: "Dark Eyes." Yeah!
Louis: You take all the Russian
dances, all that music . . . Those cats
used to dance years ago here at the
Russian Bear. Swing? Man!
Al: Just a matter of time, isn't it?
Louis: Anywhere, over there, you'll
find musicians swinging, man. Down
in Africa, them cats was wailing.
Al: That's from 'way back.
Louis: Nine tribes danced for us and
none of them missed a beat. They
had us play to see if they'd react to
our music.

Al: And they got the message?
Louis: An old man about 110 years
came out there, swinging there, with
a shawl around him, man. And Lu-
cille, my wife, couldn't stand it any
longer. She went out there and
wailed with him.

Al: They use the phrase over here
about sending a message with the
music. Over there, they really do.
Louis: Well, to me, I think they sent
that message years ago.
Al: A lot of people like that picture
on the "Ambassador Satch" album
for Columbia.

Louis: I dig it myself. It reminds me
of when we used to play in New
Orleans. Always in style.
Al: Sure, got to go first class. Well,

listen, Louis, what are your reflections
about rock 'n' roll and skiffle?
Louis: It looks like every style they
get, they go back and get it. I mean,
look how long the skiffle was played.
They used to do those little chittlin'
rags in Chicago.

Al: What is skiffle? What's the word?
Louis: It's kind of a shout thing.
You play it in house rent-parties,
you know. And then, the rock 'n'
roll, that came from the sanctified
churches.

Al: Yes, I can hear the same accent.
Louis: So, lots of times you hear
music, you know, just don't worry
what it is so long as it sounds good.
Al: Somebody once said "folk music"
to you, Louis, and you're supposed
to have said, "Why, daddy, I don't
know any other kind of music but
folk music. I ain't never heard a
horse sing a song."
Louis: I might have said that.
Al: Louis, I sure hope that you're
going to be able to go on for forty
more years. How do you feel about
the past?

Louis: Well, I appreciate the past.
But the future ain't doing so bad.
Al: That's right. Do you have any
plans for retirement?
Louis: Well, no, you don't retire in
music. You just put the horn down
when you can't play no more, that's
all. But as long as the horn ain't
hurting me and I ain't hurting it . . .
I mean, I'm my own public. I hear
that horn every night.
Al: And you want to hear it . . .
Louis: As long as the sound is there.

Jazzbo's on Monitor, Sat., 8 to midnight, over NBC Radio and on The Al Collins Show, Mon.-Fri., 4 to 6 P.M., over New York's WRCA.

information booth

William Russell

Round-Table Revival

Please write something about William

Russell, who stars in Sir Lancelot on TV.

C. K., Mocanaqua, Pa.

Breathing "the spirit of the young, the
vibrant and the contemporary" into the
shadowy fact and fable of Arthurian leg-
end, is William Russell. The handsome,
blue-eyed Britisher who stars as Sir Lance-
lot feels right at home at Arthur's Table
and hopes this filming of the knight's
chivalrous deeds has provided audiences
with a sort of viewer's Baedeker to the
highways and byways of Old England. . . .
Lancelot, Russ says, is "a charming char-
acter, very light and gay without being
sugary" — which brings us full circle to
Russ, who's very much like that himself.
• . . . Born in Sunderland, England, in 1924,
Russ made his stage debut at eight, play-
ing another Lancelot (Shakespeare's be-
loved clown, Lancelot Gobbo, in "The
Merchant of Venice"). His work at Fettes
University, where he was considered a
theatrical prodigy, led directly to early
admission to Oxford — a singular honor.
From 1942 till '47 he was with the RAF
and it was not until 1946, while stationed
at Lydda, Israel, that he could get around
to stage business. As base entertainment
officer, he produced shows and films, one
of which depicted King Arthur and Sir L.
In '47, Russ returned to Oxford, produced
and acted in many plays and got an M.A.
in English Literature. A series of valuable
repertory jobs prepared him for his big
break — a starring role in the Lewis Mile-
stone film, "They Who Dare." The Lancelot
series was to follow a number of important
portrayals in radio, TV, films and on stage.
. . . Russ is happily married to Balbina,
the fiery French actress he met while on
location in Cyprus. They plan a family,
"eventually," have just finished decorating
— in "Eighteenth Century," be it known —
their "rather poetic" Regency house in
Hempstead.

BARLEHE

Darlene Gillespie

Mouseketeer Pals

In a recent story on Annette Funicello,
the name of Darlene Gillespie was inad-
vertently omitted from the list of Annette's
friends among the talented Mickey Mouse
Club regulars. Of her fellow Mouseketeers,
Annette declares, "They are all my favorite
friends." For the many Darlene Gillespie
fans who protested the omission of her
name, we are glad to give you here a pic-
ture of Darlene, with the promise of a
story about her before too many months
go by.

Calling All Fans

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

Club executives, please note : If you have
requested a TV Radio Mirror listing and
it has not appeared as yet, please bear
with us. We have, at present, an enormous
backlog of such requests. If your club is
still active, won't you drop a card and tell
us so? We'll do our best to list you.
Please! Bona fide clubs, only.

The Four Preps Fan Club, c/o Judy
Ross, 6119 Longridge, Van Nuys, Calif.

Ricky Nelson Fan Club, c/o Ray Gillie,
3737 Roselawn Road, Cleveland 22, Ohio.

Teal Ames Fan Club, c/o Sandra Cons,
4925 Plamondon Ave., Montreal, Quebec.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's
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.

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ALL FOR CLAMOUR

Look like a star, that's Debra's rule. She fol-
lows it at home or with her mother and NTA's
Frank Young at New York's El Morocco.

Take an inside peep at moviedom
as Debra Paget and Jeff Hunter
host NTA's Premiere Performance

Blue jeans give Debra the blues. She wants to bring back the heydays
of glamour. Jeff Hunter, alternating host, does likewise for chivalry.

The good old days really were. So says Debra Paget —
and this film star has the red hair to match her definite
opinions. Debra prefers the Hollywood of Gloria Swan-
son to the paler, more casual movie city of today. Though
she's too young to remember the glamorous heydays of
yesterday, she's on a one-girl — five-foot-three-and-a-
half, 109 pounds of girl — campaign to bring them back.
With her mother's help, Debra encrusted the top of a
strawberry-pink Cadillac with jewels. They may have
been paste, but the glitter stopped traffic — -when the car
wasn't sheltered in the garage of a 26-room Beverly Hills
establishment that is Debra's modern-day Pickfair. . . .
"People come to Hollywood to see something they don't
see in their own home towns," says Debra. In earrings
that dangle for at least six inches, she provides the de-
sired sights. For those who can't make the trip, Debra
is visible as alternating host with Jeff Hunter on Premiere
Performance, a series of top 20th Century-Fox films that
are being shown on TV for the first time on the 133 sta-
tions (such as WPIX in New York) that make up the
new NTA Film Network. Between reels, Debra or Jeff
initiates the viewer into the secrets of the make-up, ward-
robe or prop departments. . . . Behind Debra's glitter is

some good sense. "Glamour is being well groomed," she
explains. "It's the general appearance and those special
touches." She's a hard worker who begged for acting
lessons when she was nine, made her movie debut at four-
teen. She played eighteen-year-olds — until she actually
turned eighteen and the studio put her in pigtails to play
a fourteen-year-old. Her constant companion and per-
sonal manager is her mother, Margaret Griffin, a zestful,
outspoken woman who wishes columnists would play
down her burlesque days and play up Broadway, where
most of her own acting career was spent. "I'm kind of a
lonely person," Debra says, "and Mother knows my
moods and brings me out of them." The Griffins (Paget
is an ancestral name) are a close-knit family, with many
members in show business. They hold perpetual open-
house amid ten television sets and the mermaids and Chi-
nese statuary that are Debra's favorite decor. Debra
would like to do musical comedy (she's showcased her
talents at Las Vegas night clubs) . . . live half the year in
Mexico (the scene of her current film, "The River's
Edge") . . . and marry a "gentleman" who has a sense of
humor and is not the life of the party. She promises to
live happily — and glamorously — ever after.

Surly Ken Becker puts Elvis on his mettle with heckling,
and there are fireworks coming up in this jukebox joint.

TT\TRAM>IO
J. \ MIRROR

the movi

TV favorites on

your theater screen

By JANET GRAVES

Loving You

wallis, paramount;

vistavision, technicolor
Fashioned carefully to show off Elvis Presley
in the best light, this drama-with-music casts
him as a lonely young drifter, boomed into
fame as a singing idol. It's press agent Liza-
beth Scott who discovers him, hires him as
vocalist with Wendell Corey's obscure band
and promotes him with publicity stunts. Though
Elvis gets entangled with the personal affairs
of Liz and Wendell, he also shares a gentle
romance with winsome Dolores Hart. Music is
ladled out in generous portions — ballads, blues,
but mostly rock 'n' roll.

Sweet Smell of Success

UNITED ARTISTS

Scheduled to make his TV debut this fall with
a dramatic role on General Electric Theater,
Tony Curtis is now being seen in this expertly
made shocker. He's a small-time New York
publicity man, a thoroughgoing heel who has
attached himself to the coattails of Burt Lan-

1 caster, ruthless gossip columnist and radio
commentator. Susan Harrison, Burt's sister,

l has fallen in love with Marty Milner, a young

musician, and Burt assigns Tony to break it
up — by any means he chooses. Known as TV's
Mrs. Gobel, Jeff Donnell is effective as Tony's
disillusioned secretary, and Barbara Nichols
strikes a note of pathos as his sometime girl-
friend, a pawn in his schemes.

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?

20th: cinemascope, de luxe color
Tony Randall, once Mr. Peepers' pal, star of
many TV dramas, really gets a chance to dis-
play his comedy skill in this roaring farce. As
a timid ad man, he tries to get film queen
Jayne Mansfield's endorsement for a lipstick
campaign — and winds up headlined as her
new7 beau, a great lover. With one gag after
another, Hollywood here makes a ferocious
attack on TV. But it's all in fun (though not
for the kiddies).

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

A Hatful of Rain (20th: CinemaScope) :
Powerful close-up of a troubled family. Drug
addict Don Murray and loyal brother Anthony
Franciosa hide the tragedy from Eva Marie
Saint, Don's wife, and Lloyd Nolan, their father.

Bernard ine (20th; CinemaScope, De Luxe
Color) : In his first movie, Pat Boone leads a
group of likeable teenagers, plots to help Dick
Sargent, who's lovesick for Terry Moore. With
songs, of course.

The Delicate Delinquent (Paramount, Vista-
Vision) : Jerry Lewis goes it alone on film, as
a lonesome, wacky slum kid, who finds a friend
in cop Darren McGavin.

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Showing this month

BACK TO BATAAN (RKO): Rousing pa-
triotic melodrama finds Yank John Wayne,
Filipino Anthony Quinn leading guerrilla
fighters who harass the temporarily victorious
Japanese.

CRAIG'S WIFE (Columbia) : In the biggesl

hit of her early film career, Rosalind Ru->ell
dissects the character of a selfish woman who
loves her house more than she does her hus-
band (John Boles).

DESTROYER (Columbia) : Tribute to Navy
men of World War II. Edward G. Robinson,
as a crusty old-timer, tussles with young
Glenn Ford, who favors modern ways (and
romances Marguerite Chapman).

GOLDEN BOY (Columbia) : William Hol-
den's debut film, a tough prize-ring drama. As
cynical girlfriend of fight manager Adolphe
Menjou, Barbara Stanwyck persuades Bill to
give up the violin for the gloves, a decision
he regrets.

HE RAN ALL THE WAY (U.A.) : Fine
acting by John Garfield and Shelley Winters
in a crime story with unusual slants. A killer
on the lam, John hides out in the home of
Shelley and her terrorized family.

LUCK OF THE IRISH, THE (20th):
Funny and delightful fantasy. On a trip to
Ireland, American newsman Tyrone Power
meets colleen Anne Baxter — and Cecil Kel-
laway, a leprechaun who comes to the U. S.
as Ty's butler and rearranges his life.

MAGNETIC MONSTER, THE (U.A.) :
Interesting, suspenseful science-fiction. The
"monster" is a mysterious, powerfully radio-
active element that gets out of control and
threatens the earth. Scientist Richard Carl-
son races for a solution.

NIGHT SONG (RKO) : Smoothly done ro-
mance teams Dana Andrews, as a blinded
musician, with Merle Oberon, as an heiress
who pretends she's also blind, to by-pass his
pride. Hoagy Carmichael scores.

SAHARA (Columbia): Vigorous war-action
story. Humphrey Bogart and other crewmen
of an American tank pick up Allied soldiers
and two Axis prisoners. The motley group
battles desert thirst as Nazi troops come
closer. With J. Carrol Naish.

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY (20th):
Touching and tearful. Concealing the heart
condition that dooms her, Maureen O'Hara
persuades husband John Payne to adopt little
Connie Marshall, so he won't be alone.

STEP LIVELY (RKO): Gay farce from
Sinatra's crooning days. He's a hick play-
wright victimized by small-time stage pro-
ducer George Murphy. Gloria De Haven is
Frankie's love interest.

THREE FACES WEST (Republic):
Strong, affecting drama. Fleeing Nazi oppres-
sion, Austrian doctor Charles Coburn and
daughter Sigrid Gurie come to America's
Dust Bowl, where farmers including John
Wayne fight against starvation.

YOU BELONG TO ME (Columbia):
Light, easygoing comedy, with deft clowning
by Henry Fonda and Barbara Stanwyck.
She's an M.D. He's her rich husband, ter-
ribly jealous of her male patients.

Sylvia Sullivan wouldn't
be a bit surprised if
showman-husband Ed
said: "Better pack a bag—
we're off to Madagascar"

IN my travels around the world with
my husband, Ed Sullivan, I've
learned a lot of things that the geog-
raphy books didn't spell out, because
geography books can't measure the
courage or the kindness of people.

When we were in Vienna, not many
weeks ago, Franz Cyrus, the United
Press Bureau Chief, took us fifty miles
from the heart of Vienna to the Austro-
Hungarian border, guarded by barbed
wire fences. On the Hungarian side,
Commie patrols on horseback and
thirty foot sentry towers manned by
Commies with tommy guns prevented
any more Hungarians from escaping.

Across this particular part had
streamed more than 100,000 Hunga-
rians. Awaiting them on the Austrian
side were farmers with tractors and
farm wagons risking death to aid these
fleeing Hungarians to safety.

Forever and a day, whenever I think
of Austria, I'll recognize it in terms of
the selfless bravery of the Austrian
people. Not only their bravery, but
their complete generosity, because
Austria did not set any quota on these
Hungarian refugees and Austria did not
specify that the Hungarians they re-
ceived must be technicians or engineers.
Austria welcomed with open arms any
Hungarians who came across the bor-
der.

During that visit, we went out to one
of the Hungarian Refugee Camps run
by the International Red Cross. We
were struck by the many Hungarian
children minus fathers and mothers.
The parents had sacrificed their lives in
delivering the children to the Austrian
border.

There is a world-famed pastry shop
in Vienna — Darnels. Thinking of the
children in the Refugee Camp, we
thought that it might bring a moment of
happiness into their lives if they could
have some of the wonderful chocolate
layer cakes. So we ordered thirty-six

SULLIVAN'S

Continued

►

By MRS. ED SULLIVAN

SULLIVAN'S TRAVELS

(Continued)

Rome: Sylvia and Ed at party given by Italian film in-
dustry. Mike Keon of Rome Daily American is at right.

Vienna: They're greeted by Franz Cyrus, who arranged
their memorable tour of the Austro-Hungarian frontier.

layer cakes .and, inasmuch as we were leaving, asked
Franz Cyrus to stage a party for the youngsters. The
Austrian owners of the pastry shop, upon learning where
the layer cakes were to be sent, came over to our table
and said that they would only charge the actual costs
of baking and icing the cakes.

So, in Vienna we learned of the bravery and generos-
ity of this amazing nation and I'll always consider this to
be one of the very worthwhile things I've learned while
traveling the world with my husband.

In Japan, where Ed had gone to film some stuff from
"Teahouse of the August Moon" for his Sunday-night
program, I was amazed at the charm and friendliness of
their people. The impression I had of the Japanese was
completely altered. I marveled at their industry and
at their farmers' use of every available inch of ground,
right up to the highways.

Quite recently, we went to Mexico where Ed was film-
ing some stuff with Tyrone Power and Mel Ferrer in
Darryl Zanuck's "The Sun {Continued from page 61)

Berlin: Guide shows them where a bloody page of his-
tory was closed — the site of Hitler's Reichs chancellery.

Soviet sector: The Sullivans have a look-see around
Stalinallee, the famed "glamour avenue" of East Berlin.

Ed likes to meet the people in every country they visit,
see the chief points of interest in each city. Above, the
Sullivans shaking hands with traffic policeman in Vienna.
Below, descending the steps of the Soviet War Memorial in
East Berlin, built of marble from the chancellery ruins.

Sylvia loves to browse around, admire art treasures and
the exquisite architecture of earlier days. Here, they're
both entranced by the fairy-tale loveliness of great halls
in historic Schoenbrunn Palace, on the outskirts of Vienna.

Each place they visit, Ed has an eye out for new talent.
Each place, he's recognized and hailed. Below, table-to-
table telephones at the Resi night club, in West Berlin,
are kept busy as Sullivan takes messages from G.I. guests!

The Ed Sullivan Show is seen over CBS-TV, Sunday, from 8
to 9 P.M. EDT, sponsored by the Mercury-Lincoln Dealers.

YOUNG MAN
A HURRY

Jay Barney may not be a millionaire like
Helen Trent's Kurt Bonine, but he knows where
he's going— and is literally scooting on his way

By DIANE ISOLA

When multi-billionaire Kurt
Bonine entered Helen's life,
in CBS Radio's daytime dra-
ma, The Romance Of Helen Trent,
more than a year ago, listeners
perked up. "He's interesting," they
wrote. "Who is Jay Barney who
plays the part? We like him."

The popular show's rating rose
higher, zooming to first place among
fifteen-minute radio programs. Jay,
who had stepped into the new role
with the understanding that it
would be for only about six or
eight weeks, found himself forming
a long-time love triangle — and lik-
ing it. To stay with Helen Trent,
he not (Continued on page 81)

Evenings at home are rare, for a
man who often "quadruples" on TV,
radio, stage and film assignments.

Jay has two scooters, five motor-
bikes, totes one piggyback by car
to have it handy when he's in camp.

Off hours, he'll read a book from
his library — or, more likely, work
in garage on one of the scooters.

Two lives: As lieutenant colonel (Reserve), Jay teaches film-projectionist
course for servicemen. As Kurt in The Romance Of Helen Trent, he forms a
triangle with Sil Whitney (David Gothard, left) and Helen (Julie Stevens).

The Romance Of Helen Trent, starring Julie Stevens in the title role, with Jay Barney
as Kurt Bonine, is heard over CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, at ]2:30 P.M. EDT.

YOUNG MAN
IN A HURRY

Jay Barney may not be a millionaire like
Helen Trent's Kurt Bonine, but he knows where
he's going-and is literally scooting on his way

Two lives: As lieutenant colonel (Reserve), Joy teaches film-projectionist
course for servicemen. As Kurt in The Romanci Oj Helen Trent, he forms a
triangle with Gil Whitney (David Gothard. left) and Helen (Julie Stevens).

The Romance 0/ Helen Trent, marring Julie Strrrnn in llir title rolr, Willi Jay Barney
as Kurt Bonine, is heard o>er CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, al 12 Vl P M. EOT

You, too, can be a contestant for top prizes
from your favorite TV hosts— if you follow
these rules— and can fill these qualifications

Royal duo: Hal March of The $64,000
Question (left, with Robert Strom) —
Ralph Story of The $64,000 Challenge
(seen above with Edward G. Robinson).

By FRANCES KISH

The quiz kings! Long may they
reign, say millions of viewers
who sit glued to their TV sets,
diverted by constantly amazing
feats of knowledge and skill performed
on these shows — and wondering:
How could I get on? Or how could
I get my relatives, my best girl or
boyfriend, a chance to get on?

QUIZ KINGS face to face!

Jack Barry referees Twenty-One. Contenders (like Mrs. Vivienne Nearing
and Charles Van Doren) pass written exams to appear on nighttime show.

Sam Levenson quizzes informal-type contestants on Two For The Money.
Dr. Mason Gross (far left), judges their answers to average-type questions.

Test is easier for Tic Tac Dough,
as conducted by Barry on weekdays.

Continued

Groucho Marx quips with VIP's and
"just folks" on You Bet Your Life.

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You, too, can be a contestant for top prizes
from your favorite TV hosts— if you follow
these rules-and can fill these qualifications

Meet the

QUIZ KINGS face to face!

Royal duo: Hal March of The $64,000
Question (left, with Robert Strom)—
Ralph Story of The $64,000 Challenge
(seen above with Edward G. Robinson).

By FRANCES KISH

The quiz kings! Long may they
reign, say millions of viewers
who sit glued to their TV sets,
diverted by constantly amazing
feats of knowledge and skill performed
on these shows— and wondering:
How could I get on? Or how could
I get my relatives, my best girl or
boyfriend, a chance to get on?

Jack Barry referees Twenty-One. Contenders (like Mrs. Vivienne Nearing
and Charles Van Doren) pass written exams to appear on nighttime show.

Sam Levenson quizzes informal-type contestants on Two For The Money.
Dr. Mason Gross (far left), judges their answers to average-type questions.

Test is easier for Tic Tac Doui/li,
as conducted by Barry on weekdays.

Continued

Groucho Marx quips with VIP's and
"just folks" on You Ret Your Life.

Meet the QUIZ KINGS face to face!

(Continued)

Well, like getting on in life, getting
on a quiz show as a contestant seems
to depend upon a combination of things.
Ability to be at the required place at
the right time. A lot of hard work, and
a little luck. A lot of information and
knowledge, and more than a little
stamina. A sense of fun and adventure
in competition with others, and a sav-
ing sense of humor. Enough inner
philosophy to carry on, win or lose, and
enough sportsmanship to accept either
outcome with grace.

All the big winners on the big quiz
shows have had these attributes. These
are the "musts" of the game. So, if you
have been dreaming of displaying your
knowledge for big — or even medium-
size — stakes, you can read along and
check yourself against the require-
ments. Even if you feel you just
couldn't face the cameras and micro-
phones— and those millions of rapt
viewers — you can still have fun decid-

George de Witt encourages young man to Name That Tune. Applicants
come from all walks of life, need only liking for music, listening to lots of it.

Warren Hull has a hearty welcome for those who
have real reason for wanting to Strike It Rich.

The Big Payoff: Bess Myerson, Randy Merriman hold one of gifts
(including Paris trip!) won by Rev. Arthur Hardge for bride-to-be.

Bud Collyer outlines a stunt for Beat
The Clock. Studio audiences provide
volunteer "stunters" before air time.

Bill Cullen (with Carolyn Stroupe,
Beverly Bentley) has rivals guess-
ing daily if The Price- Is Right.

Jack Bailey may crown a prince —
as well as Queen For A Day, chosen
from audiences and voted by them.

ing whether you would have a ghost
of a chance to "make it," if you really
wanted to.

Be ready with a good snapshot, or
other photograph. It will not be re-
turned, so don't send one you wouldn't
want to lose. Usually, a clear snap-
shot will do, but that doesn't mean
much if it's taken at a hundred feet
and you're a mere blob of gray down
at the end of the garden path. Or if
you're in a group of people and only
part of your face peers over some-
one else's shoulder. And smiling faces
are better than too-serious ""or sad
ones. The smile shows how you will

look when you win on the program!
It goes without saying that, if you
are now twenty or thirty, the photo
should not be snipped from your
grade-school graduation picture or
taken on your sixteenth birthday. If
your hair has turned to silver, be real-
istic and send a recent photo. The
same goes for a woman who has com-
pletely changed her hair-do, or a man
or woman who has gained or lost
considerable weight. Too fancy or
fanciful photos will get you nowhere.
A girl in 'a bubble bath, a man
wrapped in a leopard skin, a nurse
in operating mask with only the eyes

showing — these have all been re-
ceived by quiz programs! Such pic-
tures may cause merriment in the mail
room but will be of no help in getting
you on. Be reasonable!

Let's start now with the first of the
really big-money shows, The $64,000
Question, the one that began the pa-
rade. If, as you read ahead, you de-
cide it is even tougher to get on than
you thought, remember that Hal
March, the fabulously successful
master of ceremonies for this show,
didn't get on the easy way, either.
He was among more than three hun-
dred con- (Continued on page 74)

Art Linkletter loves to prove People Are Funny. Show
sometimes goes out looking for special types of people,
more often selects from letter-writers and ticket-holders.

Bob Barker leads Truth Or Consequences participants a
merry chase. Audience members never know whether they'll
be picked out — or have already been "framed" in advance!

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"On divorces," Mike explains, "I
wouldn't ask specific questions . . .

My marriages weren't hit-and-run
affairs ... I think it was mainly a

matter of growing away from each
other . . . This marriage will last."

"Early in my career, I felt trapped
by money. I was unhappy. I wasn't

fulfilled ... I wanted to accomplish
something I could be proud of . . .

I think we are accomplishing some-
thing with the interviews on TV."

You can "expect the unexpected" on
his ABC-TV show. Here, in print,
Mike answers the personal ques-
tions he wouldn't even ask of others!

By GREGORY MERWIN

When Leonard Goldenson, President of American
Broadcasting Company, contracted with Mike
Wallace to do his interviews on the ABC -TV
network, he knew that he wasn't signing up a namby-
pamby, how-are-you-darling reporter. In the seven
months before the show went network, Mike had
dug deep into the social, political and moral conscience
of several hundred big-name individuals over
WABD, the Du Mont-owned TV station in New York.
On camera, a "private eye" revealed that he never
felt any regrets when he (Continued on page 83)

The Mike Wallace Interview is seen over ABC-TV, Sundays, from
10 to 10:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Philip Morris Cigarettes.

Mike doesn't care for night clubs, likes making his
own fun at home — as in this music session with wife
Lorraine and Ted Yates, JrM the Interview producer.

He9sWaikin9onAir...

Ozzie and Harriet have always had it. Now Ricky Nelson
has a portion of success all his own . . .

By FREDDA BALLING

This is the way it happened:
Ricky Nelson was strumming
his dad's guitar and singing "for
my own amazement," one after-
noon between setups for The New
Adventures Of Ozzie And Harriet,
when a scout for the rhythm-and-
blues department of a recording
company strolled onto the sound
stage. Not bad, the scout thought,
in reference to the choppy beat
and the pleasant timbre of the
voice. Not bad at all. So he trailed
the sound to its source.

Shortly thereafter, the release of
a disc bearing "I'm Walkin'," a
rock 'n' roller, on one side — and
"Teenagers' Romance," a ballad,
on the flip — catapulted Eric Hil-
liard Nelson into personally-earned
prominence as one of the youngest
of today's singing idols.

In the offing, as this goes to press,
is a twelve-platter -per-year re-
cording contract sporting a hand-
some maximum royalty clause.
One of the first responsibilities of
the recording star is to get out and
plug his discs before his most likely
audience. So, natch, his recording
company made arrangements for
Ricky to appear at a Los Angeles
high school, backed by the Four
Preps (noted for their recording of
"Dreamy Eyes" for Capitol).

When Ricky arrived, he noted —
in a sort of unbelieving blur — that
the windows facing the area in
which he had parked seemed to be
crowded with the bobbing balloons
of human faces. "Well ... it sur-
prised me. ... I guess word got
around the school that entertain-
ment was coming . . . still, you
don't expect ... I mean it was all
great, just great," says Eric Hil-
liard Nelson.

Then, when the curtain was
opened to reveal the assembly
stage, the roof took off at the same
time. For (Continued on page 79)

The Nelsons — Ozzie, David, Ricky, Harriet— take fame
lightly, after a decade together in the spotlight. (They
also seemed impervious to birthday hints — till Ricky got
his guitar!) But, even so, Ricky gets a real charge out
of tuning in his own record on a deejay program, while
actresses Gail Land (below left) and Myrna Fahey beam.

: :

The New Adventures Of Ozzie And Harriet —
together with their sons, David and Ricky
Nelson — is seen over ABC-TV, Wednesday, at
9 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Eastman Kodak.

TRY THESE

Last year a TV columnist wrote: "Most improbable
i publicity of the week — Mrs. Arthur Murray bakes
before going to the office." So I sent her some of the
day's browned offerings and the lady ate her words!
Sure, I bake early in the morning. I'm up with the birds,
anyway, and it isn't cricket to arrive at the office before
your secretary. I bake often, too, because I have a steady
customer. My husband Arthur eats cake for breakfast,
lunch, dinner, and in between times. His favorite is honey
cake, and I hope you'll try my recipe. I developed it by
trial and failure — it was never "as good as Mother used to
make," but now it brings me compliments and is finished
to the last crumb.

Yes, it's fun to bake and cook — when you don't have
to turn out three meals a day. (That's work, brother! If
your wife does it, give her a gold star — and take her out
to dinner wearing it.) My kind of cooking is pure "ham."
I show off with it for occasional guests and for dinners at
home only once or twice a week. We don't have a real

household anymore — our twin daughters are both mar-
ried, and Arthur and I five in a small apartment. When
we don't have a date with friends, we eat when we're
ready, usually quite late.

If I haven't been rehearsing for an acrobatic TV act (in
other words, if I still have a clean face), we may eat in a
delightfully de-luxe restaurant. If I'm tired, we go home
and I cook. That is relaxation for me. Blessings on the
freezing compartment — there is always food in the refrig-
erator.

Incidentally, Arthur likes to get in the act, too. And
when you've been happily married as long as I have — for
thirty-two years — you have learned to "give stage" to
your mate. I have included Arthur's hamburger method
along with some of my specialties. I'm such an eager
beaver that I wish TV Radio Mirror had room for all my
favorites — baked young chickens, spicy gingerbread
muffins, date-and-nut torten, sponge cake, brownies, and
the sugar cookies I bake for my five grandchildren.

HAMBURGERS ARTURO

For 3 very large hamburgers, mix lightly with 2 forks:

1 pound coarsely ground top sirloin
% teaspoon salt

Sprinkle well with Ac'cent (monosodium glutamate)
and freshly ground black pepper. Stir in with forks:
2 tablespoons tomato juice bits of finely chopped

chopped parsley onion, if desired

bits of crisp bacon (dancers don't)

Form into 3 large patties. Place on plate, cover with wax
paper and refrigerate until 1 hour before dinner. Sprinkle
a heavy ungreased iron skillet well with salt. Heat, cov-
ered, until drop of water will bounce from salted surface.
Remove cover, increase heat, and place patties in pan.
Cover. For very rare meat, cook on one side 2x/2 minutes,
turn to cook on other side for 2 minutes. (Mrs. Murray
tucks a teaspoon prepared mustard in the center.)

CHEESE BLINTZES

Makes about 14 pancakes.

Beat well, using a fork:
6 eggs

Combine:
4 tablespoons flour

Vn teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons water

Gradually add to 1 cup of the beaten egg. Then add to
remaining beaten egg. (This method prevents lumping.)
Cover work table near stove with wax paper. Heat a 6-
inch iron skillet very gradually until a small amount of
butter will sizzle. Tip, so butter will grease pan thinly
and evenly. Pour off any excess butter. Hold handle of
pan with your left hand as you pour in enough batter to
make a thin layer that will just cover the pan. Turn your

left hand back and forth as you are pouring, so that the
pan will be covered quickly and evenly. If your pan is
correctly heated, the thin pancake should start bubbling
almost immediately. Give the pancake just a few seconds
until "set" and then invert pan over wax paper so that
pancake will drop out, raw side down, cooked side up.
Continue in this manner until all batter is used. Prepare
filling by combining:

1 pound cottage cheese dash salt

V2 beaten egg dash pepper

Blend well. Place a heaping tablespoon in center of
each pancake. Roll pancakes and place in narrow greased
baking dish. This may be placed in refrigerator until
ready to bake. Just before serving, place in moderate
oven (350°F.) 20-25 minutes. Serve with sour cream,
cinnamon and assorted fruit jams. Makes 3-4 servings.

HONEY CAKE

Mix together very well:

4 tablespoons butter V2 cup sugar

% cup honey
Add:
4 eggs, well beaten grated rind of an orange

XA teaspoon salt 1 cup large walnut pieces

Mix and sift twice:

2 cups sifted cake flour

1V2 teaspoons baking powder

Vi teaspoon baking soda
3 heaping teaspoons powdered
instant coffee

Stir flour into egg mixture slowly and well. Spread
batter in shallow greased pan (10" x 15"). Bake in mod-
erate oven (325°F.-350°F.) 45 minutes. Cut in squares
when cold. (Like all honey cakes, this tastes better when
at least 48 hours old. If kept in tins, it will stay fresh and
good for several weeks.)

The Arthur Murray Party is seen on NBC-TV, Mem., 9:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Bristol-Myers Co. for Bufferin, Ipana, and Ban.

EGGS BAKED IN CREAM

For each serving, butter individual casseroles. Break 2
fresh eggs into each casserole. Season with salt, freshly
ground black pepper and a dash each of cinnamon and
tarragon. Cover with heavy cream. Bake in moderate
oven (350°F.) 20 minutes. For a browned top, place un-
der broiler a few seconds. Serve with buttered toasted
raisin bread or rye bread and crisp bacon.

Hostess at home, as well as on TV, Kathryn
loves preparing these "husband-tested"
recipes. ("Husband" in the case is, of course,
famed dance maestro Arthur Murray!)

' . ■ '

WKMH's Bobbin' With Robin proved Michi-
gan is for Mineo. Crowds at Detroit's Edge-
water Park overwhelmed Robin Seymour (below
left) and Sal, almost broke up the telecast.

MINEO'S

Really Moving

At 18, sensational Sal is headed in
exciting new directions on TV,
records, radio, films — and home life

By HELEN BOLSTAD

It's a time for big changes in the life of Sal Mineo, the
eighteen-year-old actor who has earned an enviable
reputation in the movies for his sensitive portrayal
of adolescent change. Sal's prospective changes in his
own life are happy ones: He is going to college, he and
his family will soon have a lovely new house, he has
radio and television appearances planned, and — best
of all — he has entered the recording field and produced
a smash hit with his first record.

Anyone who believes in the return of bread cast
upon the waters can find pleasant confirmation in the
story of how Sal came to record. In shouldering his
share of the Mineo family duties, Sal was once chief
baby-sitter for his pretty little sister Sarina. Last year,
another baby-sitter started the ball rolling for Sal's
recording contract.

It happened in Glenside, Pennsylvania, when Arnold
Maxin and his wife, Elaine, called in vivacious Mary
Fitzgerald to stay with their little daughters, Amy and
Marjorie.

On arrival, Mary was bubbling with enthusiastic plans
to start a new fan club (Continued on page 86)

Home in New York, between telecasts, tours and movies,
Sal relaxes with his drums, the car his folks gave him on
his. eighteenth birthday this year, and his dog, "Bimbo."

"Lucky" rings are a Mineo tradition. Kid sister Sarina
got the latest one, proudly displays it to Sal, brother
Victor and their mother — who began custom years ago.

Trio looks just as pretty as it sings on Godfrey
shows and Coral records. At Las Vegas' Desert Inn,
above — as in portrait on opposite page — the left-
to-right order is Christine, Phyllis and Dorothy.

Even a husband can't tell their voices apart — it
happens to be Phyl talking, above. Dot's in white,
Chris in slinky satin, during a rehearsal "break."

To the McGuires, being a trio—
whether as singers in the spotlight
or just sisters in private— is a
picnic, a panic, a sorority of fun

By MARTIN COHEN

Six slim legs, three radiant smiles, six melting
brown eyes — plus the usual standard female
equipment — adds up to three hundred and fifty -
four pounds of the prettiest (and best) trio in the
country. These long-stemmed beauties, known as
The McGuire Sisters, are not triplets — but are as
much alike as peas in a pod. Facially, there's a
difference. But let the gals turn their heads — or talk
to them on the phone — and you don't know who's
who.

"Even Mother can't tell us apart on the telephone,"
says Phyllis. "Chris's husband, John Teeter, may
call the apartment and Chris answers — but he's so
uncertain, he's got to ask, 'Is this you, Chris?' "

"Just the other afternoon," says Dot, "Chris and I
were walking right ahead of John. We had on sport
outfits, skirts and shirts. John came up and, in a
cute little way, zipped the zipper on my skirt — and,
when I turned around, he said, 'Oh, I thought you
were Chris.' He was so embarrassed!"

Continued k

Busy as anyone in show biz, Chris, Phyl and Dot McGuire ,
have to rely on each other for jokes and fun. "We never
get lonesome," they chorus. Playing such "dates" as Las
Vegas, they can get in the swim — and the sun — together.

(Continued)

"Do you remember," Phyllis asks, "when John was
dating Chris and we all went along on their dates?
And we were in a kind of half-lighted night club?
Well, we came out of the ladies' room and I sat down
beside John — and he thought it was Chris and squeezed
my hand."

That's the way it goes when you're three sisters who
look alike, dress alike, think alike, work together and
sometimes date together (as Phyl noted, when John
Teeter was just in the dating stage with Chris, sisters
Phyl and Dot went along).

"How do we feel about it?" Chris echoes. "Well, I
knew I'm speaking for all three of us. We get along
well and have been together so long that we need each
other. But sometimes I think I would just like to dis-
appear for a week and not let anyone know where I
am — and then come back and say, casual as can be,
'Hi, everybody.' "

"I feel that way often, too," Phyllis chimes in. "But
when I'm alone, I dislike it very much. When we're
apart, we immediately get on the phone. We just can't

stand not to know what the others are doing. If we're
apart for one afternoon, we discuss every detail of
what's happened to us, as though we hadn't seen each
other in months."

Chris smiles and says, "Phyl's always nosy. She
calls our room, if she hasn't seen us for an hour or two,
to find out what we're doing."

Yet there are still people around who want to know
whether the McGuires are really sisters. As one of
them is always sure to answer that question: "How can
you doubt it, when we had the same mother and
rather?" Their father and mother are Asa and Lilly
McGuire. Mother is an ordained minister; father, a
steel worker. Home was Miamisburg, Ohio. Asa
McGuire wanted boys — at least one — but found that
three girls could make you just as proud and be every
bit as much of a handful.

Chris was born on July 30, 1928. Dot and Phyllis
followed at year-and-a-half intervals. They were close
enough in age to play together and sing as a group.
When Phyllis was four, they (Continued on page 67)

Phyl's the "baby" of the family, the sleepyhead who
has to be roused by her sisters. Chris is the eldest
and does all their shopping. Dot is the "middle one"
and models for fittings and hairdressing experiments.

Between shows on tour — left to right, in usual trio for-
mation— Chris, Phyl and Dot discuss next stop with man-
ager-arranger-conductor Murray Kane (above), catch
up on musical "homework" in their hotel suite (below).

The McGuire Sisters are frequent guests on Arthur Godfrey Time, as heard over CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, from 10 to 11:30
A.M. EDT, and seen on CBS-TV, Monday through Thursday, from 10:30 to 11:30 A.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Spike's "musical depreciation" experts can play real instruments — when they want to! Above, drummer-
boy Jones with banjoists Jad Paul (left) and Freddie Morgan; standing — Brian Farnon, sax; Phil Gray,
trombone; George Rock, trumpet; Eddie Robertson, tuba; Gil Bernal, sax; Mousie Garner, soprano sax.
Below, right: Beauty and the Big Beat — singing star Helen Grayco with husband Spike and Gil Bernal.

a Slightly Reformed Character

Normal as any home-loving man, with his Spike Junior, Leslie Ann
and Helen — as friends say, their lovely house is "awfully square"
for an offbeat guy like Mr. Jones. (But not all the paintings on
their walls are as graciously formal as that portrait of Helen.)

By MAURINE REMENIH

When The Spike Jones Show hit the TV tubes last
spring, viewers in living rooms from Penobscot to
Port Hueneme exchanged surprised glances of
disbelief. Could this be Spike Jones, the "musical
depreciation" kid? The boy who spoofed Beethoven,
Brahms and Bach? The same character who integrated
pistol shots, automobile horns and doorbells into
his arrangements?

The new show contained a couple of ballads sung by .
Mrs. Jones (Helen Grayco, to you) and about ten minutes
of the old Spike Jones madness. But the rest of the
half-hour, Spike played it straight. Good, tuneful,
danceable — and straight.

But Lindley Armstrong Jones knew what he was
doing. As he pointed out to one protesting fan who
wailed for more of the "old" (Continued on page 70)

But Spike Jones isn't really
"going straight" — not when there
are so many other ways of
going Wound and 'round the music

House is white Colonial, but Spike's partial fo
black for his clothes — calls this his "race-track
outfit." Below, spinning plastic "pie tins," Spike
swears his aim would be better throwing real pies!

He Will Never Be a Has-Been!

Slipping? Going highbrow? Elvis Presley
meets the rumor-mongers head on,
with new-found confidence and maturity

By EUNICE FIELD

It's a story his family likes to tell. When Elvis
was only ten, he swerved his bike to avoid hitting a
cat. He fell against a telephone pole, and his mother — .
who had seen it from a window — came running.
"Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously. The boy rubbed
his shins. "Sure, I'm hurt," he said. Then, taking
her hand, he squeezed it reassuringly: "Don't worry,
Mama ... I ain't a-gonna cry."

Now that he is twenty-two and a movie star,
Elvis lounges in his green-and-brown dressing room
(furnished with Spartan simplicity) and discusses with
a reporter and the publicity man assigned to his new
M-G-M film, "Jailhouse Rock," the big question
so many newspapers and magazines have been asking:
Is Elvis Presley going highbrow — and is he slipping?

Continued k

Rumors aren't spread by those who work with Elvis. They
are his most sincere boosters. Above, at Paramount, with
Lizabeth Scott and Hal Wallis, producer of "Loving You."
At right, performing — and listening to a record playback.

He Will Never Be a Has-Been!

(Continued)

Quiet, polite, hard-working — that's how everyone has found Elvis on
the movie lots. No complaints about rehearsals, fittings or all the many
details of his phenomenal success on records, films, TV, radio, personal
appearances. Presley's moving fast — with Uncle Sam planning his future.

The reporter puts the question bluntly
and Elvis smiles so calmly that she wonders,
Has he been asking himself the same
thing? "Well," he says, "it's the same
people. At first, they said I'd never make it.
Then I was a rocket and wouldn't stay up.
Now they're saying I'm getting too smart,
I'm on the bumpy road down. I'd have
answered them before now, but I didn't
think it was worthwhile."

Doesn't he believe in striking back?
"It's not that. If I was worried, I suppose I
would hit back. If that was all they said.
But some of the stuff they say is pretty
raw. I'm not made of stone, and they hurt.
But no matter." Obviously, Elvis still
"ain't a-gonna cry."

The triple-threat star of movies, tele-
vision and recordings may not be wasting
time on self-pity, but he knows that he
still has a hard fight to keep his place in the
sun. As the most brilliant of the younger
stars, he is fair game for the jealous, the
prudish, the fickle. His eyes flash restlessly
about the dressing room. "I've told this
to myself a lot of times: If the day comes
when I can't give the best in me — or if the
best I've got doesn't please an audience —
I'll pull out without being asked. I'll
never let myself become a has-been!"

The force with which this pledge is given
quickly melts into a quiet reverie.
"As to this stuff about 'slipping' and
'going highbrow' — well, I'd rather let other
people answer that (Continued on page 77)

Headlines — good and bad — have pursued Elvis throughout his career. Most startling and tragic
was the sudden death of little Judy Tyler in a car crash with her husband, last July Fourth. She had
just completed her role as Presley's leading lady in this third movie, M-G-M's "Jailhouse Rock."

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Elvis still inspires jealousy in devoted fans' hearts, when pictured with
such pretty girls as Dolores Hart (left), the romantic interest in
"Loving You," and Jana Lund, teenager also in the Paramount film.
Picture at right proves there are no age limits for Presley admirers.

Julie finds bitter need of all the courage

and insight she has shared with others, as she

prepares to follow her heart ... far from

Wulie waked, and so ended the happiness she'd known
** in her dream. It faded as she opened her eyes.
There was bright sunshine streaming in her bedroom
windows, and the birds sang outside. But the real world,
to Julie, was a very dreary business of clinging to a
meager hope. The world she'd awakened to bore little
resemblance to the one of her dream. Phil had been her
dream.

In waking, she'd lost him. Her throat ached with
loneliness. Her hands wanted to clench in impotent
rebellion. She faced another day with bitter reluctance.
The sunshine offered mockery rather than cheer.

But then, somehow, she saw herself as she was, and
what she had done to make a morning's waking so bleak
a thing. With an abrupt clarity, she remembered long
years back, in her early widowhood, when she'd tried
to live on memories after her happiness was gone. Now
she saw that she'd been trying to live on hopes of happi-
ness to come. But the human spirit does not thrive on
either memory or hope, alone. At Hilltop House, where
the orphaned children often had neither, she'd come to
know that a full life comes only from the courage to
face and accept, without flinching, whatever life may
bring.

Now she deliberately unclenched her hands. She sat
up. She got out of bed and went across to her mirror.
She faced herself in it. Her face looked drawn, though
she'd just awakened. She stared at herself and willed
for courage to come. She'd taught her charges at Hill-
top House that, if one clamped one's jaws tightly, and
squared one's shoulders, and doggedly resolved not to
give in. . . .

It worked. In minutes, she felt better. There was no
change in the real situation, of course. It was still weeks
since the second letter from Phil, and he was still in
South America, thousands of miles away. But now she
remembered that Phil had written her from there. He
realized that he'd been cruel, though without that in-
tention, when he'd written from New York just before
his disappearance. Then he'd said grimly that his
brother's plans had succeeded and he was ruined finan-
cially. That their marriage had become impossible.
That, rather than put her through the ordeal of saying
goodbye, he was writing her of the ending of all hope
of a future together. He was going away. He did not

say where. There had not been even a hint.

Looking at her own reflection, standing in her night-
dress in the bedroom, Julie saw herself wince. The
days and weeks after that first letter had been very bad
indeed. Phil's disaster was needless. It was the result
of his own brother's machinations. His brother Lloyd,
who bitterly believed that Phil had tried to be a second
Cain and murder him, and who fiercely tried to avenge
it. He'd brought about Phil's business defeat and finan-
cial ruin. And, since Phil was a proud man, he'd de-
stroyed Julie's hope of happiness, too. ,

A window curtain billowed in the breeze beside an
open window. The air was clean and fresh and good.
With summoned courage, Julie drove her thoughts on-
ward. Things were better now. But, for a long time
after that New York letter, she'd been dazed. She be-
lieved Phil gone from her life for always — after she had
emptied it of everything else, so she could fill it with
him. Her place as head of Hilltop House was now some-
one else's. She herself had picked Karen Whitfield as
her replacement. Her friendship with David, and the
affection of his teen-age daughter Felicia, had seemed
small things to give up, when she expected to go to*
South America with Phil to begin a new career as his
wife. Even the professional distinction she had valued
most — a plaque which was an award for distinguished
service to children — she expected to keep packed away
in some trunk, because only Phil and his needs and
happiness were to count for her in the future.

A mockingbird outside her window ran through his
repertory of the songs of other birds. He came to the dis-
cordant cawing of a crow, and was less than successful.
His own critical ear led him to attempt, repeatedly, to
better it. The sound formed a sort of sardonic back-
ground to Julie's thoughts. But she would not let it turn
them.

She began to brush her hair, still before the mirror
and watching her face for a lessening of the courage
she'd had to summon by an act of will. Things were
much better since Phil's second letter. That had come
from South America, and now was read almost to tatters.
This second time, he wrote that he hadn't meant to be
cruel when all his affairs and all his success crashed
through the carefully contrived scheming of his brother
Lloyd. He did love her. He'd (Continued on page 63)

Hilltop House is heard over NBC Radio, Monday through Friday, at 3:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Quaker Oats, Carter's Little Liver
Pills, Arrid, and others. Jan Miner is pictured on the opposite page in her starring role as Julie.

A FICTION BONUS

*>-

COME TO THE

Hard to entertain the younger set?
Grownups and children alike can
enjoy the kind of planning which is
done for, fun at The Mace School

Social activities at The Mace School are twice as enjoyable for
students because they help draw up the plans. Above, committee for
year's biggest party — the Eighth Grade Prom, at graduation time —
goes over the agenda with Mrs. Frieda Mace and Emile P. Faustin.

Guests arrive at Copacabana Club for "grown-up"
Prom. About half are young actors, such as TV
twins Luke and Marina Solito de Solis (above at
right), Ron McLaren and Bonnie Sawyer (below).

Later, the committee of students meets "on its own." As pictured
here, from left to right, members include Charles Avona, Frank
Wieszner, Marina Solito de Solis, Fern Breslow, Pidgie Jamieson.
Unlike most parties outlined in story, this one is to be jormall

AID OF VOUR PARTV

Round-table chat at the Copa — where girls get opportunity to display their most
formal finery, and boys practice their best party manners. Left to right: Joy Lee,
Billy Carroll, Betty Sue Albert, Maurice Hines (class president, often seen with
brother Gregory on such TV shows as Jackie Gleason's), Marina, Ron and Bonnie.

By MARY TEMPLE

To be the "mother" of 115 children from the first to the
eighth grades, to educate them and keep them busy,
happy and well-adjusted, would seem job enough for any
woman. To plan and give parties for such a brood, or
any part of it, might seem an added super-job. Not to
Mrs. Frieda Mace, however. And her experience and
know-how can be invaluable to any parent, older sister
or brother, who's responsible for seeing that the younger
set has a good time before, during and after a really
successful "children's party." (Even baby-sitters can

learn a trick or two for keeping youngsters amused.)
Mrs. Mace is head of The Mace School, in New York*
whose pupils include some of the best-known and busiest
young actors and actresses in television and radio,
theater and movies, and an equal number of non -profes-
sional youngsters who are not yet preparing for any
career, in or out of the theater. All of them children
whose parents want to see them grow up with a back-
ground of good education and good manners, with fun
and parties to look back upon in later years.

See Next Page-

COME TO THE AID OF YOUR PARTY

(Continued)

At the school, all of them are on the same footing, the
only difference being a more flexible study schedule for
those who have acting jobs and cannot always conform
to the usual school routine. None are singled out for
extracurricular achievements. "The closest we have
ever come to that," Mrs. Mace says, "was when Patty
McCormack played Helen Keller as a child in a Playhouse
90 dramatization on television this year, and the children
were particularly thrilled because one of their number
had the chance to portray a woman they love and respect
so much. When Patty left us to go to California, we all
missed her.

"I really feel like the mother of a large family, where
no child can take the place of any other. Each is dear to
me, for his or her own sake. We have no professional
talk in our school, no professional jealousies, no competi-
tion among the children who act and those who don't.
When the boys and girls get together at school parties,
or among themselves at the various homes, they have
the kind of fun that belongs by right to the wonderful,
carefree pre-teen and early teen years. What they are
is what counts, not what they do outside the school."

Bonnie Sawyer, the Kim of Valiant Lady, was gradu-
ated from Mace this year with the Good Fellowship
Award as the outstanding all-around good sport of her
class. Lynn Lorring, the Patti of CBS -TV's Search For
Tomorrow and also on CBS Radio in The Second Mrs.
Burton, was president of her graduating class in 1955.
Maurice Hines — who, with his brother Gregory, has been
on the Gleason and other big shows, at clubs in Las
Vegas, at the Moulin Rouge in Paris — is this year's gradu-
ating-class president, while Gregory plans to go on
with his studies at the school. Jada Rowland, Amy in
CBS-TV's The Secret Storm, is a last year's graduate,
and her brother Jeffrey is still in school.

Three of Mama's TV children are Mace pupils: Toni
Campbell, who is Dagmar; Susan Rohall, who is Ingeborg;
and Kevin Coughlin, who plays young T.R. So are such
other in-demand young actors as Betty Sue Albert; Peter
Lazer; Pidgie Jamieson; the Solito de Solis twins, Luke

What's a gala prom to a girl — without a corsage? Mrs.
Mace helps pin one on Bonnie Sawyer, long familiar to TV
viewers as younger daughter Kim Emerson in Valiant Lady.

Primping is an important part of feminine fun, at any age.
Here, Joy Lee watches as Betty Sue Albert adjusts necklace
for Toni Campbell — who is known on TV as Mama's Dagmar.

Pretty Dawn Wilson, Robert Haight, Toni Campbell and
Donald Dilworth are on their best behavior — and having
wonderful time, too, thanks to wise planning in advance.

Dancing's a teen-age treat any time, formal or informal. Charles, Toni, Maurice and
Betty Sue sip ginger ale as Joy and Ron try Copa floor — to "live" music, not records!

and Marina; Beverly Lunsford, who plays Bebe in CBS-
TV's The Edge Of Night. Nina Reader, the little British
girl who is in Search For Tomorrow; and Zina Bethune,
Robin in CBS -TV's The Guiding Light, have been Mace
students. Lydia Reed, of many dramatic TV roles, who
also played Grace Kelly's sister in "High Society"; Kippy
Campbell and Robin Essen; Claudia Crawford of the Ray
Bolger Show. Ronald McLaren, who graduated this year;
Pat Di Simone, who graduated last year. Jan Handzlik,
Barry Towsen and Stanley Grochowski of the Broadway
cast of "Auntie Mame"; Eileen Merry; Kathy Dunn and
Susan Reilly of the Broadway cast of "Uncle Willie";
Dick Clemence, of stage and TV; Toby Stevens of "The
King and I." And many others who, by the nature of
their work, sometimes must continue their studies by
tutoring, or even by correspondence at times. Many who
come back with report cards from advanced classes, eager
to show Mrs. Mace what they are doing and make her
feel proud of them and their continued progress.

To get back to parties: The last big one of the season
each year is the Eighth Grade Prom, in June, held in re-
cent years at the famous Copacabana Club in New York,
an extra-special privilege for the graduating class. That
started when Mrs. Mace asked the management of the
club if she could bring a group which she had been tutor-
ing, and the children behaved so well in this adult atmos-
phere that succeeding classes have been welcomed back.

Most of the parties, however, are the kind any mother
or older sister can give in her own home and any child
can help plan and prepare. "If it's a child's party, especi-
ally an older girl or boy, ninety percent of it should be
decided by the child," is Frieda Mace's belief. "This im-
mediately creates an interest and a desire to help. It
teaches a great deal also — good host manners, respon-
sibility, teamwork. It brings out creative ability. At the
school, for parties of any size, we have 'committees,' an
idea any mother could adapt for a big neighborhood or
community party, a fund-raising (Continued on page 72)

Young Dick Jones met his Betty when he was 15, knew right off she was the girl
for him — for life. They're more sure of it now than ever, in their Burbank home
with daughters Jennafer (left) and Melody, sons Jeff (Jennafer's twin) and Rick.

Keeping Up With The

JONESES

Dick has a whole passel of
lively young 'uns at home— who
all adore Buffalo Bill, Jr.

By GORDON BUDGE

Sunday morning at ten o'clock, you'll find Dick Jones —
personable young Buffalo Bill, Jr., of the two-to-teen
set — suited out in his best go-to-meetin' clothes, perched
squarely in the middle of the front pew of Hollywood's
First Presbyterian Church. With the shy smile that has
thrown a lariat around several million hero-hungry hearts,
Dick says in his easy Texas drawl, "I sit down front so's I
can stretch my legs 'way out and see what's going on better."

A more precise answer would tell you that Dick and his
lovely wife Betty for years have enjoyed squatters' rights
on that front seat because they are the sort of young people
who literally want to get as close to their religion as they can.

When Gene Autry and Armand Schaefer, Buffalo Bill, Jr.'s
executive producer, put their heads together to pick
a Hollywood actor for the title role, they couldn't have
selected any one more fitting than Dick. As written,
Buffalo Bill, Jr. is a young man of great integrity and high
moral character. His chief responsibility is looking after his
younger sister Calamity, as played by Nancy Gilbert.
Dick watches over Nancy herself (Continued on page 65)

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Buffalo Bill, Jr. is ideal role for Dick, who did trick
riding before he was four, performed many dangerous
feats as a child movie actor — without a double.

Today, his own small sons' eyes light up as he puts
"He's A Dandy" through his paces. They'd love to be
cowboys — Dick doesn't want them to be performers.

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Seeing the babies off to bed, or playing bucking
bronco for Rick outdoors, Dick gives thanks for the
blessings — and the responsibilities — of a big family.

Melody, at 7, is already a "little mother" and a big
help around the house. Dick believes in keeping close
to all his children, their problems — and their prayers.

Dick Jones stars in the title role of Buffalo Bill, Jr., a
Flying A Production. See local papers for time and station.

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Inside Nashville's Ryman Auditorium on Saturday nights, you'll see
on stage 1 50 or more Grand Ole Opry performers, as shown in the
typical picture on the opposite page. This crowd (above) is the
eager group of spectators, who wait patiently for hours to get in.

There's music, comedy, dancing.
Backstage it's a romp. Out front
it's a riot. And year after year,
Grand Ole Opry packs 'em in

Minnie Pearl, in her "yaller" dress and her store-bought hat, can
always panic the customers with folksy stories about mythical town
Grinder's Switch. Here she's laughing it up with Ferlin Husky,
June Carter, and "Stringbean," the man with the low-hung pants.

Rod Brasfield greets "the Gossip of Grinder's
Switch," teases Minnie about chasing the boys.

Down Nashville way, there's a hit running into
its thirty-third year, and the SRO sign is
still out. For half an hour Saturday evenings,
every country-music lover in the country can
get into the fun via the NBC radio network. Local
fans collect not only this half -hour nugget of
fun, but also an extra four-hour session of top
comedy. For this rib-tickling session, reserved
tickets are sold out two months in advance. For
the less fortunate without reserved seats, the
alternative is to take their chances. And the
gang starts gathering at three in the afternoon
for the program which is to start at 7:30 P.M.
To the veteran performers of Grand Ole Opry,
this devotion is heartwarming — to a degree which
makes them knock themselves out to pay back to
the audience the same love and affection. As a
result, Grand Ole Opry is less a "show" than it
is a gathering of good friends of all ages.

Grand Ole Opry emanates from Nashville over Station
WSM, each Saturday night, and is heard nationally
on Monitor, NBC Radio, from 10:30 to 11 P.M. EDT.

Continued i

(Continued)

Gold guitars from Columbia Records
for Ray Price's "Crazy Arms" and to
Marty Robbins for "Singin' the Blues."

Known on air as "Solemn Old
Judge," George Dewey Hay be-
gan nucleus of Opry back in 1 925.

Singer and composer Johnny Cash,
whose records are on Sun label, belts
out a rendition of "I Walk the Line."

Square Dance Time on Grand Ole Opry brings out talented
Cedar Hill group. Dance is real country-style, fast and fun!
(At right) Ernest Tubb, one of Opry's mainstays, talks with
Wilburn Brothers, Doyle and Teddy, about script changes.

■

Grandpa Jones blows off the roof with fast
go on his five-string banjo. Grandpa's no
newcomer, has been singing it up since '29.

Governor Frank Clement of Tennessee is a country-and-Western music buff,
has turned up more than once on the Grand Ole Opry stage. Here he kids
the audience at mike, with Hank Snow (left) and Ernest Tubb (right). In
background are famous singers, the Carter Sisters, and members of band.

Master guitarist Chet Atkins performs as
appreciative audience of top singers stands
by. They're Roy Acuff and visitor Joni James.

I L ;

Little Jimmy Dickens, smallest star on Opry, has one of the biggest
voices. Only 4' II" high, but he pours out a tall amount of song.
June Carter tries to break up Jimmy's act by rolling up his pants.
(Left) Lonzo and Oscar with Cousin Jody and Odie spoof the show.

Can love come to a woman after 35 ?

She has so much to give -to the man who can give in return. Could it be Gil?
They might know real love together. But whenever they come close to fulfillment,
his jealousy tears through their happiness, destroying it. Is Kurt the answer?
Kurt, so sure, so shrewd. He has the power to hurt, yet a sudden gentleness
made him say, "I'm starved for all the things you are." Can she choose? You can
get the whole story -even while you work -when you listen to daytime radio.
Hear THE ROMANCE OF HELEN TRENT on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time.

One Look-

Two Ways

The Terry Twins know that looking
identical wins them attention — and jobs
— but at times they find it more
important to accent their individuality

By HARRIET SEGMAN

Arlene and Ardelle like to look alike for TV and modeling
(upper right). In private life (above) they prefer different
hairdos, necklines, skirt widths, heel heights, jewelry.

There's such a thing as being too much one, so we
work deliberately at being individuals," said
Arlene Terry thoughtfully. Her "other self"
— Ardelle Terry, Arlene's identical twin — nodded
agreement. As the hostesses on NBC-TV's Twenty-
One, the Terrys are probably the country's most-
seen twin-team.

"When we learned that everyone thought of us as
one . . ." started Ardelle, ". . . we realized that
wouldn't be good for the rest of our lives," finished
Arlene. They used to rely on one another to end
sentences. Now they try to see that whoever starts
talking also winds up the idea. "You have to be
firm," says Ardelle. "You have to say — look here,
this is my story, and I'm going to tell it . . . myself."

For TV and modeling, they own identical ward-
robes for their twin look. They shop for each other,
buying two-at-a-time. When going out together
socially, they dress differently, wear different hairdos.

Arlene was married recently. Now that they live
in separate apartments, each Terry has her own
make-up kit. Before, they used to dip into the same

cosmetics. They accent their blond coloring with
beige make-up base and pink lipstick. Their skin-
types are identical — a duet, or normal skin with an
oily area around the nose — so they balance cream-
cleansing with soap-and-water-plus-astringent on
the oily patch. For quick make-up change on the job,
both use liquid cleansing cream. They keep their
fine-grained skins fresh and glowing with a gentle
facial mask twice a week.

Like so many girls, Ardelle tends to get hippy if
she isn't careful. The best hip-slimmer, she finds, is
simply "walking on the floor sitting down, until you
feel it."

Both share sensible diet ideas, stressing big salads —
lettuce, tomato, cucumber, celery, with just enough
dressing to wet the leaves. They mix their own
dressing, soft-pedaling the oil. Menus also concentrate
on meat, vegetables, greens, dark and high-protein
breads. "And we snack on cheese and milk instead
of candy," says Arlene. "Perhaps that's because we're
from Wisconsin," adds Ardelle — :as soon as she's sure
Arlene has finished speaking.

A DOC'S LIFE

Lassie always behaves like a lady —
courtesy of trainer Rudd Weatherivax

Lassie's a prolific sire. In this litter, he hopes to find
a follower in his paw prints for the day he retires.

Groomed as a star, Lassie's just like any Fido
when it's time for a romp with Rudd's grandson.

Kindness, says Rudd Weatherwax, is the first rule in
training dogs to do tricks like those Lassie performs.

Trainer Rudd Weatherwax knew a bargain when he saw one.
A prankish pup was the runt of a blue-ribbon litter of
collies. When he developed the bad habit of chasing cars, the
pup's owner brought him to Rudd. At the end of a week,
the owner found the peace and quiet of his home so pleasant
that he asked Rudd to keep the dog — in exchange for the
training fee of ten dollars. For years, Rudd had trained dogs
for film work and he taught the collie to sit, lie down, speak,
retrieve, attack, crawl, open doors, and even yawn. His patience
was rewarded when M-G-M needed a star for Eric Knight's
famous dog story, "Lassie Comes Home." A series of other
"Lassie" films was followed by The Lassie Show, the first radio
show to star a dog. On TV, Lassie starts its fourth year this
fall. . . . Lassie, who plays a female dog out of deference to the
script, lives in an air-conditioned kennel and is fed raw
beef when working, cooked meat when idle. With Lassie, or
with any Fido, Rudd suggests four training rules: Kindness,
patience, guidance (he uses a ten-foot leash at all times
during training), and reward (a friendly word or a morsel
of food). "I love kids, too," grins Rudd, the father of three,
"but they're not as easy to train as dogs."

Lassie is seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 7 P.M. EDT, sponsored by Campbell's soups.

MORSELS
FOR THOUGHT

Agnes Gibbs of WCSH and WCSH-TV
serves food for the body — and the mind

Woman's work is never done and, if the woman is
Agnes Freyer Gibbs, it's never dull, either.
Generous in proportions and perspective, Mrs. Gibbs
is firmly convinced that the kitchen is the heart of
a home. But, like every good homemaker, Mrs. Gibbs
is as concerned with the rise and fall of the United
Nations or of interracial understanding as she is with
the rise and fall of her favorite cake. In either case,
she favors a rise. And, where the cake is concerned,
Mrs. Gibbs' culinary lore leaves no margin for
error. . . . Every weekday at half-past noon, she shares
her wide range of interests on Here's Agnes Gibbs,
heard over Station WCSH in Portland, Maine. Week-
days at two, she's on camera for WCSH-TV with a
homemaking program, A Visit With Agnes Gibbs. Her
guests on these programs have included celebrities
from the fields of music, theater, writing and art, as
well as "just plain folks" who have achieved "great-
ness" in their own communities. ... If many of Agnes
Gibbs' recipes come from faraway lands, it's only
natural. Her parents were Protestant missionaries
and she was born in Beirut. She lived in Syria, Japan
and Capetown, South Africa, until, at the age of six-
teen, she came to the United States. She received
a B.S. in Education from Framingham State Teachers
College in Massachusetts and was introduced to
radio through her work as County Home Demonstra-
tion Agent for the Extension Service. . . . Today,
Agnes Gibbs lives in a century-old Cape Cod house
in Gorham, Maine. Other residents on the sixteen
rambling acres include two dogs named Speckles
and Percy, a cat named Imp, and a three-year-
old canary named Jack. . . . One of Mrs. Gibbs' most
inspiring broadcasting experiences came during a
forest fire in 1947. At nine in the morning, she asked
her radio listeners for donations of sandwiches
for the fire-fighters. By mid-afternoon, fifteen cubic
feet of sandwiches had been delivered. This heart-
warming response came even though the delivery
address was repeated only once. Agnes Gibbs'
followers are too loyal for her to have to ask twice.

Men like to cook, too, as J. Scott Smart of radio's
Fat Man series demonstrated on a visit with Agnes.

Just before the Alewife Festival Preview, Bob Reny,
Ray Dunning and Fred Baird stopped by for a fish-fry.

Timed for the Augusta Kiwanis Pancake Festival, the
natural guest for Agnes was, of course, Aunt Jemima.

YOUR PAL
PALLAN

That musical signature on
KDKA signs on the tops in pops

Art's "outstanding contributions" win a plaque
from Allegheny County record dealers, a buss
from wife Agnes, cheers from the family (below).

Pittsburgh's Art Pallan not only spins records— he makes 'em.

With fifty thousand watts of Station KDKA
at his disposal, Art Pallan was speechless —
with laryngitis. As a beginning of a new job, it was
inauspicious, particularly after the fanfare that
had announced that deejay Art was transferring
from other local mikes. The hoopla had even
included a film showing Art as guide to "The New
Pittsburgh" and the airing of Art's show over New
York's independent WINS, this last to share with
New York agency time -buyers a knowledge that
Pittsburgh already had — namely, that "Your Pal
Pallan's" easy, pleasant style was low on
gimmicks and high on the best-listening lists. . . .
Now in fine voice, Art spins records and provides
household tips each Monday through Saturday
from 10 to noon. The ladies are joined by the
rush-hour crowd and the teenagers as Art provides
music, news, weather and traffic reports each
weekday from 3 to 7 P.M. And, since that original
hoarse beginning, the only thing that has separated
Art's clear tones from his listeners' ears has been
the Atlantic Ocean, which Art crossed for an on-
the-scene report of the Hungarian tragedy. . . .
Modest and likeable, Art was born in Braddock,
Pennsylvania, some thirty-odd years ago. He
sang bass in his high-school quartet, started his
career as a local announcer in 1942, when he was
graduated from Brentwood High, and, with time
out for the war, rose to a deejay's rank. Then he
began singing again, first just limbering up on a
chorus of somebody else's record, then waxing his
own. His coupling of "Lonesome" and "Land of
Dreams" was awarded free to 2,000 people to
induce charity contributions for Pittsburgh's Chil-
dren's Hospital. . . . Silent on his outstanding
war record, Art is vocal about his family. He met his
wife Agnes when she phoned in a record request.
Art complied and the calls continued until they
met in-person and married, just three months
later. Suburbanites now, they have four children:
Andrea, 12; Ann, 8; Artha, 7; and Arthur, 2. Art's
a member of the local Sportsmen's Club and
wiles away the nen-musical hours with sketching,
painting, modeling, photography, and sculpting
figures on apples which, he says, dry to make real-
istic art forms. His favorite recordings are by
Como, Nat Cole and Ella Fitzgerald, but he never
knocks anybody's records. "If you don't like
'em," says Art, "don't play 'em on the air."

Sullivan's Travels

(Continued from page 18)
Also Rises." I didn't know what to ex-
pect in Mexico, but I think I had a hazy
picture of a rather lazy people, judging
from the caricatures we've seen in Amer-
ica. Instead, director Henry King told us
at the studio that the Mexican movie
staffers and crews were the most compe-
tent and skilled workers he had ever met.
He said, too, that their enthusiasm for the
picture they were engaged in making had
been a fantastic experience to all of the
Americans from Hollywood.

Because of Ed's TV work, which re-
quires him to travel around the world in
search of talent, I have been singularly
fortunate in going to such places as Bra-
zil, Argentina, Rome, Paris, London, Ma-
drid, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Honolulu,
Budapest, Bermuda, Zurich, Berlin, Mu-
nich, Jamaica, Dublin, Osaka, Brussels,
Amsterdam and Tokyo.

Every city was a revelation to us and a
revision of pre-formed ideas on the peo-
ple who live there. We've always found
that people all over the world are pretty
much the same. The affection of parents
for their children is identical. The respect
of people for the moral code embodied in
the Ten Commandments is identical. We've
found that people treat you just the way
you treat them. In other words, it's the
old story of getting out of life exactly what
you put into it. Rudeness is the incu-
bator for rudeness. Friendliness begets
friendliness. There is no language bar-
rier that can't be dissolved by a smile.

Traveling with Ed is very exciting. One
minute I might be sitting in our apartment
making a telephone date to have lunch
with a friend the following day — and the
instant I hang up the phone, Ed will say,
"We're going to Europe tomorrow." I never
ask why or wherefore. As long as I know
where we're going, I walk into my closet,
select the appropriate things, and am ready
to go at a moment's notice.

This is how Ed and I always travel-
without any preliminary planning and
mostly on the spur of the moment. I pre-
fer it that way. It's much more exciting
than sitting around planning and making
elaborate preparations or worrying wheth-
er you have the right things to wear.

Ever since we were married, Ed and I
have done a gr^at deal of traveling. Be-
cause we don't believe in planning and
waiting for convenient times, we take ad-
vantage of every opportunity to go places.
We're not believers in waiting until we
have a lot of time, or leisure. We feel it's
best to travel when you can enjoy it, rather
than wait until you're rich enough to af-
ford it. By that time, you're generally too
sick or feeble to get the most pleasure out
of it!

When Ed heard that his show was to be
pre-empted for the Rodgers and Hammer-
stein production of "Cinderella" this past
March 31st, he immediately decided it
would be a good time to take advantage
of the opportunity to fly over to Europe.
I was packed the minute he made the sug-
gestion. We had twelve days in Europe
and traveled to Rome, Switzerland, Mu-
nich, Vienna, Paris, and Berlin — both East
and West zones.

In Rome, the Italian film stars gave a
large party for Ed in appreciation of all he
has done to make them as well known in
America as they are in their native land.
The Excelsior Hotel in Rome's beautiful
Via Veneto was filled with top European
celebrities. John Wayne, director Henry
Hathaway, Jo Van Fleet, Rossano Brazzi
and many others were also there.

The following day, Ed had to go out to
the set where John Wayne was filming

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"Legend of the Lost." This left me with
time to shop, and I love shopping in Rome,
particularly along the famous Via Con-
dotti with its fabulous shops. No matter
how many times I've been to Rome, the
sight of that elegant flight of stone steps
at the Piazza D'Espagna always makes me
think I'm on a movie set, and the Vatican
Museum filled with its priceless collection
of ecclesiastical treasures fills me with awe.
So, whenever I have a few hours to my-
self, I wander through my favorite places.

If it were up to me, I'd spend most of
these trips just browsing around the towns
and cities we visit. But Ed is more realis-
tic. He knows that we don't have too
much time. He believes in getting a good
general idea of a place and then seeing
the chief points of interest.

Ed is a very meticulous traveler and
traveling with h;m has taught me a great
many useful things. In the first place,
both of us travel with a minimum of lug-
gage. We only take things we're sure we
will -wear on the trip. Since we know
what countries we will visit and know
what the weather will be like, we take ap-
propriate clothing. Most important of all,
we are always at the plane ahead of time.
Ed is very punctual and is always the first
one at the plane.

Ed and I made our first trip to Europe
in 1936 and have been going back for a
few days, a week or longer, whenever
time permits. In 1940, we wanted to go
somewhere for a vacation but neither one
of us had any idea where to go. Ed was
appearing at Loew's State Theater on
Broadway, at that time, and, one night
after his show, we were walking along
Broadway and passed a travel agency that
had posters of South America in the
window. Ed turned to me and said, "How
would you like to go to South America?"
I said I'd love it. "All right, we're going."
And he went in and arranged passage then
and there. ,

At another time, our daughter Betty and
her husband Bob Precht were in New
York from Washington spending Thanks-
giving Day with us. Betty was six months
pregnant at the time. During dinner, Ed
was talking about Betty's birthday, which
was December 29. He said we should plan
to do something in celebration — and then,
out of a clear sky, he turned to Bob and
Betty and said, "How about going to Eu-
rope for Christmas?"

Bob couldn't hide the look of amaze-

ment that spread over his face. He didn't
know that was the way Ed did things.
But, then and there, Ed arranged for us
to spend Christmas and New Year's in
Europe. We ate Betty's birthday cake up
in the air over Europe, en route from
London to France.

Before Betty was married, and when-
ever it was possible to have her along
without interfering with her schooling, Ed
and I always had her accompany us on our
travels.

It is a constant source of surprise to me,
whenever we're in foreign countries, how
many people recognize Ed during our vis-
its. We may be walking down the street
of a European city and people will greet
him by name. Of course, at airports and
railroad stations, there are always apt to
be people who know Ed very well. On
our last trip, we stopped at a Swiss air-
port for a little while and ran into Sonja
Henie. It happens all the time.

Our recent European trip was a suc-
cession of interesting highlights. Wherever
we went, we saw things that we shall al-
ways remember. Ed and I had wanted to
go to East Berlin but, whenever we men-
tioned this to anyone, they immediately
discouraged us. They predicted all sorts
of dire things. But I personally thought
it might be interesting to see a completely
different side of life. So, with all sorts of
warnings ringing in our ears, with ad-
monitions not to dare step out of our car,
we set out. We refused to be frightened.
Of course we didn't want to get involved
in any unpleasant situation that might re-
flect upon us as citizens of the United
States. We simply wanted to go as tour-
ists and to see if all the stories we heard
were really true.

East Berlin made a deep and definite im-
pression on me. It was almost like being
right inside Russia itself. We visited the
cemetery where the heroes of the Battle
of Berlin lie buried. We saw the huge
somber statues of Mother Russia and the
soldiers with guns and helmets standing
guard over the dead. We saw the huge
slabs set on the ground in memory of the
battles and, inside the huge memorial, the
names of the men who died in the Battle
of Berlin.

We stopped at the main square of the
sector and there was a feeling of austerity
and unquestionable discipline in the at-
mosphere that made us happier than ever
that we were Americans.

In the American sector of Berlin, every-

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.

TUNE IN EVERY MORNING TO

MY TRUE STORY

American Broadcasting Stations

"I followed Tom as he carried Becky's limp form into our spare bedroom." Read
"Borrowed Baby" in the current issue of TRUE STORY Magazine, now at all

„ newsstands.

thing was different. The very looks on
the faces of the people plainly signified
that they were not living under the yoke of
oppression. They knew how to laugh and
smile and be happy. We went to Resi, one
of the large night clubs frequented by
Americans and particularly the G.I.'s. As
we entered, the American soldiers there
recognized Ed and a great cheer of wel-
come greeted him. Then, they swarmed
around him asking questions about home.
Ed answered all those questions and then
asked some himself. He took messages for
their families and, when we got back to
the states, he saw that each message was
delivered to its destination.

The Resi is a huge night club with al-
most continuous entertainment. Each table
has its own telephone and a dialing system
enabling one patron to talk to another.
Naturally, Ed's phone was kept busy all
evening long. They also had an interest-
ing system of communication by which
messages were transmitted through pneu-
matic tubes. This also enables patrons to
communicate with each other and was
particularly popular with the G.I's.

The next day, Ed and I went to visit a
television station in Berlin. As we walked
into the studio, again a hearty welcoming
cheer greeted us. By coincidence, on that
very day, a group of thirty young Ameri-
can students under the sponsorship of the
New York Herald Tribune were visiting
Berlin. Naturally, the young people recog-
nized Ed — but they were amazed at seeing
him there!

Whether it's in night clubs, theaters or
in a tiny cafe, Ed is always on the alert for
new and unusual talent. In Paris, he loves
to watch the street circus stationed there
permanently. Sometimes, the performers
he sees quite by accident eventually wind
up on his CBS television show. If anyone
mentions an unusual singer or performer,
Ed will interrupt his itinerary to catch it.
That's why his show has so much foreign
talent that would otherwise never be seen
by the vast American television viewers.
And that's why, wherever we go in Europe,
people seem to know him. He is regarded
as a sort of ambassador-without-portfolio
and, in almost all the countries we visit,
they constantly tell us he has done more
to establish a strong bond of friendship
with the United States than any other per-
son in the field of entertainment.

There is definitely a logical explanation
for this. Ed is always interested in the
individual. It doesn't matter to him where
the performer may come from or what col-
or or creed he may be. If the person ex-
cels in his particular type of field, if he or
she is tops as an entertainer, that's enough
for Ed.

No matter where we go, Ed is interested
in the people. He stops and chats with
shopkeepers, porters and waiters. He talks
to the streetcar conductors, the elevator
operators, the taxi drivers and the police-
men. As for me, I can never get enough
of wandering through foreign towns and
cities, observing everything that goes on.
Sometimes months later, back in New
York or at our Connecticut farm, I'll sud-
denly recall how a little street or square
in a corner of Paris looked. And, no mat-
ter how many times I've been there, I al-
ways feel nostalgia and a desire to return.

Being married to Ed is exciting. Be-
cause both of us are ready to go any place
at a moment's notice, our travels have
been filled with fun and enjoyment. There
are so many places I'd love to revisit. But
I am also hoping that some day Ed and I
can manage to get to Israel, to Africa and
to India. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow
morning, Ed might suddenly turn to me
and say, "Better pack a bag, Sylvia, we're
going to Madagascar."

(Continued jrom page 44)
even begun to fight a way back toward
success — to make a new career in the place
where he'd made his first.

Julie saw that her expression was proud.
She was glad. Phil was proud, desperately
so, and it was part of her disaster that
his pride would not let him permit her
to share his misfortune. He would be
ashamed to offer only poverty to the
woman he loved. But that same pride gave
him courage to fight when everything
looked blackest, and Julie now felt pride
in his courage. It worked.

She dressed, remembering every word
of his letter as she moved about her
room. At once she could see the words
he'd written as they appeared upon the
paper, and the images the words evoked.
He'd been filled with despair at the be-
ginning. But, very oddly, another woman
had brought him out of it and back to
this new resolution and this new enter-
prise which might — which must — which
would mean that they would yet be
happy together.

A former sweetheart, one Dolores, had
sought him out, he said, and Julie read
between the lines and knew that she'd
tried to revive a love affair long ended.
She'd failed because Phil loved Julie and
could not cease to love her. So the letter
told much more than Phil intended,
and all of it was matter for pride. He'd
bought an ancient cargo plane in such
bad condition that no one else would
touch it. He'd repaired it with his own
hands, and it flew. He was a competent
pilot. He'd set up a one-plane charter
service, flying air freight to places where
other pilots preferred not to risk land-
ings. Because he would fly where other

Hilltop House

men would not, his services were already
in demand. In a little while, he could buy
a second plane. If all went well, there
could still be happiness for them . . .

He ignored the hatred of his brother
Lloyd, and the diseased vindictiveness
with which Lloyd had tried to avenge an
injury which had never been inflicted.
Phil's letter was carefully less than opti-
mistic, but it implied a tenderness and a
resolution so complete that, when she
first read it, Julie felt all the warmth
and happiness a woman feels when she
knows she is beloved by the one man
who really counts. But that was a long
time ago, now.

Her dressing was finished. She looked
at herself again. The sunshine in the
windows was no longer mockery. The
warm soft breeze was no longer merely air
in motion. The bird songs ceased to be
derision. By calling upon herself for
courage, she had brought herself out of
one of the blackest of morning moods
and to one which, if it was not cheer-
fulness, was at least a sturdy resolution
which could substitute for it.

"It's not too bad!" she told her re-
flection with increasing bravery. "I've just
got to wait! And Phil hasn't given up.
He'll manage. So can I. The question
is — "

The question was, of course, how to
make waiting endurable. As she left her
room, she pondered the question with a
new urgency. For years, until now, she'd
had something to fill her every waking
moment. There'd been Hilltop House and
the children there. . . . She felt a wistful
warmth at memory of those who'd needed
her so terribly, and whom she had been
able to help. Then she caught the note

of regret in her own thoughts, and thrust
it aside. Karen was head of Hilltop House
now. Karen was young, but she was sweet
and lovable and intelligent, and she had
taken over the work Julie'd chosen her
to do. Julie should not try to interfere
there, even though Terry was a problem
to be solved . . . Terry was a teen-age
girl frantically hungry to be loved and to
belong somewhere with someone . . .
and Mark would be a problem pre-
sently . . .

Going down the stairs, Julie called a
halt to those thoughts. Those problems
were Hilltop House problems. She had
separated herself from Hilltop House so
she could marry Phil. She must not offer
advice or help to Karen unless Karen
asked for it. It would be disastrous, even
to the children, to have divided counsel-
ors.

Counselors. David, who ran the Clinic
for Potential Delinquents near Hilltop,
because he'd lived at the Hilltop House
orphanage when he was a boy. The years
he'd spent there were the most crucial
of his childhood, and he knew that the
help and guidance given him had pro-
vided the stability which now made him
one of the nation's foremost authorities
in child psychology. He'd had his own
tragedies, too . . .

Julie reached the bottom of the stairs.
It was good to think of David. If she'd
helped even one neglected, unwanted
child to grow toward being a man like
David, her years at Hilltop House were
not wasted! And he was her friend. She
owed very much to him. It had been
David who, when she first took charge of
Hilltop House, showed her very gently
that the orphanage was not merely a

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refuge in which she could live absorbed in
the love of the Hilltop children and their
need of her. He'd made her see that she
must not cut herself off from everything
outside the House to live upon her mem-
ories. He'd made her see that, to give the
children courage to accept even losses
by death with bravery, she must be the
embodiment of it. And she felt rueful that
this morning she'd lacked all courage.

She prepared her breakfast. She thought
of Phil, of course, but she was aware of a
deep gratitude to and affection for David.
When he helped her most, he'd been mar-
ried himself — and his marriage was a
tragedy, in spite of his young daughter
Felicia. Knowing of her love for Phil now,
Julie felt a sort of wonder that, for a time,
she'd had to struggle against falling in
love with David. But that was done with.
There was Phil.

She sat down to her coffee, aware that
she must make some decision and find
some activity while waiting for Phil's new
career to come to fruition. She must
find some useful work to do which she
could resign without damage when Phil
was ready to marry her.

1 he coffee was good. The eggs and
toast were perfect. The room in which
she breakfasted was bright and colorful,
and the sunshine outside was now con-
tagiously cheerful. There was no lessen-
ing of her longing to be with Phil, in
South America or anywhere else. But, by
summoning courage, she'd made this day
into something more than so many hours
to be endured. Now it was a day in which
to plan for that period, whether long or
short, in which she must wait for Phil to
achieve that material success without
which he would be ashamed to have her
share his life.

She spread a little extra butter on a bit
of toast, aware of an odd satisfaction,
now that she faced her problem squarely.
Perhaps she could help David at the
Clinic. Certainly — though it would in no
sense be work — she could be of some use
to Felicia, David's daughter. Felicia's life
had been tragic, too. David's marriage to
her mother had been bitterly unhappy,
and Felicia had known that her mother
was the cause of it. She'd felt a terrible
guilt because she could feel no grief when
her mother was killed in an accident.
Julie had been able to help her then, and
Felicia adored her now. She could give
Felicia something of the capacity a wom-
an needs, for loving without reward.

She heard footsteps, and a moment
later the doorbell rang. She went to an-
swer it. The footsteps were Felicia's. She
came often to see Julie, dashing in and out
with a heartwarming confidence in being
welcome. But, when Julie opened the door,
she was astonished at the doleful look on
Felicia's face.

"I — I came to ask you something," said
Felicia in a strained voice. "It's — rather
important. I don't know what to
think ..."

"I'm about to have my second cup of
coffee," said Julie, smiling. "Come in
and tell me and think it out as you talk."

"Th-thanks," Felicia said hesitantly.
"I can always ask you anything. This
time, perhaps I shouldn't. But — you're the
one person in the world I know will al-
ways let me tell the whole truth and not
blame me."

Julie led the way to where the coffee
pot waited. With the professional knowl-
edge acquired at Hilltop House, she noted
that Felicia looked distressed, but not
T ashamed. It was, then, not a problem of
V something she'd done, but of something
n she felt she should do — and didn't like.

"One good way to face the truth is to
say it," she observed. "Sit here, Felicia.
64

I'll get a cup of hot coffee for you."

She did. In even that brief moment, she
made her decision. She would ask David
if she could join him at the Clinic for
Potential Delinquents. They were friends
and could work together, without con-
straint, at something they both considered
the most important work in the world. She
could turn the dreary time of waiting
for Phil into a time of accomplishment.
And to guide even one child away from
the desperate unhappiness of meaningless
revolt would be justification and payment
for her postponement of happiness with
Phil.

She poured coffee for Felicia and sat
down. She found herself smiling. When
she'd heard Felicia's problem, she'd tell
her of the decision just made. It would
be deeply satisfying. David's friendship
and the work she knew . . .

"What's the trouble, Felicia?"

"It's my father," said Felicia. She gulped,
not touching the coffee. "He — Karen Whit-
field has fallen in love with him."

Julie sat very still. When she and
David were thrown together in the old
days, by the work David did with the
children at Hilltop House, she'd had to
struggle against falling in love with
David, herself. His wife was still alive
then. It would be wholly natural for Kar-
en, now that his wife was dead . . .

"You can't be sure, Felicia," she said
gently. But inside she felt a sense of
shock. "No one can help liking your father.
You may be mistaking — "

Felicia stammered. She'd seen Karen,
who seemed so composed and efficient —
she'd seen Karen touch her father's coat
when he was not in the room. She saw
Karen longingly kiss its sleeve. And
then Karen saw that Felicia had seen, and
went desperately white. She tried for a
moment to pass it off, and then plead-
ingly asked Felicia not to tell anyone,
especially her father . . .

Julie did not move. She, herself, was
going to marry Phil. There was no reason
why Karen and David should not marry,
if David came to wish it. If he'd been free
to marry when she first went to Hilltop
House, even she . . . But Karen would be
good for David. And for Felicia.

"What should I do?" asked Felicia un-
happily. She said with a sudden, halting
rush of words. "I've — always hoped my
father would marry you. Even when you —
got engaged to someone else, I — hoped
you'd change your mind. When you came
back, the marriage postponed, I — I even
prayed that you would! I've been hoping
— oh, so much! — that you would marry
him someday because you'd — be so dif-
ferent from my mother and he'd be so
happy with you — and I'd be happy, too!"

Julie hoped she wasn't pale. She spoke
gently. Later — much later — she was able
to be amazed that she had said just the
right things to Felicia. But they were
right. They were the things Felicia was
just a little too young to think out for
herself, but which she could realize
were right when Julie said them, and
which she would adopt as a guide.

David, said Julie quietly, was entitled
to happiness if the means to his happiness
was not harm to anyone else. Felicia was
entitled to be happy, too — but not at the
cost of her father's future joy. Undoubted-
ly, she could hinder the growth of love
between Karen and her father. She could
spoil her father's happiness, if she chose.
But she could not make him happy. She
could only let him find it for himself. That
would be doing what was good for him.
If she preferred that what was good for
him should be a certain thing — why, if
it was not that thing. . . .

"You're saying that I — want him to be

happy," Felicia said unsteadily. "I do.
Especially after what he had while I was
growing up. You're saying that I can't
decide for him what will make him happy.
And that, though I may wish it were
something else — if I can't have what I want
a certain way, I just have to have it the
way it can be had. I — I want my father to
have what he deserves." She swallowed.
"Only ... I think he — deserves you."

She went away, leaving her coffee un-
touched. But she carried her head high.
Now she wouldn't betray Karen's pitiful
secret. She wouldn't inject bitterness into
Karen's life, or David's. If they married,
she'd try hard to help. . . . She'd grown
a little more mature in the past few mo-
ments. She was nearer to being the woman
she could someday be.

Julie continued to sit very still. Her
second cup of coffee grew cold before
her. Her decision was reversed, now. She
could no longer ask to work with David at
the Clinic. She must stand aside so David
and Karen would have their chance at
happiness — if what they wanted was each
other. Her presence at the Clinic would
mean fear, for Karen. She would be tor-
mented by the closeness of David and
Julie. She might grow bitter because of
lost hope.

But Julie had lost her one prospect of
filling with accomplishment the time she
must wait for Phil to meet the demands
of his own pride. She faced again what
she'd confronted on first awakening.
Months or even years of empty waiting,
in which she could not fulfill the need of
anybody, anywhere. Not Phil. Not any
lonely, defiant child. . . .

1 he postman came up the steps and rang
the bell. He went away. Almost numbly,
Julie went to see what he had left. There
was a single letter — with a South Ameri-
can stamp on it. Julie's heart leaped. Then
it sank again. The handwriting on the
envelope was not Phil's. Foreboding as-
sailed her. Her hands shook as she tore it
open.

The letter was from that Dolores who
had been Phil's sweetheart once upon a
time, but who had not been able to
reawaken his love. With bitterness, be-
cause she was writing to the woman Phil
did love — but with grief besides — she
told Julie what had happened to Phil.
He had accepted a charter for his re-
paired cargo plane (which, Dolores said,
now seemed to have been arranged by
his brother Lloyd). He'd taken off. He did
not land at his destination. He was miss-
ing. But there were rumors that he'd
crashed in the jungle, and that his burned
plane and perhaps his body had been
found by the Indians of a remote jungle
village. Dolores told Julie drearily that
she herself believed the plane had been
sabotaged. Lloyd.

Like an automaton, Julie found herself
climbing the stairs to her bedroom. Like
a robot, she found herself pulling out a
suitcase. Without any conscious mental
process, she found herself packing. She
knew, without deciding at all, that she
was going to South America. She was
going to find the Indian village — however
remote or savage it might be — near which
Phil had crashed. She was going to find
Phil.

A little while since, she felt she had re-
learned the lesson of courage. Now she
knew she had not. She could face the
possibility that in that village she might
find Phil crippled or hideously disfigured.
She would not care. But she couldn't let
her mind dwell for the fraction of an in-
stant on the fact that he might be dead.

She couldn't face that! She couldn't!

She packed for traveling, forcing her
mind to the immediate task at hand. . . .

Keeping Up With The Joneses

(Continued from page 50)
in much the same manner and with as
much love as he spends on his own brood
of four: Melody, 8; Ricky, 5%; and the
twins, Jennafer and Jeffrey, born August
21, 1955.

But, with four in his brood at home,
Dick would be the first to agree that here
the resemblance between Buffalo Bill, Jr.
and Dick Jones ends. "There is absolutely
nothing," says Dick, "that compares with
the experience of running a home with
four children in it . . . unless it's the ex-
perience of a home with five children. . . .

"Take this morning, for example," Dick
grins. "My wife went to a fashion show,
and I'm left with the duty. Unfortunately,
Melody, who acts like a second mother,
is down with the mumps. While trying to
show Rick how to build a castle out of
blocks, and potty-train Jennafer, and run
a bath for Jeff, and squeeze juice for
Melody, I've got my hands full.

"Great man that he was, I'm not sure
even Buffalo Bill, Senior, could have
handled it. I don't know how Betty man-
ages-7— yet, when I'm away on tour and
she's here alone with the four of them,
Betty runs this little bungalow like a
well-oiled sewing machine."

. Dick and Betty met when he was fifteen
years old and she thirteen. "You know the
old saying," smiles Dick. " 'I saw this
girl and right away knew that she was
the one for me.' That's the way I felt about
Betty. I was sitting in Sherman's Record
Bar, over on Wilshire Boulevard, with
Gwynn Bacon. We were listening to 'That
Old Black Magic' when Betty walked in
and picked up a 'Peter and the Wolf
album. I thought she was cute. Seeing the
album title, I decided to be real funny
and whistle like a wolf. Nudging Gwynn,

I said, 'Hey, boy, look at that dish . . .'
and he said, 'Aw, don't bother me — she's
just my sister.' "

Betty says that, at the time, she thought
Dick was too "Hollywood." Dick remem-
bers that getting that first date wasn't
easy. "Betty wouldn't go out with me," he
blushes. "I don't think I had a very good
reputation in junior high school. Don't
misunderstand ... I didn't get into any
trouble. But, because I was working stead-
ily, I had a car of my own — that, at only
fourteen. Today, you have to be at least
sixteen. Even in those days, a boy with
a car at fourteen was looked on as a hot-
rod kid. Yet I had to use it to take me to
the Valley and back and forth to the
studios.

"I finally had to twist her brother's arm
— not literally, of course — to get him to
help me get a date. Betty finally agreed to
go to a Hi-Y dance, on the stipulation
that we double-date with Gwynn. He
was the Hi-Y president, and I was a mem-
ber. Once there, I naturally wanted to 'be
alone' with my date and cooked up some
story so that we finally lost brother
Gwynn. Betty was kind of upset. But
when I took her for a drive, bought her a
Coke and me a cup of coffee — had to look
like the 'older man,' don't you know — and
then straight home, why, she decided I
was a gentleman, after all.

"There's never been anybody else in
my life but Betty," Dick says proudly. We
went out every Friday and Saturday night
from then on, mostly to dances and foot-
ball games. Then she used to come over
to my house to play monopoly, and I went
over to hers to play canasta. She always
beat me," he grins.

"Then we were separated for two years,"
Betty sorrowfully continues describing

their courtship, "when Dick went to New
York to do the Henry Aldrich show. Oh,
you know how teenagers ache when they
are in love and separated! Goodness, we
wrote to one another every day, it seems.

"Our romance really got serious when
Dick returned — he was going to Glendale
Junior College and I was at Los Angeles
J. C. On the night of November 21, 1947—
I'll remember the day till I die — he popped
the question. We were at the Cocoanut
Grove, when all of a sudden he brought
out the ring! I was so surprised I could
only say, 'Yes . . .' We can't help it, I
guess, but we are both so sentimental, it's
foolish ... so we set the date then and
there for April ninth. That was the day
we first started going together — neither
of us had forgotten.

"We were married at the Hollywood
Christian Church. Dick's aunt's husband
was his best man. We had identical gold
bands made, and today I've yet to take
off my wedding ring — though the engage-
ment ring comes off for the dishes. Poor
Dick has been doing so much stunt work
since our marriage that his hands have
changed, what with broken knuckles and
so forth. So he can't wear his wedding
ring on the third finger — wears it on his
little finger instead, and is never without
it unless he's in some sort of a fight scene."

Dick has had a rugged life as an actor
ever since he was a child. As a youngster,
he worked consistently in Westerns be-
cause he could do his own horse and stunt
work. There was the wagon wreck with
Errol Flynn in "Virginia City," where for
seconds it seemed as if Dick were about to
lose his life, but was jerked out of danger
at the last instant. And, in a Wild Bill
Elliott picture, Dick did a horse fall -in
front of a stampede with a quick "pick up"

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— again just in the nick of time. The stu-
dios loved Dick. When he worked, they
didn't have to hire a double.

Dick is at home on a horse because he's
been part of Western show business ever
since he was three years old. He was born
Richard P. Jones in Snyder, Texas, some
twenty-five years ago, and his mother had
him trick -riding and roping — and playing
a ukulele — when he was three-and-a-half.
"My mother taught me all the stunts," says
Dick wonderingly, "and, to this day, I've
been trying to figure out where she learned
them."

At four, Dick had a pet black pony. "He
was no bigger than a shepherd dog," he
reminisces. "Used to follow me around
like a pup — even came into the house. We
trained him to do all sorts of tricks, but
later sold him to a rodeo. I was sorry to
see him go. A bit later I had me a spotted
mare, ten hands tall, that I did all my
tricks on. One dark night, coming home
from a show and parade, I was cutting
across the back pasture and we got tan-
gled up with a cow on a stake chain. Poor
horse broke a leg and I almost broke my
neck.

"In those days, it seems something was
always happening to me. Temporarily
without a horse, I turned to putting on
impromptu rodeos with the dairy cows on
the farm behind us. I'd round up all the
kids in the neighborhood and we'd take to
roping and riding the milk cows and just
generally raising Cain in the dairy. Farm-
er was right irritated."

When Dick was only four-and-a-half —
and working a Dallas rodeo — cowboy star
Hoot Gibson said those classical words,
"You ought to be in pictures." His mother
was all for it and, by the time Dick turned
five, he was settled on Hoot's ranch in
Saugus, California. "There," Dick recalls,
"I rode Tumbleweed, the greatest bucking
horse in the world. Tumbleweed and I
would trot from the ranch to the rodeo,
about a mile- and- a-half down the road.
I'd be on him in the Grand Entry, then
we'd put him in the bucking chute — where
he'd go out and promptly buck off his
rider. Then I'd get back aboard and non-
chalantly ride him back to the barn.

"While I lived with Hoot," Dick con-
tinues, "he took me around to the studios.
My first role was in a Warner Bros, pic-
ture called 'Wonder Bar.' For a week, I
was one of the angels flying around Stage
13 on a wire — eating watermelon. I later
made eleven pictures with Buck Jones. I
never made a picture with Hoot.

"There's one thing that Betty and I
agree on for our children," Dick says seri-
ously. "We hope they won't want to be
performers — at least, child performers. I
think it's too hard on a youngster. I know
from my own experience. With working
most of the time, and moving from school
to school, I had little chance to make
friends. And youngsters all have a need
to belong to a group.

"It may be easy for some kids, but it was
tough for me. I didn't want to go to a pro-
fessional school, either — that would only
make me all the more 'different.' I wanted
to go to public school and lead a normal
life like the other kids on the block. To-
day, I still have a hard time accepting my-
self as an actor. Every once in a while,
as I walk in my front door, I'll say to my-
self, 'Now just who am I? Buffalo Bill, Jr.
— or Dick West — or some character out of
another movie? Or am I Dick Jones, fam-
ily man and father? What's my name as I
walk in the door of my own house?' Be-
lieve me, to me it's a problem ... I call

T it 'professional schizophrenia.'

V "I think our faith has helped us a great

i! deal with this problem," says Dick. "When
Betty and I were somewhat younger, I
was more hotheaded. I didn't like being

called 'the next John Barrymore'— not
even when I knew I was being ribbed. But
some of the kids in school gave me a bad
time. And, when they did, Betty said,
'Dick, you simply give those people a
Christian witness and they will leave you
alone . . .' So our religion has become the
bulwark of our family."

Betty and Dick belong to the Hollywood
Christian Group, made up mostly of
Hollywood performers, and, once they had
joined, found they couldn't get enough to
satisfy their spiritual hunger. Dick is now
on the group's board of directors, and
their week revolves around its meetings.
"Betty belongs to a Christian sorority," he
says, "goes to a weekly breakfast, holds
two prayer meetings each week with the
folks in the neighborhood, and goes to
church on Sunday. I go to the Wednesday-
morning breakfast, to Friday-night group
meetings and — if I'm not on the road — to
church on Sunday."

Despite road trips, Dick has been home
for the birth of all four of his and Betty's
children. "I was new at the game when
Melody arrived," he smiles, "but I'm an
old hand now! When Melody was due, we
had an apartment down near U.S.C. One
morning, about three A.M., Betty nudged
me in the back, saying, 'I think you better

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call the doctor.' Our first baby was almost
here! I was running around the house try-
ing to get dressed, trying to get Betty
ready, trying to call the doctor — and not
doing a very complete job of anything.

"I'd heard that if you held a white hand-
kerchief out the window of the automo-
bile, if a police officer saw you, he would
understand it was a maternity case and
lead you to the hospital. At three o'clock
in the morning, we didn't see any police
officers but a couple of folks we passed
must have thought I was crazy driving
sixty miles an hour with one hand out
the window. To say the least, I was pretty
excited about our first-born.

"For Ricky, I was calm, cool and col-
lected," he insists. "I was just going down
to the barn to work my horse, when Betty
said again, 'You'd better call the doctor.'
We took Melody along with us, but the
doctor said the baby wouldn't arrive until
1:30. Melody was disappointed with the
wait, finally lost patience and said, 'I can't
wait any longer ... I want to go out and
play.' So I took her over to her grand-
mother's house, came back about one. At
1:35, the doctor announced over the PA

system, 'Come upstairs, Dick, and look at
your new son.'

"Then, the day the twins arrived — talk
about excitement! August 21, 1955, was the
greatest day in our life. I was supposed to
work the Coliseum Rodeo, but I had a
sneaking suspicion that something might
happen early, so I withdrew. Sure enough,
at ten A.M., Betty gave me the signal. We
got to the hospital in minutes, and the first
baby was born at 12:35, the second at
12:40. With it all, Betty had an easy time
with the twins. Me, I'm not sure I've re-
covered yet.

"Melody was proud as punch of the
twins. She's a great little mother," says
Dick. Betty adds, "For a while, young
Rick felt left out of things. But we spent a
great deal of time with him. Dick, for ex-
ample, takes him to the lumber yard to
pick out wood for a continuing do-it-
yourself project he has going on in our
rather small Burbank home — eleven hun-
dred square feet was never meant for a
family of six! And they'll work on Dick's
miniature boats together, or in the lathe
house in back — Dick was a carpenter after
his Army career in the war. When we go
camping, Rick collects the firewood, Dick
builds the fire and catches the fish. Camp-
ing is a community affair.

"But most important," she continues,
"Dick takes young Rick with him to the
stables to work his horse 'He's A Dandy.'
Rick thinks his dad is the greatest hero
since George Washington, and, when he
watches his dad on 'Dan,' he gets a wor-
shipping look in his eyes. He even tries to
dress like Dick, in levis and Western shirts
— when we go shopping, Rick always
wants one 'just like Dad's.' I know we're
going to have a hard time keeping him
from becoming anything but a cowboy.
Already, he can jump and leap around like
an Indian and, being imitative, can do al-
most as many tricks as his dad.

"But, more than anything," continues
Betty, "Dick and I would like to encourage
the children to lead a Christian life. For
example, in trying to teach them about
the Bible, we have verse cards in a dish at
the table which they draw out to read be-
fore each meal. Here is one, for example,
Proverbs 3, verse 9: 'Honor the Lord with
thy substance.' They read one of these
biblical verses and then we discuss it, try-
ing to bring out what it means to them in
particular. We try to illustrate the verse
in terms of their own experience, in terms
of the problems they now face in school.

"We always say our prayers at night,
before we go to bed, and a grace before
each meal. We sometimes have a round-
robin at the table where the children make
up their own thanks as we go around. In
the evening prayer, Dick and I generally
begin first, trying to give them an idea of
some of the things they might want to in-
clude— then they are on their own. They
pray for all their little friends, and for
Daddy when he is away. One time, Ricky,
then only two-and-a-half, said, 'Please,
God, take care of my pal Robbie's dead
dog ... he was one of my friends.' That's
the sort of thing that makes you feel your
effort pays off.

"Above all," says Betty Jones, "we
never try to judge their prayers, to criti-
cize their content or correct their phrase-
ology. We simply want them to learn that
they can go to God, that He is with them
all the time . . .

"We feel God has blessed us with a 'big
family.' And there is nothing to our minds
more pure and cherished . . . more inno-
cent and closer to God . . . than little chil-
dren. So, you see, our family has made us
feel very close to our God; and our one
goal in life is the hope that well be able
to teach them each day to live as He would
want them to."

Three's the Most!

(Continued from page 36)
became a trio. And they were close
enough in age to catch hand-me-down
clothes. "I was always jealous of Chris,"
Dot confesses. "She always had the new
clothes and I had to take her hand-me-
downs." Phyl adds, "Then Dotty would
pass them on to me. I was jealous of Dot
because I got them third-hand."

"And how about the fudge business?"
Phyl continues. "To this day, I can't for-
give Chris and Dot for being so high-
handed. I always got the smidgins. You
see, when we were very small, Chris
would make fudge. She was always a
good cook. I remember when I was in
grade school, when sugar was rationed
during the war and it was hard to get
chocolate, mother would give us permis-
sion to make candy once a week. Some-
times we made it without permission.
Well, anyway, because I was the young-
est, I got the thin bits of fudge. Chris
would pour the fudge in a plate and when
she cut it v/e all got the same number of
pieces but I got the outside, shallow bits
and they got the big, thick center hunks!"

"We had our side, too," Dotty notes.
"Someone had to go to the store and get
the stuff, and she wouldn't go. We'd ask
her to butter the plate or help wash up.
She wouldn't do her share."

"Oh, I was the baby," Phyl explains
airily, "and I shouldn't have had to do all
that. I was in the first grade."

Understandably, Chris was the plump
one in those days. And she had the wan-
derlust. First up in the morning, she'd
trudge down Main Street to the highway
in her pajamas, all set to travel. Dot was
"mother's perfect child" — until she was
nine and took to the trees with a Tarzan
complex. Phyl, at the age of six, began

to "propose and elope" almost daily. The
girls began to sing together in their tender
years, but this was just for family fun.
In their teens, they sang publicly at church
meetings, weddings and similar gatherings.
In 1950, they made a nine-month tour of
Army camps. This was perhaps the turn-
ing point in their lives. On this tour,
hospitalized veterans requested popular
songs and the girls tried to please. They
had never before sung anything but re-
ligious music in public. In 1951, they had
their own TV show and sang with Karl
Taylor's orchestra in Dayton. In late 1951,
they came to New York, made eight ap-
pearances with Kate Smith, won a Talent
Scouts show in December — and, a month
later, in January of 1952, became regulars
on the Arthur Godfrey programs.

"Of course, we were always together as
sisters," Chris says. "But, since 1949, I'd
say we've been together from breakfast
to evening or late night continuously. The
longest we've ever been separated has
been for a weekend — and that not very
often, since most one-night bookings fall
on Friday and Saturday."

All kinds of silly, mixed-up things have
happened to the McGuires, for these can
be three delirious damozels. There was the
time they missed two planes out of the
Pittsburgh Airport — although they were
on the field all the time. Phyl recalls:
"The three of us were on our first engage-
ment out of New York City and we had
to change planes in Pittsburgh. We were
told we had fifteen minutes there, and we
saw one of those places that sell those
interesting, creamy-whipped cones. We
rushed up to the place where they were
sold, and had to stand in line because
there were so many people ahead of us.
We finally got the cones — and, when we

went back to the plane, it had gone. We
were told we had a half-hour wait and
then we missed that one, too — beeause we
were so busy looking around and so un-
conscious of time."

Yet the McGuire Sisters, like others who
work in radio and television, are literally
slaves to the clock. They must stick to a
merciless schedule, day after day, to make
rehearsals, air time, fittings, interviews,
business meetings, recording sessions. The
clock is their master from the moment
they awake.

In Manhattan, Dot and Phyl live to-
gether in a duplex apartment. Chris lives
a few blocks north with her husband, John
Teeter, and her two boys (when they are
home from school) . While the girls don't
congregate until after breakfast, they talk
on the phone as soon as they're awake.
"This is the way it is in the morning,"
says Phyl. "Dot is sleeping in her bed-
room and I in mine. First thing you know,
the telephones begin ringing."

"I have the service call me to wake me
up," Dot interrupts to explain, "and al-
ways have them call back fifteen minutes
later. I'm trying to kid myself into think -
ink I'm sleeping overtime."

"Nothing helps me when I wake up,"
Phyl continues. "Not a shower, and not
breakfast. When I see the sun, I feel bet-
ter— but that's all. So I keep quiet in the
morning. I don't talk when Chris calls.
Dot gets on the phone, and she and Dot
decide what we'll wear. I just listen in on
their conversation so that I know what I
have to wear. I grumble downstairs to
the coffee pot and, pretty soon, Dot comes
down, too. We haven't exchanged a word.
Then we go upstairs and dress. Chris
calls again to change something we were
to wear. Usually, the first words Dot and

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I exchange are after we have dressed and
had breakfast and are leaving the apart-
ment to get into Chris's car to go to the
studio. Then we officially start the day
by saying, 'Good morning.' "

The big headache is always the fight
with time. Not one but three must have
nails manicured, hair dressed, clothes
fitted. If all favor one masseuse — as they
do — then it becomes three times as hard
to set up an appointment, for each must
go at a different time, and that means three
hours lost, rather than one.

"Most of our arguments are over the
schedule," Chris says. "I have a hair ap-
pointment and Phyllis has one, too — but
at a different time. We all know that the
most important thing is rehearsal, and we
can't give that up. We'll walk down the
street arguing over who will give up the
appointment so that we'll have that extra
hour for rehearsing. Cab drivers always
say that they've often wondered if we
were really sisters, but when they hear
us argue they know that we are!"

Actually, the girls try to coordinate
their activities as well as complement one
another. Dotty saves time by lending her
body to the fittings for all three. The
girls' measurements are almost exactly
the same, and so this is practical. Dot
also pays the cab fare; since the girls may
be in and out of cabs a dozen times a day,
this becomes another time-saver. Phyl, on
the other hand, always picks up the phone
(except before breakfast). She sets up
time for interviews, pictures, rehearsals.
Chris has always done the shopping for
the trio, with never any dissension there.

"Chris buys nine-tenths of all our
clothes," says Phyl, "and I mean all. Not
just gowns, but stockings, underclothes,
sport things. And we like everything she
gets. We really have the same taste." As
Dotty notes, "We've separated and visited
the same stores in the same city — and
we've ended up making almost identical
purchases. That's even happened with
undies. Of course, we have the same col-
oring and size, so we wear certain styles."
And Chris adds, "For example, we always
buy seamless hose. We do this because —
with six legs — there might be six crooked
seams, so we avoid the problem."

The McGuires have won a reputation
for being beautifully dressed, but it's not
all in the selection of clothes. Often, the
girls have helped in designing their own
gowns. Phyl explains, "Well, take our last
set of gowns, that were actually designed
by Sophie at Saks. We felt the gowns had
to be striking. We wanted to accomplish
this with beading and designs, but it had
to be watched. We didn't want the bead-
ing too heavy. Then we had two gowns
made with straight material but used in
such a way that they were just as striking
as the gowns with the beading." For
both sets of gowns, the McGuires sug-
gested the basic ideas as well as the colors.

Their new, full coats are also their own
brainchildren.

"We have three black-diamond capes,"
says Dot, "long capes with hoods. We
thought they might be chilly without
sleeves and suggested long mink gloves
to give the appearance of sleeves. The
furrier carried the idea on a little further.
He fixed the long mink gloves so that we
can take off the top halves and have three-
quarter size gloves. We can also take the
top halves and make muffs out of them or
a hat or a little bow to use with suits."

The girls seldom have to borrow clothes
from one another. The exceptional time
was disastrous, as Chris recalls. "I let
Phyl borrow my mink stole one night and,
the next night, her place was robbed — and
the stole went with everything else."

Like their clothes, their luggage and
handbags are identical, so they have them
initialed to tell them apart. They get

oothbrushes and other toiletries in dif-
ferent colors, but try to keep make-up
simplified and standard. "We choose lip-
stick according to the gown we're wear-
ing," says Dot, "and we have such a
variety that it creates quite a problem.
For our coloring, we don't like lipsticks
with blue in them. When it comes to fin-
gernails, we've stopped using colors, be-
cause of the quick changes we must make.
We use plain polish so that, no matter
what color we wear, the polish will not
conflict."

They are always happy to stumble on
something that will simplify their routines,
for the average day is strenuous. They
have even come to depend on one another
for recreation. As Dot says, "We really
get our biggest laughs out of each other,
and no one ever gets hurt."

Phyllis — who insists that she hasn't a
sense of humor — contributes frequently to
the fun. She's good at mimicry, not just
of celebrities but of everyday people they
meet. She is also a practical joker. "We
had a doctor friend at dinner one evening,"
Chris recalls, "and Phyl insisted that she
was getting a fever. Well, she didn't look
flushed but he took her temperature and
it was more than 103. Well, he began to
make calls to hospitals to get a bed for
her, but the hospitals were full. He kept
taking her temperature, thinking there
might be something wrong with the ther-
mometer— she showed no other symptoms,
and even her pulse was normal. The doc-
tor called the drug store, got another
thermometer, took her temperature again
— and it was still up. He was convinced
that she was very ill. Then we discovered
she was going into the kitchen and drink-
ing hot coffee each time before he took
her temperature!"

Dot recalls, with a laugh, "That was
nothing to the day she came into my bed-
room crying, "*I've scalded my face. I'm
scarred.' And her face did look awful.
'I did it with a scalding washcloth,' she
said, 'I didn't mean to do it.' I got so
upset — then she started laughing and told
me she had put raw egg on her face."

The girls, so close for so many years,
are extra sensitive to individual moods.
When one gets in the dumps, the other
two go into action immediately. Phyl can
be helped out of a bad mood with food — a
basket of fruit or even just talk about a
good Italir restaurant. Chris loves clothes
and anything new to wear lifts her into
the clouds. Dot likes records — a new Si-
natra album, maybe — or a new book.

Dot is usually the balance wheel. While
Phyl takes care of appointments, and Chris
takes care of the clothes, Dot takes care
of her sisters. She is most often the
peace-maker. None of their arguments is
ever serious, but the girls will never sim-
ply flip a coin to come to a decision. They
never give in to one another. They talk
and talk until they have reasoned out the
problem. And they never part until the
issue is settled.

"Sisters usually love one another. We
do, too," says Phyl. "But, besides, we
like one another. Of course, there are
times when we wish for privacy. We al-
ways know each other's business. There
are no secrets. The one time Chris tried
to throw a surprise party for me, she
nearly went crazy. It was impossible. It
was not a successful surprise — but a very
successful party."

"When you're a trio, there is always
something exciting going on," Chris beams,
"or something exciting going wrong. But,
when there is any excitement or some-
thing new to look forward to, we all share
it. And, when something goes wrong, you
don't have to suffer it out alone."

"There's one thing, for sure, about being
a trio," Dot smiles. "You never get lone-
some."

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A Slightly Reformed Character

(Continued from page 39)
Spike Jones: "If we knocked ourselves
out for the full half-hour every week,
with only the same sort of stuff we did
on the road, we'd wear out our welcome
within a month. We'd find ourselves com-
ing into living rooms where the family
had gone out for the evening. This way,
judiciously mixing some of the corn in
with straight stuff, and with Helen's
torchy numbers, we could get to be a
habit."

It's an old saw in show business that
comedians are the most serious men in
the trade. And, of them all, there's prob-
ably no one more deadly in earnest about
the business of being funny than Spike
Jones. Certainly there's no one who works
harder at it — no one could, because there
aren't enough hours. Spike spent three
days (and nights until 2 A.M.) each week
planning his TV shows with his staff.
Then, three more days for rehearsals,
and, finally, one day for dress rehearsal
and the "live" show. That adds up to
seven — which is about par for Spike.

It's a shame, too, that Spike can't have
more time to enjoy his lovely Beverly
Hills home. Located a couple of blocks
south of Sunset Boulevard, in one of the
older, very proper sections of Beverly
Hills, the big Colonial mansion sets far
back from the street, with colorful flower-
beds lining the red brick walk.

As one friend puts it, it's an "awfully
square" house for Spike Jones, with its
stately columns across the front of the
house. But the tongue-in-cheek attitude
Spike shows towards many things greets
the visitor, even before he has a chance
to lift his hand to the brass knocker. The
huge doormat is lettered: "Stokowski."

Inside the house, there appear to be ex-
cellent copies of world-famous master-
pieces. It's only the more careful second
glance which reveals that the "Blue Boy"
on one wall actually has Spike's face, and
wears tennis sneakers. Opposite him, the
"Whistler's Mother" sitting so sedately
in her straight chair has a copy of the
Daily Racing Form folded neatly across
her lap. And, across the room, the enig-
matic smile of the "Mona Lisa" appears
below two eyes as crossed as two eyes
could be.

Ihe two Jones offspring — Spike, Jr.,
who's just turned 8, and Leslie Ann, 5—
are two of the healthiest, huskiest, most
normal little characters you could im-
agine. Mary Foster, who has had them in
her charge for the last two years obviously
adores them, but claims they can be as
"hammy" as the next when they feel like
it.

Little Leslie Ann, with the promise of
future beauty already on her little pug-
nosed face, is currently as much a tom-
boy as rough-and-ready Spike Junior.
She could hardly escape being that,
Helen points out, since the neighborhood
is overrun with small boys, and no girls.
In order to have someone to play with,
she plays with boys. "This will be fine,"
Mary points out, prophetically, "if these
boys just stay put until high school.
Leslie will have all the dates she can
handle, right in the block!"

Spike Junior's household chores cur-
rently include cleaning the bird cage for
the family parakeet, a gorgeous character
solemnly called Saul. The Jones me-
nagerie, generally a fluctuating community,
T is now at one of its low points, census-
V wise. Besides Saul, there's Irving, the
r silver-colored poodle. And there are the
tropical fish: In a ten-foot-long aquarium,
set at eye-level into the wall of the fam-

ily room, swim some of the biggest angel-
fish in private captivity. Spike claims
these are a sort of "food bank," and would
pass as filet of sole if times ever get lean.

Among his "extracurricular" activities,
Spike Junior has picked up judo. There
was probably never a more surprised
father than Spike Senior one evening not
long ago. "Daddy," Spike Junior requested,
with wide-eyed innocence, "there's some-
thing I want to try on you." Always ready
to oblige his son, Spike Senior took the
stance his son dictated. The next thing
he knew, he was flat on his back.

Actually, it's only poetic justice that
the Jones young have a mischievous
streak. Pop has been playing jokes on the
public for so many years, it somehow
seems highly suitable that he now has
someone to return the compliment.

The Spike Jones brand of musical tom-
foolery probably got its real start years
ago, when Spike was only a youngster
in Long Branch, California. Of course,
Spike claims some of the "corn" may have
been brought West by his father, the
late Lindley M. Jones, a native of Earl-
ham, Iowa. The elder Jones was a railroad
telegrapher for fifty -five years, and
brought his family to Long Beach when
Spike was a boy.

Whether that "corn" was inherited is,
of course, debatable. But when Spike was
only knee-high to a tuba, he developed a
burning passion to own and play a trom-
bone. His indulgent parents helped pad
out his savings, and he acquired the
coveted instrument. Then he discovered,
much to his distress, that his arms were
too short to play the trombone properly.
With a mighty effort, he could manage to
fling the slide out to the eighth position —
but, by no amount of stretching, could
he reach to pull it back in.

Even then, Spike was a creature of
perseverance. He rigged up a Rube Gold-
berg-type arrangement, whereby he tied
one end of a string to his little finger,
the other end to the slide arm of the
trombone. Out would go the slide, then
he'd reel it in again, using the string.
This proved not only a highly efficient
means of playing the trombone, it also
reaped unexpected results: His audi-
ence laughed like crazy every time he
went into action.

It was only after considerable convinc-
ing on his part that his parents finally
gave him their blessing to join a dance
band, led by Dwight Defty. A few months
later, he organized his own dance group —
called it "Spike Jones and his Five Tacks."
They played over a Long Beach radio
station, KFOX, until Spike was graduated
from high school. At Chaffee Junior Col-
lege in Ontario, California, Spike joined
the Ray West Orchestra, and from there
went on to jobs in other bands.

It was while he was playing drums with
John Scott Trotter, on the old Bing Cros-
by radio show, that the "musical de-
preciation" idea really hit him. It was
Spike's job, each time they came on the
air, to hit the chimes which announced
Bing's opening number. Someone re-
marked one night that they sure hoped
he'd never hit a sour note. The possi-
bility of error had never occurred to him
before, but the suggestion suddenly made
him very conscious of those opening
chimes. And, sure enough, the very next
show, he hit the wrong bar. The re-
sponse was not what everyone feared,
however. The orchestra practically fell
apart at the seams, laughing.

The bit started Spike to thinking. If
striking a wrong note, quite by accident,
was such a big, comic thing — why not

just work up some planned sour notes?

With a group of fellow musicians, who
had been kidding around with music in
their off hours for some time, he worked
up some novelty tunes, and they cut a
couple of records. One of these came to
the attention of some recording officials,
and the group was signed to a contract.

One of the first discs the group cut, un-
der contract, was a musical commentary
on Adolf Hitler— this was in 1942. The
first time they recorded it, Spike ended
the number with an ad-libbed, resound-
ing, and very juicy Bronx cheer.

The record, titled "Der Fuehrer's
Face," was released on a Saturday. By
Monday, Spike was signed to play in a
Warner Bros, motion picture, "Thank
Your Lucky Stars." On Tuesday, he
signed a radio contract. On Wednesday,
he appeared on a Bob Burns radio show.
And, on Friday, he signed a new record-
ing contract. By the following Sunday,
Spike recalls, they had to chain him to
keep his feet on the ground. And things
haven't slowed down much since.

In his thirty-six-months zoom into the
stratosphere, between 1942 and 1946,
Spike Jones became one of the "hottest"
things in show business. His records were
selling like hot cakes are supposed to sell,
he had a radio show, did more movies
than he cares to be reminded of.

Then, in 1946, he decided to get the show
on the road. He organized his "Musical
Depreciation Revue," and toured with
this madness until May, 1953. In Spike's
company were forty people, including
thirteen musicians — a term many claimed
to be pretty loose talk. But, as Spike
pointed out, and still stoutly maintains,
it takes an unusually good musician to
play as badly as his men do, on cue.

"Mad" and "zany" are actually pretty
pale words to use to describe the pres-
entations that were put on by Spike
Jones and his City Slickers. Besides the
standard fiddles, trumpets, saxophones
and trombones, the City Slickers were
adept at playing tuned flit- guns, bicycle
pumps that whistled, telephone bells
which rang in key, and bagpipes which
exploded on cue. At one point, the bass
viol was flung open to disclose a min-
iature kitchenette. The cello would belch
firecrackers, and the tuba blew tiiba-
size bubbles. As a clincher, the harp
popped corn, dispensed soft drinks, and
shot arrows into the air at appropriate
moments.

Yet the band still managed to work
in a tune, here and there. They spoofed
the classics, from Brahms straight through
to Tchaikovsky. They shot holes in the
sentimental ballads {one of the master-
pieces they turned out during this era
was "Cocktails for Two," which record is
still a popular seller in the music shops).

Maybe the psychologists would have
another diagnosis of this national pheno-
menon. But, to the untutored mind, it
looked a lot like Lindley Jones, in kick-
ing the sacred cows of music in the slats,
was performing a vicarious service for
all frustrated citizens. For years, these
much-put-upon citizens had yearned to
take a swat at the conventions stifling
them — but lacked the courage. Along came
Spike, without an inhibited bone in his
body, and did it for them.

In 1948, when Spike and his City
Slickers were really riding high, he met
Helen. Their first meeting was at the !
Hollywood Palladium, where she was
singing. They met again at the old Troca-
dero, where they were both on the same
bill. Later, she came to work with the

band, and in July, 1948, the newspapers
gaily announced that "Spike Jones Marries
the Hired Help."

If the wedding was quiet, it was prob-
ably a pretty good thing. Because there
hasn't been a lot of quiet, since then. Life
in the Jones household is rarely tran-
quil, never dull. For a while, it just
practically didn't exist — at least, the home
life didn't. Helen went off on a tour
of her own, a couple of years ago. Spike,
making some personal appearances at this
same time, claims that all they got to see
of each other during this period was when
they'd wave as their trains passed each
other, going in opposite directions.

If the pace hasn't slackened, at least
they're going in the same direction nowa-
days. On TV, Helen decorates at least
two spots on Spike's show each week,
and they are together for rehearsals, as
well as for the rare times when they man-
age to be home simultaneously.

Among those rare times, the most pleas-
ant are when Helen's family shows up for
some celebration or other. Spike, an only
child, acquired quite a family when he
married Helen. She has, besides her
parents, five brothers and five sisters, all
of whom live only a matter of minutes
from the Jones house.

When the whole Grayco family gathers,
as it does for Grandpa or Grandma Gray-
co's birthdays, or other national holidays,
they can count fifty-five heads. That is,
if those heads stay up above water in
the Jones swimming pool long enough to
be counted.

Spike is always in the middle of the
mob, stirring up the fun. He has the
stern-jawed, deadpan face which would
do credit to an ancient owl, but the mind
could be Puck's, or a comic-opera ver-
sion of Mephistopheles. He's always tip-
ping the youngsters off on some new
deviltry, or slyly egging the brothers-in-
law into some practical joke on one of the
girls. To the thirty-one Grayco grand-
children, Spike is another Pied Piper.

No one will ever deny that Spike Jones
loves youngsters, especially his own two.
But he does refuse to let them dictate
what he is to do, and when he is to do it.
It just happens that Spike believes parents
have a few rights to assert, too.

Assert himself he did, recently. Bogged
down by an inescapable load of re-
hearsals and planning sessions, he ran
headlong into Spike Junior's birthday.
Leaving himself wide open, he admits,
he asked the boy what he'd like to do
for his birthday. Without a moment's
hesitation, the lad replied that he wanted
to take some chums to Disneyland.

"I simply couldn't get away for the
entire day it would require to make that
kind of a trip. But I couldn't give the
boy that kind of an excuse — at eight,
things like rehearsals and work schedules
just don't mean much. So I just explained
how Disneyland is in Philadelphia, and
the trip would take too long. He agreed
he'd just as soon go to the 'Ice Follies,'
which was playing just a couple of miles
down the pike. But," Spike sighs, "he's
still a little bothered about how a couple
of his friends managed to make it to
Philadelphia and back in the same day."

There will, of course, come a day of
reckoning. One fine day Spike Junior's
geography will improve, and Spike Sen-
ior will be brought to account for such
parental connivance. It would be fun to
be around, and find out what trick Spike
Junior plays on his dad to even up the
score. It's bound to be a good one, and it
will serve him right. Anyone who's per-
petrated as many tricks on as many peo-
ple as has Spike Jones, deserves at least
a little comeuppance — even if it's from
his own son!

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Come to the Aid of Your Party

(Continued from page 49)
drive for children's aid, a bazaar. Even a
small party might profit from it."

Two children can be on the Refreshment
Committee, to decide on the food and how
it is to be served. Two can get the inex-
pensive favors and prizes at any local
variety store or similar treasure trove, as
part of the Game Committee — they can
decide what games shall be played, too.
A Picture Committee can include the chil-
dren with cameras who would like to take
snapshots. A Clean-up Committee can be
made up of an older girl and boy who can
stay a while after the party is over — and
will think it's fun, as Mrs. Mace's children
do. (Sometimes they get the extra cookies
or cakes left over!) The important thing
is for the child to participate in as many
ways as possible. Here are some of Mrs.
Mace's ideas:

Decorations: Children love bright colors,
fresh bouquets of flowers on the table,
bright paper garlands, amusing or fanciful
cutouts, inexpensive favors made by them-
selves or bought at the variety store,
pretty lace-paper doilies and fancy paper
napkins. The adult who lets her child as-
sist in all this is making that party mem-
orable for days in advance and perhaps
for years afterward. It can be a lesson in
choosing harmonious colors and in creat-
ing something pretty from quite ordinary
materials.

Invitations: Whether given informally,
by telephone, in person, or by mail, in-
vitations should be explicit as to the hour
when the party will begin and will end,
so provision can be made by families to
get the children to the party on time and
get them home on time. There should be
no doubt about transportation arrange-
ments, especially for very young children
or for older ones who will leave a party
after dark. The young host's or hostess's
mother has the job of finding out who's
bringing and picking up whom, as this
is an adult responsibility.

Chaperones: The question of whether
parents — or older brothers or sisters —
should accompany the children at the
party is one to be decided between hostess
and families of the guests. At The Mace
School, mothers are discouraged from
hovering too closely, except for those
needed to keep things moving happily and
perhaps to assist at refreshment time.
"Just remember, it's a party for the chil-
dren," says Mrs. Mace, "and they don't
like to be watched every moment under
those circumstances, as long as there is
at least one responsible adult close by. It
spoils a child's pleasure to be told, on the
way home, that she did this or that wrong.
If there has been something that needs
correction, hold off a while — perhaps until
the next invitation comes."

Sociability: The wallflower problem

may begin early, if a little girl (or even
a boy) is timid and shy. Mrs. Mace tells
her children: "We think too often that
everything should come our way, without
our making enough effort. You must not
expect that everyone will be trying to
make you happy every minute. You have
to do some of it yourself. Make yourself
happy. Join in the fun with the others."

Children should be taught how to draw
other children into the circle of fun.
"Every child must be drawn into something
at a party," Mrs. Mace says. "When a
mother teaches a child to be kind to other
children, she is not only teaching party
manners but the best possible way of life.
No child should be allowed to feel left out
and unimportant. We ask our children who
can perform to get up without coaxing and
entertain the others. These are not neces-
sarily the professional children. All the
children have talents they love to use. We
tell those who may not feel like doing
something at the moment that, if they do
a good job under those circumstances, it
proves they are really adaptable. That it's
even better to make a success of some-
thing when you didn't feel like doing it."

Bonnie Sawyer has worked out her own
idea for a neighborhood or school or com-
munity party. Sometimes not all the chil-
dren are known to one another, so she
has made a tag for each child to wear,

lettered: "I'm . Who are you?"

This is a good idea for adult parties, too,
where introductions are spoken quickly,
and names forgotten, or where the crowd
is too large for individual introductions.
The children love it, and even a potential
wallflower is bound to get acquainted and
become part of the group.

Games: The wise adult tells a child to
take part in all the activities at a party,
even if he doesn't happen to like all the
games the others are playing. If you don't
know how to play a certain game, she
advises, ask to have it explained to you.

Kissing games seem to go with parties
and it's Frieda Mace's belief that you can't
stop them, that the kids look upon them
as they would upon other party games,
and that it's a mistake to make them seem
important by objecting. A grownup should
be around, unobtrusively, ready to suggest
other activities.

The most fun for children, of course, are
the active games, if the weather is nice
outdoors or there is room enough indoors.
Small objects that can be jarred off tables
or thrown to the floor should be put away.
Mother's best lamp should be pushed safe-
ly out of reach.

An interesting modern version of the
game called "Going to Jerusalem" or
"Musical Chairs" is to seat the children in
a circle or oval on the floor and pass some
small, smooth object from one to the other.
Even an orange or a well-washed potato

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will do — no fruit that will crack open,
nothing that has sharp edges or can jab.
Whoever is caught with the object in his
hands, as the music stops, meets the same
fate as if he had been left without a chair
to sit on in the older version of this game.
The absence of the chairs and the march-
ing around fits better into smaller rooms.

Word games are always fun, if they are
not played so long that the children get
weary. Older youngsters, the ones in sixth,
seventh and eighth grades, love them.
But variety is the spice of any party, so
no game should be played until the chil-
dren get restless.

Dancing: This is tops, especially for the
older children. The Bunny Hop, the Lindy
— square dancing, if you have a big enough
room, or a game room or playroom in the
basement. It's wisest to consult the kids
here, and find out what they like to do.
Some of the children at Mace have a sys-
tem at their own parties for hearing all
their favorite recordings. Each child brings
one or two, marked with his name on a
tiny piece of adhesive tape attached to the
middle of the record. This way, records
can easily be identified and collected at
going-rhome time.

Refreshments: Little children still like
sandwiches — peanut butter, and jelly — the
traditional party ice cream and cake.
Older children go for Cokes and Peosis
and root beer, potato chips and pretzels,
apples and doughnuts (for square danc-
ing)— and, of course, hamburgers and
frankfurters. Cookies that satisfy, some-
times individual little cakes, each with one
candle on it, instead of a traditional birth-
day cake. A cute idea for summer drinks,
or cold drinks at any time, is to dip the
rim of the glass in orange juice and then
into granulated sugar, with enough cling-
ing to form an edge. Put in the refrig-
erator until ready to fill with whatever
drink you are serving. The child sips the
drink by way of a sparkling frosted-orange
rim and is delighted with the new taste.

Sit-down or buffet serving depends upon
the hostess's facilities and room. Also upon
the value she places upon her rugs and
furnishings! A game room with a floor
designed for easy cleaning admits of pass-
ing paper plates and cups and balancing
them in small hands. A back yard takes a
lot of punishment. Or even a porch. Many
families find the dining room table the
safest place for serving, or they set up
card tables.

Mrs. Mace reminds her children it is not
necessary to race for the food, and it is
necessary to wait until all are served at a
table. They are told to keep a plate passed
to them unless they are asked to pass it
along, to watch the hostess if they are not
sure when to start and what silver to use,
but also to remember that it's a party and
not to worry too much about some unim-
portant error.

A child should be reminded, if neces-
sary, not to comment on something he
doesn't like, to keep it on his plate and
eat a little of it if he can. Never, never,
Mrs. Mace tells the children, ask to have
something removed from your plate, or
make a fuss about it. Eat a second portion
of something else, if it's passed to you.
Don't say anything rude. Don't talk to just
one child. If you have a joke to tell, that's
fine, but be sure it's a nice joke that every-
one will enjoy, and be sure it won't hurt
anyone's feelings.

Bringing a present: Hand it to the per-
son for whom it is intended, and put in a
card so it will be remembered as yours,
no matter how many it may get mixed up !
with, in the excitement of arriving. If
parties in your community are frequent
enough to be financially burdensome, you

might suggest that, for your own children's
party, you are limiting presents to a cer-
tain price level, the kind that can be pur-
chased at the ever-useful neighborhood
variety or toy store. Kids love gifts, espe-
cially when they get a lot at one time, and
don't care a bit what they cost. The fun is
in the opening, so help your child to wrap
the presents prettily — and let him use his
own ideas if he wants to.

Family Parties: Those special occasions
at Christmas or birthday time are more
fun when a child or a group of children
distribute the gifts, make their own little
presentation speeches, plan the way in
which everything is to be done. At The
Mace School, the children learn poise and
assurance by acting as masters and mis-
tresses of ceremonies at the monthly as-
semblies, introducing the children who are
to perform or contribute in any way.
Adapting this plan to any close-knit group,
such as a family or church or school, even
timid children can get up and do a good
job — good for them and fun for the others.

Party Dress Up: Simple little dresses
for the girls, white or pastels, or a tailored
dress prettied up with beads or a flower
or a fancy collar or belt. Never, even at
the Mace Graduation Prom, an off-the-
shoulder dress for a pre-high-school child.
A little sleeve, usually, at the Prom. Stock-
ings can be worn instead of socks, a little
heel, not more than an inch or so. Sports
jackets and slacks for the boys, or a suit.
Tie and white shirt for an important party,
otherwise a sports shirt.

A little girl's hair can be put up in a
pony tail or caught back with a barette or
band. Girls like to wear their hair a little
differently at a party, just as their mothers
do. Nails buffed, without gaudy polish,
soap-and-water skin, maybe a touch of
natural-looking lipstick for the older girls,
because it makes them feel very partified
and elegant. The same goes for a light
cologne or toilet water. Deodorants for
both girls and boys. The boys are told
that, if they want to get girls interested in
them — and certainly if they want dancing
partners — their hair must be clean, also
their hands and nails; their shoes shined,
their faces scrubbed. They seem to get the
idea.

Time to Leave: A child should be taught
to gather up all his belongings when he
leaves — little girls' handbags, boys' caps,
overshoes or rubbers, umbrellas, rain-
coats. Toys or records that have been
brought along, favors given to be taken
home. If a child has been told to leave a
party at a certain time, and refreshments
have not yet been served, he can ask to
use the telephone and explain to his moth-
er. If he must leave anyhow — and this is
the hardest part of all — the hostess should
try to wrap up at least a few of the goodies.
If he makes a fuss about leaving, he should
be reminded that when he leaves willingly
he earns the privilege of going to other
parties. A good hostess guards against
serving too late for every child to be pres-
ent, however.

Mrs. Mace impresses on the children to
respect the home they go into, as they do
their own, as they do their school. "Don't
let your parents and your training down,"
she says to them. As a teacher, as a woman
who has had four children of her own
and whose grown-up daughter Alyce is
now a talented actress-singer, Mrs. Mace
has been close to many children all
through her life. "No teacher has any
trouble with educating children in the
Three R's, when the parents will cooper-
ate," she smiles. "Understanding parents
hold the key to a child's happiness, to his
standing at school, to his fun at parties.
The rule is to keep children busy and oc-
cupied— happily busy. And to let them
participate in their own parties as much
as possible."

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Meet the Quiz Kings Face to Face!

(Continued from page 25)
sidered for the job, including some top
emcees in TV and radio, important com-
mentators, well-known stage, screen and
TV actors. The story is practically the
same for every quizmaster. He had to be
tops, and he has to stay tops against the
keenest kind of competition.

Here is what may get you on The
$64,000 Question: You — or someone who
thinks you're smart enough to compete —
write a letter to the show, in care of
CBS-TV, 485 Madison Avenue, New York
22, N. Y. The letter will be one of a possi-
ble 10,000 or more received that week, so
it obviously should be as informative and
impressive as you can make it.

If you sound interesting for their show,
you will get a questionnaire in the mail,
asking for information about your back-
ground and education, special fields of in-
terest or service, hobbies, availability for
the program if and when called — plus the
photo request. You will be asked to give
three or more character references. This
has nothing to do with financial or social
status — you can be the humblest, plainest
person. It does have to do with being the
kind of contestant who will in no way
embarrass himself or the program.

The next move, if your answers to the
questionnaire interest the powers-that-be,
will be a personal call from someone con-
nected with the show, who will ask for
more details and form a personal judg-
ment. If this screening process satisfies the
caller that you are a good bet, you will
then be asked to visit the show's offices in
New York. (From out of town, at their
expense, if you seem likely material.)

Here the plot thickens, and you get your
first experience as a quiz contestant, and
as a character to whom this kind of won-
derful thing couldn't possibly be happen-
ing. (But it is.) You are made to feel com-
fortable and at ease, while questions in the
subject that interests you are asked by a
group of the staff members. Your range of
knowledge — or lack of it — shows up fairly
quickly. If it's good, and they decide you
have the personality to stand up under
TV broadcasting conditions, the chances
are that you're in. And on.

The $64,000 Challenge works about the
same way. Those who want to match
knowledge with a $64,000 Question cham-
pion face the same procedures before ap-
pearing with the champ and with Ralph
Story, the relaxed master of ceremonies.
Ralph, thirty-seven this August, original-
ly came from Kalamazoo, Michigan, start-
ed on local radio stations, moved on to
radio in Buffalo, New York. He was a P-51
Mustang pilot, with sixty-three fighter-
escort missions to his credit on the Euro-
pean continent during World War II, went
back to Buffalo radio, finally to CBS-TV
in Los Angeles, before his present assign-
ment. He has a teen-age son.

Ralph's one of the new breed of quiz-
masters who give out with no fireworks,
no dramatics, but keep the suspense and
drama intrinsic to the whole concept of
the show. They work with quiet sincerity,
have poise that communicates to the con-
testants. All successful quizmasters, past
and present, have great warmth with the
people they meet on the shows and the
knack of making the contestant seem the
real star, rather than themselves.

Hal March emerged in his middle 30's
as the quiet-voiced quizmaster of The
T $64,000 Question, after a long preparation
¥ ranging from public performances as ama-
R teur welterweight boxer in his late teens
to night-club comedian and featured per-
former on some of the country's most pop-

ular radio and TV programs. He served in
the Army as a radar operator in the Coast
Artillery, later was half of the comedy
team of Sweeney and March, was the
"next-door neighbor" on the Burns and
Allen show and, later, Imogene Coca's TV
husband on her series. He is married to
the former Candy Toxton Torme, dotes on
her little boy and girl by a former mar-
riage— and their own baby son, born this
past June.

The programs, Twenty-One and Tic Tac
Dough, on NBC-TV, are produced by the
company of which Jack Barry, their em-
cee, is an executive. (They also have an
exciting new one called High-Low.) Pros-
pective contestants for either Twenty-One
or Tic Tac Dough (based on the old child-
hood game of Tick-Tack-Toe) should
write a letter all about themselves and
address it to the producers, Barry & En-
right, 667 Madison Avenue, New York 21,
N. Y. If the letter catches their interest,
anyone who is in the New York area — or
expects to be there shortly — receives a
note giving instructions to call the office
for an appointment.

At the office, the would-be contestant
takes a preliminary written examination
consisting of one hundred multiple-choice
questions. This takes about half an hour.
If contestants score extremely well, and
appear to be acceptable personally, they
are then asked if they want to take the
further examination for Twenty-One, the
tougher and financially more richly re-
warding of the two shows (prize money
on Tic Tac Dough, however, has risen to
around $15,000, on occasion). Many per-
sons have no desire to get on a big program
like Twenty-One, feeling that Tic Tac
Dough will be less strenuous and more
fun for them personally. In that case, they
meet with one of the staff members of that
show for further interview, and if ap-
proved by him are passed on to the pro-
ducer, who makes final decision. (Inci-
dentally, look for Tic Tac Dough to become
a night-time show on September 12.)

Now that we have disposed of T.T.D.
and can go back to Twenty-One — and the
contestants who have scored up to or be-
yond a certain high mark in the first writ-
ten examination and have elected to take
the stiffer exam — we'll find out just how
stiff it is. This one, too, is written, requires
about three hours, covers 363 questions in
121 categories! The contestant who "pass-
es" is brought in to meet the producer of
Twenty-One, who talks to him quite a
while. It's a sort of personality test. After
that, there's the meeting with the pro-
gram's two top men, who make all final
decisions, to ensure that each contestant
will be the kind of person you yourself
would like to have visit your home.

A word here is necessary for those who
live out of town: These two programs send
a man around the country to interview
people who have written interesting let-
ters. He brings in his reports, accompanied
by snapshots or photos, and on the basis
of these it is determined whether certain
people should be flown to New York at
the show's expense for interviews.

Jack Barry, emcee of Twenty-One and
also of the daytime version of Tic Tac
Dough, was a salesman thirteen years ago,
and he still has the easy and pleasant, but
decisive manner of a good businessman.
Now in his late 30's, he has had a fine ca-
reer in top-rated TV and radio shows. He
is married to the former Marcia Van
Dyke, who was an actress, singer and con-
cert violinist. They have two young sons.

If you are — or plan to be — in the area
of Hollywood, California, and you want to
join Groucho and match wits with that

wily Mr. Marx on You Bet Your Life,
there are several ways to do it. You could
be sought out by the program for a num-
ber of reasons: Something interesting has
been told or written about you (in which
case they may seek you, wherever you
are). Or your job makes you stand out —
you're a public official, a distinguished
foreign visitor, an explorer, a religious
leader (practically every faith has been
represented to date). Or a wild-animal
trainer — a VIP of any sort. (Groucho has
a ball poking fun at big-name contestants,
has found them to be folks who can "take
it," whereas a little guy hasn't the same
defenses. So he really lets loose on the
bigger fellows, who can look out for them-
selves, and everyone gets kicks out of it.)

You could be "discovered" by one of
the. program's representatives who, work-
ing with the sponsor, set up booths at state
fairs and rodeos and such places, talk to
people in general and keep on the lookout
for those who seem likely candidates for
the show. Or you could write to the show
itself, care of NBC-TV, Sunset and Vine,
Hollywood, Calif., or call the show's offices
for an interview appointment. Three staff
members conduct these interviews, and
much depends upon their first impressions.

"Anyone who wants an interview with
us can come in and have it. We never re-
fuse anyone," a staff interviewer told us.
"We try to get a balance with six people
planned for a show, all different. Never
all men or all women, never all married
couples. We like good down-to-earth
housewives. They are the bread-and-but-
ter of the show. Everybody roots for them;
viewers love them. If they have an inter-
esting hobby, this helps, but they don't
have to. We like people, too, who are in
the workaday business world. We often
select contestants on the basis of sheer
personality, because we think viewers will
enjoy them. Contestants should lack self-
consciousness, be warm and friendly— and,
of course, reasonably well-informed to an-
swer questions from Groucho."

Another way of getting on Yoii Bet Your
Life is to be in the studio audience, but
that's for a later date and not the same
evening. Write well in advance for tickets
— the usual four-to-eight weeks — and join
the crowd going in, try to be "dated" for
an interview, be as natural as you can and
tell everything about yourself that will
put you in an interesting light. Don't go,
expecting to be chosen for the current
performance — contestants have already
been selected for that date and are not
plucked from studio audiences shortly be-
fore air time.

The rapid-fire, cigar-puffing quipmaster
and quizmaster of You Bet Your Life,
Groucho Marx, came up through years of
vaudeville, stage, many Hollywood mov-
ies and a succession of radio and TV
shows. He was long famous as the domi-
nant and tart-tongued member of the
Marx Brothers, a team which at various
times included all four of his brothers —
Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and Gummo.

It was Mama Marx, an accomplished
harpist herself, who started her five sons
in a music-vaudeville career. Papa was a
tailor who must have had a rich sense of
humor and fun to have gone along with
the whole zany crew of Marx offspring.
Groucho himself has a daughter Miriam
and son Arthur who are both writers. Ar-
thur did a biography of his dad, brought
up the question of whether Dad is really
a sentimentalist whose air of disillusion-
ment hides his real feelings, or whether he
is as world-weary a cynic as he sounds,
especially when he's kidding a contestant.

Groucho's comment was typical: "I ask
the questions, I don't answer them." His
eleven-year-old daughter, Melinda, has
appeared with him on television, seems
likely to carry on the thespian tradition.

Two For The Money should be addressed
in care of CBS-TV in New York
(address already given). The producers of
this show look for interesting facts,
unusual hobbies or occupations, or any
other qualities that make contestants
stand out to advantage. This show prefers
a snapshot or other photo (non-return-
able) with the initial letter. (If you have
any to spare, it is never a bad idea to send
along a snapshot with your first request in
writing any program.) Here, as in every
other case, your letter should be as in-
formative and provocative as possible. You
want to be invited for an interview.

Dr. Mason Gross, Provost and Professor
of Philosophy at Rutgers University, as-
sists emcee Sam Levenson, hands out the
questions and is the judge of the correct-
ness of all answers. Questions on this show
get progressively harder, but are not too
demanding at any time, and the whole at-
mosphere is one of fun, rather than strong
competition for money prizes.

oam Levenson, who has been called "the
ex-schoolteacher with the sugar-coated
psychology and a million-dollar smile,"
livens the show with his own warm and
bubbling personality and his endless fund
of stories about kids and parents and
family relationships, keeping it part Sam
Levenson monologues and only part quiz,
a system which seems to make everyone
happy. Everyone knows that Sam is a
happily married man and that there is a
son, Conrad — who seems smart enough
and witty enough himself to grow up to be
a quizmaster before long — as well as a
small daughter, Emily.

Name That Tune, the musical quiz,
should be addressed as follows: Name
That Tune, Box 199, New York 11, N. Y.
Your letter should be detailed enough to
take the place of a personal interview.
"Pretend that one of our staff members
is sitting in your kitchen having a cup of
coffee with you, and you're just chatting,"
is their advice.

Don't send a mere list of vital statistics,
although these can be included — your
height, your weight, your age, etc. Be sure
to send along a list of seven songs to make
up a Golden Medley of your choice. They
suggest a variety of tunes, all of which
should be familiar ones — some old, some
new, some fast, some slower. And they're
sure to want a smiling snapshot. (Since
fewer men submit entries to the program,
a man has an especially good chance.)

This is not a show for "experts." No one
type of contestant has proved better than
others at naming tunes. Grand-prize win-
ners have included a fireman and farm
wives, a teacher and grammar-school stu-
dents. Those who like music, who live in
its atmosphere by listening to television,
radio, recordings, and are quick to re-
cognize a tune and to recollect its name,
stand the best chance. Contestants are
paired off to win a possible $25,000 and
home viewers participate by sending in
their own Golden Medleys.

Thirty-four-year-old George de Witt,
quizmaster of Name That Tune, began his
show-business career as a high-school
boy in Atlantic City, New Jersey, while
doubling as a singing waiter. He served
in the Merchant Marine (Norwegian), in
the British Royal Air Force, and as a
United States Army Air Force pilot after
this country entered the war. He is well
known as a TV and night-club headliner.
Everybody who watches Name That Tune,
and George, knows he has a little boy
named Jay who is the biggest prize in his

daddy's life and is apparently headed, at
three years of age, for a brilliant show-
business career of his own later on.

To get on Walt Framer's ever-popular
Strike It Rich, your reason for wanting
to "strike it rich" is the all-important fac-
tor. Write a letter to the program, care of
CBS-TV in New York, explaining as fully
as possible why you would like to win
some money. The program will notify you
if you are being considered, and invite
you to come in for an interview. The
kind of person you are, the way in which
you are likely to conduct yourself on the
air, are of considerable importance, of
course. But the big thing here is your
motive for wanting to appear on the show
and your need of the money, whether for
yourself or your family, or for the benefit
of some other person or persons, or some
organization or other worthwhile cause.

Host Warren Hull, whose name is prac-
tically synonymous with the program be-
cause of his long association with it, was
a musician in his school days, became a
professional singer and broke into acting
in stock and on Broadway and in the
movies. He played lead parts in thirty-six
Hollywood motion pictures, worked in
West Coast radio and in the East, will
celebrate his tenth year as emcee on
Strike It Rich. He is married, has six
children in his immediate family, plus a
couple of grandchildren, and considers that
he himself has indeed struck it very rich.

The Big Payoff caters to men as con-
testants, but the rewards go largely to
their womenfolk. Any man, from ten to
one hundred, can write to the program in
care of CBS-TV in New York. The letter
should name the woman for whom the
writer (male) wants to win. A husband
may wish to win for a wife, a father for a
daughter, a boss for a super-secretary. A
couple attending the show in person may
be chosen out of the audience and inter-
viewed just before the show, if the man
has an impressive reason for wishing to
reward the lady. Even a "Payoff Partner"
— a male out-of-towner who can't be in
New York at the show — can join in the
winnings when a contestant who is present
answers questions for him. In addition,
every week a woman who has no man to
win for her is chosen from the studio
audience, and a celebrity guest attempts
to win for her, becoming her "man" for
the moment.

.fcimcee of The Big Payoff is Randy Mer-
riman, who co-stars with glamorous Bess
Myerson. Randy is a graduate of sports
announcing, disk-jockeying, even circus
barking when he was still a schoolboy. He
has been a doorman at various big-city
movie houses, before joining a vaude-
ville act and then managing vaudeville
theaters. He was a successful announcer
on radio before he became a quizmaster,
is married and has three children, a girl
and two boys.

Because it is primarily a stunt show,
emcee Art Linkletter and People Are Fun-
ny seek out some participants to fit cer-
tain stunts they have in mind — never of
course letting contestants know why they
are being approached. "We may need a
housewife one week," producer John
Guedel tells us. "We may need a woman
for some particular stunt who has a bub-
bling, happy kind of personality, without
any other specific requirement. A stunt
may require a guy who has become a
father that day, or it may require a school-
teacher, or a newly married couple. In
these cases, we look for them." In addi-
tion, staff members are always on the
lookout for interesting and resourceful
people who capture audience enthusiasm.

"But the two major ways to get on this
program," Guedel continues, "are the same

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as for most others: You write in and tell
enough about yourself to arouse interest
(enclosing a snapshot), and then wait to
be asked to arjoear for a personal inter-
view. The address is John Guedel Pro-
ductions, 8321 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles,
Calif. Or, you write to NBC-TV Ticket
Division, Sunset and Vine, Hollywood,
Calif. — four to ei?ht weeks in advance —
and ask for tickets to a broadcast, and
hope to be picked from the studio audience
on the fateful day."

After twenty-two years in the business,
stuntmaster Art Linkletter has almost a
sixth sense in selecting interesting and
amusing contestants on the basis of just a
few seconds of pre-broadcast interviewing.
People come to the show, have a chance
to be invited on the stage, and nobody —
whether a pre-arranged guest or one
picked out of the audience — knows what
is going to be asked of him or her until
Art says so on the air.

Linkletter himself gives the impression
of having a perpetual party on his own
shows. Perhaps it is because, as the
adopted son of a minister and his wife, he
came smack up against the realities of
life when he was very young, and parties
and fun are still something to get wide-
eyed about. He worked his way through
San Diego State College, was attracted to
radio and got into it while still in college.

He's been married since 1935 to his
pretty wife, Lois, and there are five "little
Links." Jack, nearing 20, now appears once
a week on Dad's House Party program,
over CBS-TV and Radio; Dawn, 17, and
Robert, 12, are hoping; Sharon, 10, and
Diane 8, are still interested in dolls and
games and TV cowboys and spacemen.

On his daily House Party, Art's love for
kids comes out plain for all to see, as does
his honest and direct way of dealing with
them. On People Are Funny, his love for
fun-loving kids of all ages, from four to
four-score-and-twenty, comes out, equal-
ly plain for all to see.

Contestants on Ralph Edwards' brain-
child, Truth Or Consequences, are chosen
from studio audiences, except in the case
of what they call "frame" acts, when some-
one is "framed" to appear for a particular
stunt, without previous knowledge of it.
For the average person who wants to get
on the show, the way is simple: Just write
NBC-TV Ticket Division, Sunset and Vine,
Hollywood, Calif., and ask for tickets far
enough in advance to make it possible to
fill your request. Usually, it's about the
standard eight weeks, but it can be much
longer, depending on the demand, so ask
early and state the approximate date when
you can be on hand.

Emcee Bob Barker and the producer
screen and select participants during the
half hour before show time, looking for
those they think will fit the stunts slated
for that day's show. If one involves a
talkative woman, for instance, they look
for a nice, gabby, friendly sort of girl in
the audience. If they need a salesman type,
they look for that kind of man.

In the case of some pre-arranged stunts
that have to be set up ahead of time, such
as reunions with loved ones or old friends,
someone close to the subject is informed
and sees to it that the subject will be in
the studio audience that day, unaware of
what is to take place or his part in it.
Carry-over stunts depend on the same
person being available for several days,
sometimes weeks, and in these cases, too,
the contestants are "framed" beforehand.

It is emcee Bob Barker who is usually
T responsible for final choice of a contestant.
V He has a good idea of the type of person
r who will be fun to work with and will
play right along with the show and have
fun, too. Bob was born in Derrington,
76

Washington, got his first job in rad'o when
he was a Drury College student in Spring-
field, Missouri, although his big interest
then was geology rather than dramatics.
He was in the Navy during World War II,
went back to college, thought that working
in a radio station might be interesting and
stopped in at the local station to ask for
a job. Surprisingly, he got it. They needed
an announcer, asked him to audition.

He had no idea what that meant, but he
read from a handful of papers they handed
him, became newswriter and newscaster,
sportscaster, disk jockey, whatever was
required. Later, he specialized in audience
participation shows, paving the way for his
job on Truth Or Consequences. Bob's wife,
Dorothy Jo, was his hieh-school sweet-
heart. They were married when he got
his Navy wings, and, when he began his
radio shows, she worked along with him.

Bob was "discovered" for Truth Or Con-
sequences by the fellow who first made it
famous, Ralph Edwards (now emcee of
This Is Your Life). Ralph heard Bob do-
ing a show of his own while listening to
his car radio, and liked what he heard.

Beat The Clock and The Price Is Right
in New York, and Queen For A Day in
Hollywood, pick all their contestants right
out of studio audiences only a little while
before they go on the air. Tickets for Beat
The Clock are obtained by writing to
CBS-TV Ticket Division, 485 Madison
Avenue, New York 22, N. Y. This is actu-
ally a stunt or game show, more than a
straight quiz, and everyone in the audi-
ence has just as good a chance to be
chosen for it as anyone else. (We sug-
gest you expect to wait six or eight weeks
after your ticket request, however, as the
letters and postcards pour in continuously.)

Contestants are picked in pairs, most
often being engaged or married couples,
but not always. Sometimes two strangers
in the audience are paired off, if both
agree. Top prize involves a "bonus stunt"
that starts at $5,000 and works its way up,
week after week, in $1,000 jumps.

Bud Collyer, emcee and co-producer of
Beat The Clock ever since it came to
television from radio in the spring of 1950,
was a man ahead of the times in the re-
strained and quiet way he works with
contestants, keeping them in the spotlight
and letting them have all the fun. With a
law degree from Fordham University in
New York, and two years of a law clerk-
ship, Bud abandoned it all for show busi-
ness, following the footsteps of his actress
mother and his actress sister, June Coll-
yer, wife of Stu Erwin. He's also married
to an actress, Marian Shockley, has two
teen-age daughters and a teen-age son.

The Price Is Right, the daily morning
program, suggests you write in well ahead
for tickets to the broadcasts, care of NBC-
TV Ticket Division, 30 Rockefeller Plaza,
New York, N. Y. As mentioned, contest-
ants are picked from the studio audience.
The show awards prizes to contestants
who guess the sales value of those same
prizes, and a contestant stays on as long
as he keeps winning over the three others
in his "bids" for the assorted merchandise
(valued from a few dollars to more than
$15,000). Out-of-town and other home
viewers participate in the biggest prizes
via a "Showcase" bid by mail. It's not
strictly a quiz program, as you can see,
but falls roughly into that category.

(Another version of The Price Is Right
is scheduled for night-time TV viewing be-
ginning the first week in October. Wheth-
er Bill Cullen will be emcee of both day
and night versions is still unannounced, as
we go to press.)

Bill Cullen, the present show's jaunty
37-year-old host, had a long preparation
for this job. He started a pre-medical
course at the University of Pittsburgh, his

home city, left college when family money
got tight, worked in a garage, got a
chance to be a Pittsburgh radio disk jock-
ey. He has announced orchestras, done
staff announcing, got his first big emcee
break on a quiz show. He has been a
midget-auto racer, a flyer, an active mem-
ber of the civilian defense air arm. Bill is
married to Ann Macomber, former model,
movie and TV actress.

Like all shows for which participants
are picked right out of the audience, every
candidate for Queen For A Day arrives
on stage and on camera by following
the same procedure. First, you write for
tickets— to the NBC-TV Ticket Division,
Sunset and Vine, Hollywood, Calif. — ex-
pecting the usual eight weeks' wait.
When you have your ticket, you fill in an-
swers to the few simple questions on it.
If I were chosen Queen For A Day my
wish would be . . . and then add your
reason. Third, you mention anything un-
usual about yourself. That's it.

Cards are turned in at the door as you
enter the Moulin Rouge, where the broad-
cast originates. They are then brought to
a panel composed of six of the staff per-
sonnel of the show. They go over all cards,
reading every wish and every reason for
wanting it to be fulfilled, and finally
choose twenty-one. These twenty-one are
called up on the stage by number only
and interviewed by emcee Jack Bailey
and the producer. Bailey himself inter-
views them for personality, voice, general
presentation — and the honesty and sin-
cerity of the wish. (If the wish isn't
sincere, that comes out during the on-the-
air interview, and the audience rejects
the candidate.)

t ive women are finally chosen and
seated at the Candidates' Table when the
show goes on the air. They tell their stor-
ies, the studio audience shows by its ap-
plause (registered on an applause meter)
which one has given the best reason for
being Queen. The important thing here is
to be in the Hollywood area already — or
to say when you will be and get in your
request for tickets well ahead — and to
have a good and definite reason for want-
ing to be Queen For A Day. The kind of
reason that will stand up well under di-
rect and searching questioning.

Jack Bailey has been assisting at these
coronations for eleven years, on radio and
TV, and during that time he has dis-
tributed around fourteen million in gifts
to women who have flocked to the pro-
gram from all over the country. Perhaps
his zest for his job started back in his
childhood, when he was chosen at the age
of twelve to act as the church Santa Claus
in Hampton, Iowa, where his family lived.
In his early teens, he began to get the
training for his future career by joining
a touring stock company.

Jack is a veteran performer on both
radio and television now, has the same
enthusiasm with which he started, thinks
the ladies who appear on his show, bless
'em, are wonderful. He has an attractive
Queen of his own, his wife Carol, whom
he married seventeen years ago.

So there you have it. The rules are
sometimes changed, the formats altered a
little, so watch your television screen. An-
nouncements to help people who want to
participate are usually made at some
point in each program.

To start things off, however, in most
cases, you write the best letter about your-
self that you know how, remembering
that it must compete with thousands' of
others constantly coming in. Or join a
studio audience and look your brightest
when they begin rounding up the likely
candidates. Then all you have to do is get
up and prove you know all the answers!

He Will Never Be a Has-Been!

(Continued jrom page 42)
. let the facts talk. I'd feel funny blow-
ing my own horn."

Gene Smith, his cousin, best friend and
confidant, has come in from the kitchen
of the two-room suite, along with his
brother Carol, Arthur Hooten and Cliff
Gleaves — all school chums and buddies
from Memphis. Elvis looks up.

"It's getting time for lunch," says Gene.
"What's for you?"

"I'm not hungry." Elvis glances at the
publicity man Johnny Rothwell and the
reporter. "You folks eat yet?"

"Yes, we did," says the publicity man.

"You got to eat," Gene insists to Elvis.
The boys are looking concerned.

"I don't if I'm not hungry," says Elvis.
But with a firm "I'm sending something
up, anyway," Gene walks out, the boys
following.

Elvis jerks his chin toward the door.
"They've been calling these friends of
mine 'bodyguards.' Do I look like I need
a bodyguard? And why take it out on
these boys? They're here to keep me com-
pany. Sure, they run interference for me
when I go in and out of stage doors. You
know how the kids are sometimes — they'd
tear my clothes off for souvenirs, and
that's no joke. But bodyguards! I swear!
Why would I want bodyguards against my
own fans? I'm on the go so much, away
from my family. Can't people understand
I get lonesome? Having my friends here
makes the rushing around easier to bear."

The reporter is struck by a coincidence.
"Did you know that Lionel Barrymore and
Robert Taylor were listed on this floor?
Also Stewart Granger, Yul Brynner,
Glenn Ford. . ."

Elvis snaps out of a brooding silence to
ask, "Say, I wonder if Gable ever used
this room?"

"Gable never did," says the publicity
man. "But Sinatra did when he made
'High Society,' and Crosby used it when
he did 'Man on Fire.' "

"Gollee! Crosby and Sinatra," echoes
Elvis, lost in the marvel of some private
dream. "And now me? Don't pinch me
or I'll wake up . . ."

He has draped himself into a leather
club chair. He seems relaxed and con-
templative. It's hard to believe he has been
on the treadmill since early morning. At
eight, he reported to the recording studio
for rehearsals; then a stiff workout at the
gym; then back for two more hours of
intense rehearsing. Now a fast lunch is to
be downed in the course of an interview
which, because of its subject matter, is
bound to be emotionally disturbing.

The reporter studies him curiously. How
does he manage it? she wonders. Yet there
he is, smiling, his white pigskin shoes, tan
suede jacket and dark yellow slacks giv-
ing him a surface air of casual jauntiness.
He notices her staring at the disc-shaped
ornament hanging around his neck, and he
fingers it fondly. "It's Indian work," he ex-
plains. "A very sweet kid gave it to me
when I did a show up in Canada. This
kid — when she hung it over my head, she
told me it would bring me luck. Luck!
What else have I had butl"

With his sideburns gone — for the first
half of the film, he wears a crew cut
wig- — Elvis looks younger than at any
period since he hit the big-time. Part of
this is due to the fact that he has dropped
from 183 to 172 pounds during the nine
days of his most recent personal-appear-
ance tour. Though he looks younger in the
physical sense, there is a new quality of
firmness and deliberation in his manner.

"I don't eat or sleep too well on these

trips," says Elvis. "I get too keyed up and,
when I go back to my room, the whole
performance keeps racing through my head
over and over — especially if it was a bad
one."

No question has been asked but he
evidently senses one. "Oh, sure, I always
know when it hasn't been up to par. May-
be the audience doesn't feel anything
wrong, but I can feel right down in my
bones when it hasn't been a real knocked-
out-and-gone show. That's when I need
the fellows around me most. Gene will
start talking about the old days back home,
and Carol or Cliff or someone will kick it
around and we'll remember this or that. It
always ends the same way. I get a terrible
hunger to talk to my folks. Generally, I
pick up the phone and call them."

Suddenly, he chuckles softly. "The things
you writers say! One fellow came to see
me and he spotted a book on the table.
Matter of fact, it wasn't my book — some-
body forgot it. 'So you read,' he says. I
began to do a burn. 'Of course I read,' I
told him. Then he says, 'Do you like "the
three B's"?' So I said, 'Are they any kin
to "the three R's"?' So he wrote that
'Elvis never heard of Bach, Beethoven or
Brahms.' I told this story to another
writer and she looked at me and said, 'I
think I'll do a story on "Is Elvis Going
Longhair?"' I guess if she saw me play-
ing pool, which I find relaxing, she'd do a
piece on 'Is Elvis going hoodlum?' "

He grins at the reporter and asks slyly,
"Didn't you write a column about which
young man will replace Elvis?"

"Which do you think will?" the reporter
fires back.

Elvis throws back his head and roars at
the thrust. "Like the Colonel says . . .
quote, There's plenty of room at the top,
unquote."

A knock comes at the door and two
busboys enter with his lunch. The tray
holds a rasher of bacon, a double order of
mashed potatoes, a bowl of brown gravy,
a plate of sliced tomatoes, two large glasses
of tomato juice and an order of bread
and butter. "Me for the simple food," re-
marks Elvis. "I'd rather eat cornbread and
buttermilk in private than the fanciest
meal in a restaurant with everyone watch-
ing me like I was a trained seal." He points
his fork at the reporter. "I'm not knocking
my fans. They put the food on this plate.
But I like to eat in quiet."

The reporter nods. "What do you think
of Tommy Sands?" she asks.

Elvis' eyes brighten. "You know Tom-
my? That's a great boy. He's got it."

The reporter has taken a clip of papers
from her bag and Elvis, seeing this, shrugs.
"You've been checking on how I'm doing?"

"I picked these up on my way home. . .
at the Colonel's office." The clippings cover
the nine-day tour Elvis made prior to be-
ginning "Jailhouse Rock" at M-G-M. In
fourteen appearances, his troupe netted
$308,000— after taxes. He drew a larger
turnout in Philadelphia than President
Eisenhower did in his last campaign. There,
said the Inquirer's front-page story, he
had to sing to himself because of the
"frenzied applause." In St. Louis, he
racked up $32,000 for one performance. He
wiggled, wailed and thumped his guitar
for more than 28,000 adoring fans at his
two shows in Detroit, and one hundred
forty extra policemen were assigned to
Olympia auditorium — plus the twelve
special police, ten patrolmen and staff of
ushers who helped him in and out of the
theater. Almost 1,000 cheering fans fought
a small but determined battle, trying to
get a glimpse of their idol in his dressing-

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speaker announcements that he had al-
ready left for his hotel.

Most of the clippings reported that huge
crowds had begun to queue up at the box
office before 9 A.M., for shows that were
scheduled for 2 P.M. The evening crowds,
while equally large and enthusiastic, were
said to be sprinkled with older people
who helped bring a measure of order to
the proceedings. One account stated that
"Presley, the troubadour with the long
sideburns, gives off more electricity than
the Edison Co.'s combined transmitters."

Flipping through the sheaf of papers, the
reporter makes note of the fact that Elvis
is still garnering an estimated 30,000 fan
letters a week and that he received over
300,000 cards at Christmas, including a
goodly number from abroad. It carried the
secretarial staff well into May before they
were through tabulating this avalanche.
And, not so long ago, Glenwood Dodgson,
a male beautician of Grand Rapids — acting
on the principle that "whoever is adored
will be mimicked" — came up with a
"slicked-back haircut with tufted side-
burns a la Presley." It was featured by
Life magazine and the United Press. With-
in a span of three months, more than 15,000
eager customers, both girls and boys, had
swarmed into his chain of shops, begging
to be done over in their idol's image.

The reporter reads this item aloud. Elvis,
listening with knife and fork poised, lets
out a hearty guffaw. "I'm flattered, you
bet," he says. "But what bowls me over
is that a lot of them were girls!" He
points to his "butch" wig. "I sure hope
they don't run out after this new picture
and get themselves crew cuts. I like girls
to be girly-looking . . . you know?"

In his own work, Elvis shows a sharp
distaste for copying. He has struggled
mightily to hammer out a style and sound
of his own, and the results are now a mat-
ter of recording history. For nearly two
years, his renditions have topped the best-
selling lists compiled by disc jockeys, juke-
box operators and TV and radio pollsters.

The reporter sees a notation by Colonel
Parker on one of the pages: "To show how
foolish this stuff about Elvis slipping can
be — his 'All Shook Up' is number one on
the hit parade." There is another note on
the inspirational numbers Elvis has cut:
"They said the fans wouldn't accept 'Peace
in the Valley,' 'I Believe,' and 'Take My
Hand.' Too highbrow. Well, all these are
selling fine. The kids love them as much as
the older folks. Who can tell how many
of these gospel tunes will be still selling
in the next few years — but I'd bet it will
be plenty. There's a steady market for
these tunes . . ."

Has Elvis thought of giving Calypso a
fling? Elvis shakes his head thoughtfully.
"I did try a couple — in private, that is.
But it didn't feel right for me. I get a lift
hearing Belafonte and the singers who do
Calypso, and I hope they make millions.
But it's not for me."

The publicity man remarks that Elvis,
in spite of his youth, has a reliable in-
stinct for picking commercial tunes. "He
picks his numbers, and not only that — he
picked the titles for his three movies. He
did it by figuring out which song would
score the biggest hit. Then the studios used
them for the titles. You know he guessed
right on 'Love Me Tender' and 'Loving
You,' and we're betting here that 'Jail-
house Rock' will top both of them."

His lunch now over, Elvis is back in the
leather chair, arms locked behind his
T head. The other lads have returned. Gene
V lies down with a mystery book. The rest
:-- play cards. Elvis observes them a min-
ute, then grins broadly. "Hot bunch of
highbrows, aren't we?" He eyes the re-
78

porter alertly as she jots a note, and she
explains: "I'm setting a few words down on
a theory I have — I think some of the people
who think you're slipping are the sort who
react against any change. Have you no-
ticed, every time you've changed your
pace, they've started the same refrain?"

"Actually," says Elvis, "I didn't change
pace, as far as the religious songs go.
If that's highbrow, then I've been that
way since I was five, because I've been
singing them since I started going to
church."

Watching him bent over in meditation,
silent, his chin in hand, the reporter is
struck by an idea. Can it be that Elvis is
just growing up, and that's what is both-
ering some of his critics? After all, it's
quite a while since he did the Steve Allen
and Ed Sullivan shows that started him
skyrocketing. Aloud she asks, "Are you
taking acting lessons? You once told me
that remembering lines wasn't as hard as
interpreting them — is it easier now?"

Elvis hesitates. "It's easier . . . but
I've just begun to scratch the surface. I've
got a 'fur piece to go' before I'll call my-
self a good actor."

Having interviewed many of the pro-
fessionals Elvis has worked with, the re-
porter quotes Debra Paget, Richard Egan,
Wendell Corey, Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire,
Natalie Wood and Ernest Borgnine to the
effect that he shows promise of becom-
ing an actor of rare dramatic distinction.

Elvis listens intently, his face expres-
sionless. She reads a quotation from Corey.
"The boy learns fast. Everything he does
is touched with talent. I thought him vast-
ly improved over his first job of acting.
He seemed better prepared and it was a
more suitable part. His timing was fine
and he reacted more naturally to his fellow
actors. He's learning how to have an im-
pact on the whole scene."

Corey's interest in Elvis was sparked
by his own thirteen-year-old daughter,
Robin. It came about the night they saw
"Friendly Persuasion." Wendell remarked
that his old friend, Gary Cooper, had
turned in an award- winning job. To his
astonishment, Robin looked blank and
asked, "Which was he, Daddy?" The dum-
founded Corey saw that, if the younger
generation were forgetting Coop, they'd
naturally lose track of him, too. So, when
a chance came up to appear with Presley
in "Loving You," Wendell grabbed it. He
hasn't regretted it, either. "It taught me
not to judge these kids beforehand. Elvis
turned out to be a simple, polite, and
friendly lad. Not at all flashy. Nothing
phony. He's a gentleman and I've had him
to my home several times."

The reporter stops. Elvis' eyes are shin-
ing. "He's my friend," he says. "What else
would he say?" He gets up and paces
about. "I'm glad and proud he likes me.
I've made some good friends here. Wendell
Corey, Nick Adams, Bob Mitchum . . .
some others, too." His voice quickens.
"But I'm on the road so much. And, when
I'm in town, I'm busy rehearsing, studying,
cutting records . . . it's hard to make
friends at that rate."

Is Elvis trying to do too much at one
time? It's a touchy question, but Elvis
has a ready answer. "I might be going
into service soon," he says simply, "and I
hear some of the boys who went in were
just plain forgotten by the time they got
out. They had to start from scratch again.
I figure the more I do now, the harder it
might be to forget me. Then there's that
saying about making hay while the sun
shines." He calls over to one of the boys,
"Say, Carol, do you have that letter from
the kid out in Kansas?"

"Kansas City, Missouri," Carol corrects.
He goes to a cabinet and fumbles around
inside until he finds the right letter. He

hands it to the reporter, who reads: "Dear-
est Elvi-poo, That's my special nickname
for you. . ." She glances up, amused, and
Elvis says ruefully, "Okay, give me the
business . . . but don't make the kid sound
silly. She's only twelve." The reporter
reads on, "I just got through playing 'All
Shook Up' for the fifty-first time, and
honest, I couldn't go to sleep till I wrote
you thanks. Please make lots more 'cause
it says in the papers they are going to
make you a soldier. And my Daddy says
we're going to lose you for a few years.
I don't think Daddy likes me to like you,
'cause I'm only twelve and the whole
country is going nuts — but 1 won't, if he
has anything to say. Which he does. So
please, dearest Elvi-poo, please sing and
make lots of movies so I won't miss you
so much when you go away. . . ."

Ihe phone has begun to ring, and Elvis
beats Gene to it. "It's Colonel Parker," he
says. And, while he talks, the reporter
turns her attention to the publicity man.
"A couple of magazines have claimed his
fan clubs are falling off," she says.

"Right in that clip of papers, you'll find
some statistics," he answers, "and it proves
his clubs are growing, if anything." Search-
ing the papers, she finds reference to a
recent poll taken by the Los Angeles
Junior Press Club. It offered prizes for the
best letters on Presley, pro and con. Sug-
gested subjects were: Is he a lewd fellow
who leads the youth into hysteria and
sin? Or is he, as Senator Kefauver put
it, "Just a nice young lad from Tennessee"?
Eighty-seven percent said Elvis was tops.

The winning letter was written by a
Pauline Garret of Banning, California,
and argues that: "The people who hate him
most usually never met him or saw him
perform. They base their opinions on
hearsay. . . ."

"But," asks the reporter, "what about
these kids who read about you bringing
Yvonne Lime or Natalie Wood to meet
your parents . . . and who then sit down
and have a good cry?"

Elvis looks at her, obviously baffled.
"Look, I'm a normal guy. At my age, it's
only normal to want to date a girl once
in a while. Other entertainers do it, and
nobody gets crabby. Why pick on me? I've
had lots of fellows down to meet my folks
in Memphis. Why not a girl? Anyway,
they're always chaperoned by their moth-
ers. What's the big deal?"

"Maybe that reaction of the kids is
another proof that, far from having slipped,
you're moving full steam ahead," suggests
the reporter, rising to leave. "My neighbor
has a boy — oh, about nine — and, the other
night, some friends were over and one of
them asked the boy what he'd like to be
when he grew up. 'I'd like to be famous,'
he said. 'You mean like Eisenhower or
Einstein?' But the boy said, 'I mean like
Elvis Presley.' His mother chimed in with
a loud 'Amen!' The friend stared at her
and asked, 'You honestly mean that?' And
the mother said, 'If my boy grows up as
decent and successful a young man as
Elvis, I'll be happy.'"

A sudden and strange emotion crosses
Elvis' face. One hand on the doorknob, he
stands deep in thought. "That's a big re-
sponsibility, isn't it?" he finally says, as if
to himself. "Ma'am," he raises his head, "a
year ago, I'd probably have said some-
thing like 'I'm all shook up.' It's different
now. I can't think up anything smart to
say. Tell that lady and her boy thanks for
the compliment. Say I . . . say I hope he'll
grow up a better man than me."

At that moment, he looks quite mature.
He smiles wistfully, passes a hand over
the crew cut wig, and walks slowly down
the stairs to meet the challenge of an-
other day. . . .

He's Walkin on Air

(Continued from page 28)
many minutes — "it seemed like an hour,
but I guess it was about fifteen minutes . . .
or maybe thirteen" — the standard shriek
of the young in heart and the powerful
of lung made it impossible for the per-
formance to begin. "And ... ah, the first
fifteen rows in the auditorium were filled
with girls . . . they were just great. . . ."

Two shows were scheduled consecu-
tively, with an intermission between, so
as to give the entire student body the
experience of seeing the Nelson — Four
Preps program. Between shows, the enter-
tainers were "secluded" in the basement
of the school, a fact instantly discerned
by fans who found ways of opening the
windows — fortuitously placed so that one
could lie on the grass and peer down
into the concrete fortress — to continue to
halloa at their guests.

At the end of the show, only the aid of
several of the school's football heroes
made it possible for the boys to get into
their car and retreat. "I guess I'll never
forget it," says Ricky, wagging his sincere
head. "They were so great."

His next appearances before live audi-
ences will take place at about the time
you are reading this. Ricky and the Four
Preps are scheduled to entertain at the
Indiana State Fair, and at the Iowa State
Fair. "At the Indiana State Fair, we fol-
low George Gobel," Ricky says, his in-
credulity keeping stride with a carefully
controlled delight.

Incidentally, the guitar he will use will
be his own, and thereby hangs a tale.
Ricky's birthday is May 8. On or about
March 1, he started a subtle campaign.
At table, or in the midst of some such
family gathering, he would drop some
such remark as, "There's really a swell
collection of guitars at the Music Center —
and priced right, too." Or, "I happened
to be passing that music store on Holly-
wood Boulevard the other day and saw a
real. neat guitar. I stopped in for a minute
. . . the guitar has a good tone ... I might
save some dough and invest . . . some
time. . . ."

The family appeared as impervious to
these delicate arrows as a coat of mail
would be to a mosquito bite.

A few days before RN Day — May 8, that
is — Ozzie said with a straight face, "We're
in a quandary about what to get you for
your birthday. Your mother has a package
or two put away, and I've been thinking
that it was high time you had a suit tail-
ored, but what would you like as a major
gift?"

Ricky swallowed hard, shaking his head.
Adults! "Well . . . I've been wanting a
pair of white bucks . . . with red rubber
soles and then — of course, if it's too ex-
pensive, that's something else again — but
there's a guitar at the Music Center. . . ."

Struggling to maintain composure, Ozzie
said casually, "I'm going to be pretty
busy, so I was thinking that if you'd like
to pick it up yourself . . ."

Ricky looked as though he'd swallowed
a 300-watt light bulb with the current on.
But all he said was, "Okay. I don't mind."

The first thing he did, in order to place
the stamp of his own personality upon the
instrument, was to remove the E and A
bass strings — "because I have my own
system of chording, and I don't need those
extra strings. They just get in my way.
Four strings are plenty."

The fruits of fame are swift and sweet.
Ricky and a pair of friends were idling
down Sunset Boulevard one afternoon
when another car pulled up beside them
to wait for the signal to change. In a rou-
tine manner, Ricky's companions glanced

over to check the possible presence of
blond beauty, and promptly uttered a
tribal cry.

Two of the men in the adjacent car were
members of the Jordanaires, the instru-
mental-singing group that backs Elvis
Presley — and the third passenger was
Presley himself. The two lads in Ricky's
car knew the two Jordanaires, so intro-
ductions were exchanged. The conversa-
tion continued at two additional stop
lights. Then — Los Angeles traffic being
what it is — four trucks, a bus, and four-
teen bantam cars ended the conference.

However, two days later, Ricky "hap-
pened" to be driving past the Knicker-
bocker Hotel — half a block north of Holly-
wood Boulevard, and not too far out of
the way of anyone en route to General
Service Studios, where The New Adven-
tures Of Ozzie And Harriet is filmed — and
spotted the gyrating guitarist walking
along the street. "There he was, just sort
of looking over the cars parked around
the hotel. He's interested in cars, you
know," Ricky told his family later. "I
stopped to talk to him. He's just great."

As nearly as the scene could be recon-
structed, it would have made a good inci-
dent in an Ozzie and Harriet adventure.
Apparently, Elvis had long been a fan of
the Nelsons; he vouchsafed the informa-
tion that he had watched the TV show
weekly during his high-school days. In
Presley's opinion, it would seem, Ricky
Nelson was a revered veteran of show
business, and a man well acquainted with
the mysterious world of the sound stage.
He plied Ricky with questions about the
technical problems of movie-making. Why
was this done? How much different was
a filmed TV series from a wide-screen
film?

As for Ricky, he was fairly breathless
over talking to the foremost song stylist
of this era. He kept thinking of things
he would like to ask, but the words stuck
to the roof of his mouth like a peanut
butter sandwich. Afterward, Ricky told a
friend, "I got to see Elvis' gold jacket.
No, he didn't exactly show it to me. See,
these friends of mine and I were up in
the Jordanaires' rooms and the cleaning
had just come back from valet service . . .
well, El vis's gold jacket was there on a
hanger, so I got to see it."

Of such experiences are glistening
memories made.

W hen Ricky is asked precisely why he
is a Presley fan, he says simply, "Because
he is exciting to watch. Because he is
different." In explanation — and in mag-
nanimous dismissal of the adult outcry
against the Presley manner of delivering
the beat that heats — Ricky says good-
naturedly, "Anything new is likely to get
a certain amount of adult disapproval.
But then — " shrug " — teenagers actually
don't like the same things adults do.
Adults have a different viewpoint. . . ."

Celebrities in general are no novelty to
Ricky. For all of his seventeen years, he
has been exposed to the crowned heads
and the eggheads of show business. Yet
the great names tossed off by one's parents
have no more meaning to a youngster
growing up than the names of his uncles
or aunts. Adults are people to whom one
is courteous, whether they are in the
hardware business or taking bows at the
Palace. It is the prominent personalities
of one's own generation who are re-
splendent. .>

By the same token, the fame of one's
family is easy to take in stride, but a real
charge awaits an ambitious youngster who
is able to achieve prominence under his
own power. In many ways, Ricky is the

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typical younger child. Any bridge-table
psychiatrist will tell you that the dreams
of a youngest child often place him in a
race, and the daydreams of that child give
him victory.

One of Ricky's first enthusiasms was
racing on ice skates. Harriet had long
enjoyed skating for exercise and relaxa-
tion, but both boys quickly became adept
on the frozen footrails, and usually won
any event in which they were entered.

The next exertion to claim Ricky — body,
soul, and racquet — was tennis. . Don Budge
had often been a dinner guest at the Nel-
son table, and Ricky had seldom missed
a match in which Pancho Gonzales played,
so it was inevitable that he should begin
to ask himself how it might feel, one day,
to be invited to play on a Davis Cup team.
That did it. For several years, Ricky's
every spare moment was spent on the
tennis court and the sight of a backhand
superior to his own produced an advanced
state of melancholy. There was no need
for gloom, because Ricky managed to at-
tain a No. 5 California rating for players
under sixteen years of age.

Tennis expired as the love of Ricky's life
as soon as he reached legal driving age.
("I have to concentrate on one thing at
a time. You might say that problem is
one of my troubles.") Joyously, he en-
tered the era of the greasy thumb. He is
now driving a blue Plymouth stock car
that has been tampered with only to the
extent that the deck has been shaved
(i.e., all chromium has been removed, the
holes left by removal of the emblem have
been filled in, the deck has been sand-
blasted, primed, and repainted), and dual
pipes and cutouts have been added. Two
months ago, he won a drag race supervised
and held on one of the accredited drag
strips near Los Angeles.

He had begun to think seriously of
operating on the car's motor to get faster
performance, when his mental hobby-cart
shifted gears. In place of a steering wheel
in his hands, his free hours were spent
with a guitar under his arm.

Is there time left for romance? "Oh,
I've already gone steady about five times,
but there isn't anybody special right now.
I guess I'm too — ah — busy and all."

His favorite type of girl? "Mmm . . .
Marilyn Monroe . . . that type isn't bad
at all. . . . Jayne Mansfield? Mmmm — you
might say that I like a girl who's pretty
all over."

What is the dating deal? "When I was
a kid, I used to have a specific allowance,
paid every week, but that stopped by the
time I was twelve years old. Nowadays,
when I have a date, I speak to my father.
Five bucks will take two people to a
movie, and then to a drive-in for a ham-
burger and a glass of milk. I'm not as
crazy about pizza as some of the kids are.
I like to dance, but there isn't a place for
teenagers to dance around town; we have
to go to somebody's house. Sometimes we
just listen to recordings. Maybe my favor-
ite recording to date is Fats Domino's 'I'm
in the Mood for Love.' "

His movie favorites? "Marlon Brando
and James Dean. Especially Jimmy ... if
he could have gone on — he had a lot to
say, if you know what I mean, and teen-
agers understood him . . ."

His career theories at this time? "I don't
like to analyze entertainment styles. If a
style is really good, it can't be analyzed,
because it is unique. There hasn't been
anything like it before, so how can you
say 'it's made up of this and this and this'?
Put all the ingredients together and you
still won't get the style, because the style
T is the human being.

v "I don't think a person should imitate.
R ... I've received some letters from teen-
agers who caution me: 'Don't imitate
Elvis,' they say. Well, I don't and I won't.
oO

A performer should do what is natural,
what he feels. He should express himself
to the best of his ability. Then, if he
pleases . . . well, he's in.

"I guess I'm most happy about my rec-
ords, because they show that I can do
something on my own. That's what the
average kid wants to do — something on
his own. . . ."

Ricky is slightly over six feet tall; his
eyes are a limpid blue and his hair is
heavy, unruly, and brown. A casting
director would note on his file card that
he has great natural charm. He also has —
and this has not yet occurred to him — the
perfect actor's face. It is a transparent
film over his emotions; at this particular
period in his life, he has not yet learned

to curtain that transparency.

Uncertainty, amusement, mischief, po-
lite disbelief, equally polite boredom, en-
thusiasm, embarrassment, controlled dis-
agreement, equally controlled concurrence
— all can be expressed by an eyebrow, a
shifting shoulder, a slight turn of a hand,
or a swift change of facial expression.

Within the immediate present, Eric Hil-
liard Nelson is almost certain to succeed as
a recording artist. But, unless all signs
fail, his future belongs to Hollywood and
films, because this lad has it: The magical,
indefinable touch of natural talent. The
guitar is a wonderful new treasure.
Ricky's real gift is one that Ozzie and
Harriet Nelson gave him some seventeen
years ago.

1/ote

FOR YOUR FAVORITES

Each year TV Radio Mirror polls its readers for their favorite programs
and performers. This year, for the first time, the polling was begun in
the July issue and continues until the end of the year. Results will be
tabulated after December 31, and award winners will be announced in
the May 1958 issue. So vote today. Help your favorites to win a Gold Medal.

TV STARS and PROGRAMS

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Send your votes to TV Radio Mirror Awards, P.O. Box
No. 1767, Grand Central Station, New York 17, N. Y.

9-5

Young Man in a Hurry

(Continued from page 20)
only passed up the opportunity to tour
with the road company of "The Lark,"
with Julie Harris, but risked being fired
as Tallulah Bankhead's leading man on
stage — which is, as Jay puts it, "a chance
of a lifetime for an actor."

Jay is a slim, on-the-darkish-side six-
footer with strong features and blue-gray
eyes. He's been acting on both coasts — TV,
movies, stage — since leaving the Army,
after a six-year hitch. Acting in radio is
his newest venture in the field, and he
feels it's one of the most challenging:
"You've got to portray every shade of a
characterization with only one instrument
— your voice. I'm especially fascinated with
the role of Kurt Bonine because there are
so many facets to his personality."

.Being very energetic, with a tremendous
capacity for hard work, Jay continues
acting in other mediums along with his
radio show. On television, he participated
in a couple of important TV debuts this
season. In James Cagney's show, "Soldier
From the War Returning," Jay was Cag-
ney's commanding officer. And, in Ethel
Merman's "Honest in the Rain," Jay
enacted the happily married man who
was trying to get his brother married to
Miss Merman. Performing in the Phil
Silvers Show several times, Jay was re-
cently seen as a lieutenant colonel — a rank
he actually holds in the Army Reserves.

Ingenious Jay has not only managed to
do night-time TV, he even took on a
Broadway play — Tallulah Bankhead's "Eu-
genia"— with a six-week tryout in New-
Haven, Boston, Philadelphia and Balti-
more. Every day, he commuted from the
CBS Manhattan studio to whatever town
the play was running.

One of the reasons that Jay covers so
much ground, literally as well as figura-
tively, is that he goes everywhere via motor
scooters and motorbikes. He owns two
scooters and five motorbikes — "so that I
can switch parts without waiting to have
them repaired and keep rolling." And
keep rolling on them he does! Jay on his
scooter, with cap, driving glasses, mitts
and bike clips, is such a familiar figure
in Manhattan's snarled traffic lanes, pull-
ing in or out at the radio and TV stations,
at the theaters and at the airports, that
most New York columnists have told the
"Jay scooter" story, at one time or an-
other.

He took to scooters several seasons back,
while making movies in Hollywood: "It
took so long to get to one studio from
another, walking or taking a bus. Taxis
are expensive, and it seems they're never
around when you need them in a hurry.
With your own car, you spend half the
time trying to find a parking space. There's
always room for a scooter."

Jay has found that he saves at least two
hours a day going the scooter way and
that the two-wheel vehicles are depend-
able. He's had only one close call of al-
most arriving late for a performance be-
cause of scooter trouble. As he described
it, "After a TV show, I had twelve min-
utes to scoot to the Circle in the Square
(an off-Broadway theater) for a perform-
ance of "The Grass Harp.' It was the night
of Hurricane Carol. A passing truck
drenched my motorbike, causing a short
in the ignition. There I was, stranded, still
in my TV costume of a prison uniform!
The first cab I hailed took one look and
sped off like a jackrabbit. A policeman
gave me the eye, but made no move to
pick me up. I finally 'commandeered' an-
other cab — and made the entrance with
but ten seconds to spare."

Jay sticks with his mode of transporta-
tion regardless of winter snow and sleet.
When "Eugenia" opened its out-of-town
pre-Broadway run, it was the latter part
of December. "After the morning Helen
Trent broadcast, I'd scoot to the airport —
I get there in twenty minutes, half the
time it takes by bus. I'd have another
scooter waiting for me at the airport at
the other end, getting me to the theater
in time for rehearsal. After the perform-
ance, I'd return to New York."

The commuting arrangement, which
had been agreed upon in Jay's "Eugenia"
contract, worked out smoothly until one
day Jay arrived for rehearsal one hour
late. But Jay's scooter wasn't the cause.
His scheduled flight to Boston was can-
celed because it was New Year's Day, and
he had no alternative but to wait for a
later flight. When he arrived at the
theater, Tallulah became aware for the
first time that Jay left for New York each
night.

"I thought she knew it all along," Jay
says, "because she saw me leave the
theater every night in my scooter rigs.
At first, I thought she looked at me in
rather an absent-minded manner when
I'd say goodnight. I found out the reason
several nights later, when she happened
to see me as I was about to put on my
riding cap and glasses. Out came the
famous Tallulah Bankhead laugh. She
said, 'My God — it's been youl I couldn't
imagine who the tall man with the glasses
was who so politely bid me good night. It's
you behind those glasses.' Then she ran
out to see me take off, and the cast told
me later she laughed till her ribs hurt."

But apparently Tallulah had thought
Jay was just scooting around Boston, for
she was aghast upon learning that he was
risking 500 miles of traveling daily in mid-
winter weather conditions. "She told me
nicely, but firmly, that I either drop the
Trent show or she would be forced to give
me two weeks' notice. Later, after the per-
formance at a New Year's Eve party for
the cast, she took me aside to persuade
me to decide in favor of her show.

"I was in a dilemma," Jay admits. "I
left the party and took a long walk to
think things out. I didn't want to drop
the Trent show. The writer had graciously
written me out on theater matinee days,
and I had promised I would continue with
the role. At the same time, I knew getting
fired from the Tallulah cast would have
repercussions. It would be difficult to
make any one believe that I wasn't fired
for any other reason than incompetence.
Finally, I decided that, regardless of the
outcome, there as only one thing to do.

"The next day, when Tallulah asked me
if I had decided, I told her I would have
to continue with the Trent show because
I had given my word. To my surprise —
and relief — she looked at me quietly and
said, 'I understand perfectly, and you're
quite right. I respect you for your stand,
and we'll get along the best we can. But
you will do one thing for me, won't you?
Ask them for me to please write you out
as often as they can until we open on
Broadway.' Unknown to me, I had hit a
spot that I've since learned is very im-
portant to her — loyalty. She herself has
never gone back on a promise or her
word to a producer."

The play didn't run long on Broadway,
but Jay garnered good notices and feels
the experience of playing with the great
Bankhead was an invaluable one. "What
a lesson in acting she can give everyone,"
he says. "She feels a tremendous responsi-
bility to the audience and wants everyone

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to give their best. When she's offstage, she
always listens to the others on stage and,
when they come off, she has helpful com-
ments to make."

Jay found that, off stage, Tallulah is as
magnetic as on stage — witty, full of fun
and amusing. The first night the cast ar-
rived in Boston, a line rehearsal was held
in her hotel suite and Tallulah called
room-service for refreshments. The serv-
ice man at the other end was apparently
trying to find out where to deliver the
order. 'Room number?' exclaimed Tallu-
lah in the phone. 'I have no idea. Just go
up and down the hallways, you'll hear me
laughing.' "

Jay feels that until an actor is a star,
he should, within reason, take every role
that comes his way. "For me, it seems that
roles come in numbers, or else it'll be
very quiet. I feel I've got to make the
most of those fertile periods."

sometimes that means going at a pace
which borders on the "too much" side,
even for inexhaustible Jay, and once he
almost faltered in his belief.

He experienced the most hectic week of
his career two seasons ago, when he was
playing the running role of the district
attorney on the TV daytime-drama series,
First Love, and was cast in the Broadway
play, "The Young and Beautiful," as
actress Lois Smith's father. Every day, he
performed in an off-Broadway play, per-
formed on TV and rehearsed in another
TV and another off-Broadway play. In the
morning, he rehearsed a Robert Mont-
gomery show. That afternoon, he re-
hearsed and performed in TV's First Love,
then went on to the "Young and Beauti-
ful" rehearsal. He started off the evening
with a performance in Kafka's "The Trial,"
at the Provincetown Playhouse, and ended
it with rehearsal of another off-Broadway
venture, "Spring's Awakening."

"Nothing has compared to that week,"
he sighs thankfully. "I thought I had an-
other week of too many doings recently,
when — in addition to the Trent show — I
was on the NBC True Confession series,
did a Voice of America broadcast of the
play 'Our Town,' performed in scenes
for an American Theater Wing demonstra-
tion, and gave a lecture before a speech
association. Oh, yes — I finished my role in
a movie for the medical profession that
week, too. Well, as I said, I thought that
was a lot. But at least it was spread out
through the week, not every day."

Jay has found that, even when he has
wondered about the wisdom of some of
his undertakings, quite often he has been
pleasantly surprised at the results. One
example is the Broadway play of several
seasons ago, "The Immoralist," in which
Jay half-heartedly agreed to be the un-
derstudy to the star, Louis Jourdan. By
the last few days of the show's run, Jay
was sure he had taken on a thankless job.
But it turned out that Jourdan couldn't
play the last two performances and Jay
stepped into the role. "Critics didn't get
to see me," he remembers, "but the word
got around that I did a good job, and
rumors of that kind help."

A critic once said of Jay, "He hasn't a
bad performance in him." In reply to this,
Jay says, "I think critics and audiences
are better judges of that than I can be.
But I do believe firmly in trying to do
my best, whether it's in the classroom, a
hardly noticeable part or something big.
That's the only way you can develop in
becoming a good actor— by working hard
at every role you take. And, frequently,
that role will lead to another."

Jay's role in The Romance Of Helen
Trent stems from the work he did in a
radio acting class, in which one of the
directors was Ernie Ricca, director of

Helen Trent. Jay, who hasn't stopped
studying acting in some group or other
since his summer-theater apprentice days,
enrolled in the class with his last fifty-
four dollars on the G.I. bill.

"I had done very little radio work," he
points out, "and felt inadequate in the
medium. But I worked hard in the class
and apparently Ernie liked my work — for,
when the Kurt Bonine role came up, he
recommended me as one of the possibili-
ties. Of course, I didn't get the part with-
out competing in numerous readings with
many others. But the point is that I prob-
ably wouldn't have had a chance in the
running, if Ernie hadn't been familiar
with my work." It was the same thing
with "Eugenia." Herb Machiz, the director,
had worked with Jay in an off-Broadway
production of "Death of Odysseus." The
production ran only several nights, but
Machiz remembered Jay's work as Odys-
seus, to the extent that he suggested the
actor for the Bankhead play. "For 'Eu-
genia,' " Jay recalls, "I went through a
grueling screening before I got the part.
But, again, I probably wouldn't have had
a chance to get anywhere near a tryout
if someone with the show hadn't known
my work."

In another "good break," Jay got the
role without trying for it — the part of
Dr. Kramer in the movie, "The Shrike,"
starring Jose Ferrer and June Allyson.
Jay, who had played in Ferrer's produc-
tion of "Richard III" at City Center, ran
into Ferrer on a Hollywood street — Jay on
his scooter, of course, Ferrer in a car.

"Just finished doing 'Battle Taxi,' " Jay
replied to Ferrer's question. "Hear you're
here for 'The Shrike.' Keep me in mind,
eh?" Ferrer did. A couple of weeks later,
Jay — who was back in New York — re-
ceived a wire from his Hollywood agent
saying, "Take plane right away. Ferrer
wants you for 'Shrike.' "

Although Jay feels very strongly about
the importance of working hard at acting,
he doesn't think that factor alone is suf-
ficient until an actor has become a star.
He feels it is equally important for an
actor to be promoted properly: "I know
a lot of good actors, really very talented,
who don't get all the roles they should.
On the other hand, sometimes a not very
talented actor gets to the top because of
a skillful promotion-publicity job."

Jay does his own promoting and han-
dles it as competently as a professional
publicist. To producers, directors and
newspapers, he sends printed cards, re-
view pages, news releases and quips. "I
don't overdo it," he smiles, "but I think
this part of my working hard at being an
actor is very important. When I did the
publicity for our R.O.T.C. military ball at
the University of Chicago, I learned you've
got to tell people about a coming event
if you want them to attend. In acting,
this is doubly true. Producers and di-
rectors are very busy people. It's not
enough to do a good job — you've got to
let them know you're doing it."

Jay learned to be realistic, resourceful
and a hard worker in his childhood. "We
were poor by choice. My father worked in
his father's furniture business in Elgin,
Illinois, until I was four. Then Dad de-
cided he didn't want to stay in the busi-
ness— he wanted to travel around the
country. My mother agreed that it sounded
like a good idea. So we got into Dad's
model-T Ford and traveled until I was
twelve.

"When we'd find a place we liked," Jay
remembers, "we'd stay put for a while,
Dad taking on a milk or laundry route.
For a long time, we followed state fairs
and carnivals, where Dad would run a
popcorn stand and I sold balloons. Other

times, we followed the crops and worked
in the fields. By the time we returned to
home grounds, settling in Maywopd, Illi-
nois, where Dad opened a candy store,
I had been in every state with the excep-
tion of Maine and South Dakota. And I
had attended eighteen different schools."

While on the road, Jay began helping
his father at the various odd jobs at the
age of six. In Maywood, he continued to
be his Dad's helper in the candy store
(which later grew into a number of
stores) through the rest of his grade-
school years and through high school and
college. In addition, Jay ran a parking lot
during high school and was busy in extra-
curricular activities — debating teams, year-
book, school paper, and dramatics: "I
tried out for the junior class play because
I was interested in the girl who was play-
ing the lead. I got a character part. She
fell for the leading man. I didn't get her
— but I got the acting bug."

Upon high-school graduation, Jay won
a scholarship to the University of Chi-
cago, where he got his B.S. degree in
political science in three years' time. Dur-
ing this period, he was captain of the
debate team and drum-major of the band,
won the mile run and a medal for being
"the outstanding R.O.T.C. cadet of the
year" — and played the clarinet — but was
finding out more and more that what he
was enjoying most was acting in plays.
Thus, the summer before college gradua-
tion, he joined the apprentice group of
the Berkshire Playhouse in Stockbridge,
Massachusetts, returned to it the summer
after graduation and then stayed in the
East to study acting.

He was studying with well-known

theater director Bobby Lewis when World
War II broke. Holding a second lieu-
tenant's rank with the O.R.C., Jay was
transferred to the Signal Corps and was
assigned to the photographic center in
Long Island City. Jay is proud of the fact
that, during the six years he spent at the
Army center, he produced or directed one
hundred and eleven training films, one of
which has won an international award.
He started out as an assistant director and
rose to executive producer, with the rank
of lieutenant colonel.

Jay has maintained his interest in film
making since leaving active service. Now
with the Reserves, he teaches a film pro-
jectionist course for servicemen each week
at the U.S.A.R. School in Manhattan. He
also has his own company, Jaybar Films,
Inc., and produced a documentary for the
New York State Civil Defense Commission
which is also in official use in other
states.

For recreation, Jay likes best to read —
he averages three books a week, mostly
biographies — and to go to the theater and
movies, with an actress for his date com-
panion. "I prefer actresses because — let's
face it — I'm absorbed in this acting busi-
ness and I like to share the plays and
movies with someone who can discuss
them from a professional viewpoint. Be-
sides, actresses are very fascinating wo-
men," say Jay.

With all this, Jay insists he has no
"hobbies" — adding, logically enough, "I
don't have time for any." But what would
the average man, not so much in a hurry,
call two scooters, five motorbikes, a half-
dozen simultaneous careers — and dates
with fascinating women?

Interview Subject: Mike Wallace

(Continued from page 27)
shot a criminal — and even believed that
shooting a criminal sometimes saved the
trouble of going into a trial. A foreign
actress, commenting on the peculiar atti-
tude of American men toward European
women, told of a Hollywood producer mak-
ing passes at her. An ex-heavyweight
champion said he got satisfaction in hitting
someone and drawing blo6d. A well-known
radio personality noted that she had once
considered alleviating her loneliness by
having a baby out of wedlock.

When Mike Wallace was interviewing,
the unexpected was usually expected. Alone
with Mike, a guest opened up and talked
from the heart. But when ex-gangster
Mickey Cohen got on the show, the unex-
pected was truly unexpected. Mickey
Cohen blasted several Los Angeles officials
by name — and the officials immediately
threatened suits against ABC and every-
one else concerned. Some newspaper
columnists hopped on Mike for permitting
this to happen — but, at the same time,
expressed the sincere hope that his "fear-
less" interviews would be allowed to con-
tinue. Most reviewers continued to de-
scribe the show as "adult and intelligent."
Mike had already received the recognition
of the radio-TV industry by getting New
York Emmy Awards for the "Most Out-
standing Live Local Program" and "Most
Outstanding Male Personality."

But, when Mike Wallace asks questions,
it's a case of major surgery — and the
patient has no anesthetic. Mike probes
deep. He asked pointblank of Sloan Simp-
son, ex-wife of William O'Dwyer, "Why
did you walk out on your marriage?" Of
society columnist Igor Cassini, "How many
times have you been punched in the
nose?" Of a movie starlet, "Does a girl
have to barter her morals to get ahead in

Hollywood?" Of Abe Burrows, "Why did
you go into psychoanalysis?" Of Elsa Max-
well, "You don't believe in fidelity in mar-
riage?" Of Mr. John, famed millinery de-
signer, "Is there a preponderance of
effeminate men in the fashion industry?"
Of union leader Mike Quill, "Are you a
religious man?"

Mike Quill seemingly blew his top over
that last question, and called Mike Wal-
lace a "first-class Peeping Tom." But Mike
Quill was the exception. Elsa Maxwell
said that she didn't resent the questions
and, actually, enjoyed herself, Mary
Margaret McBride found Mike charming.
Abe Burrows took it with a grin and
chuckled. Jack Gould, of The New York
Times, said of Mike: "He has an adult
curiosity that is an essential to reporting;
most of all, he is not a wise guy." Bennett
Cerf, another guest on the show, reported
in The Saturday Review of Literature:
"Mike needles guests into revealing what
really makes them tick — and who are their
pet hates. This show belongs on a coast-
to-coast hook-up."

Mike himself originally had his doubts
about doing the show nationally. "I thought
the show has been 'oversold,' " he recalls.
"Maybe one out of five interviews was
really exciting. Locally, we did eight half-
hour interviews a week. If we fumbled, we
had a chance to get the ball back. On net-
work, we could do only one interview a
week. And then there was the question of
freedom of subjects and questions. In New
York, we presumed that we were talk-
ing for a late-night, adult audience." ABC
reassured Mike, who says, "I was told
that I could ask any question within the
bounds of good taste. My contract is for
fifty-two weeks in prime time. That means
the show must go on for a full year, one
night of each week, between seven-thirty

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and ten-thirty." And Mike got a basic
guarantee of $100,000 for the year.

The kind of man who gets people talking
more frankly than they would to their
own diaries is medium-tall, dark and
deadpan. Mike has black eyes, black
hair, and an exceptionally fine voice. He
is thirty-nine. Mike has an innate cur-
iosity about others. He wants to know
their philosophy, their work — most of all,
their convictions. Guests coming on the
show expecting to be frightened find them-
selves responding to Mike's genuine in-
terest. Unexpectedly, they are "alone"
with him — for the interview is conducted
in an atmosphere as intimate as a living
room with one dim lamp. The studio is
darkened, quiet, almost cozy. If a guest
shows up with friends or husband or wife,
these remain outside. Mike doesn't want
the distraction of a laugh, a creaking chair,
a whisper or a sigh.

Just "alone with Mike" have been sev-
eral hundred personalities, such as Victor
Riesel, Billie Holiday, Kim Hunter, Ches-
ter Bowles. Harry Belafonte announced
on the show that he would not sing in
the South until desegregation was an ac-
complished fact — Mike asked if this in
itself wasn't some kind of discrimina-
tion, and Belafonte thought maybe so.

Mike asked long-popular comedian
George Jessel if he hadn't been a flop on
television — and George said the rating
people didn't know what they were talk-
ing about. He asked restaurant-owner
Shor, "Toots, why do people call you a
slob?" — and Toots came back: "Me?
Jiminy crickets, they must have been talk-
ing about Jackie Gleason." (Jackie, one of
Toots's best friends, didn't sue.)

Judging from some of the results, it
might seem that people go on the show
at the point of a gun. This is not so. Many
guests volunteer — actors, entertainers, lec-
turers, novelists want publicity. But many
of these volunteers are turned down.
About two- thirds of the guests are in-
vited on. Most accept. Those who have
nixed the show so far include Errol
Flynn, Marlene Dietrich, Tallulah Bank-
head, Vincent Lopez. In general, their
attitude is — "Who needs it?"

Guests are never paid — although, for
the network show, travel expenses are met
for those who must come into New York.
No one is brought on to be exploited and
embarrassed. There are "ground rules,"
and one of them is to ask the guest before-
hand, "Is there anything you don't want
to talk about?" Gloria Swanson was asked
expressly if she'd mind discussing her
divorces. "How could I?" she asked.
"It's public knowledge that I've been mar-
ried five times." Even so, Mike is care-
ful not to ask for personal details. "On
divorces, for example," he points out, "I
would not ask specific questions. I don't
want to embarrass anyone. I want the
divorcee's ideas on what causes incom-
patibility, but I don't want to dig up the
past."

The guests' answers are ad-lib, but the
questions are prepared in advance, and
Mike is not wholly unprepared for the
answers. Producer Ted Yates, who has
worked with Mike since the inception of
the show, may spend a day or so with a
scheduled guest. The show also has a
writer who may take on this chore. Dur-
ing this preliminary interview, they get
a good idea of what the guest's attitudes
on various matters will be. Twenty or so
questions are prepared. Mike gets a kind
of brochure from his staff. If the guest
is a writer, Mike will read one or more
of his books. If it's a legislator, Mike
goes to the Congressional Record to read
the guest's speeches. Mike meets the
guest before the show, but there is no re-

hearsal. However, when Mike sits down
for the interview, he has been fairly well
briefed oiji his guest.

Prepared questions or no, it is Mike's
responsibility to get his guests to talk.
Usually, he accomplishes this through his
own obvious sincerity and interest. Some-
times he has to use unorthodox methods.
But it works both ways: Guests are never
sure of what Mike will ask them, and Mike
can never depend on a guest to do the
expected. When Mike Quill blew up and
called Mike Wallace a "first-class Peeping
Tom," it was just his way of putting on
a good show — according to Mike W., on
the way out of the studio, Mike Q. grinned
at Mike W. and said, "I just thought I'd
keep things lively for you."

opeaking of subjects who have done the
unexpected, there was the gal writer who
came into the studio, and asked the make-
up man to make her eyes look sexy — yet,
when Mike later noted that her prose was
overladen with sex, she got angry. And
there was the memorable night that
sports-columnist Jimmy Cannon snapped
back with what appeared to be simply
righteous indignation. Mike asked, "Why
have you never married?" Jimmy stiffened
and said, "I'll answer that question, Mike,
if you'll tell me why you've been married
three times." Actually, Jimmy was ex-
pressing what most viewers have felt all
along — a curiosity about the private life
of the man who asked the questions.

To begin with, Mike was born Myron
Wallace, May 9, 1918, in Boston. He was
the youngest of four children. The family
lived in the suburb of Brookline. His
father was a wholesale grocer and then,
in his later years, an insurance broker.
The home was hanny but disciplined. Mike
recalls that, until he was a senior in high
school, he had to be in bed by nine. But
such restrictions didn't keep him from an
active life. He was on the debating team
and captain of the tennis team. He played
violin in the school orchestra and worked
on the school paper. He made good
grades and won the confidence of his
teachers. But it is his parents that he
credits for his strong ideals.

"My parents were dedicated to an hon-
est life," he says. "My father was the
finest man I've ever known. He was
wholly honest. He was so respected in
the community that when he died — in
summer — although half of the congrega-
tion were out of town on vacation, they
came back to the city for his funeral."

Mike's father had hoped that Mike
would aim high. When Mike went to the
University of Michigan, it was with the
intention of preparing for law school or
getting a degree to teach English. But
there was a campus radio station and Mike
couldn't stay away from it. In his junior
year, he consulted with an uncle who was
head of the Economics Department at Ann
Arbor. The uncle encouraged Mike to
switch over to a speech major.

After graduation, in 1939, Mike went to
work for a small Grand Rapids station.
"I was to make very good money in
radio," he says, "but I think I felt trapped
by it. I liked being successful, at first, but
I wasn't satisfied. I wasn't fulfilled."

His first job paid twenty dollars a week.
By the end of 1939, he was making sev-
enty. In 1941, he was earning two hun-
dred a week at WXYZ in Detroit and
narrating The Lone Ranger. Later that
year, he had a further boost in income
when he tried out in a competitive audi-
tion in Chicago and was hired as announcer
for the serial, The Road Of Life. "Yet it
always disturbed me that I was just
reading other people's words," he recalls.
"It didn't seem much of an accomplish-
ment."

A year after he arrived in Chicago, he
got a chance to do something worth-
while as newscaster on the "Air Edition"
of the Chicago Sun-Times. Mike him-
self wrote the news and went after some
of the stories. For the first time, he
was beginning to get a sense of fulfillment.
Then his career was interrupted by World
War II. He served three years in the Navy
and got out with the rank of lieutenant,
junior grade. He returned to radio in
Chicago and proved himself to be the most
successful announcer in the city. He was
called "Mr. Radio."

When Mike was persuaded to come
to New York in 1951, he continued to try
building shows of substance. For CBS-
TV, he formulated Adventure and All
Around The Town. For CBS Radio, he
initiated the program, Stage Struck, a se-
ries of backstage interviews. He was chosen
by NBC to co-host Weekday with Mar-
garet Truman and, later, Virginia Graham.
Last year, while emceeing the network
quiz, The Big Surprise, he develooed
Night Beat and a news show with Ted
Yates and WABD station manager Ted
Cott. Even Mike's news shows were diff-
erent. He didn't sit still and read re-
ports. He moved about the studio,
illustrating a story with pictures, graphs,
exhibits. He made special reports on un-
solved murders, commuter problems, the
Puerto Rican insurgence. The news show
was dynamic. He practiced his unique
interview technique on Night Beat.

1 hat brings his professional career up
to the present. But, during those years,
he was also having a private life. Girls
didn't come into Mike's fife until he got
to college. His campus sweetheart, Norma
Kaphan, was to become his first wife.
She was still a junior when they married.
The wedding was on August 27, 1940.
Mike's only children, two boys, were born
during this marriage, which ended in
divorce in 1947. In 1949, Mike married
Buff Cobb, actress and granddaughter of
famed humorist Irwin R. Cobb. That mar-
riage ended early in 1955. In July of that
same year, he married Lorraine Perigord.
February of that year, he had met her
at San Juan in Puerto Rico, where Mike
had gone to emcee a March of Dimes din-
ner-dance. Lorraine was operating an
art gallery there. A month later, Mike
took a two-week vacation in Puerto Rico
and Haiti. In May, Lorraine came to New
York for a visit — and the wedding date
was set. It was that auick.

"Lorraine," says Mike, "is warm, serene,
tolerant, beautiful and talented." She
is a dark blonde, five-five, and has two
children by her first marriage who were
living with her in Puerto Rico when
Mike met her. She had spent most of
her life in California, for her father, Dr.
Paul Perigord, was a professor and dean
at U.C.L.A., as well as one of the found-
ers of the California Institute of Tech-
nology and the Pasadena Playhouse. Lor-
raine is an artist. Like Mike, she is well-
read and thoughtful.

They live outside Manhattan at Sne-
den's Landing. Their home, a 100-year-old
Dutch Colonial house which overlooks
the Hudson River, is furnished inform-
ally. Floors are bare, with occasional
rugs, and the furniture itself is "mongrel,"
picked up secondhand and worked over.

"I am a square about small talk, night
clubs, martinis and dancing," Mike says.
"My spare time is spent at home, reading
and talking. Lorraine and I are walkers.
We walk and talk endlessly." And Mike
further notes, "This marriage will last."

That is not just an emotional footnote,
for Mike does to himself what he does to
others in interviews — asks himself the
whys and wherefores and how-comes. He
was not at all reluctant in answering the

following specific questions about his per-
sonal problems:

Question: What caused your divorces?

Mike: I won't go into details — just as
I wouldn't expect anyone I was inter-
viewing to do so — but I can answer the
question. First, let me make clear that
my marriages weren't hit-and-run affairs.
My first lasted seven years. The second,
six years. I think it was mainly a matter
of growing away from each other. As we
grew, we found that each had opposing
goals, different interests. Now I am thirty-
nine and Lorraine is thirty-six. We have
both passed our formative years. We re-
spect each other for what we will be the
rest of our lives. We have maturity and
tolerance and understanding. Of course,
I'm easier to get along with, too.

Question: That brings up another mat-
ter— do you lose your temper with people
at the studio or at home?

Mike: I don't lose my temper now. In
the past, I have been hard to get along
with. I have been intolerant of others.
Intolerant of dull people — and by that
I mean people who lack quickness. I
don't like time-wasting. I used to go after
the mistakes of others.

Question: You have asked others about
their attitude on fidelity and the "dou-
ble standard." What is your own stand?

Mike: I don't believe in the double
standard, for I believe that both husband
and wife should practice fidelity. I'm a
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who have no self-control. I can't put up
with boozers.

Question: The charge is made that
you, as an interviewer, are preoccupied
with questions about sex.

Mike: That's not true. Maybe ten per-
cent of all the interviewing hits at sex. We
do ask questions about sex, religion and
politics; for people are never as fully
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three subjects. I wouldn't ask a man
about what he eats for breakfast or what
he wears on Saturday, for he doesn't think
about those things. He has no provocative
ideas on those subjects. We want devth
on the show. But I do take responsibility
for what is asked. The show reflects my
tastes.

Question: What is your own appraisal of
your interviews?

Mike: Some call the show "TV journal-
ism" or "interviews-in-depth." They both
sound too fancy. For me, the show repre-
sents a ventilation of ideas. On a good
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will make it possible for other men and
other programs to discuss controversial
subjects that were once considered taboo
on the air.

Mike: I didn't start out to pioneer. I'm
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I would now agree that it is "pioneering."

Question: What is your goal?

Mike: I said that, early in my career
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wasn't fulfilled. I wanted something to
think about. I wanted to accomplish
something I could be proud of. I think
we are accomplishing something with the
interviews.

Question: And what about the charge
that you are sensational?

Mike: We never intend to be. We want
to be exciting. If we were sensational —
that's something I could not be proud of.

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Mineo's Really Moving

{Continued from page 32)

"Oh, who's the star?" Maxin asked her.

"Sal Mineo, of course," said Mary, and
effervesced with adjectives to describe
Sal's portrayal of the lonely, mixed-up
kid whom James Dean tried to be-
friend in "Rebel Without a Cause."

Her enthusiasm fell on receptive ears,
for Arnold Maxin is Epic Records' art-
ists-and-repertoire man in the popular
music field. Although Maxin had for-
gotten that Sal, in his first Broadway
role as the little crown prince in "The
King and I," had piped a pleasing boy-
soprano to Yul Brynner's baritone, Maxin
was interested. "I had seen Sal in a
television show a short time before,"
he says. "Since singing isn't too much
different from acting, I felt sure that
this vital teen-age personality could
project a song."

Acting on his hunch, he telephoned
Sal the next day to ask if he would like
to record. Sal — who had been finding his
rhythmic expression in playing drums,
rather than vocalizing — was candid. "I'd
like to, but I don't know if I can. I
haven't sung since my voice changed."

Hollywood contract obligations were a
further impediment. They didn't even
have time to make a test before Sal had
to leave New York to make "Dino" and
"The Young Don't Cry." He would be
gone for months. But Maxin was willing to
wait. "I wanted to find material which
would suit both of us."

Sal's own particular secret of success is
one instilled by his mother, Josephine —
Mrs. Salvatore Mineo, Sr. — who long ago
laid down the precept: "When you want
something, study it, learn about it, be
ready. Don't depend on luck."

On his return last spring, Epic pro-
vided him with two coaches. Fred Steele
was his vocal coach and Otis Blackwell
took charge of style training. The result
amazed even Arnold Maxin: "You'd have
thought he had been singing all his life.
This boy is a professional in everything
he does. Here he was, making his first
recording, and it was as relaxed and easy
a session as I have ever cut. We com-
pleted the rock 'n' roll side, 'Start Movin'
(in My Direction),' in four takes. We did
the recitation side, 'Love Affair,' in just
two takes — once for balance and once for
recording. That's phenomenal in the music
business."

The platter's reception, too, was phe-
nomenal. Sal introduced it in the Kraft
Television Theater play, "Drummer Boy,"
on May 1. (This also was Sal's first ro-
mantic role.) When Sal and Maxin went
out on tour to meet fans and disc jockeys,
there were 3,000 young people at the
Boston airport. In Cleveland, when Sal
flew in to appear on Bill Randle's pro-
gram, the special police detail was not
large enough to hold back the crowds.
Girls screamed, "Sal, I love you!" and
wept when they could not fight their way
to touch him.

Detroit was pure pandemonium. Sal
was scheduled to appear on Bobbin' With
Robin, Robin Seymour's remote tele-
cast from Edgewater Park. The twenty-
five police who were on duty had
to send for reinforcements. The exuber-
ant, moving crowd of teenagers jostled
the temporary TV equipment and knocked
the television station off the air at least
twice. In the commotion, Sal nearly missed
the broadcast. "We parked the car only
eight feet from the audio control booth,"
says Maxin, "but the kids hemmed us in.
It was thirty minutes before we could
get Sal out of the car."

What does Sal think of such a reception?

Like any teenager, he's thrilled: "Man,
I couldn't quite believe it." He's also
worried: "What if someone should get
hurt?" He's deeply appreciative, too:
"Where would I be without the kids?"
Such receptions helped head his record
toward the best-seller classification in-
stantly. Within three weeks of release,
the kids had bought a half million of them.
Epic expects total sales to reach two
million.

l;he success of the recording is partic-
ularly important to Sal at the present
time, for — through this record, plus a new
album which is to be issued, and disc
jockey interviews — he can stay in touch
with friends while allowing himself the
luxury of the most "private" private life
he has had in the more recent of his
eighteen years.

This year, Sal Mineo, actor, is to be
replaced, at least partially, by Sal Mineo,
student. Sal is going to college.

He will take a liberal arts course,
majoring in English, at Adelphi College
on Long Island. When he speaks of it, you
understand that this is a realization of a
dream, for Sal, who can be both the most
deadpan and the most expressive of kids,
lights that fire back of his eyes which fans
wait to see flare up on the movie screen.

He already knows the school. "My
brother Vic went there. He liked it and I
do, too." It's a small school and this, to
Sal, is most important. "I'll get to know all
of the kids real quick. They'll get used
to me, too. I'll be off the celebrity kick
and just one of the gang. I can go to
parties and clubs and have some fun."

You understand, as he speaks, that
the lack of fun — the ordinary sort of
thing kids do after school and in class —
is the price Sal has paid for his fabulous
success. "High school was just work. I
had a tutor and I studied and I passed
my exams, and that was all there was
to it."

His liberal arts major will give him
further training in fields where he al-
ready has developed an interest. He's a
bit of an artist and has taught himself to
paint. On the walls of his bedroom hang
the copy he made of Gainsborough's "Blue
Boy" and an original of his beloved boxer
dog, "Bimbo." His mother mourns the
loss of the portrait he did of James Dean:
"Some magazine borrowed it and didn't
send it back." His sister Sarina cherishes
his head of Tony Curtis: "No one can
get that away from me." Sal's style, while
still a bit stiff and untrained, does show
strength and perception. If he ever chooses
to study portraiture, he could well be-
come as fine a professional in this field
as he is in acting.

He is more interested in English. He has
done some writing — "but not to show
anyone," by his modest description. Yet,
in the next breath, he admits that his
urge to write already is sufficiently
strong to have come out into the open.
"I wasn't quite satisfied with the original
ending of 'Dino,' so one night I wrote
three different endings of my own." None
was used, but Sal's professionalism as an
actor mitigates his disappointment. "The
producer liked all of them, but there was
just so much budget, so that was that."

He learned the problems of a writer
when a magazine asked for an autobiog-
raphy: "It's hard to write about your-
self. I just wanted to do a story about a
boy who gets into show business. I
wanted to do it third person, and then at
the end say, "And, by the way, his name
happened to be Sal Mineo." But the
editor said that wasn't being fair with

the readers — that it was a freshman-
theme device. So I had to do it over. And
I really labored. How can you tell all
about yourself in 4,000 words? If you
leave out something, then it isn't true."

Sal cites one of Adelphi's strongest
attractions when he says, "I'll be able to
drive home every night." Home, next
fall, will be a fine new house in West-
chester, which is now under construc-
tion. Home at present, is a three-storey
dwelling on a block-long street in a re-
mote section of the Bronx which no out-
of-towner would ever believe was part of
the City of New York. The opposite side
of the street is lined with comparable
comfortable, middle-income houses, but
there are open fields at the side and rear,
and not very far away is the river which
also has provided recreation for the
four young Mineos. They swim. They
have a boat. They enjoy being together.

Perhaps their very closeness has given
Sal the perspective and sympathy which
enables him to play lonely, troubled-kid
roles in pictures. If the "Life of Sal
Mineo" ever becomes a screenplay, the
script writer will find a wealth of warm,
family feeling and one of those stories
which again reveals America as a land
of opportunity for those who make it so.

It began when Salvatore Mineo, Sr.,
came from Sicily at the age of sixteen
and met in New York a young beauty of
Neapolitan descent who wouldn't even go
out with him until he learned to speak
English. Salvatore learned both a new
language and a new trade. In Sicily, he
had carved miniature animals from ivory.
In America, he did odd jobs until his
Josephine suggested he become a cabinet-
maker. After their marriage, he became
a foreman at the Bronx Casket Company.

Sal is proud of the way his father started
his own business. "It was my mother who
really made him. She said, 'Here you are,
working like a dog for others. You
should be working for yourself and your
children.' " Friends put up the money to
back him and the Mineo family now owns
the Universal Casket Company. Every-
one helped build it to prosperity.

Josephine was the bookkeeper. Mike,
now 20, and Victor, now 19, first worked
in the factory and, when they were old
enough, replaced their mother in the
office. Sal's contribution was baby-sitting
with little Sarina: "I did everything from
feeding her to telling her good-night
stories. I earned a salary of fifty cents a
week. When I got paid, I'd go down to the
candy store and get some soda, ice cream
and jelly beans. Then I'd go home and
we'd have a party, Sarina and I, and our
two cats, Smoky and Tiger."

Even in those days, when all earnings
"had to go back into the business," the
elder Mineo managed to treat all three
of their sons equally. When one wanted
a bike, all three got bikes. Today, it is
automobiles. Sal is proud of the fact that
he didn't buy his new Thunderbird —
his family gave it to him.

"We each get a new car when we turn
eighteen," Sal explains. "I was home on
my birthday, January 10, when the car
was delivered, but I had only a few hours
to drive it before I had to fly back to
Hollywood. So there I was, driving my
old jalopy when I had a Thunderbird sit-
ting in the garage at home in New York."

Another family tradition is expressed
in rings. Sarina, the latest to acquire one,
explains, "My mother gave my father a
snake ring years ago. It was lucky for
him, so now we each get one." Where
the first was an inexpensive novelty item,
the rings are now hand-made to Mrs.
Mineo's order.

Sal's career, too, has been jointly shared.

He was eleven years old and in dancing
class when, from a crowd of fifteen boys,
Broadway producer Cheryl Crawford
chose him to appear in Tennessee Wil-
liams' play, "The Rose Tattoo," because "he
looked Italian."

Next came the crown prince part in
"The King and I." He made his first movie
in Boston, portraying Tony Curtis as a
boy, in "Six Bridges to Cross." Hollywood
came next and led up to his being nom-
inated for the Academy Award for his
role in "Rebel Without a Cause." From
then on, top credits have come fast, but
they have never been quite complete.
For accuracy, they should have read:
"Sal Mineo, backed up by all the Mineos."

When they were first making the rounds
of casting directors, Mrs. Mineo set the
direction. She didn't want Sal to grow up
to be a show-business brat. Her antidote
for a prematurely swelled head was to
keep the family together. "If Sal was with
his brothers," she says, "he couldn't help
realize he was no better than the rest of
them. When problems came up, we'd all
sit down around the dining-room table
and thresh them out, no holds barred.
Sometimes we'd sit up until two o'clock
in the morning, just talking."

In the present division of labor, Mike
is in charge of the West Coast activities
and Victor of the East Coast, with Mrs.
Mineo providing the capable direction:
"What we didn't know about show busi-
ness, we've learned together." His broth-
ers, however, are not expected to be
merely Sal's satellites. The Mineos be-
lieve, "A little education never hurts."

Mike is majoring in business education
at U.C.LA. and also has had bit parts in
a few pictures. "Being around the lot with
Sal," his mother says, "he was noticed and
asked if he'd like to be in some crowd
shots. He began to get the hang of things,
so now he makes the rounds." He's had
some small parts. She completely ap-
proves. "It's good for him to know what
it is like to be in front of a camera."

Vic is majoring in business administra-
tion at New York University, but takes
time off to accompany Sal on personal
appearances. Sarina helps out in taking
care of the fan mail, which runs to 3,000
letters a week. Two secretaries help out.

Sal Mineo, Sr. has first call, however,
on the services of this capable crew. "We
do things together," Sal says proudly,
"but my father supports the family."

Sal has both a short-range and a long-
range plan for the future. Along with
his college work this fall, he has
scheduled appearances on television
shows. "That's one reason I chose Adelphi.
It's so close to New York." Two pictures
are now on the screens and Sal does not
plan to do another this year, unless he gets
a role he really wants. Twentieth Cen-
tury-Fox has a script which he particu-
larly likes, "The Hell-Bent Kid." He
indicates that this, if offered to him, would
tempt him away from the campus. How-
ever, he would like to get in as much
study as he can before being called up for
Army service.

His future sights are set on a Broad-
way role and on directing. In Sal's mind,
one is a training for the other: "A live
audience teaches you things. It is like
studying, with them coaching you." He
grows most eloquent about directing. "I
admire a director because of what he can
do. An actor sees only himself, but a
director can take just a paper with lines
on it and turn it into a show — something
that is real and never existed before. I
don't want to deal in — what shall I say? —
a mode article. I want to make something
happen. Imagination is the most impor-
tant thing."

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RADIO
MIRROR

DIO MIRROR • oct.
CCLUSIVE

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What It Means

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V and RADIO

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(DID YOU SEE POOR POLLY ON TV?)

Polly came home from the

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RADIO
MIRROR

OCTOBER, 1957

ATLANTIC EDITION

VOL. 48, NO. 5

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

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

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

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

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

So You Want To Be a Star (Garry Moore) 10

Just Pat Buttram 14

Pay-TV: What Does It Mean To You? by Helen Bolstad 17

Forecast for Fall : NBC 18

CBS
ABC

Who Could Ever Be Lonely? (Gisele MacKenzie) by Gladys Hall

Young Woman of Today (Helen O'Connell) by Frances Kish

Jan Davis: Talent Scout by Martin Cohen

Jack of Hearts (Jack Linkletter) by Fredda Balling

Stand Up And Be Counted

Dinner at Betsy Palmer's

He-Man's Holiday (James Arness) by Peer J. Oppenheimer

Adopted Father (Sherry Jackson) by Maurine Remenih

Paging Perry Mason (Raymond Burr) by Pauline Townsend

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

Truth — and Its Consequences (Bob Barker) by Gordon Budge

"The Best I Can Be" (Norma Moore) by Mary Temple

Dreams Do Come True (Dick Van Patten) by Elizabeth Ball

Crusader's Wife (Mrs. Billy Graham) by Gregory Merwin

20
22
24
26
28
36
42
46
48
50
54

32
34
38

YOUR LOCAL STATION

The Life He Loves (WAVZ) 12

The Record Players: The Kid From Jersey by Bill Mayer 15

Q. Marks the Hot Spot (WABD, WNEW, WOR) by Claire Safran 58

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

Movies on TV 3

Information Booth 8

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 13

Telescoping TV 16B

Beauty: A Beauty of a Cook (Anne Burr) by Harriet Segman 57

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 74

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 88

Cover portrait of Gisele MacKenzie by Jay Seymour of Gary Wagner Associates

BUY YOUR NOVEMBER ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE OCTOBER 3

_fc PUBLISHED MONTHLY by Macfadden

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Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group.

Showing this month

DEAD RECKONING (Columbia) : Good,
tough thriller in the old-style Bogart man-
ner. As a War II vet, Bogie investigates
the mysterious disappearance of a buddy,
runs afoul of Liz Scott.

DRUMS ALONG THE MOHAWK

(20th) : Realistic, exciting saga of pioneers
fighting Indians in upstate New York, dur-
ing the Revolution. Henry Fonda, Claud-
ette Colbert are a courageous farm couple.

HE WALKED BY NIGHT (Eagle Lion) :
Matter-of-fact crime melodrama, with ex-
pert actor Richard Basehart as a crook who
uses electronics knowledge to outwit L. A.
cops — until Scott Brady gets after him.

HIGHER AND HIGHER (RKO) : Sina-
tra's debut film, with Rodgers-Hart score.
He's a rich boy chased by Michele Morgan,
serving girl disguised as heiress. The Hart-
mans and Victor Borge add to the fun.

HOLY MATRIMONY (20th): Perfectly
delightful, delicately handled whimsy.
Painter Monty Woolley hates fame, weeps
at "his own" funeral when his valet is
buried under his name. Then Monty mar-
ries Gracie Fields — and trouble starts.

JANE EYRE (20th): Elegantly moody
version of the classic novel, with Orson
Welles as the strange master of the house-
hold where shy Joan Fontaine reports as
governess. Peggy Ann Garner and Margaret
O'Brien, then children, score.

MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS, THE

(RKO) : Unusual, fascinating story of a
wealthy family's decline in last century's
Midwest, directed by Orson Welles. Joseph
Cotten, Anne Baxter head a fine cast.

MAN WITH MY FACE, THE (U. A.) :

Barry Nelson fans get double measure, as
he plays an honest war veteran — and his
look-alike, who takes over his home and
wife (Lynn Ainley), with crooked intent.
Authentic Puerto Rican backgrounds.

MELBA (U. A.) : Patrice Munsel's lyrical
voice and refreshingly natural manner
spark up the true story of one of opera's
greats. As Nellie Melba, she goes from an
Australian ranch to word-wide fame — and
heartbreak.

ROAD HOUSE (20th): Memento from
Richard Widmark's bad-guy era, this sus-
pense item features other appealing per-
formers: Cornel Wilde, as Dick's partner-
pal; Ida Lupino, singer who comes to work
at their joint and sets off the fireworks.

STANLEY AND LIVINGSTONE (20th) :
Reserved, touching account of a real 19th
Century adventure. Spencer Tracy does a
first-rate job as the American newsman
who tracks a "lost" missionary in Africa.

SUN VALLEY SERENADE (20th) :
Glenn Miller's sweet swing, Sonja Henie's
ice-skating, Milton Berle's clowning — find
them all in the easygoing musical that
introduced "Chattanooga Choo-Choo."

TALK OF THE TOWN (Columbia):
Slick, meaningful comedy casts Ronald
Colman as a serious lawyer and Supreme
Court candidate, Cary Grant as a liberal
framed for murder, Jean Arthur as the girl.

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WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST

By PETER ABBOTT

On High-Low, prof John Van Doren
made his TV debut; Patricia Medina
showed up as a trans-Atlantic "pro."

For What's New On
The West Coast, See Page S

When the McGuires couldn't sing, there was a howl in Oklahoma City, Says
Murray Kane, who manages Chris, Phil, Dot: "The people ... were for us."

Dig Me Gently: Sal Mineo, Bronx's
gift to TV, is regularly dating a
Manhattan steno. . . . The new NBC
show started mid-August by Arlene
Francis features a new TV gismo
called "Cross My Heart," a cross-
word puzzle game for studio and
home viewers, with daily prizes. . . .
Sexy Rexy Harrison's new wife,
Kay Kendall, has all three networks
bidding for her services. She's a ter-
rific all-around performer. . . . Ed
Wynn has contracted for three ap-
pearances on Ed Sullivan's Show
this season. . . . Now that summer is
over, singers go off starvation wages;
now a guest-star spot is worth $7,-
500 — same performance draws a
measly $5,000 in summer. . . . And
this could be called fighting fire with
fire: The proposal that Jayne Mans-
field co-star with Elvis in a spectacu-
lar. . . . Everyone happy Mrs. Steve
Allen (Jayne Meadows) is getting
along so well in her second preg-
nancy. The blessed event is sched-
uled for October and both Steve
and Jayne are hoping for a girl.
Steve already has three boys by his
first marriage. . . . Funniest record of
year comes, naturally enough, from
Spike Jones. The Verve label is

titled, "Dinner Music for People
Who Aren't Very Hungry." Selec-
tions include, "Duet for Violin and
Garbage Disposal," "Brahms' Alibi,"
and "Wyatt Earp Makes Me Burp."

Highbrows on High-Low: As we

go to press, they're still looking for
a time spot for the summer season's
new quiz, High-how. One of its
panelists, John Van Doren, is turn-
ing out to be TV's most bashful ex-
pert. John's Other Job is at Bran-
deis University, where he lectures.
John's Other Brother is, natch,
Charles Van Doren. Says John,
"Charles talked me into taking the
job and said I should think of it as
an exciting adventure." Charles is
thirty, an extrovert; John is twenty-
seven, an introvert. Therapeutically,
the TV job should be good for him.
He says, "First I became accustomed
to being identified as my father's
son or my uncle's nephew. Then it
was as Charles's brother." Now he's
got a chance to make it on his own
.... Another highbrow is lovely,
nervous Patricia Medina. She has
a standing invitation to be a panelist
when not occupied with movie-
making, for Patricia Medinas are

On television, Phil Silvers may be a veteran sergeant. Off camera, he's a
husband, first-class, to Evelyn and rookie dad to newborn Tracey Edith.

The world of music is comparing Eydie
Gorme to Miss Show Business, herself.

hard to come by. There are few
beautiful dames with brains to
match. Pattie is known for both in
her native England. There she was
on the British version of What's My
Line? and there the game is played
very seriously. And Pattie was just
as nervous. Daughter of a London
barrister, her brilliance, was first
noted when she was graduated with
highest honors from the equivalent
of high school at fourteen. She
immediately began reading for
entrance into medical school. A ner-
vous breakdown at sixteen rechan-
neled her ambition into acting and
work on TV.

Short & Sassy: Barbara Hall,
$64,000 winner, is dating regularly
with a commercial pilot for a French
line. . . . Sonny James' new disc for
Capitol, "Lovesick Blues," surgin'
upward. And Sonny knows about
"lovesick blues," for he doesn't get
to see his true love more than a half-
dozen times a year. . . . Oh, my achin'
ears — when the new season gets
full-blown there will be a total of
40 Westerns on TV. . . . Andree Wal-
lace, the menace (Cynthia) on
Helen Trent, will be having her

third any day now. Already has a
boy and girl. . . . Jay Barney, Kurt
Bonine on same serial, contributes
his vacation to national defense. A
reserve officer, he takes on a tour
of duty at Fort Monmouth. ... A
Guy Mitchell intimate explains,
"When Guy relaxes, he is full of
energy and drive. It's when he's
tense that he acts like Como." . . .
Singer Mindy Carson flies to Lon-
don to do a spec on BBC. Mindy,
studying acting, hopes to build a
whole career in musical comedy
for TV and Broadway. . . . Robert
Q. Lewis worried himself needlessly.
That neck growth was non-malig-
nant, which he learned after a week
in the hospital. Bob takes two weeks
or so in Europe this month to play.
. . . When you see an actor identi-
fied as Larry Hagman on a TV
drama, you'll be watching Mary
Martin's son. . . . And how about
this? American Theater Wing, a
cultural center, has a course for
dramatic students, in TV and radio
commercials.

What Really Happened: There
was a big fuss in the papers about
the McGuire Sisters. Some of it not

so nice. The girls were to sing a
week at the fair in Oklahoma City
and Chris was accused of running
out and nasty things were said
publicly. What really happened? A
few days earlier, Chris had been in
bed with a fever and missed a
night's work at Lake Tahoe. By the
end of the week, she felt so awful
she flew all the way to New York
to consult her own doctor. It was a
very bad strep throat. She didn't get
back to Oklahoma City until Tues-
day. She insisted she would work,
although the doctor said she
shouldn't. But, by then, the exposi-
tion people were threatening to sue.
Then a prominent Oklahoma doctor
made an examination and confirmed
Chris's condition. Finally, on Thurs-
day, the girls were allowed to sing
and at the same time the committee
issued a signed statement exoner-
ating Chris as an adult delinquent.
Murray Kane, the gals' mgr., says,
"It was an unpleasant situation, ex-
cept that all the time we had the
knowledge that the people we met
on the streets were for us." . . .
While not so far west, the word was
out in Chicago that Dennis James
and Club 60 (Continued on page 9)

WHAT'S NEW ON THE WEST COAST

He has scrapped in night clubs and other places, but,
now he's at work at ABC-TV, Sinatra's motto is "Smile."

Women are a puzzlement to both these fishing pals, though
Hugh O'Brian's a bachelor, John Lupton a husband and dad

By BUD GOODE

Warming up for laughs on her fall TV series, Eve Arden and her family
clowned through Yosemite vacation. Young Connie's "top banana" here.

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

The Three R's : Lawrence Welk's new
clarinetist, goateed Pete Fountain,
picked up his music in New Orleans
and, in jazz-style, never learned to
read notes. He now sits-in every day
at CBS -Television City with Bob
Crosby's Bobcats, who are teaching
him how to read. Music, that is. . . .
Newcomer to ABC, Frank Sinatra,
likes the people around him to smile,
even if the grins have to be painted
on. Frank believes, apparently, that
with sour faces the battle is half lost
(not too bad a philosophy). Inciden-
tal note: His office is painted in com-
bination bright reds and other happy
colors. It would look just right for
color TV. Sinatra, going into TV with
a heavy-artillery attitude, has hired
the highest-paid talent. Writer Bill
Morrow, for example, used to be with
the fabulous Bing Crosby on radio.
Sinatra tells an old story about Mor-
row and Crosby, hunting and fishing
devotees. Bing and Bill came straight
off a Sierra safari to a CBS radio
studio for a show to be produced
within the hour, but not yet written.
Morrow sat down at a typewriter and,
ten minutes later, had two pages of
script completed. Looking at his watch,
Bing said that at this rate they
wouldn't get on the air. He pulled
up another typewriter and started
hacking away. After fifteen minutes
more, Bing exclaimed, "Look I've
written four pages, Morrow's only

Visiting Rome, the Skeltons — Red, his wife Georgia and
their children Richard and Valentino — found new courage.

Bachelor girl and guy, Betty White and Michael Ansara
foiled a would-be Cupid by simply swapping autographs.

written three!'
can type?

We wonder if Sinatra

The Children's Hour: Co-star on
Perry Mason, Barbara Hale, enter-
tained home -town guests, John and
Marsha Holmstrom, for a few days
recently. She invited a few of their
old school friends for an afternoon's
catching-up session, "I made the mis-
take," says Barbara, "of telling them
to bring their kids. Marsha had two
of her five with her, our three were
home and the six other gals brought
17 more. We girls were trying to talk
about our personal lives while 22 In-
dians howled around us. The after-
noon's conversation ran something
like 'Get off that . . .' 'Don't do that
. . .' and 'Be careful.' I'm afraid we
didn't get much gossiping done." . . .
John Lupton, talking about Rollin,
his six-month-old daughter, says
she's already getting coy. "Acts just
like a woman," muses John. "What
worries me is, if she's so wise already,
what will she be like at eighteen?"
John and his wife Anne are avid Dr.
Spock and Menninger readers, be-
lieve in loads of love and affection
for their baby; don't believe in baby-
talk. But then "goo-goo's" aren't
much in character for Indian Agent
Tom Jeffords of Broken Arrow. . . .
Gale Storm and Mitzi Green, two
mothers of Encino's Little Leagu-
ers, joined with aH the other moms

in a baseball game — The Encino
Cardinals (also known as the Varga
Chicks) versus the Petty Girls. The
mothers were to wear their sons'
uniforms, with sashes at their waists
and flowers on the baseball caps.
Petite Gale could get into 12-year-
old Peter's complete outfit, but some
of the other mothers couldn't quite
make it. Gale seems to be having
a hard time gaining weight, following
the birth of her fourth child, Susanna.
Her doctor wants her to come into the
hospital for a complete rest before
she begins filming her fall series. Un-
fortunately, energetic Gale's a gal
who can't sit still.

Who's Traveling: This summer,
the Lennon Sisters have flown from
Oregon to Montana to Ohio to Texas
and home to California. Oldest sister,
Dianne, isn't too crazy about flying;
16-year-old Peggy doesn't mind it;
13-year-old Kathy likes it; and 11-
year-old Janet loves it. On two of
the trips, the hostesses let the girls
co-host with them, donning their caps
and serving lunch. On one trip, the
airline was tipped off in advance
of Janet's birthday and prepared a
big, delicious angelfood cake. Janet
came home to tell her mother, "Mom-
my, if that's flying, I'm for it." . . .
ABC's Betty White and co-star Bill
Williams are preparing a 22-city
tour to introduce the new Plymouth

(their sponsor on Date With The
Angels) to dealers across the country.
Since Bill doesn't fly, he'll drive to
five West Coast cities, and Betty will
hop to all 17 via the air. Incidentally,
when press agents tried to stir up a
romance between Betty and Michael
Ansara, the pair simply laughed, went
on a "date" and, having become good
friends, they exchanged autographs
for young relatives. . . . The Mouse -
keteers have completed filming their
1958 series and most of them are off
on a vacation. Meanwhile, back at
the Disney ranch, there are still a few
hard at work on a feature-length,
color motion picture based on the
Wizard of Oz stories. Title: "Rainbow
Road to Oz." "Oz" will star Jimmie
Dodd, Annette Funicello, Tommy
Kirk, Bobby Burgess and Darlene
Gillespie. For these kids, living in
the wonderful land of "Oz" is as much
fun as a vacation.

Did You Know: Michael Ansara,
"Cochise" of ABC's Broken Arrow,
was once a Los Angeles City College
medical student. . . . Hugh Wyatt
Earp O'Brian was a Los Angeles
City College student body president.
. . . The Lennon Sisters' family,
prior to the girls' stardom, made
tamales at home, sold them, while dad
was a milkman. . . . The average Law-
rence Welk bandsman earns $20,000
per year. (Continued on page 16)

information booth

Four to Make Ready

We would like some information on The
Four Preps, recently seen on The Ford
Show.

S. J. A. and S. F. J., Spokane, Wash.

While their li'l ol' saucers fly eastward
on the wings of Capitol Records, The Four
Preps, in person, are busy getting very well
known around their Southern California
neighborhood. Ever since they met a few
years ago at Hollywood High and got off
on the harmony kick, they've been on the
lookout for all the experience they could
get. Private parties, hotel engagements,
school dances, have all been valuable grist
for the mill of their show-business know-
how. Recently, with a singing-comedy act
well broken-in, they backed Ricky Nelson
for his first high-school performance fol-
lowing his recording contract. The quartet
are: Marvin Inabett, 18, tenor, and student
at U.C.L.A.; Bruce Belland, 19, lead tenor,
also a student at U.C.L.A. (Westwood) ;
Glen Larson, 19, baritone, and page at
NBC in Hollywood; Ed Cobb, 18, bass
chanter, and Los Angeles City College
man. "Dreamy Eyes" is their recent well-
known disc, backed by "Fools Will Be
Fools."

Still Raining in Spain

Could you tell me something about Ed-
ward Mulhare, who had the lead in "Eight
Feet to Midnight" on CBS-TV's Studio
One?

G. M., Buffalo, N. Y.

When Irish-born Edward Mulhare final-
ly got to explain the phonetic niceties of
"rain in Spain" to the little Cockney flower-

seller, it was after a long battle waged for
his option by "My Fair Lady" producer,
Herman Levin. Actors' Equity Association
had ruled the tall bachelor would not be
allowed to play "Professor Higgins" on
Broadway while Rex Harrison vacationed
from the role, because he is neither "a
U. S. citizen, a Canadian citizen, nor a res-
ident alien." Levin threatened to close the
most fabulously successful musical in
American history, if Equity would not per-
mit Mulhare to go on. The Association
relented when Mulhare was granted the
saving grace of "star status" as a result of
his TV and movie work, already highly
reputed in this country. ... A native of
Dublin, Edward was 19 when he won his
first roles at the Cork Opera House. But
he went back to school for a while, just
to be absolutely certain of his decision.
After a fling at medicine, he joined the
Dublin Theater Guild and played Bill
Walker in "Major Barbara" and Horace
Giddens in "The Little Foxes." His first
appearance in England was with an ENSA
unit in "Rebecca." In 1951, he became the
leading man of the Liverpool Repertory
Company, where Rex Harrison got his
early experience. The same year he was
Lodovico in an Olivier production of
"Othello." Several important repertory
roles followed, after which he was cast in
the Israeli film. "Hill 24 Doesn't Answer."
Levin auditioned Mulhare in London, and,
after the hard-won triumph of Edward's
" 'enery 'iggins" debut last winter, the
producer signed him to take over the role
in December for an expected run of three
years. On TV, Mulhare has appeared sev-
eral times in the British-made Robin Hood
series, carried by CBS-TV, and starred,
last spring, in a Kraft Theater full-hour

T The Four Preps are making records that sell like records are supposed to.
* Left to right, they are Marvin Inabett, Bruce Belland, Glen Larson, Ed Cobb.

Star status on TV solved Broadway
problems for actor Edward Mulhare.

dramatic colorcast and a Studio One pro-
duction. "Eight Feet to Midnight." He has
filed, by the way, for his American citizen-
ship and doesn't anticipate further Equity
complications.

Confident

I have just finished reading "Are We
Afraid of Our Teen-age Kids?" (August,
TV Radio Mirror) by Gladys Hall. I
don't know when I have read such an
interesting article. I have three sons and,
though the oldest is just ten now, I think
I have learned a great deal through read-
ing this which will help my husband and
me to prepare for their "teen-age."

Mrs. M. M., High Point, N. C.

In this article, Sam Levenson suggested
that parents "unite," as their teen-age
children have already done. Judging from
the many letters we've received, the parents
are taking Sam's advice.

Calling All Fans

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

Official John Wilder Fan Club, c/o Alice
McCracken, 4931 West 14th St., Indian-
apolis 24. Indiana.

Elvis Presley Fan Club, c/o Rosemary
McGlening, 362 Main St. North, Weston,
Ontario.

Dinah Shore Fan Club, c/o Kay Daly.
Pres., 3528 Greenfield Ave., Los Angeles
34, California.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's

something you want to know about radio
and television, ivrite 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 your question
concerns radio or TV.

WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST

(Continued from page 5)

were in trouble when Dennis an-
nounced he would leave the show
in mid-August. Well, he did quit,
but not before he saved jobs for
the Mello -Larks, the other singers
and the orchestra. Seems NBC
thought no one was watching the
show and planned to knife it. Denny
started a campaign to pull mail. He
brought in 80,000 pieces. Pollsters
figure about one out of every 500
viewers will write, but even if you
figure it at one out of 100 it showed
there were some 8-million viewers.
So the show stays on and everyone
keeps their job but Dennis, who's
replaced by Howard Miller. He quit
out of sheer homesickness for his
house and friends in New York City.
His first new assignment is as TV
spokesman for Kellogg on all of
their programs.

With Onions & Relish : Gisele Mac-
Kenzie turned down Broadway
offers to give her all to the new TV
show. . . . One of Godfrey's prettiest
Talent Scout finds, Nancy Adams,
signing a Decca contract. . . . Actor
Paul McGrath (My Son Jeep, Nora
Drake, FBI In Peace, etc., "Face in
the Crowd," scads more) will be
absent from TV and radio for a long
time. He's one of two Americans
(other, Evelyn Varden) honored to
open and star in a new London pro-
duction. If you get over that way,
the play is called, "Roar Like a
Dove." . . . TV producer Phil Barry,
Jr., is a new father. The mother, ac-
tress Patricia Barry, gifted with a
girl. . . . Item: We have 42,500,000
TV sets in U.S.A. But radio still
holds lead over TV in daytime at-
tention. . . . Speaking of fall, Tin Pan
Alley will be foisting on us a new
brand of sound called "Rockabilly."
This is Hawaiian music with a big
beat. . . . But rock 'n' roll hasn't
lost its steam. Dig this title featuring
Tennessean Jimmy Donley, "Kickin'
My Hound Around." Arf! And it's
no sillier than some ballads. How
about S^unny Gale's new item, "My
Arms Are a House." What's that
mean, teacher?

Listen to Harry Silvers: Quote:
I'm Phil's oldest brother, but in all
of his life I never saw him like this.
You would almost have thought he
was the "mother." All the time Eve-
lyn was pregnant he stood by, suf-
fering, considerate and expectant.
You know, he's on a tough schedule
making the Bilko series, but when
he got the eight-week lay-off with
the rest of the cast he just stayed
home. Sat around in his carpet slip-
pers with Evelyn. No other come-
dian like that. When the baby was
born he made one mistake. He an-
nounced she was six pounds. It was
six plus eleven ounces, but he didn't
know how important ounces are to

a mother. They call the baby Tracey
Edith. Tracey is just a name they
pulled out of the hat. They both
liked it. I know Phil was glad to
have a girl. His own life has been
tough-going. I'd guess he thinks for
a girl life is a little easier. You
should see Phil pick the baby up.
Every time the baby gets a burp-
smile, he says, "See, she knows it's
me." The way Phil holds that baby
in his arms — I've been his personal
manager for seventeen years and
never before saw him like this.
Unquote.

Pass the Pepper: Biggest single
smash in summer was the fantastic
comedy bit of Sue Carson on Sulli-
van's show. Ed immediately signed
her for six more times this season.
. . . And, this summer, Ed became a
grandfather for the third time. . . .
And a grandfather for the second
time is Big Payoff host Randy Mer-
riman. . . . Barry Sullivan, star of
the new series Harbourmaster, has
taken on directorial chores for an-
other new TV series, The Joyce Kil-
mer Story. . . . When Eddie Bracken
winces into the camera, it's because
he's having real bad trouble with a
knee. . . . Eddie Fisher (age 28) is
being described as a middle-aged
Tommy Sands. . . . Envy Carmel
Quinn. She has slimmed down from
a size 14 to ten. Carmel and spouse
Bill Fuller are close friends and
neighbors of the Pat Boones and are
looking forward to their fall reunion.
. . . Actress Joan Tompkins (This Is
Nora Drake) commuting between
New York City and Hollywood,
where hubby-actor Carl Swenson is
engaged in movies. . . . The thing
that would make Julie and Rory
LaRosa happiest would be to find
themselves a threesome. . . . And
doesn't time fugit — Mason Morfitt
(Garry Moore's big boy) enters Yale
this fall to study journalism.

Dig Me Deep: Eydie Gorme actu-
ally outgrossed Belafonte at Palmer
House in Chicago. And, day by day,
more and more people are con-
vinced she will develop into a very
great talent, like a Judy Garland.
But Eydie will not be contracted ex-
clusively to Steve Allen this season.
Wants to move around. . . . Claire
Niessen returns to her role of Mary
Noble in Backstage Wife after an ex-
tended vacation in Europe.

Bergen's Big : Polly Bergen stunned
them with her Helen Morgan opus
and has further set 'em back on
their heels by proving she meant
what she had been saying — the
family comes first. No night clubs.
She turned down Las Vegas money.
No Hollywood. Of eight film roles
offered, she is considering only two,
for they will be made in Manhattan.

Let me
tell

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§o ^»n urant to l>c s*

What's it like to be on TV? Pauline arrives to find out.
Below, with husband Daniel, she meets Garry Moore.

In the supermarket, she was skeptical . . .
then Mrs. Pauline McCarthy found out
what it's really like to be on TV

In a letter to Garry Moore, a housewife glumly
* compared her "ordinary, everyday" existence to
the round of glamour she imagined belonged to TV
stars. The crew-cut humorist answered by
sending scouts out to find a typical housewife. They
interviewed many women, finally came upon
Mrs. Pauline McCarthy in a Cleveland supermarket.
When they asked her how she'd like to be a TV
performer for a week, she was skeptical. They liked
that. They liked, too, the fact that she drove a
moderate priced car, that she had her three children
well under control, that her husband Daniel was
a bricklayer foreman, and that they lived in
suburban Middleburg Heights in a home they built
themselves. But, when Mrs. McCarthy arrived
in New York, she gave Garry a few uneasy moments.
At their first meeting, they sat down to "talk" —
only she didn't. After a few minutes, though, Mrs.
McCarthy had made up her mind in Garry's
favor. She leaned over, patted him on the shoulder
and said, "You're just like you are on TV." From
then on, they were friends. Mrs. McCarthy
began her whirl — meetings with celebrities, glamour
lunches and dinners, but also fittings, make-up
sessions, rehearsals, publicity meetings, conferences
and all the roll-up-your-sleeves work that went
into appearances on The Garry Moore Show and
small roles in two daytime dramas, The Edge Of Night
and Love Of Life. Through it all, Mrs. McCarthy
was a good sport but, after it all, she was happy to
get back to the peace and quiet of a housewife's life.

The Garry Moore Show is seen on CBS-TV, M-Th, 10-10:30 A.M.
— Fri., 10-11 :30 A.M. — under multiple sponsorship. I've Got A
Secret, with Garry as host, CBS-TV, Wed., 9:30 P.M., is spon-
sored by R. J. Reynolds for Winston Cigarettes. (Both EDT)

Fittings, rehearsals . . . then tips
on TV make-up from Polly Bergen.

She plays scrub-woman on Love Of Life,
with director Larry Auerbach, Jean McBride.

Now a "celebrity" herself, Pauline
meets such VIPs as Ed Sullivan.

A good sport, say the Moore gang of their Cleveland housewife. Above, I. to r.: Announcer Frank Simms, Garry, Durward
Kirby, Pauline, producer Herb Sanford and Ken Carson. But, below, Pauline looks forward to the calm and quiet of home.

Directed by Richard Sandwich (in shirt), Pauline is a
counter girl at a hotel cigar stand in Edge Of Night.

With columnist Earl Wilson to point out celebrities,
Pauline and Daniel McCarthy "do" trie swank spots.

THE LIFE
HE LOVES

The music is lush and listenable
as Jay Clark spins it over WAVZ

Actor Robert Taylor heads the list of Jay's favorite guest
interviews. "A gentleman . . . and a man's man," Jay says.

No matter whether it's Satchmo or Stravinsky,
music has always been Jay's closest companion.

On the air, Jay programs soft violins, sweet ballads.

New Haven can thank a tough Army sergeant for
the lush music that now comes its way
courtesy of Jay Clark and Station WAVZ. Looking
as smooth as he sounds, Jay presides over a morning
music show, from nine till noon each weekday,
and then returns for Dinner Date, evenings from
six to eight. At dawn or dusk, Jay features strings
and ballads by such as Mantovani, Les Baxter,
Percy Faith, Gordon Jenkins. Saturdays, with the
help of listeners who bring him records dating
twenty or thirty years back, Jay programs Old Timers
Day, from nine to noon. "No matter the vintage,"
he says, " 'good' music should be heard and not
forgotten." . . . Yet it all began on a sunny day back
in 1945 when, as Jay grins, "Uncle Sam was footing
the tab for all three F's — food, footwear and
furnishings." Jay, as an unsuspecting Private First
Class, accompanied a buddy who hoped to win
an audition for an announcer-narrator on an up-
coming all-Army radio show in Newport News,
Virginia. When the friend developed a severe case
of the jitters, a protesting Jay was literally
pushed into the studio to substitute. A piece of
paper was thrust into his hands and an irate sergeant
barked a one-word command: "Read!" "Read I
did," Jay laughs, "on and on, for the next twenty
weeks on the radio." . . . Twelve years later, Jay
is no longer reading. Comments and commercials
are ad-libbed. "What continues to amaze me, to
this day," he says, "is the fact that I'm able to buy
groceries and make my offering to the landlord
doing what I've always cared for most, listening to
and playing records." . . . When bachelor Jay winds
up his musical chores, he makes his way around
the golf course — "much to the chagrin of the players
behind me," he grins. Sundays, once the weekend
papers are out of the way, it's concert time at the
Clark residence. "Just recently, my lease was re-
newed for two more years," he says. "I chalk this up
to the fact that my landlord is a music lover. That,
or else he is buried under the debris caused by the
cannon fire from Tchaikovsky's '1812 Overture.' "...
Jay dreams of early retirement to Florida — with
records, a typewriter and a cranium full of ideas
for stories. "Life has been too good to me," says
Jay, "to worry or fret, or ever hurry to get anywhere,
especially career-wise." No need to hurry — as
WAVZ listeners will testify, Jay Clark has arrived.

TV;

RADIO
MIRROR

TV favorites on your theater screen

By JANET GRAVES

The Careless Years

UNITED ARTISTS

Responsible for building many new stars
in recent years, TV scores a double play
with a touching drama of youthful love.
Once a child actor in movies, Dean Stock-
well hit the comeback trail in TV plays
and filmed series. Natalie Trundy made
her TV debut at ten, later did top child
roles in important shows. Now seventeen-
year-old Natalie and twenty-one-year-old
Dean co-star in the story of teenagers
whose need for each other drives them to
plan elopement. The decision they reach
provides thought for all families.

No Down Payment

20th, cinemascope

Usually identified with comedy, Tony Ran-
dall does a fine job of serious character
portrayal in this close-up of a suburban
housing development. And Joanne Wood-
ward, also TV-trained, creates an equally
arresting personality. The story is actually
an intimate portrait of four young couples,
close neighbors whose lives intertwine.
Each pair faces individual problems : Tony
and Sheree North (also taking time out
from comedy) ; Joanne and Cameron
Mitchell; Jeff Hunter and Patricia Owens;
Barbara Rush and Pat Hingle. The varied
situations finally explode in violence.

The Pajama Game

WARNERS, WARNERCOLOR

Here's the happiest musical that Doris Day
has turned out in a long time. It's packed
with lively tunes — the popular "Hey
There" and "Hernando's Hideaway" being
only two in the rhythmic crowd. For Doris
and handsome John Raitt, the labor-man-
agement quarrel gets translated into terri-
bly personal terms. As employee and new
boss in a pajama factory, Doris and John
make the pleasant mistake of falling in
love. There's a rowdy second romance
between Carol Haney and Eddie Foy, Jr. —
expert comics both.

The Young Don't Cry

COLUMBIA

Familiar faces on your TV screen, young

Sal Mineo and sturdy James Whitmore
make an interestingly contrasted pair in
an odd but convincing story of the South.
Sal is a self-reliant orphan; James, a re-
bellious convict working in a road gang
near the orphanage. Bullies in the group
make the boy's life uneasy; the prisoner is
plotting escape. On hand, too, is TV grad
Roxanne, looking decorative as wife of
Gene Lyons, the orphans' benefactor.

That Night

UNIVERSAL-INTERNATIONAL

Stars, producer, plot — all the elements of
this quiet yet strong family drama stem
from TV. First seen on the home screens,
the story centers on John Beal, as a TV-
commercial writer. The pressure he works
under partly accounts for the heart attack
that forces him to face the possibility of
death — then a changed life. Augusta Dab-
ney plays his wife; Shepperd Strudwick,
his honest, sympathetic doctor. Through-
out, the acting and the picture's general
handling create a firm sense of reality, in-
creased by the fact that the whole movie
was shot in New York, where its events
take place.

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

Loving You (Wallis, Paramount; Vista-
Vision, Technicolor) : Drama-with-music
shows off Elvis Presley at his best, as a
lonely young drifter boomed into fame in
the singing business. Liz Scott, Wendell
Corey, Dolores Hart share his fate.

Sweet Smell of Success (TJ.A.) : Tony Cur-
tis and Burt Lancaster zestfully play a
pair of heels in this bitter, biting New
York story. Columnist Burt assigns pub-
Heist Tony to break up the new romance
of Susan Harrison, Burt's sister.

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? (20th;
CinemaScope, DeLuxe Color) : Hollywood
attacks TV in a roaring farce — all in fun,
but not for kiddies. Tony Randall displays
his comedy skill as a timid ad man snared
by film queen Jayne Mansfield.

Emotion bewilders Dean Stockwer
and young sweetheart Natalie Trundy.

Party quips tossed by Tony Randal
amuse Sheree North, Barbara Rush.

After

fight,

Day

a business Tignt, uons
and John Raitt enjoy reconciliation.

JUST
PAT BUTTRAM

His homespun humor has its roots
in the rich Alabama soil

Laughter was made to share. Pat shares his with Sheila and
Kerry — and with a coast-to-coast audience on CBS Radio.

Cute as a bunny, little Kerry was dressed like
one to celebrate Easter time with Sheila and Pat.

Student of history, Pat Buttram often draws on
the lore of Americana for his homespun whimsy.

Born Maxwell Emmet Patrick Buttram, the
Alabaman claims to be the only man in the
world with a pink barbecue . . . and is
acclaimed by others as one of the top twenty
authorities on the Civil War. More to the
point is a dictum from Robert Benchley. "Don't
let them label you a comedian," Bob told Pat
Buttram. "You are something deeper than that.
You are a humorist." You can hear the difference
in a whimsy and a fresh-air philosophy that is
rooted in the rich Alabama soil and is aired
coast-to-coast on Just Entertainment. . . .
A veteran wit of Western films, stage, night clubs,
radio and TV, Pat is one of seven children
of the Reverend Wilson McDaniel Buttram, a
Methodist circuit-rider who carried the Word
throughout Alabama as far as a lean horse and
a rickety buggy would travel. With dreams of
being a minister like his dad, Pat enrolled as a
theology student at Birmingham Southern College.
But, while there, he was spotted in a college
play and hired by the manager of a local radio
station. Still a teenager, Pat became one of the
first disc jockeys. . . . Then, visiting Chicago, he
dropped in on a broadcast of National Barn Dance,
where it was a regular practice to interview two
or three members of the audience. Pat's comments
brought laughter from the audience — and a
regular place on the show that he kept for
thirteen years. Then Hollywood called and Pat
moved into pictures, was featured in the film
of "National Barn Dance" and in numerous
TV Westerns, notably as Gene Autry's sidekick . . .
Married to film actress Sheila Ryan, Pat is
at home in a comfortable ranch-style house in
Van Nuys, California. The house offers lots of
play space for their three-year-old daughter,
Kathleen Kerry. There's also a swimming pool,
tennis court, and a stable housing one horse
and one mule. Inside, the decor is Early American
and Pat's favorite room is his study, with
the walls covered with Civil War relics, including
the Confederate bonds and currency acquired
by an optimistic Southern forebear. Here's
where Pat Buttram creates Just Entertainment,
out of the heritage of humor that is his, too.

Just Entertainment, heard on CBS Radio, 2:45 P.M., EDT, is
sponsored by William Wrigley Jr. Co. for Doublemint Gum.

HE RECORD PLAYERS

nhis space rotates among
Gene Stuart of WAVZ,
Art Pallan of KDKA,
Al Collins of WRCA and NBC
and Bill Mayer of WRCV

When Frank Sinatra's selling
a song, I'm in a buying mood.

the Kiel from «J

Recording stars may come and go,
■V but there are a few "old timers"
who still keep rolling along . . . re-
taining a high level of popularity . . .
periodically coming up with a top disk
; . ■ ■ making new fans every time they
cut a new platter. For instance, in my
book — and I've been a radio music
man for the past fifteen years — no
one can replace Mr. Frank Sinatra
when it comes to selling a song.

Perhaps my opinion is a bit in-
fluenced by the fact that I enjoyed the
fun of youth during the era of the
big bands and the various singing
i "specialists" that went with that
period of music-making history . . .
Skinny Ennis and Bob Allen with Hal
Kemp . . . Helen Forrest with James
. . . yes, and even Ish Kabibble, Harry
Babbitt and Ginny Simms with Kay
Kyser, and the Three Kaydets with
Sammy Kaye. I remember a thin,
gaunt kid hugging a mike and send-
ing millions of teen-age gals into the
screaming meemies with "I'll Never
Smile Again," "Just as Though You
Were Here," etc., etc. And I've had
the pleasure of watching this kid
j from Jersey grow into a singing
i phenomenon, miss his stride for a
j while when he hit the peak, then taper
! off and mature into both an actor and
| a singer who has carved a unique
• and exclusive niche for himself.

By BILL MAYER

As an early -ay em disk jockey who
plays five hours of music per morn-
ing, I must of necessity play all types
of music for my audience. And I
sincerely enjoy most all categories
of music. However, I admit my per-
sonal choice in popular melodies is
that which is classified as "sweet."
Thus, my preference of Sinatra per-
formances is when he is weaving a
romantic spell via his vocal pipes.
Although when he picks up the beat
and sticks with the melody — as in
such tunes as "Tender Trap" and
"You're Cheating Yourself"— he sure
doesn't do himself any harm.

I think you can follow the ups and
downs of Sinatra's career via his
records. I don't mean in choice of
tunes, but in the quality of his voice.
In my library there's a short-cut disk
featuring Dorsey with Sinatra, called
"Poor You." Every time I play this
record, I see a youngster, starting to
climb but still a bit unsure, perform-
ing in his first movie . . . remember?
Next was the host of big sellers,
"Smile" and so on, when the boy was
enjoying the popularity and idolatry
that comes with success. Then came
the gap, when it seemed Sinatra was
either fading or, of his own choice,
giving up vocalizing for a film career.
When he once more took on record-
ing chores, Sinatra was making head-

lines, and not very pleasant head-
lines. His personal life was hitting a
snag and the press was riding him
hard. The records he cut at this time
had an element of "so what" about
them. He kicked around the melody,
ad-libbed the lyrics, and the sincerity
of the Sinatra voice was missing.
Somewhere along the line, the boy
grew up and became a man aware of
his talents and his responsibilities as
the possessor of these talents. What
happened? He cut "Young at Heart"
and he was really off to the races
again as a top pop singer.

What makes a Sinatra stay up there
while hundreds of other hopefuls are
hit-and-run victims of fame and
fortune? Who can really tell? The
come-and-go-ers receive as much, if
not more, big play today, via the
thousands of disk jockey programs
throughout the country, as Sinatra.
That powerful monster known as TV
affords today's aspirant an outlet
never available to the Sinatras in
their heyday. So what's the answer?
I certainly don't know. But I do know
this: Throughout the years I have
played and plugged a host of "hot"
vocalists. After a few months, most of
these records go on the discard pile
while the Sinatra file just grows
bigger and bigger. And, for my
choice, just let it grow and grow!

Bill Mayer is heard over WRCV in Philadelphia each Monday through Saturday, from 5:30 to 10 A.M.

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(Continued from page 7)

Private Audience: When the Red
Skeltons, with their nine-year-old
son Richard, a leukemia sufferer, ar-
rived in Rome on their round-the-
world tour, Pope Pius XII ignored
protocol to grant them a fifty -minute
private audience. The Skeltons are
Protestant but Richard, a student at
a Catholic school where his favorite
subjects were history and geography,
had once expressed an ambition to
become a priest. Red and Georgia
Skelton wept as the 82-year-old Pope
invited their son to sit next to him.
"From this hour on, it will be a holy
hour for you," the Pope told him.
"From now on, you shall live for
Eternity." Said Richard after the
meeting, "I felt good."

That's My Pop: Handsome Guy
Williams, Zorro star, has confused his
4-year-old son, Steve, with talk
of his new acting assignment. Steve
now calls his dad, "Zorro Daddy."
Still not too impressed by Zorro,
Steve inquisitively tried to find just
exactly what his dad did. It was only
when he was told that Guy worked
side by side with such Disney stal-
warts as Jimmie Dodd and the
Mouseketeers that he was finally im-
pressed. . . . There's an engineer on
the ABC-TV Lawrence Welk Show
named Marvin Jacobs. His wife is a
truly devoted fan. One Saturday,
Marv brought Aladdin home for
lunch. Soon, word of Marv's wife's
cooking reached the ears of other
band-members and now, every Sat-
urday, Mrs. Jacobs shops for at least
a dozen. All gratis. Such is the de-
votion of the Welk fans for members
of the band.

Love Their Work: Dinah Shore
wanted to see Europe. General Motors
put a Chevrolet at her disposal on
the Continent. Husband George Mont-
gomery gave her a camera. In Paris,
Rome and London, Dinah will shoot
pictures. Next season you will see
Dinah's vacation in Europe. That's
right, they'll be part of the Chevrolet
commercials. . . . Eve Arden and her
husband, Brooks West, will erect
a small summer-stock theater on their
Hidden Valley property. It will be
a weekend theater for professionals,
playing to almost a closed-circuit
audience. The main idea is to give the
old pros a chance to vent their secret
ambitions, such as singers to dance,
dancers to act, actors to sing. . . .
Gunsmoke's Jim Arness has always
wanted to sing. Roulette Records
signed him to do a series of Western
and pop ballads. But Wyatt Earp,
(Hugh O'Brian) who has already
recorded an album for Am-Par, beat
him to the draw. Now big Jim isn't
so sure he wants to do the songs be-
cause he wouldn't want to be accused
of 'copying.' That's the way the ol'
roulette wheel goes round.

»»

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO YOU?

By HELEN CAMBRIA BOLSTAD

What IS this pay-TV hassle all about? Who started
it? What will it do for you — or to you? Will pay-
TV — as its supporters claim — herald "the dawn of
a new day in TV programs"? Or — as its opponents as-
sert— will it destroy the present no-charge system and
divide the nation into those who can afford to see a show
and those who can't?

The issue, long controversial and confusing, became
crucial in June when the Federal Communications Com-
mission stated it had the power to authorize subscrip-
tion television and called for new briefs which would
spell out in detail the conditions under which extensive
field trials could be held to determine its acceptance or
rejection by the public.

Proponents of pay-TV — Zenith Radio Corporation,
which owns Phonevision; Skiatron, which has Scriber-
Vision; and Paramount, which has Telemeter — hailed
this as a victory. Pay-TV is inevitable, they claim.

Opponents — the National Association of Radio and
Television Broadcasters, theater owners and others — ob-
ject even to the tests. Bills have been introduced in
Congress to prevent them. Senator Strom Thurmond
(D., S.C.) has stated, "Permitting pay television to be
used generally would be the same as having the Con-
gress impose a new tax on the people of this country."

The convention of the General Federation of Women's
Clubs also became a battleground for the issue and the
ladies passed a resolution which was so intricately
phrased that both sides claimed endorsement. The chair-
man of the Federation's Communications Committee,
however, interpreted it as giving her a clear mandate to
campaign against pay-TV.

Where do you stand? As a member of the American
viewing public, you have a right to an opinion. Your
investment in television exceeds that of all the stations
and networks. You have spent some fifteen billion dol-
lars to buy the sets which now bring entertainment into
your living rooms without charge. You also own the
air over which the signal is transmitted. The Federal
Communications Commission is your means of regulat-
ing its use.

Your opinion counts, for what you decide now may
well determine how much use your TV set will be to you
five years hence — and what it will cost you to use it.
To find your answers, since you have the highest stake
in this matter, you might just as well start where both
the broadcasters and the toll-TV advocates do, and pick
up a hand in the big numbers game.

The big numbers game provides the most intriguing
coffee-break conversation in broadcasting today. It is
based on the old American folk-phrase, "I wish I had
a dollar every time someone . . ." Complete that sen-
tence with the words, "turns on a TV set," and you deal
in dazzling digits. The population of the United States
is now 171 million. About 40 million TV sets are in
use. Next, consider how many hours approximately
500 stations are on the air. Mix them together and you
can come up with a collection of dollar signs which has
intoxicated many an imagination.

There are two ways to play the big numbers game.
The advertising men play it by long division and call
it "cost per thousand." The guy with the lowest num-
ber wins. The pay-TVers, in contrast, aim high and
use multiplication signs to pyramid potential • wealth.

Here's an extremely simplified illustration of the way
it works: The "cost-per-thousand" figure comes from
The Billboard, which each week indexes the Top
Twenty shows. This show-business newspaper defines
it as: "The sponsor's cost of reaching 1,000 TV homes
per minute of commercials." To secure the figure, they
divide the show's total program and net time-cost by
the number of homes which the American Research
Bureau reports were tuned in. Thus, during a given
week toward the close of last season, it cost the spon-
sor, Dodge Motors, 96 cents per commercial minute to
put The Lawrence Welk Show into a thousand homes.
Revlon's figure for The $64,000 Question was $1.67;
Lincoln-Mercury's, for The Ed Sullivan Show, was
$1.78 per thousand.

It takes another transaction to produce the actual
revenue. The sponsor gambles he will sell enough mer-
chandise in those homes to (Continued on page 61)

;;

Robert Horton in Wagon Train

Walter O'Keefe of Nightline

Pioneer of "spectaculars" on TV and
"continuous programming" on ra-
dio, NBC offers even more this season.
Monitor fills the air with news and
novelties on weekends, Nightline has
taken over all the other evenings, ex-
pects to blanket the "prime" hours in
each. That will be just fine with listen-
ers, who can never get enough of
Walter O'Keefe, the Hartford, Conn.,
boy who made good on Broadway and
is tickled neon-pink to be back on
Times Square. . . . For top TV spe-
cials, watch for Texaco Command
Appearance (Sept. 19), in coopera-
tion with the American Theater Wing
— Standard Oil's big variety show
(Oct. 13)— General Motors Jubilee Of
American Music (Nov. 17) — -"Annie
Get Your Gun" (Nov. 27). Latter
brings back beloved Mary Martin,
pictured below with husband Richard
Halliday and daughter Heller. And
note that "Pinocchio" (Oct. 13) will
star Mickey Rooney on both TV and
radio. Most NBC specials will be in
color, and so will many regular TV
shows. . . . Perry Como not only re-
turns to his Saturday show (Sept. 14),
but may also do a couple of special
musicals. Dinah Shore gives up her
midweek song program to make more
full-hour appearances on The Chevy
Show (Oct. 20), which becomes a
Sunday regular and will "rotate"
other stars — possibly including Gin-
ger Rogers. Bob Hope will do six
shows for Timex, irregularly sched-
uled, using some material he's col-
lected in Europe. First will feature a
Casablanca locale (Oct. 6). . . . Under

strictly separate contracts, Jerry Lewis
will do at least six shows (first, Nov.
4), Dean Martin's apparently set to
sing every other Saturday night —
with Polly Bergen being mentioned
as the alternating star (Sept. 21).
Rosemary Clooney will probably
headline the big variety show (Sept.
26) replacing Lux Video Theater for
the same sponsor. . . . There'll still
be plenty of drama on TV. Shifting
overnight from Sundays, Alcoa-Good-
year Anthology (Sept. 30) takes over
part of the Monday time left vacant
by Bob Montgomery. Loretta Young
comes back to her Sunday series (Oct.
6), but Jane Wyman will start a new
run on Thursdays, in half of the old
Video Theater time. Her summer re-
placement, Meet McGraw, is expected
to be permanent. So is Manhunt,
which replaced The Big Story. . . .
Newcomers in the adventure field in-
clude: Wagon Train (Sept. 11), with
veteran actor Ward Bond and Robert
Horton, the U.C.L.A. drama-school
grad who may become this year's
Western idol — Restless Gun (Sept.
23), with film star John Payne in a
role made famous on radio by Jimmy
Stewart — The Calijornians (Sept. 24),
about San Francisco at the turn
of the century — Suspicion (Sept. 30),
a full hour of mystery by masters of
the suspenseful art. The lighter side
of crime detection will be taken care
of by Peter Lawford and Phyllis Kirk
as Nick and Nora Charles of The Thin
Man (Sept. 20) . The serious side will
be represented by Court Of Last
Resort (Oct. 4), based on real cases

Mary Martin, Richard Halliday and Heller Halliday

t-ff

E A STERN

. WELCOME

EASTERN t

■HBM|

Eddie Fisher and George Gobel

k4*i*di***A*A***

with Lyle Bettger as chief investiga-
tor. . . . Radio drama settled down to
a new daytime pattern on NBC this
summer, when the ever-popular One
Man's Family left its night-time spot
to join a strong afternoon line-up of
continued stories. There'll be a sim-
ilar boost to the morning schedule
next month, when My True Story
moves to NBC Radio; same time, new
stations, beginning early in October.
. . . Caesar's Hour has struck, but
Sid may be back on NBC-TV— and
reunited with Imogene Coca, if pres-
ent plans materialize! A big new
Tuesday-night hour (Sept. 24) com-
bines the humorous talents of George
Gobel and vocal magic of Eddie Fish-
er. Both will appear each week, but
alternate as host and guest star. . . .
There's been no further schedule talk
of Follow That Man, the Milton Berle
series. (Everybody likes what they've
seen — till they look at the price tag.
But Miltie, cleaning up in the clubs,
is feeling no pinch in the pocketbook.)
Washington Square is now a historic
memory; Ray Bolger's probably doing
a Broadway musical. Ernie Kovacs
just wants to free-lance between
movies; says it's fun to relax and let
Edie Adams bring home the bacon
from "Li'l Abner." . . . Compensat-

ing for the absence of such independ-
ent males is the welcome return of
both Joan Caulfield and Marion Lome
in Sally (Sept. 22), with Joan as trav-
eling companion to a giddy matron
played by Wally Cox's former pal.
. . . Charles Van Doren, hero of
Twenty-One, becomes special com-
mentator for Wide Wide World (Sept.
15). It's been quite a year for the
Columbia professor's entire family!
His brother John — also a college in-
structor— made his TV debut as a
High-Low panelist. Their famous fa-
ther, Mark Van Doren, took part in a
summer series on NBC Radio's The
Eternal Light. And Geraldine, the
pretty girl who first urged Charles
into the quiz game, is now a Van
Doren, too — they're pictured at right
on wedding trip! . . . Wide Wide World
will be seen at least twice a month,
with Omnibus alternating (as of Oct.
20). Both 90-minute programs will
occasionally relinquish their Sunday-
afternoon spot for specials. Tennessee
Ernie Ford, returning to The Ford
Show (Sept. 19), has given up his day-
time stint, with Bride And Groom ex-
pected to be permanent replacement.
Meanwhile, it's a homecoming for The
Bob Cummings Show (Sept. 24), back
on the net where it made its TV debut.

Charles and Geraldine Van Doren
1

Joan Caulfield — alias "Sally"

Stan Freberg and Peggy Taylor

Richard Boone with Western gun

*■

There's new menu magic at CBS,
where variety has always been the
spice and comedy a basic ingredient.
Radio started serving its new dishes
before Labor Day, though times may
change as old favorites return to fa-
miliar spots. Big new singer is the
guitar-swinging lad who came out of
Kirksville, Mo., to head The Rusty
Draper Show. Raves also greeted the
offbeat humor of Stan Freberg, melo-
diously supported on his own pro-
gram by Peggy Taylor. The long-
awaited returns of Bing Crosby and
Rosemary Clooney make welcome
headlines, too. . . . They all join such
master chefs of music and humor as
Amos 'n' Andy and Robert Q. Lewis.
But the real stop-press flash is Arthur
Godfrey, adding to his daily radio
schedule with a late-afternoon stanza
for Ford (Sept. 16) ! . . . There's plenty
of news on TV, of . course, though
dates are less definite because so many
summer replacements continue into
September and even October. Hey,
Jeannie! is gone, her place being taken
this fall by a rugged Westerner, Have
Gun — Will Travel, in which Richard
Boone (a descendant of Dan'l) drops
his familiar scalpel for a six-shooter.
Harbourmaster, a new seafarer star-
ring Barry Sullivan, replaces Bob
Cummings (moving to another net).
Trackdown, a Western series, takes
over for West Point. The eagerly-
awaited Perry Mason (see story, this
issue) becomes a Saturday-night reg-
ular— but the oft-promised Gary Coo-
per series is now a project for 1958.
. . . No one will want to miss the debut
of Du Pont Show Of The Month (Sept.
29) . Stars of "Crescendo," its first 90-
minute extravaganza in color, are the
extravagantly talented Ethel Merman

and Rex Harrison — Broadway's "Pro-
fessor 'Iggins," who just married his
own fair lady, Kay Kendall, this sum-
mer. . . . The Seven Lively Arts (Nov.
17), emceed by TV-radio critic John
Crosby, opens its hour-long Sunday
series with "The Ways of Love." Also
scheduled for a November debut is
High Adventure With Lowell Thomas,
which will preempt other shows at
various times to present 60-minute
sagas of travel with the noted ex-
plorer-reporter. . . . No dates or plans
have been announced for versatile
Mickey Rooney, pending completion
of his one-shot on another net. But
subjects are already being lined up for
a unique documentary called The
Twentieth Century. First topic for
the latter, which replaces You Are
There for same sponsor, will be that
great man-of-our-times, Sir Win-
ston Churchill (Oct. 20). The similar-
ly named 20th Century-Fox Hour
departs, with Armstrong Circle Thea-
ter moving from another net to alter-
nate with The United States Steel
Hour early in? October. . . . There's
been quite a re-shuffle for CBS-TV's
famed comedy kings and queens.
Jackie Gleason has given up his big
variety show to go golfing or make
mood music for more albums — he can
afford time off, having sold The Hon-
eymooners for a figure 'round the
million mark (the-39 films will be re-
sold for local-station viewing). Lu-
cille Ball and Desi Arnaz have stopped
making further I Love . Lucy films,
and The Danny Thomas Show moves
into their Monday slot. But Lucille
and Desi will do five big variety
hours for Ford during the coming
season — and Lucy re-runs will be
seen on Wednesdays (Sept. 30). . . .

"Crescendo's" Rex Harrison and bride Kay Kendall

The Eve Arden Show — with Allyn Joslyn

The Eve Arden Show, with Allyn
Joslyn, will see America's favorite
schoolteacher in a new guise, as a
traveling lady lecturer (based on
Emily Kimbrough's book, "It Gives
Me Great Pleasure"). But Our Miss
Brooks lives on — not only in TV re-
runs, but the continuing series on
CBS Radio. Jack Benny comes back
on radio, too. The Waukegan won-
der's TV series (Sept. 15) will have
a new alternate in place of Private
Secretary — a brand-new situation
comedy (Sept. 22) variously referred
to as Bachelor Father and Uncle Bent-
ley, but quite definitely starring John
Forsythe, TV's own matinee idol from
Penns Grove, N. J. Other situation-
comedy newcomers include Dick And
The Duchess, starring Patrick O'Neal
and Hazel Court against an interna-
tional background, and Wally And

The Beaver, which teams Paul Sulli-
van, 12, and Jerry Mather, 8. . . . For
Patti Page, this is the year of years.
First, her marriage to Charles O'Cur-
ran; then, a delayed but glorious
honeymoon in Europe; now, stardom
in one of CBS-TV's most cherished
projects. On the premiere of The Big
Record (Sept. 18), she'll be hostess
to headliners ranging from Sal Mineo
to Eddie Cantor — with David Wayne
and Ella Logan teaming up, for the
first time on TV, to sing the songs
they made famous in "Finian's Rain-
bow." . . . Another must-see will be
the teaming of Bing Crosby and Frank
Sinatra for one big splash (Oct. 13) —
Bing Crosby will do the show "live,"
for the greater glory of his alma
mater, Gonzaga U. Meanwhile, Bob
Crosby has relinquished his daytime
show, in hopes of a night-time spot.

Patti Page, Charles O'Curran

John Forsythe in new comedy

-t

Television history has been made by
ABC, with its trail-blazing pro-
grams for children and the mighty
Westerns which created new matinee
idols. Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse
Club and Disneyland are now "musts"
in any household containing small
fry — and it was the latter series which
put coonskin caps on young America,
thanks to Fess Parker's lusty por-
trayal of Davy Crockett. Clint Walk-
er, as Cheyenne, Hugh O'Brian, as
Wyatt Earp, increased the roster of
he-man heroes — and you can be sure
there'll be more Western stars in the
galaxy, this coming season. . . . But
ABC is also long famous for its music,
from Metropolitan Opera to Lawrence
Welk. The TV ' net's biggest of all
fall plans are built around top sing-
ers. Judging from the line-up,
thii should surely be music for all the
family, too — because families mean so
much in the personal lives of these
stars themselves. . . . Guy Mitchell—
who was born Al Cernick in Detroit,
and who will have his own live show
(Oct. 7) — is understandably proud
of his beautiful Danish-born bride,
Else. Pat Boone, whose big show will
be on Thursday nights (Oct. 3), is
married to Red Foley's daughter
Shirley. They're devoted to their
youngsters, Cherry, Lindy, Debby,
and are now expecting a fourth addi-
tion to the family. . . . Patrice Munsel
— first Metropolitan Opera star to
head her own regular TV series (Oct.
18) — is prouder of her husband, Rob-
ert Schuler, and their babies, Heidi
and Rhett, than of the brilliant high
notes which have made her interna-
tionally famous since leaving her na-
tive Spokane. Her new show, which
promises to be more "pop" than clas-
sical, immediately precedes the spec-
tacular series (also premiering Oct. 18)
which stars Frank Sinatra — whose
marital fortunes haven't been any-
thing to write home about, but who
expects to have the three children of
his first marriage guest-appearing on
the new program, which will combine
music and drama, live and on film. . . .
Getting back to those new Westerns,
Maverick (Sept. 22) will bring us tall,
dark and handsome James Garner,
Korean War veteran from Norman,
Okla. Sugarfoot (Sept. 17)— replacing
Conflict on alternate weeks with
Cheyenne — stars blue -eyed, sandy-
haired Will Hutchins, a "Will Rogers"
type born right in Los Angeles. Zorro
(Oct. 3) naturally headlines a fasci-
nating Latin hero— Guy Williams,
who started life as Armando Cata-
lano, back in New York. . . . Western
in locale but humorous in type will
be The Real McCoys (Oct 3), starring
great character actor Walter Brennan
with Kathy Nolan- — the green-eyed,
red-haired beauty from St. Louis who

played Wendy to Mary Martin's un-
forgettable Peter Pan. No casting re-
ports, at this writing, on Wednesday
night's Tombstone Territory (Oct.
16) and Friday's Colt .45 (Oct. 18).
But O.S.S. (Sept. 26) will have Ron
Randell as the dashing hero involved
in mystery and intrigue. . . . Adven-
ture, big-city style, is the keynote
of The Walter Winchell File (Oct.
2), presenting the rapid-fire columnist
as host-actor-narrator for dramatized
news stories of the kind so familiar
to him, from his long coverage of the
bright and seamy sides of Broadway.
For theatrical fireworks, be sure to
watch Telephone Time during Octo-
ber, when an offbeat story will co-star
Ethel Barrymore and Billie Burke,
for the first time in their distinguished
careers! . . . And, if your youngsters
have been missing some of their fa-
vorites— Superman, Wild Bill Hickok,
Sir Lancelot, Woody Woodpecker,
The Buccaneers — just dial ABC week-
day afternoons, beginning the very
first week in October. Meanwhile,
Circus Boy (Sept. 19) will have
moved in to stay on Thursday eve-
nings. . . . Radiowise, there are great
plans in the making at the American
Broadcasting Network. No more day-
time drama, but fresh formats for
sparkling new personalities — so keep
listening for latest announcements.

mcffld/emt^e

Gisele has always cherished those precious moments
alone in her New York apartment — the first home of
her own she's had, since leaving her native Canada.

Jack Benny, master showman, believed in Gisele's
star talents, is responsible for her big new program.

Plenty of dates, both personal and professional. Out
in California for her show, this nature-lover's also
looking forward to an outdoor life in the sun.

By GLADYS HALL

What a year thi.~ has been for Gisele
MacKenzie! A year of changes, of new
experiences and adventures. Just about the
only thing Gisele hasn't done, in these crowded
months, is to fall in love and get married — the
dark, dynamic singing star has had much too
much on her mind for that, as the magic
hour drew nearer and nearer for the debut of
The Gisele MacKenzie Show, September 28,
at 9:30 P.M. EDT, over NBC-TV.

"It's one thing," Gisele points out, "to be one
of four singing stars on Your Hit Parade, as I was
until last June. It's quite another thing to be
the star of your own show. The very first show
of your own you've ever had. And scheduled
for Saturday night, too, the night when so
many TV Bigs are seen and heard! It's a terrible
responsibility, rather frightening — and
altogether wonderful."

For this delightfully pulse-stirring develop-
ment, Miss MacKenzie and her fans have a certain
fellow fiddler to thank, Mr. Jack Benny
by name. Ever since they first worked together,
some three years ago, Jack has felt that Gisele
should have a specially (Continued on page 66)

The Gisele MacKenzie Show is scheduled to be seen on NBC-
TV, Saturdays (beg. Sept. 28), 9:30 to 10 P.M. EDT, spon-
sored alternately by Scott Paper Co. and Schick Razors.

This has been Gisele MacKenzie's Big Year.
Neiv show, new trips, new plans. Everything
except love and marriage — but, as Gisele says .

Canine pals Wolfie and Bruna know
they'll be with her wherever she goes,
aren't a bit afraid to see her pack up.

Gisele thinks every woman should have:
time alone with her thoughts each day
— preferably relaxed in a rocking chair!

Helen O'Coniiell kept a date with destiny — and
met the man who made her happy home complete

By FRANCES KISH

ON the twelfth day of last April,
when Helen O'Connell kept
a lunch date with two of her
Today co-workers, she had not the
slightest premonition that she was
also keeping a date with destiny.
She would have laughed her mel-
low ripple of a laugh, now so hap-
pily familiar to her early morning
viewer-listeners, at. such an awe-
some idea. Her hazel eyes would
have crinkled characteristically
until only the fringe of dark lashes
could be seen, and her dimples
would have danced with amuse-
ment and disbelief.

Wasn't this simply another lunch,
after a busy morning of last-
minute briefings and what passes
for rehearsals on a spontaneous
show like Today — of going on the
air as singer and featured cast
member, and after that of sitting
in at the usual conference about
next day's show? Wasn't this just
the usual Monday-through-Friday
kind of routine, and the usual
break for lunch with a friend or
two?

The fact is, it wasn't. This day
she was to meet a deeply tanned
six-foot ex-soldier of Greek de-
scent by name of Tom T. Chamales
(pronounced Sha-moll-ess), author
of "Never So Few," a first book, a
war novel of such power that it
immediately swept into all the
best-seller lists. And, four weeks
later, on the ninth day of May, she
was to marry him — to the great
delight of her three young daugh-
ters, Jackie, Joannie and Jennie,
aged 13, 10 and 9.

Helen was seated this day, with
the two other girls from the show,
in a comer of Toots Shor's res-
taurant, close to the studio from
which Today is broadcast. Tom and
another man, a friend of Helen's,
came into the room. The friend
brought (Continued on page 82)

Today is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, from 7 to
10 A.M. EDT. Helen has also had her own
singing show on NBC- TV, Wed. and Fri.,
at 7:30 P.M., during the summer months.

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Helen's girls — Jennie, 9; Joannie, 10; Jackie, 1 3 — are
fascinated by the family's newest member, too. They
coaxed writer Tom Chamales into proposing to Helen all
over again for their benefit — five times, on bended knee!

Tom admires the girls as distinct individuals: "Each has some-
thing of Helen, some of her traits, but none has all of them."
And Helen's grateful to Joyce Mayo, the "stand-in" for
a busy wife and mother who goes to work about five A.M.

Ann Leonardo, 19, of Fresno, California, duefs with the
nicest Talent Scout of all. Like Jan, she studied music
early. Like many another contestant, she also appeared on
Godfrey's morning show — and a thrilling new career began.

The saga of six exciting "discoveries"
reads like a letter of thanks to
the bright little songbird — and to that
fabulous redhead, Arthur Godfrey

By MARTIN COHEN

When Arthur Godfrey and Jan Davis read this
piece, they will be delightfully surprised. In the past
year, Arthur has said repeatedly that the big incentive
for continuing his TV programming is the thrill and
satisfaction in discovering new, young talent. Now, Arthur
is going to find out what the young talent think about
Arthur Godfrey — and what they have to say about the
pretty gal he appointed producer of Talent Scouts,
Janette Davis.

To make it clear, Janette Davis, producer, is the same
decorative redhead who sings so well herself, on both
TV and radio. It is an exception for a woman to be a
performer on one network show and the producer of
another, but then, Jan is an exceptional woman. She
began to sing before she could talk and, from the time she
was a toddler, sang at church meetings and school

Danny Costello seconds Ann's notion that no one could be
more helpful than Jan. The Talent Scouts winner, his wife
Mary and two small sons make their home in Jersey City,
where he was born and reared among opera-loving Italians.

Continued

Anita Bryant, 17, is one young singer who has special reason to
be grateful that Jan remembers her own early struggles, tries to
make it easier for out-of-towners to audition for Talent Scouts.

New York — whether window-shopping or snatching a coffee-break
at Colbee's, near CBS — is not quite real to Anita, who was born
in Barnesdale, TV-debuted in Oklahoma City, now lives in Tu'sa

TALEIVT SCOUT

(Continued)

Miyoshi Umeki, 22, has come far from Hokkaido
via TV, records, films. She still performs in Jap-
anese costume — but adores "American ' pizza.

functions in Humphrey and Pine Bluff, Arkan-
sas. At fourteen, she had her first radio contract
singing and playing piano over a Memphis ^sta-
tion. Jan's professional activities, from fourteen
on, included much radio work ("some of it for
plain experience") and a lot of club work. She
sang with such bands as Joe Reichman's. She
starred on radio shows out of Shreveport and
Cincinnati and Chicago. She had her own net-
work series before Arthur asked to have her
on his new network program when he joined
CBS.

"But, for years, I've had this yen to work
with new talent," Jan says. "New, young talent
helps to make the Godfrey show exciting. But,
in a personal sense, too, it is a very exciting and
satisfying experience to work with the new-
comers."

Since Jan took over (Continued on page 63)

Tommy Common, 24, is the youthful pride of Canada —
a title which he and his wife Doreen would more quickly
bestow on son Jamie, at home in their native Toronto.

Steve Karmen, 19, is a native New Yorker, blond, and
a bachelor. Jan suggested that he keep his guitar with
him on the program, for confidence. "But mostly," says
Steve, "it was her manner that made me feel at ease."

Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts is seen on CBS-TV, Mon., 8:30
P.M., for Thomas J. Lipton, Inc., and The Toni Company. Arthur
Godfrey Time is heard on CBS Radio, M-F, 10 A.M., and seen on
CBS-TV, M-Th, 10:30 A.M., under multiple sponsorship. (EUT)

Talent Scouts gets the special blessing of Tommy and
Doreen. "The public should know what a wonderful, hard-
working person Janette Davis is," Tommy will tell you.

Truth-and Its Consequenc

Truth Or Consequences and its audiences are pure delight to Bob, who says, "When it goes well, I'm flying!"

Bob Barker's success story verifies
the enduring values of hard work and
honest interest in his fellowman

By GORDON BUDGE

Tall, handsome Bob Barker, new emcee of Truth Or
Consequences, has a smile as fresh and bright as one of the
quick-current trout streams sparkling through the
Washington north woods where he was born. On the
surface, he has a jolly, devil-may-care personality which
perfectly fits the laugh-a-second situations spawned on
T Or C. But underneath the laughter is a serious,
hard-working young man with an intense desire to give his
very best to the audience he feels is responsible for his
success. And, after eleven years in (Continued on page 68)

Bob emcees Truth Or Consequences, seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 11 :30 A.M. EDT,
and heard on NBC Radio, M-F, 10:05 A.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Bob, DJ, and Ralph Edwards — the show's
creator — in Truth Or Consequences, N.M.

At home, Bob and DJ (Dorothy Jo)
each have own cooking specialties.

1944: Just commissioned in Navy,
just wed to his DJ for three days.

Seven pussycats share the small apartment where a young idealist studies hard, makes,her plans, builds her dreams

THE BEST I CAN BE

Norma Moore, of The Secret Storm,

has clear ideas of what she wants-
and the prices to be paid for them

By MARY TEMPLE

Sooner or later, every woman learns that being an
idealist about love, about life, about one's work —
whether it's homemaking or a career — has its price.
For Norma Moore, who is Susan Ames in the
CBS-TV daytime drama, The Secret Storm, this kind
of integrity may be costly, but she is determined
to protect it, nevertheless.

Youthful as a teenager — born February 20, little
more than twenty years ago . . . lovely to look at —
auburn-brown hair that curls, blue-gray eyes that
pay you the compliment of (Continued on page 72)

Busy with her career, Norma still finds time for dating —
mostly with actors, though she isn't planning to marry one.

Norma feels she understands the heart problems of
Susan, daughter of Peter Ames (Peter Hobbs, above),
in The Secret Storm — but hasn't fallen in love yet.

The Secret Storm is seen on CBS-TV, M-F, 4:15 P. M. EDT,
sponsored by Whitehall Pharmacal Co. and Boyle-Midway.

Together on House Party: Art's proud his eldest son has chosen
the same profession. But Jack had to remind him that he's only
following in father's footsteps, too, wanting to marry so early!

Art Linkletter's House Party is on the air Monday thru Friday — on CBS-TV,
2:30 P.M., sponsored by Pillsbury Mills, Kellogg Company, Lever Brothers,
Campbell's Soups, Swift & Co., Simoniz, Standard Brands — on CBS Radio, 3
P.M., sponsored by Pharma Craft, Lever, Standard Brands, Swift, Sfmoniz,
A. E. Staley, Sweetose, Sleep-Eze. Art also emcees People Are Funny
—on NBC-TV, Sat., 7:30 P.M.— NBC Radio, Wed., 8:05 P.M. (All EDT)

Too young for marriage — at 19? But
later this year, Linkletter's eldest
son will be 20 . . . with Art's and
Lois' 's wisdom — and Barbara's love . . .

By FREDDA BALLING

K'our years ago, Jack Linkletter, aged sixteen,
descended from the stratosphere, flew into
the living room where his parents were reading
one peaceful Saturday night, and announced:
"I've met her! Just as you always predicted,
when it hit, I knew what it was. Love. This is
the girl I'm going to marry."

Art and Lois Linkletter glanced up from script
and newspaper and gave Jack their full but un-
alarmed attention. Coming to a safe landing on
the sofa, Jack supplemented his original report.
"This'll kill you: We're in the same math class
at school, but somehow I never noticed her until
I danced with her at the party tonight. Man, she's
neat. There goes that bachelor apartment I al-
ways planned to furnish."

Art asked the name of the divine one's father

These are "fun" days for Jack and his charming
fiancee, Barbara Hughes. But both are serious in
facing the responsibilities that lie ahead of them.

Jack was attending U.S.C., Barbara at U.C.L.A., when they met. Both will continue their studies
after the wedding' this December. They've already taken a marriage course, learning to handle those
minor grievances which can count so much. (Barbara's tardinesSi Jack's carelessness in losing things).

and where the family lived. Having elicited that concrete
information, he said, "I've heard of those people — they're
substantial." And went back to his reading. "They'd have
to be, to have parented a girl like the future Mrs. Jack
Linkletter," sighed Jack, soaring out of the room and up
the stairs.

Seven weeks later, Jack limped home one October
afternoon, slightly damaged by football scrimmage, and
propelled himself to his private phone. A date arranged —
even if the girl had to wheel him in an invalid's chair — he
dragged his contusions to the dinner table and beamed.
"This is it — love," he said, a pair of shiners only adding
to the glow of his eyes. "We're going to a movie tomorrow
night— whether I can see anything or not. She's a livin'

doll." Art and Lois smiled as they passed the salt.

Ten weeks later, there was a new goddess — a blonde.
Five months later, a redhead with freckles and a tendency
to giggle. Eight months later, a beautiful starlet. These
transient romances had one quality in common with true
love: They did not always run smoothly.

Taking up his quandaries with his father, as usual,
Jack said uncomfortably one Sunday morning, "I could
be wrong, but I thought last night that I was being
conned . . . well, this is a corny thing to say, but . . .see,
I don't want to be unfair . . ."

"Dialogue like that will never earn you an Emmy,"
observed Jack's father, grinning. Then, in swift, concise
sentences, Jack explained that (Continued on page 70)

The very house he wanted, the big family he hoped for:
Dick and Pat — expecting another baby soon — pose at left
with sons James and Nels (foreground) and nephew Casey.

Nephew and Nels and neighbor's son can expect all the best,
going Dick's way. Van Patten loves the old-fashioned flavor
of the "home town" he picked for himself while still a boy.

^l/mm) tk cme hie

Dick Van Patten's always had all the luck — but he wasn't so sure he could win Pat!

By ELIZABETH BALL

The happiest story of the month is the story of a young
man who hasn't a complaint or a grudge or a frus-
tration or an unfulfilled desire to his name; the story
of a young man who is completely happy now and who
— with the single exception of six desperate months when
love seemed out of reach — has always been completely

happy; a young man for whom every dream he ever
dreamed has come true. He's blue-eyed, fair-haired,
twenty-eight-year-old Dick Van Patten, long seen as
Mama's son Nels and frequently heard on such popular
dramas as the American Broadcasting Network's Whis-
pering Streets and My True (Continued on page 78)

Dick Van Patten is frequently heard over ABC Radio on My True Story, M-F, 10 A. M. EDT, and Whispering Streets, M-F, 10:45 A. M.,
under multiple sponsorship. He is also seen "as Nels in the TV dramatic series, Mama— consult local papers for time and station in your area.

Pets for Nels, handyman chores for Dick, wide community interests for a volunteer fireman and his "wonderful cook" wife.

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Crusader's Wife

Evangelist Billy Graham and his
true helpmeet, Ruth, have proved that
"two hearts are better than one"
for building a heaven here on earth

Home in Carolina: Wife Ruth, her namesake daughter
and son Franklin listen as Billy gives daily Bible
lesson. When he's away, Ruth also reads Scriptures
regularly, striving to balance love and discipline.

Graham's Crusades for Christ call him far from home to such
1 vast, overflowing arenas as New York's Madison Square Garden.

By GREGORY MERWIN

Religion and romance unite to form a perfect combination
in the happy marriage of Billy and Ruth Graham.
As proof, Billy has been moved to say, during one
of his inspiring sermons, "After living with Ruth,
I think I know now what heaven will be like." And Ruth,
asked to comment on being separated so much of the
time from Billy, has said, "I'd rather see a little of Billy
than a lot of anyone else." They have been
married since August 13, 1943.

"I think we have an unusually happy marriage," Ruth
says, even while indicating that she considers Billy's
praise, comparing life with her to living in heaven, a
little far-fetched. "It's no ivory-tower existence,"
she notes. "With four children, two dogs, a car and five
kittens and four sheep and a few (Continued on page 86)

Billy Graham's Hour Of Decision is heard Sundays on varied networks:
ABC Radio, 3:30 P.M.; NBC Radio, 10 P.M.; Mutual, 10 P.M. (All
EDT; consult local newspapers for correct time and station in your area.)

They frown on family publicity — but had a smile for
cameras as Ruth and the girls (Anne, now 9; Ruth,
6; Virginia, almost 12) greeted Billy on his return
from successful European tour a couple of years ago.

Stand Up and Be Counted !

The story of a TV program devoted to the problems of people everywhere — a program
developed with the single purpose of helping troubled men and women to decisions

A good paying job in Ireland or American citizenship for
his child — the dilemma of Brendan Ward. Introductory let-
ter was followed by interview with producer Robert Wald,
Frank Wait (standing) and Chris Carroll (seated at desk).

On the air, Brendan Ward (right) tells his story to Bob
Russell, host of CBS-TV's Stand Up And Be Counted, and
they discuss the difficult decision that must be made.
Home and studio audience also recorded their opinions.

Every day, people must make decisions, many times
involving nothing more serious than whether to do
the dusting before or after making the trip to the
supermarket. Or whether to berate your neighbor,
whose dog has been digging up your tomato plants. But,
occasionally, everybody is confronted with a real dilem-
ma— a problem which presents alternate decisions, each
having both happy and unhappy aspects. Neither de-
cision, therefore, is the perfect answer to the situation.
For this reason, confronted with a true dilemma, many
men and women stand confused and frustrated, won-
dering which way to turn.

To offer help to these people, the TV program Stand
Up And Be Counted was devised. Its format was built
on the idea of sharing, in order that the troubled in-
dividual might benefit from the opportunity to talk with
those who had faced identical or comparable situations.

Men and women from all walks of life and from all
parts of America have been selected to appear on the
program. These guests are chosen through the letters
they write, the cards they fill in at the studio, or
through researchers who work all over the country
seeking out people who face dilemmas. The guests on
Stand Up And Be Counted are carefully screened by
personal interview. Those whose problems are valid

then present their dilemmas on the show. This is how
it works:

In first appearance on the show, the guest reveals
details of his or her dilemma, guided by Bob Russell,
who acts as host. Since, in each case, he is dealing
with a person heavily troubled in heart and mind,
Bob faces a difficult problem himself — how to make
it easy for the person to speak out frankly and ef-
fectively. Bob manages very well, since he came to
this show after a wide experience as master of cere-
monies and quizmaster. Beyond this specialized train-
ing, however, Bob brings to his job a capacity for
friendship which draws out the best and clearest pres-
entation of the guest's problem.

After the story has been told, the members of the
studio audience voice their opinions. This segment of
the program has an informal "backyard fence" feeling
— a friendly wish to help others.

After the opinions have been expressed, a poll is
taken which results in a majority recommending one
action and a minority taking the other point of view.
At this point, the home audience is invited to write
in their opinions, too.

Bob Russell then points out to the guest that he
or she is free to make whatever decision seems best.

Stand Up And Be Counted is seen over CBS-TV, Monday through Friday, from 1:10 to 1:30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

Happy beneficiary: Ann Marie Ward, born on December 13, 1956 — and
an American citizen, as her parents wished. Stand Up And Be Counted
was instrumental in getting father a job to keep him in the United States.

This ends the guest's first appearance on the show.

At each of the shows, however, a previous guest who
has now had an opportunity to ponder all opinions —
verbal on the show, or written in — re-appears to state
the decision arrived at. Bob Russell then presents the
guest with such gifts as will, in the opinion of Stand
Up And Be Counted, do most to make the decision work
out to a happy conclusion.

A few brief summaries of the dilemmas of people
who have appeared on the show will serve to illustrate:
Take the interesting story of Brendan Ward, Irish-

born musician. He and his wife came to America a short
time ago. Lacking a job in his own field, he got a job as
stockboy. Mrs. Ward worked to supplement the income.,
Their combined salaries let them get along, and they
grew to love their adopted country. Then Mrs. Ward
became pregnant and was forced to stop work. Brendan's
own salary was inadequate. Just at this time, the man
who had employed him in Ireland offered him his old
job. The Wards were tempted — but more than any-
thing in the world they wanted their child to be born
in the United States and be a citizen of this country.

Continued w

Stand Up and Be Counted !

HHHHBHHNH

Ed Siebeti's problem: A job as long-distance trucker which
kept him away from family. Should he change jobs? As
result of appearance on show, he has new and better job.
No longer a part-time father and husband, he's shown
(below) with Ed, Jr., 7, Wilbur, 3, Mrs. S., LaVonne, 6.

Approximately 30 seconds after John Manic decided he
wished to see his mother again after estrangement of 23
years, he was reunited with her. Picture (right), taken while
program was on the air, shows reunion. (L to r.) Mrs.
John Manic, John and his mother, Mrs. Ernest Mastoras.

The dilemma Brendan faced: "Can I be justified in re-
fusing a good job and gamble on the future in the United
States?" When the voting was done at Stand Up And
Be Counted, the majority opinion was overwhelmingly
in favor of his remaining to take the gamble. The show
management followed through in its usual helpful way.
Maternity clothes were supplied for Mrs. Ward, a com-
plete layette was bought for the coming child. Mrs.
Theresa Dorsey appeared on the show and arranged a
meeting with Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey, the famous
musicians whose death has since saddened everyone.
With such encouragement, Brendan Ward and his wife
decided to battle out their problems right here. As a
happy ending: Ann Marie Ward was born on December
13, 1956 — an American citizen who can be very proud of
her daddy, who is now leader of the band at New York's
famous City Center Ballroom.

The dilemma of Ed Siebert of Pocahontas, Illinois,
was quite different from that of Brendan Ward. Mr.
Siebert was driver of a huge trailer truck which kept
him almost constantly on the road between St. Louis
and New York, his regular run. His dilemma: "Shall
I give up a job which keeps me away from my family
but provides them with the material benefits of life?"
With the help of the audience and write-in response to
his problem, Ed Siebert decided that it was wise to con-
tinue on his job. But airing his troubles had given Ed
Siebert confidence and courage. Other miracles promptly
occurred. The American Trucking Association awarded
Ed a check for $1,000 on the show as a reward for his
perfect safe-driving record. Refrigerated Transit, Inc.,
appointed Ed as Eastern Manager for the company. So,
today, Ed Siebert's life has changed completely as a re-
sult of his Stand Up And Be Counted appearance.

The case of John Manic was completely different from
that facing Ed Siebert. John had been raised by his
father, who led him to believe his mother was dead.
Seven years ago, when he was dying, the elder Manic
revealed that John's mother had left her husband and
boy when the child was only two. A deathbed promise
was made by John never to search out his mother. A
few years ago, John married — and told the story to his
bride. Since then his wife had continually urged him to
learn to know his mother (whose whereabouts they had
discovered). John's problem: "Is a deathbed promise
binding?" An overwhelming 96% of the audience of
Stand Up And Be Counted said, "No!" John's comment,
"I'm going to call my mother tonight. I can't go to see
her until next summer because of my job." It wasn't

Personal responsibility vs. civic duty was problem of Marie Fedoronko
of Detroit, Michigan. Serious illness of wife threatened volunteer
work with teenagers of the city. On show, Fedoronko gains advice from
Jackie Robinson and James B. Nolan, executive director of New York's
Police Athletic League. Bob Russell, host on show, stands at left.

necessary to call — the program had counted on John's
warmhearted decision, and had his mother in his arms
only a moment after he made the decision.

Still another kind of dilemma — conflict between civic
duty and personal responsibility — was highlighted in
the touching story of Marie Fedoronko of Detroit,
Michigan. Mr. Fedoronko has worked for 23 years as an
employee of Detroit's Department of Parks and Recrea-
tion. On the job, he worked with youngsters from all
over the city. But he also spent every spare moment
initiating and guiding sports activities for the girls and
boys who would otherwise have been playing on the
streets. He started girls' softball teams, an effort which
has led to an all-state league. He organized basketball
teams, talent shows, teen-age dances. And in all this
work he was encouraged by his wife, who well realized
the worth of his volunteer efforts.

Recently, personal tragedy struck in Fedoronko's own
home. His wife has become critically ill and is invalided
for life. Marie was at once impelled to relinquish his
work with teenagers in order to spend all his time wfth
his beloved wife. But he met unexpected opposition.
Mrs. Fedoronko strongly urged him to continue his
work. Unable to make up his mind, Marie brought his
problem to Stand Up And Be Counted. On the show,

to add the weight of professional opinion, were Jackie
Robinson and Director James B. Nolan of the New York
Police Athletic League. Over 94% of the audience agreed
with Mrs. Fedoronko that Marie should continue. When
he appeared on the show to announce his decision, Marie
Fedoronko quoted his wife. "Mary feels," he said, "that
we only pass through this world once, and any good we
can do — well, we've got to do it now."

The unselfish devotion of both Fedoronko and his
wife did not go unnoticed. Governor G. Mermen Williams
of Michigan lauded Fedoronko in a special tribute.
Mr. Fedoronko was given (by the show) a check for
$500 to buy additional sports equipment for his projects
with teenagers. And Stand Up And Be Counted estab-
lished an annual "Marie Fedoronko Youth Leadership
Award" to be sponsored by the Detroit Department of
Parks and Recreation and awarded each year to the
man or woman of Detroit who contributed most vitally
to the welfare of teen-age boys and girls. First winner
of this signal honor? Marie Fedoronko, of course — the
man who stood up to be counted in his community.

To all of these people, and to hundreds of others who
have appeared on the show, Stand Up And Be Counted
offers an inspiration in time of need, a living testimony
to the fact that help always comes to those who seek it.

Betsy Palmer enjoys everything about cooking, -from choosing the right spices through every step of preparing a meal.

m/tet/

Good cook in glamour-girl disguise,

Miss Palmer of Masquerade Party invites

you to share her favorite recipes

If you're lucky enough to be invited to dinner at Betsy
Palmer's apartment in Greenwich Village, you're
in for a treat and will surely want the recipes to
take home. Betsy — who was born in East Chicago, Illi-
nois, and graduated from De Paul University — is a
dramatic actress, as well as sparkling panelist on Mas-
querade Party. But she's proudest of being Mrs. Vincent
Merendino, preparing her specialties for her doctor
husband and their friends. Here's a whole menu of her
favorite recipes, adapted for use in your own kitchen.
(Betsy points out that the appetizer is also savory with-
out anchovies, and the salad bowl doesn't have to be
rubbed with garlic. Of the artichokes-and-peas, she
says briefly but fervently, "This dish is the end!")

Betsy Palmer is a regular panelist on Masquerade Party, as seen
on NBC-TV, during the summer season, Wednesdays, at 8 P.M. EDT.

APPETIZER

Makes 6 portions.
Break open and toast:

3 English muffins

Drizzle each cut surface with olive oil.
Place neatly on each half:

slice of mozzarella cheese sprinkle of fresh ground
2 fillets of anchovy pepper

drop or two of olive oil sprinkle of oregano

Place on cookie sheet or broiler pan, put under broiler
heat until j cheese starts to melt. Serve while very hot.

GARLIC BASTED STEAK

Makes 6 portions.

Select a 4-pound steak for broiling, and cut away fat
and bone. Combine:

% cup olive oil

juice from 3 cloves of pressed garlic
1 teaspoon salt

Mix briskly with a fork, and brush over steak. Put
under broiler flame, cook 2 minutes. Brush with garlic
oil, cook 2 minutes longer. Turn steak, brush with garlic,
broil 2 minutes, baste and cook 2 minutes longer. If
steak is to be served rare, it will be ready. If it is to be
cooked longer, lower heat, and baste frequently, turn-
ing once again, until steak is as done as desired.

ARTICHOKE HEARTS WITH PEAS

Wash 6 artichokes. Remove outer leaves. Then, hold-
ing the bud by the base, tear off the tough tops of the
leaves, until you reach the more tender inner leaves.
Cut the artichoke in quarters, and then cut out the
spiney center. Cut quarters in slices.

Chop fine:
3 peeled cloves of garlic 4 peeled shallots

Place in skillet with a little olive oil and brown
over low heat. Add:

liquid from 2 (No. 2) cans of peas
sliced artichoke hearts

Cover and simmer about 30 minutes. Add peas, sim-
mer 5 minutes longer. Season to taste with salt and
pepper.

ROMAINE SALAD

Makes 6 portions.

Wash and crisp 2 heads of romaine. Drain well, or
dry. Tear into pieces and place in a garlic-rubbed
salad bowl. Add 1 avocado peeled and cut into wedges,
if desired, or sprinkle with grated Parmesan cheese.

To prepare dressing, place following in a bottle:

1 cup olive oil
Yi cup wine vinegar

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon white pepper
1 teaspoon paprika
Yz teaspoon dry mustard

dash cayenne

1 teaspoon Worcestershire
sauce

V-i. teaspoon sugar

2 cloves peeled garlic
(can be omitted)

Shake well, pour a little over romaine just before
serving. Toss well, adding more dressing, if needed.

LEMON AND LIME ICE

Makes 4-6 portions.

Combine, and stir until mixed:

1 teaspoon unflavored gelatin Yi cup light corn syrup
IY2 cups water % cup sugar

Place over low heat, bring to a simmer and cook for
3 minutes. Prepare and strain juice from:
2 limes 1 lemon

Add to sugar mixture with a dash of salt. Pour into
freezing tray and put in refrigerator, in freezer section
or with control set to coldest point. When frozen to a
mush, remove to a cold bowl, whip until foamy, return
to tray and freeze until firm. Cover tray with metal
foil and return freezer control to storage temperature.

HE-MAN'S HOLIDA

Jim and Virginia Arness enjoy an
occasional "vacation from marriage'
— and love the reunions even more

By PEER J. OPPENHEIMER

Clad in blue jeans, rainbow-hued sports shirt,
sandals, and wide-brimmed straw hat, Jim Arness
strolled down Kalakaua Avenue in Honolulu. Stop-
ping in front of one of the more fashionable stores on
Oahu Island, he ran into an old friend from Hollywood.
"Jim, old boy, it's good to see you," the other man cried
out.

- "Good to see you, too," Jim agreed.
"What'ya doing here?" (Continued on page 84)

James Arness is Marshal Dillon in Gunsmoke, on CBS-TV, Sat., 10
P.M. EDT, sponsored by L&M Cigarettes and Remington Rand.

Sauce for the gander: Jim's had his outing "away from
it all," insists that Virginia have a holiday, too. But
Craig, Rolf and Jenny Lee are somewhat skeptical of his
housekeeping talents — the Old West was never like this!

Praise be for the beach, only a mile from home! That
should keep the young 'uns busy for most of the morning.
So Jim piles 'em into the car — along with a young pal of
Jenny Lee's, bathing gear, and "Major," their shepherd.

Back from their swim, it's into the
washer for their beach wear — though
Jim allows he knows a lot more about
a horse than a new-fangled machine.

Like many a "nomad," Jim fancies
his own cooking. But his hamburgers
take time. You can't blame a hungry
horde for raiding the refrigerator!

No man — nomad or not — enjoys dish-
washing. Even Jenny Lee, temporarily
the only woman of the house, isn't
too happy helping with such a chore.

Dad helps daughter with her skates.
They get along fine, any time. But
nothing can beat the day when Mom
comes home again and takes over, for
an outdoor spread — while Jim "r'ars
back" and relaxes as a he-man should.

TV daddy: On The Danny Thomas Show, Sherry and young Rusty Ho-
mer are children of the great comedy star. Script recently had the
youngsters playing Cupid to help Danny pick a new wife (Marjorie
Lord, below at left) — a situation Sherry had really lived five years ago.

Adopted!

Sherry Jackson has two wonderful
dads — on The Danny Thomas Shoiv
and at home — and both came into
her young life just in recent years

By MAURINE REMENIH

T^r-7-HEN The Danny Thomas Show began its
\\/ fifth season this fall, Danny's TV off-
spring, Terry and Rusty, were in the
throes of adjusting to life with their new step-
mother, played by Marjorie Lord. It was a
new and different idea for a television series,
and particularly so because the children had
a hand in picking out their stepmother.

The switch on the standard story line may
have been a new one for television audiences,
but it was old stuff for Sherry Jackson, who
plays Terry on the series. Step-parents are
nothing new to her — she's had a stepfather for
five years now. And the script writers may
have thought they had an original idea when
they had Terry and Rusty engineering the
match between Danny and his new wife — but
Sherry herself put a similar plan into action
in her own household more than five years ago.

Before Sherry was five, her father was killed
in an automobile accident. Her mother was
left to rear the three children as best she
could. Besides Sherry, there were two boys —
Curtis, five years older than Sherry, and
Gary, two years younger than his sister.

The first year or so after Mr. Jackson's
death, things were pretty rugged, financially
speaking. Then, one day, the driver of a sight-
seeing bus, himself an ex-actor, spotted
Sherry and liked her cute grin. He suggested
that Mrs. Jackson take Sherry to an agent
who specialized in juvenile talent. The young
widow was highly dubious that anything
would come of it. But, figuring she had noth-
ing to lose, she followed the suggestion.

Thus, Sherry's debut into movies was
launched at the age of six. There followed
some thirty pictures, including such notable
ones as "Miracle of Fatima," "The Lion and
the Horse," and "Trouble Along the Way." In
addition, Sherry has been in the cast of the
Danny Thomas show since its beginning. And

Continued

►

.JL

iFather

That phone's the only thing about Sherry her
own "new" dad doesn't admire — he can't get
it long enough to call his studio! But he thinks
she's mighty cute, all dressed up for a date.

Sherry chose Monte Pittman to be her stepfather before her widowed
mother, Rita, had even met him. She introduced them, was flower girl
at their wedding, now takes pride in part-ownership of baby brother
Robert John (pictured below between mother and grandmother).

Adopted Father

(Continued)

Sherry lures Monte out for a walk. Sherry and brother Gary once did this
to test Monte as a stepfather-candidate — but their "trial run" backfired!

Sherry Jackson is Terry in The Danny Thomas Show, which will be seen over CBS-TV,
Mondays, at 9 P.M. EDT, beginning October 7, as sponsored by General Foods Corp.

she's appeared on more single television
programs than she can remember — Ed
Sullivan, Jack Carson, Fireside Theater,
Private Secretary, Lux Video, Roy
Rogers, Gene Autry — name it, and she's
probably been on it at least once.

It was back when Sherry was about
ten years old that Montgomery Pittman
made his entry on the scene. Sherry was
working in "The Lion and the Horse," in
which Steve Cochran was playing the
male lead. Monte, a former actor turned
screen writer, was a pal of Cochran's,
and visited the set often. Sherry fell for
him — hard. She decided that this was
going to be her new stepfather.

"Sherry would mention this friend of
Steve's whom she'd met on the set, but
I never paid much attention," Rita Pitt-
man recalls. "For several years, all three
of the children had been working hard
to marry me off, and I'd grown accus-
tomed to their big buildups for whatever
new candidate they'd picked.

"I remembered humoring Gary once,
when he insisted that I meet the driver
of his school bus. I knew what he had
in mind, though he thought he was being
awfully subtle about the whole thing.
When I did meet the driver, it was all
I could do to keep from giggling. He
was every bit as nice as Gary had
claimed, but he couldn't have been a day
over twenty, and I got this hilarious
mental picture of him 'fathering' three
youngsters aged 8, 10, and 15. But the
children were serious about it. They
wanted a father (Continued on page 76)

Monte's writing and directing talents
are of real help to the teen-age actress.

ri2

Left to right: Sherry, Rita, Monte, baby Robert John and brother Gary. Word games are a popular
pastime in a family which has two "professional" members vitally interested in direct communication
of ideas. They make up crossword puzzles, play their own version of a strictly personal quiz program.

Ironing isn't Sherry's favorite sport. She'd rather watch television
— if she can't be on the phone, chatting the hours away with friends.

Best of all, she likes to be with little
Robert John, guiding his uncertain steps.

MASON

<■■;

BSSE

Home

much t
family

by the sea is a haven of peace, after many adventures and
ragedy. Here Raymond relaxes, entertains his friends, shares
kes with nephew and niece, Frank Vitti and Phyllis Zi

Physically, Raymond Burr fits
Erie Stanley Gardner's description
to a T. Emotionally, he has
lived the lives of ten exciting men

By PAULINE TOWNSEND

When mystery fans all over the country
turn their television sets to CBS chan-
nels for the debut of the network's long-
heralded Perry Mason series, they will see
in the title role a man whose life has been as
colorful, as adventure -packed as that of Erie
Stanley Gardner's famed fictional attorney -
sleuth himself.

His name is Raymond Burr. He is forty-one,
his 185 pounds tightly stretched along a mas-
sive six-foot-two frame. Piercing blue eyes
challenge you from beneath expressive, dark
eyebrows. He controls his voice in conversa-
tion (otherwise, it would boom at you).
About his long and varied life, he talks easily
and confidently.

"I never doubted that I would succeed," he
says, after recounting a series of moments in
his life when he (Continued on page 74)

Food once almost cut short Burr's career
— he enjoys eating, is an excellent chef,
now raises much of his menu ingredients.

Lawyer Perry Mason (according to author Gardner) is a fighter — "happy-
go-lucky, carefree, two-fisted." That's Raymond. Barbara Hale is also
well cast as Perry's quick-witted, attractive secretary, Delia Street.

Raymond Burr is Perry Mason in the new hour-long dramatic mystery series seen on
CBS-TV, starting Sat., Sept. 21, 7:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Purex and others.

Seldom in one place for long, Burr enjoys
being close to the earth today — and is
even raising livestock. Duck (below) is Louie.

Logs for his own hearth — evenings can get
chilly, there by the sea. But new home and
career bring a glow to a wanderer's heart.

\ 1

Can you be too understanding for your own good \

Your heart says, this is the man you love, all that matters is your happiness
together. But now he's deeply troubled. He needs time to work things out.
Do you quietly put aside your yearnings and wait, knowing that "just a little
while" might mean forever? When you're Wendy Warren, you can't do it any
other way. Your tears are secret tears. You face tomorrow with faith. You can
get the whole story- even while you work -when you listen to daytime radio,;
Hear WENDY WARREN AND THE NEWS on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and timet

Anne Burrs slim figure
begins with her
ivise selection of meats
and groceries, continues
with her original approach
to low-calorie cooking

By
HARRIET

SEGMAN

The slender TV octress climbs the stairs to her apartment, carrying the raw
materials of health and beauty — fresh fruit, greens, lean meat, poultry, fish.

-A. ISoa/ia/ty of sl Cook

"■low do you keep a husband happy
** and a feminine figure pared to
slim TV size — on the same diet? Anne
Burr, seen daily on As The World
Turns over CBS-TV, has the answer.
Her technique? No butter or fat in
cooking. Are the results dry and
tasteless? Not on your taste -buds!
Anne's methods make delicious sense
for every calorie- counter. To broil
chicken, she rubs a cut-up broiler
with half a lemon ("My greatest single
prop is lemon juice," she says) and
bastes with a beef or chicken-extract
cube dissolved in a half-cup boiling
water. The chicken browns more
slowly this way, so cook it a little
longer and on a lower shelf than if
rubbed with fat. For "Burr London

Broil," Anne uses a slice of round
steak, instead of the fattier sirloin,
seasons it with meat tenderizer for
at least an hour, then sears it in a hot
skillet without fat. When done, the
meat is sliced diagonally. "The secret
is a good sharp knife," confides Anne.
The calorie-trap with fish, she feels,
is the accompanying butter, hollan-
daise or mayonnaise sauce. She
poaches or steams fish gently in a
little water, so that it stays moist and
needs only lemon juice for garnish.
To "sauce" veal or fish, she simmers
chopped tomato, onion and green
pepper until soft, or uses a can of
stewed tomatoes prepared with pep-
pers and onions. She flavors vegetables
with canned or fresh mushrooms,

grated onion, buttermilk, or lemon
juice. "And I always have fresh or
dried mint in the house — delicious on
peas and carrots." An herb collector,
Anne counts on their sparkling flavor
for menu excitement, sprinkles basil
on tomatoes, tarragon on green salads
(instead of oil dressing), marjoram
on lamb and veal and chervil on fish.
She rolls tiny boiled potatoes, fresh or
canned, in parsley or fresh or dried
dill. Dessert: Ices, fresh fruit, Jell-0
with dietetic-pack fruit. Lunch used
to be a problem, with sandwiches
ordered during rehearsals. Now Anne
carries hard-cooked eggs, left-over
chicken or sliced meat, with a small
tomato, celery, carrot sticks, lettuce,
a few rye crackers and an apple.

Entertainment Press Conference: Herb Kamm, Mary Margaret McBride and Art Ford put Eartha Kitt on the spot.

By CLAIRE SAFRAN

Both Herb Kamm and Mary Margaret McBride began on news-
papers. He's an editor now, but she switched to the spoken word.

Socrates had a method for it. To
get to the truth, ask questions.
In a lineage as direct as the
questions they ask are the panel of
interviewers on Night Beat and En-
tertainment Press Conference. The
questions — the basic one is "why" —
are hard-hitting and searching. The
camera, close up and recording
every expression, is itself an inter-
rogator. . . . On Night Beat, the
guests may come from any walk of
life. To get to the core of their
stories, John Wingate does the large
share of the interviews, with Al
Morgan handling most of the rest.
For an inside view of show business,
Entertainment Press Conference is
made up of a varying panel of three,
with Herb Kamm, Art Ford, Bill
Kemp, Henry Morgan, Mary Mar-
garet McBride and Al Morgan turn-
ing up most frequently. . . . Many's
the guest who's squirmed under the
tough questions asked on both
shows. Still, the top names in all
fields of endeavor have appeared.
"Some have to be coaxed," says
John Wingate of his Night Beat
guests, "but there are also some who
are hurt that they haven't been asked
before." Tall, slender, with sensitive
good looks, Wingate claims his theory
of interviewing is simple. "Just ask
them the hard questions, the direct
ones," he says. "If they don't an-
swer, then they expose themselves

Night Beat is seen Tues. through Fri., from 11 P.M. to midnight, as sponsored by Bardahl, Parliament Cigarettes, Cott Beverages,
American Chicle Co. Entertainment Press Conference is seen Tues., at 8:30 P.M. Both on Channel 5, WABD (Du Mont* in New York.

Night Beat: At an hour when people are more off guard, John Wingate keeps cameras close up, questions tough.

by what they don't say. In other
words, nail them." Actually, Win-
gate's manner is quiet, often gentle,
but, for anyone with something he'd
rather conceal, there's a disquieting
way of looking his vis-a-vis straight
in the eye. Born thirty-two years
ago in Framingham, Massachusetts,
he took his degree at Harvard. He
wanted to write, "but not necessarily
news." This, though, is what he
wrote and reported, first for a
Worcester paper, then for the A.P.,
and now for WOR, where he deliv-
ers the News Extra at 6:15 and
7:20 P.M. and does The John Win-
gate Show from 8:35 to 9 P.M. daily.
This last show features hard-hitting
editorials and the same sort of prob-
ing interviews as on Night Beat,
with both shows designed "to bring
to light things that are little known."
John won a George Peabody Award
for his expose of a vicious narcotics
racket in New York, has published
fiction and such criticism as "The
Lack of Humor in F. Scott Fitzger-
ald" in Kenyon Review. His bach-
elor apartment is furnished in
French and English Directoire and
his hobby is cooking. At Toots
Shor's, he consumed eggs Benedict,
then hazarded that he could do as
well, or better, with the sauce. . . .
Best-known for his novel and
screenplay, "The Great Man," Al
Morgan has an interview technique

Author Al Morgan rocked the radio industry with "The Great Man."
With Wingate, Night Beat director Wes Kenney, he still hits hard.

Continued

(§>q Tfttf*\TF>ftZLGA Ittncz* Sl<2><fe ©IpC2>li

(Continued)

which is as relentless as the way the
figures mount up on his long and
varied career in broadcasting. Born
and educated in New York City, Al
sold his first radio script to a net-
work when he was 17. Since then,
he estimates that he has written or
produced some 5,000 radio and TV
programs. Al has been an announc-
er, director, producer, actor, news-
caster, quizmaster and script-writ-
er. He is married to the former
actress, Martha Falconer, and, with
their three children, they make their
home in Bronxville. . . . "The Lord
has blessed me with an ability to
speak off the cuff," says Herb
Karam. "It's something you're born
with, like black hair or red hair."
The ability, so handy on Entertain-
ment Press Conference, has made
Herb the unofficial jester of the
World-Telegram and Sun office,
where he's worked for 14 years and
is now editor of its Saturday Mag-
azine. A New Jersey native, Herb
wanted to be an accountant. "I'm so
glad now," he says, "that there was
no money for me to go to college
and study that." Instead, he got him-
self a job as a stringer on a local
newspaper, moved upward steadily
to his present job. He has done
much radio and TV work in the past
ten years and is a frequent panelist
on CBS-TV's Let's Find Out. He
married his high-school sweetheart
at 19 and they have three sons:
Larry, 17, Lewis, 12, and Bobby, 10.
"If I had it to do all over again, I'd
marry the same girl," he says, "and
if she were twins, I'd commit big-
amy." . . . Still unmarried, but very
eligible, Art Ford has been asking

It's unrehearsed, gloats Bill Kemp. He
prefers ad libs to authors' scripts.

Says Art Ford of guests he quizzes on
Conference, "They're asking for it."

questions for a long time as WNEW's
multi-talented deejay. "But, there
the star is my guest and I have to
be polite," he says. "On Entertain-
ment Press Conference, they're ask-
ing for it." Art's mother, Mary Eliza-
beth Ford, was one of radio's first
woman commentators and Art liter-
ally was brought up in a radio
studio. Art, still in his teens, became
New York's unofficial night-time
mayor on Milkman's Matinee. Now,
on Make Believe Ballroom — heard
Monday through Saturday from 10
to 11:30 P.M. and from 5:30 to 7
P.M. — he enjoys the largest audience
of any local radio voice. Art's apart-
ment has a private control room and
also a private zoo. He's looking for
"the perfect pet," has tried a cinna-
mon, monkey, ocelot, antelope and
dik-dik, and has a lion cub on the
way. When Art closes the door on
the nets and traps for recapturing
frisky pets, he heads for Greenwich
Village. "This is my hobby," says
Art, who wrote, directed and filmed
the upcoming "Johnny Gunman"
along his favorite streets. Starting
this month, on Channel 5, he'll share
the folk music, bongos, dancing, art
and new talent he loves on Art
Ford's Greenwich Village Party. . . .
Henry Morgan's favorite corner has
a cigar store on it. It's the mythical
intersection from which he used to
broadcast daily portions of anarchy.
Today, the satirist travels the panel
circuit and winds up his week as a
Monitor communicator. Born Henry
Lerner von Ost, Morgan claims the
date was the day before All Fools
Day, 1915, in New York City. At 18,
he was the youngest announcer in
the business, but a few years later he
lost a job when he included another
announcer's name on a list of miss-
ing persons during a newscast. He's
been the terror of sponsors and
broadcasting big-wigs ever since. . . .
Less cutting than some of her fellow

panel members, Mary Margaret Mc-

Bride is friendly, homey — but she's
also from Missouri. She's been called
"the first lady of broadcasting" and
is the only radio personality whose
fans ever jammed Yankee Stadium
and Madison Square Garden on
her anniversaries. Her twenty-three
years in broadcasting began with her
rebellion against the cooking-clean-
ing-children format on women's
shows. Instead, as "Martha Deane"
and then as herself, Mary Margaret
McBride interviewed the news-
worthy, talked about herself and
presented her listeners with the in-
teresting, the amusing, the unusual.
... As an actor, Bill Kemp mouthed
the words of other people. He's
happier framing his own questions
of his show-business confreres or
ad-libbing his own sentences on his
"live" music and guests show, from
noon to two on WNEW. Bill was in
London awaiting his discharge when
he met Sir Laurence Olivier, who
was struck by the handsome, well-
spoken Canadian. He offered Bill his
first acting role in "Born Yester-
day." Back in Canada, Bill got him-
self a radio job, because "they liked
my voice and besides, I worked
cheap." In the States, he's toured
with national companies of several
hits and has been seen on almost
every major dramatic TV* show. Bill,
who calls himself "the poor man's
Jack Paar," plays the piano and also
sings, "more a joke, really." He lives
in a three-room hotel-apartment and
refuses to keep a pet. "I have enough
trouble living with myself," he says.
Of Entertainment Press Conference,
he says, "Anything can happen." . . .

Here's Morgan, but Henry finds this
whatsis subtle as one of his own gags.

Pay-TV: What Does It Mean To You?

(Continued from page 17)
pay his advertising investment and make
him a tidy profit on his products. Because
the advertising cost is thus passed on to
the consumer, the pay-TV advocates ob-
ject to the term "free" television. Never-
theless, the fact remains that no one has
ever had to feed an automobile or any ad-
vertised product into a decoder in order to
watch either the Welk or the Sullivan
shows.

For the pay-TV viewpoint in program-
ming, switch from long division to multi-
plication signs. Here the show itself — not
cars nor nail polish nor hair lacquer — is
the product. You pay to see the program.
American Research Bureau estimated that,
in that given week, the Welk show was
seen in about twelve million homes. If
figures fascinate you, you will enjoy com-
puting what kind of fortune it might gross
on a single Saturday night if each of those
families had paid a dollar ... or fifty cents
... or even a dime.

Millions Multiply Fast

If the home TV set is to carry a toll
charge, there is big, big money at stake.
When NBC -TV won what was then TV's
largest audience with its production of
"Peter Pan," Commander E. F. McDonald,
Jr., president of Zenith, estimated that, if
each family had paid twenty-five cents to
view it, the network, the producers and
the stars would have grossed five million
dollars to divide among themselves.

Commander McDonald was one of the
first to be concerned about the big, big
cost of television production and to seek a
way to pass this cost on to the viewer. An
inventive electronic genius, he built Chi-
cago's first TV station, away back when.

In the 30's, when CBS and NBC were
happily pumping a daytime drama onto
their radio networks every quarter hour
— and paying, as production costs, only the
price of having an actor walk up to a
microphone in a bare studio and, by words
alone, paint exciting scenes and action —
the Commander was finding out, via the
Zenith-owned and operated television sta-
tion, that cameras eat dollars.

On TV, even in those early days, you
couldn't merely say, "Justin is seated at a
table." You had to have a table, a chair, a
backdrop and a Justin. The man cost
nothing — TV actors were not paid in that
era — but someone had to buy, beg or bor-
row the props and move them in place.
That cost money. Money which Zenith
had to make through sales of radios and
other equipment. Because the station was
experimental, no sponsor could buy time.

Zenith Was First Advocate

McDonald continually assured the pub-
lic that television could never draw its
support from advertising sponsors (as had
radio from its inception). In a 1947 letter
to the city editor of The Chicago Daily
News, he wrote: "Many times since 1931 I
have told you not to worry about the
American advertisers' being able to fi-
nance the cost of shows necessary to make
television a national institution. I have
said that television required a box office
to pay for the type of programming that
would give it mass appeal, and events have
borne me out."

To supply TV with a box office, Com-
mander McDonald invented a scrambling-
unscrambling gadget which he first called
"Phonovision" and later changed to
"Phonevision." In 1951, Zenith, which had
not entered the commercial televising
race, gained F.C.C. consent to test Phone-

vision for ninety days in Chicago. They
lent Zenith sets, equipped with unscram-
blers, to three hundred families. These
test families then paid a $1.00 charge each
time they wanted to see a movie. A series
of pre-1948 films was used.

American curiosity and American in-
ventiveness being what it is, those Chi-
cagoans who were shut out were soon
swapping methods to peek through
Zenith's knothole. Some advocated view-
ing through the whirling blades of an
electric fan. Others favored jiggling a
comb in front of your eyes. Neither meth-
od was very successful. Young men with
Army and Navy radar training had quite a
bit to say about how easy it would be to
whip up an unscrambler of their own, but
the ninety-day test did not allow much
working time.

Phonevision, ScriberVision and Teleme-
ter are the systems concerned in the pres-
ent petitions to the F.C.C. for full field
tests. You can explain their mechanics
(to anyone other than an electronics engi-
neer or an inquisitive husband) by the
simple statement: They work. Proponents
of each assert their patented gadgets are
foolproof.

Both picture and sound arrive in your
home as scrambled as an egg. Video
shivers. Audio quivers. You put this par-
ticular humpty-dumpty back together
again by means of their decoder and your
cash. Any child who can dial a telephone,
or any housewife who can change speeds
on an electric mixer, can operate it on
first try. Follow directions and the picture
and sound come clear.

Details for transferring the cash differ.
Phonevision originally linked the tele-
phone to the TV set. The local telephone
company was supposed to add the cost of
your entertainment to your phone bill,
collect from you and remit to the broad-
caster. In the 1951 Chicago test, however,
the rate-conscious, cost-conscious Illinois
Bell Telephone Company balked. Zenith
then had to set up facilities to take its
own orders, send out its own bills and
make its own collections. Today, its de-
coder works on a dial system and there
seems to be a multiple choice in methods
of payment.

Cash Clears the Scramble

Skiatron depends on automation and the
United States mail. The subscriber feeds
a program card into the slot of the decoder
and pushes a button which punches the
card which completes the circuit which
unscrambles the show. Come the end of
the month, you mail in your card. (They
don't say what happens if Junior or Tow-
ser chews it up.) On receipt, an I.B.M.
machine sorts the cards and zips out your
bill. Quick as you send in your check,
you get a new card.

Having long operated theaters, Par-
amount Pictures, owner of Telemeter,
knows there is no substitute for cash at
the box office, even when that box office
is in your own living room. Telemeter is
calibrated from five cents to two dollars.
You pop the price of the program, in coin,
into Paramount's parlor piggy-bank. If
you lack the correct change, just overpay.
Telemeter will record your credit. Once
a month, the man comes around to pick up
your dough. He also has, through your
agreement with Telemeter, the right to in-
spect your home to make sure no neigh-
bor is hitch-hiking his set on your
decoder and that your family holds no un-
sung electronic genius who can change a
wire and cheat the box.

No one has yet mentioned who will have

to give the government its due. It could
be that you will also pay a theater admis-
sions tax to enter your own living room
and watch your own screen.

What NBC and CBS have up their cor-
porate sleeves to garner their shares of the
revenue, when pay-TV becomes a reality,
has not yet been announced. The trade
takes it for granted "that each has a sys-
tem, ready to go. Although they are out-
spoken in their opposition to pay -TV, it is
only reasonable to presume that their en-
gineers can scramble a picture as well as
the next fellow and that, if called upon to
do so, their sales-brains would find a way
to collect.

At American Broadcasting — Paramount
Theaters, the corporation which includes
ABC-TV, there is no doubt the code box
exists. In June, at the annual meeting of
stockholders, Leonard Goldenson, its pres-
ident, bitterly attacked pay-TV, asserting
that it would only result in the public
paying for the same kind of programs
which it now gets for free. However, back
in March, AB-PT authorized another of its
divisions, Interstate Circuits, Inc., to con-
duct exploratory investigations and made
plans to test closed-circuit TV in Texas.

"Closed circuit" systems are now being
tried out in a number of cities. Theaters
have secured rights from city councils to
run their cables through the streets. Usu-
ally this is done in association with the
local public utility company. Families
buying the service attach a device to their
television sets and pay a fee per show or a
monthly charge. In addition to charging
for the program, some proprietors carry
advertising — the familiar commercial
which pay-TV advocates have long im-
plied would never sully their prepaid air.

Calls Pay-TV "Inevitable"

Mr. Barney Balaban, president of Par-
amount Pictures, told his stockholders,
"There are many persuasive reasons for
believing that the cable approach will be
more effective in getting pay-TV off the
ground quickly." Pay-TV is inevitable,
he stated. "It's television economics. [TV]
Production costs have risen astronomi-
cally, TV set saturation is being ap-
proached and the problem of reconciling
TV ratings with higher costs to the spon-
sor is becoming discouraging to adver-
tisers."

There is no doubt that pay-TV could
make money for its proprietors, but would
it benefit the public?

This is the key question which the
F.C.C. must decide before authorizing na-
tionwide pay-TV. Americans have a
broadcasting Bill of Rights dating back to
1928, when the regulating body was still
designated the Federal Radio Commission.
The case, for those 'who want sources
cited, is In Re Great Lakes Broadcasting
Co., F.R.C. Docket No. 4900. It reads:

"Broadcasting stations are licensed to
serve the public and not for the purpose of
furthering the private or selfish interests
of individuals. The standard of public in-
terest, convenience or necessity means
nothing if it does not mean this . . . the
entire listening public within the service
area of a station ... is entitled to service
from that station. In a sense the broad-
casting station may be regarded as a sort
of mouthpiece on the air for the commu-
nity it serves, over which its public events
of general interest, its political campaigns, j
its election results, its athletic contests, its y
orchestras and artists and discussions of R
public issues may be broadcast. If the
station performs its duty in furnishing a
well-rounded program, the rights of the

community have been achieved."

Commercial radio and TV have, by reg-
ulation, a built-in conscience. A station
holds or loses its license according to the
way it serves public interest, convenience
and necessity.

The pay-TV advocates stake their claim
and promise to serve public interest, con-
venience and necessity on three points:
(1) Additional income will permit stations
to operate in areas which are now uneco-
nomic. In particular, it will solve the UHF
problem. (2) It will supply programs
which TV cannot now afford. (3) It will not
interfere with free TV. It will be only a
supplemental service, taking fifteen percent
of the broadcast time of certain stations.

Some pretty fancy promises and some
exceedingly heated rebuttals have been
fired from both sides. How many more
stations could go into service is a ques-
tion engineers and economists can battle
out from now on. The awful basic truth
here is that nature made TV an economic
problem. Whereas radio waves follow the
curvature of the earth, VHF waves beam
straight and UHF even straighter. The
earth's curvature starts to be effective in-
terference at the distance of thirty-five
miles from a transmitter. The height of
the transmitting antenna and of the re-
ceiving antenna permit some extension,
but, sooner or later, the old earth itself is
going to get in the way. It would be ideal
if there could be a television station every
fifty miles, but, in some of the vast
stretches of the United States, there
wouldn't be 5,000 people to support it.

Promises vs. Performance

In programming, the pay-TV people
speak of movie premieres, Broadway first
nights, cultural programs and sports. To
these projections, the broadcasters reply
"What could you do that we haven't al-
ready done?" The supply of motion pic-
tures, they point out, no longer is limited
to those British wartime epics which were
put together with a sixpence and a pray-
er. Variety estimated on May 1 that Holly-
wood has sold more than $150,000,000
worth of films to television, and more are
being put on the market, some of them
box-office bests dating as late as 1955. A
new film network went into operation last
spring with 133 stations on its list. Movie
fans now have plenty of choice.

Opera is another point of promise. Pay-
TV advocates all say- toll would bring the
Metropolitan to the nation, citing it as a
supreme attraction. The networks hold
varying opinions about opera's popularity
with the public. Last spring, Ed Sulli-
van of CBS-TV called it a point-killer
and cancelled further appearances of
opera stars on his shows. ABC-TV has
signed Patrice Munsel as one of its fall
attractions. And, at NBC-TV, i. )era is a
proud part of its stock in trade. NBC has
brought grand oj>era a larger audience
than it has had before in the history of the
world.

Nets Stand on Record

Not only has NBC commissioned new
productions, such as "Amahl and the Night
Visitors," it has also broken the language
barrier so that the average viewer can, for
the first time, know what an opera is all
about without consulting program notes.
They are the first to provide acceptable,
not-silly, English translations, sung with
perfect diction. Their productions have
quality to satisfy even the most critical
music lover. One devotee, of my own ac-
quaintance, who goes to the Metropolitan
as frequently as others go to the movies,
feels NBC has topped the Met. He calls

their "Tosca" "the most dramatic ever
seen," their "Madame Butterfly" was "the
finest production ever," and "La Traviata"
the "most beautiful."

NBC, through its own exchequer, knows
the truth of the old adage, "No one makes
money on opera," yet it carried its public
service on this score even further. In
1957, it toured its opera company through
forty-seven cities to give fifty-four per-
formances. In the coming year, they will
go to fifty-five cities. Both on the air and
on tour, a brilliant season is scheduled.

NBC also has brought the public plays
direct from Broadway. "Peter Pan," star-
ring Mary Martin, reached living-room
screens with never the clink of a coin or
the punch of a card. The Lunts starred
in "The Great Sebastians"; Julie Harris,
Boris Karloff and Basil Rathbone ended
their run of "The Lark" on television.

CBS-TV commissioned Rodgers and
Hammerstein to produce "Cinderella,"
which may become a stage musical or a
movie. Their plays "Patterns" and "Mar-
ty" already have become movies. Their
most spectacular public service, perhaps,
has been to send Danny Kaye on a
UNICEF tour to visit the children of the
world and to show that wonderful visit on
TV screens. CBS footed the entire bill.

The list of great entertainment and great
public service by all of the networks is a
proud record. The coming season holds
more than it is possible to fist here — such
things as a notable public affairs program
at CBS and many musicals at ABC. NBC
will produce both Wagner's monumental
work, "Die Meistersinger," and Poulenc's
modern, controversial opera, "Dialogues
of the Carmelites."

General David Sarnoff, now chairman of
the board at NBC once summed it up:
"The richest man cannot buy for himself
what the poorest man gets free by radio."
TV has continued this tradition.

What will happen to free television if
pay-TV is authorized? Its proponents say
nothing will happen. They assert that pay-
TV will be a supplementary service, leav-
ing people free to choose whether they
want to subscribe or watch the free shows.

Pay or Black Out

The broadcasters candidly state that this
is an unwarranted assumption. They point
out that a station can transmit only one
program at a time. In one-station areas
— the communities which the proponents
say most need the help of box-office tele-
vision— the non-paying public would be
blacked out entirely. At present, 140 cities
have but one channel; 68 have two; 38 have
three and only fifteen have four or more.

The broadcasters take issue, too, with
the statement that pay-TV would ask for
only 15 percent of a station's time, thus
leaving a generous free period. The
broadcasters point out that fee service
doubtless would be in the three hours of
top audience-time from eight until eleven
o'clock. Again, the non-paying public
would be blacked out.

They also state that free programs in-
evitably would decline in quality. With
the audience split, advertisers could not
afford such heavy appropriations. Further,
pay-TV would outbid sponsors. General
Sarnoff has stated, "Those who offer their
services in the entertainment business are
affected by precisely the same economic
incentives as those who offer their services
in any other kind of business."

Perhaps a prediction of things to come
can be found in the current negotiations
about two of the New York baseball teams
moving to the West Coast. The prospect
of pay-TV is said to be an important
consideration and there has been talk of

a closed-circuit system going into Los
Angeles ahead of any F.C.C. authorization
of a televised system. Walter O'Malley,
president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, is
just one of the sports promoters who ard-
ently supports the campaign for pay -TV.

He has stated that he believes the owner
of a television set should pay fifty cents,
the price of a bleacher seat, to watch a
game. The Dodgers this year received
$750,000 for TV rights. How much more
pay-TV might bring them depends upon
what set of audience multiplication figures
you use. It is easy, however, to translate
it into personal terms. If you happened
to have a small boy in your family who
just had to see every game, the Dodgers
seventy home games this season would cost
you a viewing bill of thirty-five dollars to
keep Junior from feeling he was the most
neglected kid in the block.

Because pay-TV raises so many unre-
solved questions, some members of the
F.C.C. have said that the only way to find
accurate answers is to authorize a test in
a few typical cities to find out whether
the public would pay for the programs
which the pay -TV people promise. The
broadcasters, however, say that such a test
would really be a trap.

The president of the National Associa-
tion of Radio and Television Broadcasters,
Harold E. Fellows, says, "The so-called ex-
periments that have been proposed would
not show the real dangers of pay-TV. The
promoters might well offer some very at-
tractive bait, in the form of novel and
unusual programs, during such a test.
They might not try to lure away the great
events such as the World Series or the
most popular performers who now appear
on the free channels. But once a nation-
wide system of pay-TV was authorized,
there would be no way to stop pay-TV
from outbidding free television for its best
programs. The destruction of the Amer-
ican system of free television would then
be under way and it would be too late to
stop it. Our association believes that the
American people, through their elected
representatives in Congress, are the ones
who should decide it."

Predict End of Free-TV

How would the stations themselves react
to pay-TV? For the viewer their unan-
imity of expression is ominous.

Frank Stanton, head of CBS, prefaces
his statement by saying, "It is difficult to
believe that the Federal Communications
Commission would authorize a scheme
which seems to be so clearly contrary to
public interest." He then adds, "However,
if pay television should become established,
economic necessity will force CBS to par-
ticipate. We could expect to operate profit-
ably under a system of pay television."

General Sarnoff, speaking for NBC, said,
"Free television broadcasters would in-
evitably be forced by economic necessity
to engage in pay television and this . . .
would ultimately mean the end of our
American system of free television."

Leonard Goldenson, of ABC, at the last
annual meeting of stockholders, took the
position that toll -TV would lead to the
withdrawal of all top sports events and
the top comedy and drama shows. People
would have to pay for what they now get
free, plus having to purchase and main-
tain their sets. He also stated that news
and public service programs would van-
ish for lack of commercial support.

Mr. Fellows, too, was equally frank. Ad-
dressing the Senate Interstate Commerce
Committee, he said, "Do not assume that,
if pay television is authorized and suc-
cessful, the broadcasting industry . . .
will be standoffish. As businessmen, we

— - i . i*. ....-..-

would be foolish to turn our backs on a
successful business venture . . . the free
broadcaster, whether he desires to or not,
will be forced to jump on the bandwagon."

Lest such predictions be regarded as a
cry of "Wolf! Wolf!" from the broadcasters,
it should be added that a number of very
responsible people share the same view:
That pay television means the end of free
television.

Representative Emanuel Celler (D.,
N.Y.) certainly cannot be regarded as a
spokesman for the networks. As Chairman
of the House Judiciary Antitrust Subcom-
mittee, he recently conducted exhaustive
hearings on broadcasting practices and
turned in a report which absolutely wal-
loped the nets for certain practices which
the committee considered monopolistic
and in restraint of trade. Yet Mr. Celler
has also introduced in the House a bill to
prohibit the charging of a fee to view tele-
casts in the home.

Senator Strom Thurmond (D., S.C.) in-
troduced a similar bill in the Senate. After
stating that he had come to the conclusion
that permitting pay television would be
the same as having Congress impose a new
tax on the people of this country, he also
said, "In effect, the people who now view
television without additional cost, after the
purchase of their sets, would have to start
paying additional fees or charges or be de-
nied the privilege of seeing their preferred
programs.

"Perhaps this would not take place im-
mediately with the institution of pay tele-

vision, but I am sure it would soon follow,
once pay television were approved."

He also opposed field tests of pay-TV
with the statement: "If we permit the
Federal Communications Commission to
grant approval for experimental pay tele-
vision programs, as the Commission has
decided it presently has authority to do,
then we must face the fact that it would
be most difficult later to tell the experi-
menters, who had spent millions of dollars,
that pay television had been classified as
against the public interest.

"Persons who had invested their money
without being warned by the Congress
would then have cause to complain be-
cause they had not been stopped.

"If there were any assurance that pay
television would be provided purely as a
supplement to present service and that
no person would be deprived of the priv-
ilege of viewing programs now being shown
free, then we would not have to be con-
cerned about this matter. But there is
no assurance and there can be none that
programs now seen free would not soon
be bought up by the producers of pay
television programs.

"There is no proof that pay television
would provide the public with better
programs. The one sure thing about pay
television is that it would cost the public
more than the present system costs."

What Senator Thurmond omitted stat-
ing, when he referred to the authorizing of
pay-TV being comparable to Congress
imposing an additional tax on the public,

is that these moneys would be paid not
into the treasury of the United States but
would go instead to private enterprises.

Your Opinion Counts

The subject of pay-TV remains com-
plicated and confusing. This information,
however, is drawn from public state-
ments, official briefs, and printed material
which has been issued by each side. It
provides as much of a summary as can
be given to date and is offered with the
hope that, from it, TV Radio Mirror read-
ers can reach an opinion.

The F.C.C. decision on authorizing the
field tests of pay-TV will probably be
made sometime this fall. This regulating
body is responsible to Congress and re-
sponsive to the desires of the American
public which owns the broadcasting fre-
quencies.

In this controversy, every one's opinion
counts. If you wish to express yours in
the direction which counts the most, write
to your senator and congressman. If you
don't know their names, send your com-
ment to Senator Warren Magnuson, chair-
man of the Senate Interstate and Foreign
Commerce Committee, Senate Office Build-
ing, Washington 25, D. C, or the House
committee's chairman, Representative Oren
Harris, House Office Building, Washing-
ton 25, D.C. What you have to say about
the matter now may well determine what
television you will view, and at what cost
you will view it five years hence.

Jan Davis: Talent Scout

(Continued from page 30)
Talent Scouts production a year ago, cer-
tain changes have been made. Prior to
J.D., if you wanted to try out for the show,
you had to come to New York. Now Jan
has an assistant, Mark Russell, who travels
about the country auditioning. ("Back in
Arkansas," Jan recalls, "my great ambition
was to get on the Major Bowes' Amateur
Hour, but it was just a daydream — because
I knew I'd never get money enough to
make the trip.") Contestants for Talent
Scouts get a great deal of help in dress,
presentation and building of arrange-
ments. ("In the beginning," Jan says, "I
always hoped I'd meet someone who would
give me the benefit of their professional
experience and tell me what I was doing
wrong.") And one of the best things Jan
has done as producer is to emphasize
talent rather than flash or "gimmicks."

"I would never hire someone on the
strength of a record, for a record doesn't
necessarily show the natural voice. You
can use too many tricks in recording." Jan
adds, "Of course, we will audition records
for Talent Scouts, but the performer must
still have an in-person audition. You see,
records mean so little to a professional for,
these days, it seems that everyone has a
guitar and microphone pushed at him and
he sits down and records. Why, I've heard
new songs with as few as three chord
changes. A singer learns a 'gimmick,' and
then develops the gimmick rather than his
talent. But our top performers, our Comos
and Shores, have developed talent through
years of work and preparation. That's
why they last."

It sometimes happens that a Talent
Scouts contestant who has scope and range,
who can sing several dozen different songs,
will lose out to an act that has a flashy
novelty number. "Sometimes," Jan says,
"an act has one terrific number, and that's
about it. He captures the audience's ap-
plause. A singer with much more on the
ball can't express it all in one number."

Jan smiles and says, "Well, in that respect
we are thankful for Arthur's presence.
His sense of appreciation extends beyond
the original promises of the program. Fre-
quently, he'll invite two of the contestants,
or all three, to appear on the show."

To be on Talent Scouts, you must be a
professional — which means that you must
have earned your living as a professional
entertainer, or at least have worked fre-
quently for pay, no matter how small.
"The size of income and age of the per-
former have little to do with his or her
worth," Jan says. "I've seen teenagers
who have as much poise as old-timers.
Some have been working professionally
since the age of nine or ten. Maybe pay
was small, but the experience is invaluable."

Experience is where you find it- — in
choirs and choral groups, with bands or a
barbershop quartet, on a small radio sta-
tion or in listening to records. "Imitation
of a professional," Jan notes, "is a big
mistake of youngsters. Sure, you learn
by listening— but don't copy. And you
might look at the personal qualities of a
performer you admire, for you'll find
guidance there, too. Our best performers
are nice people." She adds, "TV has had
its effect on singers. It's not enough to
know how to sing. You're also seen, so you
must look good. You must know how to
walk, dress, use your hands. Dancing and
dramatic lessons don't hurt."

Jan began to work hard at an early age,
but her experience wasn't unusual. It isn't
even unusual for the youngsters of today.
For a good starter, there is Ann Leonardo,
very cute and very talented. Ann was born
June 11, 1938, in Fresno, California, where
she still lives with her parents. She has
two older brothers, one who is a lawyer
and another who is a year ahead of her
in Fresno College.

Like many other girls, Ann had dancing
and piano lessons as a young child. She
began on the piano when she was seven
and, by the time she was in high school,

she was showing real musical talent. Four
years in a row, she won superior ratings at
the Music Festival held by the California
Music Federation.

"I was hoping to be a concert pianist,"
she recalls, "but my parents didn't push
me. I played popular music, too, because
I liked it. At parties, or just for friends,
I'd play and sing. When I was a freshman
in Fresno High School, some friends teased
me into singing at an assembly."

That little bit of teasing changed the
course of Ann's life. She sang well at the
assembly and was asked to sing again. On
exchange programs, she was sent to sing
at other schools. As a school representa-
tive, she sang for the Kiwanis. There she
was heard by the manager of KMJ -Radio
and TV. He put her to work. She did an
hour radio show once a week for $8.50,
and a fifteen-minute weekly TV program
for $25. Both shows were called Rumpus
Room. And, while she was doing these
shows, she was studying piano, singing
with the school choir, keeping up dancing
lessons and participating in school dra-
matics. In 1955, she entered Fresno Col-
lege as a music major, studied a little
dramatics and continued her radio and TV
work, as well as in-person dates. In July
of 1956, she came east to Manhattan, with
her mother, to await her father's return
from Europe.

Ann recalls: "We stayed with relatives
in New York who coaxed me into trying
out for Talent Scouts. I auditioned once
and was called back to sing for Jan. I was
told that I'd be on the July 30th show.
From the moment Jan took over, I knew
that she was interested in seeing that I
would look as good as possible. She was
worried about my pony-tail hairdo, and
we discussed it and decided I should
change it. She helped me select the right T
dress for the show. We went over my v
repertoire and decided that I should sing R
'The Breeze!'"

In spite of all the work and preparation,

Ann lost. "I felt terrible. The elevator
girl told me to stop crying. She said,
'Honey, a boy who lost on the show a
couple of years ago comes on TV in fifteen
minutes with his own show! She was talk-
ing about Vic Damone."

The next morning, the sun came out
again, when Arthur invited Ann to appear
on the morning show for a week, and then
a second week. She was signed by Capitol
Records and, this past summer, she began
a series of club dates.

"That's the great thing about Talent
Scouts," says Danny Costello. "Even if
the audience doesn't vote you in, you have
a second chance, for Arthur may ask you
back. Besides, talent scouts for the movies
and recording companies, talent buyers for
clubs and TV have great respect for the
Godfrey show. They watch, too."

1 wenty-seven-year-old Danny Costello,
handsome six-footer, was a winner on
Talent Scouts — but he auditioned six times,
over a period of several years, before he
was accepted as a contestant. Danny, for
all his charm, has guts and perseverance.
He was born and raised in Jersey City. "I
lived in an old-world Italian neighbor-
hood," he says, "and the people had great
love and respect for operatic music. Music
was not something incidental. Singing was
an art to be appreciated and taken seri-
ously. At ten, I was put in the Holy Rosary
Choir. It was a fine group. We had two
choir-masters who gave us special tutor-
ing. Look — anyone who can sing Gre-
gorian chant can sing anything."

But Danny was also a top-flight ball-
player. He was playing "pro" ball from
seventeen until twenty. He was under con-
tract to the Pittsburgh Pirates when he
broke his arm. That did it, and he made
up his mind to be a singer. He sang in
clubs and local radio. He got experience
with a G.I. dance band. He began to audi-
tion for Talent Scouts about 1951 and in
August, 1955, got on the show with the
song, "Something's Got to Give." Some-
thing did — he won. The thrill was shared
by his wife, the former Mary Truitt, of
Tallahassee, who now lives in Jersey City
with the Costellos' two boys. Danny says,
"I owe a lot to her putting up with me for
the past seven years. Sometimes there was
very little money. Or I was on the road
and she had to care for the kids all by
herself. But, most of all, she had the right
words at the right time."

Danny speaks of Arthur with real affec-
tion. "I remember," he says, "the first day
I was in his office asking for advice on a
recording contract. Not only did he put
on his glasses and read all of the little type,
but he spent an hour explaining the re-
cording business to me." Danny adds,
"And Jan, well, she's the greatest. Any
problem I have — whether it's with a new
sheet of music or a job — I go to her."

One of the newest talents on the God-
frey show is Anita Bryant, who was born
March 25, 1940, in Barnesdale, Oklahoma,
and now lives in Tulsa. If you're going to
be guided by Anita's career, you might as
well give up if you haven't succeeded by
the time you're ten. Yet Anita herself
hasn't been pushing — she's been enjoying
herself. "I'd give up a career instantly for
marriage. I've been thinking that I might
give up 'pop' to sing with an evangelist.
But, no matter whether I'm married or
sitting at a typewriter, I'll be singing."

They say that when Anita was a toddler,

not too long ago, her grandfather bounced

her on his knees and said, "Sing!" and she

did. At six, she was among the first-grade

. children auditioned for a high-school

v operetta. She got the role and, during the

R following three years, she was asked to

sing at high-school banquets. When she

was nine, she won a talent contest and be-

„ , came Red Feather Girl for the state.

"I was eleven when my father took a
cut in salary to move to Oklahoma City so
I could study voice with Allen Clark, who
is my manager," says Anita, who is as
vivacious as she is pretty, with brown hair
and very big and dark brown eyes. "Mr.
Clark," she continues, "is head of music at
WKY-TV and Radio. He was once ar-
ranger for the Phil Harris band. He knows
music and singing. Every Saturday, we
worked five hours."

At twelve, Anita made her TV debut on
the Scotty Harrell show in Oklahoma City.
Mail response was such that she was in-
vited back week after week. When Harrel
went off, Anita starred on her own show
for an additional six weeks. Her sponsor
paid her twenty-five dollars a week for the
fifteen-minute show. She also sang in
church, in school and with dance bands.
She took dance lessons and played in
every school dramatic show she could.

"When I heard auditions for Talent
Scouts were being held in Oklahoma City,
I wrote in, asking for a date and stating
my experience. It was last winter that
Mark Russell came out. I sang for him
and he told me then that I'd be among the
finalists. In April, I sang again and this
time I was among the several people
chosen to come to New York as a con-
testant." Anita smiles as she recalls, "We
all won that night, May 20th. Arthur said
it was so close that there'd be no losers."

A gal who remembers very little of what
happened when she appeared on Talent
Scouts is Miyoshi Umeki, a pert Japanese
doll who sings jazz ballads with a husky,
intriguing quality. "Everything got started
from the Godfrey show," she says. "That
was January 9, 1956. I didn't feel any-
thing, I was so scared and nervous. I was
petrified. That night, I sang, 'If I Give My
Heart to You.' Afterwards, my agent,
Edna Whiting, told me I had won. I
couldn't believe it. I said, 'It's not true.
Don't tell me.' When I got back to the
hotel, I sent telegrams back to Japan.
Then I believed it."

Miyoshi, with black hair and lovely black
eyes, is a fragile five-foot-one. She still
sings in a kimono, but her favorite dish
is now pizza, and her favorite singer,
Frank Sinatra. Her admiration for Sinatra
dates back to her residence in Japan. Mi-
yoshi was born twenty-two years ago on
the small island of Hokkaido. Until she
was fifteen, her voice was so husky that
she could hardly talk, let alone sing. She
went on to music college after high
school, and it was there that she learned
her first American song, "I Walk Alone."
Her brother, an interpreter for the Ameri-
can Military Government, brought some
G.I. friends home to hear his baby sister.
Some of the Americans played in a band.
They, in turn, arranged for Miyoshi to sing
with them on a radio program.

"I had my first job at seventeen," she
smiles. "I never worried about how much
I was paid. I liked to sing. I worked
wherever there was music and a micro-
phone. My mother didn't object to my
singing with bands. She had put all the
children before me through school, and my
father died when I was thirteen. I was the
last of nine children and I think she was
too tired to tell me 'no.' I was lucky and
could do anything I wanted."

Miyoshi practiced hard and listened long
to American records. She began singing
with top Japanese jazz bands. She be-
came the first Japanese singer to record
for RCA Victor, and made some forty
"sides." She was in five Japanese movies.
And then she gave in to an urge to visit
America. Shortly after she arrived here,
she had a chance to audition for Talent
Scouts. She won on the show. And
Arthur was so charmed by her that he has
called her back many times. Miyoshi be-
lieves the Godfrey appearance led to all

of her recent breaks. She has been singing
in the best clubs in the country, and has
a starring role in the Marlon Brando film,
"Sayonara," to be released in December.

It was just about a year after Miyoshi's
debut that Arthur reached outside the
States for another exciting talent. That was
and is Canadian Tommy Common. Tommy
is twenty-four, born on September 21,
1933, in Toronto. He is good-looking, with
blue eyes and light brown hair. He stands
five-seven. And, like Miyoshi, Tommy is
indebted to a brother for his start.

Tommy was eight and his brother ten.
One day, the brother bowed out of a sing-
ing spot at church, explaining, "Tommy is
better." From that day on, Tommy was
singing. He worked in a church choir. At
ten, he sang a solo before fifteen thousand
people. "I was saved from stage fright,"
he notes, "by the glare of footlights — I
couldn't see anything." At Boy Scout age,
he was singing for hospitalized war veter-
ans. As he got older, he sang with dance
bands. He was in the University of Tor-
onto, studying electrical engineering, when
he began to realize he had bitten off more
than he could handle. Class work took
thirty-three hours a week, and the dance
bands kept him up until two in the morn-
ing. He quit school. But then he had to
fortify his income, and he went to work in
a Ford plant as a press welder.

lhe turning point in Tommy's career
came about when he appeared on a Ca-
nadian TV talent show, Pick The Stars.
Tommy won the first night and came back,
five weeks later, to appear in the semi-
finals. He lost. Two weeks later, however,
the Canadian Broadcasting Company
signed him to a year's contract. Since
then, he has become one of Canada's
brightest TV stars on Country Hoedown.

"I was accomplishing some of the things
I had hoped for," Tommy says, "but one
of my ambitions was to get on Talent
Scouts. Well, I had auditioned twice in
New York and had been turned down
both times. But when auditions were held
in Toronto — at a time when I had the
benefit of more experience — I was chosen
to come to New York as a contestant."
Tommy won, and he says no small part of
it was due to Jan's help. "You know," he
says, "even though I'm on TV every week
in Toronto, there were still things Miss
Davis pointed out that helped my presenta-
tion. I'm sold on her. I doubt that you'll
find a more able, sincere woman in the
entertainment business today."

Though admitting that he is serious by
nature, Tommy notes that he is happy and
content with his life. Three years ago, he
married a girlhood sweetheart, Doreen
Stevens. They have a year-old son named
Jamie. "My philosophy toward show busi-
ness is simple enough," he says. "I've
heard that, if you can start at the top, then
start at the top. But, if you can't, then
start at the bottom."

The only complaint many gals have had
with Tommy Common, Danny Costello —
and Pat Boone, too, for that matter — is
that, although they are handsome and
personable and young enough, they have
wives and children. But, this past spring,
Talent Scouts came up with the answer
to a maiden's prayer. He is nineteen-
year-old Steve Karmen, born in Manhat-
tan and raised in the Bronx, a blond six-
footer with blue eyes. With him, music
is a must. "Music is my hobby, my work
and my life," says Steve.

Steve was one of the losers on the show
of April 15, 1957. That night, the winner
was a singer, Bob Dini. "I was watching
off stage when Bob's name was announced,"
Steve recalls, "and my face fell a mile.
Then I heard Mr. Godfrey saying, 'You
don't mind if I take this other young
fellow along to the morning show, too.'

' And he called me out and I just lit up like
a Christmas tree."

That night, and for the following few
nights, no one slept at the Karmen apart-
ment. Teenagers were calling all hours.
Finally, the phone number had to be
changed for the sake of his parents' nerves.
"I got a big kick out of the calls," Steve
says. "Just talking to teenagers. That's
the part of show business I like. It's the
relationship to people — entertaining them,
traveling and meeting different kinds."

Steve lives with his parents in the Bronx.
His one brother is a doctor. His father is
a civil engineer employed by the City of
New York. Steve's parents have so many
brothers and sisters that Steve figures he's
got close to fifty first-cousins — but, out of
the whole mob, he is the only one in show
business.
He has a natural aptitude for music. At

' eleven, he got a hand-me-down saxophone,
Ten days later, he gave a recital in public
school. He had two years of formal lessons
on the sax and then, on his own, picked
up flute, mandolin, piano, clarinet, drums,
bass viol and guitar. He reads music for
all the instruments, plays well enough to
work with a dance band. For example,
the guitar — which he picked up within the
past year — he plays in any key. "I learn
by watching," he says. "I'll see a guitarist
do something I'd like to do, and I'll ask
him to show me howr he does it, then I go
home and practice."

Steve thought he wanted to be a doctor
and he tried to stick to pre-med at New
York University. His grades were good,

. but he transferred over to the Manhattan
School of Music. He had stayed only a
half-year when he decided that loving
music didn't necessarily mean he had to
be a teacher. In the fall of 1956, he began
to study acting at the American Theater
Wing. Just a month before he had hap-
pened to become a professional singer.
A Calypso singer at The Living Room, a

I Manhattan club, took ill. A friend who
had heard Steve sing Calypso at parties
recommended Steve — who showed up for
one night, "to fill in." He was invited back
the next night, and lasted fourteen weeks.
After that, he sang at another club, Le
Ruban Bleu. He was at the Velvet Club,
when he appeared on Talent Scouts and
lost. But Arthur took him on the morning
show for two weeks, then talked him into
"goofing off".

"Well, you see," says Steve, "Mr. God-
frey kidded me about the fact that I sang
Calypso but had never been in Trinidad.
Then Moore -McCormack Lines offered me
a free sixty-day cruise. Well,' I was hesi-
tant about going. It sounded like goofing
off. So I talked with Mr. Godfrey about it.
He told me to go. He said there are so
many people in show business who know
show business and that's all. And he said
it isn't enough. You've got to be some-
thing else, too.

"Miss Davis agreed with Mr. Godfrey
about the trip. I have a lot of respect
for her. She had a problem in getting me
ready for Talent Scouts. I have nerves.

' I just about shake all over, every time I
get in front of the camera. I was about

, to work without my guitar, but she in-
sisted it would be a good anchor for me,
since I was used to working with it. But
mostly, it was her manner that made me
feel at ease. Show business is like any-
thing else in life. You do your best when
you can feel that people like and appre-

j ciate you. Well, that's the way everyone
has been in the Godfrey office. I'm just a

^kid, but they worked on my arrangements

'as though I were a star. They all want to
help me."

And there you have it, Mr. Godfrey and
Miss Davis, a half-dozen of the nicest
testimonials any dedicated talent scout
ever had!

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Who Could Ever Be Lonely?

(Continued from page 24)
designed showcase all her own. From the
beginning, he was keenly aware of her
rich contralto voice . . . her versatility in
singing everything from ballads, rhythm
tunes, blues and rock 'n' roll to folk airs
in equally fluent English and French . . .
her chic and charming personality . . . not
to mention her talent as a violinist, which
gave her a strong additional claim to vir-
tuoso Benny's attention!

As long ago as January, 1956, Jack told
Gisele— and continued to tell her — that
the time had come for her to quit the
Hit Parade. "He said," Gisele recalls,
" 'Don't let the boat sail.' Sounds cryptic,
but I knew what he meant . . . that, if
you stay too long in any one place, on
any one job, you may miss the chance
of going on to new experiences, new chal-
lenges . . . the chance of widening your
horizons, of growing. I didn't quit then.
But, when my contract was up, this past
January, and I was asked whether I was
going to remain with the show, I said, 'No,
a change is long overdue . . .'

"The long overdue change began when
I signed with Jack's company, J & M Pro-
ductions, and plans for the show— my
show — were begun. Jack is acting in the
capacity of adviser. He picked the writers
and the director. He also chose the format
for the show . . . sort of a loose format.
Some weeks, we may have a story line.
Other weeks, I'll work more with the
guests. Some weeks, Jack will be on with
me — I hope. Some weeks, I'll sing more
than other weeks ... the idea being that
viewers will not be able to say, in the first
five minutes, 'She's going to do this or that.'
Fluidity — the 'surprise' element — is what
we're striving for and hoping the viewers
will enjoy."

A network show of this caliber takes a
deal of preparation and, during the months
before its premiere, other experiences and
excitements made headlines in the accele-
rated life of Winnipeg's increasingly famous
daughter. Right after Your Hit Parade
finished its season last June, Gisele went
off to Las Vegas to play a three weeks'
engagement at The Flamingo with— you've
guessed it— her favorite partner on any
stage ... the thirty-nine-year-young Mr.
Benny.

"Love working with Jack," she sparkles.
"Working with him is like going to school.
You learn something all the time. You
sense his infallible sense of timing. His
waiting for an audience to react is so
perfect. You learn that this man is so
perfect professionally. Apart from being
a born comedian, Jack is also a born direc-
tor. He communicates his matchless sense
of timing to you. The exact purpose of
reading a line this way, instead of that
way, becomes clear — when he reads it.
. . . My only complaint about working with
Mr. B.," Gisele laughs, "is that it's some-
times quite unbearable when he turns
those big blue eyes on you . . . you know
what I mean — you've seen him do it on
TV . . . and I break up, crumble up inside!
As an instance of the type of person Jack
is ... he insisted on co -billing for our act
at The Flamingo. You would naturally as-
sume, as I did, that the billing would be:
'Jack Benny' in big letters, followed by
'with Gisele MacKenzie' in small letters.
But no. 'Jack Benny and Gisele MacKen-
zie,' share and share' alike, is the way the
act is billed. At one point, he even thought
it would be fun if we were billed: Gisele
MacKenzie with Jack Benny.' Jack is like
this. Pretty perfect personally, as well as
professionally."

Just before doing her last show for Your
Hit Parade and leaving for Las Vegas,

Gisele spoke eagerly of the summers
plans, both work and play. "Immediately
we finish our three weeks at The Flam-
ingo," she glowed, "I go on to Dallas, Texas,
for the lead in 'Annie Get Your Gun.' And
then— then I go to Europe. My first trip to
Europe. A first anything is exciting," Gisele
took a deep, deep breath, "but a first trip
to Europe. I'm going by boat — just be-
cause, to me, there'll be more feeling of
really going to Europe on shipboard . . .
especially, the first time.

"While there, I'll make a few appear-
ances, such as on the BBC in London, and
an in-person appearance in Monte Carlo.
Other than this, I'll just vacation. I'll go
to all the places —or most of them— I've
dreamed of all my life . . . Paris and Rome
and Venice and Naples and Florence and
Zurich. But, if I were told I could visit
only one place, one city in all of Europe,
that one city would be Paris. I'd rather see
Paris than any place on earth. I have a
special feeling about Paris, and feel it will
not be strange to me ... as if I had been
there before. This may be because of my
French background and because we spoke
French at home," explained Gisele, whose
father is Dr. George MacKenzie La Fleche
of Winnipeg and whose mother is a former
concert singer and pianist who was known
as Mme. Marietta Monseau.

"Paris clothes?" Gisele echoed. "Not
many. I may buy one dress — just, you
know, for the sentiment of the thing. But
I can see myself loose in the perfume shops
of Paris," she added, with a glint in her
brilliant brown eyes. "I'm so crazy about
perfume, I'll be going right out of my
head! Love all perfumes* especially Vert
Vent — I use gallons of it, but it's hard to
get here in America, and very expensive.
I'll probably be brought home floating in
a tank of it!

"I'll come home, by the way," Gisele
wound up her pre-vacation anticipations,
"by the polar flight . . . leave from Paris,
a stopover in Copenhagen, then around
the North Pole and on to Los Angeles . . .
where, within a week, I'll start working
on — here come those lovely, scary words
again! — my show."

With The Gisele MacKenzie Show being
telecast "live" from Hollywood, she has
just one regret in this wonderful year.
She'll be leaving behind her new apart-
ment, sixteen stories above New York's
Central Park. Gisele leased it, a little more
than a year ago, and took such zestful
delight in furnishing and decorating it to
her own taste, in her favorite colors. This,
too, had been a "first" for Gisele, the first
place of her own she has ever had.

"Since I am, by nature, a mobile unit,
easy to uproot," Gisele smiles, "I really
don't mind leaving the apartment ... al-
though there'll be things I'll miss. Since I
love to cook — and even love to eat what
I cook!— the things I'll miss most are my
familiar pots and pans . . . familiar pots
and pans being as indispensable to anyone
who really loves to cook as good brushes
and palette are to the artist who really
loves to paint. However, I'm keeping the
apartment, not even sub-letting. The pat-
tern might change next year. And, mean-
while, it will be a convenient place for my
relatives to stay when they come to town
■ — my mother and father, perhaps my two
brothers and two sisters.

"Actually, I'm glad to be going to Cali-
fornia. I used to live there and, being a
nature lover, I love it. Love having flowers
the year 'round, love being able to be out-
doors and in the sun the year 'round. I'll
have Wolfgang von Bagel and Brunhilde —
my two long-haired dachshunds, common-
ly called Wolfie and Bruna — with me.
Otherwise, I'll live alone . . . and love it!

"I do like living alone," Gisele says,
with all the sincerity which is so much a
part of her nature. "I enjoy it. It gives me
a lot of peace, gives me freedom from the
tension of being obliged to adjust my way
of life to that of another individual. Under
present circumstances, I have enough ten-
sion to overcome, enough adjusting to do
in my work. Once you are obliged to ad-
just to another person — especially, I'm
sure, if the other person is a husband —
your joys may be doubled, but so are your
problems, responsibilities, and the demands
made upon you. If I had a husband — par-
ticularly, if we had children — I would
want to give them much more time than
a 'career girl' could manage at this point
in her career.

"V
I ou hear and read quite a bit," Gisele

says soberly, "about stars who can't be
with their husbands or wives because 'our
schedules don't permit.' Sometimes, they've
even had to postpone their honeymoons
because of 'prior professional commit-
ments.' I'd rather be a bachelor girl to
the end of my days than be a party to
such a way of life. Yet," she sighs and
shrugs her slim shoulders, "what to do
about it? I'm afraid any man I marry
would have to be willing to let me con-
tinue with my career ... I don't think I
could live without it now. If I were obliged
to give it up, I would really be miserable.
But, you ask, doesn't love compensate?
Not entirely, I suspect. Part of love is joy
in what you are doing in life. And, if you
are not doing what you have most loved
doing for as long as you can remember . . .
with me, it was always music — piano, vio-
lin, singing . . . you are going to be pretty
unfulfilled, love notwithstanding.

"Perhaps I feel this way because I have
never really been in love?" Gisele ponders
the question. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either
way, I would still feel as I do because it
seems to me that, so often, the very
women who give up their careers for love
are the very women who cry on your
shoulder, once the honeymoon is over, and
the first thing you know — boom — they're
right back there on stage or camera again
In my opinion, only a woman who gen-
uinely dislikes her career and is glad to
have a man take her out of it — who's beer,
waiting for a man to take her out of it —
is wise in bowing out of her career. Other-
wise, she's kidding herself.

"To be married to another singer —
which has been suggested to me as an
idyllic arrangement," Gisele laughs, "this.
I think, would be terrible! I can just imag-
ine the daily dialogue: 'Let me teach you
how to sing this song.' 'Teach me? Why-
it's my song, I introduced it!' 'No, no.
phrase it my way — much better phrasing.'
Oh, no," Gisele shudders. "Someone in the
business, yes, possibly ... a writer, pro-
ducer, director . . . but not a co-star. For
the danger in that is — how long do you
remain 'co'? All at once, one goes ahead of
the other, one is in demand, the other is
not . . . and the ending to that little story
is not, in a word, idyllic.

"A doctor? Perhaps — ever get laryngitis,
he'd be right there! A lawyer? A veterin-
arian? With any professional man, you
might well strike the snag that he's not
willing for his wife to continue her own
career. Unless a man is very, very under-
standing and can laugh at being called —
well, Mr. Gisele MacKenzie, for instance!
— he doesn't take kindly to the life of a
career woman's husband. Especially, if hei
is the strong, masculine, normal-type guyjj
you would naturally want him to be.

"Still, why worry about it?" Gisel
laughs. "Usually, love happens to you
when you least expect it . . . and with th

one you least expect — or want — it to hap-
pen with. The tall, good-looking fellow,
friend of the family— they like him, you've
known him all your life — just the right one
for you to marry . . . you don't fall in love
with him. The one you fall in love with is
a stranger, a naughty fellow, the one the
family doesn't like, the one you shouldn't
marry. So I," Gisele grins impishly, "shall
bide my marryin' time . . . and, since I
have a lot of men all around me, pain-
lessly!

"I actually do have a lot of men around
me. My manager, Bob Shuttleworth. My
agents at Music Corporation of America.
When I want tickets for a Broadway show,
all I need do is call Lee Shepp at MCA
and he gets them for me. Any trips I make,
Lee gets the tickets, delivers them by
hand, arranges transportation to the station
or airport. If I travel anywhere alone,
whatever the destination, I am met by one
of the MCA men. Always a man to help
me, no matter where. My business man-
ager, George Gottfried of Beverly Hills,
handles all my money. Since I'm not a
homeowner, if the roof leaks or the plumb-
ing fails, it's the superintendent's head-
ache, not mine. All of which means that
I'm not obliged to do any of the things
about which women who live alone — and
hate it — complain.

"As a matter of fact," she adds, "when
you're on television, you soon find out you
are very seldom alone. If a movie star is
in Saks Fifth Avenue, all people do is
point to her and say, 'Ooh, there's Deborah
Kerr!' They don't go near her. Just stare.
But, if I'm in there, it's the slap on the
back and a cheery, 'Hey, Gisele, how're
the dogs?' Same with taxicab drivers, truck
drivers, waiters, grocery clerks, house-
wives, teenagers. TV is so personal, you
see. You're in people's homes. They feel
they really know you — so why not? I find
it very warming.

"Nevertheless, I've been asked if it isn't
lonely when I close the door of my apart-
ment— or wherever I happen to be living
— and there's no one there. No, not for me,
it isn't. I repeat: I like to be alone. I think
every woman should be alone, and quiet,
some part of every day. Often, I find I
don't even turn on the radio or TV — can't
hear my thoughts. I like to hear my
thoughts. They are, for the most part,
pleasant ones. I don't get gloomy or blue
very often, or for very long. A day or two,
perhaps, and then — 'All right,' I say to my-
self, 'that's enough of that, pick yourself
up!' And I do.

"T
1 don't worry too much. Right now, of

course, I'm both scared and glad that my
show is my show — The Gisele MacKenzie
Show — which means terrific responsibility
and a lot of hard work. I'm not going to
j let it throw me too much, not going to
I think at all about the ratings. To heck
: with them! Like so many others, I think
I the rating system should be dispensed
i with altogether. Too nervous-making for
| performers . . . which doesn't do anyone
any good, audience or advertiser.
j ■ "To sum up, I'm happy," Gisele smiles.
, "No, not completely happy — is there any
; such thing as a completely happy human
being? It's simply not in human nature . . .
and, I suspect, not meant to be. The best
I you can achieve is contentment . . . which
! is better, because it's calmer, more stable,
| more lasting than happiness. My father
taught me how to be contented. He hasn't
| got much, but he likes what he's got.
That's the secret of contentment. If some-
thing extra is handed to you, it's just that
much nicer!

"Meanwhile," says Gisele MacKenzie,
from the heart, "I like what I've got. I
couldn't— how could I, at this moment?—
ask for more."

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Truth — and Its Consequences

(Continued from page 32)
radio and television, Barker's "big chance"
has finally come along — proving, once
again, that hard work pays off.

Though Bob describes himself as one
who is unable to sing, dance, or tell funny
stories, he is a dedicated showman, waxes
most enthusiastic when he is entertaining
people. How did this enthusiasm develop?
On his first radio job. . . .

As Bob recalls his first day at KTTS, the
Springfield, Missouri radio station where
he got his start eleven years ago, "I was
working with an old grizzled engineer who
wondered about my starting radio work on
one hand and, on the other, studying
economics at Drury College. He said, 'Boy,
what are you planning to do with your-
self?' I answered, 'I'm going on to gradu-
ate school . . . maybe join a big company
as an administrator.' He looked at me for
a second and said, 'Listen, youngster, if
you stick around here for six months,
you'll never want to do anything else.' "

The engineer was right. After working
at KTTS for six months as news writer,
announcer, disc jockey and handyman, Bob
never wanted to do anything else — he eats,
sleeps and breathes radio and television.
In his spare time, he watches other TV
emcees ("It's like going to school") and
listens to the radio in bed at night. Radio
and TV are Barker's primary interests —
his job is his hobby.

.Bob's rewards come from the success of
the show. "I read something of Al Capp's
once," says Bob, whose favorite comic
strip is "Li'l Abner." "Capp said that, when
his cartoon is doing well, he feels like a
young man, like a million dollars, like his
clothes look good on him. But when Ab-
ner' is going badly, he knows that he is
getting old, he's grumpy in the morning,
and he's sure his suits don't fit. I feel the
same way. When a show doesn't quite
come off, I'm at my lowest ebb; when it
goes well, I'm flying."

One great reason for Bob's interest in
his work is that he loves meeting people,
and each day he greets dozens as guests,
plus hundreds in his audiences. It's an
interest he's always had. When Bob and
his lovely wife Dorothy Jo first came to
Hollywood, they did a show in San Fer-
nando Valley for an appliance dealer
whose display was set up in the Depart-
ment of Water and Power. Later, the
Edison Company asked him to do the same
show in their auditoriums throughout
Southern California.

At their first show in Alhambra, one of
Bob's guests was a sprightly, seventy-five-
year-old lady by the name of Maude Hall.
"Maude," says Bob proudly, "is now in
her 80's, but hasn't missed a show of ours
at the Alhambra Auditorium in seven
years. I call that friendship. This may
sound corny to some, but our dearest
friends are made right on our show. Our
guests are the most important people in
the world to us. Let's face it — I'm not a
'stand-up comic' Yet I am making a living
with a microphone. It stands to reason, the
credit goes to the folks on our shows."

Eleven years of hard work on Bob's part
paid off one day last December, when
Truth Or Consequences executive-pro-
ducer Ralph Edwards — driving his two
daughters, Chris and Laurie, to their
Christmas shopping — chanced to pick up
the Bob Barker radio show on KHJ. "I
heard a solid thirty minutes of audience
J laughter," recalls Ralph, "and the emcee
* work was so good I thought it was a series
of clips from one man's best work. The
way Bob drew laughs from that crowd was
sheer artistry. Not hearing his name, I
68

asked Chris and Laurie to listen for it—
and I called him the next day."

"The call was placed by Ralph's brother,
Paul," Bob remembered. "When I returned
the call, the operator said, 'Ralph Ed-
wards Productions,' and I wondered what
they wanted with me. When I told the
secretary that Paul had said it was im-
portant, she replied he was in conference
with Ralph, but she'd try to get through
to him. Then it was Ralph himself who
said, 'Hello.' You could have knocked me
down with a feather."

Ralph asked Bob if he were the Bob
Barker of the radio show. Bob said yes.
"I want you to know," said Ralph, "I think
you do an excellent job." Bob will remem-
ber his reaction: "This bowled me over
... I had been a fan of Ralph's for years,
he had been my model, so the compliment
was like having Joe DiMaggio tell a rookie
he knew how to play ball well."

Ed Bailey, Truth Or Consequences pro-
ducer, describes the staff's first meeting
with Bob: "When Ralph mentioned to us
he had heard this terrific radio emcee,"
says Ed, "I remarked that, on radio, he
could be fat and have two heads. But how
would he come across on television? Since
none of us had seen Bob, we were thunder-
struck when in walked this tall, good-look-
ing young man, with a smile that made you
glad to be in the same room with him.

"The more we talked," Bailey continues,
"the more sure we were he'd be right for
T Or C. Yet, as producer, I had the normal
apprehensions about a relative newcomer
stepping into a five-a-week national tele-
vision show. After the audition, though, I
threw my worries to the winds. Ralph had
kept saying, 'I wish he would so something
wrong . . . he's just too good!' Within
thirty minutes, we agreed the national
television audience was about to meet a
personality destined for stardom."

Producer Bailey loves to blow the
trumpets of praise in Bob's favor: "In all
my years of show business, I've never
worked with anyone who impressed me
more on a first audition, and who con-
tinued to improve as we did more shows.
Bob has great intelligence, can grasp the
content of a stunt in seconds. We go over
an act with him once, then he goes ahead
and ad-libs it. He has a pin-sharp mem-
ory— and it seems to improve as we con-
tinue doing more shows."

Bob's reaction to this first chance at his
own national television show was one full
week of nerves. "I lost ten pounds," he
admits. "But Ed Bailey looked after me
like a father. Ed's a great gourmet, knows
all the best eating spots in Hollywood and
took me out to lunch every day. I soon
gained back the ten pounds. If I'm not
careful," Bob says with a wry grin, "I'll
be heavier than Mr. Bailey."

Bob Barker was born some thirty-four
years ago in Darrington, Washington, but
spent the bulk of his early childhood in
the Midwest. His father worked as a
high -lineman. The big construction jobs
he followed through the Northwest kept
the family constantly on the move. Too
many moves in early life make it tough
on youngsters, and Bob admits the con-
stant changes didn't help him develop a
feeling of permanence or security.

And then, when Bob was six, his father
died. "That was the beginning of the De-
pression," Bob recalls, "and it was Mother
who supported us. For a while, we lived
in hotels. Then, when things got rough, we
went back to my mother's home in Mis-
sion, South Dakota, where she taught
school on the Rosebud Indian Reserva-
tion." Bob's father was part Sioux; his
mother, raised in the area, knew enough

Indian lore to write a book on Dakota
history. A story-teller by nature, she kept
Bob's little-boy interest captured by her
tales of the old West. He says shyly, "I
suppose every boy thinks his mother is the
greatest mother in the world . . . I'm no
exception."

Bob's father had been a great sports
enthusiast. Before he died, he had taken
Bob to every available football, baseball
and basketball game. "When I was ten,
and old enough to play the games myself,"
says Bob, "I most admired the fellows on
the Rosebud Reservation basketball team.
Jimmy Bartlet and Chris Yellow Robe
were my heroes."

With a love of sports in his blood, Bob's
childhood ambition was to become a
pitcher some day for the St. Louis Cardi-
nals (the team his dad had liked). "I had
pictures of every baseball player tacked
up in my room," he remembers with a
faraway look in his eyes. "I played base-
ball from morning to night, read every
sports magazine and every book on base-
ball. All I cared about was pitching for
the St. Louis Cards."

But the time came when Bob had to
make a choice — he had an opportunity to
continue with his baseball in a summer
league, at no pay, or else give up his
dream and take a job as a bellhop to help
out financially at home. It was a hard
decision for a young man to make, but
Bob, always more mature than his years,
knew which way he would go. "As it
worked out," he smiles, "the three sum-
mers I spent at Lake Taneycomo, in Mis-
souri's Piney County, were the happiest of
my life. Our high-school history teacher,
Mr. Charles White, was in charge, and took
a number of boys from school to help out
at the hotel. But we were unlike any bell-
hops you ever saw — the boats at the re-
sort, the swimming, dancing and our meals
were all free. We had a ball."

When Bob was in his teens, he and his
mother moved to Springfield, Missouri,
where she continued teaching school, and
where Bob met and married his high-
school sweetheart, Dorothy Jo Gideon.
"When we moved to Missouri," says Bob,
"I met Jim ('Green Door') Lowe. We be-
came high- school chums. At the time, he
and Dorothy Jo were friends, lived a block
apart, and had been buddies for years.

"Jim introduced us. He had a spur-of-
the-moment idea to go hear Ella Fitzgerald
at the Shrine Mosque, asked me to go
along. 'I don't have a date,' I told him.
'I'll fix you up with Dorothy Jo Gideon,
he said. I'd admired 'DJ' from a distance.
But, not wanting to look too eager at the
time, I wasn't about to tell Jim I was all
for it. Crossing my fingers I un-enthused,
'Oh, I don't know . . . I've never met
Dorothy Jo.' 'Leave it to me,' Jim said.
'DJ is my oldest friend.'

"So that's the way we met — double-
dating at an Ella Fitzgerald songfest. On
our second date, we heard Russ Morgan's
band. I didn't need Jim to ask DJ for me
this time — we had hit it off just right on
our first date. And, when Russ Morgan
played 'Does Your Heart Beat for Me?
I knew that Dorothy Jo was the girl for
me. She went home that night to tell her
mother she was going to marry that new
boy, Bob Barker. Since she was only
fifteen at the time, this came as a shock
to her mother."

Dorothy Jo explains, "I had known Bob
from a distance, too. What I knew I liked:
He was sports editor on our Hi Times
newspaper, co-captain of the basketball
team, and announcer at the football games,
But none of that made any difference tc

me. He was ever so romantic ... I knew
that after our first date. I just thought he
was pretty — that was my entire interest.
It's what I told my folks, who were wait-
ing up when I returned home. I didn't
know what Bob intended becoming after
school, didn't care. I just wanted to marry
him. But it was a long courtship. Even in
Missouri," says Dorothy Jo with a laugh,
''you can't marry until eighteen — a three-
year wait."

"After our second date," Bob says, "we
were going steady. Like most kids, we
broke up now and then, but we always
went back together. Why the breakups?
It's normal for kids, I suppose. For one
thing, I started calling her 'Tubby' — and
she started calling me 'Skinny.' At the
time, I weighed 135— DJ, 142."

"There are two very simple reasons for
the weight," explains Dorothy Jo. "For
ine, Bob and his mother live close to
Drury College. I ate lunch with him — and,
Irequently, a second lunch put out for
re at home. On the other hand, the only
;ime Bob came over to our place for din-
ler, he got the mumps, and never came
oack! The second reason for the weight
vvas a plain cheese sandwich . . . with
jutter. Talk about calories! At Bob's place,
;hose cheese things were all we ever ate.
i don't mind — the cheese sandwiches make
urn the world's easiest man to cook for."

Bob and Dorothy Jo were married when
le won his Navy wings in 1944. "It was a
aectic affair," remembers Bob. "I left
Corpus Christi to meet Dorothy Jo in
Springfield. If you've ever tried to get
lotel reservations in wartime, you know
A^hat our problem was. ... A flyer friend
)f mine, Howard Hessick, finally made
•eservations for us at a small hotel.

"Poor Dorothy Jo had to make all the
urangements for her own wedding — I was

on duty at the Air Base. She bought the
ring, arranged for the license, even bought
my train ticket. When I joined her in
Springfield, we had everything but a min-
ister. Had to look in the yellow pages to
find one. The ceremony took place in his
home, with a record machine in the next
room playing 'Make Believe.' It seemed so,
too. Poor Dorothy Jo didn't even get flow-
ers, and nobody threw rice — we didn't
have the food stamps. Speaking of food,"
Bob concludes, "since our earliest days,
I've put on a little weight — now weigh
170 — and Dorothy Jo has a lovely 107-
pound figure. Don't let anybody kid you
into thinking people don't change after
marriage!"

After the war, Bob, still in uniform,
tried for several other jobs before he
walked into radio station KTTS one day.
"I simply stopped in to see if there were
a vacancy," shrugs Bob. "I didn't care
what I did, I was just looking for a pay-
check to help me finish school. The station
manager asked me if I would like to
audition. Not knowing exactly what that
was, I said yes, I was all for it. Every
audition since then has scared me to death.
But ignorance being bliss, this one fazed
me not. The manager gave me a sheaf
of news and commercials to read. When
I was through, I had the job."

Since KTTS was a small station, Bob
worked as a news writer, announcer, disc
jockey and general handy man. It was
weeks before he was given his first chance
at announcing. "I had a sneaking sus-
picion that this would be the day Bob
was to read his first newscast," reports
Dorothy Jo, who was then teaching school.
"7 was the one with stage fright. I didn't
know if he could get through a sentence
without a struggle. So I listened to every

newscast — then there it was. No mistaking
that Barker voice. I was pleasantly sur-
prised to find he could read from one
comma to another. Seriously, I was quite
impressed and proud of my husband."

From KTTS, Bob and Dorothy Jo went
to Station WWPG in Palm Beach, Florida,
where DJ taught in the local high school
while Bob picked up general announcing
and disc- jockey duties at the station. It
was here that he began putting together
the format of his current Bob Barker
radio audience-participation show, and DJ
began spending more and more time help-
ing with the production chores and less
time teaching.

The Barkers left Florida, chased out by
the area's greatest hurricane. Bob had been
feeding the story of the big wind to the
NBC radio network from the station's
beachfront building (reputed to be the
safest place in town) when the chandelier
filled with water and came crashing down
on a divan Bob and DJ had been resting
on only a moment before.

They arrived in Hollywood with a
dwindling bank account and no immediate
prospects. Bob's first try for a job in Hol-
lywood was as a time salesman for a
local radio station. Three hours later, an
appliance dealer agreed to sponsor a show,
but insisted that Bob star as the emcee.
The Bob Barker Show was born and,
since then, has been heard on a number
of local Hollywood stations, most recently
on KHJ, five days a week.

It was this show which Ralph Edwards
heard while out Christmas shopping with
his daughters, and this show which cata-
pulted Bob into his current starring spot
five times each week on Truth Or Con-
sequences, over NBC-TV and Radio. Bob's
eleven years of hard work, his abiding in-
terest in his fellowman, has paid off.

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(Continued from page 37)
he didn't want to seem conceited, and he
didn't want to do the girl in the case an
injustice, but he had detected in her con-
versation a broad hint that if he would
advance her career. . . .

Art explained that the experience was
not unusual for anyone who had a "name"
in show business — there would always be
those who imagined that talent and hard
work were secondary, while "contacts"
and a "sponsor" were of top importance.
"It's just as well that you've met up with
the theory now, instead of later, when love
and trust might have been involved. Now
you know what to guard against."

Jack was a woman-hater for almost a
week. Then he met a young singer. "You'll
be crazy about her," he told his parents.
"She believes in getting where she wants
to go under her own power. Work! That
girl studies, take lessons, practices . . ."

"How about double-dating with us at
the Cocoanut Grove Tuesday night?" Art
asked his son. He was taken up instantly,
as he had been many times in the past —
and was to be often in the future.

Jack's first year of college (at U.S.C.
where his social fraternity is Beta Theta
Pi and his scholastic major is Telecom-
munications) was a repetition of high
school, romance-wise. Each girl, in turn,
was the most beautiful, the neatest, the
sweetest, the greatest. Matrimony was al-
ways just around the corner.

During the summer of Jack's eighteenth
year — 1956 — he spent three months in
Munich working for Radio Free Europe.
Inevitably there was a girl. Brilliant. Com-
petent. Flaxen hair, flawless complexion.
The goddess had but one almost invisible
flaw. She always decided where she and
Jack would dine — and she ordered the
dinner. Also, she coached Jack in politics,
in diplomacy, and in German grammar.
He reported that his ego had sunk so
deep he was beginning to yearn for the
good old U.S.A.

One of Jack's first activities, after re-
turning to California, was to join a group
of his fraternity brothers in a patrol of
U.C.L.A. terrain. The occasion of Jack's
crosstown trip was "Presents" (accent on
the last syllable) — the presentation of
pretty, new sorority pledges to all in-
terested observers. Unfortunately, Jack &
Brethren were a little late for dates. After
covering Sorority Row, the tardy Betas
returned to a favorite staging area, the
Alpha Chi Omega house. "We're desper-
ate," they confessed. "We're in need of
dates — with the result that we will be
kind to some of your Older Types. How
about lining up some seniors, preferably
without crutches?"

A senior named Barbara Hughes (so
recently returned from a vacation in
Honolulu that her usual dates hadn't
caught up with her yet) was available.
However, she knew that a sorority sister
had dated Jack in the past, so she checked
with a chapter heartbreak authority for
clearance. She was told that there was no
conflict, and that Jack was a "fun" date.

The evening proved to be a Royal Ball.
The orchestra at the spot where they
stopped for a dance played "Friendly Per-
suasion." The juke at the hamburger haven
played "Friendly Persuasion." Even the
car radio tuned in on "Friendly Persua-
sion." Appropriately, Jack — in friendly
manner — tried to persuade Barbara that
_ a summer in Munich was the greatest
v (such gorgeous girls) . . . whereas she in-
sisted that Munich was Germany, but
Honolulu was paradise (those boys on the
beach!).

Jack kidded Barbara about her age.
70

Jack of Hearts

"You're pretty well preserved to be a
senior," he told her. "How old are you,
anyhow?" She said she was twenty. She
would be twenty-one on October 24. How
old was he? Eighteen-year-old Jack said
without hesitation, "I'll be twenty-one on
November 20" — carefully neglecting to
specify what year.

Fleetingly, Barbara wondered how it
happened that a boy so bright should be
two years behind her in school, although
he was less than a month younger. But,
later that night, she told her roommates
that she had enjoyed her date with Jack
very much. He seemed, she said, amazingly
down-to-earth. He was fun, he was at-
tentive, and not even Arthur Godfrey
could have discerned any lack of humility.

"And he's so mature to be only eighteen,"
piped up an ever-helpful freshman. "He's
how old?" demanded Barbara. "Eighteen,"
stated the freshman flatly. "I was in high
school with him, so I know."

For the first time in her life, Barbara
felt that twenty -five months was roughly
equivalent to a twenty-five-year seniority.
She scanned her mirror for signs of wear
and tear on her ancient, twenty-year-old
countenance.

As for Jack, after his first date with
Barbara, he decided to spend the week-

Full-size portrait in full color:

STEVE ALLEN and
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Inside: The tender story of their

star-kissed marriage

•

Just one of many exclusive features

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November
TV RADIO MIRROR

at your favorite newsstand October 3

end at home, in preference to returning
to the apartment he shared with two
fraternity brothers near S.C. Next morn-
ing, he told his parents, "I met a very
interesting girl last night."

This mild statement elicited more re-
sponse than all Jack's years of announcing
ebulliently that he was balanced on the
brink of marriage. The senior Linkletters
exchanged glances and Art asked, "In-
teresting in what way?"

Jack tried to particularize. Barbara was
quiet but, when she had something to say,
she spoke up briefly, concisely, and with
humor. She was part-paying her own
way through college by driving a school
bus and by teaching dancing. She was a
Physical Education major and had already
arranged to serve as counselor at a girls'
camp the following summer, after gradua-
tion, and she was going to start her teach-
ing career the succeeding fall.

This description was so thoughtful and so
far afield from Jack's usual recommenda-
tions that his mother inquired, "How
come no rhapsodies over eyes, hair, teeth,
hands, and so forth? Is this a girl who
must be appreciated for inner worth?"

"Who said Barbara isn't beautiful?" was
the astonished reply. "Of course, she is.

Dark brown hair, worn short. Wide blue
eyes. A cute little heart-shaped face. But
the fact that she is so pretty is just an
added attraction. The first thing you be-
gin to realize about her is that she has
quality. Dignity. A sort of womanly pride
and sweetness. I think you'll like her."

Swallowing hard, Father Linkletter sug-
gested that he and Lois join Jack and
Barbara for an evening at The Grove the
following weekend. Standard procedure,
of course, so Jack accepted it happily, pre-
tending that he had not noticed the
slightly greater-than-usual emphasis
placed upon the meeting.

Came the great night, bringing together
three separate attitudes toward the same
event. Jack thought, Everything will work
out great. I know the values that are im-
portant to the folks. I have confidence in
Barbara.

Barbara, knowing that a double date
with the Linkletters was standard operat-
ing procedure, thought it would be an
interesting evening — if she could control
the tendency of her hands to tremble.

Art and Lois told one another: This
seems to be somewhat different from the
roller-coaster romances of the past. We
shall see what we shall see. What they
saw was a remarkably pretty girl, poised,
serene, and — a vital but often underrated
quality — sensible. Only her toying with
an earring (the clasp, she explained, was
too tight) betrayed a minor nervousness.

She danced with Art and answered his
questions frankly and without affectation.
She said she loved children, hoped some-
day to have a large family of her own.
Her father was not living, but she and
her younger sister were fortunate in hav-
ing one of the world's unheralded saints
as a mother. Yes, she knew she would
enjoy teaching; she felt she had a knack,
and one should make use of whatever gifts
were accorded one. No, she had never
considered a show-business career; she
felt she had no talent in that field, but she
was happy to be a small part of that
largest ingredient essential to all show-
business success — an appreciative audience.

Art was impressed. "She has substance,'
he told Lois. "She just might be the girl
for Jack. She'd fit into the family com-
fortably, I think." They took Barbara to
Alisal on a weekend outing. Barbara
rode a horse for the first time and "wound
up as stiff as an ambassador's shirt at s
coronation." An excellent swimmer, how-
ever, she quickly learned aqua-lung diving
with Jack, and joined the family on seaside
expeditions. The "fit" was comfortable in-
deed.

Even so, when Jack began to talk oi
immediate marriage, father and son
went into conference. First, there was that
question of age. "Nineteen is awfully
young," Art said, inwardly smiling over
his use of the world's oldest-known
parental objection to the mating of the
younger generation.

"You were twenty when you married,'
Jack countered with a grin.

"If Lois and I had known before mar-
riage what we know now, we woulc*
have panicked before we reached the
altar," Art admitted.

"Wouldn't everybody?" asked Jack per
ceptively.

Well, what's a father to say?

They discussed all the usual problems
summoned by a serious approach to mar-
riage: Income to support a home? No
real problem, as Jack has been working,
off and on, since he was ten and the
income had been invested so wisely that

it brings in regular dividends nowadays

Military service? Jack is a member oi
the Naval R.O.T.C. at U.S.C; chances of

his being called to active duty are re-
mote, except in case of war. . . . Religious
considerations? Both Jack and Barbara
are Protestant. . . . Background? Both
were born in Southern California and
have grown up in the midst of the same
general geographical and cultural influ-
ences. . . . Children? Both think in terms
of a family of at least four, possibly more.

Obviously, there were none of the cele-
brated major conflicts between them. "But
don't forget that, in marriage, it is often
the minor and the unpredictable that cause
difficulty," Art said wisely. "The mere
friction of daily living scrapes up all
sorts of controversy. I'd appreciate it if
you two kids would postpone marriage
for at least a year, get to know one an-
other through the association of a long
engagement. How about it?"

It seemed fair. Today's young lovers
know that a love unable to endure the
simple test of time is no love at all.

Inevitably, problems — as they have
since time began — began to present them-
selves to the two people planning a life
together. Jack is a clock worshipper; he
has had to be, because of the facts of his
home environment. Regard for the split-
second becomes a hard-and-fast rule
for the family of those working in radio
or television. If there is anything that
sets Jack's teeth on edge, it is perennial
tardiness. Unfortunately, Barbara had
fallen into the habit of many a member
of her sex: She was always a little late.

Perhaps she didn't start early enough;
perhaps she had to take a last-minute
phone call; perhaps her delay was caused
by traffic — she usually had an excuse. But
excuses failed to mollify Jack when he
had agreed to pick up Barbara at a cer-
tain time and place and she arrived thirty
minutes late. Unwilling to shout at the

soft-eyed, contrite creature who had set
his blood a-boiling, Jack would sulk.

In her turn, Barbara objected to sulk-
ing. Personally, she is inclined to say what
she thinks, get it out of her system, and
forget it. When Jack sulked, Barbara
would pretend to ignore his silence and
his thunderous face. She would hum. She
would gnaw her lower lip, clear her throat,
play with a paper clip or an earring.

1 hinking of ways in which to defend
herself from Jack's dark mood, Barbara
would review some of her own complaints:
Sometimes Jack was careless with valu-
ables. For his birthday, she had given him
a valuable billfold, which he had left —
unthinkingly — on the seat of his car in
a parking lot. Naturally, it was stolen.
Also naturally, he was heartsick. But
Barbara had said candidly that it was a
wonder Jack didn't suffer constant losses
as a result of his irresponsibility. The
criticism infuriated Jack. For nineteen
years he had managed to get by without
the guidance of Miss Hughes, so what made
her think. . . .

Marriages, to say nothing of engage-
ments, have been wrecked by less.

Jack talked to his father about the
slightly foolish but oft-repeated storms.
As usual, Art came up with a suggestion.
At U.S.C., he reminded Jack, there was a
wise and understanding man at the head
of the Education for Marriage Department.
Dr. James A. Peterson. Why not enroll in
some of his classes? Barbara agreed to
the plan, so the battling beloveds attended
a three-hour evening class once a week,
for an entire semester, and consulted a
marriage counselor as well.

Barbara learned to understand and to
appreciate Jack's attitude toward punc-
tuality, and to be on time (well, on most

occasions) . Jack learned to speak up when
he was annoyed, but to be objective about
it and courteous in explaining his com-
plaint. ("Look, honey, I love you and I'm
determined to take care of you. You've pro-
crastinated long enough about that tooth.
I've made an appointment with my dentist
for three on Wednesday afternoon; I'll
drive you and pick you up at four.")

He learned to hang up coats, fold up
sweaters, take care of valuables. ("How
about me, Barbara? I haven't mislaid or
lost anything for over a month!") Barbara
learned to channel her energy into some
such useful occupation as knitting when
she was tempted to release tensions in
some meaningless activity.

Of course, they made family jokes of
their discoveries: "Look out for Barbara
when she starts to hum; she hums for the
same reason a pup growls." And, "Jack
will never allow me to have a sun-dial
in our garden. It would be an hour slow
during the daylight-saving months, and
that would drive him wild."

"The important thing isn't your having
solved these minor problems," Art told
the teasing sweethearts. "It's that you've
learned how to go about tackling the
threats to happiness in marriage."

Jack and Barbara plan to be married
on December 21, 1957. After a two-week
honeymoon, Barbara will return to her
school, and Jack will continue his classes
at U.S.C. — for two more years. Then he
hopes to step into a show of his own.

Next thing you know, Art Linkletter
will be interviewing his own grandchil-
dren on House Party — and serving as
guide to a second generation with the
some success he is enjoying the first time
around. People are funny, but children are
wonderful. Especially when they're such
a credit to a devoted dad.

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The Best I Can Be

(Continued jrom -page 34)
looking directly at you when you talk,
a classic nose and mouth, a slim and
stunning five feet, four inches shaped to
flatter the most fetching fashions . . . you
wonder why a girl such as this need be
quite so uncompromising about the things
that would come her way easily. The best
roles. Romance. Glamour. Life served
up on a silver platter.

She explains her point of view: "I must
do something completely, or not begin it.
With all my heart, or not at all. I have
a sense of truth about my work, as I hope
I have about everything important in my
life. Don't think for one moment that I
believe my ideas should apply to anyone
else. Others have their own ideas, make
their own compromises, and are happy
that way. Only — for me — it must be like
this."

She has been in one motion picture, the
feminine lead with Tony Perkins and Karl
Maiden in the story of Jim Piersall, "Fear
Strikes Out," playing Jim's wife, Mary.
Hollywood has been dangling attractive
contracts in tempting array before her,
but so far she has fought to remain free
of long commitments, free to choose her
parts, to keep on in television, which she
loves, and to think ahead to stage roles,
possibly in musicals.

"If my insistence on doing what seems
right for me should keep me from certain
roles in television, in movies or on the
stage," says Norma, "it will have to be
that way. But I don't believe our busi-
ness is like that. There is room for glam-
orous, enigmatic movie stars — I admire
them — but I don't want to be one. Recog-
nition is important to me, of course. An
actress must have it — how else would she
know she is reaching people? — but the
first recognition I want is for my work.
I certainly do not want to be built up as
a personality, always perfectly groomed,
beautifully made-up, gorgeously dressed —
much as I would love this from a woman's
point of view. My aim is to be a good
actress, the best I can be, and to look like
the woman I am portraying."

In the television part of Susan Ames in
The Secret Storm, Norma is a mother-
less girl in her early twenties who has
tried to take over as homemaker for her
father, Peter Ames, and for a younger
brother and sister. "Susan," she points
out, "is the kind of girl of whom any
parent would be proud. Uncomplicated,
not the least bit neurotic, in spite of the
many problems she has to face. Difficult
problems for so young and sympathetic a
girl. Because she is sensitive and gen-
erous, so open and responsive to others,
she is always in danger of being hurt; not
mature enough, not experienced enough,
to cope with some of the people who come
into her life. She has been dazzled by
Alan Dunbar, an engaging young man
whose motives and thinking are very dif-
ferent from her own, and this has brought
about situations and emotions she is not
equipped to handle.

"I think I am more experienced than

Susan. I have been on my own as an

actress, away from my home and parents,"

Norma explains, "but I understand her

and like her. I think I understand her

feelings about Alan . . . although the right

moment has not yet come for me to fall

in love. Of course, that could change any

T day, and all my own theories about the

v kind of man I will love and marry could

R be swept away!"

At the moment, the theories add up
about like this: She would like to be even
more firmly established as an actress, is

not certain yet how much of her career
she would be willing to give up. She
meets actors mostly, dates actors mostly,
but believes it would be better for her to
marry someone connected with the pro-
fession in some other way than acting.
Someone who knows enough about her
kind of work to speak her language, to
understand the demands on her time and
be patient with them, and to understand
what she is trying to do with her talent.

When Norma is most serious about this
subject of love and marriage, she sud-
denly breaks into a laugh, says: "Things
are not like that yet. I have known boys
I liked very much, but I haven't been
really in love. I know all these things
would depend upon how flexible we both
are. A man has to find a woman who
first appeals to him as a woman, not as
an actress. And a woman has to find a man
who is, first, the man she loves. I don't
suppose anything else would matter too
much, if that happens."

In Hollywood, she dated Tony Perkins,
was photographed with him wherever they
went, written up in the columns: "The
whole idea of being in Hollywood, the
whole experience, was breath-taking.
Something happened every day at the
studio — everyone was so kind — it all meant
such a lot to me. And Tony was so won-
derful."

She shares a small apartment with an
actress friend — and seven cats. She kept
one cat for a woman who belongs to The
Gotham Cat Club, and, as a result of this
foster-mothering, was asked by the Club
to care for two others, pets of an elderly
woman who was being sent to the hospital.
Her heart melted when she heard they had
no other home. So, rather reluctantly,
she took on the responsibility of the two
animals — and suddenly, last Easter Sun-
day, found herself presented with a litter
of five kittens.

Ask her if they are "alley cats," and her
eyes darken with belligerence. "They're
beautiful hodgepodges," she corrects you.
"Beautifully marked, each different from
the others in personality. People come to
visit, push a cat away, tell me how much
they dislike having even one cat around,
and end up by cuddling at least one in
their lap, stroking a silky ear. They al-
ways say the same thing: 'This is the first
cat I ever liked.' It happens regularly."

One kitten with a lovely, long slim
neck is named Audrey, for La Hepburn.
The four others, because of their Easter
arrival, are jointly named "Allelujah" —
Al, Le, Lou and Yah. Pop's name is
Farouk and Mom's is Mama.

Norma's family name is Veney, and her
parents are Margaret and Carl. Her father
is of Swiss origin, associated with the
textile business. The name Veney seemed
difficult to use professionally, hard to re-
member, so Norma took the name of
Moore, but she is proud of her parents,
as they are of her, and didn't like making
the change. She is an only child.

"My parents are non-professionals," she
says, "but they had faith in me and en-
couraged me. Had I wanted to be a nurse,
or a stenographer, or do any other work,
they would have felt the same way, as
long as I did a good job and was happy
in it. They are really extraordinary. I
believe they are proud of me now — not
because I am an actress instead of some-
thing else — but because, in a highly com-
petitive and difficult business, I have made
a small place for myself.

"I have had so much encouragement and
help, from many people. I doubt that Karl
Maiden, who was in 'Fear Strikes Out,'

has any idea to this day how much he
helped me and what a good friend he was.
He talked to me about the picture business,
explained things I didn't understand, gave
me pointers on how to handle myself and
the new situations in my life in Holly-
wood. Of course, there was Tony also.
And the people I know in New York.
The producers and directors who have
helped me, my fellow actors. Peter Hobbs,
who plays my father in The Secret Storm.
Haila Stoddard, who plays my Aunt
Pauline. I admire her so, have learned
from listening to her, watching her work.
In the show, I am supposed to dislike her
thoroughly, and this isn't easy, because
in reality I like everything about her.
Her lovely face, and her own ideas and
ideals about her work, and the sense of
truth she brings to it."

How Norma became an actress is all
tied up with this strong feeling she her-
self has about "truth." She never decided
to be an actress, but rather decided to go
on being what she had been as far back
as she could remember: "There is an
important distinction here. It brings us
into the whole idea of what makes people
want to act. I decided, at fourteen, to act
professionally, but that was the only
change. I had been amusing myself, and
my friends and schoolmates, from the
time I could talk. It was my natural ex-
pression and I don't know why it should
have been, or don't care to know. It was
just there."

She was acting all during the years she
went to the Poplar Street grade school in
Hazelton, Pennsylvania — she was born in
Chambersburg — and she acted when she
went to high school in Greensboro, North
Carolina, from which she was graduated
in 1952. She believes now that her first
leading role, at fourteen, in a high-school
play, "Mother Is a Freshman," was a turn-
ing point, because it marked her decision
to keep on acting and make it a profes-
sion. The second turning point was at the
end of her first college term, at the Wom-
en's College of the University of North
Carolina, at Greensboro. A dramatics
teacher told her about a job at Flat Rock,
apprenticing in a summer stock company
called the Vagabond Players. She got the
job, worked with the Players two seasons,
did all the things apprentices do — worked
on props and lights and sets, painted
ushered — as well as acted.

The director persuaded Norma that she
should go on with acting, rather than
continue college, and he gave her a
letter of introduction to Paul Morrison, set
designer at the Neighborhood Playhouse
in New York. Morrison in turn introduced
her to Sanford Meisner, director at the
Playhouse, who accepted her into the
highly selective circle of young players,
where she worked for two years. Then
came her first big professional break, as
understudy to Mary Martin's daughter,
Heller Halliday, in the Theater Guild's
Salute to France production of "The Skin
of Our Teeth." She went to Paris with the
company — where the play was presented
for two weeks at the International Drama
Festival — and, besides being understudy,
had five small roles of her own.

Staying over a third week, to visit
Switzerland and her father's relatives, was
one of the biggest thrills of her life: "It
had been forty years since an aunt and
uncle had seen any member of the family
and they were as thrilled as I was. They
lived in Ziig, right outside Zurich, and I
fell in love with them, with the town, and
with all of Switzerland."

She played Broadway in "The Skin of

, 1

Our Teeth," two weeks in Chicago and
two in Washington, D.C. For the television
spectacular of the show, she acted as Mary
Martin's stand-in — on only a day's notice,
so it was lucky she knew Mary's part
thoroughly. It was a complete run-through
for the benefit of cameramen and lighting
men, for producers and director, and had
to be performed exactly as if it were being
broadcast to an audience. In the actual
broadcast, she appeared only in her own
little group of parts, but the whole ex-
perience was a great thrill.

Her eyes widen with excitement when
she talks about the unexpected way she
got the part in "Fear Strikes Out." Para-
mount wanted someone outside the circle
of young faces familiar to movie-goers.
An "unknown" face, not associated with
previous pictures. Norma's was far from
unknown in television. She had been on
many important dramatic programs. But
she wasn't a motion-picture face.

"Many, many girls — hundreds of them,
I suppose — were auditioned," she recalls.
"I was simply one of them. After my
interview with Bob Mulligan, the director,
I happened to get a call to do something
else. Thinking the Paramount job was just
another one of those times when they
talked about casting from New York and
ended by taking some well-known Holly-
wood actress, I signed a contract with the
man I saw second. I no sooner got home
that I found I had a message from Para-
mount. As I walked in the door of their
office, I was told they were going to fly
me out to the West Coast immediately for
a screen test. I still didn't take it too
seriously — except the trip itself, since I
had never been farther west than Chicago."

She flew out on the following Sunday
morning, arrived in Hollywood Sunday

night, rehearsed Monday, made the test
Tuesday, left immediately after, and was
back in New York Wednesday. Thursday
night she got a telephone call. They want-
ed her for the part.

It had never occurred to Norma that,
with proper notice to the people with
whom she had signed a contract, she
could not be released. They wanted her
badly, weren't thinking of her good
fortune in being given such a good part
in an important movie. They were busi-
nessmen, she had put her signature to a
contract. She was an actress, young enough
to be terribly indignant that anyone would
try to thwart her progress. Finally, they
came to an understanding that cost her
some money and injured feelings. But
ten days later, she was off to Hollywood.

After it was finished, a photographer
friend of hers saw it and was most un-
happy about the way she looked. "You
weren't beautiful," he said. "You didn't
use enough make-up. You weren't photo-
graphed to show how you really are. How
could you let them do it to you?"

Here, again was this question of integ-
rity, of truth, of reality. Norma had to
explain that she had used a minimum of
make-up because this was no fiction or
fantasy, but really a documentary-type of
film, about real people. About a real wom-
an she was playing, a woman who was
worried, and frequently unhappy, and un-
concerned with glamour. That the won-
derful part of this, her first Hollywood
experience, was having producer Alan Pa-
kula and director Bob Mulligan see the
part exactly as she had and letting her
play it with all the reality that was in her.

The day she auditioned for Susan Ames,
in The Secret Storm, was exciting, too.
She read with Peter Hobbs, says he was
wonderful to her, helped her do the best

possible job. Now, busy as she is in a
daytime dramatic serial, she is still study-
ing drama with a former teacher at the
Neighborhood Playhouse, Charles Conrad,
who has his own classes now. She works
at singing and dancing, hoping some day
to star in a stage musical. "Dancing is like
acting, with more movement — perhaps an
extended form of acting, in which you
must learn disciplines and techniques."

Ohe paints (in oils). Something else she
has always longed to do. She loves to be
outdoors, adored California for its sunshine
and open spaces, but tries to get in some
swimming and water-skiing wherever she
is, whenever she can find time. Besides, she
wants the exercise, for her passion for
truth makes her admit that she has to fight
weight a little.

"When I was around nine years old, I
began to read romantic tales of maidens
who fell in love and could no longer eat,
and began to waste away, and I thought
how divine that must be. Alas," she grins,
"I'm not the wasting-away kind. If I
splurge on food one day, I must be ter-
ribly abstemious the rest of the week, so
mostly I am careful every day — knowing
that, for any picture medium, such as
television or movies, I should be even
slimmer than ordinary."

Right now, this seems about the only
conflict in Norma Moore's life, this mat-
ter of loving good food and knowing she
dare not have too much of it. Not a very
important conflict, surely, compared with
the ones she has made for herself — of
knowing what she wants from life, from
love, from work. Of clinging to some
idealistic yet (she believes) realistic
promises she made to herself when, at
the age of fourteen, she decided to go on
and on being an actress.

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(Continued from page 54)
had come close to the depths of failure.

About the dramatic highlights of his per-
sonal life, he is more reticent. New to the
rarefied atmosphere of TV stardom, where
every breath a man draws is legitimate
news, he opens with reluctance the chap-
ters of his life — some of them tragic, all of
them dramatic — preceding the present
triumphant one, which finds him a gentle-
man-rancher ensconced in a magnificent
adobe-block house on a bluff over the
Pacific above Malibu.

There's a year's pressing, highly paid
work for the weekly Perry Mason hour
ahead of him, and the incoming mail bas-
ket is crowded with offers of work in
films, the theater, television, radio — most
of which he must, for the moment, turn
down. "The Mason job," he says, "will
mean twelve hours of work a day, seven
days in the week. As the star, I have a
tremendous stake in the success of the
show; it has to have number one priority."

He may be able to squeeze in the Fort
Laramie radio series for CBS, in which he
has starred so successfully in the past.
Despite the fact that, to many of his view-
ers, Raymond Burr will be a "new" face on
their screens, he has had a long and im-
pressive career as an actor. And has sand-
wiched jobs in between incidents of a
crisis-studded personal life which only a
man of his physical energy — and enthusi-
asm— could have survived.

Raymond was born in New Westmin-
ster, British Columbia, the first child of
William Johnston Burr, a thriving import-
export merchant, and Minerva Smith Burr,
a concert pianist of repute, but he was to
spend less than a year in the peace and
security of a stable home before life be-
gan to get complicated.

When Raymond was just a year old, his
parents moved to the Orient. The family
were never in any one place for long. They
hopped from Chefoo to Shanghai, from
Peiping to Hong Kong, and back again.
Since no consistent schooling was avail-
able, Raymond — and his two brothers and
young sister — were educated by tutors.
When Ray was eleven, they returned to
Canada.

That was the black year of 1929. Sud-
denly, after affluence, there was no money.
The strain of events produced a more per-
sonal tragedy. William and Minerva Burr
were divorced, Ray's mother departing,
with her four young children, for north-
ern California.

There was ultimately, however, a happy
ending: The elder Burrs were re -married
last year — after twenty-six years of sep-
aration. "They both realized they had
been very foolish," Raymond says. "They
live very modestly now — my father works
for a very low salary in a hardware store.
But they're happy."

These later years have provided another
happy conclusion to a tragic experience for
Raymond's mother. "She was blind for
a number of years," he says, "and suffered
an agonizing series of operations. Now
she can see, enough to teach. And she is a
magnificent teacher, both of the piano and
the pipe organ."

Upon settling in California, Mrs. Burr
enrolled her son in the exclusive San
Rafael Military Academy. Annapolis, she
hoped, would be the next stop for Ray.
But soon "no money" became less than
no money. Ray had to go to work.

He was never to go regularly to school
again, not even to finish high school. But,
many years later, after successfully pass-
ing college entrance examinations at Long
Beach Junior College, he proceeded to
plow through what amounts to about six
years of college education. "I have a

Paging Perry Mason

degree in psychology from the University
of California," he says, "and a degree in
English Literature from McGill." And he
has taught, in the theatrical field, "at Am-
herst, Columbia, the Pasadena Playhouse."
He himself has never had one hour of
formal dramatic training.

That necessary first job, at twelve, was
a poser for young Raymond Burr. He had
no saleable skills, no "pull" anywhere.
But he was big for his age, and brawny.
He lit out for Roswell, New Mexico, and
hired out as a ranch hand. When he re-
turned, in two years, with a hunger for
a more cerebral kind of life, he was big-

ger. And brawnier. Still with no definite
goal in mind, he began drifting from job
to job. Mostly sales jobs.

Raymond Burr apparently could have
been a very rich salesman. But, along
about here, he stumbled onto radio — and
knew definitely, and at once, what he
wanted to do with the rest of his life. He
wanted to be an actor.

Since his dramatic force was immediately
apparent, he moved quickly from radio to
the legitimate theater — first, summer stock,
then a go at Broadway. In the late '30's,
he went to England to star in "Night Must
Fall," and subsequently toured Australia

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and then New Zealand with the company.

By this time, Hollywood had pricked up
its ears, and he was summoned for a screen
test. But he became seriously ill. "I guess
I'd been living it up too much," he says.
He turned his back on Hollywood, and
joined the U. S. Forestry Service — for
whom, for two years, he conducted a
weather bureau and snow survey in Ore-
gon. They were lonely years, with plenty
of time for contemplation. He recovered
his health. He took up writing and, much
to his surprise, sold several of his articles
and stories to magazines. But the lure of
the theater was still dominant, and -he re-
turned to the stage, appeared in a New
York musical-comedy hit, "Crazy With
the Heat" — and "twelve million radio
dramas."

Once, briefly, he was an explorer: "I
went to Yucatan with some archaeologic-
ally minded friends of mine. One day,
I fell in a hole and accidentally discovered
some ancient Mayan ruins."

Archaeology is fascinating, but Raymond
— with responsibilities for many people
other than himself (once there, were eleven
relatives living in his house) — had to get
back to work.

Once again: Hollywood calling. R.K.O.
tested him, signed him, agreed to pay him
$450 a week, and then — the old story again
— forgot him. Raymond Burr had never
been so rich, nor so unhappy.

Out of frustration, he ate — and drank
— until his heft rose to a dangerous 325
pounds. (Burr is a great cook and an avid
gourmet, and gaining weight is easy when
he lets himself go.) Disgusted with Holly-
wood, and himself, he asked for and re-
ceived his release from the studio and
started over the old path — radio, to stage,
back to movies.

The official record takes up after the
war. ("I did a stint in the Navy in the

Pacific") On January 14, 1947, he married
an actress, Isabella Ward. "It was my
second marriage," he says, expressionless.
"My first wife went down in the same
plane with Leslie Howard. Our son, just
a year old when she died, died three and
a half years later of leukemia."

About his more recent marriage, he is
equally taciturn. "We were separated after
a year, divorced in Maryland in 1952. We
had no children."

Since the war years, Raymond Burr has
worked steadily and profitably — and with
the character actor's usual anonymity —
in films, some of them very big: "A Place
in the Sun," "Rear Window," "Cry in the
Night."

And he has given more time and energy
than any other performer to entertaining
the Armed Forces overseas. At one time,
he spent a solid six months with a troupe
in Korea — giving up about $75,000 in avail-
able jobs in order to do it.

With the discipline and satisfaction of
work, the pounds that used to haunt him
melted away, until Burr — today — has a
leading man's physiognomy and a charac-
ter actor's skill and finesse.

Erie Stanley Gardner has described
Perry Mason like this: "Tall, long-legged.
Broad powerful shoulders. Rugged faced,
clean-cut, virile features; patient eyes.
Heavy, level eyebrows. Well-shaped
hands, strong fingers. Hand could have a
grip of crushing force should occasion re-
quire. Wavy hair. . . . Fighter, happy-go-
lucky, carefree, two-fisted — a free-lance
paid gladiator. Creed — results."

This could be a description of Raymond
Burr himself.

At the top of the heap, at last, Raymond
Burr is living the rich, full life of the
man "who has got it made," in his ram-
bling ranch house over the sea. He loves
it there, seldom ventures into the city

except to work — that means frequently
now, of course, and sometimes he has to
arise at 2: 30 A.M. to make the hour's drive
into the studio in time for early re-
hearsals of Perry Mason. (Barbara Hale
plays Delia Street to Raymond Burr's
Perry; Bill Hopper is Paul Drake, Mason's
detective ally.)

Raymond's house is dream stuff. From
the front terrace, stone stairs — built, stone
by stone, by Raymond himself — lead to a
luxuriant grassy slope to the edge of the
bluff over the sea. Old trees give welcome
shade. New flowers bloom in profusion
everywhere. To the rear of the house is
the "working area" — kennels for Ray's
pure-blooded Australian Silky dogs, pens
for chickens, ducks, geese. "We don't
eat the birds, we're too fond of them," he
says. "Just the eggs."

The house has an informal but beautiful
living room, a den, several sea-facing bed-
rooms. But the center of fife is the big
cheerful kitchen. "Come on into the
kitchen" is the usual greeting. There, with
chairs drawn up to an enormous rough-
hewn table, you can share one of Ray's
chilled, expertly mixed gimlets and then
choose between hot and cold canapes.

To Raymond Burr — who has been all
over the globe, more than once — this spot
above Malibu is the loveliest place in the
world, and truly his "home" base from
now on.

"I don't want to live like a rich man.
Come to think of it, I'm not a rich man.
I've made a lot of money in my life, but
managed to give it all away. Big money,
for me," he adds wryly, "will mean only
that I won't leave owing anybody."

If Perry Mason catches on — as there is
every reason to believe that it will — Ray-
mond Burr will keep on living it up
on his beautiful seaside bluff, the country
squire at home, for a long, long time.

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Adopted Father

(Continued from page 52)
and they didn't think I was spending
enough time on the project, so they pitched
in to help!

"With all that having gone on before,
you can understand that I didn't think
too seriously of Sherry's build-up after
she'd met Monte. Mother was taking
Sherry to the set in those days — one day
I let Mother stay home, and I took Sherry.
That's when I first met Monte. And, as is
obvious now, Sherry knew what she was
doing. Monte and I started dating, and
within a few months we were married.
With, of course, Steve Cochran as best
man and Sherry as flower girl."

Before that, Monte's suitability as step-
father had been put to the test, one fine
Sunday afternoon, when Gary and Sherry
pulled him out of the house for a "walk
to the corner" to buy a balloon. Only there
was no balloon man at the corner, nor at
any of the corners for a mile down the
street — a distance they conned him into
trudging in search of the elusive balloon
man. Then they confessed it was all a
plot to get far enough away from home
so that they might ride the bus back. He
fixed that one with characteristic firm-
ness— suggesting calmly that, since they'd
walked there, they could walk back. They
did. Monte loved walking; the children,
somewhat less than enthusiastic about it,
learned their lesson.

Still another test came shortly after
Rita and Monte were married. Rita, busy
with other duties, was unable to accom-
pany Sherry to the studio, so Monte was
drafted as a stand-in for "stage mother."
This was a new bit for him, and he con-
fesses he was plenty nervous as they
drove onto the lot, and headed for the
parking area. So nervous, in fact, that
he had some difficulty getting the car
parked properly. In lining it up, he
bumped into the curb rather sharply, and
he and Sherry both got something of a
jolt. Momentarily dropping back into his
uninhibited bachelor habits, Monte let out
a couple of deeply expressive curses.

Sherry, her pigtails literally stiffening
at the sound of his swearing, sat primly
on her side of the front seat. Looking
straight ahead of her, she remarked in
a quiet little voice, "Daddy, if you must
swear, it's all right if you do it while
we're alone. But please don't ever do it
in front of anyone. They might not think
you're a proper father."

Monte remembers that, at the moment,
he couldn't decide whether to howl with
laughter, or to weep. What she said was
so true, and summed up so thoroughly
her reactions toward him, and his respon-
sibilities toward her. And yet it sounded
so incongruously adult, coming from this
tiny, owlish girl.

The five years since Rita and Monte
have been married have been happy,
eventful, fruitful years. They bought a
lovely little home in the Valley, complete
with swimming pool. Located in North
Hollywood, in the San Fernando Valley,
it is about a ten-minute drive from Holly-
wood over the pass through the Holly-
wood Hills. Like many typically Cali-
fornia houses, it is rustic to the point of
picturesqueness .

Sherry's career prospered, and Monte
began his steady climb upward in the
ranks of Hollywood screen writers. He
worked for a year or so at Warner Bros,
studio, where he turned out, not only
screen plays, but also a number of epi-
sodes for the Warner Bros. Presents tele-
vision series, "Cheyenne" and "Conflict."
It was there that he established the prece-
dent of always writing into his TV plays a
bit part for himself — so that he appears

in each one he wrote, as a sort of signa-
ture or trade-mark. Monte is now writing
for Universal-International studios, and
will sign a writer-director contract soon.

While the professional-type production
was prospering, so was another "produc-
tion" at home. In January, 1956, Monte's
and Rita's first son, Robert John, was
born. "The fellows at the studio couldn't
understand why I could get so excited
over this baby," laughs Monte. "They
knew I had two sons and a daughter. They
figured, by now, such things should be
pretty routine with me. It was a little
tough explaining that, while I did have
three children, this was the first baby
I'd ever been around!"

Sherry's attitude toward her new baby
brother would be almost comical, if it
weren't so heartwarming. Having had
three before him, Rita has the relaxed at-
titude which comes with rearing a large
family. If Robert John wants to crawl
up the stairs, for instance — let him learn
by crawling up the stairs, Rita philoso-
phizes. But not Sherry — she hovers. "Be
careful or you'll fall and bump yourself."
she clucks.

"If that baby gets spoiled, it will be no
fault of mine," Rita vows. "You'll be able
to trace it all to Sherry. 'Nasty old mother
won't give you a bottle?' Sherry says.
'Your big sister will take care of you!'
Wait till she's had three of her own — I'll
bet she won't be so fussy about the fourth
one!"

Probably one of the outstanding things
about the Pittman household is that you
see more family feeling here than in many
a home where the father has always been
with them. The Pittmans really do things
together. Both Monte and Rita, though
their lives have been linked closely to
television for years, believe that the old-
time, creative activities should be part of
their children's growing up, too. "We
let them watch a few shows which are
their favorites," Rita explains, "but there's
none of this camping in front of the set,
hour after hour, watching just anything
which happens to come on."

Instead, the Pittmans make up family-
participation games of their own. At first,
these started out to be story-writing ses-
sions. They'd choose an object — say, the
front door, or an interesting piece of bric-
a-brac. Each of them — Gary, Sherry,
Curtis, Rita and Monte — would write a
short-short story around that object. Monte
confesses that these evenings proved more
profitable than he had dreamed they
would. The family hatched several plots
which he subsequently turned into screen-
plays. Later, the Pittmans turned to
making up crossword puzzles. "We turned
out some doozies in those days," Rita re-
calls with a chuckle. Currently, their
evenings at home are often taken up with
quiz sessions, right in line with the national
craze for such programs. Only the Pitt-
mans keep their quiz on a purely personal
basis. "What day, month, and year was
Daddy born, and where?" is the panel
stumper Gary turns out. Sherry is apt
to come up with "What did we give Monte
that first Christmas?"

"On the surface, it's a game," Rita ex-
plains. "But we've discovered that it's
done a lot for us, as a family — more than
most games do. It's amazing what strang-
ers members of the same family can be to
each other. With our little old quiz game,
we really get to know the facts!"

This do-it-yourself fun spills over into
the gifts the Pittmans give each other for
Christmas and birthdays. Many of them
are home-made and singularly appropriate
for the recipient. There was the scrap-
book Monte concocted for Sherry several

years

years ago. Faced with a pile of old pub-
licity photos, which it seemed a shame
to consign to the incinerator, Monte set
to work with scissors and pen. The scrap-
book is a series of cartoon-type pasteups
— poking gentle fun at Sherry, other mem-
bers of the family, their friends, and the
institution of stardom itself.

This refusal to take the status of "movie
star" seriously is one of Sherry's most
charming characteristics. She's never af-
fected the off-screen bearing many ac-
tresses employ, queening it up in real
life. Off the set, she's always been a pretty
average little girl, just as nowadays she's
a pretty average teenager.

Happily for herself and Monte, Sherry
is primarily an actress, and rarely an
"idea woman." In other words, she doesn't
go around telling Monte just what sort
of a scene, or what type of a play, she
would like him to write for her. "I know
her so well by now," he says, "I'm sure,
while I'm writing, that she'll be able to
interpret whatever character I'm creating
for her — and will undoubtedly make it
more real, and believable, than I ever
could on paper.

"There was a good example of this
while we were shooting 'Come Next
Spring.' In this, you may remember,
Sherry plays a mute child. This is a de-
manding part, even for an adult actress,
but this girl has a sensitivity far beyond
her years. Of course, while I was writing
the play, I kept Sherry in mind. And
before snooting started, Rita and Sherry
and I would have long talks about this
little mute girl, Annie. What sort of a
little girl she was, the kind of a life she'd
lived, the way she felt about things. So,
when Sherry stepped before the cameras,
she stopped being Sherry, and became
Annie.

"Actually, this threshing out a charac-
ter before shooting starts on a picture is
one of the reasons Sherry always does
such an excellent job. This is something
for which I can claim no credit. Rita was
doing it with her long before I arrived
on the scene. Now, when we get a script,
we read it through, then start analyzing
the characters. Not only Sherry's part,
but all of the parts. By the time we're
through, we know the life history of every
person in the plot — why they act the way
they do — all about them.

"There is one character we don't do much
briefing for, however. That's Terry, on The
Danny Thomas Show. As Sherry points
out — she bones up on that character, just
breathing. Actually, the part is so close to
Sherry's own self that sometimes it's hard
to tell where Terry stops and Sherry
starts. And, just occasionally, Sherry is
apt to bring Terry home. For a few seg-
ments last year, the writers let Terry get
[ a little snippy, and when these things
started showing up at home, too — we had
to point out right quickly that, just be-
cause Terry was allowed to get away with
t such action, it was no sign Sherry could.

"I probably shouldn't say that Sherry
has never told me what she'd like me to
write in the way of a play for her. She
has vague, general ideas of roles she'd like
to play. Only I've learned not to take
them too seriously. I learned the hard
way. Last year, she was all enthused
about doing a Western. That's all she
could talk about — how she'd like to play
a part in a real, historical Western pic-
ture. I had a number of commitments to
get out of the way at the time, but as
soon as I could get at it, I started a West-
ern script with a part in it for her.

"Not long ago I got the thing polished
off, and brought it for her to read. And
what was her reaction? "That's very good,
Daddy. But I really don't think I'd much
care to do a Western. Now if you could
just write something with a sort of "Snake

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VIRGINIA BALLETTI

NEW YORK, N.Y.
"I learned short-
hand in 6 weeks
thanks to SPEED-
WRITING short-
hand and stepped
into this position

the

TOMMY

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Pit" flavor. Boyee, would I like a chance
at doing a part like Olivia de Havilland
had in that!' I haven't started any deep
psychological dramas for her. If I did,
by the time I finished it, she'd be wanting
to do a rock 'n' roll, flaming-youth story!"

There was one time, Monte remembers,
when Sherry did make a specific request
for him to write something for her. Her
club at school was scheduled to put on
a playlet at some school program, and she
airily volunteered his services to write the
production. This, of course, without con-
sulting him first. "I remember I was
working at Warner Bros, at the time. I
hadn't the fuzziest notion of what to
write for the girls, and mentioned my
dilemma to some of the other writers.
That evening, after work, four or five of
us retired to a near-by restaurant, where
we kicked around a few ideas.

"We did this for the next several eve-
nings, and finally came up with a playlet
which we gave the girls. One of the fellows
figured it out — just for laughs — that the
amount of time we spent on that project,
at our going hourly wage, would have
brought the total cost for writing alone
to about $4,000. And do you know what?
The thing fell flat on its face when they
put it on! We never have figured out
why. I like to think it was just too pro-
fessional a production for a group of ama-
teurs, and young girls, at that. Any other
conclusion is too unflattering. Anyway, I
doubt that Sherry will ever ask again."

As in many homes where there's a
good-sized family, the Pittman home is
seldom populated solely by Pittmans.
Gary has the customary thirteen-year-old
mob, which gravitates regularly to the pool
in the back yard. Curtis, now away in
the Air Force, rarely gets home. But,
before he left, his chums were generally
all over the place — or, as Rita claims, all
over the kitchen.

And Sherry, who has just wound up
the most thrilling year of her life thus far
(simply because her schedule was ar-
ranged so that she could spend six whole
months attending public school) brings
young folks home by the score. She has
made good grades at school, and is al-
lowed continued social privileges so long
as she sustains those grades.

In many ways, Sherry is mature beyond
her years, largely because of the years
she's been in such close contact with the
adult world making movies and television
films. But Rita claims you'd never know

that, once Sherry gets with a group of
girls her own age. "She can be as giddy,
as scatterbrained, as light-headed as any
girl of fifteen has a right to be," Rita
laughs. "She told an interviewer once
that her hobbies were boys, records, boys,
dancing, and boys, in that order. And
I guess that was correct. We have a
never-ceasing, ever-changing parade of
boys through that front door.

"People are always writing and talking
about father-daughter relationships, and
how fathers are supposed to 'screen' the
young men their daughters bring home.
So far as I can see, the same thing goes
for stepfather-stepdaughter relationships.
You should hear what Monte has to say
about some of the boys Sherry brings
home. He says it to me, and in private —
but I swear he couldn't feel more violently
about the subject if Sherry were really his
own daughter!"

Monte has become philosophical about
such things, however. "At first, I got
all excited when she'd bring home some-
one obviously unsuitable for her. But I
kept myself under control, never came out
with any flat directives, never told her
she couldn't see such and such a boy
again.

"And the funny thing was — after I'd
seen a lad a couple of times, I'd mellow a
little, and he wouldn't look so bad, after
all. Then maybe I'd say to Sherry, 'You
know that Pete you brought home last
week? I didn't like him much at first, but
he doesn't seem such a bad lad now!" And
invariably her reply would be 'Oh, him!
That was last week!'

"So I've just sort of given up. The way
we figure it, if Rita and and I haven't been
able by now, to teach her how to behave,
how to judge people, and how to pick
friends wisely, it's a little too late to
start!"

There are a lot of people who would
tell you Sherry Jackson is a lucky girl.
They may be referring to her fresh good
looks. They may be referring to those
thirty movies, and those television shows,
and those five years on The Danny Thomas
Show. They may be referring to her in-
come, which amounts each month to more
than many heads-of-the-house make in a
year. But the biggest piece of luck Sherry
Jackson ever had was in being born to
a mother like Rita — and being able to fill
a gap in her fife with a stepfather like
Monte. That kind of luck more girls
should have!

Dreams Do Come True

(Continued from page 39)
Story. Dick's very happy about that, too,
even though he feels more sure of him-
self in comedy.

"All the important things I've done in the
theater," says Dick, "have been comedy.
In 'Mr. Roberts,' for instance, I was the
third replacement for David Wayne as En-
sign Pulver — one of the funniest parts ever
written for an actor. So I just feel a little
better in comedy than I do in a straight
romantic part like Ted Bond, which I re-
cently did on My True Story. But playing
opposite Rosemary Rice in that one made
it easy. I've known Rosie for eighteen
years. When they were kids, Rosie and
my sister, Joyce Van Patten, were in a
show together. Rosie and I have been
playing the sister and brother roles of
Katrin and Nels on Mama for some ten
years (we're the only members of the orig-
inal radio cast they kept on for the TV
show), so we're almost 'family' really.
And we've always liked each other, worked
well together, been good friends. So, of
course, I'm happy that Rosie 's playing my

sister on TV — and my girlfriend on radio."
Things work out this way — happily, that
is — for Dick. And always have. "It's true,"
he says, "that I haven't a frustration or an
unfulfilled desire to my name. How can
I have, when everything I wanted as a
child I've got? I'll tell you a story — my
true story — in proof of what I say.

"When I was a kid, I used to ride my
bike from Richmond Hill, Long Island,
where I was born and grew up, out to
Bellerose — also on the island — which was
my favorite place of any place I'd ever
seen. In Bellerose, there was one section
I liked the best of all. The houses there
looked like the houses in the 'Andy Hardy'
pictures — remember? Picket fences. Chil-
dren playing in the yard. Geraniums in
the window. Flower gardens. On Huron
Road, there was a three-storey white-
shingled house which I liked best of all. I
used to park my bike against a tree and
stand there, looking at it. I liked the
school, too, the Floral Park Bellerose
school, with trees all around it and every-
thing. When I get married, I used to say

-tj|

to myself, here is where I am going to live
— in Bellerose, on Huron Road, in this
house — And my kids will go to the school
with the trees around it. And I hope I
have a whole lot oj kids. My mother, who
is Italian, was one of thirteen," he ex-
plains, "and I think big families are fun."

Today, Dick and his golden-haired love-
]y_to-look-at Pat and their two small sons,
Richard Nels, who is two, James Tyler,
seven months (and another baby due this
very month of October) are living in Belle-
rose, in that very house. If this isn't
dreams-come-true, storybook stuff, it will
do until something dreamier comes along.

Furthermore, Dick's hope of having "a
whole lot of kids" seems more than like-
ly to be fulfilled. "With three babies, one
right after the other in less than four years,
we've made a good beginning," Dick says,
understating the matter.

It seems strange that a boy who chose
the house in which he would live when he
got married — who dreamed of "the whole
lot of kids" he would have — never visual-
ized the girl who would be his wife and
the mother of the whole lot of kids. But
he never did. How could he dream so
tall, he asks, as to suppose that She would
be a ballet dancer, graceful as a willow
branch, and "the most beautiful girl I have
ever seen in my life"?

Nor did he dream of what he would be
when he grew up . . . for, at the tender
age of five, he entered a children's ama-
teur contest in a Richmond Hills neigh-
borhood theater, and — before he'd had
time to dream about it — Dick was on his
way to being what he was going to be
when he grew up.

"The contest, sponsored by Loew's The-
aters, was held in neighborhood theaters all
over Long Island," Dick explains. "Hun-
dreds of children competed and the win-
ner in each district was given a final audi-
tion at Loew's State in New York. Mrs.
Eleanor Roosevelt and the late Mayor
La Guardia were the judges. (This was
about 1935). The prize was a trip to Hol-
lywood and a six -month contract with the
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios — and I
won! It was really rather silly. That I
won, I mean. I just recited a poem about
my mother. I can't remember it now, but
it was something about how Mommy gets
you up in the morning, makes you eat your
breakfast, wear your rubbers — that kind of
thing.

"Anyway, I did win and I did go to Hol-
lywood (my grandmother Van Patten took
me) and we lived there six months, wait-
ing for M-G-M to give me a part in a
picture. They didn't — but they found . a
play for me on Broadway, 'Tapestry in
Gray,' which starred Melvyn Douglas and
the late Elissa Landi, and I played their
son. The play was a flop — lasted only four
weeks — but I went immediately into an-
other show, 'The Eternal Road,' directed
by Max Reinhardt and Kurt Weill. After
that, I was always in a show — always, with
never more than a two weeks' interim be-
tween engagements. Of course, I played
just kid parts — bellhops and things like
that — but the plays were not unimportant,
nor the stars. There was 'The American
Way,' for instance, starring Fredric March
and Florence Eldridge."

Dick was ten when he joined the cast
of "The Woman Brown." A year later, he
appeared in a revival of "Ah, Wilderness!"
He was twelve when his outstanding per-
formance in Guthrie McClintic's produc-
tion, "The Lady Who Came to Stay," won
him a Billboard award. That same year,
he played in the Kaufman-Ferber comedy-
drama, "The Land Is Bright." The im-
portance of the parts he played, and his
ability to play them, clearly grew with his
own growth.

Dick's pleasant, easygoing, time-for-

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everything personality belies the human
dynamo he actually must be — for, despite
his fifteen or so roles in major stage pro-
ductions and the good average he main-
tained in his school work, he also rolled
up a sizable stockpile of work in radio,
television, films and summer stock. In
1941, he starred as Jimmy Dugan in Reg-
ular Fellows on radio, then played the
same part in the film version the follow-
ing year. Other radio credits have in-
cluded running parts on Young Widder
Brown, The Aldrich Family, David Harum,
Miss Hattie, (with Ethel Barrymore) and
The Right To Happiness.

Come the hobbledehoy, early teen-age
period and most juvenile actors find them-
selves "at liberty." But not young Master
Van Patten, who was sixteen when he got
the biggest part he'd ever had — or thought
to have — that of Michael, son of the fabu-
lous Lunts, in "O Mistress Mine," which
he played on Broadway for three seasons,
then on tour with the road company.

Dick's modesty, the complete lack of
anything actor-ish in his manner or
speech or behavior, in the way he dresses
or in the way he lives, is probably due to
the fact that — although he was a "child
actor" — his home -life was always that of
any normal-average American youngster.
"We lived in a big old house in Richmond
Hill," Dick says. "My father, for whom
I was named — (Dad is Holland-Dutch, and
I resemble him) — is an interior decorator.
My mother, who is now a theatrical agent,
was a Physical Ed. instructor at the Rich-
mond Hill High School. My sister, Joyce
— who is five years younger than I — made
her stage debut when she was seven, in
'Love's Old Sweet Song,' which starred
Jessie Royce Landis and the late Walter
Huston. At home we never did any play-
acting, either of us — probably," Dick
laughs, "because we worked at it! Besides,
there were too many other things to do.

"I went to public school for five years,
then to Holy Child in Richmond Hills
through the sixth, seventh and eighth
grades. Except that I had to miss some
classes on matinee days, and take naps
from five to seven every afternoon, I did
pretty much what the other kids did —
played baseball and football, went swim-
ming at Jones Beach, rode my bike.

"After I got out of grammar school, I
went to the Professional Children's School
in New York for two years — then, when I
got the part in 'O Mistress Mine,' I quit.
And never went back to school again. It
was when I started working with the
Lunts that I really began to get excited,
for the first time, about acting. I'd always
liked it, it was fun, it was sort of second
nature to me . . . but, now and again, I'd
think that maybe I'd be a jockey when I
grew up." (A strongly built young man —
height, 5-foot-10, weight, 150 pounds — a
jockey?) "Once I'd worked with the
Lunts, though, watched them work, I
knew that I was doing what I wanted to
do. I'd settle, I decided, for owning a
couple of race horses which — another
dream come true — I have done.

"At the Professional Children's School,
another dream began to come true for
me — although," Dick laughs, "there was
to be a period of nightmare before it did!
In one classroom, a girl named Pat Poole
and I sat right next to each other. I liked
her. She says now that she liked me, too.
But that is as far as it went. We never
had a date. I never asked her for one.
She was so very pretty, I never thought
she would. Besides, I was only fourteen
and she was only twelve, and both of us
young, in the boy-meets-girl department,
even for our young ages. A few years
later, we have since discovered, we were
near neighbors — when I was living at 1
West Sixty-seventh Street in New York,

where I had an apartment, and Pat was
living at 128 West Sixty-seventh, right
down the block — but I never ran into her,
not once. All that time wasted.

"More time passes — wasted, too!" sighs
Dick, "and now it's 1953 and the Mama
show is rehearsing in Studio 41 at Grand
Central Station. We rehearsed from ten
in the morning to one, then Jackie Gleason
and his cast came in and rehearsed from
one to five. As the June Taylor Dancers
came in with the Gleason outfit — about
twenty-five of them, all very pretty — I
sort of hung around one day, took my time
getting out. And, as I was taking my time,
there, among the June Taylor girls, I saw
her. But, although I recognized her, I
couldn't place her.

"After what seemed a lifetime but was
probably three minutes, I walked over to
her and said, 'Don't I know you?' 'I'm Pat
Poole,' she said. 'I'm Dick Van Patten,' I
said. 'The Professional Children's School!'
we both said. Then I asked her — and my
heart was really jumping around — 'Are
you married?' She said, 'No, but I'm en-
gaged.' I really got dizzy. My heart
dropped like a stone, down to the floor.
I don't remember what I said next. Noth-
ing, I guess.

"That evening, and for the next several
days, I went around to everyone I knew
and asked, 'If a girl's engaged, does that
mean there's no chance?' 'Doesn't mean
a thing,' I was told, 'ask her out for lunch-
engaged girls will go out for lunch.' But
I didn't ask her for lunch. I didn't have
the nerve. I was going crazy.

"Then a terrible thing happened. Rose-
mary and I had to do the Turkey Trot in
one of the scenes on the Mama show and
someone had to teach me how to dance.
Someone suggested that we try to get Pat
Poole. And, every morning for a week,
she taught me how to dance the Turkey
Trot. As the week drew to an end, I was
still going crazy.'

"Rosie was a big help. On the last day,
she went to Pat and said, 'Why don't you
come up to my house for dinner tonight?'
Pat accepted. And I was there. Rosie's
date was there, too, and it was all very
casual. We had dinner. Afterwards, we
played Monopoly and Go to the Head of
the Class. As we were leaving, I whis-
pered to Rosie, 'I'd marry her tomorrow!'
But I had very little hope. The wedding
date wasn't set, she'd said, but she'd talked
about where they were going to live after
they were married — and every word was
like a nail in the flesh. Oh, it was an
awful feeling!

"And then I didn't see her for two weeks.
By this time, everyone on the Mama show
knew I was going crazy, including my TV
parents, Peggy Wood and Judson Laire,
with whom I have a very warm and per-
sonal relationship. And everyone was
trying to help — including Carol Erwin, our
producer, who came to me at the end of
the two profitless weeks and said, 'We
need a can-can dancer on the show. Why
don't you call Pat Poole and ask her to
audition for us? Make you look good.' I
called Pat and she, along with seven other
girls, came in for the audition. While she
was auditioning, I was walking up and
down the hall praying she'd get it. I
shouldn't have worried. Pat had been in
the ballet corps at the Music Hall for
three-and-a-half years. She'd been one
of the June Taylor Dancers for three
years. She'd been on Broadway in 'Me
and Juliet.' She's terrific. Her audition,
as I might have known, was terrific.

"So, that week on the show — another
whole week of being with her part of every
day — I really opened up. Might as well
find out if I really had any chance. We
went for coffee, a sort of light lunch date,
in Grand Central Station. I told her she
was the most beautiful thing I had ever

een. I told her I loved her. 'Sounds silly,
know— you're engaged. But I just
wanted you to know.' When she didn't
say anything, just looked at me, I asked,
shaking in my shoes, 'Can't you go out on
a date with me — say, once a week? Go to
a movie, maybe?' I don't remember what
she said. But, if it wasn't yes," Dick
aughs, "at least it wasn't no. On our first
date, we had dinner at Cherio's, a little
Italian restaurant, and then to a movie.
After the show, Pat said her mother loved
ce cream, so I bought some and we went
home to her house. A few weeks — and a
few dates — later, Pat said, 'I think my
mother really likes you better than she
does my fiance.' Then," Dick laughs, "I
bought her mother more ice cream!

"But whether or not Pat liked me bet-
ter, I didn't know — nor, I suspected, did
she. At the end of about six or seven
weeks, I said, 'We can't go on like this.'
That evening, Pat said she thought she did
like me better than her fiance and that
she would tell him so. She didn't tell him
that she liked me better — but she did tell
him that she had been seeing me, that she
was confused about the way she felt and
was going to Europe with her godmother,
to make up her mind. She went to Europe.
She stayed in Europe for two months.
Two awful months for me and for the
other fellow — both of us waiting for her
to return with her mind — and her heart —
made up.

"It was September when Pat got back.
Six months later, on April 25, we were
married in the Actors' Chapel of St.
Malachy's Church in New Yorjk. Pat wore
the traditional white satin, the veil, the
orange blossoms, the 'something bor-
rowed, something blue,' and was the most
beautiful bride — so ethereally slim, so gold
and white — a bridegroom ever beheld.

"Am I as much in love now as I was
four years ago? More in love now — oh,
more, much more!" Completely happy as
of now, there isn't the slightest change
Dick would make in the life he lives, or
in where he lives it. Bellerose is still his
favorite place of any he has ever seen.
And the house on Huron Road is the one
he did buy when he got married.

"In Bellerose," Dick says, "you live very
simply, which is the way I like to live and
intend to live, always. We don't keep any
help. Pat has a dish-washer, clothes-
washer and dryer — which is as good, she
says, as having three in help. I sometimes
do charcoal-broiled steaks and hamburgers
on the grill outdoors. Otherwise, Pat does
all the cooking, and she's -a wonderful
cook, wonderful. Which certainly contrib-
utes to my happiness," Dick laughs, "since
I live for food — especially spaghetti and
Chinese food— and for a bed, a good bed,
to sleep in! I've never been much use as
a handyman, but I'm learning— I built the
picket fence. I mow the lawn. I pull the
kids around in a cart.
j "On Huron Street, most of our neigh-
bors live pretty much the same as we do.
In Bellerose, neighbors are really neigh-
bors, too — the kind that are always willing
to turn a hand and help a fellow with a
job of work. We all do our share of the
community work. I'm a volunteer fireman.
Pat is a member of the Women's Club.
When our kids start going to the Floral
Park Bellerose school, which is where
they will be going, we'll be active mem-
bers of the P.T.A. Pat almost never goes
into the city— and, except when I go to
work, neither do I. For amusement, we
get together with some of the neighbors
j and play games like Monopoly.

"I've had a terrific life," Dick says then,

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and gratefully, "in every way there is. In
the theater and on radio and TV, I've
worked with really great actors. And I
couldn't have learned anything like as
much if I'd gone for years to the greatest
dramatic school in the country. I learned
the tools of my trade, and a respect for
my trade, from all of them. Lots of actors
have a tendency not to respect an audi-
ence. I will never have that tendency.
The Lunts drilled it into me that an audi-
ence pays their money and must get their
money's worth.

"But I think the most important thing
I learned from Mr. Lunt is that you have
to know when you are happy. Mr. Lunt
didn't say that," Dick explains, "not in so
many words. He was talking about acting
one day and he said 'When an actor gets
a laugh, he should leave it alone, know
when it's just right, not try to do it bet-
ter.' It amounts to the same thing.

"A lot of people think I'm foolish," Dick
said, "to have stayed with the Mama show
for as long as I have, they think I should
have gone to Hollywood, should have gone
further than I have. But I never really
wanted to be a star. Right after I opened
with the Lunts in 'O Mistress Mine,' three
Hollywood contracts were offered me. Miss
Fontanne advised me against going to
Hollywood. 'I'm telling you this as a
friend,' she said. 'I think you'd do better

to stay with us. In Hollywood, you'll be
one of many. You may stay six months.
There is no way* of knowing. If you re-
main with us, you will be a solid actor by
the time the play closes. My advice is to
stay here.'

"I took Miss Fontanne's advice and I'm
glad I did. I'd rather be a solid actor than
a shaky star. I've always had a great re-
spect for actors who are solid — people like
Jessie Royce Landis, for instance, and Dor-
othy Stickney. They work all the time, all
the time. They have all the glory of the
theater, yet they have their own life, too,
not recognized by everybody, not always
in the limelight.

"I like it this way," says Dick, "in radio,
on television, in the theater. My most re-
cent stage credits are 'Mr. Roberts' and
'The Male Animal.' And, although I'm
hoping for another play soon, I don't worry
about it — for, in between Broadway shows,
ABC and CBS keep me busy.

"You have to know when you are
happy," Dick repeats, "and I do know
when I am. I am happy now. Right now.
Completely happy. And I intend," he
adds, with his bright smile, "to leave it
alone."

So continues the happiest story of the
month. The story of a delightful young
man for whom, deservedly, every dream —
from childhood on — has come true.

Young Woman of Today

(Continued from page 26)
Tom over to be introduced, explaining that,
on the following Tuesday, Tom was going
to be interviewed by Dave Garroway on
the show, about his book and his war
experiences as a commander of guerrilla
troops in Burma during World War II.
Helen looked interested, said that should
be exciting to listen to. The men sat down
with the girls, the lunch for three became
a fivesome, and two of the five very quick-
ly became less and less aware of the
three others!

Tom had come to New York from his
house in Sarasota, Florida, and was plan-
ning to leave quickly for Mexico City and
Taxco after keeping some engagements
and clearing up some business details.
Movie rights to his book had been sold
to M-G-M for the second-highest sum ever
paid for an original novel. The book itself
was now being published in France and
Italy, as well as this country, and there
were arrangements being made for Eng-
land, Spain and other foreign editions.

Helen was busy with her job on Today
and her plans for the summer NBC -TV
Helen O'Connell Show, her own fifteen-
minute, twice-weekly program of songs
and talk. She had her busy life of work,
her home on Long Island, her three in-
teresting schoolgirl daughters, her friends.
Her life seemed full and happy and, at the
moment, marrying again had no part in
her plans.

And so they met — the intense -looking,
very dark and serious man, and the slim
blond girl with the quick sunny smile.
And as they talked, and looked at each
other across the table, destiny took over.
Only the touch was deceivingly light, and
they scarcely knew what was happening.

"Except that I tried to get close to Helen
the first day I met her, but all those
people she worked with formed a kind of
protective blockade around her," Tom says
today. "Oh, they didn't. You know they
didn't," she laughs at him. "We had lunch
together the day you came on the show,
and were going to see each other later —
except that my littlest, Jennie, developed
a temperature and I had to take her home
from school. But we had lunch and

dinner the next day, and then the next.
That's when we decided to get married."

"That's when you proposed to me," he
grins.

"It's what he told the children," she ex-
plains. "They just giggled and said
'Mother wouldn't do that.' When I broke
the news that Tom and I were going to
get married, they made Tom propose to
me all over again, in front of them."

"Five times — and each time on my
knees," says Tom, adding, "according to
the way it's done in books, or in the
romantic minds of little girls."

"Jennie, my youngest, insisted that I say
'Yes' almost before Tom got the words
out," Helen laughs. "And this was all
staged in Joannie's bedroom — she's the
middle one — because she had the measles
and was in bed at the time. Fortunately,
no one else caught it!"

"When I kissed Helen lightly on the
cheek, after her 'Yes,' Joannie reached
over and pulled my ear close and whis-
pered, 'Kiss her on the lips!' "

The wedding was a simple affair, at the
St. Moritz Hotel in New York. Helen did
her usual stint on the Today show that
morning. She got the next day off, and
the next two days were Saturday and
Sunday, but she had to be back Monday
morning. Tom's best man was James
Jones, his close friend and literary "men-
tor," author of "From Here to Eternity."
Tom had written his book at the same
writers' colony — the Handy Colony at
Marshall, Illinois, where Jim had pre-
viously worked, a camp-colony dedicated
to helping serious young writers of realis-
tic material, giving them a place to work
and freedom to work.

"Jim Jones and I had both been through
a great deal," says Tom Chamales. "We
had seen the hard things of life, the war.
the misery and pain. We still saw plenty
of it around us. Jim had recently been
married, and now he was telling me not
to be afraid of any of this new happiness
that had come to him and to me. 'It's all
right to be happy. No one is going to hold
it against you,' he kept saying, and it
broke some of the tension for me.

"The way he handled everything, he

must have looked up Emily Post on how
to be the best best man," says Tom, "be-
cause ordinarily he isn't the kind of guy
who would care about such things. He
wouldn't let the ^bellboy carry our bags
to the car. He answered the phones him-
self. He did everything."

Alta Mooney, wife of Helen's musical
arranger, was matron of honor. Tom's
father and Helen's mother came for the
ceremony, and there were a few close
friends, including Frank Blair and others
from the Today show. Dave Garroway
broke away from a Wide. Wide World re-
hearsal in time for the reception.

The bride wore a navy-blue silk sheath
dress with a little jacket, navy satin sling
pumps, a pink flower-trimmed hat and
pink gloves, and carried a bouquet of
pink flowers. The bouffant pink dresses
of the three girls quivered with the ex-
citement of their wearers at acquiring this
fascinating new member of the family.

Equally entranced by this trio of daugh-
ters, Tom was already calling them "Sarah
Bernhardt" — all three of them! — although
their greatest interests still are in their
school grades and social activities with
their friends, and the house on Long Island
has spilled over with their comings and
goings all summer long. Now they are all
moving into a seven-room New York
apartment, and everyone is busy deciding
on color schemes, what will go with what,
who gets which for her room, and where
each precious possession should be put.
Helen still owns the home in California
where she lived with the children until the
Today show brought her to the East Coast,
and Tom still has his house in Florida.

"I like antiques," Helen says, "but not
the kitchen furniture kind. I love the
fine old woods, the expert craftsmanship.
Tom had collected some beautiful things
during his travels all over the world, but
has very little left. He gave them up, be-
cause things began to get bigger and big-
ger, until they owned him, instead of his
owning them. He gave most of them away,
before we ever met."

As a child, Helen lived in Lima, Ohio,
and she started a career as a dancing
teacher. "Singing was never a planned
thing, as far as I was concerned. Neither
was going into show business. It was my
older sister, Alice, who became a singer,
and I would replace her sometimes when
she couldn't keep a professional date. Our
father died early, and all of us did what
we could to help along, and gradually I
drifted into more and more singing. Alice
was going with a fine pianist- and organist
— to whom she is now married. He was
musical director of a Toledo radio station,
and he was the first person to put me on
radio. We girls performed throughout the
Toledo area, yet neither of us had ever
really studied music. We were just a
family who loved it, and I can't remember
a time when there wasn't a radio going
in the background, or a record playing
somewhere in the house."

Alice gave up her professional work
after a while, in favor of home and family,
and Helen went on to become a band
singer. Later, after she too, married, she
quit the business for seven years, devot-
ing her time to the home and the children.
When her marriage ended, and she had
to go back to work, she returned to sing-
ing. That was in 1950.

In her background now are four years
as featured vocalist with the late Jimmy
Dorsey, who heard her sing in a night club
and signed her at once. With Bob Eberly,
she did a series of boy-girl recordings
while she was. still in her teens, great
hits like "Green Eyes," "Tangerine,"
"Amapola." She went on the Australian
tour with Johnnie Ray, she has done many
night-club dates in many cities, had a

year of touring with Martin and Lewis,
with Vic Damone. During her last year
of travel, she figured she had been away
from the children ten months out of the
twelve, and she wasn't happy about it,
even though she had left them in com-
petent care.

"Last summer, the summer of 1956,"
she recalls, "I did the Russ Morgan show.
I did filmed and live commercials, and
someone from NBC took note of them and
I was approached about going on the To-
day show. That was when I was working
from the West Coast and had developed
a little interview program of my own, as
well. My home was established in Cali-
fornia, the children were happy there, and
I wondered if it would be wise to move
us. Then I began to think how much
time I was spending away from my girls,
how tired I was getting of the constant
travel, and how much more fun we could
have as a family if I could stay in one
place for any length of time.

Her first day on Today was December
7, 1956, and the broadcast had been moved
down to Florida for a week. Helen did
the show three days from the Miami
Beach — Palm Beach — Fort Lauderdale area
under the unusual conditions of doing a
remote. But the three-day trial convinced
her she would like it even more under
the usual studio conditions, and it evident-
ly convinced the NBC brass that there was
no doubt of her being the girl for the
part. So, children and luggage and house-
hold paraphernalia were all moved East,
and the family has been together ever
since.

She likes the variety of things she can
do on Today. Everything from songs to
weather reports, from interviews to com-
mercials. Helping Garroway introduce the
recordings. Ad-libbing with him to fill a
few seconds. Having a hand in every-
thing that goes on. And she thinks her
training as a band singer has had every-
thing to do with the ease with which she
now does all these other things.

"The girl who sings with a band gets
great experience," says Helen. "She plays
night clubs, intimate and big rooms, hotel
dining rooms, theaters. She performs for
all types of people. She makes records,
does radio and now television also. She
learns to follow a script and she also learns
to ad-lib when occasion demands. She
meets many different people of all ages
and backgrounds, and she gets a chance
to travel. I believe that any girl who
does band singing over a period of time is
ready for almost any other branch of
show business."

Helen's own taste in songs runs to those
with good lyrics, songs that tell a story,
no matter what the tempo. She was known
mostly for her rhythm numbers when she
did shows with Bob Eberly, because he
handled the ballads. On her own Helen
O'Connell Show, this summer, she has
done all types of things. Tom and the
girls like anything Helen sings, although
each has special favorites. "That's the
great thing about the girls," Tom observes.
"Each has her own individual ideas and
tastes. Each is completely an individual.
Helen has told me she was worried in the
past because she couldn't be with her
children all the time, but the marvelous
thing has happened that not one of the
girls is molded in Helen's image, or in
the image of the others. Each has some-
thing of Helen, some of her traits, but
none has all of them. It's a very refresh-
ing thing to find three such distinct in-
dividuals."

Helen laughs at this, says, "Tom took
on, not one, but four different person-
alities to get used to, when he married me.
Myself, and each one of my daughters."

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He-Man's Holiday

(Continued from page 48)

"Taking a vacation."

"That's the idea, old boy. Nothing like
the Islands for a good rest." He looked
around. "Where's Virginia?"

"Home."

"You mean at the hotel?"

"No. Home. In Los Angeles."

His friend's expression became very
sober. "I understand," he said. But he
didn't understand at all.

Jim had been in the Hawaiians for two
weeks — living in a small shack right on
the beach, fifty-some miles from Honolulu,
cooking his own meals, reading, loafing,
swimming and surfing. The place was so
isolated that, when Virginia Arness tried
to let him know he'd been nominated for
an Academy "Emmy," it took her three
days to get hold of him — by way of a
friend on the other side of the island who
had to drive four hours to reach Jim!

JNow, as Jim continued along Kalakaua
Avenue, he couldn't suppress a smile.
Who would ever believe that these "vaca-
tions from marriage" have done more to
keep him and Virginia together than all
the dresses, jewelry, and cars he could
buy her?

He thought back to the day they got
engaged. He hadn't wanted to get married.
Virginia knew it. She also knew what was
bothering him. Most men have pangs of
uneasiness at the thought of being tied
down, no matter how much they're in love.

This held even more true for Jim who
was used to bumming around since he
first ran away from home at fourteen. He'd
awakened at five, one Saturday morning,
with a sudden urge to wander off. Didn't
matter that it was ten below freezing, the
snow three feet deep, his total cash less
than a dollar.

Jim got dressed, wrapped a few necessi-
ties into a bundle, then sneaked out of
the house to the highway leading out of
town. It was barely daylight when the
first car came by. A burly truck driver
rolled down the window and leaned out of
the cab. "Where 'ya goin', son?"

"Where are you going?" Jim came back.

"Headin' for Des Moines."

"So am I . . ."

When the truck driver had said "headin'
for Des Moines," he meant just that. Not
getting there. At dusk, and still seventy-
five miles out of the city, he stopped at
a deserted junction to let Jim off. "I'm
livin' a few miles down the dirt road,"
he explained.

Unable to get another ride, Jim walked
to the nearest railroad tracks and followed
them till he came to a siding, where he
found three boxcars. He climbed into the
firsts — and faced three railroad bums who
threw him right out again. An hour later,
he did manage to get a ride on a coal
tender. And at four the next morning —
cold, hungry, and exhausted — he called his
family from Des Moines.

"You got there on your own," his father
snapped. "You get back the same way."

When he walked into the house, his
mother exclaimed that he'd grow up into a
delinquent. His father — now that Jim was
safe — wished he could have gone along.
And Jim, undaunted by the experience,
kept taking off again, year after year.
Hitching rides, sleeping in the fields, bum-
ming freights, working on steamships,
loving his freedom, hating to be tied down.

Virginia knew all about it when they
got married on Valentine's Day, back in
1949. That's why she was convinced that
the best, the only way to hold on to Jim
was to give him enough freedom to keep
him from feeling imprisoned.

His restlessness became obvious about
four months after they were married. Jim
was working as a real-estate man, a task
that nearly drove him out of his mind.
All day long, he was sitting in a sparsely
furnished office or an empty home. In six
months, he didn't sell a single piece of
property! They spent their evenings in
the tiny apartment above the china shop
of Virginia's father, in which she worked
during the day to help pay for the
groceries. The world was beginning to
crowd Jim.

One evening, he came home restless,
fidgety, on edge. He kept pacing through
the living room as though it were a
prison cell, but didn't complain.

"You need to spend some time at the
beach," Virginia suggested. Before they
were married he'd spent practically all
his time at the surf.

"You know we can't leave now. Nobody
would miss me at the office, but you . . ."

"I didn't say we," she cut in. "I said
you need a change . . ."

The next morning, Jim loaded a sleep-
ing bag, portable stove, extra clothes and
a few cans of food into his rattley old
Buick sedan, tied his surfboard on top,
and took off for San Onofre Beach near
San Clemente, two hours south of Los
Angeles. When he came back four days
later, he was a changed person.

There is no set frequency for these ex-
cursions. Seldom — as in the case of his
Hawaiian jaunt — any pre-planning. When
he reaches the point where pressure builds
up to where he "has to get away," he
leaves, and his family understands. In re-
cent years, in fact, Jim has begun to take
his oldest son with him, as he did on his
Hawaiian jaunt.

In a way, Jim's case is no different from
that of most husbands. In other ways, it is.
Not just because of his personality, but
because of his work as well. He gets rest-
less during long periods of lay-offs and in-
activity. He gets tense when work piles
up faster that he can handle it.

Like a few weeks ago, when he came
home with a particularly difficult script.
He sank back on the living-room couch,
slipped off his shoes, and started to read
his lines. Before he reached the third page,
Virginia asked him what he wanted for
dinner, if he'd like to attend a party the
following Saturday, and could she please
buy a new dress at Bullock's Westwood.
Craig needed help with his schoolwork,
Jenny Lee needed a dress hooked up, and
Rolf's bicycle had a flat tire to be fixed.

Unable to concentrate, Jim went to his
bedroom, closed the door and continued
to read his fines. Five minutes later, a
rubber-tipped arrow flew through the
window and hit the tip of his nose. Jim
let out a bellow that could be heard a
block away, picked up his script, got into
his car, and drove to a lonely knoll in the
Malibu mountains, overlooking the Pa-
cific. There he studied his part till it was
too dark to go on.

Lack of privacy in a home that is really
too small for his purposes — he's now plan-
ning to add on three rooms — is one of
the reasons that Jim reaches the breaking
point faster than some men. He needs
time by himself to study, to think, even
to loaf. "Everybody does," he explained
to a friend one day. "Well, what about
Virginia?" the other man asked. "Don't
you think a housewife is entitled to a
break, as well, once in a while?"

Sure he knew. But Virginia hadn't
agreed — till he literally forced the idea on
her! It happened a couple of years ago.
Exhausted from a more-than-usually hec-

tic Christmas rush, she was beginning to
show the strain of the holiday season. She
grew irritable, looked tired, felt worse.

"You need a vacation," Jim suggested
on New Year's Day. "By yourself."

'That's ridiculous. I can't go away . . ."
"I did."

"That's different. Where would I go?
-low would you get along? And who
would look after the children? Their va-
cation isn't over for another week . . ."

"You can go to Palm Springs and we
can manage very well."
"But, Jim . . ."

He wouldn't listen. Instead, he called
i friend in Palm Springs. "Virginia is
:oming to town tomorrow morning. Find
ler a nice place to stay, will you? No,
she's going to be by herself. No, we did
%ot have a fight!"

The more she thought about it, the less
she liked the idea. And finally she broke
down and cried. . . . Jim walked over, sat
>eside her on the couch, and gently lifted
up her chin, which she'd buried in the
alms of her hands. "If you weren't tired,
darling, you wouldn't be crying. This isn't
like you . . ."

Reluctantly, she gave in. The next
morning she flew to the desert resort. She
rediscovered the pleasure of being alone,
of having time for herself, of reading, of
doing nothing. The day after she arrived,
she felt better, more relaxed, than she had
n weeks. But, on the evening of her
econd night away from home, her con-
cience started to bother her again. She
called Jim to say she wanted to go home.
Jim later admitted that a man doesn't
really have the slightest idea what a wife
s up against all day long— till he finds out
>y experience. The first day, father and
children had a ball. They went to the
jeach, had hot dogs and Cokes, went to
he amusement park in the afternoon, to
he movies at night. They sank into bed
exhausted by ten-thirty, with Jim being
more tired than the three others com-
dned. The second day proved more
difficult. It started when Rolf couldn't
d his levis, and all four of them spent
an hour looking for the pants till they
inally located them in the dryer.

xV.eeping house, the children busy — and
out of trouble — proved progressively more
difficult as the days went by: Jim had to
do his own shopping. Since he wasn't
used to it, and not well organized in the
first place, he ,always made at least one,
usually two extra trips. Cooking, always
a hobby of his, was fun. But his dislike
for dishes was evident in the pile of
dishes stacked up on the sink. He asked
for volunteers. No offer was forthcom-
ing. He tried to bribe them with an extra
allowance. No luck. Finally, he ordered
Craig and Jenny Lee to dry dishes after
he'd washed them. Result: they broke
so many that he couldn't afford to let
them finish.

The night Virginia called, the house was
a beehive of activity. Only the organiza-
tion was lacking! Rolf was yelling in the
bathtub that he had soap in his eyes.
Jenny was playing a new game — jumping
on the couch till two springs shot through
the material. Craig was nursing a cut
toe, moaning as he dipped his foot in hot
Epsom-salts water. Jim could hardly un-
derstand what Virginia was saying.

"Don't you want me to come home,
darling?"

And how he wanted her to come home!
Instead he said, "Of course not . . ."

Virginia, uneasily, "How are you get-
ting along?"

"Fine," said Jim. "Just fine."

"What's all that noise?"

"Television," Jim insisted. "I better
urn it down. Bye, dear."

Six days later, Jim drove to Palm

Springs, to spend a night with his wife
before taking her home. Ordinarily, he
can't stand the resort town. But after a
week of having the full responsibility of
running a home — any place looked good.

And his wife looked even better. He
hardly recognized the tanned, vivacious
girl who raced over to hug him the mo-
ment he walked into her bungalow. She
looked relaxed and happy. The change
was obvious, not only to Jim, but to the
rest of the family, too . . .

In fact, Jim was so enthusiastic about
the results that he insisted Virginia take
off every month — an idea she promptly
banished. However, she is willing to take
off occasionally, just as he does.

Not all their "vacations from marriage"
are taken singly, of course. In addition
to a "family vacation" once a year — when
all five Arnesses leave together — Jim and
Virginia go away together occasionally,
leaving the children in the capable hands
of their grandmother, Jetty Chapman. The
youngsters enjoy it, too. It gives them a
relief from parental authority. Grandma
is a lot less strict than their own folks.

While Jim and Virginia feel that every
couple should get away by themselves
once in a while, their interpretations of
"by themselves" have differed consider-
ably. Jim doesn't mind having others
along. Virginia thinks three's a crowd
and four a mob: "When we go with
someone, no matter how nice they are,
invariably Jim and the others start talk-
ing business. Half the time, I don't under-
stand enough about it to take part in the
discussions, if indeed they even know I'm
around . . ."

She gave a recent trip back east as a
typical example. Jim's sponsor, Liggett
& Myers Tobacco Co., sent him to Durham,
North Carolina, for a personal appear-
ance, then let him take a few days to
drive to New York, where he spent an-
other week. When he got through in
Durham, Jim, Virginia, and Milton Weiss,
Jim's friend and publicist, rented a car
and took a leisurely three-day trip to
New York City.

According to Jim, "We had a wonder-
ful trip. No pressure from anyone. Just
enjoying ourselves." Virginia's version
lacked her husband's enthusiasm. "Jim
and Milton had a great time. They were
sitting in front, talking a mile a minute.
I was in the back. When the wind didn't
blow me to pieces, the baggage nudged
me from both sides. Every once in a while,
one of the men turned around to see if
I was still there! It was no better in
New York. Sure, we went sightseeing —
Jim, Milton, two people from the network,
a reporter, and at least one photographer."

It's different when just the two of them
go away together, as they did last fall,
when they drove to the Mother Lode
country in Northern California. Well-
supplied with maps and guide books, they
visited the Western historical spots like
a couple of typical tourists. Or honey-
mooners. . . .

Whether Jim's and Virginia's vacations
from marriage would hold just as true for
other couples is a matter of conjecture.
They don't advocate the idea, yet they
don't minimize the effect on their own
marriage. "Every couple has different
problems," says Jim. "In our case it has
worked out well. Furthermore, I'm con-
vinced that we see as much of one an-
other as most married couples, taking into
consideration that I have no desire for
evenings out with 'the boys' to play poker
or pool, and that Virginia no longer cares
for any women's activities which would
keep her away from home. In fact, I'm
convinced that we enjoy each other's
company more throughout the year, be-
cause of the few days we are apart."

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Crusader's Wife

(Continued from page 41)
other four- and two-legged things, you
can imagine that it isn't exactly quiet.
But we are unusually happy, and I think
that's because of the faith we share in
Christ. We live with and try to live by
the Bible, for, to us, the Bible isn't merely
a book. To us, the Bible is God's word
and our final authority." She goes on,
"Bill and I have no major disagreements,
but I don't say we haven't disagreed. We
do differ on a number of things — but then
I remember a shower friends gave for me
during our engagement. Each wrote a bit
of advice on a slip of paper, and one
woman wrote: W7xe?t two people agree on
everything, one of them is unnecessary."

Being married to Billy Graham is no
light responsibility, for he has proved to
be one of the most persuasive evangelists
in history. Each of his crusades, in the
U.S. and abroad, has reached hundreds of
thousands, with the total running into the
millions. His weekly broadcasts go into
every corner of the world. His sincerity
and his purpose — both beyond reproach —
have brought him recognition from royalty
and heads of state. In England, he was
received by the Queen Mother and Queen
Elizabeth. The Archbishop of Canterbury
gave the benediction at one of Billy's
meetings. He has prayed with Presidents
Truman and Eisenhower. Chief Justice
Earl Warren has helped Billy promote a
crusade.

Today, at thirty-nine, Billy's reddish-
brown hair is graying but his six-two
frame stands as tall and lean as ever. Of
course, millions know what he looks like.
Not so many have seen Ruth. You have
heard she is a beautif. i woman. She is,
beautiful and chic. She is five-foot-five,
has brown hair, a tanned complexion and
very bright eyes. There are vivacity and
self-sufficiency in her manner, but also
real evidence of humility and simple kind-
ness. Billy recalls that, when he met her
at Wheaton College, she was the campus
queen.

"I was no beauty queen," she says. "Bill
just says that. When a man's in love, even
a cow would look pretty."

Billy will tell you that Ruth knows the
Bible better than he does and that she's
the brain in the family. Ruth extends her
privilege to disagree, saying, "Perhaps,
when we were first married, I knew more
of the Bible. I had studied more as a
child, and in college my major was the
Bible. But now Bill has passed me up.
And, so far as being a genius or smarter
than Bill — well, that isn't so. Just go back
and look at my school records. They don't
indicate that I'm a genius." She notes:
"I give advice only when asked. And,
when you consider that Billy is away so
much, that couldn't be very often."

One year, Billy may be home about four
months. The next year, it may be three
months or five. Ruth seldom travels with
Billy or stays with him for the duration
of a crusade. What she will do is fly to
whatever city he is in, for a four- or five-
day visit, then hustle back to home and
the children.

"When Bill is in the midst of a crusade,
he is very busy," she explains. "Through-
out the day, he has appointments, writing
commitments to finish. And, in the eve-
nings, of course, there are the meetings.
His work is seldom over before midnight.
His work is so pressing — well, there was
the morning during the New York cru-
sade. School was over for the kids and I
had parked them witn' their grandparents
and gone to New York for a week. We
were living at the New Yorker Hotel and,
that morning, Bill had to get off for Phila-

delphia, where he was to meet Dr. Dan
Poling. Well, Bill was so occupied with
what he had to do and was thinking so
hard that he went out of the room and
locked me in. He forgot that I was even
there.

"Bill loses ten to fifteen pounds during
a crusade," she continues. "When he gets
home, we try to let him catch up on his
sleep. He gets a chance to relax and soak
up sun and get back his energy. He spends
a lot of time with the children — and I don't
have to tell you what this means to a
father who has been away from home for
months — or to the children."

The Graham home is on a mountainside,
about 3600 feet above Montreat, North
Carolina. This is their second home near
Montreat. Their first was smaller and at
a lower altitude. "In one respect," says
Ruth, "I liked the smaller house better,
for it was easier to keep up. But we had
to have more space. Not just for the
children, but because, when Billy is at
home, he works right in the house. Even
his Hour Of Decision broadcasts originate
from his study."

Kuth made the house. She did every-
thing but put it together with her bare
hands. Before friends sent an architect
to help her, she knew exactly the kind of
house it would be, the materials to be
used, the kind of flooring and walls and
ceilings she wanted, everything. "Above
all," she says, "I wanted it to look a hun-
dred years old or more, when finished. It
almost does!"

In her jeep and jeans — her "work horse"
and her work clothes — she chased around
the mountains looking for old log cabins
that had fallen into neglect. When she
found one, she bought up the hand-hewn
chestnut, pine and poplar logs which would
have been impossibly expensive if she
had bought them new. "I could just about
tell whether I would get them," she
smiles. "If the roof had caved in, then I
knew the owner would sell me logs. If the
cabin roof was intact, it was still worth
more to him than I could pay." She
bought up about five cabins, then went
over to Asheville and bought the flooring
and paneling of a 96-year-old house which
was being destroyed: "I paid one-third the
price of comparable new lumber."

While the house was going up, she re-
calls, "One workman quit outright because
he was so disgruntled with my ideas. 'I
wouldn't hang them doors on my chicken
coop,' he complained. 'A man can't take
no pride in this sort of work.' The con-
tractor was goodnatured and a friend.
Anything I wanted to do was all right
with him. But some of the men found it
outrageous that what new lumber we
bought went into the framework of the
house and the old stuff became the floor
and paneling. I guess they thought I was
out of my mind when I laid a brick floor
in the living room!

"Most of the workmen are mountain
people and, if they had their way, they
would have had linoleum on the floor, the
new lumber out in the open where people
could see it. And they would have re-
placed my 'junk' furniture with new red
plush chairs from Sears. But, when the
house was finished and furnished, some of
them came calling to see how it looked. 'It
kind of grows on you/ said one. 'First
thing you know, you catch yourself liking
it.' Another said, 'It puts me in mind of
when I was a boy.' "

Ruth hunted down furniture as she did
logs. She wanted authentic antiques. Not
French or English, but, rather, early Caro-
lina furniture. But the furnishings and

home were not matters that Ruth and
Billy agreed on. "I don't think the average
man has a feeling for antiques," Ruth says,
tactfully. "Men like things modern and
new. But Bill likes the home now. It was
built for a family. There is nothing ex-
pensive in the house and the kids don't
have to be afraid to play. There is plenty
of room for them to be noisy. But it was
designed, too, so that Bill can get away
from their noise. His study is soundproof
for the quiet he may need for rest or de-
liberation."

The Grahams have four children. Vir-
ginia will be twelve on the twenty-first of
September; Ann was nine this past May;
Ruth will be seven in December; Franklin
reached his fifth birthday in July. "They
are all live wires," Ruth says, "but so dif-
ferent. Bill says, 'Gigi (that's Virginia)
stimulates me. Ann relaxes me. Ruth
tickles me. And Franklin, well, he's a
sight.' " Ruth notes: "Franklin is com-
pletely boy. So self-assured. No tendency
to brood or be petulant."

And there is the menagerie: "I don't
know why we have the sheep. I've yet to
figure that out. Even the parakeets and
turtles keep you busy. You just don't
know. I got all the way up to New York
this past summer and then, from some
corner in my mind, came the reminder
that one of the turtles had been misplaced
in an old wooden churn which we use for
a wastebasket.

"I don't think there is any work harder
than that of being a mother and home-
maker," Ruth says honestly. "Too much
is expected of the woman — cleaning, cook-
ing, washing, sewing, raising kids, being
a wife, et cetera." Ruth adds, "And there
is nothing stimulating about wiping noses
or cleaning muddy shoes and the dirt they
leave. But a mother must realize God put
her there, because it is the most important
job in the world.

"The Bible has plenty to say about self-
control and self- discipline. Nowhere is it
more important than in the life of a
mother — and nowhere is it harder to
achieve. I'm not saying we should never
be angry with our children. When they
have done something particularly outra-
geous, it's a good thing to let them know,
in no uncertain terms, just where they
stand. But the important thing is to dis-
tinguish between serious moral issues —
wilful disobedience, disrespect to elders,
irreverence concerning things holy, lying,
cheating — and the simple, annoying things
children do in the natural process of grow-
ing up — carelessness, noisiness, and so on.

"A mother can't afford to be lenient
where a moral issue is concerned," Ruth
points out. "But she should always be
loving. And, when it is a matter of grow-
ing children being clumsy and breaking
something accidentally — being noisy — be-
ing untidy — I think it important that a
mother be firm and loving, but not peevish.
Nagging and peevishness, along with un-
fair discipline, can leave scars on a child's
life. But it is amazing how children can
forget your mistakes — and what parent
hasn't made any? — when they know they
are loved."

Billy and Ruth have definite ideas on
discipline. Billy says, "For disobedience
and dishonesty, I'm not above putting a
little switch to their bottoms." Ruth says,
"We believe in love and discipline. For
discipline, I use a belt and don't mean
maybe. I have heard Gigi say, 'After
Mother whips me, I'm good for three days.'
That's the way she responds to a licking.
But the second child, if you just look at
her, she begins to cry. So I think you
have to judge each to know what is needed.
Punishment must be fair and it must be
explained. But we insist on obedience and
honesty."

Billy is home so little that he does little
of the switching, for he doesn't want to be
remembered as an ogre. But, if he hears
one of the children talk back to Ruth, he
takes the child immediately into the library
for a talking: "We want them to reason
with us but not sass back. It's a matter of
learning the difference."

Billy is a thoughtful husband, and per-
haps the most thoughtful gesture he ever
made was the year he bought Ruth a dish-
washer. "I could never get to like dish-
washing," she says. "No future in it. I
tried everything to change my attitude,
but it was no use. You see, Bill is no soup-
and-sandwich man. He likes three square
meals a day. So, by the time I had finished
the breakfast dishes and pots and pans,
there was dinner to get ready. By the
time the noon dishes and pots and pans
were cleaned, it was time to start supper.
And, after supper, back to the sink again.
So, eventually, Bill got me a dishwasher.
And then, I do have help in the house
now. I never know when I'll be leaving
to join Bill for a few days — but, when I
do, the house must continue to function
for the sake of the children."

Ruth goes on, "Even if a woman has
help, even if she has unlimited help and
unlimited money, she needs Christ in her
home. I try to get up every morning be-
fore the children, to pray — although it's
nip -and -tuck with Franklin, for he is up
between five-thirty and six. But Christ is
with me all through the day. That's where
I get my strength and patience. You know,
Christ is not just an historical person who
died two thousand years ago. He rose
again, and His last words to us were: 'Lo,
I am with you even unto the end of the
world.' And that goes for the housewife,
too."

Although Ruth and Billy are as one in
their acceptance of Christ, actually they
are of different denominations. Ruth calls
him a "backslidden Presbyterian." Billy's
father, a dairy farmer in North Carolina,
was a very religious man, as was Billy's
mother; both are Presbyterians. Billy
chose the Baptist Church when he was a
young man. Ruth, on the other hand, was
raised and still remains a Presbyterian.
Her father, Dr. L. Nelson Bell, was a
medical missionary in China, where Ruth
went to school until she reached college
age. Her aim, as an undergraduate at
Wheaton College, was to go to Tibet as a
missionary. Billy's proposal of marriage
changed her mind. "I have no regrets,"
she says, "and, so far as the difference in
our choice of church is concerned, we be-
lieve that a family should be united, and
so we are. We attend church together.
When Billy is home, he usually goes to
the Presbyterian Church with us, there
being no Baptist Church in Montreat. The
children aren't aware of denominational
differences. There will be time enough for
that later. The children are just conscious
that Christ is their saviour and friend."

Billy seldom preaches in Montreat, but
his work goes on at home. There is prepa-
ration for a new crusade, conferences with
men of the church, the writing of his daily
column and his articles and always the
broadcasts. He tries to make up as much
as possible to the children for the months
he's been away. They hike and play to-
gether. A brook has been dammed and
they swim together. On Sundays, the chil-
dren are not allowed television and movies,
but, after church, they usually have a
family picnic. On a recent Sunday morn-
ing, Ruth had let Billy sleep on, for he
had just returned from a trip. But, when
she and the children got back from church,
they found he had a picnic basket packed
for them.

"People ask me how I remind the chil-

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dren of Bill when he's- away," Ruth says.
"Well, I don't have to. We all talk about
him. There are occasional pictures in the
paper. We listen to him on the radio. We
watch whenever he's on television. But I
remember when the situation was re-
versed. Bill almost lost touch with them.
A friend took a picture of Franklin when
he was between two and three years old.
Bill hadn't seen Franklin in five months.
The friend had the picture enlarged and
sent it to Bill in Europe. He looked at
the picture, and asked, 'Now, why would
anyone send me an enlarged picture of his
son?' He didn't recognize his own."

Kuth and Billy try to keep the children
away from reporters and photographers.
They don't believe in publicity for them
and, besides, they've already had more
than their share of public exposure. Their
last home was on the highway. Tourists
stopped by continually to ask for souvenirs
or just look. During the peak season, as
many as four busloads a day emptied their
passengers at the Graham home to sight-
see. They came onto the lawn, peeked into
windows and focused their cameras in hope
of candid shots. Billy himself recalls days
when he could move from room to room
only by crawling below the window sills.

Matters have not improved much, now
that they have moved from the highway
to the mountain top. Hikers appear at
dusk to camp. Ruth was putting one of the
children to bed and saw a face at the win-
dow. No kidnapper. Just a tourist. She
was getting dressed in a downstairs bed-
room when she heard a rustling outside
the window. Again, tourists. One neigh-
bor has taken pity on the Grahams. When
a car stops him and asks where Billy lives,
the neighbor says, "Billy Graham? Who's
Billy Graham?" But Ruth and Billy have
instructed the children to be courteous
to tourists. Ruth herself observed Gigi
being stopped by a car and asked, "Where
does Billy Graham live?" Gigi didn't look
enthusiastic about it but she pointed in the
right direction.

It's not pleasant to live in a fishbowl.
It's particularly hard on the Grahams, for
they enjoy informal living — and it's hard
to relax when you're being stared at. They
would not be rude to tourists, but are
eager to point out that the scenery in
North Carolina is beautiful.

The Grahams have good times at home
and remember in particular the days they
were snowed-in last winter: "A weekend
at the longest, and that wasn't nearly long
enough. You've no idea how beautiful all
that snow and quiet can be." But, year
around, there is a lot of horseplay and
laughter about the house. Even at Christ-
mas. "This past Christmas," Ruth smiles,
"I bought Bill a two-hundred-year-old
spinning wheel I'd been wanting a long
time. The Christmas before that, Bill
bought me a German radio he wanted so
badly." She grins as she recalls, "His gifts
can be outlandish. I mentioned that I could
use a cotton quilt housecoat. He gave me
four at one time — including cotton, rayon
and nylon."

Ruth thinks that one good reason for her
happy relationship with Billy is the ab-
sence of criticism in their home. "It's diffi-
cult to criticize without hurting someone's
feelings," she explains. "Bill and I do
little of it. God can tell us off when no
one else can. In the Bible, He reveals our
shortcomings and, at the same time, en-
courages us. That's the way the Bible is,
and it is as up-to-date today as it ever
was. No day goes by that I don't turn to
it for guidance." Ruth concludes, "We are
an unusually happy family because wei
live with Christ. It was said by someone —
I don't know who, but it's true — 'The
family that prays together, stays together.' "

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RADIO
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RADIO
MIRROR

NOVEMBER, 1957

ATLANTIC EDITION

VOL. 48, NO. 6

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

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

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

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

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 14

Mason Adams Has Two Lives by Alice Francis 22

Shakespeare and the Showgirl (Barbara Hall on

The $64,000 Question) by Ira H. Knaster 32

Who's Who on The Robert Q. Lewis Show (Robert Q. Lewis,

Judy Johnson, Richard Hayes, Ray Bloch) 34

True Story of a Happy Woman (Kathi Norris) by Martin Cohen 38

Year of Fulfillment (Steve Allen and Jayne Meadows) . .by Frances Kish 40

This Is Your Life — Ralph Edwards ! by Dora Albert 44

What Have They Got Against Girl Singers? by Helen Bolstad 46

"Come for Supper" (Agnes Young's buffet menu) 50

Double Trouble by Ann B. Davis 52

More Than a "Movie Star" (Madeleine Carroll) .. .by Charlotte Barclay 56

Bride And Groom 58

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

New Voices on Your Hit Parade (Alan Copeland, Jill Corey,

Virginia Gibson and Tommy Leonetti) by Lilla Anderson 20

Our Gal Sally (Joan Caulfield) by Eunice Field 24

Lucky Bob LeMond by Gordon Budge 26

A Home of Her Own (Carmel Quinn) by Mary Temple 28

YOUR LOCAL STATION

Up With the Chickens (WPEN) 8

Upbeat . . . Downtown (WABD) 10

That Second Cup of Coffee (WTOP-TV) 12

Stars of the Evening (Westinghouse Broadcasting Co.) 18

The Record Players: A Real Sweet Guy by Art Pallan 62

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

Information Booth 6

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 16

Beauty: Teal Ames Lets Her Hair Down by Harriet Segman 60

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 70

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 76

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 80

Cover portrait of Steve Allen and Jayne Meadows by Gary Wagner

BUY YOUR DECEMBER ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE NOVEMBER 5

MONTHLY by Macfadden
Inc., New York, N. Y.
EXECUTIVE, ADVERTISING AND EDI-
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'Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, President;
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vOlO Dworkin, Secretary and Treasurer. Adver-
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LaSalle Street, and San Francisco.

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CHANGE OF ADDRESS: 6 weeks* notice essential.
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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. Authorized as Second Class mail, P.O.
Dept., Ottawa, Ont^ Canada. Copyright 1957 by Mac-
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ternational Convright Convention. All rights reserved
under' Pan-American Copyright Convention. Todos de-
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by Art Color Printing Company.

Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group.

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WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST

By PETER ABBOTT

Talker Gaten Drake, often called "radio's most convincing voice," yields
to wife Anne, who speaks her first on-stage lines in "Ziegfeld Follies."

For What's New On The West Coast, See Page 14

"Romeo" Ron Randell takes himself
a Javanese Juliet, dancer Laya Raki

Short & Sassy: Mike Wallace ge
thousands of letters asking that he put
Elvis on the grill, but Teddy Bear
says, "No, thank you." . . . The Dave
Garroways will be hosting the stork
in March. . . . Always something new,
and NBC-TV is scheduling a "spec"
out of Las Vegas on November 16. A
bra -maker will be the sponsor and,
if the show holds up, will sponsor
again from the desert oasis. . . . Steve
Allen appears to have the inside track
to Belafonte, although Harry can just
about write his own terms wherever
he decides to guest. . . . Women's
gowns will get sexier this season on
panel shows. Producers expect more
than brains of female panelists. Next
year, perhaps, men will get taller. . . .
What's happening to Dorothy Collins
— looking more glamorous and grown-
up and going to Hollywood to play a
lead in pic, "Mr. Boston." . . . Cute
Nina Wilcox, ingenue in Harbour-
master, the new CBS-TV adventure
series, becomes an October bride.
Groom is Mark Merson, casting direc-
tor at CBS Gene Sullivan, Colum-
bia recording artist, comes up with
what may be the most inspired musical
recording of the season: Pairing of
"Please Pass the Biscuits" and "Wash
Your Feet Before Going to Bed."

Fantabulous He-Man : Promising en-
try in TV excitement is the brand-
new O.S.S. series starring Ron Randell.
Australian-born Ron is Americanized
(drives a pink convertible) and is a
V.I.P. in English theatrical circles.
Actually, he commutes between New
York, London and Hollywood. He has
made many movies and this fall he
will be released in an M-G-M produc-
tion. "Davey," in which he plays the

Comic Jerry Lewis is singing it straight again. Eydie Gorme is singing
it blue — ana1 watching the clock. Her TV songs keep getting ticked off.

Two alter-egos for Jack Webb. Sgt. Friday
plays it cool, but Pete Kelly blows it hot.

title role and, also, in Joan Crawford's
"The Golden Virgin," in which he
doesn't play the title role. Throughout
England, Ron is famed as actor and
TV personality. Couple of years ago,
he caused a furor in London. He was
doing the John Daly bit on the British
version of What's My Line? and
signed off with a Dinah Shore -type
kiss. This public display of affection
so startled the British that newspapers
front-paged the story. Ron earned the
nickname of "Romeo" and kept the
title by squiring international beauties
such as Rita Hayworth, Bettina, et al.
But this past August he married a
breathtaking beauty, Laya Raki, a
Javanese dancer. Ron, himself, no
pretty boy, is under six feet, has short
black hair and brown eyes. But his
subtle charm and boyish quality, it
is reported, shatter the gals. The
stunts he is required to do in O.S.S.
are so dangerous that a doctor is on
the set during some of the shooting. In
one week's filming in London, he came
close to eternity three times. First, he
was required to climb hand-over-
hand up a rope to the top of a bridge.
Director wasn't satisfied with the first
three takes and, on the fourth, Ron
lost his grip, got a bad rope burn and
dangled by one hand until the crew
moved in a contraption to hold him
up. Another day, he was riding a
kayak down river in full uniform
when the boat turned over. Ron got
himself zipped out only just in time.
Third incident occurred when faking
a bridge explosion. Dummy bricks
(weight Vz. pound) were dropped from
top of bridge and gathered up so
much speed they laid Ron out cold. So
tune in Thursday, ABC -TV, at 9:30
P.M. Right after Pat Boone.

Inside Out: Billy Graham plans for
a regular TV show have been
scrapped. Instead, live telecasts will
originate when and wherever a cru-
sade is held. . . . Betty Furness opened
in Westport, Connecticut, in one of
September's last summer-theater try-
outs. Betty's hoping the vehicle, "Min-
otaur," will get her back on Broad-
way. ... If you missed Charlie's
brother, John Van Doren, on High-
Low, it's doubtful you will see him
again. He didn't score like good old
Charlie. . . . Mort Lindsey, Judy John-
son's hubby, will be musical director
on Pat Boone's new show. Inciden-
tally, Pat will make few personal ap-
pearances during the TV-collegiate
season, but he will be in Dallas the
12th of this month. . . . Godfrey will
be coaxed back to night-time TV to
do holiday spectaculars. . . . Networks
have dumped any plans to do anything
special with Calypso themes. Figure
the trend is trod. . . . Kathryn Mur-
ray's summer show went over the top,
making the top ten and even beating
out Ed Sullivan's show. An offer of
fall time for the show was made
but refused. . . . Shirley MacLaine's
brother, a very good actor active in
New York TV, hides the relationship,
for he doesn't want people to think
he's trading on his sister's prestige.
This doesn't make much sense. No one
minds that the present John Barry-
more is a junior or that the current
Rin Tin Tin is a grandson of the
original. And now, even worse, we
can't remember what brother's name
is. (Editor's Note: It's Warren Beatty,
which is Shirley's real surname.)

The Philosopher & The Show Girl:

Renowned Galen Drake has been

married just about eight years to the
former Anne Shavers, formerly of
Cleveland. The Drakes have two chil-
dren and make their home in River-
dale, New York, where Anne blisses
in domesticity. But Anne is also a
showgirl, chosen "Miss Ziegfeld of
1957." She is a redhead with gray-
green eyes, one of the nation's true
beauties. Galen reports, "John Robert
Powers told me that Anne was the
most beautiful model he ever saw."
Galen and Anne met in a rare setting.
Galen recalls, "I was sharing an
apartment with a psychiatrist. Same
building as his office and that's where
I met Anne. She was waiting for the
doctor, for mutual friends in Cleve-
land had told her to look him up so-
cially. But I thought she was a patient
and she thought I was one." That was
in July of '49, and six months later
they married. Anne became a suc-
cessful model, but acting has been her
ambition since she was three. She got
her foothold in theater by becoming a
showgirl with lines in some of the
skits of the current "Ziegfeld Follies."
Yet, with all the ambition, she is quite
a homebody, wholly devoted to her
children. At present, Mrs. Galen
Drake is on a limited tour with the
"Ziegfeld Follies" and you'll find her
billed as "Anne Drake."

Silver Threads Among the Brass: A

guy named Sgt. Bilko, alias Phil Sil-
vers, got the idea he wanted to make
an album dedicated to the Army
bugle, and he did and it swings like
the gates of heaven. He got a mess of T
cool Gabriels blasting at arrange- V
ments by Nelson Riddle. Columbia B
titles it, "Phil Silvers and Swinging
Brass." . . . (Continued on page 11)

Kentucky Cadence

Please give me some information about
The Everly Brothers whom I've seen
on TV.

D.S., Springfield, Mass.

You have indeed seen them on tele-
vision. At this writing, the Everly Broth-
ers have appeared three times on the Ed
Sullivan show, twice on Big Beat, at least
once on the Vic Damone and Julius La
Rosa shows and numerous others. And,
of course, they are regulars on Grand Ole
Opry. ... It all started on February 1,
1937, when elder brother Don was born in
Brownie, Kentucky. Phil arrived not quite
two years later, on January 19, 1939. Their
parents were both musical and, though
they've retired now, they were active for
years in the country-music field. In fact,
the boys' dad was reared with Merle
Travis and worked with him for some
time. Don and Phil were only eight and
six respectively when their parents in-
cluded them on their "live" show over
KMA in Shenandoah, Towa. Since then,
the four Everlys have played and sung all
over the country as a family group. . . .
Arriving in Knoxville a few years ago, the
parents decided to retire and make a home
in one place so that Don and Phil could
finish their education. Once the book
larnin' was accomplished, the brothers
took off for Nashville to test their chances
for recording a single. Their friend, Chet
Atkins, knew talent when he heard it and
it was through him they were signed by
Archie Bleyer for his new country-and-
Western department of the successful
Cadence label. Their first platter, "Bye
Bye Love," was a hit in three fields, pop
and rock 'n' roll as well as country, and
that's fair proof of the boys' versatility.
"Wake Up, Little Susie," their second
contender, is waking "Little Susie" with

Don and Phil Everly

a bang. Sometimes taken for twins, Don
and Phil look very much alike. Both stand
5 feet 10 inches and weigh in at 150
pounds. They live in Madison and work
out of Nashville, but they're seen and
heard all over the land.

A Sailor's Life

/ would like some information on Max-
well Reed, who stars as Captain David
Grief on TV.

R.N., Berkeley, Calif.

Maxwell Reed's casting as star of the
Captain David Grief series is no acci-
dental authenticity. The producers of the
series based on the Jack London stories
searched the world over for a seaman-actor
such as Maxwell, then discovered he'd
been right there in California all the while.
. . . Though just 34, the licensed merchant-
captain has had a very adventurous life.
Born in London, Maxwell was barely out
of school when he decided the cure for his
wanderlust was a life at sea. Within a year
of his hiring on board a tramp steamer as
an ordinary seaman, World War II was
declared and all merchant mariners were
"frozen" to their jobs. Maxwell was on
ships which were torpedoed and once
floated ten days in a raft off the coast of
Ireland. . . . The freeze for the duration
proved a good therapy for Reed's wander-
lust. When the happy "thaw" started,
Maxwell enrolled post haste at the Royal
Academy of Dramatic Arts. When Old
Vic called, he had the chance to play with
the greats of the London stage — Olivier,
Ralph Richardson, Dame Sybil Thorndike.
His movie credits commence with "Day-
break" and go on to the role of Ajax in
the Warner Bros.' production of "Helen
of Troy." In '56, Reed, remembering a
Hollywood visit of some years' before and
his liking for the "climate, people, and
pace," procured a regular immigrant visa
and applied for U.S. citizenship.

Facing the Music

/ would like to know something about

Don Agrati of The Mickey Mouse Club.

J.K., Mishawaka, Ind.

One of the latest additions to the Mouse-
keteer fellowship is a thirteen-year-old
California lad of many talents, Don Agrati.
Don's specialty -on the Mickey Mouse Club
programs is tap dance and modern ballet,
but enormous musical versatility such as
Don's won't stay put in a single specialty.
As a dancer, Don moves well; as a musi-
cian, he sounds well on the accordion,
ukulele, clarinet, trumpet, drums, piano,
the harmonica and — remember the sweet
potato? — the ocarina. . . . There's partial
explanation for this 75-pound. 56-inch
brimful of musical abilities in the fact that
Don "faced the music" at age two-and-
a-half. Born in San Diego on June 8 of
1944, the light-haired, blue-eyed youngster

Don Agrati

is the son of Louis and Mary Agrati, both
entertainers. Don, their first-born, made
beating the drums his pre-nursery school
specialty. ... At three-and-a-half, the
toddler was taking his singing and danc-
ing lessons as regularly as vitamin pills.
At nine, he had a year's instruction on the
accordion and began playing at civic and
fraternal doings. While living in Lafayette,
near San Francisco, Don organized an
orchestra, "The Junior Sharps," and ar-
ranged, composed and conducted for the
eight-"man" group. But Don has the
nucleus for a junior-senior orchestra right
at home, where the whole Agrati family is
musical — parents, sisters Marilou, 9, and
Lani, two-and-a-half. No wonder that Don,
a straight-A student in seventh grade, lists
"music and dancing" as favorite hobbies.

The High Road

Would you please give me some infor-
mation on Jeff Morrow, who appears in
many TV plays?

K.S., St. Petersburg, Fla.

Though seen from time to time on the
syndicated television series Crossroads. Jeff
Morrow is well past the crossroads in his
career. He's on the high road to success.
Jeff debuted as Tybalt in the '36 Broadway
production of "Romeo and Juliet" that
starred Katharine Cornell. Roles in two
Saroyan plays led to his initial screen
offer, but Pearl Harbor intervened. Jeff
took on a very "straight" role, served in
the Air Corps for three years before re-
turning to the Great White Way. His first
memorable screen performance was as the
scarred, bearded and half-blind centurion
in "The Robe." ... In "Tanganyika," Jeff
played the half-mad African outcast. Other
films have cast Jeff as a cowboy, comic
heavy, and wealthy industrialist. He was
radio's Dick Tracy for two years, played
innumerable leads in TV dramas for U.S.
Steel Hour, Cavalcade Of America and
other series. Jeff's rich and rugged voice
and tall, dignified good looks make him a
natural for clergymen roles in Crossroads

Jeff Morrow

and for the Abraham Lincoln portrayal
on You Are There. . . . The brown-eyed,
black-haired, 180-pound actor is a sort of
walking embodiment of the United
Nations. On his father's side, he's English-
Scottish-Irish ; on his mother's, French-
Swiss-German. Where the thespian leanings
derived from is still something of a
mystery. Jeff went to school in Brooklyn,
graduating from the Manual Training
High School. After two years at Pratt
Institute, he worked as a commercial illus-
trator to pay for drama school. . . .
Morrow is married to the former Broad-
way actress, Anna Karen. They have an
eleven-year-old daughter, Lissa, and live
in Sherman Oaks. By the way, don't try
to light Jeff's cigarette for him. He gave
up the habit, but still carries one — un-
lighted — as a sort of prop. He has no
intention of smoking it.

Calling All Fans

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

Elvis Presley Fan Club, c/o Wanda L.
Grubb, 504 Moody Ave., Bradford, Ohio.

Darlene Gillespie Fan Club, c/o Bill
Ziebach, Rt. 2, Box 551, Theodore, Ala.

National Lennon Sisters Fan Club, c/o
Jacquie Tufts, Secretary, 4495 East Clin-
ton Ave., Fresno 3, California.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's
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 your question
concerns radio or TV.

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Jack O'Reilly, WPEN's man of the morning, loves those farmer s hours!

The wake-up man at Station WPEN, Jack
O'Reilly grew up in Brooklyn, but he is
willing to leave that box-ough to the Dodgers
(who may leave it any day themselves). Jack
likes his ground unpaved, his grass green,
his air fresh, and his hours early. The
farmer's life is for him. And, now that
he's helping Philadelphians to rise and
shine, six days a week, from five to nine ayem,
Jack feels that for the first time in
years he has "decent working hours." . . .
This means that Jack now rises at 3:30
each morning, in time to feed his cattle,
dogs and chickens, and then drive the
thirty-six miles from his Bucks County farm
to Philadelphia. He also free-lances in
radio and TV in New York. This time last
year, Jack was commuting to New York six
times a week to handle shows, particularly
college and pro football games, for Mutual
and WOR-TV. This year, only an occasional
film job in New York keeps Jack from his
family and from the chores on his beloved
farm. . . . Born in Glen Ridge, New Jersey, Jack
grew up in Brooklyn and, while at Brooklyn
Prep, was football quarterback, a national
quarter-mile champion and held the New York
State backstroke record. Dramatics and
debating were keen interests of his, too,
as Jack studied at Georgetown University.
Jack's dad was a well-known after-dinner
speaker and his grandfather was a diplomat.
Jack was just following family tradition
in speechifying when he won the NBC Announcing
School audition to act as a junior announcer
in New York, assisting Bill Stern in sports at
the same time. After fifteen years of
around-the-clock shows, Jack has made a host
of show-business friends, many of whom guest
on his program. Jack has one special favorite,
Guy Lombardo, for whom he was personal an-
nouncer on radio for ten years. . . . Another very
special friend was made when Jack was in prep
school. A little girl named Marguerite proved she
could play tennis, swim and run as fast as any
boy, so she was permitted to tag along when
Jack and the older boys went on hunting
and fishing expeditions on Long Island.
Then Jack went off to college and various
radio jobs. But auld lang syne was not
forgotten. Some years later, while doing
a morning show at WNEW in New York, Jack
received a call from the little tomboy who had
grown up. One date followed another, right up
to the wedding date. . . . The O'Reillys' farm
was originally built in the late 1780's and,
although Jack and Marguerite have modernized
it, they have kept the gracious Colonial feel-
ing. With their children — Marguerite, 10, Jay,
8, and Robby, 6 — the O'Reillys have made the
farm the greater part of the their life. They
also raise English setters for show and hunting
purposes and many of the dogs are blue-
ribbon champions. As a farmer — or as a
radio personality — you'd have to get up
early in the morning to beat Jack O'Reilly.

Records are part of the program at home, too, as well
as on Jack's morning wake-up show for Philadelphians.

Music is "live" as daughter Marguerite strums, wife
Marguerite plays piano, and Robby, Jay and Jack sing.

Farmer Jack feeds his livestock before he drives to the city to become a deejay.
He's back at the Bucks County farm in time to go hunting with his son Jay, wife
Marguerite and the champion English setters they raise — or to check on the cattle.

Greenwich Village is my hobby, Art has always said. Now, it's his job, too, as he tours its
streets for talent, finds such newcomers as dancer Nancy Miller. Those Art didn't find
himself sought him out in the "office" he set up at a table in Rienzi's famous coffee shop.

Art Ford searches for talent
for his Greenwich Village Party

The forty-foot midtown living room
that is home to Art Ford has, at one
time or another, also been the resi-
dence of such offbeat pets as a lion
cub, an ocelot, an antelope and a dik-
dik. "Wild animals are to domestic
animals what show-business people are
to ordinary people," says Art. "They
have more spirit, more tension, more
fun. I watch them, study them — and I
like their excitement." Familiar to New
Yorkers as host of WNEW's Make
Believe Ballroom and as a frequent
panelist on WABD's Entertainment
Press Conference, Art claims that he's
quieter, more relaxed, less of an ex-
trovert than most of his performing
confreres. "But it's the 'ordinary' peo-
ple," he explains, "who find the show-
business people most interesting." Thus
Art toured Greenwich Village in search
of new and different talent in show
business and all the lively arts. He'll
star the discoveries over WABD, each
Friday at 10 P.M. on Greenwich Village
Party. Everyone's invited.

All the arts are invited to the Party. Each week,
there'll be a showing, with mood music to fit,
by such Villagers as painter Vincent Graccino.

Young Ellen Adler auditions at the Folk Lore Cen-
ter. Art plans an all-city TV audience for the
songs that have made Ellen the talk of downtown.

At their Mexican art shop on MacDougal St.,
Art queries Mr. and Mrs. Al Bonk for leads
on talent, meets their pet monkey, "Hamlet."

Art's loge is a window, one flight up, as
Lorri Scott, a dancer too, beats the bongos
for the al fresco leaps of Audrey Lowell.

What's New on the East Coast

(Continued from page 5)

More TV in hi-fi with Dragnet's Jack
Webb harking back to his favorite fic-
titious character, Pete Kelly. Pete is
Webb and vice-versa. What Pete, or
Jack Webb, did was order in eight
Dixieland sidemen and six pounds of
pastrami. Jack picked out twelve great
tunes and the boys began blowing at
six P. M. and knocked off at dawn.
Victor calls the result, "Pete Kelly at
Home." ... So fantastic was the success
of Jerry Lewis's first straight-song al-
bum that Decca has issued more of the
same and logically titled it, "More
Jerry Lewis." It's like a second helping
of your favorite dish.

Money, Marriage, Murder, Etc.:

Speaking of $$$, Victor Borge gets
$200,000 for his February show— but, of
course, he has to bring his own music.
. . . Lovely Helen O'Connell and her
three daughters return from Hollywood
vacation on October 7. . . . Bells ring
for vocalist Betty Johnson October 4.
Betty and bridegroom Charles Grean,
her manager, take two-week honey-
moon abroad. . . . Speaking of TV pro-
gramming, Madison Avenue mumblings
indicate the next dramatic trend will
be toward horror. Next year, watch for
blood to spill out of your screen. . . .
Toll-TV running into all kinds of ex-
pensive problems. You could get bald
waiting for it. . . . Walter Cronkite, al-
ready the possessor of two young fe-
males, got himself a male heir whom he
duly named Walter Leland Cronkite III
and then remarked, "With a moniker
like that he can't miss getting into an
Ivy League school." . . . Garroway gang
worried about their crew-cut buddy,
Kokomo, Jr. Chimps are particularly
vulnerable to respiratory diseases such
as Asiatic flu. . . . Jack Paar's &
Monitor's weather gal, Tedi Thurman,
whose voice is to radio what Jayne
Mansfield's sweater is to movies, favors
Dick Kent for dating.

Arf & Ouch: Showmanship on inde-
pendent radio stations still tops the
networks. Cleveland's Bill Randle, of
WERE, continued to deejay his show
while in hospital for facial surgery. His
show goes on in the P.M., so the opera-
tions (two of them) were scheduled
for mornings, when the surgeon would
be least in the way. The plastic surgery
was not Randle's attempt to correct
nature's errors but rather to remove
scars suffered in a series of racing-car
accidents. Randle has no intention of
giving up racing, radio or surgery. No
dullard, he. . . . By comparison, a dog's
life is rather tedious. Take handsome,
lithe Steverino, the greyhound on Steve
Allen's stanza. Steverino has no trouble
getting a vacation or taking time off to
get over a head cold. Steverino has a
stand-in. Seems that when the agency
went looking for a greyhound they went
nuts, for the breed isn't plentiful in
this country. Just a couple days before
they went on the air, a pair arrived
from Kansas City. Incidentally, and

Pup Steverino has a stand-in — and
a "stage mother," Debbie, besides.

this is very confidential, but Steverino
and his stand-in are not really brothers.
They're really sisters.

Singing the Blues: The predicted
mortality rate of TV singers would
freeze your blood into cubes, but a lot
of people think Guy Mitchell is the
season's dark-horse entry. He could
emerge the top name of the year, for he
has an elfin energy that may make the
bland, relaxed boys look like wallflow-
ers. ... A lot of people bothered
over Nat Cole's sponsor troubles. His
ratings are high, his guests are top
drawer, and he's scheduled in Class A
time, but there's no sponsor. Why? . . .
The only female TV personality to be
named anywhere in the Jazz Critics'
Poll conducted by Downbeat magazine
was Eydie Gorme. The winner was Ella
Fitzgerald. The male winner was the
Slender Sender, with Satchmo a lag-
ging runner-up. But, getting back to
Eydie, the gal has been having her
blues. The big Edsel Show on October
13, which stars Crosby and Sinatra,
asked Eydie aboard. She turned it
down and rumor was that she wanted
more money, more than the $2,500 they
offered. Some guys thought she was
nuts to turn down a chance to sing with
the Groaner and the Sender for the
sake of money, but dollars weren't the
problem. All Eydie wanted was a guar-
antee that she'd get three minutes.
Seems that on the last big Jerry Lewis
show she was promised three and got
cut short when show ran long. On a
Como show, it was worse. There were
some Hollywood stars ahead of her and
everything was so late she didn't even
get to show her pretty face. So that's
all Eydie asked of the Edsel producer —
a three-minute guarantee in writing.
Anyway, Eydie has already made a
September showing with Steve Allen
and guests with Patti on The Big
Record come November 20. . . . Abbe
Lane will only guest-shot on TV this
year, for she has a big part in a big up-
coming Broadway musical, "Captain's
Paradise." And, in concluding, would it
be fair to say that Abbe Lane has the
kind of voice that has to be seen???

Use your good
common sense!

Think! Think how you had to struggle,
struggle, struggle with that miserable
belt-pin-pad contraption last month and
last year and all the times before that!
Think how uncomfortable it was! Does
it make sense to go on and on when
millions of Tampax users say they almost
forget about time of the month?

Tampax® internal sanitary protection
makes things so much simpler for you.
Since Tampax is worn internally, odor
can't form. What's more, nothing can
show. You can shower or bathe. Tampax
won't absorb any water. There are no
disposal problems with Tampax. No
carrying problems either. A supply of
Tampax can be slipped into your very
smallest handbag.

It makes sense to use the easy way —
the Tampax way. Choose from three ab-
sorbencies (Regular, Super, Junior)
wherever drug products are sold. Tampax
Incorporated, Palmer, Mass.

Invented by a doctor —
now used by millions of women

They're personal friends, says
Mark Evans of the WTOP viewers
and listeners he invites for . . .

THAT SECOND
CUP OF COFFEE

Mark's style is easy and his manner casual. His humor is
quick as he trades quips with newscaster Roger Mudd, right.

Good things come in threes. On the air, that's the number of
Mark's shows. Home, it's three girls — Nancy, Penny, Wendy.

Guest stars such as Kim Novak shine early
in the morning for their host, Mark Evans.

There were some doubts about Pano-
rama Potomac, but emcee Mark Evans
insists they weren't his. Seen week-
days from 8 to 9 A.M. on Washington's
Station WTOP-TV, this program features
unusual and informative local, national
and international stories and features;
stories for youngsters; films of local news;
and guest stars. But, when it was first
scheduled, the upper echelons buzzed with
questions. Would viewers, accustomed
to network productions and nationally-
known television figures, take to a locally
produced program? Did enough top-rate
material and capable performers exist
locally to sustain such a program? Would
sponsors like the idea? Mark answered
yes — and the ratings have backed him
up. ... A man with a strong conviction
that his audience is made up of per-
sonal friends, Mark Evans was the man
who should have known. He learned the
art of reaching the public with a sponsor's
message in a most unique manner — as a
church missionary. He entered broadcast-
ing on the advice of a college professor.
"My TV debut to the nation," he recalls,
"was made over a cup of well-known
coffee. They had insisted on tremendous
heat for my 'steaming' cup of coffee ... I
smiled from here to San Francisco, I
adored the aroma, I savored the flavor.
As I proceeded to sip, I looked down at
the cup and found the intense heat had
melted the plastic and glaring up at me
was a mixture of paint and coffee!" . . .
Currently, Mark's Panorama Potomac
is encouraging people to linger by the
TV set for a second cup of coffee. He's
around for the first one, over WTOP
Radio, with Sunrise Salute, heard week-
days from 6 to 7:30 A.M., and he's the
voice of the Housewives' Protective
League, weekdays at 1:30 PJVL . . .
Mark and his wife Lola have three young
daughters to keep them hopping and
Mark, an energetic man, somehow man-
ages to stretch the hours to fit in such
hobbies as travel, golf, hunting and fish-
ing. Born in Ogden, Utah, Mark came to
Washington in 1945 and has been active
in its community affairs from the first.
In the capital, Mark Evans is capital.

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Her work went to somebody else's head, but Dinah Shore
really raced back to plan new home with George Montgomery.

Wild West still is — as Broken Arrow's John Lupton found
out when a bucking bronc bucked at El Toro Marine Base.

WHATfS NEW ON THE WEST COAST

By BUD GOODE

Tennessee Ernie Ford was home
early from his New England vacation
in order to run up to his ranch in
Northern California. Ern gave ranch
foreman, Gene Cooper, a three-week
vacation and got up himself at 5 A.M.
every morning to feed the pigs, cows
and horses, mend fences, paint barns
and race around his 540-acre paradise
on top of the new Ford tractor, feelin'
every inch the King of the Tennessee
Smokies. Ol' Ern loves the ranch,
where the only ratings are those the
local cattle buyers give to his herd
of prime beef.

When Ernie Ford heard that his life
was to be one of This Is Your Life re-
runs this summer, he wired Ralph
Edwards and asked if there would be
a party again after the show. His
grandmother was ready to fly out
from Tennessee.

Art Linkletter believes in the good
life: In the middle of winter, he was
off for two weeks in Mexico with wife
Lois; in the spring, he took in the
beauties of the green East Coast at the
Pillsbury Bakeoff ; early summer (this
year's vacation), he and Lois visited
the Far East; and the top of the sum-
mer found Art and Lois on a private

yacht for a week of fishing Alaska's
inland waters. Art caught his limit,
but Lois won the prize — a 42-pound
salmon. Before they left, these peren-
nial youngsters found time to dance
it up at Don Fedderson's party for
new Do You Trust Your Wife? emcee,
Johnny Carson.

Jack Linkletter's fiancee has begun
teaching Physical Education at Bev-
erly Hills High School. Herding a
bunch of kids around, she'll be get-
ting ready to raise a family the size
of her father-in-law's . . .?

Big year for Molly Bee. Her first
motion picture for Universal-Interna-
tional is now out and is such a big hit
they've asked her to do two a year.
Ernie Ford has signed Molly for thir-
teen appearances on his night-time
show. Tommy Sands gifted her with
a two-diamond "friendship" ring. And
now she has graduated to an all-dra-
matic, no-singing, starring role with
TV's Ronnie Burns, in the Columbia
picture, "Too Young." Tommy Sands,
meantime, in search of new material
for his 20th Century-Fox picture,
"The Singin' Idol," decided to do his
own cleffing. Perhaps this material
will hit the million seller circle, as

did last summer's "Teen-Age Crush."
Just before Dinah Shore took off
for Copenhagen, Mary Benny called
and asked Dinah for her hairdresser.
Dinah said that, unfortunately, the
girl had been in an accident and
wasn't available. So Dinah went over
to help set Mary's hair. When Dinah
arrived in Copenhagen, she received
the following unsigned wire: "Come
back, come back. Mary Benny needs
a hairdresser!" Incidentally, work on
the new home Dinah and George
Montgomery are building is proceed-
ing apace.

Wonderfully wise and kind, Eve
Arden is the sort of gal whose eyes
light up whenever anyone begins
talking about children, kittens, pup-
pies, baby chicks, little lambs or
ponies. She and husband Brooks West
were married on the Bruce Amsters'
farm in Connecticut. Last year their
good friend Bruce suffered a heart at-
tack, moved his family into a New
York City apartment. To help Amster
rest, Eve sent for his youngest daugh-
ter Mary, asking that she be allowed
to stay on their Hidden Valley ranch
along with her own four children.
Watching Eve's joyful expression as

Bellissima, said a guest at Las Vegas's Flamingo Hotel, and he
could have meant any Alberghetti: Mama, Anna Maria, Carlo.

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

she describes young Mary Amster's
growth on the ranch is a treat in it-
self: "Mary arrived, not awkward,
mind you, but like a city gal on a farm
— coltish is the word. She couldn't run
as fast as our kids (though by the end
of the year she beat them). It was
wonderful watching her in the spring
as she learned to care for the little
lambs; and Brooks took a complete
movie called 'Mary of Westhaven,'
which pictures her from the day she
arrived coming up the path to the
house and follows her all through the
year — to the waiting-room Brooks
built for the kids to wait for the school
bus in, to the spring animals, and with
us on our Yosemite vacation. We even
have some film on the arrival of her
mother and father — now we're just
waiting for the last title (Brooks is
making it) showing all of us waving
goodbye to the Amsters as they take
their new Mary home to New York."
The cameraman on the Frank Sin-
atra set also was responsible for the
camera work on Otto Preminger's
movie, "The Man With the Golden
Arm." Whenever they fell behind
schedule, Preminger would growl at
him. "Don't talk mit de actors. You

schlow hus hupp." Today, it's Frankie,
"The Man" himself, who growls at his
cameraman, "Don't talk mit de actors
. . ." The crew falls apart. Contrary to
popular rumor, it's this rolling sense
of humor which keeps the Sinatra
troupe in high good spirits. As a con-
sequence, they seldom fall behind.

Always a heavy smoker, James Ma-
son finally forced himself to shake
the habit. He didn't reckon, though,
with the CBS-TV photographers who
requested that he pose for an up-
coming G.E. Theater show with a cig-
arette dangling from lips. P.S. He did.

The chips were down at the Fla-
mingo Hotel in Las Vegas, as people
deserted the gambling tables to shout
"bravas" for Anna Maria Alberghet-
ti, the gal with the classic voice and
measurements to match. Anna Maria
received the ovations with two other
members of the talented family act,
Mama Alberghetti and sister Carla.
They were on the same bill as comic
Alan King. . . . Another comic,
George Gobel, doing the best business
in Las Vegas, has this observation
about the gambling town: An enter-
tainer doesn't play Las Vegas; it plays
him. (Continued on page 71)

PERIODIC PAI"

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Home from her day's chores at a
movie studio, Mitzi Gaynor finds
husband Frank Sinatra is still a
gambling addict, with poker pals.

RADIO
MIRROR

TV favorites on

your theater screen

By JANET GRAVES
The Joker Is Wild

PARAMOUNT, VISTAVISION

Here Frank Sinatra combines his im-
posing talents as singer and dramatic
actor. He plays Joe E. Lewis, night-club
star whose life is twisted after an assault
by Chicago gangsters of the twenties.
Alcohol both hampers and advances his
new career as comic, complicates his
relationships with friend Eddie Albert,
sweetheart Jeanne Crain and wife Mitzi
Gaynor. This is a strong, wry, offbeat
music-drama.

The Three Faces of Eve

20th, cinemascope
Often acclaimed for her live-TV shows,
Joanne Woodward realizes an actress's
dream with this spectacular assignment.
It's three parts in one, for she plays a
colorless Southern housewife who lapses
at times into an evil alternate person-
ality, a reckless hussy. In her mental
torment, she gets no understanding and
little sympathy from husband David
Wayne. But psychiatrist Lee J. Cobb
uncovers another hidden personality — -
a normal woman.

Hear Me Good

PARAMOUNT, VISTAVISION

Two years ago, at advance showings of
the movie musical "It's Always Fair
Weather," M-G-M didn't even give
screen credit to the new actor who played
a comic menace, a punch-drunk pug.
Sure, he did an excellent job — but the
part was too small. By the time the
picture was premiered for the public,
the studio had corrected its error and
given the newcomer billing, because he
had meantime made a name for himself
on TV. The name was Hal March. The
genial emcee returns to Hollywood now
as star of this lively Broadway comedy,
done in the Damon Runyon manner. With
pal Joe E. Ross (you know him as mess
sergeant in Bilko's company), Hal tries
to clean up by betting on a fixed beauty
contest. Merry Anders and Jean Willes
are rival lovelies.

Johnny Trouble

WARNERS

An also-ran in movies until her hit in
"The Bachelor Party," Carolyn Jones
got that second chance partly because of
her good showing in TV dramas. Now
she has rare fortune and a sharp chal-
lenge, cast with that great lady Ethel
Barrymore. Miss Barrymore plays a
widow who refuses to give up her apart-
ment even when the building is turned
into a college men's dormitory. For per-
sonal reasons, she takes a grandmotherly

interest in trouble-making student Stu-
art Whitman, beloved of the flighty
Carolyn. It's sentimental but affecting.

The Helen Morgan Story

WARNERS, CINEMASCOPE

Songs that are part of the all-time Hit
Parade come thrillingly from the screen
in this touching, fanciful tribute to a
beloved singer of the twenties and early
thirties. As the film's Helen. Ann Blyth
gives her love to young TV grad Paul
Newman, though she is also wooed by
lawyer Richard Carlson (another TV
regular). The movie is less realistic
than the television version that starred
Polly Bergen, but music's full of life.

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

The Pajama Game (Warners, Warner-
Color) : With Doris Day and John Raitt.
the labor-management quarrel is trans-
lated into personal, musical, highly en-
tertaining terms.

No Down Payment (20th, Cinema-
Scope) : Problems of young-marrieds
get ruthless scrutiny, with fine work by
Joanne Woodward, Tony Randall.

The Careless Years (U.A.) : Youthful
Natalie Trundy and Dean Stockwell
portray teenagers who consider elope-
ment. Their decision may rouse family
argument.

^ movies
on TV
Showing this month

CORNERED (RKO) : Tough, fast-moving
mystery stars Dick Powell as an ex-flyer of
World War II who seeks the murderer of his
bride, heroine of the French resistance. Wal-
ter Slezak's a sleek heavy.

FORT DEFIANCE (U.A.) : Vigorous, un-
usual Western set in post-Civil War days. As
a blind youth, Peter Graves escapes the in-
fluence of ornery brother Dane Clark and
finds a friend in voung Ben Johnson.

I, THE JURY (U.A.) : Slaphappy, punch-
drunk Mickey Spillane yarn presents BifE
Elliot as private eye Mike Hammer, trailing
the killer of a wartime buddy. Peggie Castle,
a psychiatrist, is among the lush ladies; Pres-
ton Foster's a police captain.

ISLAND OF DESIRE (U.A.) : Tab Hunt-
er's debut film shows off his torso to good ad-
vantage. As a youthful sailor, he's cast away
on a South Sea island with the older but at-
tractive Linda Darnell, Navy nurse.

JOURNEY INTO FEAR (RKO): Wild
fascinating thriller of World War II plots.
American Joseph Cotten, armament expert,
is shadowed by Nazi assassins in Turkey. Or-
son Welles is a local police officer; Dolore1
Del Rio, a dancer.

MAN WITH A MILLION (U.A.) : Gregory-
Peck plays the adventurous Yank in an en-
gagingly whimsical Mark Twain tale of Lor;
don in 1900. Dead broke, Greg is given a
million-pound note — but he mustn't spend it.
How far can he get on credit?

MOULIN ROUGE (U.A.) : Brilliant and
colorful story of 19th Century Paris. As the
deformed genius Toulouse-Lautrec, Jose Fer-
rer paints the night life of the city, loves
street girl Colette Marchand.

MY LIFE WITH CAROLINE (RKO):

Flimsy comedy sparked by a charming and
expert cast. As a shrewd husband, Ronald
Colman copes with flighty Anna Lee, who
flirts with Reginald Gardiner, Gilbert Ro-
land, her casual beaux.

NIGHT TO REMEMBER, A (Columbia) :
No, this isn't the story of the Titanic. It's a
frivolous, farcical whodunit, with Brian
Aherne as a writer, Loretta Young as his
bride, in wacky Greenwich Village.

OX-BOW INCIDENT, THE (20th) : One
of the real greats, a movie classic. In the
harrowing drama of a frontier lynching,
Henry Fonda's a doubtful member of the
mob; Dana Andrews, one of the trio ac-
cused of cattle-rustling and murder.

PENNY SERENADE (Columbia) : Honest-
ly sentimental, beautifully done story of a
marriage. To a series of ''''our songs," Cary
Grant and Irene Dunne court, marry, adopt
and lose a child, courageously face the fu-
ture together.

SEALED CARGO (RKO): Strong action
movie spotlights a Nazi plot in Newfound-
land. Dana Andrews leads the fishermen who
outwit Claude Rains, German Navy officer
posing as a Danish merchant captain.

STEEL TRAP, THE (20th) : Taut tale of
suspense. Bank employee Joseph Cotten tries
looting the vault as an experiment, gives in
to temptation and takes off, deceiving wife
Teresa Wright.

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of *h

vening

Lauren Bacall is typical of Sammy's top-
flight talented guests. He knows many such
stars — can imitate most of them amazingly.

"Coffee Corner" grew out of a talk with
William Kaland of WBC, who realized
Sammy would begood host — as well as guest.

Sammy Davis, Jr. shares his

"Coffee Corner" with top celebs, in WBCs

plan for dynamic radio programming

There's still magic in radio! Potent magic, with at
least 80% as many listeners as there are TV viewers
every night. Starting from that premise, Westinghouse
Broadcasting Company has created Program PM —
two hours nightly, seven days a week — for five
key stations from Massachusetts to Oregon. WBC calls
it "lateral programming," combining features of top
local interest with national series starring such
top names as Sammy Davis, Jr. . . . Sammy's weekly
hour features a "Coffee Corner." But Mr. Davis, Jr.
is really the man who came to dinner— and stayed
on to become a permanent fixture in the Westinghouse
family of stars. Originally scheduled as first guest
of noted deejay Jerry Marshall's own segment, "Music
Beat," Sammy got the ball rolling so entertainingly
that the tape couldn't be cut down to size. William
J. Kaland, WBCs National Program Manager,
listened with delight, asked Sammy, "How come
you're not doing a regular radio series of your own?"
Said Sammy, "Nobody asked me." Said Bill, "So I'm
asking." . . . Sammy's a natural for the present series.
Program PM believes in going behind-the-scenes
of everything provocative, from the arts to the atom.
No one knows backstage life more intimately than
Sammy, who was born into show business — December 3,
1925, in New York City — began mimicking the family
act at two, joined them on stage at four. . . .
Program PM believes that big names make big enter-
tainment news. Sammy has not only been a star
of The Will Mastin Trio (with his uncle and father)
ever since 1936 — and "Mr. Wonderful" in person
on Broadway last year — he has also worked with and
knows well most of today's greatest performers, can
thus share his "Coffee Corner" mike with such head-
liners as Sinatra, Crosby, Nat "King" Cole, Lauren
Bacall, Judy Garland. . . . Program PM believes in
radio as a dynamic, exciting force in American life.
For all his success on stage and screen, night clubs
and records (Decca), Sammy has a very special spot
in his heart for radio. It was by listening constantly —
over the air and around the studios — that he developed
the amazing gift for mimicry which adds the touch
of genius to Sammy Davis, Jr.'s position as a leading
song-and-dance man in the show-business world.

The Sammy Davis, Jr., Show is a part of Program PM, heard over
Westinghouse Stations WBZ-WBZA, Boston and Springfield — KDKA,
Pittsburgh— KYW, Cleveland— WOWO, Fort Wayne— and KEX,
Portland, Ore. Consult local papers for time and day in your area.

jk jfiks

If.- Must you always be cast as an outsider when
I you're married to a star?

A million women envy you. You, wife of Larry Noble . . . actor, star, dazzling
image of everything they want. But they never guess your lorieliness- Larry
wrapped up in a play, Larry infatuated with a leading lady, showing her the
devotion that should be yours. You alone know the pain., .waiting in the
wings for love, for the man who is your world. Can you ever be a part of
his? You can get the whole story- even while you work -when you listen to
daytime radio. Hear BACKSTAGE WIFE on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time.

yy^Vwc&t'WZ'

From all across the nation — Pennsylvania and
Missouri, California and New Jersey — come four talented
young stars to sing the nation s favorite songs

By LILLA ANDERSON

Now that Tin Pan Alley is a street which runs
past everyone's door, the songs of America
come from many sources . . . Texas, Tennessee,
Trinidad . . . New York, North Hollywood, South
Philadelphia. Their ranges, their rhythms, their
styles, are as varied as the places from which
they came and the singers who introduced them.
Yet each aims for a single accolade of popularity —
performance on Your Hit Parade.

To convert such songs into colorful radio and
television presentations — and to stage a fresh,
new presentation each week, no matter how long
a number remains on the popularity charts — calls
for the utmost skill and imagination from that
show's production staff. From the singers, of
course, it demands almost immeasurable versa-
tility. Vocally, they must be able to switch from
rock 'n' roll to a tender ballad, from a novelty
tune to a semi-classic. Further, they must be able
to dance and dramatize their numbers. It is the
most challenging entertainment assignment in
America today.

This season, four new singers are taking up the
challenge — and they have backgrounds and talents
as varied as the music they perform. Tommy
Leonetti comes from New Jersey and Jill Corey
from the Perry Como coal country in Pennsyl-
vania. Virginia Gibson is a graduate of St. Louis
Municipal Opera and Broadway musical comedy,
and Alan Copeland learned some of his show-
business knowhow in Hollywood, from the Crosby
clan. Together, they all meet the Hit Parade's
high standards by being healthy, happy, talented
young entertainers.

You can expect rumors of for-real romance to
burst out with every duet which Tommy Leonetti
and Jill Corey sing, for here's a pair to flutter
any matchmaking imagination. Tommy is tall,
dark and handsome; Jill is petite, pert, and pretty.
Each comes from an Italian family where every

member loves music. Each has a warm, outgoing
personality, and both have reached that level of
professional achievement where one lucky song,
one hit record, will bring the blazing glory of
top stardom.

To compound the inevitable conclusion that
these two belong together is the fact that they
have gone out on a few dates. "That was in
Hollywood, a couple of years ago," says Tommy,
with a hint of happy memory in his voice. Jill says,
with a touch of nostalgia, "Long before we ever
guessed we might be singing together on Your
Hit Parade." Then, almost instantly, each assures
you, with a shy charm, that the association had no
serious connotations.

Says Jill, who has been going through a period
in which columnists linked her name with that of
virtually every interestingly eligible young man
on Manhattan: "Don't believe what you read in
the papers. I'm not in love with anybody . . . but
I do think Tommy is a lot of fun." Says Tommy,
who has squired many a glamorous lass, "Jill's
a sweet girl. But my first record was called 'I'm
Available,' and that still stands."

Tommy won his Hit Parade assignment in an
audition which considered more than a hundred
singers, but he has been preparing for it as long
as he can remember. Born in North Bergen, New
Jersey, he is the son of Dominico and Dominica
Lionetti. (Tommy changed the spelling to make
certain people could pronounce his name cor-
rectly.) His parents came from Bad, Italy, and
Tommy now shares their home in Cliffside, New
Jersey, a town within commuting distance of New
York. He is the youngest of nine children.

"All of us sang," says Tommy. "And what a
noise they could make," says his mother. "But I
always enjoyed it. It was a good sound and a
happy house."

One of their teachers (Continued on page 64)

Your Hit Parade is seen on NBC-TV, Sat., 10:30. P.M. EDT, sponsored by Hit Parade Cigarettes and The Toni Company.

ALAN COPELAND

VIRGINIA GIBSON

■

31h

a****

4*%

WJ*

JILL COREY

TOMMY LEONETTI

Mason thinks the staff and cast of Pepper Young's. Family are tops — particu-
larly that fine actress, Margaret Draper, who's heard as Pepper's wife Linda.

Pepper Young's Family, written by Elaine Carrington, directed by Chick Vincent and star-
ring Mason Adams, is heard on NBC Radio, M-F, 3:45 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship.

By ALICE FRANCIS

When you've played a man
for twelve years on radio, as
Mason Adams has played
Pepper Young on NBC, it would
seem only natural to develop a real
affection for him. An "empathy,"
to employ that now over-used and
often abused word. A bond of ideas,
a similarity of manners and man-
nerisms and of speech. You may
even get to look like him — or, more
properly, he may look like you.

Adams tells the story of one of
the thousands of listeners to Pep-
per Young's Family who have
written to him over the years.
"This man said he had been blind
and regained his sight. He wanted
a photograph of me to see how
close I came in appearance to the
mental picture he had built up over
a long period of tuning-in during
his sightless years. He described
me as he had 'seen' me, and it was
fantastically correct. Dark hair and
brown eyes, wearing glasses (tor-
toise shell-rimmed). About my
size (five feet, nine-and-a-half
inches, to be exact) .

"He said that usually I had a
serious expression (I am afraid I
do) , but that I brightened up enor-
mously when I got enthusiastic
about something or was amused
(which I also do). He said I moved
in a hurry, but in general liked
mental activity rather than physi-
cal exercise, and he was right
about this, too.

"Even my mother occasionally
identifies me with Pepper, to her
own amusement and mine," Mason
adds. "She will be working around
her home with the program tuned
in, suddenly hear me call 'Hey,
Mom,' to Marion Barney — that
wonderful and delightful older ac-
tress who plays my Young mother
— and will automatically turn to
answer me herself!"

Elaine Carrington, creator and
writer of Pepper Young's Family,
probably by now also identifies
Mason (Continued on page 63)

True, Mason prefers mental activity to physical exercise. But he
also enjoys a game of tennis — whether visiting his folks out on Long
Island, or playing with such friends as mystery-writer Harold
Q. Masur in the very shadow of Manhattan's great bridges.

Mason Adams, that is, ivho's better
known — even to himself! — as
Pepper Young, of the famous family

Books and music are this bachelor's favorite
companions for a quiet evening at home. Mason,
who has a Master's degree from Wisconsin U.,
is proud of his library and record collection.

—

Joan loves to learn — and her "favorite teacher" is her
husband, Frank Ross, noted TV and movie producer.

OUR GAL

New role, new viewpoint . . . husband
and friends have more reason than ever
to be proud of Joan Caulfield today

By EUNICE FIELD

Somewhere in Benedict Canyon, looking out
on the Hollywood hills, lovely Joan Caulfield is
pouring iced tea. In that setting of emerald
lawns, glittering pool, French gardens and marble
patio, her blond hah* seems blonder than ever and her
blue eyes bluer. Her movements are graceful and
quick, her smile vivid and winning, and out of her
there flows an excitement that always seems on the
verge of bursting forth. It seldom does, how-
ever . . . and, to her friends, this is a fact of great
significance. Joan had always been a creature of
sudden moods — sudden in her spells of sunshine,
sudden in her spells of storm. . . . "Yes, we've had
this place a couple of years now," she is saying to a
guest, "but Frank and I still think of it as new."
"I hear there's a new (Continued on page 85)

Sally is seen on NBC-TV, Sun., 7:30 P.M. EDT, sponsored by
the Chemstrand Corporation and Royal Portable Typewriters.

Young and impulsive Joan is growing up, now that
she's a part-owner , of Sally, as well as its star.

More mature, more responsible, yes. But as lovely
as ever, and just as ready for a romp with "Missy."

Lucky

Bob fell in love ivith a picture —
and won the girl. He wanted a boy
child — and got three. Thanks to
shows like The Big Record, they
live in the house of their dreams!

By GORDON BUDGE

This . year, popular and handsome Bob
LeMond is being seen weekly on Patti
Page's The Big Record over CBS-TV, and
almost every month on Jerry Lewis's special
shows for NBC -TV. Every year, he's been on
view with some of television's biggest stars
and, by now, peripatetic Bob has visited as
many millions of living rooms as any other
topflight announcer. But genial, dark-haired,
brown-eyed LeMond, who claims he's just an
average guy, never planned on becoming a
bigtime announcer. Five feet, eleven inches
and 175 pounds of (Continued on page 74)

The Big Record, starring Patti Page, CBS-TV, Wed., 8
to 9 P.M. EDT, is sponsored by Oldsmobile Div. of
General Motors, Armour and Co., Kellogg Co., Pillsbury
Mills. The Jerry Lewis Show will be seen Tues., Nov.
5, on NBC-TV, at 9 P.M., as sponsored by Oldsmobile.

From left to right — Barry, Stephen, Robin. "Our friends
say we should have had a girl," Barbara laughs. "But Bob
and I are used to little boys, think they are wonderful."

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Bob and Barbara met in the South
Pacific, were married in California.

Eldest son Robin has special privileges,
goes fishing with Bob, is learning golf.

Playing with Dad and "Lancer,"

Barry doesn't mind being the baby!

HER OWN

That's what every grown woman wants,
says Carmel Quinn — who traveled
from Ireland to America to find it

Carmel and Bill in front of their New Jersey home —
the "house on a hill" she dreamed of as a little girl.

By MARY TEMPLE

Sure, and Dublin-born Carmel Quinn can weave the
same spell around you while you're just sitting across
from her, talking and visiting, as she does on the
Arthur Godfrey show or in a night club or on records.
It could be the lilting Irish voice, as musical with talk as
it is with notes, and the titian hair with the soft waves
that have nary a hint of being set that way but hang
careless-like at her neck. Or the blue eyes that change to
green and back to blue, according to the colors around her.

The spell grows even stronger as she talks of home
and husband and children and her new life in America,
and every word underscored with emotion and love. As
she talks about the house in Leonia, New Jersey, just
across the Hudson River from New York, where she lives
as Mrs. Bill Fuller, mother of two children, Jane and

Continued

A HOM

HER OWN

(Continued)

■:,/i:,;.v-,>:: ■■:":, :.•-.. :

With Irish blood — and with both parents "in show
business" — Jane's bound to sing and dance! Below,
Carmel tests a new number on Bill's tape-recorder.

Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts, CBS-TV, Mon., 8:30 P.M.,
is sponsored by Thomas J. Lipton, Inc., and The Toni Co.
Arthur Godfrey Time is heard on CBS Radio, M-F, 10 A.M. —
seen on CBS-TV, M-Th, 10:30 A.M. — under multiple sponsor-
ship. The Ford Road Show Starring Arthur Godfrey is heard
on CBS Radio, M-F, at 5:05 P.M. (All times given are EDT)

Michael. Where the Fullers are neighbors to the Pat
Boones and to other delightful people who have
become their friends as well as neighbors.

"When I was a small girl in Ireland, I used to think
when I got married I would live in just such a house
on a hill as I have now," she says. "And isn't it strange,
and wonderful, that I do! In this wonderful America,
where I came only three-and-a-half years ago and where
everyone has been so kind to me."

The nouse on a hill, stoutly built by a former owner,
is red-brick, roomy. "Not a ranch house, not a modern
house, but up-to-date in every way," Bill Fuller finishes
the description. "A fine house for us," his wife con-
tinues. "With a big, big kitchen. We had to have that.
You may start off in style as a guest in the dining
room, but you will still wind up in the kitchen, having
cups of coffee or our good tea. Pretty soon, the women
are kicking off their high-heeled shoes, and the men are
taking off their jackets and getting comfortable and
feeling at home.

"When Shirley and Pat Boone are in the East — we
missed them sorely when Pat was doing his latest
picture out in Hollywood — we breeze over to their place
or they come over to ours, and there we sit, almost
always in the kitchen, Pat drinking milk and my Bill,
a real 'tea shark,' having his cups of tea, and Shirley
and I comparing notes about our kids and the cooking
and the plans we have for doing things in our houses."

Except for the house in which her father was born and
still lives, in Dublin— and (Continued on page 72)

Nora Blewitt — the colleen "who takes care of us and
runs everything" and is a trusted "second mother" to
the baby, Michael — is now an American citizen. That's
a future dream-to-come-true for Bill and Carmel, too.

Kitchen is the heart of their home, where Carmel and Bill serve tea to such good neighbors as Bob Gallen
(left) and his wife, and Mike McDonagh and his daughter Clare. Another neighbor's busy out in Hollywood,
so Jane — who's all femininity and frills — fondly kisses Pat Boone's picture to show how much she misses him.

Shakespeare and the Showgirl

Time: A mellow summer evening, in the hour that
precedes curtain-rise in the many theaters around
New York's Times Square. Scene: Sardi's famed
restaurant just off Broadway, in the heart of the theater
district. Main character: A lovely girl of twenty-four,
seated at one of the tables with her escort. Quote: "I'm
the luckiest woman in the world."

Viewers of CBS-TV's enormously popular The $64,000
Question would have immediately recognized the pretty
speaker as Barbara Hall. On that particular evening,

less than three weeks had elapsed since Barbara's famil-
iarity with Shakespeare's writings had brought her tri-
umph in Question's isolation booth . . . triumph, a
Manufacturers Trust Co. check for $64,000, and an in-
vitation to pit her knowledge of the Bard against all
comers on The $64,000 Challenge this fall.

Barbara herself is now a celebrity among the many
celebrities there at Sardi's ... as further dialogue soon
proves. A smartly attired woman, just leaving an ad-
joining table, pauses to say {Continued en page 88)

The $64,000 Question is emceed by Hal March over CBS-TV, Tues., 10 P. M. EDT, sponsored by Revlon, Inc. The $64,000 Challenge,
emceed by Ralph Story, is seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by both Revlon and P. Lorillard Co. (Kent Cigarettes).

From a i( Ziegfeld Follies9*

line to the heights of

The $64,000 Question — from

lonely obscurity to bright romance

— the modern saga of Barbara Hall

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Letters from the one-and-only are a*s exciting as
that $64,000 check to the romantic ex-showgirl of
"The Ziegfeld Follies" and the Copacabana Club.

Busy, phone now, with congratulations — Same modest apartment — wherea young TV break — acting assignment with Tom
and those long-awaited "casting calls." girl saved toward a career in drama. Poston in a play on US. Steel Hour.

The Robert Q. Lewis Show

Crowds queue up for Robert Q. at CBS Radio,
to share his show's fun and music in person.

Ray Bloch, conductor of top programs on both radio and
TV, gives the downbeat on The Robert Q. Lewis Show,
to such talented men as Art Ryerson, trombone; Toots
Mohdello, both sax and clarinet; Sam Schoobe, bass;
Jim Nottingham, trumpet; and Howard Smith, drums.

The letter "Q" may be the secret to the fascination
audiences feel for that Wonderful, Xcintillating,
Yakking, Zany fellow called Robert Q. Lewis. While
Lewis admits the middle initial doesn't stand for any-
thing, he says, "It reminds me that shirts should be full
of people and not of stuffing." This crack — quick, quizzi-
cal and Robert Q-ish — holds more than a little sound
sense. Because, if there's one thing Robert Q.'s life is
full of, it's "people." The people who queue up daily at
the CBS Radio studios in New York get a free and easy
laugh by watching the Lewis group perform. Thousands
of home listeners have grown to love Lewis as the
pleasant fellow able to milk the last ounce of humor out
of both prepared show material arid the unforeseen inci-
dent which simply pops up during show time. And be-
yond these two groups of radio "friends" are all the
people who are members of the Robert Q. Lewis team.

Robert Q. has been polishing up the high glossy per-
fection of his satirical variety show for years, getting
his experience the hard way — by working. In 1941,
having had courses in drama and radio production at
University of Michigan, he decided to get out of school.
Station WTRY at Troy, New York, gave him a job. Then
so did Uncle Sam. Following service, Robert Q. got back
before the microphone at WNEW, where he began to
formulate the amusing variety style for which he is now
famous. CBS Radio network signed him in 1947, and his
tenth successful year is rocking along in high gear.

Judy Johnson, Richard Hayes and Ray Bloch — all
regulars on The Robert Q. Lewis Show — have one thing
in common, despite their separate excellence as per-
formers. Each one of them was apparently born with
show-business inclinations and got off home base and
into the profession at startlingly early age. Judy was a
regular on radio stations in her native Norfolk, Virginia,
when only nine. She sang with bands around Virginia at
eleven, signed with Les Brown as a singer when she was
fourteen. Richard Hayes started singing while at Boys'
High School in Brooklyn, N. Y, and had his own radio
show five days a week on a Long Island station at that
time. As for Ray Bloch, he was a choir boy at eight,
directed his first choral group at twelve, has been con-
ducting major orchestras for over twenty years.

With this talented nucleus, further abetted by the
many other performers who appear in guest spots, it's
small wonder that crowds queue up and dials switch on
for Robert Q. Lewis, the best patented chuckle-maker
you can possibly hear in the* radio business.

Mirth and melody: Lewis provides most of the mirth,
Richard Hayes and Judy Johnson, most of the melody —
though Bob himself warbles in his own carefree style.

Continued k.

Who's WH

The Robert Q. Lewis Show

Crowds queue up for Robert Q. at CBS Radio,
to share his show's fun and music in person.

THE letter "Q" may be the secret to the fascination
audiences feel for that Wonderful, Xcintillating,
Yakking, Zany fellow called Robert Q. Lewis. While
Lewis admits the middle initial doesn't stand for any-
thing, he says, "It reminds me that shirts should be full
of people and not of stuffing." This crack — quick, quizzi-
cal and Robert Q-ish — holds more than a little sound
sense. Because, if there's one thing Robert Q.'s life is
full of, it's "people." The people who queue up daily at
the CBS Radio studios in New York get a free and easy
laugh by watching the Lewis group perform. Thousands
of home listeners have grown to love Lewis as the
pleasant fellow able to milk the last ounce of humor out
of both prepared show material and the unforeseen inci-
dent which simply pops up during show time. And be-
yond these two groups of radio "friends" are all the
people who are members of the Robert Q. Lewis team.
Robert Q. has been polishing up the high glossy per-
fection of his satirical variety show for years, getting
his experience the hard way — by working. In 1941,
having had courses in drama and radio production at
University of Michigan, he decided to get out of school.
Station WTRY at Troy, New York, gave him a job. Then
so did Uncle Sam. Following service, Robert Q. got back
before the microphone at WNEW, where he began to
formulate the amusing variety style for which he is now
famous. CBS Radio network signed him in 1947, and his
tenth successful year is rocking along in high gear.

Judy Johnson, Richard Hayes and Ray Bloch— all
regulars on The Robert Q. Lewis Show— have one thing
in common, despite their separate excellence as per-
formers. Each one of them was apparently born with
show-business inclinations and got off home base and
into the profession at startlingly early age. Judy was a
regular on radio stations in her native Norfolk, Virginia,
when only nine. She sang with bands around Virginia at
eleven, signed with Les Brown as a singer when she was
fourteen. Richard Hayes started singing while at Boys
High School in Brooklyn, N. Y., and had his own radio
show five days a week on a Long Island station at that
time. As for Ray Bloch, he was a choir boy at eight,
directed his first choral group at twelve, has been con-
ducting major orchestras for over twenty years.

With this talented nucleus, further abetted by the
many other performers who appear in guest spots, its
small wonder that crowds queue up and dials switch on
for Robert Q. Lewis, the best patented chuckle-maker
you can possibly hear in the' radio business.

Ray Bloch, conductor of top programs on both radio and
TV, gives the downbeat on The Robert Q. Lewis Show,
to such talented men as Art Ryerson, trombone; Toots
Mondello, both sax and clarinet; Sam Schoobe, bass;
Jim Nottingham, trumpet; and Howard Smith, drums.

Mirth and melody: Lewis provides most of the mirth,
Richard Hayes and Judy Johnson, most of the melody —
though Bob himself warbles in his own carefree style.

Continued W

The Robert Q. Lewis Show

(Continued)

Music: Richard Hayes
had a radio show while
still at Boys' High in
Brooklyn. Judy Johnson
had own program at 9,
down in Norfolk, Va.

Words: Lee Vines, announcer on Robert
Q. Leivis Show, got his first radio job
as high-school student in Camden, N. J.

SONGSTRESS JUDY JOHNSON was born in Norfolk,
Va., has been singing since she was three, and barn-
stormed the country with such notable bandsmen as
Les Brown, Jan Savitt, Frankie Carle and Sammy Kaye.
She's appeared in theaters, night clubs, summer stock
and in the touring company of "High Button Shoes"
and the New York City Center production of "Guys and
Dolls." Married to musical director Mort Lindsey, she
now lives in Nutley, N. J., with son Steven and daughter
Bonney (Judy's own maiden name) and an enormous
collection of four-footed friends. Her present assignment
with The Robert Q. Lewis Show suits her to a T, giving
her ample time for her home, along with radio and TV.

BARITONE RICHARD HAYES was born in Brook-
lyn in 1930. A professional singer from high-school days,
he was hired after graduation by Teddy Phillips' orches-
tra. Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts awarded him top
honors, and Hayes won his first recording contract.
Hayes' first record, "The Old Master Painter," was a big
hit. Work with CBS Radio's Songs For Sale and Jack
Paar Show kept him busy until joining the service. In
the Army, he wrote radio scripts for recruiting purposes.
Discharged in 1956, he returned to radio and TV, has
appeared regularly as a singer ever since. Richard and
Monique (just wed this summer) live in Manhattan.

MUSIC-MAN RAY BLOCH was born in Alsace-Lor-
raine in 1902, but his father brought him to the United
States while still a lad. Ray's music talent was quickly
evident and, with family encouragement, well developed.
First job of importance musically was as pianist for a
music publisher. Band work came next, then a switch
to radio in the late 1920's as pianist, arranger-accompan-
ist, leader of choral groups and conductor. Bloch has
also conducted on top TV shows. He's married to Ann
Seaton, singer, and they have a farm near New York.

The man who started it all — with a fistful of mikes — Robert Q., broadcasting's humorist extraordinary.

ROBERT Q. LEWIS, humorist, appropriately burst in-
to the world in April, year 1921. The world has been a
happier place since then, starting with a Lewis garage-
circus production starring a tattooed lady, a weary war-
rior-horse and some jungle-type-domestic-cat kittens.
Since that early effort, Robert Q. has parlayed through
DeWitt Clinton High School in New York, the Uni-
versity of Michigan (part-way), jobs at a Troy radio
station, with the Air Force, and various New York radio

stations — until CBS Radio tapped him in April, 1947.
Since then, Lewis has worked almost every time seg-
ment of the broadcasting day and week over CBS
Radio (as well as TV), experimenting with variety
formats and materials. He even became a singer —
carefree style — or, as he prefers to classify it, "slightly-
flat" style. It's popular with the customers, and — so
long as it is — Robert Q. will continue to send on such
old ballads as "Cecilia" and "Paddlin' Madeline Home."

The Robert Q. Lewis Show, with its variety of top entertainers and guests, is heard over CBS Radio — Monday through Friday
evenings, from 8 to 8:30 P.M. EDT — and on Saturday morning, from 11:05 A.M. EDT to 12 noon — under multiple sponsorship.

Success has come to Kathi Norris

on TV for the same reasons
it has blessed her private life

By MARTIN COHEN

The private life of Kathi Norris is closely
parallel to her professional career. Every
time she's had a baby (and she's had three),
there's been an important change in her career.
Less than a month after the birth of her third
child, she joined the high-rated TV dramatic
series, True Story, as hostess, but not just as
"another hostess." Kathi is not the kind to stick
to an old formula. Instead, she upset the estab-
lished conception that a hostess on TV must be
chichi-charming. Instead, she insisted on estab-
lishing a link of reality with the TV audience.

Kathi explains, "True Story on TV is based on
actual experiences of real people. The TV
episodes are not concoctions of a professional
writer. Instead, they reflect the real problems,
hopes and dreams of True Story's readers. Well,
it's my job to establish (Continued on page 68)

Bright young Bradley treats parents Kathi and
Wilbur Stark as "walking dictionaries" — so they
introduce him to the real thing, quick as can be.

Kathi Norris is story editor of True Story, on NBC-TV, Sat.,
12 noon EDT, as sponsored by Sterling Drug, Inc. and others.

Jfor Steve Allen and Jayne Meadows, a march of TV triumphs, a lilting

serenade to marriage — and a tender lullaby for an eagerly awaited event

Holiday: Steve and Jayne went boating, watched the
changing sea — and dreamed ahead. Even more exciting
than the success of The Steve Allen Show and I've Got
ASecretv/as that eagerly awaited November "premiere."

**"«<*.

Good sport though she is, there was no football
for Jayne! But the two Steves practiced throwing
passes — with no signs of interference from Brian.

Steve's Sunday-night program on NBC-TV, The
Steve Allen Show, zoomed up into the heady heights of
the Top Ten of Television long before its first anni-
versary last June 23. And, of course, I've Got A Secret,
emceed by Garry Moore over CBS-TV with Jayne as a
panelist, has been in the top-ten category steadily for
more than three years; it marked its fifth triumphant
anniversary on the air June 16. Two red-letter days in
one week for the Stephen Valentine Aliens. And all this
only a part of their cause for rejoicing.

"I knew all along this would be a good year for us,"
Jayne said, as she came in and sat down on the long,
low beige sofa, her Chinese-red house robe making a
bright splash. A rather tall, extremely feminine woman,
vivid and vivacious, with red-gold hair almost hidden
under a tightly wound scarf to protect her "set" for a
dinner date with Steve later. She laughed a little at her
reason for believing in this year. "I'm Libra. My birth
date is September 27. Steve's birth date is December 26,
which makes him Capricorn. This is a good year for us."
(Astrology fans take note and check for yourselves.)

The baby, expected this November, came into the con-
versation from the beginning. The converting of Steve's
den into a nursery. The love that Steve's three young

Round-table discussion of the most intriguing subject of
all: Jayne was sure the new baby would be "just like
Steve." But the young Aliens — like Steve himself — were
hoping it would be a miniature of their beloved Jaynie.

sons by a previous marriage (Stevie, 13; Brian, 10;
David, 7) have for this child. The love Steve and Jayne
are prepared to give, the extra joy this baby will bring
to this home.

The summer vacation visit of the boys and their
mother, Dorothy (now happily re-married, just as
Steve is happily married to Jayne). The delight of
having the big house on a cliff overlooking Long Island
Sound, rented for the summer months so the boys
would not miss the freedom of their home in California.
Their own boat dock, and (Continued on page 66)

The Steve Allen Show is seen on NBC-TV, Sun., 8 to 9 P.M. EDT,
sponsored by S. C. Johnson & Son, Greyhound Corp., Pharma-Craft
Corp. Jayne is a regular panelist on Tve Got A Secret, CBS-TV,
Wed., 9:30 to 10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Winston Cigarettes.

This Ms Your Life

You're a happy man today, Ralph Edwards, with your
wife Barbara, daughters Christine and Lauren, son Gary.
There are others who've helped you, from early boyhood
until success, and you'll never forget — though you
can never reveal your gratitude on This Is Your Life.

Here, in the memories of those who
know him best, is the story that will
never be told in front of TV cameras

¥ 1

Barbara herself has not heard all the out-ot-school
anecdotes told here, but she remembers that courtship!

Ralph Edwards emcees This Is Your Life, NBC-TV, Wed., 10 P.M.
EDT, for Procter & Gamble (Crest, Ivory Soap, Lilt, and Prell).
Truth Or Consequences, created and produced by Ralph Edwards,
emceed by Bob Barker, is seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 11 :30 A.M. EDT.

RALPH EDWARDS !

By DORA ALBERT

Every week, about 5,000 fan letters
pour into the office of Ralph
Edwards, genial master of cere-
monies on This Is Your Life. Most
of them suggest names of individuals
who would make stirring subjects for
This Is Your Life — and, of all the life
stories requested, that of Ralph Ed-
wards heads the list.

Often, his staff has been tempted
to put Ralph's life on TV, but Ralph
himself has squelched all such at-
tempts with one vigorous, sincere
statement: "Don't ever do it, if you
want to be around working for me
the day afterward." On this point,
he is absolutely adamant.

Why does Ralph object so violently
to his life being put on his TV pro-
gram? "I have the feeling it would
distort my position," he says ear-
nestly. "As it is, I come up to the
glass window showcase of life with-
out cracking it and coming through.
But if I were the subject, the viewer,
on seeing me, would feel that I repre-
sented a conflicting force on the stage.
Never again would I be regarded as
merely a narrator on This Is Your
Life. Having stepped through an in-
visible glass wall, I would be in the
position of competing with the very
people I was presenting.

"Besides, if I knew that my life
were someday going to be presented,
it would make the show unendurable
to me. It would be impossible for
me to come into the studio, Wednes-
day after Wednesday, wondering if
this would be the night my staff was
going to surprise me. I just couldn't
stand the suspense!"

Since you'll never see Ralph's life
on his TV show, here in TV Radio
Mirror we present the kind of infor-
mation about Ralph you'd get if he
were the subject of This Is Your Life.
To get this story, I lunched with a
half-dozen people who know Ralph
well, and I (Continued on page 79)

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What Have Thev Got

Are teen-age girls really jealous? Are they
buying only male-voice records? Such songbirds
as these may prove "the experts" wrong!

By HELEN BOLSTAD

ABC-Paramount, distributing Jodie Sands' Chancellor recording of
"With All My Heart," proved right-girl-and-song could be a hit.

HER voice might hold the hopes, the frus-
trations, the tenderness and the protest
of young love . . . her fresh beauty might be
the stuff that dreams are made of . . . yet, for
the past year, the aspiring young girl singer
might as well have hidden her head in a
barrel and put her ambition in her pocket.
The popularity charts were flying "For Men
Only" flags labeled Elvis or Pat or Tab or
Guy or Sonny or Buddy. A new girl alone
just couldn't get a hit.

It was all the girls' fault, too, said some
experts. Not the girls who made the records,
but the ones who listened. "It's the girls who
phone the deejays, the girls who form the
fan clubs, the girls who buy the records,"
they asserted. Where once girls found in a
Patti Page, a Teresa Brewer, a Dinah Shore
or a Lena Home the vision of a singing
"second self," they now preferred to hear the
direct, if disembodied, wooing of the male.

As a result, a whole crop of young newly
starred, rocking, rolling glamour boys have
had a field day. So have the psychologists,
pseudo and scientific, with their surveys,
studies and explanations. Some took the
tack that to swoon with Boone or palpitate
with Presley was just another normal re-
action to the way kids were going steady.
Tied to one boyfriend from first date to the
big I-do, a girl had to find some variety, if
only in her imagination.

Following the same vein, other elders
thought it was the boyfriends who intensified
the trend by finding the male singers as
helpful as a John Alden. Out on a date, they
have a way of popping a dime into a juke
box to ask some recording star to convey in
song the romantic message they are too shy
to speak themselves.

But there were also those who found sin-
ister the femme fans' fervor for the boys
who give a passionate beat to ardent lyrics.
They berated the recording companies for
catering to the un-understood sex urges of
adolescents. In a recent "expose," a Chi-
cago music critic charged that pop hits are
the product of "manipulation by money-
hungry adults of the half-felt cravings of
teenagers."

To this, the recording companies could
give a tart reply. If such "manipulations"
existed, the cravings indeed must be only
half-felt ... by half the teenagers. The
boys who might be yearning for a vocalizing
dream-girl weren't even represented.

A more sound explanation of what has
been happening is to be found in the frank
acknowledgment by some of the wiser re-
cording executives that they themselves

Gainst GIRL SINGERS ?

might have been somewhat carried away.
The search for "another Presley," who might
rival the Memphis marvel's profit-making
ability, had concentrated the attention of
both talent scouts and songwriters on the
male vocalist, thus limiting the opportuni-
ties offered to teen-age girl singers. .

It was time, many felt, to do something
about it. The new girls should be ought
out and, when one was found, the song
should be styled to suit her way of expres-
sion. Girls' songs should not be mere
"covers" of ones boys had made popular.
Once recorded, the girl should be introduced
with the same promotional fanfare accorded
a male singer.

Among the first to prove that the right
girl with the right song could reach the hit
lists was ABC -Paramount, which distrib-
utes Jodie Sands' Chancellor recording,
"With All My Heart." Jodie, in turn, had
something special to give. In her Philadel-
phia home, the classics were as essential to
the family's life as the spaghetti on the
table. Her father had sung opera in Italy.
From the time dark-eyed Jodie could read
a note, her objective had been the Metro-
politan Opera. It was her father's ambition
for her and she made it her own.

But, in between the adolescent dream

which began in Italy and the generation-

* later dream fostered in America, came a

Continued k.

RCA Victor believed there was a star spot waiting for a teen-age
girl. Now Bonnie Scott, 16, is so busy her young feet need a rest!

Barbara Allen has more than justified faith of Decca's Paul Cohen (left) and songwriter Vic McAlpin.

What Have They Got Against GIRL SINGERS?

(Continued)

"Sixteen" is Joy Layne's new Mercury disc — also her age. Deejays
can't believe it, keep Joy flying from Chicago to prove in person
that she's younger than she sounded on her first record last year.

modern-day miracle, television. The pros-
pect of entertaining an audience of millions
proved more alluring to Jodie than the hope
of facing the Golden Horseshoe at the Met.
By learning to sing popular music, Jodie
earned a place on a local TV show. Singing
at teen-age hops around Philadelphia gave
her a chance to work with two young men
who believed in her, Bob Marchucci and
Peter DeAngelis. Bob, a lyric writer, and
Peter, a composer and arranger, are now
co-presidents of Chancellor Records. Shar-
ing Jodie's Italian tradition, they knew how
to translate her classic training and full,
controlled vibrato into popular terms.

As with Johnny Mathis, who also was
once an opera student, the quality made the
hit. "With All My Heart" is based on an
old Italian folk song. Its novelty is the
chorus, which Jodie sings in English against
the contrapuntal background of a male
quartet singing in Italian. Teen-age Amer-
ica found it an interesting change. When
her record climbed on the popularity charts,
Alan Freed invited her into the cast of his
summer rock 'n' roll show at New York's
Paramount Theater.

For all her new-found success, Jodie re-
tains her modest manner and her charm.
In fact, she's a little awed by all the acclaim.
When she finds time free from her night-
club engagements and her promotional tours
on the disc-jockey circuit, she's happy to
return to the Philadelphia home which she
shares with her mother and brother. A
chance to go bowling or horseback riding
with her friends is her reward for the hard
work which has gone into making her

Gayla Peevey sang "I Want a Hippopotamus
for Christmas." What she got was Columbia
contract — now, at 14, she sings of first love.

Dot Records has high hopes for Carol Jarvis,
who does such message-ballads as "Rebel" in
style as sultry as her own dark, willowy beauty.

first record such a hit on the pop song charts.

At RCA Victor, Joe Carlton's conviction
that there's an actual shortage of teen-age
feminine talent in all entertainment fields
has led to what he calls, "my private Ladies'
Day promotion." He says, "Sure, I know
that it runs counter to what has seemed to
be the teen-age preference. But I figure, if
I stick my neck out, others will get on the
bandwagon and the girls will get a break."

Joe, as artists-and-repertoire man for pop
single records, is in a sensitive spot to pre-
dict trends and also has had much to do with
crystallizing them. When RCA Victor first
signed Presley as a country-and-Western
artist, Joe supervised the promotion which
swung Elvis over into the popular recording
field. Now he believes that young record
buyers want more than just rock 'n' roll.
"It's no longer a fad nor a rebellion. It's
an accepted form and kids have begun to
look for something new. There have been
ripples which indicate that they want more
quality and also more variety." Recogniz-
ing that no teen-age girl held star status,
he began his search. "It only makes sense.
We need a broad base of interest in record-
ings. A girl singer has her own emotional
message to give."

Joe found his candidate for RCA Victor
stardom in Bonnie Scott, a Philadelphia-
born sixteen-year-old who grew up in Hol-
lywood. Bonnie had begun dancing lessons
at the age of two-and-a-half; at three, she
performed in an Atlantic City theater and,
at thirteen, she began to get minor roles in
movies and to win TV talent contests.

Demonstration records which she had
made led to an interview and, when Joe met
Bonnie, he called her, "the sweetest little
schizophrenic I've ever seen." To Joe, dark-
eyed Bonnie looked as child-like as his own
daughter, Pam, (Continued on page 83)

Capitol Records helped Sue Raney celebrate both her high-school
graduation and eighteenth birthday, just last June, with release of
"The Careless Years" and "What's the Good Word, Mr. Bluebird."

Most work goes into the main dish — but Agnes Young
prepares casserole far in advance, stores it till cooking time.

HOT CHICKEN SALAD

Makes 6 servings.

Prepare:

2 cups cubed, cooked chicken

Canned, commercially cooked, leftover or specially
prepared roasted or boiled chicken can be used. IY2
pounds of canned or purchased sliced chicken will be
needed, or the meat from a 4-pound roasting or stewing
hen. Remove skin and any fat before cubing meat.
2 cups diced celery
1% cups slivered blanched almonds
2 teaspoons grated onion

Put all ingredients in a large bowl. Mix lightly.
Add:
Y2 teaspoon prepared mustard % teaspoon salt

Mix:
1 cup mayonnaise - 2 tablespoons lemon juice

Add to chicken, again mixing lightly. Turn into a 2-
quart casserole. Top with a mixture of finely crushed

potato chips and a little grated American cheese. Place
casserole in a large, shallow pan of hot water, and bake
in a hot oven (425° F) 12 to 15 minutes, or until mixture
is heated through. Serve at once.

CRANBERRY-ORANGE RELISH

Makes 1 quart of relish.
Wash and pick over:

4 cups fresh cranberries

Discard any berries that are soft. Wash, cut into quar-
ters and remove any seeds from:

2 large oranges

Put cranberries and oranges through a food grinder,
catching all the drip in a small bowl. Add drip to ground
fruit and stir in:

2 cups sugar

Cover bowl and chill relish in the refrigerator. It can
be served the same day it is made, or it can be stored
for several weeks before serving.

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Agnes Young's favorite buffet menu

features recipes which let a hostess
relax enough to enjoy her own party!

To a whole generation of listeners, she'll always be Aunt
Jenny; more recently, radio and TV audiences have
come to know this talented actress by her own name,
Agnes Young. But, in Danbury, Conn., where she lives
in a charming 200-year-old "saltbox," she is Mrs. J. Nor-
man Wells, whose cheery invitation to "come for supper"
is always eagerly accepted. . . . Both Agnes and husband
Jimmie love to cook — an art they've also taught their
actress-daughter Nancy (now married, with a baby girl of
her own). To them, cooking is fun, and "entertaining"
something which host and hostess should enjoy as much as
guests. In fact, one of their favorite buffet menus is so
deliriously simple (and simply delicious!) that Agnes can
put it together with a minimum of time away from her
guests, even when director-acting-coach Jimmie can't be
home to help. . . . Her basic recipes have been adapted
here, for use in your own kitchen. The unusual casserole
can be prepared in advance — even the night before —
then stored in the refrigerator until company comes. The
relish, of course, can be made 'way ahead of time. With
these, Agnes serves tiny French peas and, sometimes, a
tossed green salad. The Wellses bake their own "old-
fashioned" bread, but brown bread or crusty rolls make a
good accompaniment, too. For a gala finish to a Sat-
urday- or Sunday-night buffet, Agnes tops everybody's
favorite — ice cream — with hot butterscotch sauce, two
"light or dark" versions of which are given here.

Agnes Young is frequently heard on F.B.I. In Peace And War, on CBS
Radio, Sun., 6:05 P.M. EDT. She also appears occasionally with her
daughter Nancy Wells in Ma Perkins, CBS Radio, M-F, 1 :15 P.M. EDT.

LIGHT BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE

Makes 2 cups of sauce.
Measure into a heavy saucepan:

1 cup dark com syrup 2 tablespoons butter or

1 cup sugar margarine

Vz cup light cream % cup water

Vi teaspoon salt

Stir until sugar has dissolved.

Then stir over medium heat until mixture boils, then
cook slowly until a small amount forms a soft ball when
dropped into cold water (230° F). Pour into a silver
bowl and serve while still warm.

DARK BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE

Makes 1 cup of sauce.

Place in heavy saucepan or in a double boiler:

Vz pound caramels

Vz cup hot water

Heat very slowly, stirring occasionally. When caramels
are melted and mixture is smooth, pour into a well
warmed silver bowl, and serve hot.

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Agnes gets her dishes — and what goes in "em — all
set before company comes. Chicken-salad casse-
role goes into oven only minutes before serving.

Actress Laurett Browne and Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth
Newman — who run dancing school in Danbury —
agree no "fussed-over" meal could taste better.

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Bob Cummings took the resemblance to heart, when my sister Harriet came on the set dressed up like
Schultzy. Me? I took a good, long look — and felt it was about time to trade places with Harriet again.

By ANN B. DAVIS

Many's the time I get up at night and look into a
mirror. This is not, believe me, because I think
I'm so enchanting. Nor is it some kind of voodoo
ritual. I'm simply wondering: Is this me or that other
girl? That "other girl" happens to be my twin sister,
Harriet. By the narrowest of margins, she missed be-
ing me. In fact, for quite a while she was me — and, to
fracture the grammarians even further, I was her.
Now I'm going to let you all in on the deep, dark

mystery of the Davis girls. We switched places in my
third year at college. It was then I began leading the
life Harriet had started out to live, and she began lead-
ing the life I had meant to live. Simple, isn't it? Like
differential calculus!

Let me give you a brief rundown on our background
before I unravel this riddle for you. We were born
May 3, 1926, into the middle of a middle-class family
in the industrial city of Schenectady, upper New York

Continued

►

I'm really not Schultzy. I'm not even
ME. Confusing? Well, that's only
part of what happens when you change
lives with your own twin sister!

We twins started entertaining as soon as anyone would
listen. Above, we're describing — with gestures, yet! —
how our pet rabbit ran away. Below, dead-on-target at
Girl Scout camp in 1940. (Who's at left? Li'l old me.)

Which twin has the curls? Ha! But that's Mother between us
— as she often had to be, those days. Picture below shows I
was a mite plumper than Harriet ("mighty" plumper, says she)
when we acted up at Strong Vincent High School, Erie, Pa.

IE>cg>mlbIl^ ^XPipcDmlblLcB

Michigan U., 1946: from left, Ed Sheffel, Ann B. you-
know, Corinne Stevens, Perry Norton, Harriet. (Yup,
I got us straight. Harriet married Perry just the
next year, leaving the stage — and acting — to me.)

1 '

(Continued)

state. There has always been a slight disagreement
between me and my twin on who came first. We
once put this question to my father. He said, "As the
years go by, women start worrying about their age.
Now, which one of you girls wants the responsibility
of being older?" We studied his wise face a moment
and decided it might be better not to know. But
Harriet got around this hurdle. She whipped up a
little something along these lines: "I'll trade you,"
she said to me, one day, in an airy manner. "You can
be older and I'll be prettier."

Twins can be like that, you know. When we were
nine, my sister pointed to a picture in a magazine and
said, "Mumbledy-bumbledy, I'm going to look like
that." It was a picture of Joan Crawford. "How
about me?" I said. She turned a page and said,
"Mumbledy-bumbledy, Crosseyes-hex, you're going
to look like that." It was a picture of Groucho Marx.
With cigar yet.

There's a record of twins on my mother's side.
Father always held a theory that it was clear proof
of a two-headed strain in the family. That was his
little joke. Mother never laughed at it. She said it
was most unwise to encourage people to make bad
jokes. They might turn out comedians. I guess she
feels justified now. Anyway, she has five cousins
(all from the same set of grandparents) who have
had twins. So far it has skipped the current genera-
tion. Maybe we aren't eating right.

We not only go in for looking alike, we go for the
same names. It's probably a form of inbreeding. We
have a baker's-dozen of Harriets, Anns, Elizabeths,
and so on. When we get together for a big reunion —
which isn't so often anymore, with all of us spread
over the map — things get very confusing. We have
to preface every remark with, "I mean Harriet's Ann,"
or "I mean Ann's Elizabeth." My father was given
the formidable title of Cassius Miles Davis, after a
Civil War hero. I'm named (Continued on page 77)

When Harriet was a bride, guess who was maid of honor? And,
when her first child was born, guess who was godmother? Right!
Below — again from left — sister Elizabeth Davis Keene; Cassius
M. Davis, our dad; Harriet; baby Ann with doting godmother.

Ann B. Davis is "Schultzy" iri The Bob Cummings Show, as
now seen over NBC-TV, Tuesdays, at 9:30 P.M. EDT, spon-
sored by Winston Cigarettes and Chesebrongh-Pond's, Inc.

Above, my own little rosebush. Below, my
own little phone — with the big, big bills.

hk-iB

Maybe I'm not a "homemaker," but I
make a lot of things for my home.

Love those letters from the fans! Incidentally, I
made the desk above (as well as the Dutch doors at
left). Hi-fi fan? It's "sci-fi" for me! Reading
about spacemen and rocket ships, I could go right
out of this world — and take my "double" with me.

Madeleine Carroll's own gallantry and warmth
enrich her favorite roles today — as Dr. Anne Gentry
on radio, as wife and mother at home

By CHARLOTTE BARCLAY

The scene was the 17th General Hos-
pital in Naples, Italy. The time, late
1943. Litter cases from the battles of
Anzio and Cassino were coming in fast.
Already, 1,500 wounded GFs had been
crowded into a building meant to ac-
commodate 800. Red Cross hospital
worker Madeleine Carroll brushed a
strand of blond hair from her eyes as
the ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns
started up again. This was no Holly-
wood movie. This was the real thing.

A thin-faced boy with trembling lips
put his hand out to her and she took it,
holding it firmly in both of hers. She
smiled — that famous smile which had
flashed across a thousand screens — and
the boy smiled back. The lips were
moving now, she bent closer to catch
what he was trying to say. "Would you
— write my mom. Tell her — I'm okay.
She'll think — it's some war — if she gets
a letter — from a movie star."

"That sort of thing happened time
and again," (Continued on page 91)

Reading is an "essential" to Madeleine-

than a "MOVIE STAR

• ooth as actress and as publisher's wife

Madeleine's career — unlike Anne Gentry's — allows
much more time to be with daughter Anne-Madeleine, more sun-
lit hours in the garden of their Connecticut home.

Madeleine Carroll stars in The Affairs Of Dr. Gentry, produced
and directed by Himan Brown, NBC Radio, M-F, 2:45 P.M. EDT.

■^

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Madeleine Carroll's own gallantry and warmth
enrich her favorite roles today — as Dr. Anne Gentry
on radio, as ivife and mother at home

By CHARLOTTE BARCLAY

The scene was the 17th General Hos-
pital in Naples, Italy. The time, late
1943. Litter cases from the battles of
Anzio and Cassino were coming in fast.
Already, 1,500 wounded GI's had been
crowded into a building meant to ac-
commodate 800. Red Cross hospital
worker Madeleine Carroll brushed a
strand of blond hair from her eyes as
the ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns
started up again. This was no Holly-
wood movie. This was the real thing.
A thin-faced boy with trembling lips
put his hand out to her and she took it,
holding it firmly in both of hers. She
smiled — that famous smile which had
flashed across a thousand screens— and
the boy smiled back. The lips were
moving now, she bent closer to catch
what he was trying to say. "Would you
—write my mom. Tell her— I'm okay.
She'll think — it's some war— if she gets
a letter — from a movie star."

"That sort of thing happened time
and again," (Continued on page 91)

Reading is an "essential" to Madeleine-

More than a "MOVIE STAR

Madeleine's career — unlike Anne Gentry's — allows
much more time to be with daughter Anne-Madeleine, more sun-
lit hours in the garden of their Connecticut home.

both as actress and as publisher's wife.

Madeleine Carroll star, in The Affairs 01 Dr.^ry produced
and directed by Hirnan Brown, NBC Rad.o. M-F. 2:45 I Jf. EDT.

Rehearsals are traditional at weddings, but Elinor Jean Wrubel Pilot David C. Spohn and "retired" airlines hostess
has a camera — and hosts Bob Paige and Byron Palmer — at hers. Elinor Jean are married by the Reverend Joe E. Elmore.

»/#«/'

Shout your love from the

Wedding bells ring out from coast to coast on Bride
And Groom. The newly-returned program, which
has married more than 2,500 couples in the past ten
years, provides everything from clothes and confetti to
gifts and guests and honeymoon. More important was
the reason David Clifford Spohn, 33, was so happy to
marry Elinor Jean Wrubel on the program. "There are
all kinds of weddings and all sizes," said the pilot for
Allegheny Airlines, "but this chance ... why, this is the
biggest chapel in the world." . . . David and Jean met at
Newark Airport when the Utica, New York girl was just
beginning a career as stewardess with Mohawk Airlines.
It was her roommate whom David knew, but it was Jean
he took out, first for a cup of coffee and then for a series
of dates that' started in January, 1957, and continued to
their wedding on July 23. . . . Two days after the Spohns'
wedding, Bride And Groom married Margaret Waters, 21,
and Jimmie Lee Collins, 22. Both from Huntington,
West Virginia, this couple want four children— one more
than Jean and David. But they're a flying family, too.
Jimmie, just graduated from Marshall College, is going
into the Naval Air Cadets, then will pursue a commercial
artist's career. The Collinses met five years ago when
Jimmie, hitchhiking to go swimming, picked up a ride
with friends of Peggy's. They had their first date that
night, then dated off and on. The Christmas before last,
as Jimmie says, "We really found each other." Bride And
Groom set the date. Love and television — something
old and something new — make a perfect marriage.

Bride And Groom is seen over NBC-TV, Mon.-Fri., at 2:30 P.M. EDT.

For that most important dress of all, Margaret Waters,
who works in a dress shop, has a wardrobe mistress's aid.

Amid wedding gifts, a cake and champagne, Bob Paige toasts David and Jean as Byron - The Spohns, Mr. and Mrs. now,
Palmer chats with Georgianna Carhart, special guest of the day's Bride And Groom. honeymoon at Saranac Lake.

ie housetops? No need, when NBC-TV provides "the biggest chapel in the world

The brothers are watching, said Jimmie Lee Collins of his Pi Kappa Alpha On a New York honeymoon, they looked at the
.fraternity. So were millions, as Rev. Brock joined his hand to Peggy's, birdie (pigeons), but this one "didn't come out."

Rehearsals are traditional at weddings, but Elinor Jean Wrubel
has a camera — and hosts Bob Paige and Byron Palmer — at hers.

»/#^/'

Wedding bells ring out from coast to coast on Bride
And Groom. The newly-returned program, which
has married more than 2,500 couples in the past ten
years, provides everything from clothes and confetti to
gifts and guests and honeymoon. More important was
the reason David Clifford Spohn, 33, was so happy to
marry Elinor Jean Wrubel on the program. "There are
all kinds of weddings and all sizes, said the pilot for
Allegheny Airlines, "but this chance . . . why, this is the
biggest chapel in the world." . . . David and Jean met at
Newark Airport when the Utica, New York girl was just
beginning a career as stewardess with Mohawk Airlines.
It was her roommate whom David knew, but it was Jean
he took out, first for a cup of coffee and then for a series
of dates that- started in January, 1957, and continued to
their wedding on July 23. . . . Two days after the Spohns'
wedding, Bride And Groom married Margaret Waters, 21,
and Jimmie Lee Collins, 22. Both from Huntington,
West Virginia, this couple want four children — one more
than Jean and David. But they're a flying family, too.
Jimmie, just graduated from Marshall College, is going
into the Naval Air Cadets, then will pursue a commercial
artist's career. The Collinses met five years ago when
Jimmie, hitchhiking to go swimming, picked up a ride
with friends of Peggy's. They had their first date that
night, then dated off and on. The Christmas before last
as Jimmie says, "We really found each other." Bride And
Groom, set the date. Love and television — something
old and something new — make a perfect marriage.

Bride And Groom is seen over NBC-TV, Mon.-Fri., at 2:30 P.M. EDT.

Pilot David C. Spohn and "retired" airlines hostess
Elinor Jean are married by the Reverend Joe E. Elmore.

Shout your love from the

For that most important dress of all, Margaret Waters,
who works in a dress shop, has a wardrobe mistress's aid.

Amid wedding gifts, a cake and champagne, Bob Paige toasts David and Jean as Byron The Spohns, Mr. and Mrs. now,
Palmer chats with Georgianna Carhart, special guest of the day's Bride And Groom. honeymoon at Saranac Lake.

housetops? No need, when NBC-TV provides "the biggest chapel in the world'

The brothers are watching, said Jimmie Lee Collins of his Pi Kappa Alpha On a New York honeymoon they looked at the
.fraternity. So were millions, as Rev. Brock joined his hand to Peggy s. b,rd,e (p.geons), but th,s one d,dn t come out^

Teal Ames models one of her TV hairstyles — "a. ponytail
that isn't a ponytail," soft, romantic, feminine and easy.

^rm

LETS HER HAIR DOWN

— then puts it back up, to show

readers of TV Radio Mirror how she's learned

to be her own hairdresser

Five days a week, pretty Teal Ames plays Sara Karr
on the CBS-TV drama, The Edge Of Night. Like any
newly-married girl, Sara Karr knows how important
it is to stay wedding-day pretty. Cooperating with her
role's requirements, Teal Ames has mastered special
beauty skills, particularly in the hair department. Shown
on this page is one of her recent TV hairstyles.
Describing it as "a ponytail that isn't a ponytail," Teal
here demonstrates the simple steps leading up to the
camera-worthy result. Medium-long, in tune with Sara's
romantic character, this style is particularly good for thin
hair — note the special trick of back parting that gives
the illusion of lots of hair. Teal has some natural
wave, which she reinforces with a loose permanent.
Because her audience really notices her hair (she receives
a sack of mail whenever she changes the style), Teal
is meticulous about weekly shampoos and regular
brushing, and counts on spray for day-long neatness —
cues every girl can use for her own private audience.

By HARRIET SEGMAN

Brush hair back and make horizontal part halfway up
across back, anchor top with rubber band and pin.
Comb bottom, bringing lower sides up and back to
meet knot on top. This forms a full base, like a "petti-
coat." Comb top, teasing from under for added bulk.

Hlilfc,

Fan out the top half so that it spreads out over the
full bottom section of hair, and pin in place at each
side. To conceal the rubber band, take strand of hair
from the underneath section and wrap it like a ribbon
around the rubber band. Secure the end with a hairpin.

Front hair is cut short and set with three rows of pin
curls, all wound toward the face. To comb these out,
brush the hair back, first, for fullness. Then pull ten-
drils forward and arrange them on forehead and
temples to frame the face softly — as Teal Ames does.

dams Has Two Lives

(Continued from page 22)
with Pepper, fitting one neatly into the
pattern of the other. "The great thpg to
me about her writing," he says, is the
light and shade with which she paints all
the characters. They have warmth and
feeling. All are three-dimensional. As Pep-
per, I went through a phase of being quite
irritable, almost rudely irritable— and who
has not been, at times? I went through
another phase of being somewhat unre-
liable, and most of us go through a similar
period, at one time or another, especially
when we are young. As Pepper, I have
also tried to shape the lives of others to
my own mold (most recently to run my
radio sister's life) and who does not some-
times make that same foolish mistake?

"Basically, however, Pepper is a man ol
enormous good will. As the editor of a
newspaper, he is a cultivated human
being, kind at heart, with intense loyal-
ties. An interesting and likeable man. I
enjoy playing him." The fact is that Mason
Adams enjoys acting. Enjoys being in show
business. He chose theater and speech tor
his Master's degree from the University
of Wisconsin, although the family trend
was toward medicine. His brother is a
professor at Stanford University Medical
College. His sister is a professor of physi-
ology at New York University Dental
School. He is the only actor the family has
produced, but he, too, began as a teacher
—of theater arts, that is— at the Neighbor-
hood Playhouse in New York, where he
had studied prior to going to Wisconsin.
On Broadway, where he got his first
professional experience, he was in five
flop shows during his first season, one
right after the other.

It might be said that a miracle launched
his radio career, a play called "Miracle
for Christmas." This was in 1945, when
he was making a radio debut on a pro-
gram called The Sheriff. The producer of
another series, Grand Central Station,
happened to hear him that night and
tapped him for the starring part as the
ambulance-driver in his Christmas mir-
acle play. The role was so poignantly
performed by Adams, and the play so
popular, that thereafter he was asked to
do it as a Christmas special, year after
year.

His success in radio now assured, he
played major parts in other Grand Cen-
tral Station dramas; in City Hospital,
Gangbusters, Big Sister, Aunt Jenny, and
many others. On television, he has been
on most of the big night-time dramatic
shows — such as Robert Montgomery Pre-
sents, U.S. Steel Hour, Kraft Theater.
And on many daytime dramatic serials,
among them The Brighter Day and Love
Of Life, on which he played important
running parts.

Currently, in addition to his alter-ego
Pepper Young, Adams plays psychoanalyst
Dr. David Wells on CBS Radio's Road Of
Life, and he has been embarking on a
new phase of his show-business career,
an adjunct to acting, in which he performs
the duties of spokesman for large industri-
al firms, on television and radio, talking
about products and policies.

Straight acting, however, is the work
close to his heart, as is his long identifi-
cation with Pepper Young. Although he
almost missed out on that. Before he was
asked to audition for Pepper, he had just
signed a run-of-the-play contract with the
Chicago company of the stage play, "Dear
Ruth." A non-cancellable contract. When
he won out over about a hundred aspi-
rants for the Pepper part, he was a most
unhappy young man.

"I could get out of the contract only by
(Continued on page 63)

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12 pictures for $1; 6 for SO*

CANDIDS

1. Lana Turner

2. Betty Grable

3. Ava Gardner

5. Alan Ladd

6. Tyrone Power

7. Gregory Peck
9. Esther Williams

11. Elisabeth Taylor

14. Cornel Wilde

15. Frank Sinatra

18. Rory Calhoun

19. Peter Law ford

2 1 . Bob Mitchum

22. Burt Lancaster

23. Bing Crosby
25. Dale Evans
27. June Ally son

33. Gene Autry

34. Roy Rogers

35. Sunset Carson

50. Diana Lynn

51. Doris Day

52. Montgomery Clift

53. Richard Widmark

56. Perry Come

57. Bill Holden

66. Gordon MacRae

67. Ann Blyth

68. Jeanne Crain

69. Jane Russell
74. John Wayne
78. Audie Murphy
84. Janet Leigh
86. Farley Granger

91. John Derek

92. Guy Madison
94. Mario Lanza
103. Scott Brady

105. Vic Damone

106. Shelley Winters

107. Richard Todd

109. Dean Martin

1 10. Jerry Lewis
112. Susan Hay ward
117. Terry Moore
121. Tony Curtis
124. Gail Davis

127. Piper Laurie

128. Debbie Reynolds

135. Jeff Chandler

136. Rock Hudson

137. Stewart Granger

139. Debra Paget

140. Dale Robertson

141. Marilyn Monroe

142. Leslie Caron

143. Pier Angeli

144. Mitzi Gaynor

145. Marlon Brando

146. Aldo Ray

147. Tab Hunter

148. Robert Wagner

149. Russ Tamblyn

150. Jeff Hunter
152. Marge and Go w-

er Champion

174. Rita Gam

175. Charlton Heston

176. Steve Cochran

177. Richard Burton

179. Julius La Rosa

180. Lucille Ball
182. Jack Webb
185. Richard Egan
187. Jeff Richards

190. Pat Crowley

191. Robert Taylor

192. Jean Simmons
194. Audrey Hepburn
198. Gale Storm
202. George Nader

205. Ann Sothern
207. Eddie Fisher
209. Liberace

211. Bob Francis

212. Grace Kelly

213. James Dean

214. Sheree North

215. Kim Novak

216. Richard Davalos

218. Eva Marie Saint

219. Natalie Wood

220. Dewey Martin

221. Joan Collins

222. Jayne Mansfield

223. Sal Mlneo

224. Shirlev Jones

225. Elvis Presley

226. Victoria Shaw

227. Tony Perkins

228. Clint Walker

229. Pat Boone

230. Paul Newman

231. Don Murray

232. Don Cherry

233. Pat Wayne

234. Carroll Baker

235. Anita Ekberg

236. Corey Allen

237. Dana Wynter

239. Judy Busch

240. Patti Page

241. Lawrence Welk

242. Alice Lon

243. Larry Dean

244. Buddy Merrill

246. Jim Arness

247. Sanford Clark

248. Vera Miles

249. John Saxon

250. Dean Stockwell

251. Diane Jergens

252. Warren Berlinger

253. James MacArthur

254. Nick Adams

255. John Kerr

256. Harry Belafonte

257. Jim Lowe

258. Luana Patten

259. Dennis Hopper

260. Tom Tryon

261 . Tommy Sands

262. Will Hutchins

263. James Darren

264. Ricky Nelson

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THE RECORD PLAYERS

This space rotates among
Gene Stuart of WAVZ,
Bill Mayer of WRCV,
AlCollins of WRCA and NBC,
and Art Pallan of KDKA

■

When Jerry Lewis visited, I was all set to turn into his
straight man. But the comedian-turned-singer was serious.

* Guv

By ART PALLAN

Art : That strange sound you just heard

was not a bird — it was Jerry Lewis,

one of the warmest, very finest persons

in show business.

Jerry: Well, I'm glad to hear you say

that. You know, every once in a while

someone sounds off that I'm hard to

get along with. I don't try to, but I

guess sometimes I do get a little excited

when things are hectic.

Art: Well, Jerry, I've known you for

a long time, and I'm sincere in saying

that you are a real sweet guy to work

with. But I can see that you might be

tired on occasions. Those hours you

keep!

Jerry: Art, days were made to work

and enjoy yourself. Six hours' sleep out

of twenty-four seems to be plenty for

me. I like to keep going at a fast pace.

If I sleep too late, I feel that I'm missing

something.

Art: Let's change the subject for a

minute. A short while ago, we at

KDKA had a Gold Record Spintacular.

The only records we played all day

were those that had sold a million cop-

ies or better. One of those records was
your "Rock-a-Bye." How did a serious-
type record like this come about?
Jerry: I made the record as a present
to my wife, Patti, and she loved it —
thought it was good enough to sell
commercially. So she sent it off to Dec-
ca, they pressed it and signed me up,
and there you are.

Art: It was released as a single, as I
remember. How did the album happen?
Jerry: I've always wanted to do seri-
ous music. I had done comedy tunes
for the past seven or eight years, and
was never happy about it. Comedy
can't be thoroughly projected on wax.
Once you've heard a funny tune, that's
it. For Mr. and Mrs. Public to buy a
dollar record, it should have more
value than one play.
Art: So you decided to record eleven
more tunes and make your first album?
Jerry: That's right, and I really en-
joyed singing with feeling, without
using any gimmicks or trick voices.
Art: What's your favorite song, Jerry,
and have you ever recorded it?

Jerry: My favorite song is "I Dream of
You," and both Patti and I have re-
corded it.

Art: Quite a coincidence — or is it?
Jerry : It isn't a coincidence at all. Thir-
teen years ago, when Patti and I were
just married and I was out of work,
she recorded the song for Decca with
Jimmy Dorsey. I was in the studio
during the session, and I can't ever
remember feeling any more despond-
ent. Not that I minded Patti working.
I just didn't like to have her being the
only breadwinner in the family.
Art: Then thirteen years later you re-
corded the same number, huh?
Jerry: That's right. For the same label.
And Patti was in the studio, listening
to me this time. It was a high point in
our marriage. I asked to make the rec-
ord ... I did it for her.
Art: Jerry, you aren't often this seri-
ous.

Jerry: Well, then, on with my bird
calls. Ever hear the Canadian Red-
Backed, Hairy-Nosed Full-Bloomer? It
goes like this. . . .

Art Pallan is heard over KDKA in Pittsburgh, Mon. through Sat. from 10 A.M. to noon and Mon. through Fri. from 3 to 7 P.M.

Adams Has Two Lives

(Continued from page 61)
providing a suitable replacement, and I
sweated it out, wondering whom to sug-
gest. Just the day before the play went
into rehearsal, I thought of an actor who
seemed right for the part. I got hold of
him, he was interested, he read for it,
and was signed, and I was free.

"I have always felt close to this family
of Youngs, which has grown so familiar
to me since that time. I think of their
town as real Middletown, U.S.A., an aver-
age kind of town, in an average state.
Inhabited by average people. In spite of
having been born in a big city, New York,
and of growing up in a metropolitan and
cosmopolitan atmosphere, I and my family
have always been somewhat small-town
in our attitudes. Closely knit, having
great interest in everything that happens
to one another. Having an interest in the
community."

He is no apologist for radio, although
his work in television has become increas-
ingly important. He feels that radio fills
a need in the lives of many persons and
that it calls for the best any actor has to
give. "Listeners," he says, "might get the
idea that, because radio acting is done
with scripts in hand, there is no real con-
tact between the actors, as there is on
the stage, in motion pictures, or on TV.
This is completely erroneous. As with all
acting, there is the all- important contact
of the eyes, the play of expression, the lift
of the head, the variation of voice. If the
actor doesn't feel emotion and show it,
the whole scene becomes static."

Nothing of this sort ever appears to
happen on any Mason Adams show. There
seems to be a fine rapport between him
and those with whom he plays, especially

so in the case of Pepper's wife, Linda,
played by Margaret Draper. In his voice,
there is affection for her, and great re-
spect for her talent, when he talks about
her work, just as there is for many of the
actors whose names enter into his talk.

There seems to be unanimous opinion
that Chick Vincent, who has guided the
Pepper Young show from the beginning,
is the perfect director for this program.
As Adams says, "Chick has a genius for
interpreting the kinds of situations that
appeal to listeners. A better director
doesn't walk the earth. All of us have
enormous affection for the man."

As a busy actor who practically runs
from show to show on days when re-
hearsals and broadcasts almost overlap,
and as a bachelor who likes his own quiet
home surroundings in the heart of New
York, Mason Adams turns to books and
music for relaxation, and to radio and
television. When he goes out, it is usually
to see a new play or a movie, or to have
dinner with friends at a restaurant. But,
mostly, he reads a great deal, is rather
proud of a good library, collects record-
ings, plays around with a tape recorder
that is useful for working on new roles.
It seems rather a shame that he has no
special hobbies or do-it-yourself projects
— he could have a really good shop, well
equipped, since this is his dad's business.
"I wouldn't have the time for it, any-
how," he says.

His small apartment is typically mascu-
line, furnished in functional modern, with
light woods and simple lines. "There's no
trouble keeping this kind of place clean,
and no wasted space," is his comment.
The colors are warm and restful, the
greens and bronzes and oranges of au-

tumn; the mood is relaxed. Weekends, he
usually goes to Long Island — except when
he's working — to his parents' home, where
he plays tennis and leads a more active
outdoor life.

Some months ago, the employees of his
father's business gave a testimonial party
for their "boss." "It was quite a tribute,"
Mason recalls, "considering that these are
men who belong to what is considered
one of the 'toughest' unions to deal with,
and it only points up the kind of man
my father is. They asked me to help and
we worked out a surprise type of This
Is Your Life program, inviting close
friends and others important in his life
story. I was emcee, and at one point
called upon a doctor, one of my father's
friends. In the course of his little speech,
he mentioned the children my father had
brought up, and when he got to me be-
came confused and referred to 'Pepper
Martin.' Everyone laughed before he cor-
rected himself, knowing that Pepper Mar-
tin is John Leonard Martin, former ball
player with the St. Louis Cardinals."

It was a natural slip for the speaker to
make, but it set Mason Adams to thinking.
Was it important to be Pepper Young?
Were the things the rest of the family had
accomplished of greater value?

"I sometimes feel sadly inadequate when
I think about the work they are doing,"
he has said. But, even while he is saying
it, you have the feeling that he wouldn't
exchange his work for any other. That he
gets his satisfaction from knowing how
many millions have been entertained, and
often comforted and sustained through
dark periods in their lives, by a familiar
voice coming through a loudspeaker. The
voice and the personality of a friend.

Karen Lee Huklcala,

Delta Zeta,

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New Voices on Your Hit Parade

(Continued from page 20)
thought so, too. Sister Helen, a nun who
learned what the youngsters could add to
a church choir, wrote their first popular
arrangements. Tommy and his four sis-
ters, Etta, Kay, Sandy and Jackie, formed
a unit. Tommy was sixteen and admit-
tedly starry-eyed about show business.
"Tony Pastor was at the Paramount," he
recalls, "when I went backstage and gave
him a record we had cut. He liked us
and hired us."

They toured until one sister fell ill and
another fell in love and married. The girls
were replaced by two newcomers — Rose-
mary and Betty Clooney. Billed as Tom-
my Lynn, he sang with the girls and was
"sort of adopted" into their family. "Their
uncle George, then about twenty-eight
years old, was their manager, coach and
guardian. I roomed with him and he
kept an eye on me, too."

Then the band broke up and Tommy
didn't know what to do. "It hurts your
pride to come slinking home after every-
one has been saying you're doing great."
Yet home he came, and was welcomed into
the fuel business which his father and his
brothers own. Tommy swept floors and
drove trucks. Eventually he was pro-
moted to salesman.

But singing was still his business. Tom-
my wanted to learn to sing correctly and
chose as his teacher the renowned Vin-
cenzo DiCrescenzo, a composer who had
coached the great Caruso. Tommy is still
devoted to DiCrescenzo, who sought to
teach him to use his natural sound to the
best possible advantage. "When I did
right," Tommy recalls, "he would beam
and exclaim 'Molto bene!' and be so
pleased."

The maestro imparted some of his magic
of manner, as well as music, to Tommy. A
period of singing with Charlie Spivak's
orchestra was followed by a time when
bookings were scarce. Tommy took to the
night-club circuit. "I worked the plush
ones, and I worked the joints. It was good
training. If an audience gets noisy, you
have to understand they're out having a
good time. You learn how to get the whole
crowd on your side."

Tommy has done some radio and tele-
vision shows, but Your Hit Parade is his
big break. "I'm happy about it as much
for my folks' sake as my own," he explains.

"If you're in the business, you expect to
take the rough times in stride, but it is
hard for parents to understand this. They
want the best for you always."

Unless his schedule of rehearsals and
acting and dancing lessons becomes too
demanding, he intends to continue to live
at Cliffside in the midst of a family which
now includes nineteen nieces and nephews.
He likes the fun of the big family and the
informality of suburban living. He de-
scribes himself as "a bad golfer and an
eager bowler." He likes to get together
with a group of young entertainers for
a few hours away from the spotlight.

His biggest personal dream is "to find
enough security in this insecure business
so that, when I find the right girl, I can
think about getting married. I want a
good life for my family." His professional
hope centers around his new Vik record-
ing, "I'd Climb the Highest Mountain." If
it climbs on the popularity charts, the
night may come when he also will sing it
on the show. "And that," says Tommy,
"would be the real thrill."

Jill Corey's career is also a family af-
fair. She was born twenty-one years ago
in Avonmore, Pennsylvania, the youngest
of the five children of Mr. and Mrs. Domi-
nick Speranza. Her father and her broth-
ers, Earl and Dominick, own the King Coal
Mine. Her brother Bernard is now in the
Coast Guard. Jill, too, is surrounded by
adoring nieces and nephews.

Closest to her is her sister Alice. Their
mother died when Alice was fourteen and
Jill four, and the older sister quit school
to take care of the child. Despite their
loss, theirs was a happy, musical family.
Says Jill, "Everyone played some instru-
ment— trumpet, clarinet, drums, piano. We
had a music room, instead of a playroom,
and there we all could make just as much
noise as we wanted to."

She had a radio show when she was
twelve, and she began singing with a band
when she entered high school. "For the
first two years, one of my brothers turned
up to take me home. But, after that, my
family trusted the boys in the band to take
me home." Throughout this, she kept up
her grades. "I graduated ninth in my
class — but I had missed more days of
school than anyone else in the class."

The manager of a Pittsburgh radio sta-
tion arranged for her introduction to Mitch

I saved my
MARRIAGE

Tune in Every Morning to

"MY TRUE STORY"

National Broadcasting Company

v One terrible lie kept the secret. But a crime has to be paid for, even if it's never
R found out. Read "Cruel Sacrifice" in the current issue of TRUE STORY magazine,

now at all newsstands.

Miller, artists-and-repertoire man for Co-
lumbia Records in New York. "My sister
Alice and her husband, Dr. William Yock-
ey, were with me. I would never have
dared go alone. I expected Mr. Miller
would say, 'Go home, little girl, and study
hard . . .' "

The marvel of what actually happened
will never fade for Jill. "When they asked
me what key I sang in, I didn't even know
what to say. I just sounded a note. My
accompanist was wonderful. He said, 'That's
C,' and went into my number." And, in-
stead of the "Go-home-little-girl" speech
she expected, Mitch Miller said, "You're
for us — and how would you like to go over
and audition for the Garroway show, be-
sides?"

Since then, she has added The Johnny
Carson Show, Robert Q. Lewis Show and
others to her credit. She has had a disc-
jockey show of her own and now stars in
a syndicated film series sponsored by the
National Guard. Each year, her income
has doubled. "I've been fortunate in my
work," says Jill. Her manager, Lloyd
Leipsic, says, "I've never seen any young
singer work so hard and study so con-
tinuously— voice, dancing, acting." Jill en-
larged the scope of her capabilities with
two summer-stock appearances. In Kan-
sas City, she sang the lead in "High Button
Shoes" and, in Cincinnati, she played a
straight dramatic role in "The Reluctant
Debutante."

Through all her swift rise, Jill has re-
mained as sweet as when she came from
Avonmore. She's an appealing little crea-
ture. She stands only five-foot-four and
weighs 108 pounds. (She diets on steak.)
Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are a
liquid brown. She moves with grace and
has a shy smile which makes everyone in
a room smile right back at her.

She lives, at present, in a sublet apart-
ment on New York's east side and looks
forward to finding one of her own. She
does not feel she is particularly domestic —
"I've yet to find nerve enough to give a
party." But her manager comments, "She's
fantastically tidy. Every paper on her
desk is squared away, and I swear she
files her clothes rather than merely hang-
ing them up."

The motion-picture offers which have
come Jill's way form an important pari of
her long-time plan. "I just haven't yet
met love," she admits. "But, when I do, I'd
like to settle down in Beverly Hills and
have a nice, big family. I'd like to do a
picture now and then. But if that inter-
fered, I'd drop that, too. My family will
always come ahead of my career."

Virginia Gibson came to Your Hit Parade
direct from Broadway — where, until re-
cently, she was the ingenue of "Happy
Hunting," playing the role of Ethel Mer-
man's daughter. She has done motion-
picture roles at Warner Bros, and appeared
in a TV series, So This Is Hollywood.

Virginia, who is five-foot-three, blond
and blue eyed, was born in St. Louis, the
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John Gorski.
She has a brother, Bill, and three small
nieces.

Because she was a frail child, she started
dancing lessons at the age of four. "My
parents thought the exercise would make
me stronger."

She was in St. Alphonsus High School,
and fifteen years old, when the dancing
began to turn into a career. "I discov-
ered that all the girls who studied dancing
and did well were hired by the Municipal
Opera Company." This famed St. Louis
organization stages a spectacular series of
outdoor shows each summer. For Vir-
ginia, it was an education. "We gave a
performance every night, and each day,

from ten to four, we rehearsed the next
■week's show."

This training proved to be her passport
to Broadway. When she had saved a cou-
ple-hundred dollars, Virginia and a girl-
friend set out for New York. Immediate-
ly, she got parts in shows, and the big city
is still a great delight to her. That five-
cent "ocean voyage" provided by the Sta-
ten Island ferry is a favorite excursion, but
her favorite of favorites is the boat ride
out to the Statue of Liberty. "Whenever
friends come to town, the first thing I do is
to take them to the Statue. The view is so
beautiful. From there, the harbor, the
Hudson River and the buildings make a
wondrous picture."

Virginia now lives in an apartment hotel.
"When you have shows and rehearsals to
do, it's most convenient. All the house-
keeping is done for you." The situation
may be subject to change, for Virginia con-
fesses there is a big romance in her life.
She's not engaged to be married, she says
— but neither is she making any pro-
nouncements about single blessedness. "The
future?" says Virginia. "Let's see what
happens."

Alan Copeland, the Hit Parade's new
anchor man, is a singer, composer, lyric
writer, arranger, conductor, mimic, mu-
sician and vocal arranger. TV fans, of
course, have already seen him on The Bob
Crosby Show. For fifteen years, he's been
a member of The Modernaires — but he
claimed his first audience at the age of
three, in Los Angeles, under conditions
which made his mother frantic. After
searching for him for hours, she found her
cherub caroling "Free Blind Mice" for the
entertainment of customers in a neighbor-
hood butcher shop.

Alan turned his vocalizing into a sales
gimmick when he started selling papers
after school, tossing in a few bars of a
popular song with each paper he sold. One
of his customers proved to be choral di-
rector Bob Mitchell, who invited him to
join his Mitchell Boys' Choir. There he
learned sight-reading, vocal arranging and
conducting. When his voice changed, he
concentrated on study of piano and ar-
ranging. He then made his first ventures
into song writing.

He served in the Navy as an aerial gun-
ner and radio operator, and, after his re-
turn to civilian life, organized . his first
vocal group, the Twin Tones. Alan refers
to that period as his "peanut-butter days,"
for that was his staple diet during the
difficult time of getting started. "We had
hundreds of doors slammed in our faces,"
he says. Then Jan Garber signed them to
sing with his band, and they did a year of
one-nighters, cross-country. "When you've
had a year on the road," says Alan, "you're
ready to sing in Madison Square Garden
or Macy's window."

Joining The Modernaires came next.
And, on the strength of their going on
Bob Crosby's Club 13 radio show, Alan
married Dolores Barty. The Copelands
now have three children and have been
living in a ranch-style house in Van Nuys,
California. His offer for Your Hit Parade
called for very careful consideration, be-
cause it also meant the family must move
to New York. "I guess every performer
gets the urge to go out on his own," Alan
says, "but it's a tough decision to make
when you have a family."

Because he has maintained a full sched-
ule of arranging, making records and writ-
ing music — Sinatra, Jo Stafford, Frankie
Laine, Betty Hutton, are just a few who
have sung his songs — there's a strong pos-
sibility that one of those now in the works
will follow the path of its predecessors
and go into the Top Seven Tunes of the
Week — and that Mr. Copeland himself will
have the pleasure of presenting it on Your
Hit Parade.

Exciting New Album

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Year of Fulfillment

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(Continued from page 43)
Steve's boat which had been held at the
factory for many months because, up to
then, he had no way of using it. Equipped
for water sports and fun for the whole
family all summer long.

The fabulous things that have happened
and continue to happen to Steve and
Jayne career-wise. Steve's lyrics and
music for a new song, "But I Haven't Got
Him," recorded last June by the McGuire
Sisters, who did the sensational recording
of "Picnic" for which Steve wrote the
lyrics. His forthcoming play for Broad-
way, a comedy called "Jose," with two
feminine roles, in one of which he would
like to see his wife (she would like it, too),
if the play isn't already cast and in pro-
duction by the time she is ready. Another
play, called "Immanuel," done in verse, for
which Steve has written a complete score
along classical lines.

Steve's two recent albums, "Venetian
Serenade" and "Romantic Rendezvous,"
following half a dozen others he has re-
corded. The songs he is always composing,
on bits and scraps of paper, whenever an
idea or melody comes into his head.

This is the year, too, when his successful
career as a literary man continues with
articles in national magazines, book re-
views, columns, and a new book underway,
subject undisclosed as yet. These follow
his book of "Bop Fables," the collection of
some of his short stories called "Fourteen
for Tonight," his analysis of comedy called
"The Funnymen," and a book of poetry
titled "Wry on the Rocks," culled from
some more of those bits of paper he is al-
ways writing on and stuffing into his pock-
ets, or between the pages of a book he is
reading (or rescued by Jayne from the
waste basket). It's also the year when
Steve wrote words and music for "The
Bachelor," a TV spectacular which starred
Hal March and won Steve a Sylvania
Award.

As one of the busiest males in show
business, he is married to one of its busiest
girls — because, in Jayne's case, as with all
wives, there is the double and triple job
of homemaker and mother, housekeeper
and cook, added to actress and recording
artist and writer.

Jayne's career as an actress started on
Broadway when she was seventeen, play-
ing lead parts in six comedies, all of them
bringing her good notices. She made eight
movies in Hollywood, the first being "Un-
dercurrent," with Katharine Hepburn and
Robert Taylor. Included were "Lady in
the Lake," with Robert Montgomery, "Dav-
id and Bathsheba," and the last was "En-
chantment," with David Niven and Tere-
sa Wright. She saw two of her old pic-
tures re-run on television in one day last
summer — and for weeks afterward, people
stopped her on the street to talk about
Jayne Meadows, the movie actress, instead
of Jayne Meadows, the TV star, and she
was thrilled at the recognition. The Hol-
lywood parts had been dramatic ones and
her personal success in them was attested
by the reviews, but she was unhappy and
lacking in self-confidence during this pe-
riod of her life.

All sorts of stage offers have been com-
ing her way recently, based on all this
stage, movie, and a varied radio and tele-
vision background. Last spring, she did
the kind of dramatic role she likes, por-
traying the editor of a woman's magazine
in the Studio One production, "The Drop
of a Hat." Guest-starring with Red Skel-
ton was a big success, and she will prob-
ably do more of that. Nothing that takes
her away for more than a few days from
Steve and the baby will be considered.

"Steve and I have talked this all over,"
she says. "Perhaps a very little baby
can spare its mother a short time, if left
in competent hands. But we talk and talk
about how everything can be arranged so
our child will see us all the time and feel
our love every moment."

There is a filmed situation comedy in the
offing, but that will be a reality only if it
can be made in New York The recordings
she did with her sister, Audrey Meadows —
their biggest success, "Dungaree Dan," for
which Steve wrote the lyrics — have led to
others. Steve and she d'd the talking rec-
ord "What Is a Husband?" and its flipover,
"What Is a Wife?" And, recently, she
recorded her first vocal solo, out this fall
and expected to be pretty sensational. ("If
it is, it will be because Steve gave me
confidence I would never have had with-
out him.")

Jayne talks about her records as if they
belonged to someone else, objectively,
slightly amused at the way the whole thing
began. "Audrey was the one who always
had the singing lessons. She studied with
good teachers, at the Juilliard School and
elsewhere. I just sang. The first time we
were to do a recording audition, we didn't
even know what to choose. We asked Dad-
dy (the Reverend Francis Cotter, former
missionary to China, where both Jayne
and, Audrey were born) to translate a
song into Chinese for us."

If you can imagine the effect of the
Meadows girls getting up and rendering
"Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" in Chi-
nese, you get a little idea of the commotion
their first audition caused. Nobody un-
derstood a word of it, or could quite figure
out the why and wherefore, but the sheer
novelty knocked them flat, and the girls
got their first recording date.

Jayne had to stand about two feet behind
Audrey because her voice came out so
strongly, a completely unexpected devel-
opment so far as she was concerned. "She
sings melody like harmony," someone re-
marked, a good description. And, last win-
ter, Jayne attended Stella Adler's dramatic
classes, her first formal drama instruction.

Steve got her started on a professional
writing career. She always had ideas for
short stories, put them on paper, showed
them reluctantly to a few close friends,
was encouraged to send them out to mag-
azines— and too sensitive to risk possible
rejection slips. Steve is changing that
attitude. Together, they wrote the first
of a series of programs called The Psy-
chiatrist, two of which Steve used on a
show a few years back with good response
from viewers. They hope to do the whole
series one day.

Jayne has been doing a few guest col-
umns for newspaper friends — for Nick
Kenny, for Faye Emerson when she was
on vacation, and for Bill Ewald of United
Press. She is hard at work now on an
article about Steve, has gone back to work
on a book she once started called "Audrey
and Me." The trouble with the latter is
that it is meant to be serious — -but, as
Jayne describes it, "there are so many
heartaches in it that it comes out funny."
Somehow, everything that has ever hap-
pened to Audrey and Jayne Meadows, and
especially to Jayne— no matter how difficult
or even tragic at the time — turns out to be
funny when she tells about it later.

This summer, she went back to painting,
one form of artistic expression she has al-
ways loved, along with interior decoration.
Early in the season, she began to plan how
she could bring the boys into her magic
world of color and line and mass, by plan-
ning "group" exhibitions, marking progress
and making sales to encourage them. Prices
from about fifty cents to a dollar top.

Jayne is a born teacher — she started out
to teach dancing and formed a school in
Connecticut with one of her brothers when
she was still in her teens, has assisted in a
progressive school for small children, been
a camp counselor and swimming instructor,
adores all kinds of kids of all ages, thinks
that love for children was one of the things
that helped Steve and her get along so well
from the first. She adores his children, as
he does. When she did a summer stock
tour as the star of "Tea and Sympathy,"
during a time when the boys were visiting
in the East, she took them along as much
as possible. "They didn't understand the
play at all, of course, but they loved the
sets and thought it was the greatest fun."

The boys have been eager for a small
"Jaynie," as they call their father's wife.
Jayne has been partial to having a little
boy "just like Steve," a boy they could
name William (for Steve's father) and
Christopher (because it sounds like a writ-
er's name, Jayne thinks, and writing was
really Steve's first love).

oteve, because of the three sons, has
looked forward to a daughter, to be named
Barbara. There is a story attached to this
name. When he was still quite young, his
mother bought a framed picture at auction,
because she wanted the little frame for a
picture of his. She noticed that the little
girl in the frame, in old-fashioned dress,
bore a striking resemblance to Steve and
thought how someday his own little daugh-
ter might look like that. Removing the
little girl from the frame later, she found
the name "Barbara Allen" on the back.

This coincidence always impressed Steve,
as it did Jayne when she heard it a long
time later, so the name Barbara seemed
foreordained for a daughter.

Both subscribe to the notion that chil-
dren should be both seen and heard — with-
in reason. When the boys are with them,
Jayne makes it clear that invitations which
don't include the boys must be put off until
another time. They take the boys to
lunches and dinners to meet their friends,
sometimes even to their broadcasts. Steve
has had them on the show, buys little jokes
from them, makes them a part of every-
thing for which thev are old enough.

Making every child as self-sufficient as
possible is Jayne's idea. "Steve is literally
the only man I ever knew who couldn't
boil an egg. He's helpless in a kitchen.
We are teaching the boys about cooking
and cleaning up. When they were smaller,
I started with the two older boys during
a visit with us and, even though it took
twice as long to assemble a meal and they
were underfoot every minute, and trying
so terribly hard to help, they had so much
fun. Steve had so many doting relatives
when he was small that there were a few
things he never learned to do for himself."

The new little child will have the benefit
of all the things they have learned from
the boys and from their own memories of
childhood. Jayne remembers herself as a
super-sensitive and introverted girl, al-
though that is hard to believe now of this
self-assured and poised woman. During
the Hollywood phase of her life, in partic-
ular, when she made an unhappy mar-
riage— and later in New York, during the
years, before she met Steve — she leaned
heavily on psychiatry for help.

"I had no self-confidence, no belief in my
own powers," she says. "Psychiatry taught
me, as it has many others, to accept my-
self. I tell Steve that I am glad I had
problems in my life, glad for the years
when I tried to shut myself up in a shell,
when I threw away my successes in mo-
tion pictures because I never thought I did
well enough, wasn't beautiful enough,

wasn't happy enough. Every experience
I have gone through that has been painful
has made me not only stronger but more
compassionate. But I don't want any
daughter of mine to go through as much as
I did. We want to tell our little girl, when-
ever we may be blessed with one, how
much she means to us, how lovely she is.
To build up her self-confidence and her
belief in herself. This is what Steve is do-
ing with his sons."

I. he fifth anniversary of I've Got A Secret
was also the fifth anniversary of the night
Jayne and Steve met, although they
weren't married until two years later, on
July 31, 1954. Audrey had asked Jayne to
go with her and a few friends for a sand-
wich after the show. Jayne was tired and
wanted to go home but reluctantly went
along. Steve and a few others joined them
at the table. "He hardly said a word the
whole time, but when they all decided to
go on to another little place they had
heard about, he asked Audrey to bring me
along. And, when we got in his car, he
insisted that I sit up front with him. Then
I didn't see him for two weeks, because his
boys came next day and he was devoting
himself to them.

"We grew together in what I like to
think of as a mutually helpful way. Steve
introduced me to what I call his 'vaude-
ville world,' the world in which he grew
up with his vaudevillian parents, Belle
Montrose and Billy Allen. His world of
jazz and all the modern musical tempos.
I had never bought anything but a classical
record in my life. Audrey and I went to
symphony concerts and the Metropolitan
Opera. We knew Gilbert and Sullivan,
hymns, folk songs, but I didn't know one
jazz record well enough to hum it.

"I think I helped boost Steve's self-con-
fidence, which was at a lower point than
his talents should have allowed, when I
first met him. He had been extremely
successful on the West Coast but was still
finding his way in the East, trying to work
out some of his own ideas, which he has
since done with such success. He ate ir-
regularly and erratically. One day, when
I first knew him, he came to dinner with-
out having had a mouthful of food all day,
and I had to get him some tomato juice in
a hurry because he began to feel faint.
After that, I saw that he got proper meals,
at least when he was around me. Now he
dislikes going out to restaurants, comes
home to a meal on every pretext, thinks
there is no cooking in the world as good as
is done at our house, whether I do it or our
capable maid Mildred is presiding! In
spite of liking home cooking, he has lost
all the superfluous weight he once had,
because he eats so sensibly.

"When I first met Steve, I saw what
seemed like one of the most gentle and
sensitive men I had ever known; his eyes
were so soulful. As I got to know him
better, I realized that he wasn't getting his
due as a wonderful human being, although
he was beginning to as an artist. Now I
know that both things are happening.

"When he is with the children, Steve is
another child. And the boys are so like
him. Stevie is a replica of Steve in looks,
and has his father's scholastic mind and his
curiosity. Brian has Steve's poetic side,
his artist's approach to life, and his own
pixie sense of humor. The little one,
David, has Steve's original and logical
mind. He makes little jokes all the time
just as Steve does.

"But the great thing about my husband
is that, even while he is making little jokes
and seeing the world in all its humorous
aspects, he is really such a serious and
adult man. It will be so wonderful to
watch him with our baby — his pride, his
love, his tenderness — and to plan with him
for all the busy, wonderful years ahead."

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V
R

True Story of a Happy Woman

(Continued from page 38)
for viewers the fact that they are to see
true experiences of real people." At the
beginning and close of the show, Kathi
interviews the people involved and then
concludes with a capsule moral. She
writes all of this herself and does so with
great thoughtfulness, for behind TV's most
beautiful eyes is a keen brain.

Kathi is a high-spirited beauty, five-
feet-five, with dark brown hair, fair com-
plexion and deep blue eyes. Her TV ca-
reer began in 1946. Most of her shows have
identified her as a woman's woman, but
she is a man's woman, too. The man in
question is her husband Wilbur Stark, co-
producer with Jerry Layton of many radio
and TV shows, including True Story,
Rocky King, Detective, Humphrey Flack,
Ladies' Choice, Mr. Feathers, Scattergood
Baines, Escape With Me, and Hollywood
Love Story. Wilbur Stark has been a pro-
ducer for eleven years. He has been
married to Kathi for thirteen.

Wilbur says of Kathi, "She is very adapt-
able. When we were first married, I was
making a lot of money and we could do
whatever we pleased. It wasn't hard to
adapt to that situation. But, when I
went into business for myself, we had to
give up almost everything. She had just
as much fun on our lessened income.
And she's both a friend and a wife — and
sincere and loyal, too."

Kathi is no sugar-coated beauty. For
all her vivacity and femininity, she is a
woman of conviction. For this reason,
Producer Wilbur Stark hired Mrs. Wilbur
Stark as hostess of True Story. "When we
do a True Story program," he explains,
"we try to bring to viewers the greatest
sense of reality. It is necessary, of course,
to use professional actors to play the parts,
and we use the best — people like Jerome
Cowan, Connie Ford, Meg Mundy, Jan
Miner, Biff McGuire and Staats Cotsworth.
Because they are good, they are also on
many of the big night-time dramatic shows
on TV. Therefore, True Story viewers
might tend to recognize them as actors
rather than real people. Well, the feeling
of true reality, rather than stage reality, is
what the program must have. That's where
Kathi comes in. A glamorous actress
couldn't establish this bridge of reality
with the audience, but Kathi isn't glam-
orous and she couldn't act if she had to.
Everything she says on the show re-
flects her personality and beliefs. If she
can't believe it, she can't say it. That's the
way she is. That's why she writes her
own lines. And that's why she convinc-
ingly moves the audience to a genuine
belief in the validity of the material on the
show."

TV's best writers are used to adapt
True Story material to television, but
Kathi always writes her own commentary
material. "I draw on my experience and
feelings," she explains. "I think I use the
insight of a mother and wife. For ex-
ample, there was. a true story of a widow
and her son dramatized on one show.
The widow married an athletic coach. Fric-
tion developed between the new stepfather
and the son. Shortly thereafter, the field
house storing athletic equipment burned
down. The cause of the fire was unde-
termined. The anxious parents suspected
the son of having set the fire as a spiteful
act. They later learned that, on the after-
noon of the fire, the boy had been taking
an examination for a college scholarship.
In the interview with the mother after
the show, I was to say 'Aren't you proud

J of your son?' And the mother was to

„ answer, 'Yes — for, besides winning the
scholarship, he is president of his class,

„„ which shows he is as popular as he is

bright.' Well, I thought that over and
didn't agree with the implications. I
couldn't argue with the facts, but it
seemed wrong to give the impression a
child has to be bright and popular to be
loved and admired by his parents. What
I wanted to say — and did say — was that
parental love and trust should be the
birthright of every child, regardless of his
capabilities."

It should come as no surprise at this point
that Kathi has made her way, at times, by
brains alone. Before she got into TV, she
was an account executive in an advertis-
ing agency, a copywriter, a secretary, a
student dietitian. But 'way before that,
she was just a pretty little girl who was
always being cast as an angel in school
pageants.

Kathi, born in Newark, Ohio, was the
youngest of nine children. "It was fun
being the last," she recalls. "When I was
a child, one brother was at Ohio State
University, another was getting a taste
of show business. And my sisters were
old enough to spoil me. Mother therefore
went really maternal with me. I got all the
don'ts from A to Z — but I also was babied
right up into my teens. When I was
fifteen, my mother was still cutting my
meat for me. I remember that I went to
New York to visit one of my brothers. He
took me out to dinner and ordered a steak.
The waiter served me and I just sat there.
Finally, I realized I'd have to cut it my-
self! What a mess I made of it."

On the other hand, Kathi's mother didn't
put up with vanity. Even as a child,
Kathi's eyes were remarkably beautiful
— but Kathi wasn't allowed to know it.
As she recalls, "I'd come home and tell
Mother that Mrs. So-and-so told me I
had such beautiful blue eyes. Mother
would merely ask, 'And what color were
her eyes?' "

But, mostly, Kathi is remembered for
her supercharged motor. She never
walked. She was either running or
jumping. She barely touched a stairstep
when she came downstairs. And she flew
off the porch, never using the steps. She
was always being sent on errands by her
brothers and sisters — to a bedroom for
bobby pins or to a store with a nickel to
buy a bar of candy. But, as much as she
was "used," she was also loved. At the
age of twelve, she won a popularity con-
test held by a drug store — because her
older sisters went out and solicited votes
for her.

Kathi spent one year as an undergradu-
ate at the University of Chicago. She was

jind the strength
for your life . . .

Religion In American Life Program

WORSHIP TOGETHER THIS WEEK

studying dietetics and working part-time
as a beanpot demonstrator at Marshall
Field's when she was rescued by Bob
Elson, one of Chicago's ace radio men
Elson met Kathi when he happened to
use the members of one of her university
classes on a quiz show. He proved to be
remarkably intuitive in recognizing Kathi's
natural talent for communication. "He told
me I should become a copywriter. I was
so naive, I thought he was talking of the
kind of copyrighting they do at the patent
office! But he patiently explained how
commercials for radio were written. I
was awed, and it all sounded better than
demonstrating food."

She hoped to get a foothold in advertis-
ing as a secretary, so she took a course in
speedwriting and rented a typewriter to
practice her typing. Finally, she went to
the Grant Advertising Agency, where an
account executive was looking for a new
secretary. "He asked me if I knew what
an atom-smasher was, and I told him.
Then he asked me to define and spell
'atom,' which I did. He was amazed. It
seemed that the girls who had been work-
ing for him had spelled it 'Adam.' "

Kathi became a copywriter by not mind-
ing her own business. "I was sitting in
on a conference when they discussed a
new advertising campaign. I went home
and wrote up a few ideas of my own and
brought them in, the next morning. Over-
night, I became a copywriter, and I was
sent to the New York office in January
of 1942."

Her first year in New York, she won
a signal honor when she received the
Tide magazine award for one of her cam-
paigns. She became an assistant account
executive and then an account executive.
She would probably have stayed in ad-
vertising and become a vice-president —
and, likely, president — if a couple of
things hadn't happened to her. One of
these was TV, and the other was Wilbur
Stark. Wilbur came first.

They first met in June of 1942. He was
a time salesman for Station WMCA, New
York, and had been in Kathi's office on
business. A few days later, they met
under less formal circumstances. "We
lived within a block of one another but
didn't know it," Kathi says. "I was com-
ing out of a grocery store, loaded with
stuff. Just as I passed him and said hello
and smiled, a roll of toilet paper popped
out of one bag and went rolling into the
street. Well, he retrieved it, and then of-
fered to help carry some of the packages
home. Somehow he made the comment
that it was a lot of food for one little
girl, and I invited him to come to dinner
and share it with me. Instead, he took me
out. I remember he ordered lobster. I'd
never eaten lobster and he had to crack
mine for me and get the meat out. I thought
he was just magnificent."

It was two years before they married.
"It was an interesting relationship," Kathi
recalls. "I wanted to be a career girl only
— so I thought. He wanted to be a suc-
cessful bachelor. We had great times to-
gether but, supposedly, we weren't seri-
ous. Then I went home on vacation and
an old boyfriend proposed to me. I came
back to New York and told 'Sweetie' about
it and that I might get married. He said,
'That's wonderful,' and that made me
furious! But, in the end, he came to his
senses and proposed."

They were married June 15, 1944, in
the Episcopal Chapel in Elmsford, New
York, and then moved into Kathi's apart-
ment, because it was more comfortable
than Wilbur's. Kathi was still working
at the agency. She had never worked
as a performer. Wilbur had radio and

some stage experience. Out of high
school during the Depression, he had
done a variety of things — selling, truck-
ing, boxing, "pro" ball and acting — until
1936, when he began a ten-year hitch at
WMCA. In 1945, when Kathi created a
radio show, Teen Canteen, it was Wilbur
who went on the air as emcee. He con-
tinued on the TV version. But on Janu-
ary 17, 1946, their first child was born.
Three months later, to the day, Kathi's TV
career was born.

It happened that Wilbur had to be out
of town, and he asked an announcer to
do the TV version of Teen Canteen during
his absence. The show was informal, re-
quiring the emcee to get a bunch of teen-
agers to relax and talk and play a couple
of games. The substitute announcer was
too stiff, and the director asked Kathi to
get the kids in the right mood before the
show. "I was having a ball with them,"
she recalls, "and the director asked me to
do the show, instead of the announcer —
which was all right with him, since he
wanted to get out of it, anyway."

That was Kathi's debut in TV. Within a
year, she was one of TV's brightest stars.
From 1948 to 1953, there was the Du Mont
network's Kathi Norris Show, a daily
full-hour for women. Concurrently, she
was on Leave It To The Girls and Spin
The Picture. She did a regular commer-
cial on the Godfrey show. On radio, she
femceed Anybody Home, for NBC, and
Escape With Me, for ABC. In August of
1952, she retired temporarily to have an-
other baby. When she came back to
work in 1953, it was with a different kind
of job. She then began her four-year as-
sociation with General Electric as their
TV representative. This came to an end
in 1956, when daughter Kathleen was
born. Then Kathi came back to TV as
hostess for True Story.

"I like to work," Kathi says, "and I
especially like working with Sweetie. It's
more than stimulating. It's the necessary
requisite of a completely companionable
marriage. If Sweetie were a chemist, I'd
be knee-deep in test tubes."

Kathi always refers to Wilbur as
"Sweetie." This has been going on for
so long that some people don't know he
has any other name. On the street,
strangers often call him "Sweetie," since
that is the way Kathi refers to him publicly
on TV. Even Pamela, their first born,
grew confused by the nickname. "Poor
Pam," says Kathi. "I guess she was
about two when she came to us and said,
'You're Mommie and he's Sweetie, but
who's my daddy?' "

Pam, a very pretty eleven-year-old,
spent much of her first five years in TV
studios with her mother. Kathi says, "If
I had toys to demonstrate, or children's
clothes to be modeled, I'd let Pam do it.
Of course, not exclusively. Other people
who worked on the show brought their
children in, and sometimes we'd bring
in children from an orphanage. But I
did have Pam with me a lot, just watching,
most of the time. I remember once I
was doing a live commercial, for dough-
nuts, when Pam walked right onto the
set. She loved doughnuts, so I said, 'You
can have one, honey.' She took a dough-
nut, looked at it and bit into it and then I
said, 'Do you like it?' and she said, 'No,
it's awful.' Well, she had picked up
one with cinnamon. It was the cinna-
mon she didn't really like. But I had
to talk my way out of that one."

Pam is her mother's best critic. "She
knows clothes," Kathi says, "and will re-
mind me that a dress may be too dark for
TV. Or say, 'Your hair looks good enough
for the house but not for the cameras.' "
Kathi continues, "I remember one day I
was rehearsing my lines and Pam said,
Mother, you're selling too hard when you

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should just be talking.' And, when Sweetie
came in, he listened and agreed with her."

On the other hand, Bradley, their five-
year-old, hasn't reached the critical stage.
He is rather inclined to treat his parents
as if they were walking dictionaries, and
at any time will demand the definition of
three- to six-syllable words. He is too
young to have a dictionary in his room,
but the room itself is unusually attractive.
The walls are covered in red-and-white
stripes. A peak in the ceiling gives the
illusion of a tent. The floors are red vinyl.

"Some of the house is gay and nice, but
I wouldn't want to take on an old place
again," Kathi says. "They just made them
too big. Why, there are six rooms on the
first floor and that includes the laundry,
Sweetie's workshop, the recreation room,
et cetera. Look at the cracks in my fin-
gers— I just got through cleaning there.
It's ridiculous, you know. Sure, I've got
help but it would require a regiment. I've
got, all told, five bathrooms and two pow-
der rooms and who needs them? But, if
you've got them, you keep them clean."

Kathi doesn't pretend to get any pleas-
ure out of housecleaning, but she does
take a very personal interest in the kitch-
en and in nutrition. It started when she
decided to have her third child, Kathleen,
by natural childbirth. She went to the
Manhattan Maternity Center to take the
course for expectant mothers and was then
introduced to several books on nutrition.
She became an enthusiast for natural
foods. This accounts for the rather brac-
ing formula she feeds the baby, certified
raw milk mixed with blackstrap molasses
and brewer's yeast.

The whole family participates in the
food planning. Breakfast for the family
might be wheat germ cooked in milk with
blackstrap molasses and brown sugar. Or
it might be yogurt and pot cheese with
sesame seeds and bee jelly. The children's
peanut butter is fortified with vitamins.
Kathi is not without humor in discussing
nutrition. "I stocked in some cabbage juice
for a brother who had an ulcer," she
notes, "but he preferred an operation."

Kathi tries to practice what she preach-
es. For years, as a TV personality, she
had emphasized woman's place in the
community, in volunteer jobs outside her
home. Kathi, herself, works closely with
the Adoption Service of Westchester and
makes frequent public speeches for them.
She is very active in church programs. For
years, she has been a Sunday school
teacher at the Dutch Reformed Church in
Bronxville. This fall she became co-super-
intendent. "For us," she says, "religion is
a cooperative endeavor. We take the chil-
dren to Sunday school with us, where
other parents just drop off the young-
sters." Kathi likes a good sermon and was
a frequent attendant at the Billy Graham
meetings in Manhattan this past summer.

"I like what Billy has to say about the
family," she observes. "I like what he has
to say about the husband-wife relation-
ship. Well, in our home, although Sweetie
is a real homebody and very relaxed, he
is still the master. I'd be inclined to say
that he has the last word, but neither of us
is really a boss of the other: As Billy Gra-
ham points out, when God created woman,
it was not from Adam's head or foot — but
his side. It means that husband and wife
are supposed to work side by side. For
example, I know that it's always been in-
teresting to watch actors work together
when they are husband and wife. On
True Story, we've had Ann and John Sey-
mour, Loretta Daye and Lin McCarthy,
June Dayton and Dean Harens. I have
the feeling that they particularly enjoy
working together."

This comment about other couples well
sums up the happy cooperative team of
Kathi Norris and Wilbur Stark themselves,

WHAT'S NEW— WEST

(Continued from page 15)

Bing Crosby called Nat "King"
Cole and told him that if he was going
to be on in the fall season, he wanted
to be on his show and would work for
scale. With Nat's show moved into
the Panic spot, you can look for Bing
in the fall.

John Barrymore, Jr., with a profile
as attractive as his dad's, is seriously
thinking of forgetting acting and turn-
ing to directing. Matinee Theater pro-
ducer Al McCleary has taken young
John under his wing, and next season
John will be directing several more
Matinees. His first was seen last July.

Alice Lon's three youngsters,
Bobby, Clint, and Larry, spent most
of the summer with their grandparents
in Kilgore, Texas. During their ab-
sence, she was lovingly reminded of
them by the little gifts they sent: 1
bull frog, 2 spiders, 3 butterflies, etc.

John Lupton, star of ABC-TV's
Broken Arrow, has had more than his
share of precarious adventures during
personal appearances. For instance,
during a recent El Toro Marine Base
benefit, John's bucking bronc threw
him, but luckily John wasn't hurt.
Another time, he agreed to be pulled
up by a winch into an air-seas rescue
helicopter and, a third time, he volun-
teered to ride in a jet. Says John,
"They told me when I got into TV it
was going to be exciting. I should
have believed them."

When the Millionaire's Marvin
Miller is recognized on the street, he
is always asked, "Have you got one
of those million-dollar checks for
me?" Marvin has taken to carrying a
blank checkbook made out on the
Bank of Goodwill, and has written
25,000 million-dollar checks to date.

It's interesting to note that at the
recent party given by producer Don
Fedderson, some of the biggest TV
names in Hollywood wanted some of
Marvin's paper largesse . . . "for the
children, you know."

At Fedderson's catered affair, with
servants standing around by the score,
Lawrence Welk, always the gentle-
man, insisted on carrying a chair for
Mrs. Fedderson, who had no place to
sit at their table. Same party found
Johnny Carson busy trading houses
with a New York actor who was on his
way to Hollywood for a picture. "Jody
and I," explained Johnny, "wanted to
make sure and get somebody with
kids, for our house with three kids is
already baby-proof. We wanted to
make sure the house we moved into
was baby-proof, too. I'd hate to come
home and find someone's rare vase
smashed against the wall." Kids or
no, trust Johnny to be a big smash
on Do You Trust Your Wife?

Cochise and calomine lotion: Mike
Ansara, who plays Cochise on Broken
Arrow, doing his own realistic bare-
chested fight at the ranch, was knocked
into the bushes — and came up with
poison oak from waist to windpipe!
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poison oak, but then anything can
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A Home of Her Own

(Continued from page 30)
in which she, in turn, was born and reared
— this is the only house where Carmel has
ever lived. After she married Bill in Lon-
don on April 20, 1953, they had apartments
over there and later in New York, but no
settled home.

"I married a gypsy in Bill," she smiles.
"He has always been in the entertainment
business, with ballrooms in Dublin and
London — a huge one in London — and
now such a lovely ballroom in City Center
in New York. About 1,400 come Saturday
nights, and it would do your heart good
to see all the nice boys and girls dancing.
Maybe they had nowhere to go before, but
now they all meet for Irish and American
dancing, and it is run very nicely. Bill
has promoted tours of big bands all over
Ireland and Scotland and England, in the
big cities, and he himself loves to travel.
We didn't think he would ever want to
settle down any one place, but now there
are the children and we want a home for
them. And, I think, for ourselves, too."

The family consists of small Jane, born
June 6, 1954, three months after her par-
ents' arrival in New York and about four
months before Carmel won an Arthur
Godfrey Talent Scouts audition and made
a first appearance, about a week after
that, on the Godfrey morning show, on
October 18, 1954. Baby Michael arrived
August 21, 1956. In addition, there is Nora
Blewitt ("who takes care of us and runs
everything") with the charm of County
Mayo, Ireland, written all over her and
the enthusiasm of having become a United
States citizen early last summer — some-
thing to which Carmel and Bill look
forward when they have been here long
enough to qualify. "Nora used to go
around the house singing patriotic songs
all the time, but lately it's love songs she's
adding to the patriotism, so who can tell?"
Carmel twinkles.

Jane's name was chosen because they
liked a plain, old-fashioned name. Michael
was named for Carmel's father: "And a
proud man he is over that — but, half the
time now, I am using pet names for the
baby, as we mothers do for the littlest
ones."

Bill says it is the kind of household
where everything gets beautifully tidied
up one minute — and, ten minutes later, it
gets untidy — and then it gets very tidy
again, as Jane is admonished to pick up
her toys and Michael is rescued from piles
of overturned blocks and toy trains. But
it's a happy house, and that's what they
think really matters. "We don't try to
keep everything nice for the future. We
use the whole house and we enjoy it. It's
a house where you can go in and drop
down anywhere and not be wondering,

Should I sit here, or there? A homely
house — and in Ireland, they would know
exactly what I mean by that, although I
know in America the word has another
and less lovely meaning."

Carmel learned about that other mean-
ing in an amusing way. She got off a plane
in Minneapolis one day and was asked to
say something for radio and television. "I
told them how much I loved coming back
to Minneapolis because the people were all
so homely — and I heard little gasps from
those near me. They were thinking of the
word in the sense that it means 'not beau-
tiful,' but I was thinking of it meaning
'homey' and friendly and hospitable, which
the dictionary says is also correct. The
people who were listening knew what I
meant, but it caused great fun. It is what
I mean when I talk about our home."

During the first months in the house,
they were both so busy with their work
that they hardly had time to buy anything.
They sat on boxes for a while, until the
novelty of that wore off. So one evening
they stopped on the way home and bought
furniture for almost the whole house at
one time, except for the fine authentic
Early American dining-room set which a
friend got for them in Massachusetts. "It
has a hutch — which you would now call
a buffet, and in Ireland we would call a
dresser — and real beautiful it is. And
would you believe me, I was that tired
when we were shopping for the bedroom
furniture that, when I lay down on a bed
to try it for softness, I dozed right off in
the store!

"We didn't care what we might lack, so
long as we had a rocking chair, so we got
that, too. And everything in Early Amer-
ican, with the wood that lovely golden
color. Stores asked me if I wanted a
decorator to come look at the house and
see what we should have, but Bill and I
and the house knew what was needed to
be right for it. Nothing too fancy, so the
children would have to be told to be care-
ful every minute."

There is a big garden at the back which,
so far, gets the minimum of attention
because of lack of time, but the rockery
in front, planted with flowers, is lovely.
Roses bloom three times a year. The first
time Carmel was back in Ireland with Bill,
she was sad at leaving her childhood home.
But last year, and this year, maybe because
of the house, she felt a little different:
"Wherever a woman has house and chil-
dren, that becomes home to her, I think.
The first time I came back and found our
own roses waiting in a riot of bloom, I
didn't even wait to get a scissors, but
grabbed a handy knife and started to cut
them, I was that eager to have some inside.
I cut the tip of my finger and had to be

T
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TV RADIO MIRROR proudly displays this official em-
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Sterling denotes worth in silver
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To our advertisers, our membership in the ABC is a certification
of our circulation claims.

rushed to the drugstore for first aid, so
that taught me a lesson. But it didn't
change my feeling for my house and my
garden."

Late in July of this year, the family went
over to London and to Dublin, the latter
for a wonderful visit with the family. With
Carmel's father, eager to see the small boy
who is his namesake. With her sister Betty
and Betty's husband, Christy Keough,
and their two children about the same
ages as Jane and Michael. With her
brother Kevin and his wife and their five,
the last of them twins, and her brother
Naoish and his wife. And friends every-
where, in Ireland e ^d in England, eager
for a look at them all and talk of old times
and new.

Jane, who talks "non-stop," her mother
says, was in her element, explaining about
the house in New Jersey and about her
own little room, and her girlfriend Jamie,
the same age, who is her constant compan-
ion at home. About the canaries, Ginger
and Paddy, who start to sing the moment
the teakettle begins to whistle and hardly
let up all day. About how she sings little
Irish ballads to Michael when it's time for
him to sleep ("And she sings them dead
in tune," Carmel said proudly. "Although
she didn't tell how sometimes she sings to
Michael when he's playing on the floor
and she's minding him for a few minutes,
and when she gets tired of it she is just as
apt to drag him along to the kitchen by
one chubby leg and dump him at Nora's
feet or mine, and him looking up at her
and laughing and thinking it's some kind
of game!")

They try not to encourage Jane to be
too grown-up, or to show their surprise
when she says unexpectedly mature things,
or even when she amuses them with some
droll comment. Nora has to turn her face
away to hide her smiles, and Carmel and
Bill pretend often not to hear, so the little
girl will not become self-conscious.

"Jane was watching her mother put on
lipstick one morning," Bill said, "and sud-
denly she looked very serious. 'You have
a nice clean face now, Mommy,' she told
Carmel. 'Why do you want to put that on
and dirty it?' We hope she will feel that
way about lipstick for quite a while yet,
but we imagine this will not last too long."

Friends took Jane to the seashore one
day last summer, the longest time she had
ever been away from them. She came
home full of stories of being in the sea and
building sand castles, but she ended by
saying "I missed you so much, Mommy."
Carmel thought she had talked all the
homesickness out of her before she went
to sleep, and she had said what a good day
they would have together when they woke
in the morning. Later that night, she
found Jane curled outside their bedroom
door, fast asleep, like a little puppy who
wanted to feel close to those she loved.

Carmel's work schedule brings her home
shortly after lunch, most weekdays, and
the rest of the day and evening belongs to
the family. She is away from the home
and cliildren much less than mothers who
must work from nine to five, has most
meals with them, is there to tuck them into
bed and hear their prayers. When she
leaves the house, she explains why she
must go, and reminds Jane that sometimes
her daddy and Jane go off and Mommy
stays with Michael, and sometimes it is
Jane who must stay home with the baby
and let her mother go out. If any fuss is
made, such logic usually clears the air.

"Bill and I keep every promise we make
to her," says Carmel. "If we promise her
a sweet, she knows she will get it. If we
say she cannot do something, she knows

we mean that, too, and it works very well
because we are honest with her."

Bill Fuller thinks that one of the won-
derful things about life in this country is
that women can now work part-time and
be with their families a great deal also:
"A woman can work a few hours a day
and it gives her an interest and keeps her
in trim and happier. It breaks the monot-
ony of housework and shopping and taking
care of children every minute, yet she
has the pleasure of that, too."

People who see Carmel Quinn in person
for the first time, especially in a night-club
appearance, are struck by several surpris-
ing things. Her slender figure, because the
television cameras add some pounds, and
because to listeners on radio her low-
pitched voice seems to come from a much
bigger woman. So the graceful woman,
who is five-foot-six and wears a size-10
amazes them. They are struck by the
lovely coloring, which only color TV could
do justice to. And her sense of comedy,
and her simplicity.

The word refreshing is the one most
often heard to describe her work in clubs.
She wears simple dresses. "I don't think
extravagantly fancy costumes would suit
me, and I don't think the people would
like me in such clothes. I talk to them, and
I sing. I find they like me in comedy, so
now I do a great deal of that, and I like it,
too." She sings the lovely Irish and Welsh
and Scottish tunes so long identified with
her on the Godfrey shows and on records,
from the day she made her first big hit
doing "How Can You Buy Killarney?" But
she also sings the modern American songs.

This year Carmel made her first record-
ing of a popular type, on the M-G-M
label — "Who Are You Fooling Now?" and
the flipover, "You Can't Run Away From
Your Heart." She would like to do more
songs like these, to add variety to the
earlier recordings she made of Old Coun-
try tunes, some of them with Arthur
Godfrey.

"He has been very good to me, Mr. God-
frey has," she says earnestly. "If it were
not for him, I would not be known at all.
He gave me the chance to sing, and he
gave me the chance for a little bit of talk
and fun always on the show, so that I
learned what I was able to do. He is so
natural, and he never has done' anything
to embarrass me, even at the beginning,
when I was a bit shy in front of a big
American audience. I have found him a
wonderful boss. Bill admires Mr. Godfrey.
He finds him a man of many interests. He
has been with him on his boat, his plane,
his helicopter, and always found him a
man who doesn't know the meaning of fear.
Bold and calm in the face of danger, Bill
thinks him."

As Carmel Quinn, she is marking her
third anniversary on the Godfrey pro-
grams, known now to millions as that
lovely girl with the haunting voice and
the quick wit and soft speech of Erin.
Known happiest as Mrs. Bill Fuller, with
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own. With the kettle boiling for tea the
moment she hears Bill coming up the walk,
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tell about something that's troubling him
and we say, 'Wait until we put on the
kettle and have our tea,' and it's taken for
granted you can't talk until you have your
cup.

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always at our home. People who are
troubled or worried can have their tea
and talk. But we hope that mostly they
will come just to be happy and comfort-
able with us, and to find us homely people."

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(Continued from page 27)
high-school football star, Bob left Cali-
fornia's Long Beach Poly High in the
mid-'30's to sell advertising for the Los
Angeles Examiner. Never having been
in a school play or even taken a public
speaking class, Bob was surprised when
his brother-in-law, Clarence "Bud" Fish-
er, called him one day. "We're starting a
half-hour record program," said Fisher,
who was advertising manager for Fore-
man and Clark. "Do you think you could
read the commercials?"

Bob — who confesses he was never great
as a newspaper space salesman — jumped
at the opportunity. But, even though his
brother-in-law represented the sponsor,
Bob still had to audition for the job. When
he walked into the KEHE radio studio,
he quickly learned the meaning of "but-
terflies in the stomach," for this was no
ordinary audition. The traffic manager
handed him the commercial copy — and
ten minutes later, he was reading into a
live microphone, with thousands of peo-
ple in the Los Angeles area listening in.
His brother-in-law heard the program
from his downtown office. He called
right after the show: "That sounded all
right to me. You start tomorrow." Bob's
first salary was twenty dollars a week.

Then, one day just three months later,
when Bob went in to do the show, the
traffic manager surprised him with the
news that it had been cancelled. "My
brother-in-law had neglected to tell me,"
says Bob. "Out of a job and with nothing
to do, I went home. The next morning, I
returned to the station to apply as a staff
announcer. Since I was still relatively
new, I didn't know what sort of a recep-
tion to expect. I'd no sooner come into
the studio than I ran into the program
director, Mayfield Kaylor. I felt I should
have prepared a sales spiel. But — be-
fore I had a chance to open my mouth — he
said, 'You're hired!' I almost fell over
the microphone.

" 'Thank you very much,' I said. 'I
just came in to ask for the job. What
happened?' He explained that one of the
announcers suddenly had been taken to
the hospital for an emergency appendec-
tomy. The station needed someone who
knew the board and who could go to
work immediately."

Ji<x-footballer Bob quickly developed
into radio's triple-threat man. Not only
was he staff announcer, but, in 1937, he
also handled publicity for KEHE and did
the sound effects on a show called The
Story Of A Modern Girl's Romance. "This
last job," he says, "came mainly because
they couldn't afford the luxury of a real
sound-effects man. Frequently, I put
the sound-effects record on at one mike,
ran to another to read a few lines, and
then back to pull off the record — at the
same time cueing the other actors . . .
it was kind of hectic."

In 1938, Station KEHE was sold to Earle
C. Anthony, and Bob again was out of a
jjob. He next spent a year at San Francis-
co's Station KYA, then joined the Holly-
wood staff of the Columbia Broadcasting
System — where, for the next thirteen
years (with three out for the service),
he became one of their top announcers.
As in many a modern American ro-
mance, Bob met his wife, the former Bar-
bara Brewster, while he was in the Army.
At the outbreak of W»rld War II, he en-
listed as a private, was advanced to
sergeant, and given the responsibility of
J helping to establish the famed Mosquito
. Network, an inter-island system of Pa-
cific radio stations.

Bob and Barbara met in New Cale-
74

Lucky LeMond

donia. Barbara had the lead in the USO
show, "The Dough Girls." Bob was work-
ing at the radio station at Noumea. "As
usual," he explains, "the traveling USO
troupes visited the station — we were
all sort of in the same business. My re-
action to Barbara? First of all, I was pre-
pared. Before the troupe arrived, our
special services officer brought around a
brochure with pictures of the six girls in
the show. I had the average sergeant's
interest in an attractive girl and, when
he asked me which one I liked, I pointed
to Barbara's picture and said. This is the
one for me.' He guaranteed that, when the
troupe arrived, he'd bring them over to
the station. And he did. Right away, Bar-
bara and I established a sort of rapport."

Barbara agrees. Blue eyes sparkling,
she says, "I was sure we'd met before.
Honestly, it wasn't a line either. Bob did
look so familiar to me. He said, 'No, we've
never met.' That's when it all started.
Our first date? It took a week before he
even asked! He had been a sergeant when
we met, was then promoted to warrant
officer and wanted to celebrate. He came
to rehearsal and asked if he could drive
me home.

"I must say the Islands were romantic,"
Barbara admits. "It was very exciting, be-
cause not every girl has a chance at
courtship in the splendor of a South Pa-
cific setting. Bob generally picked me up
after the show, and, though we didn't
go walking hand in hand under the moon-
light, we did go jeeping side by side."

Barbara stayed in the Islands for three
months. After their first date, they saw
one another every day — with the ex-
ception of a two-week period shortly be-
fore she returned to the States. They had
a battle royal that made war itself look
like a sandlot squabble! Like most young
lovers, neither Bob nor Barbara remem-
bers what the fight was about — but they
do remember how they made up.

"We were doing a hospital show the
next night," Barbara recalls, "and I found
I'd run out of stage make-up. Somehow,
Bob found out about it and volunteered
to sacrifice one of his free days to fly down
to New Zealand — the only place you could
buy make-up — to get what I needed. After
such a generous offer, how could I be
angry? We made up over the make-up."

Barbara returned to New York, where
she went into a Broadway show, "Fox
Hole in the Parlor." She says Bob was a
good correspondent — between them, they
kept the Pacific mails busy. With the in-
vasion of the Philippines, Bob moved up
to Lingayen Gulf and Manila — then came
the surrender and work with Radio Tokyo.
In March, 1946, he was hospitalized with
jaundice and was transferred to the United
States, where he was honorably discharged
in June, 1946.

Following her Broadway show, Barbara
moved back to California's San Fernando
Valley. As soon as Bob returned, he called
her. "A week later," she recalls, "we were
visiting with some friends, when Bob
suddenly said, 'Will you marry me?' I'll
have to admit I wasn't surprised — I was
hoping he'd ask me. And I said yes."

Bob picks up the story: "The wedding
took place at Barbara's mother's home in
Encinitas. I had gone back to work at
CBS and had two days off. We spent
one day getting married, and one day
honeymooning at the Del Mar Hotel.
That was eleven years ago."

When Bob and Barbara were first mar-
ried, they lived in his Los Feliz hills
home, into which Barbara transferred her
New York apartment furniture. She was
especially proud of an 18th-century din-

ing-room suite and desk — which they still
have in their current Palisades home.

Barbara and Bob had wanted to move to
the Palisades for some time. After a great
deal of searching, they finally found a
house they both liked. "But," says Bob,
"we couldn't get it until we had sold our
Los Feliz house. In the meantime, we had
gotten into the habit of taking a house at
Malibu Beach for the summer months.
When we moved in, a couple of summers
ago, we asked my mother and Dad to
stay at the hill house and watch over it
during our absence. When I stopped by to
pick up the mail one day, Dad — an ex-
real -estate man who has never given up —
asked if I still wanted to sell it. I answered
yes, and he said, 'Well, I'll run a little ad
in the paper and see what hapoens.' Two
days later, he told me he'd sold the house.

"That was mid-August. We were to
leave the beach house the first of Septem-
ber, and the buyers wanted immediate
possession of our hills home. That was
fine by us — because it gave us the op-
portunity to buy the house we'd been
looking at for two years. But, when we
went back to close the deal, we learned
that house had been sold two days earlier.
So — we needed a home immediately. We
saw the place we're in now was up for
sale, walked in, priced it, and bought it.
Liked it better than the other one!"

.Like all other American parents, Bob
and Barbara feel that their three sons,
Robin, 9, Stephen, 5%, and Barry, 4, give
a special meaning to their lives. When the
LeMonds learned about their first ex-
pected baby, Bob was convinced it was
going to be a boy! "In fact," says Barbara
laughing, "Bob wouldn't even go to the
trouble of picking out a girl's name. He
told everyone he was going to have a son,
was going to name him Robin, and that
was it! Boy or girl, I, for one, didn't care.
Just so long as the child was healthy. But
nothing anyone said could convince him
there was a possibility the child might be
a girl. I'm glad for Bob that Robin was
a boy. He would have been terribly em-
barrassed otherwise."

When Robin was born at the Good
Samaritan Hospital, Bob, acting like an
average new father, was more nervous
than Barbara. "I'm a cigarette-smoker
and a floor-pacer," he says. "You can
imagine the condition of my nerves when,
after eighteen hours, the baby still hadn't
arrived. Barbara entered the hospital
Saturday morning at 9:30 and, all that
day and night, I greeted new fathers as
they came and went. Finally a doctor,
whose wife was having a baby, too, be-
came concerned over my lack of food and
sleep. 'It doesn't pay for us to deliver the
children,' he said to me, 'if we starve the
fathers to death in the meantime . . . come
on, now, let's have some coffee.'

"Reluctantly, I went out with him.
Wouldn't you know? During the ten min-
utes I was gone out of the eighteen hours,
our baby, Robin, was born. When I came
back, the nurse was looking for me in the
hall. She said, 'Your wife has just given
birth to a boy. Would you like to see
him?' We walked down the hall and
looked in the nursery window. He looked
pretty much as I expected. In fact, I'd
been so looking forward to a boy that,
when I first saw him, it seemed as if I'd
known him always."

When the second LeMond baby was ex-
pected, Bob and Barbara thought they'd
like the next child to be a girl. In fact,
up until the time Stephen was born, they
fully expected a girl. After Stephen ar-
rived, they admitted to each other that
they couldn't be more pleased.

So, when the third child was on its way,
Bob and Barbara were in agreement that
there was no sense in changing the pat-
tern. "But most of our friends," laughs
Barbara, "said that, this time, we really
should have a girl. But Bob and I were
used to little boys, thought they were
wonderful. We wouldn't know what to do
with a girl. Sure enough, Barry was a boy.

"Fortunately for us," says Barbara, "Bob
has the kind of schedule today which al-
lows him to spend a great deal of time
with the boys. He loves it. The first thing
he says, when he comes home, is: 'Hello,
darling — where are the children?' Then
he's out in the back yard helping them
tear their bikes apart and putting them
back together (I secretly suspect that,
like most fathers, he's bought the bikes
more for himself than for the boys). Or
he's playing tag with the boys. In fact, I
often think I have four boys instead of
three.

"Since Bob films a great many of his
commercials here in Hollywood, going to
New York only infrequently, he can de-
vote much of his free time to the boys.
He's a good father, loves his children, loves
to be around them. If Robin, Stephen or
Barry is sick in bed, Bob will keep the
young invalid occupied by playing check-
ers or any one of a hundred boys' games.

"He also spends some time with them
watching their favorite TV shows —
especially, the comedians, like Jerry Lew-
is, Red Skelton, George Gobel and Danny
Thomas. It just so happens, of course, that
these are the shows Bob has done 'live'
and filmed commercials on, along with his
'spots' for Robert Montgomery and Perry
Como. Come to think of it, I'm not sure
whether these are the boys' favorite shows
— or Bob's."

"What do you mean?" Bob comes quick-
ly to his own defense. "Every time one of
our filmed commercials hits that TV
screen, the kids shout, 'There's Daddy!'
Doesn't that show their interest? Of
course, they proceed to talk all the way
through the commercial, but I feel certain
it proves something." Then Bob adds,
laughing, "You know, I actually thought
the boys were interested in my commer-
cials on The Danny Thomas Show — then
I discovered them, one day, in a heated
argument over Danny's TV daughter,
Sherry Jackson!"

In describing Bob's schedule, at home,
Barbara says, "If he's not with the boys,
and he does have some free time, Bob —
like every other do-it-yourselfer — will
refinish a piece of furniture.

"Bob also spends much free time on
the golf course and fishing. He usually
invites Robin, the only son old enough to
enjoy going along with him on these
jaunts. Though Robin doesn't play golf —
yet — he is aware of the fact that his
seniority has privileged him in this re-
spect. Robin says proudly, "The babies
aren't old enough to go fishing and golf-
ing with us.' "

Occasionally, like other husbands and
wives, Barbara and Bob go out dining and
dancing. Barbara says, "I'm reminded I
have a sentimental husband — when I left
him overseas, the hit song of the day was
'I'll Be Seeing You'; and the night he
proposed to me they were playing, 'The
Girl That I Marry.' Whenever we are out
together and we hear these songs, we al-
ways share a look . . . and know what
the other is thinking."

Bob is truly sentimental, the sort of
guy who not only carries pictures of his
family in his wallet, but insists they be
up-to-date pictures. He doesn't brag about
his family, though, and has to be en-
couraged to pull the wallet out of his
pocket. Bob's real luck isn't in pictures
or pockets. It's in his heart— and the
home he shares with his wife and sons.

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Double Trouble

(Continued from page 54)
after Ann Bradford, of a famous pioneer
family.

Harriet and I were always alike as two
peas. But even peas aren't identical. I
was a mite plumper. (It was pronounced
"mighty" plumper by Harriet.) We both
had chicken pox, but it left me with a
small scar on my- forehead. We wore
bangs as children and people would come
over and lift our bangs to see which twin
had the scar. Harriet was always a doll.
She would say, "You're fatter, but I'm
prettier. I didn't get a scar." Another
word, and I'd have seen she got one.

I'm only joking, of course. Being twins
is very handy. You only need one friend
between you to jump rope. You can play
casino instead of solitaire. You don't have
to borrow a neighbor's kid to play catch.
If you broke a dish, you could sigh and
exclaim loud enough for the folks in the
other room to hear, "I wish I were more
like Ann, instead of being clumsy old Har-
riet . . ."

We were terrifically psychic, and still
are. We could read each other's mind and
could nearly always finish each other's
sentence. Still can. In fact, we can be
separated for years and pick up a con-
versation at the exact point where it last
broke off. This isn't so easy, when you
have two minds without a single thought.
Once we were parted for more than a year
and, as she caught sight of me getting off
the train, she said, "But then, you never
give a wooden nickel for my advice — "

"Hold on," I told her, "That's not fair, I
was talking last."

"Oh?" says she. "What were you say-
ing?"

"I was saying," says I, "that I wouldn't
give a wooden nickel for your advice . . ."

We were apt to be critical of each other's
friends. Harriet had several chums that
I couldn't see for sour apples. Sour ap-
ples were my chums, according to Har-
riet. I was particularly jealous of her
skill at climbing trees. She could shinny
up a tree faster than a fly with a flea in
his ear. But we were both great tomboys.
We were the only girls in junior high the
boys would play football with (it has just
occurred to me that they may have thought
we were boys). I was definitely better
than Harriet in football. She said it was
because I was better padded, and she didn't
mean my uniform.

That's a twin for you, all right. Har-
riet had one rule she swore by. When she
was up for punishment, she simply said
she was me. When I was up for a gift, she
also said she was me. When I said I was
me, I got spanked for lying. It was things
like this that made me want to be her.

Dad was an engineer for General Elec-
tric in Erie, Pennsylvania, where the fam-
ily moved when I was three. He took a
scientific tack with us. (If this were Har-
riet writing, she'd say "to" us. Anyway,
we both agreed it felt like a tack.) Dad
once referred to the "second law of thermo-
dynamics." Mother asked, "When did they
repeal the first one?" Mother had a
marvelous philosophy. "It might never
happen," she used to say, "so why worry?"
When it did happen, she used to say, "Well,
it's too late now, so why worry?"

If there were any problems in the fam-
ily, Harriet and I never knew about them.
Mother and Dad always solved them in
private. Harriet and I took a dim view of
this. We felt the public had a right to know
about everything. We filled the Erie air-
waves with a constant exchange of "You
did," "You didn't," "I dass," "You dassn't."

We had what we fondly called a "twin
kiss." And we bestowed same liberally
on all within reach of our wet little lips.

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How to Obtain Tick-
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Types of Questions

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77,

In time we got to know our own power
and people had to pay off so we'd lay off.

To break up our closely intertwined na-
tures— Mother had read a book which
said this was not practical to meet the in-
dividual hazards of life — I was sent to the
University of Michigan a whole year be-
fore Harriet. She vowed it was a plot to
make her look stupid. This tickled my
fancy — until I realized that, if she'd look
stupid, so would I.

I majored in pre-med for two years.
Doctoring fascinated me. I guess I was
a cut-up from the first. Harriet held a
loftier aim in life. She was dedicated to
restoring the old lost glories of the legiti-
mate theater. She took the liberal arts
course, majoring in dramatics. We were
thrilled at the idea of emerging as the
Davis Sisters — stars of theater and amphi-
theater.

Our change-over came in my junior
year. Our brother Evans, then the lead
dancer with the national company of
"Oklahoma," came to Chicago. We were
very proud of him, and we journeyed to
the windy city to see him. Each night after
the show, Evans took us around to meet
members of the company. Sometimes we
went out together for a sandwich and cof-
fee. I adored them all, the singers, the
dancers, the stage hands, the works. I went
ga-ga over the comradery, the fun, the
color, the activity, the pre-curtain jitters
and the after-curtain exaltation and ex-
haustion. To my amazement, Harriet was
not with me in this. She had suddenly
cooled on the entire proposition. She
seemed to enjoy the idea of the theater a
good deal more than the reality. Where I
luxuriated in the sweat and greasepaint,
she recoiled. By then, she had met Perry
Norton, a student with ideas on sociology
and city planning. She felt she was in love
with him, but she was not sure he would
understand the theatrical way of life. "I'm
not sure I understand it myself anymore,"
she would complain.

Back at college, neither one of us could
settle down to work. We were both dis-
satisfied with what we were doing. Har-
riet kept talking about the concerns of
marriage, homemaking, raising children,
building security. All I could talk about
was the glamour of the stage and of the
people of the stage.

One night Harriet said, "Remember
when we were fourteen? You said you
wanted to marry a nice man with a lot of
brains and -live in a quiet college town and
have three or four kids?" I gave a laugh
that was decidedly weak. "Well, you said
you were going to be the next Sarah Bern-
hardt," I retorted. She gave an even
weaker laugh. "If Harry asks me," she
said, "I'm going to say yes and devote my-
self to raising a family to be proud of."
The next day I dropped my pre-med
course and acquired a fine chest tone and
a broad "A." I was going to be the next
Sarah Bernhardt. In this respect, Harriet
and I were alike, too. Neither one of us
became the next Bernhardt.

But we did switch roles. It was Har-
riet who married a nice man with brains
and lived in a college town and is raising
three wonderful children. True to the
family tradition, one of them is named Ann
Davis Norton for you-know-who. Latest
news from them is surrounded by an aura
of adventure. Perry is taking the family
with him to Bangkok, Thailand, in connec-
tion with his work as a city planner.

On the other hand, I left college and im-
mediately jumped to Cleveland, where I
lent my talents to the Cain theater for a
_ season of summer stock. They returned
V the loan after a while and I then lent my
fi talents to the Erie Playhouse for a year.
That's my advice to young players. Don't
wait to be asked before lending your tal-
78

ents, and never call in the loan until re-
quested. At Erie Playhouse, I had varied
roles, from teen-age harridans to simper-
ing grandmas. A poet once said that Helen
of Troy had a face that defied time. I
guess mine does, too. There's nothing I'd
have liked more, in those days, than one
of those Alec Guinness parts where I could
play grandmother, mother and child all at
once.

In 1949, after Father retired, we decided
to find a wider world deserving of my pe-
culiar gifts, and we took off for California.
Thus began a saga that needs a better pen
than mine. We packed a station wagon
with personal belongings, a tent, and a few
cans of Sterno to cook with, and boldly set
forth across-country. I got to be the best
tent-pitcher this side of the Pecos and
could set one up in nothing flat. We were
in a saving mood. In plain words, we had
only a little money, which we were in no
mood to waste on restaurants and motels.
We met no Indians, gunslingers or buffalo.
But we were scared plenty by a succession
of jackrabbits, kangaroo rats and plain old
pussycats. Once we were nearly drowned
when our tent collapsed during a rain
storm. We were frizzled by the sun, pep-
pered by the sand and blasted by the wind.
I don't think I'll ever enjoy a Western
again. Its fun to be a pioneer — once. Aft-
er that, you asked for it.

Mother and Dad had heard about the
San Joaquin Valley. Mother said it
sounded so romantic. Dad had a hundred
well-chosen scientific reasons for settling
there. All I wanted was a barn that
looked like a theater. I finally found one
— the Barn Theater in Porterville. Three
of the most wonderful years of my life
were spent there. I did everything they'd
let me do — acting, directing, collecting
tickets, making off-stage noises. . . .

r rom there, I traveled down the coast to
Monterey and joined the Wharf Theater
for a spell. By then, theater was in my
blood, but good. The only trouble was
that my blood was getting kind of thin
from dieting. This is a thing with me. I
always diet when my paychecks are low.
On occasions, my paychecks were fair.
That's when I chuckled sneakily and
hoarded every dime I could for the mo-
ment. The big moment was when I'd
march into Hollywood and sweep the town
off its feet. I'm still waiting for that mo-
ment. No town is going to outwait me.

In Hollywood, I lived for about a year
and a half at the Studio Club. I was
anxious to make a dent in the industry, and
I did. Only the dent was in my head from
banging it against closed doors. Just to
prolong the agony, I got three days' work
in three different pictures. I was an extra
in the first, and can't even recall its name.
The other two were "Strategic Air Com-
mand" and "A Man Called Peter." No-
body can say I haven't been in the best.

Looking back on the course of events, I
can see I was luckier than most. I had my
share of trouble and heartache, but, as my
mother used to say, "It's too late now, so
why worry?" I'd rather forget and enjoy
the prospects of the future. I really have
nothing to complain about. I got here in
July and, by the following September, I
had my own apartment and a job on The
Bob Cummings Show. The once-in-a-
hundred had happened. Good fortune
claimed me for its own.

The break came rather suddenly. I was
appearing in some sketches at Cabaret
Concert, a small showcase for talent in
Hollywood. Bob Walker of the McCadden
Corp. staff — it's on their lot The Bob Cum-
mings Show is filmed — happened to be
looking for a comedienne. A comedienne
is a funny lady, and ladies do not like to
admit they are funny, so comediennes are
as tough to find as horse-cars in a modern

city. Be that as it may, Bob's eyes (bless
them!) chanced to light on me. Briefly,
when he came back to see me, I thought
I had made a conquest. Well, well, I
thought, but where's the candy and flow-
ers?

He began auspiciously enough. "Miss
Davis," he said, "I like your face."

"Well, gee, gosh," I said, turning in my
toe bashfully. It is actually breathtaking
how eloquent I can get, if I put my mind
to it.

"It's the kind of face — " he paused to
ponder, and I threw myself into a more
alluring pose — "it's the kind of face that
can make people laugh."

At this, I had a sequence of thoughts
that can only be expressed with blank
spaces, asterisks and exclamation marks.
I drew myself to my full height and de-
livered the retort proper. "Oh, yeah?"

I was at the studio next morning at 10
A.M. sharp. By noon, I was feeling dizzy
with hunger, thirst, tension and waiting.
At 2 P.M., there was no doubt about it. I
was dizzy. I had landed the job! On
January 2, 1955, I went on the show for
the first time.

oo here I am, a regular feature on The
Bob Cummings Show, my part being that
of Schultzy, the secretary who has a cou-
ple of man -hungry hooks out for her pho-
tographer boss — played, of course, suavely,
handsomely, magnetically (Mmmmm!) by
Bob. Among the players who appear reg-
ularly in featured roles are Rosemary De
Camp, as Bob's sister; Dwayne Hickman,
as her young son whose growing pains in
matters of education and romance involve
Bob in some merry antics; and Kathleen
Freeman, who plays my friend, confidante
and chief conspirator. There is also a
steady parade of lovely young models of
all types and nationalities who wander in
and out of the studio and Bob's hectic life.
All the members of the company, includ-
ing the office and technical staffs, are won-
derful people . . . wonderful to know . . .
wonderful to work with.

Having spent seven years in little-the-
ater work, where I learned the cardinal
rule of doing it yourself if you wanted to
get it done, I know this must be fame.
What else can it be, when I can blithely
turn to the prop man and warble, "Hey,
Charlie, dah-ling . . . where in the world
my deah, is that crosseyed parrot the
script calls for?" Such pretty courtesies
are certain to endear one to all and sundry
— and, if a sandbag doesn't drop on my
noggin one of these days, I'll know that, in
his own cantankerous way, Charlie loves

I got a note recently from a youngster
attending my old alma mater, the Strong
Vincent High School. She wanted to know
what was the best way to break into show
business. I answered as best I could. But,
if Itl told the truth, I would have said
simply, "Get yourself a twin like Harriet."
(At this juncture, it's only fair to point
out that both Harriet and I came by our
theatrical urge honestly. My mother,
whose full name is Marguerite Stott Davis,
appeared quite frequently in a variety of
character roles at the Erie Playhouse. Casts
were generally made up of talented ama-
teurs with one or two paid performers but
the shows, under the guiding spirit of the
playhouse founder, Harry Vincent, were
full-fledged professional theater.)

I'm always on the phone with members
of the family. My bill has never hit lower
than seventeen dollars a week. I'm think-
ing of buying some AT&T stock. Mother
comes to visit frequently and rolls an alert
eye over my little rented house. I don't
know whether she's trying to determine
whether I'm an honest housekeeper or a
femme fatale who's been entertaining men.
Father is now seventy -three, and still on

the go. He came to California to vege-
tate in the sun. But he couldn't stay put.
He took a full course in insurance, passed
■without trouble, and is now in full cry aft-
er clients. He operates out of Porterville,
in the San Joaquin Valley.

I'm in constant touch with Harriet and
her family. She told me a cute story about
my namesake, seven-year-old Ann. As
soon as The Bob Cummings Show is an-
nounced, she trots over to the TV set and
puts her finger on my name. "This is The
Aunt Ann Show," she announces. Then,
turning to the set, "You can call it The Bob
Cummings Show, but I call it The Aunt
Ann Show." Her brother Arthur, 5, and
sister Elizabeth, 3, clap hands and cheer
her on. I visited them two years ago.
The children tuckered me out in a day.
What a routine! Talk about the toil of
show business. It's not in the same league
with homemaking. I told Harriet that she
didn't get the best of the change-over.
She just smiled wisely. I have a feeling
she and Perry will wind up with eight or
ten little darlings.

Harriet's life is interesting and busy.
She sings in the church choir, belongs to
discussion groups, works at leather craft
for a hobby. When either Perry or the
children get, as the saying goes, out of
hand, she arises and makes a dramatic
threat to join a local theater group and
give her time to restoring the art of acting.
She never does, and I don't think she ever
would, even if the theater beat a path to
her door.

Here's why: Last spring, she was out
here for a visit. She got into the spirit
of things pretty quick and, when we
journeyed out to Fresno to see a home
show, Harriet removed her glasses and got
a big bang out of being taken for Schultzy.
Seeing how keen she was to step before
the footlights, we all got a notion to use
her on The Bob Cummings Show. Bert

French, the hair stylist, put her hair up
like mine and it was set for both of us to
appear. At the last moment, however,
Harriet decided against it. When we were
both on set, everyone was fooled, includ-
ing George Burns. He started talking to
Harriet, thinking it was me. When she
started to explain, he barked, "I suppose
you're going to tell me you're her twin
sister — " Harriet laughed, "I was going to
tell you that she was my twin sister."

In reply to a question asked me very
often, I can truthfully say I'm happy play-
ing supporting roles. Maybe that's my
football training, because I was always
a linesman. The parts of a supporting
actress may be smaller than the lead, but
they are usually more "unique" and so
more memorable. Also, she doesn't have
the entire burden of the play on her back.
There is almost no excuse for a support-
ing actress to turn in a sloppy job. I'm
happy, my older sister Elizabeth is happy,
my brother Evans is happy, my miniature
French poodle Bijou (the larger size in-
timidates me) is happy, and even my little
parakeet, Westly Weathercock, is happy.

But I'm not so sure my twin sister Har-
riet is happy. I have a hunch she is
humiliated to look like anyone that plays
a minor role. Sometimes I think she toys
with the notion of throwing another hex
on me and resuming her Joan Crawford
personality, while I am relegated to the
part of permanent baby-sitter. But as I
have explained, this is only a passing mood.
I'm willing to strike a bargain with her.
If she will refrain from giving me advice
on acting, I'll promise never to tell her
how to raise a family.

I suppose, when all's said and done, I
haven't made a very good her. Perhaps,
after all, she would have done it better.

How does it feel to be a twin? Having
been one always, let me ask, dear people:
How does it feel not to have been a twin?

This Is Your Life — Ralph Edwards !

(Continued from page 45)
also talked to Ralph Edwards himself.

Let's start the story with a flashback to
a scene ten years ago. At the time, Ralph,
you're the brilliant creator, producer, em-
cee of Truth Or Consequences. All over
the country, the radio program has created
a sensation.

You have a chance to get a very fine
layout in Photoplay, the leading movie
magazine, with one of your favorite actors,
Bing Crosby. Photoplay is running an ex-
citing series, "Play Truth Or Conse-
quences with Ralph Edwards," in which
you interview a big movie star each month,
asking him interesting personal questions.
For every question they fail to answer,
they have to pay a consequence.

To launch the series with a bang, Photo-
play wants Alan Ladd and Bing Crosby.
You've already done the Ladd layout.
Crosby is next. Bing is one of the busiest
stars in the movies, engrossed in starring
in one of his biggest productions at Para-
mount. Every lunch hour, he has to go
to Decca to make recordings.

Consequently, he's as hard to land as
the toughest marlin for which you ever
fished. Photoplay, of course, is doing the
fishing. So crowded is Bing's schedule he
has a very difficult time finding a spot in
the day when he can pose for a layout.
Deadline time is very close. Finally, Bing
finds that he can spare twenty minutes,
just before his shooting for the day begins.
The pictures have to be taken then; other-
wise, it will be very difficult to fit them
into the production schedule. Bing says
to Sue Clark, the girl who handles your
public relations, "I have twenty minutes

to give to this layout, from 9 A.M. to 9:20.
Please ask Ralph not to be even one min-
ute late, or there won't be enough time."

"Okay," says your faithful public-rela-
tions girl. "He'll be there at nine sharp."
Half an hour later, her phone rings.
"Sue," you say, "about that appointment
with Bing tomorrow. We'll have to lose
it. Christine" — that's your oldest daugh-
ter, now fifteen — "is reciting at kindergar-
ten tomorrow morning, and this I can't
miss for anything or anyone. I'd have to
be about forty-five minutes late. We'll
just have to lose the layout. Please call
Mr. Crosby and tell him."

So Sue calls Bing and explains.

For a second, Bing explodes. Then he
says, "Ralph is the smartest man I ever
met. He must know that the only thing
I'd stand still for is something like this.
Darn it, he's right. A father should be
there listening when his daughter is re-
citing. Let him come at ten. I'll do my
best to get twenty minutes for the layout."

So, Ralph, you get the big layout with
Bing in Photoplay. But, much as you de-
sired that publicity, you would have given
it all up, if it had meant missing Christine's
kindergarten speech. . . .

For that is the kind of man you are,
Ralph, the kind you've always been. You're
nuts about your ■work; but your family —
Barbara and your three children, Lauren,
Gary and Christine — come first. And for
kids — your own or someone else's — you'd
make almost any sacrifice.

Only recently, Ralph, Sue booked you for
a portrait sitting. She knows she can al-
ways count on you for such sittings. Sensi-
bly, you realize that they are part of your

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job. But, that day, you called Sue and
said, "I hate to do this to you, but I can't
keep that appointment for the portrait sit-
ting. You've booked me on Harvard Day.
I couldn't possibly put Gary in the position
of having a father who was too busy to
show up at the Harvard Military Academy
on Harvard Day."

But it isn't only for your own youngsters
that you'll give up portrait sittings, let de-
sirable publicity go hang, or even, if neces-
sary, give up badly needed sleep and rest.
. . . Remember the time when you had
those five little farm children from Iowa
on your show? Your show fell on Hal-
lowe'en night, and you were worried that
these youngsters might miss the thrill of
wearing Hallowe'en costumes and of go-

ing "trick-or-treating." So you asked
someone to go shopping personally for
their costumes, and to make them the most
extravagant, gayest costumes money could
buy.

But you didn't stop there. You said, "Be
sure somebody takes them out Trick-or-
Treating." Ordinarily, Janet Tighe, the
production assistant — the first person your
guests on the program meet in Hollywood
— plays hostess. So you wondered if she
could take the children out, then realized
she couldn't, since she had to be hostess
at the big party at the Roosevelt for your
guests who had been on the program. Sue
said she'd be happy to take the youngsters
with her, along with her son.

You thanked her, but you were still

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worried. The kids hadn't met Sue, and
they were very bashful. You were afraid
that they wouldn't enjoy their Trick-or-
Treating if they went with someone they
didn't know ahead of time.

Finally, you decided that there was just
one thing to do. Though you were almost
completely exhausted after putting to-
gether and narrating This Is Your Life,
you were determined that the youngsters
would have someone whom they had met
and knew to take them Trick-or-Treating.
So you cancelled all your other plans for
that evening, gave up the chance to take
a quick, restful snooze, so they wouldn't
miss the Hallowe'en rituals. You person-
ally accompanied them everywhere. . . .

You're a very sentimental man, Ralph.
Not sentimental about things, as a rule.
But about people and, occasionally, about
places. When I asked a close associate of
yours what your favorite treasure was, she
promptly replied, "Barbara." . . . You're
sentimental, however, not only about your
intimates like your wife Barbara, but
about everyone who has ever played an
important part in your life . . . like Miss
Effie, your first-grade teacher.

But let's start at the beginning, Ralph,
and see what made you the kind of per-
son you are. . . .

You were born, Ralph, the youngest of
three boys, in a small-sized white farm-
house with green window-facings, outside
Merino, Colorado. Merino had a popula-
tion of only 169 people, and, as you some-
times said, three dogs. You were born on
a sunny morning. . . . How well Paul, your
oldest brother, remembers that morning.
He was pretty chagrined with you at the
time — for, instead of having a bed in the
front parlor to sleep on that night, he and
Carl, your middle brother, were sent off
to the bunkhouse.

He is ten years older than you, and re-
members you as the kid brother who
tagged after him whenever he was going
out for track. You followed him rather
worship fully; but he was so much older
than you, he would deliberately lose you
for a while, and then come back later, to
pick you up before dusk . . . Today, the two
of you work in close harmony, for Paul is
the executive producer of your daytime
shows and in charge of the planning of
new shows. Paul says that he now knows
you better than he ever did when you
were younger.

Though Paul and Carl regarded your
birth with mixed emotions, your mother
and father were unqualifiedly happy about
it. They proudly announced the facts to
their friends. It may have taken your
mother a little time to make the announce-
ment, since she was an extremely busy
woman. Only recently, Ralph, you re-
ceived a memento you will always treas-
ure. It came in the mail from Mrs. White
in Indianola, Iowa. She had received it in
August, 1913, from your mother. The card
announced: "There is a new visitor, Ralph
Livingstone Edwards, 7 lbs. 6 ounces, born
13 minutes after 9, June 13, 1913. He's a
dandy. Won't he be lucky!" On the oth-
er side of the card is the Benediction from
Second Corinthians, chapter 13: "The grace
of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of
God, and the communion of the Holy
Ghost, be with you all. Amen."

And the love of God was with all of you,
Ralph, and you were lucky. Of course,
there were some who might not have
thought you so very lucky, because the
family was poor, the farm small, and your
father had to fight Colorado blizzards in
the winter and hot, dry spells in the sum-
mer to wrest a living from the farm.
You were quite young, Ralph, when you
learned to weed the garden, hoe the beets,
milk the cows, and act as a janitor in
church and school, along with your two
brothers.

Still, you were lucky to have been born
the son of two fabulous people like Henry
Livingstone and Minnie Mae Edwards.

Your father, fifty-one when you were
born, was a fine, debonair man, a real cat-
tleman, the best roper you've ever seen.
Part Welsh, part Scotch-Irish, he was
slight and wiry, and very active. When
you were only about five, he put you on a
horse behind a saddle and taught you to
ride, flinging up one arm to hold you safe
on Molly, the family horse. Molly was
really a very faithful animal, even though
indirectly responsible for that very slight,
almost invisible scar over your right eye
that you got when Carl put you on Molly
at the age of three, before your dad had
taught you how to ride. You fell on the
railroad tie in the corral, and Carl got the
lecture he deserved about not turning
three-year-old boys loose on a horse, be-
fore they'd learned to ride.

Your mother was German on her father's
side and American clear back to the In-
dians on her mother's side. In spirit, Min-
nie was a pioneer woman. Before her
marriage, she had driven all over Colorado
in a horse and buggy, as a kind of travel-
ing saleswoman, and also as a collector of
money for a collection agency. In spite of
this practical background, she had a vivid
and powerful imagination and, during your
early boyhood, used to tell you fantastic
stories that stirred up your own latent
imagination.

When you were about ten, Ralph, you
and your mother moved into town to take
care of your grandmother, and later your
mother took care of the local creamery.
Brother Paul was away at college then,
and your father and Carl moved to the
homestead about six miles from town, to
prove up on their claim. Your mother
and father didn't like being separated,
and, twice or three times a week, you and
your mother would hitch old Molly to a
buggy, and drive out to the homestead.

It was on one of the visits that you,
Ralph, received one of your greatest les-
sons in faith. You'd passed the farm and
gone through a gate when a terrific hail-
storm came up. The hailstones were the
size of golf balls. When you'd gone one
mile, the hail really poured down.

Your mother was driving Molly through
the blinding storm. Molly raised herself
on her hind legs, rearing as if she were
going to come back into the buggy. The
buggy shafts came up. For a moment,
Ralph, you were terrified. Then your
mother said calmly, "God will take care of
us." And, with those words, she gave
Molly a crack across her back. With the
help of God and your mother's strong bug-
,gy whip, you both came through safely.

.Eiven in those days, Ralph, you knew
that there were two you could always rely
*on — God and your mother. In coupling
them together in your thoughts, you
weren't a bit irreverent. Didn't they both
pour love upon you — and couldn't you be-
lieve very naturally that you were always
safe in God's arms and in your mother's
care? Your earthly father could always
be depended upon, too. Before the end
of that hazardous trip, he met you at the
gate. Seeing the storm come up, he had
gone out looking for you.

However, as a boy, you learned to de-
pend, too, on your own resourcefulness in
an emergency. About the time of the
storm and buggy incident, you encountered
, another emergency when your mother and
father weren't nearby. . . . Merino had its
I main street, a couple of side streets, and
I an alley behind the main street leading to
la pasture. Every day, you used to have
i to go, bucket in hand, to milk a cow kept
'near Pawnee Ditch. You used to take the
bucket and go up the bridge to where the
| cow was kept, milk her, then bring the

milk back. Each time you would walk
terrified past a big Airedale tied in the
back yard of the house next to yours, by
a rope just long enough to allow the dog
to come to the edge of the alley. You
have always loved dogs, but you were
scared of this one, for every day he would
snarl at you; you could feel his breath on
your legs, and your childish imagination
would paint a vivid, terrible picture of
what might happen if he could break loose.

One particular day when you were com-
ing back with half a bucket of milk, you
suddenly found yourself practically on top
of the dog in the middle of the alley. To
your horror, you discovered that he had
broken the rope, and was now free to go
anywhere he pleased. The fact that his
owners had always thought it necessary to
keep him tied up seemed to you to prove
that he was really dangerous. You would
have run, but you had heard that if a dog
sees you running, your fear may make him
violent. You put it this way, "I was
afraid if I ran, it would be the end of me —
or at least of my pants."

You frankly admit that for the next few
minutes, fear dictated your actions. You
let a dribble of milk pour from your bucket,
and the dog went for it. You dribbled
your way back home, drop by drop, to
the screen door of the house. . . . When,
finally, a frightened kid of ten, you reached
the door, you wondered what would have
happened if the door had been a few feet
farther away. If it had been, you would
have run out of milk!

I ou always say, Ralph, that — next to
your mother and father — the greatest in-
fluence in your boyhood was Miss Effie,
who was your schoolteacher in the first,
second and third grades. In that school-
room, Miss Effie took the children in imagi-
nation to the four corners of the world,
though she herself had never been out of
the state of Colorado. She gave you great
vision and much encouragement. When
you wrote a composition, she would say,
"Ralph, that's very good." She let you
produce your first play, with four lines
and two actors.

Years later, you had a chance to pay a
great tribute to Miss Effie. . . . Remember
the day, Ralph? It was the first and only
time anyone ever put on "This Is Your
Life, Ralph Edwards" in public — and it
was done as a tribute to you by the school
in Merino you had attended. That day in
Merino, you put Miss Effie on your show,
Truth Or Consequences. As her "conse-
quence," you sent her on a six-weeks'
tour of all the places in Europe she had
talked about when you were a child.

And that day in 1950, when you show-
ered honors on Miss Effie, was the day the
townspeople of Merino put on their own
show about you on the steps of the old
schoolhouse. . . . You had been a very
red-headed boy, Ralph — and let's not have
any nonsense about your hair having been
"auburn." So all the five boys who rep-
resented you at different ages were red-
heads— three natural, two with dyed hair.

One of them presented the episode of
the day you were supposed to recite one
of the psalms, one Easter morning in
church. You had memorized it thorough-
ly, line by line. But, when the time came
for your appearance on the rostrum, some-
one thrust a lily in your hand. From that
moment on, you were a dead duck, because
you didn't know what to do with the lily.
. . . Another boy told about your experi-
ences at the creamery where you'd worked
with your mother. . . . The oldest child in
the group was twelve, and he waved good-
bye, just as you did when, at twelve, you
and your family moved to Oakland, Cali-
fornia.

So let's see what happened to you in
Oakland, Ralph.

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STREET

CITY STATE.

l^ll-J

Your very first Sunday there, you and
your mother and your two brothers went
in search of a church. And in that church,
you found a sort of second home. You
sang in the choir there, though you claim
you can't carry a tune in a bag; you wrote
plays for the church and performed in
them; and, on Sunday mornings, you did
pantomimes.

In high school, you were an honor stu-
dent. But, as you got toward your senior
year, you began to take more and more
part in extracurricular activities. You
were writing and producing plays for the
school, and appearing in them, too. You
were the yell leader, putting in lots more
time on student rallies than on studies.
You were very popular with your fellow
students. In fact, you were so popular
that you were elected president of your
student council.

I he very next day, you were summoned
to appear before the principal and the
student council. Elated, you entered the
principal's office, expecting to be con-
gratulated. But, instead, you were con-
fronted by students with solemn, unhappy
faces, and your art-appreciation teacher
was sitting there, tears streaming from
her eyes. You couldn't understand all this
weeping. Then the principal said very
solemnly, "It is the unwritten law in our
school that no boy may remain president
who has received an F in any of his
studies."

And your art-appreciation teacher
blurted out, between tears, "Oh, Ralph, I
feel so terrible that I did this to you. It
wasn't because you're a poor student. But
you were spending so much time on extra-
curricular activities, I thought giving you
an F would encourage you to work harder
on your studies. That's why I did it,
Ralph. I never dreamed it would cost you
the presidency." You were so popular
with the students, Ralph, that they all
went on strike to try to compel the
principal to reappoint you as president of
the student council. But he wouldn't. . . .
Ironically, your very next mark in art
apppreciation was an A.

Honestly, Ralph, being kicked out of
the presidency is the only real hint of
failure I've been able to find in your life.
Oh, there have been times when you
struggled hard and were down to your last
dime — but never in your life have you
been fired from a job, once you got it.

You've been in radio and TV since the
tenth grade. You got a job on Sundays
for KROW, a radio station, in Oakland,
standing by for the Tenth Avenue Baptist
Church. There was a wonderful minister
there, whose speeches were so impassioned
they shook the rafters. If his sermon
ceased to come through or went off the
air, it was your job to play appropriate
records. When the volume indicator was
not moving, showing the sermon wasn't
coming through, you would reach for the
records with one hand, and open up the
mike with the other.

One day when this had happened, you
said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that
our program from the Tenth Ave. Baptist
Church has been interrupted, but we shall
put on some appropriate sacred music."
So you reached in for the music, and the
next moment, over the airwaves blared
the words, "Hold That Tiger!" Since the
records were alphabetically arranged, the
hotcha music was right next to the holy
music, and you had made a very natural
mistake. For the sake of speed, you had
automatically put on the record without
looking at its title. . . . You usually con-
clude this story by saying kiddingly, "So
I went to San Francisco." Actually. Sta-
tion KROW did not hold your mistake
against you.

In San Francisco, you were successful

in radio, but you wanted to try new fields
of showmanship. So, when you heard of
a role in a Broadway play that you might
be able to get, you decided to go to New
York. . . . When you left Oakland, your
mother's parting words were, "Son, go to
church." This was your whole back-
ground. Your mother, encouraging you,
showing you the right path to follow.

So, when you came to New York, one
of the first things you did was to look up
the Union Methodist Church, commonly
known as the "Actors' Church." And it was
a lucky thing you did. For you found not
only spiritual sustenance in the church,
but, when you were down on your luck
and living on Bernarr Macfadden's two-
cent meals, you were mighty grateful for
the opportunity to sleep on the church
cots for twenty-five cents a night, and to
cook some of your meals in the actors'
kitchen there.

But, even with food and lodging pro-
vided for, you had very tough going in
New York for a while. Your funds were
so low that you had only one presentable
suit, and finally you wore a hole through
the right sleeve of the jacket. When you
auditioned, you used to try to stand in
such a way that you'd be able to cover
the hole with your other hand.

After three months of struggling and
getting nowhere in New York, you began
to think that perhaps you had taken on a
town that was much too big for you. You
wondered if you should have remained a
bigger frog in a smaller puddle. . . . But
you were wrong. One day, an audition
was held at CBS. There were sixty-nine
announcers trying out, and you got the
job. And this in spite of the worn sleeve
you tried so desperately to hide! Some-
thing about your voice and your spirit
enabled those who were auditioning you
to rise above such considerations as the
lack of newness in your clothes. If they
saw the torn spot in your sleeve they ad-
mired you all the more for the pluck with
which you conquered temporary poverty.
You became a very, very successful an-
nouncer. You were still an announcer,
the day you met Barbara, who was to
become the heart and core of your life. . . .
She was then a very pretty, wholesome-
looking but radiant, vibrant freshman
studying child psychology at Sarah Law-
rence College. You met on a blind date
arranged by the boy you'd driven to New
York with. The moment you saw Bar-
bara, you tumbled for her.

r rom then on, you kept planning ways
to interest her. Learning that her grand-
father was a radio fan, you began pelting
him with tickets to radio broadcasts, hop-
ing Barbara would go with him to them.
Grandfather came in several times alone,
but, finally, Barbara couldn't resist any
longer — and went with her grandfather to
a Ben Bernie show, one of the shows on
which you were the announcer.

You hadn't wasted those hours when
you and her grandfather were left alone
with each other, but had learned a lot
about his granddaughter from him. You
courted her with fervor and enthusiasm.
And she, in turn, fell in love with you,
and finally said "yes" to your marriage
proposal. You were married on August
19, 1939.

By this time you were one of the most suc-
cessful, sought-after announcers in New
York. At one time, you were announcing
forty-five radio shows a week, a fantastic
number for anyone to undertake. . . . But
you grew restless. Your deep love for
Barbara made you feel that you weren't
spending enough time with your wife.
You wondered if it wouldn't be better to
be responsible for one show on radio, in-
stead of doing the announcing for so many.

Besides, your deeply creative nature

wouldn't rest. You wanted to create a new
show. One day, you suddenly had an idea.
In church and at parties, when you'd been
a boy, you'd often played a game called
"Forfeits." You'd be blindfolded and
somebody would hold something over your
head. You had to guess what it was, or
do a stunt. ... It occurred to you that
this game might make a very good radio
show. You decided to call that show Truth
Or Consequences.

When you told friends about this new
idea, most of them scoffed at you. Alex
Gruenberg, director of a radio program
on which you were then announcer, and
now producer of This Is Your Life, was
appalled when you told him about your
plans. He thought you were mad to give
up a lifetime of high-paid announcing for
such an untried venture. "You're out of
your mind, Ralph," he said. . . . Disre-
garding the advice of friends and associ-
ates, you managed to sell the idea, prepare
the show, emcee it and make it a tremen-
dous success.

It was Truth Or Consequences which
was eventually responsible for This Is
Your Life. Through your extremely suc-
cessful program, you had raised millions
for the American Heart Association, the
March of Dimes, and other charities. To
raise this money, you created the first of
the mystery-voice contests, like "Mr.
Hush," "Mrs. Hush," and "The Walking
Man." General Omar Bradley of the Re-
habilitation Department suggested that you
could help paraplegics and their relatives
by telling the story of a paraplegic on your
program.

That was how This Is Your Life really
began ... as part of the Truth Or Con-
sequences program. You brought Law-
rence Trantor, a paraplegic at Birmingham
Hospital, to the show. Through his old

basketball coach, his mother, his twin
brother and others who had been close to
him, you told the story of his life. You
told of the stray bullet that had ended
his services to his country during the war
and that had put him into a wheelchair,
and made it difficult for him to earn a
living.

When Lawrence Trantor first appeared
on your program, he was a depressed, dis-
couraged man. But you buoyed him up
with new hope, by giving him many gen-
erous gifts, the most important of which
was an expense-paid year at the Bulova
School of Watchmaking in New York. Two
years later, he returned to Truth Or Con-
sequences in a wheelchair, pushed by a
redheaded girl, his wife. After months of
defeat, he had found the courage to attend
the school. . . . When you told him that
you were now presenting him with a com-
pletely equipped jewelry store in his home
town, and offered him the key to that
shop, he got up out of his wheelchair and
walked to the mike! The audience stood
up and bravoed.

Here was the greatest inspirational story
you had ever presented . . . and, in turn,
it inspired you. For, after that, you knew
that someday you would have to put on
radio and TV the great inspirational stories
that the world seeks and our hearts hunger
for. ... It has been said that being the
son of Minnie, who always wanted to help
others, you can do no less.

Has it ever occurred to you, Ralph, that
your story, like theirs, might inspire many
who are downhearted and downcast? For
yours is a story of faith and a mother's
love surging through, overcoming material
difficulties, and pointing the way to fulfill-
ment. That is why, Ralph, we have chosen
to tell your story . . . the story our readers
will never see on This Is Your Life.

What Have They Got Against Girl Singers?

(Continued from page 49)
who is two years younger. "But when she
sang . . . wow! She has the intensity and
the mature quality of a Teresa Brewer or
a Kay Starr. Yet she is not an imitator.
Her sound is her own."

The Victorians had a sentimental little
phrase to describe this quality in a young
girl. They spoke of her as "standing with
reluctant feet where the brook and river
meet." In Bonnie, the blend of naivete and
sophistication is charming. Her favorite
colors are pink and blue. She still collects
stuffed animal toys to toss across the
coverlet of her bed . . . but she also chooses
as her favorite automobile a pink Thun-
derbird.

When she recorded "Deep Within Me"
and "Kill Me With Kisses," Victor gave
her record top importance. Carlton, whose
duties usually keep him studio -bound,
decided to introduce Bonnie himself. Said
Joe, "I hadn't taken an individual artist
out on a disc-jockey tour in ten years, but
I figured this was the time to get a girl
singer going. Bonnie has a star potential
for television, movies and the stage, as
well as for recordings."

Their tour took them to seven major
cities and for Bonnie, away from home for
the first time, it was quite an initiation.
Never had she been so closely chaperoned.
In each city, the wife of the RCA Victor
distributor or one of the firm's women
employees met the plane and remained
with her throughout the visit. But never
had she been so completely the center of
attention. There were flowers and photo-
graphs and interviews with disc jockeys
and reporters. It was a whirl which could
turn the head of many a girl and tire her,
too, but Bonnie went through it like a

veteran. Joe reported, "She charmed
everyone she met, and she was just as
fresh and pretty and vivacious at the end
of nine hours of such work as she was
when she started out. The kid's a trouper,
and I believe she will become a big star."

Decca Records' entry in the glamour-girl
sweepstakes is a nineteen-year-old, four-
foot-eleven-inch bundle of energy who
takes her professional name, Barbara
Allen, from the frail heroine of one of the
oldest and best-known ballads, but in
private life she bears a closer resemblance
to that famed sure-shot charmer, Annie
Oakley. The blue-eyed, dark-haired girl
loves to hunt, and her .22 rifle carries a
deadly accuracy. She also can thump a
bass fiddle, twang a guitar or play piano.
"I like anything that lets me get a beat."

Barbara was born on a farm near Zuni,
Virginia, about fifty miles from Norfolk.
In her family, music just comes natural.
Her father, Elisha May Luter, can, in
Barbara's words, "play most anything he
puts his hands to." Barbara sang duets
with her cousin "since we were knee-high
to a duck." Her first audience was in her
country church. "I was the only one who
could play piano and fan the preacher at
the same time."

Her entertainment debut resulted from
the frustration of another ambition. With
her cousin, she went to Washington, D. C.
"We had it in mind to be airline hostesses,
but then she up and got married on me.
Well, I wasn't going to let myself get
licked, so I went to Norfolk to sing with
Chuck Bland and His Chuck-a-Lucks."

At one of their dance dates, the bass
player from another band, Albert Wood-
roe Tunnell, stopped in. Barbara was
not impressed. "I didn't like him a bit at

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T
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first. I thought he was quite a square."
Just as with little Miss Oakley in "Annie
Get Your Gun," there was a period when
each shouted at the other: "Anything You
Can Do, I Can Do Better." When he was
called up for Army duty, Barbara found
she missed him. "Romance," she says, "was
one of those things that sneaked up on
me." On August 12, 1956, they returned to
Barbara's home church at Zuni, and this
time Barbara was in white satin. She
covers her sentimental attachment for the
place by saying, "I'd played piano there
so long I figured they owed me a wed-
ding."

With her new husband in Korea, Bar-
bara continued her career on the Garland
Abbott Show on WTAR-TV in Norfolk.
Last spring, she went over to Nashville
to visit friends who were appearing on
Grand Ole Opry. Again, a chance encoun-
ter proved eventful. Vic McAlpin, a
free-lance songwriter, stopped in at a
little cafe near the WSM studios where
Barbara and her friends were having
coffee. Impressed by her zest and vitality,
he suggested she come over to the studio
and try out a few tunes. Barbara kicked
off her shoes, faced up to the mike and
started to sing.

Paul Cohen, A & R man at Decca Rec-
ords, agreed with McAlpin that Barbara
was a discovery. When Decca released
"Between Now and Then" and "Make Up
Your Mind," Billboard, too, was enthusi-
astic in its review. Remarking that she
sang with "plenty of heart and feeling"
on the first side — and, in a contrasting
mood, exuded vitality and showmanship
on the second — they passed the judg-
ment: "A sock new voice for the coun-
try-and -Western market, with marked
appeal for the pop field as well."

The future looks bright for Barbara
Allen and equally happy for Mrs. Albert
Woodroe Tunnell. Al completed his Army
service last summer. They took a second
honeymoon and went to visit his parents
in Arizona. In September, they settled
down in Nashville. Al thinks one musi-
cal career is enough for one family.
"Would you believe it?" Barbara says,
"He's studying to be a mortician!"

At Columbia Records, too, the equal-
rights policy is in effect. Famed A & R
man Mitch Miller says, "I don't believe
in song cycles or singer cycles, either. To
get a hit, you must create, not imitate.
There's no rule except to make a good
record. If the girls make good records,
they'll get their share of the popularity."
Mitch has the satisfaction, this season, of
seeing one young singer whom he signed
as a teenager graduate, at twenty-one, to
top star status. Jill Corey drew one of the
most sought-after assignments in TV
when she was chosen to be one of the
four leads in Your Hit Parade.

Mitch has another ready to make a bid
for the Top Tunes. Remember little
Gayla Peevey? She's the ten-year-old
from Ponca City, Oklahoma, who, in 1953,
sang: "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christ-
mas." Gayla got the hippo — and gave it
to a zoo. She also got a flock of television
engagements, a Columbia recording con-
tract and offers for motion pictures.

Her parents believed that Gayla had
some normal growing-up to do, before get-
ting too much caught up in the big whirl,
and retired her for a time. Now that she
is fourteen, she has stepped out with two
swingy new tunes, "I Want You to Be My
Guy" and "Too Young to Have a Broken
Heart." Gayla is still more interested in
high school than high scoring on the
record charts, but she's getting the expe-
rience which could well make her a star.

Mercury Records' chips are down on a
disc called "Sixteen," rocked and rolled

by a pert little Chicago miss who is ex-
actly that age herself. Joy Layne's father
is a construction supervisor who plays
violin and piano. Her mother takes an
active part in community theater produc-
tions. Joy's favorite childhood game was
imitating famous recording stars.

Joy was a fifteen-year-old student in
Lyon Township high school when she se-
cured an audition with Art Talmadge,
A & R chief at Mercury. Art is a man
who plays his hunches about new talent.
Patti Page, Frankie Laine, Jim Lowe,
Ralph Marterie, The Crew Cuts, The Dia-
monds, are just a few he started to fame.

He also was ready to play his hunch
about a tune called "Your Wild Heart."
Art and a musical director, Carl Stevens,
were trying to determine whose voice
would be right for the wild new song —
when Joy walked in. Art says, "She was
bouncy and bright-eyed and carrying her
mascot." The mascot was a squeaky toy
dog called "Brownie."

Joy tried some ballads. When Art heard
how she belted them out, he had her try
"Your Wild Heart." Joy gave it a fresh,
new ring. Art says, "Our search was
over. This was our girl."

When the record was released, disc
jockeys flipped at the sound, but they
questioned promotion director Kenny
Myers' word that this big, mature voice
came from a fifteen-year-old girl. My-
ers mailed out pictures. They still couldn't
believe it. Myers then found the con-
vincer. He sent out photostatic copies of
Joy's birth certificate.

"Your Wild Heart" was such a hit that
Joy has followed it up with "My Suspi-
cious Heart" as the flip side of her new
birthday record, "Sixteen." With such a
combination, she's sure she again will be
lucky.

At Dot Records, a tall, willowy young
brunette named Carol Jarvis has a song
made to order for the girls to play when
they want to send a musical message to
that certain boy. The title is "Rebel,"
and it tells the story of a boy everyone
warns the girl to avoid. She, however,
sees deeper. She adores him and be-
lieves in him. The reverse side is "Whirl-
pool of Love." Carol delivers the ballads
with a slow, sultry, emotional beat.

Away from the microphone, Carol her-
self bubbles. She was born in Chicago,
the daughter of a police officer. Because
of her mother's health, the family moved
to California. Carol's singing career
started when the Sisters at St. Bernar-
dino asked her to put on the junior play.

"I immediately appointed myself the
star," Carol confesses. "We did a take-off
on This Is Your Life. In it, I was sup-
posed to be a singer, so naturally I had to
sing a few numbers. People started to
applaud and, from then on, I wanted to
sing. My family encouraged me, but I
really didn't know I wanted to be a
singer. It just worked out that way."

Her first professional job — "where I got
paid and had a union card" — was Art
Linkletter's show. She also did a few
shows with Lawrence Welk. It was all a
lark to Carol. "I was eighteen and didn't
stop to think what I sounded like. It was
just new and fun. I liked the applause
and the glory. It was simply smiling at
people and singing." Now she wants to
be a polished entertainer. "Somebody
who can get up and be very relaxed and
still know exactly what I'm doing and
get the audience over to my side every
time. I understand what I want to do.
Now I'm trying to find out how to do it."

Carol continues to live with her family
in Covina. Her room, which she deco-
rated, is very frilly. "It's the odd-ball
room of the whole house." Where the

other predominating scheme is Early
American, highlighted with copper and
brass, Carol went to wrought iron in
white and gray. "I just wanted to be
different. And I love color, all colors."

She hopes some day to sing in musical
comedy. "I'd like to try it when I'm
ready. I don't even think I will go to
New York. I would rather styrt out in
summer stock, somewhere little, to see if
I can handle it and feel good in it."

Carol has only one complaint about the
busy life she leads. "Romance? I haven't
any. It is very dull. I really mean it is
horrible. I am very discouraged." But,
in the next breath, she forecasts what
will happen when the right boy comes
along. Among her favorite songs are "I
Could Have Danced All Night" and "You
Made Me Love You." Says Carol, "I like
happy songs the best."

Capitol Records' strong contender as
teen queen is Sue Raney, born June 18,
1939, who was graduated in June from
Hollywood Professional School — and cele-
brated the event with the release, "What's
the Good Word, Mr. Bluebird," and "The
Careless Years." She also was guest star
on Tennessee Ernie Ford's final show last
season. She had her own TV show on
KGGN in Albuquerque.

This lass with the delicate air was born
in McPherson, Kansas, and she's a second-
generation thrush. As Sue tells the story,
"All my coaching came from my mother.
She used to sing around Nebraska, under
the name of Mildred Marie, with my
uncle Arnie Vanderbilt's orchestra. Then
she fell in love and got married."

Sue's voice lessons began when she was
five. They then lived in Wichita, Kansas.
"We went up to see Sue Fulton, who was
a voice coach. Because she wouldn't take
a student younger than twelve, my mother
took the lessons. Then she taught me."
Came the day when there was no baby
sitter to be had, and young Sue tagged
along to class. Miss Fulton, making a
pleasant little fuss over the child, asked if
she liked to sing. Sue promptly demon-
strated. "She was very surprised to hear
I had such a mature voice," Sue recalls,
"but then she didn't know I had been
having her lessons. After that, although
she did not include me in the class, she
did give me some coaching and put me in
some of her little shows."

Sue still remembers the thrill of one
program: "It was for the Miners' and
Prospectors' Association out in Albuquer-
que. I was seven or eight, and they were
so sweet to me. When they threw money

on the stage, I saved it all. I put it in a
big tin can and kept it for years. I finally
spent it on a vacation to California."

Sue's first attempt to enter the movies
was a failure. She found she was five
inches too tall for the child part in
"Mother Wore Tights." The family made
its permanent move to Hollywood about
two years ago, when Sue went on the
Jack Carson radio show. She says, "It
was tough for my parents to pick up and
leave, but they did it for me and I think
it was wonderful of them." She adores
her parents and thinks her sisters and
brother are pretty nice, too.

Of Gary, the seventeen-year old, she
says, "We get along like downtown. He
plays drums, we go to shows together,
we went to professional school together.
We have fun." Her sister Carole "has
great musical ability. Mother taught her
to play piano, and she's a real good classi-
cal pianist. We're very proud of her work,
too. She started on the lowest possible
job at KNXT. Now she is executive sec-
retary to Don Heinz, the program direc-
tor." Candy, the two-year old, is "real
cute. She sings and dances and seems to
have a lot of rhythm. Every time one of
my records comes on the radio, she recog-
nizes my voice."

Sue does her share of the housework
and she takes a hand in making her
clothes. "I design them and cut them out,
then, when Mother has time, she sews
them up." Sue writes poetry and songs.
She would like to study music theory.
"Songwriting is fun," she says, "and I
think it will help me to pick my own
material." She has her eye on the movies.
"I'd like to be in pictures. I would like
to be able to dance, to act and to sing.
I think a performer should be all-around."

In romance, Sue tempers her wishes
with wisdom. "I don't go out very much.
I don't have a steady boyfriend. When
I do go out, I think it is a better idea for
a girl my age to double-date. If it's a
blind date, or if you don't know the boy
well, you have more fun when you dou-
ble. But, if you like him very much, it
is nice to be alone."

At almost every recording company, the
young girls are beginning to get atten-
tion. Already, they are the darlings of
the A & R men. One of these days, the
other young girls are bound to become
their fans and find in their records the
vision of the singing "second self." RCA
Victor's Joe Carlton summed it up, say-
ing: "It's bound to come. A young girl has
her own emotional expression to give."

Our Gal Sally

(Continued jrora page 25)
viewpoint to go with the view," jokes one
of her friends.

Joan considers this a second, smiling
across half an acre of greenery to where
Marie Windsor, the film star, and husband
Jack Hupp are making a merry splash in
the pool. . . . "If I answer that directly, it'll
sound like I was bragging," she finally re-
plies. "I'll quote Marie there, instead. She
told me, a few days ago, that the old Caul-
field may have had her head in the clouds,
but the new one not only has that, but her
feet on the ground, besides. That was the
grandest compliment she could have paid
me. I was flattered." She pauses long
enough to pass around a plate of fresh-
baked cookies, then adds: "I think I still
need a few moorings to hold me down."

With regard to the "new Caulfield," her
friends and fans insist that there weren't
any flies on the "old Caulfield," either. It's
just that the glamour girl, as she became

a woman, began to see the need of respon-
sibility and self-control. The girl who
parlayed her beauty and enthusiasm into
fame and a fortune, as a model, actress and
entertainer, has come to the turn in the
road where exuberance, however charming,
can no longer serve as a guide.

An incident that occurred during the
making of her latest television series, Sally,
should tell the story. . . . Shortly after
lunch one day, Joan came bouncing onto
the sound stage. In a huddle over the
setting up of a shot were her husband,
producer Frank Ross, whose movie pro-
ductions of "The Robe" and "Rains of
Ranchipur" were memorable hits; director
William Asher; veteran actress Marion
Lome, the rich matron who employs mis-
chievous Sally as her traveling companion;
and various members of the crew. "Listen,
everyone," Joan bubbled, "I've got a ter-
rific idea. Wouldn't it be great if — "

Here she stopped, embarrassed. The

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group had turned toward her with an ex-
pression that she herself wryly admits she
would use toward "an overplayful child or
pet." She glanced guiltily at Marion. Her
friend was making with "the violin rou-
tine." This is a signal, she explains. "Mari-
on crosses a finger over her thumb and
saws it back and forth as if playing 'Hearts
and Flowers.' It's a way of letting me
know I'm off the ground again, a sort of
equivalent of 'You're breaking my heart,
girlie.' I shut up then, except for begging
pardon and saying my idea could wait."
Ten minutes later, she was glad she had
waited. Her idea didn't seem quite so hot.

To those who knew her well, this is in-
deed a change. Only a year ago, she
would have paid little attention to Marion's
signal. She probably wouldn't have no-
ticed it at all. She'd have been too wrapped
up in her super-duper idea, and would
have put her faith in enthusiasm to carry
the day. Not that she had no regard for
other people's ideas and opinions. She
simply was too used to rushing in where
angels fear to tread and — as she states it —
"all too often I'd be left standing with egg
on my face."

The art of disciplining her emotions took
"a painfully long time," she recalls. She
didn't learn easily and a lot of people and
things came together to bring about the
transformation. People like her husband
Frank and her friend Marion. Things like
owning a share in a video series which is
sponsored alternately by two of the na-
tion's leading industrial firms.

Joan had every right to feel the zest of
living. Nature had endowed her from the
start with health, beauty, intelligence and
the love of a fine and comfortably-fixed
family. Born and raised in East Orange,
New Jersey, the Caulfields (Joan, her par-
ents and two sisters) moved to New York
when she was fifteen. One year later, on
the wave of a sudden impulse, she stormed
the ramparts of Walter Conover's model
agency and made an ardent plea for a job.
Conover saw in her an unspoiled and over-
flowing vibrancy that he knew would reg-
ister on photographs, especially those in
color, and he gave her a job at once. With
some training, she soon stepped into the
front rank of the younger models, especial-
ly in teen-age fashions.

It was at this time that she was discov-
ering the theater. Suddenly, she felt her-
self lifted on to a new wave of enthusiasm.
Wouldn't it be marvelous to be an actress!
To stand before the footlights, the center of
a thousand eyes, and then — presto! — change
into another person entirely! She had
visions of herself in heavy tragic roles.
The dying Camille! "I'd have given my
teeth to play a crotchety grandma — the
idea of playing anything like 'The Petty
Girl' never entered my mind. . . ."

Since she was a student at Columbia
University, the shortest distance to get on
stage was by way of the Morningside
Players, the University's dramatic society.
She joined and was soon — if not the most
important — certainly the most dedicated
member of the group. . . . Opening night,
she developed "a bad case of butterflies in
the tummy." Once again, she staked
everything on vim, vigor and enthusiasm.
She figured that, as long as she kept busy
and buoyant, nobody would notice her
nervousness. From entrance to exit, she
kept moving around. It came as a horri-
fying shock afterward to hear one of the
lead actors accuse her of upstaging him.

"I was so green I didn't know what the
term meant," she confesses. "But that
wasn't the half of my sins. One of my
beaus sent word backstage that his father
was in the audience and wanted to meet
me. Promptly with the first act curtain,
I dashed out front to play the gracious
artiste for the benefit of a prospective

papa-in-law. My fellow players were
scandalized and Dr. Milton Smith, head of
the Drama Department, informed me that,
while exuberance and impulsiveness were
good qualities in an actress, you just don't
allow them to carry you away — particular-
ly not into the audience, and most especial-
ly not between acts."

In her own frantic way, Joan was even
then aspiring toward a meaning and pur-
pose in life. "I had the funny illusions of
a kid. I actually thought I was being very
dignified and thoughtful." In any case,
she'd had her taste of the limelight and
she would be haunted by the magic of the
theater from then on. Armed with a num-
ber of magazine covers for which she had
posed, she walked into producer George
Abbott's office one day and boldly as-
sured him that she was exactly what he
was looking for. He replied that he was
looking for a song-and-dance girl. She'd
never had a lesson in music, but the vigor
of her avowals won him over in spite of
his better judgment. She played a Mari-
lyn Monroe-type of secretary in his pro-
duction of "Beat the Band" and it turned
out to be one of his rare flops. Joan's luck
held up; her notices were first-rate.

Next season, Abbott called her. "I have
a real part for you," he said. It was the
part of Corliss Archer in "Kiss and Tell,"'
and it proved to be one of her most sen-
sational hits. After fourteen delightful
months in the role, she bowed out to ac-
cept a Paramount contract. Her career
was moving along in Horatio Alger style.

The only note of dissent came from Ab-
bott. He gave her a piece of advice she
now wishes she had followed. "Get a few
more seasons of Broadway experience," he
said. "You're not really ready to tackle
Hollywood." Undeterred, Joan answered
that, if the film executives felt she was
ready, they must know best. It was some
time before she learned what had really
led to her contract. The late Buddy de
Sylva had seen her in "Kiss and Tell" and
wired Paramount that she was "a lively
young actress — with very good legs!"

Joan's fib about being a trained singer
and dancer had paid dividends once; she
tried it again at the studio. The results
would have deflated another girl for good.
Following her first movie, "Miss Susie
Slagle," in which she did a variation on
the Corliss theme, the studio heads re-
membered what she'd told them. She was
cast in a series of routine musicals, each
leaving her more miserable than the one
before. "I was in a constant state of
nerves. I knew I couldn't dance, and the
sound of a musical bar would tense every
muscle in my body. When I was cast for
'The Petty Girl' at Columbia, I was pretty
blue and most of the bounce had gone out
of me. I dreaded doing another musical."

Now, in her dark moment, fortune's
child sat down and took serious stock of
herself. The girl who had never doubted
that youth, good luck, a little rashness and
a lot of enthusiasm could take her to the
heights was now faced with the plain hard
fact that all was not going according to
Hoyle. The old magic was simply not
working. She was puzzled, unhappy, lost.
"For the first time in my life, I was fright-
ened."

Then came a rift in the darkness; she
met Frank Ross. Joan had confided her
fears about doing "The Petty Girl" to her
good friend, Benay Venuta, who was also a
friend of Frank's. Benay knew he was
one of filmland's best social dancers and
she asked him to help Joan. In two days,
according to Joan, he had succeeded where
high-priced teachers had failed. "He
taught me that you just can't dance grace-
fully until you know the difference be-
tween a beat and an off-beat."

They began dating. "You know, we were

introduced two years ago at the Bel Air
Country Club," Frank told her.

"I remember," Joan laughed. "I'm curi-
ous to know what you thought of me."

"You looked so healthy," Frank replied,
"I thought you were probably president
of the 4-H Clubs."

Joan went on to do a topflight job in
"Petty Girl" and — as she once put it — "I'd
not only gotten the beat, but a husband to
boot." Naturally, Benay was maid of hon-
or, and the wedding was held at the home
of Armand Deutsch. Joan still cherishes
Armand's gift, a pearl French poodle pin
which she wore on her wedding dress and
still keeps as a luck charm. She wore it
at least once during every segment of her
smash TV series, My Favorite Husband,
and is now carrying on that tradition in
Sally. She has only two other treasures to
match it. The first was given her by
Michael Chekhov, the great actor who was
one of her earlier teachers. It is a gold
medal which was presented to him by the
Moscow Art Theater. The other is a dia-
mond bracelet, the gift of her husband, on
completion of "Rains of Ranchipur," for
being "such a wonderful Fern."

She was happy again. Being Frank's
wife was "the red-letter event" of her life.
But it was not the same Joan. She had
learned a lesson and she was not likely to
forget. Now, under Frank's guidance, she
began the search for a more mature ap-
proach to things. She began to surprise
her friends by asking questions about their
attitudes, opinions, actions. She showed
an interest in politics and philosophy. She
was still leaping, but not without trying
to think first.

And Frank was working with her pa-
tiently and wisely. She came home from
a hot day of filming, tired and exasperated.
Frank was dressed, ready to take her to a
dinner party. "I can't do it," she pro-
tested. "I look terrible. I have lines to
learn and I just can't face a roomful of
people tonight."

"I know you've had a bad day," Frank
said gently. "But most of the guests have
probably had a hard time, too. They'll
come because they don't want their hosts
to be disappointed. How you look is not
as important as how your hosts will feel if
you don't show up at their table. Not to go
because of how you look is only another
way of thinking exclusively of yourself.
It's a form of selfishness."

Frank's chiding reminded Joan of some-
thing Michael Chekhov had said. "A truly
fine artist has control over his medium and
his emotions at all times. He doesn't have
to live his roles at home."

"I suddenly realized," admitted Joan,
"that I had been bringing my roles home
and playing them day and night. I saw
that this, too, was a form of thinking only
of myself and my career. It was not great
art. It was only self-indulgence."

Through Marion Lome, Joan grew to ad-
mire the subtle and quiet manner of pre-
senting an idea. Before working so closely
with her, Joan had been inclined toward
the theory that "bubbling vivaciousness"
was equivalent to youth. If you plunged
in with enough exuberance, she felt, peo-
ple would listen.

"Marion's a real trouper, a bundle of
energy who never gets dull or complains,
and who's always giving off ideas," Joan
pointed out. "But more important, she
knows how to curb the energy, and how to
put these ideas before you. She makes
her suggestions calmly, listens carefully to
criticism, holds no grudge if another view-
point wins out. This is discipline. This
is maturity in action. And yet she is
younger in spirit than any of us."

Marion and Joan begin their day to-
gether. They begin early— at 6:35 A.M.,
to be exact — when Joan picks up Marion
at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They drive to-

gether to the Paramount Studios where
Caulross is shooting the Sally series.
"Marion's bright frame of mind, along with
her complete calmness, starts my day off
sensibly," Joan confesses. They pick up
coffee and chocolate doughnuts, then head
for the make-up department. Shooting
begins at nine and continues until six,
with one hour for lunch. By the time Joan
drops Marion off at the hotel, it's after
seven and Joan usually isn't through with
dinner until nine. It was a question of
either learning a measure of planning, con-
trol and discipline — or allowing her home,
family life, and career to fall into a chaotic
mess. Joan set her pretty head and learned.
Making Sally has also taught Joan some
stern lessons. "Being the star of a show is
one kind of responsibility. Being the wife
of the producer is another." When Frank
was casting for the show, Joan noticed the
names of certain actors on the call sheet.
Forgetting, for the moment, her resolution
not to go off half-cocked, she generously
urged that these actors be given an extra
bonus as they'd been out of work for some
time. Frank had to put his foot down. "I
appreciate your kindness, Joan," he told
her, "but this is business. The agents and
I settle on a price and that's what we pay.
I'm always for a good price for a good job,
but if we start tossing bonuses around,
we'll soon be short of capital and every-
one will be out of work."

La earning not to be self-conscious about
being both star and producer's wife came
hard to Joan. At the beginning, she felt
called on to be extra nice to all the cast.
She began to overdo the compliments and
praise. "She nearly ruined a few fine
actors," Frank laughs. "She made them
feel so important that, by the time we got
around to shooting, they were telling the
director how to direct and the cameraman
how to take pictures."

Joan likes to tell one on herself which
evidently has some special meaning for
her: While doing My Favorite Husband,
she had to change clothes and hop from
set to set so quickly that a screen was
placed on stage to expedite matters. She
would step behind this screen, change,
then rush into the next scene, sometimes
with only one shoe on. Since it was done
"live," the audience would greet these
flurries with loud bursts of laughter. One
night, something happened that was far
from funny to Joan. She had to change
from a heavy wool ski suit into a slinky
black dress in thirty seconds. She slipped
behind the screen, tugged at the zipper — it
was stuck, but good. She and the ward-
robe girl worked frantically until the as-
sistant director hissed, "Rip it — rip it off!"

Joan still shudders at the memory. "Have
you ever tried to rip off a heavy ski-suit?
Well, sometimes I think of that when I
let my enthusiasm run away with me and
do something foolish before I can catch
myself up. I think that ripping off one set
of habits and replacing it with another is
very much like trying to rip off that suit
with the zipper stuck. But I managed
then. I'll make good on this more im-
portant change ... if trying can do it."

In planning Sally, Frank felt that her
clothes should be kept simple and average,
to fit the pocketbook of a paid companion.
Joan took the view that the show's Mrs.
Banford, being wealthy, would want her
companion to look well and so would be
willing to pay for it. "Frank argued that
Sally had been a shop girl before going
With Mrs. Banford," Joan explained. "I an-
swered that the modern American shop
girl is very smartly turned out and Sally
should show this trend. Frank made some
good points but I really felt I was right
and could convince him if I didn't press
too hard. I decided to win, but softly."

Joan knew that Audrey Hepburn is one

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T
V
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A DOCTOR'S FRANK
ANSWERS ABOUT

LOVE and
MARRIAGE

A TACTICAL GUlD£
^AWTALHAWNfc*

UN*

^vin*.

Section Listing
Answers to Brides' Questions
Problems of Marriage
Understanding Yourself
Understanding Your Husband
Parents and In-laws
Preparing Children for Marriage
Divorce and Second Marriage

J. here are some questions a woman can't
discuss with anyone. They're too intimate.
There are some questions she can't put into
words; they're too delicate. There are some
she may be afraid to ask. If you are one of
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answered question, the unresolved problem,
you may find welcome help in THE MOD-
ERN BOOK OF MARRIAGE.

AT ALL BOOKSTORES — OR
MAIL THIS COUPON TODAY

BARTHOLOMEW HOUSE. INC.

Dept. WGU57

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

Send me a copy of THE MODERN BOOK
OF MARRIAGE. I enclose □ $1.00
(paperbound) □ $2.00 (hardbound).

NAME

(Please Print)

STREET

CITY STATE

of Frank's favorite stars. When it came
time to make a series of trailers for Sally,
she reported to Paramount wardrobe and
picked a hat to wear in each trailer that
would advertise the coming episode. When
she got home that evening, Frank asked
her what sort of hats she had selected.

"I picked the ones you admired on Au-
drey Hepburn in 'Funny Face.' "

"But those were models' hats — creations
for display, not for a woman to wear in
ordinary circumstances."

"You loved them on Audrey — I think the
audience will like them on Sally. Besides,
the hats models wear today will be worn
by the working women of tomorrow."

Frank threw up his hands. "All right,
darling. We'll give it a chance."

For a finish, many of Joan's outfits for
the show were designed especially for her
by Maxwell Scheiff, one of Hollywood's
top designers.

When Frank had first come up with this
idea for a TV series and had hired one of
video's cleverest scriptwriters to do the
job, it became necessary to find a name for
the producing company. Since they were
both putting money in it, Frank at
first suggested Rosscaul Company. Joan
opened her mouth at this, but caught her-
self and shut it again. "If you think that's
got the right sound, it's fine with me," was
her only comment. A few days later, he
told her it had been decided to name it
Caulross. More euphonious. "So, with-
out a fuss, I got top billing after all," she
laughs gleefully.

On a marble patio surrounded by four
acres of tastefully landscaped green and

growing things, one of Hollywood's love-
liest ladies pours iced tea for a circle of
friends. They relax with her, chat, laugh,
share fond memories. Suave and hand-
some, her husband has just come out with
a guest. He has been showing this friend
through the white stucco house — it was
designed in the modern French manner by
architect John Woolf and decorated by
Loretta Young's mother, Mrs. Gladys Bel-
zer. Both these newcomers stand listen-
ing to the conversation. Marie Windsor
and husband have come out of the pool
and are resting in the sun.

The new guest, as the talk comes to a
lull, approaches his blond hostess and
kisses her on the cheek. "So, Joan . . .
you've got yourself a mature philosophy,"
he teases. "So what does it get you?"

Her skin glows; her blue eyes go large
and electric; her reply is swift, eager and
sincere. "I hope it will get me happy," she
retorts, smiling up at her friend. "I hope
it will get me the respect of my husband
and my friends and the people I work with.
And I hope it will get me the approval of
my fans. Isn't that worth trying for?
Isn't that enough?"

A soft wind is rising: shadows from the
French garden are beginning to scallop the
edges of the lawn. The household dog
lopes on to the patio and settles at his
master's feet. Frank watches, listens, nods
his head. An expression of tender en-
joyment is deepening on his face. His wife
is smiling at him and he answers with a
smile of his own. He is content. The
loveliest girl in the world is growing
up. . . .

Shakespeare and the Showgirl

(Continued from page 32)
hesitantly, "Miss Hall, I hope you won't
mind my interrupting like this — but I think
you're about to lose that button!" Barbara
looks down at one of her dress buttons,
dangling by a single thread, blithely tears
it loose. "Thanks for your kindness," she
smiles at the unknown woman — who re-
plies, "Not at all. And congratulations!"
It's the third time during dinner that a
stranger has come over to the table, on
one well-intentioned pretext or another,
to say, "Congratulations, Miss Hall."

The button incident points up one inter-
esting fact. It has now been some fifteen
shopping days since Barbara Hall deposited
her $64,000 winnings. Fifteen days since
she became able — if she chose — to swoop
down on Saks, Bonwit Teller's or Berg-
dorf Goodman's and buy the sleekest,
chic-est wardrobe ever dreamed up by any
young woman. Instead, there she is, dining
out in a button-shy number she probably
bought long ago, off some rack marked
"drastically reduced."

How come? After all, clothes, like dia-
monds, are a girl's best friend. But
Barbara has a simple explanation.

"Oh, I've shopped," she says. "Window-
shopped, that is. But somehow I haven't
really been consumed by a need for splurg-
ing on clothes." She adds, reflectively
and seriously, "You see, this incredible,
fabulous break has a very unique value
for me, a very personal value which simply
doesn't translate into ownership of things
or possessions. A chi-chi evening gown
wouldn't express it. No, the real value in
this is the long-range security it has
brought me. I can study now — continue
the training I need to make the grade in
my chosen field. The true value of this
sudden fortune is that it's like breathing
oxygen after being confined to a window-
less room."

The "windowless room" is Barbara's
figure of speech for a long, long stretch of

striving to gain acceptance as a profes-
sional actress. If one could draw a chart
of Barbara's morale during her quest for
the recognition she seeks, the graph lines
would show up as steep-angled peaks and
valleys representing a jittery mixture of
encouraging plus-es, of frustrating minus-
es, of many compromises and second-bests
— not to mention times when Barbara
didn't know where the next day's meal
was coming from.

The highs and the lows require very
little strain of Barbara's memory. She
can still vividly recall the optimistic begin-
nings as a girl in suburban Pittsburgh.
Well-to-do family . . . nice, substantial
home in middle-class Mt. Lebanon . . .
the usual crush on the boy next door
(although "next door," in this instance,
was a whopping big farm adjacent to the
Halls' own seven-acre property). She
can never forget the muscle-ache and
sweat of six of her young years while
training for ballet at the best private
school Pittsburgh could boast. She can
still savor the thrill of that first applause
cascading across the auditorium footlights
when she and her junior-high classmates
acted "A Date With Judy" and, later,
"Little Women."

"When I was graduated from high school,
I wanted to continue with my ballet train-
ing but couldn't find a college that had
an adequate dance department," she says.
"I enrolled in the Drama School at Car-
negie Institute of Technology, one of the
country's finest."

Definitely a top-ranking school; clearly
the explanation for her excellent back-
ground in the work of Elizabethan drama-
tists. "I took courses in Shakespeare,"
Barbara smiles, "but I was just a C-plus
student."

Above and beyond her academic endeav-
ors, Barbara was chalking up some
professional acting experience between
terms. In 1953, she was resident ingenue

with the William Penn Playhouse. Ditto,
1954, with the Little Lake Arena
Theater. She played a supporting role in
"The Little Hut" at the Pittsburgh Play-
house in 1955 — the year she earned her
Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and was
graduated from Carnegie Tech Drama
School.

A decent enough start for a young
hopeful . . . but now, having bade fond
adieu to her ivy-covered temple of
Thespis, what next? More to the point —
how? Barbara had been backed up by a
wealth of moral and material support from
her family. Mother, dad, sister — all of
them had been unstinting in their approval
of Barbara's intense drive to find her
place in the theater world. Barbara agreed
wholeheartedly with her dad's summing
of the situation: She had had every pos-
sible advantage; she'd received a superla-
tive education; from now on, it was up to
her. She'd have to go it alone.

(jro she did — alone and quite far from
home, for the first time in her life. The
place? East Hampton, nestled on the
Atlantic near the eastern tip of Long
Island. Ironically, East Hampton is a vil-
lage where the natives point with pride
to the historic house of John Howard
Payne — who wrote "Home Sweet Home."
But Barbara's reason for going there was
the John Drew Theater (very prominent
in the straw-hat circuit) . . . where a
summer-stock job kept her happily if not
wealthily busy during July and August
of 1955. As resident ingenue, her salary
was twenty-five dollars a week.

"After paying for my room, my meals
and all other expenses," she says, "I'd
have just about three dollars left. I spent
that three dollars on a rented bike — one
particular bike that was assigned to me
all that summer. I used to tell myself,
this bike is my very own. When I got time
away from rehearsals and other daytime
chores at the theater, the bike symbolized
freedom. I'd ride it all around the pic-
turesque East Hampton vicinity, visit
spots like old Hook Mill, a windmill built
in 1806 — or pedal along those narrow paths
out on the sand dunes, drinking in that
marvelous tawny seascape."

July and August were golden months
that passed all too swiftly in the quaint
seaside village. A hundred miles or so
due west, Broadway was astir with plans
for the 1955-1956 theater season. The John
Drew Theater put up its shutters and Bar-
bara came to New York. She soon had to
accept the fact that none of Broadway's
plans included her. She soon began to
wish that she hadn't squandered her three-
dollar-a-week cash balance on a rented
bike.

"There were times when I wrestled with
the temptation to write home for money,"
Barbara admits. "Despite Dad's philosophy
about going it alone, he would have sent
me a thousand dollars at the drop of a hat.
But I knew that was no solution. I knew
I wouldn't be proving anything about
myself with a handy crutch like that. I
just had to hang on. It was a case of sur-
vival— of remaining within reach of theater
opportunities — and so the 'next best' job
would have to be considered."

The "next best" job turned out to be
one in a supermarket. Before a series of
select, limited audiences, Barbara Hall
demonstrated paper towels. Grubby, com-
pletely alien to her acting ambitions, the
work nevertheless held the specter of
hunger at arm's length. Weeks and weeks
of that grind — then Barbara lined up a
part in a Washington, D. C. production of
"Oh, Men! Oh, Women!" It opened in
January, 1956, and by no means threatened
any existing records for long runs. Before
many weeks went by Barbara was back in
New York, again making the rounds.

Her next role was another non -theatrical
one. She worked as a model in Saks Fifth
Avenue, where the hours were in direct
conflict with the hours she should be
spending in search of another acting job.
In May, she switched again, this time to a
job with evening hours. She became a
hostess in Stouffer's Restaurant.

Such was the pattern of promise and
frustration . . . the treadmill that demanded
a firm, purposeful stride and led her
nowhere. Barbara won't deny that there
were times when self-doubt occupied
stage-center in her private thoughts. She
could have got considerable comfort out
of gazing into a crystal ball, though . . .
with a glimpse of events taking shape in
the new year of 1957. Events — one very
public, the other very personal — were
definitely taking shape.

It's in the light of all that preceded these
momentous events that Barbara comments,
"Yes, I'm the luckiest woman in the
world. This wonderful stroke of good for-
tune really makes it complete. Now I
have an enormous sense of security — and
I also have Lucien."

Lucien is the magic name which Celeste
Holm (subbing for Hal March on the night
the $64,000 check was presented) tried to
elicit from Barbara but couldn't. Modesty,
an unwillingness to place his name in the
public domain — call it what you will —
Barbara side-stepped that question. How-
ever, she left no doubt in the minds of
several million viewers that there was
someone special in her life. As to his
identity . . . Celeste tried hard, a large
slice of our population listened hard . . .
but the name was not spoken.

1 o understand the significance of that
name in Barbara's life, the spotlight must
shift to April, 1957 — to a brisk evening j
that began without even a suspicion in
Barbara's mind that either a Lucien or
$64,000 would ever happen to her. "I'd
been standing at the entrance to Carnegie
Hall on West Fifty -seventh Street, waiting
for my date — a nice young man with a
pleasant personality and an interesting job
on the staff of a New York art museum. It
wasn't anything in the 'romance' depart-
ment— just a comfortable, casual friend-
ship. One notable thing about my date,
though. He was always remarkably punc-
tual. I remember glancing at my wrist-
watch and realizing that something must
be very wrong. There it was, more than
fifteen minutes after our six-o'clock ap-
pointment. Something drastic must have
changed his plans."

Another five minutes, Barbara told her-
self. Meanwhile, she strolled around to
the Seventh Avenue entrance just in case
her friend meant that spot as the meeting
place. No sign of her date. However, she
couldn't help noticing another young man
standing there. He, too, had that "waiting"
look.

"I sensed immediately that he was not
an American," Barbara recalls. "It was
something about the cut of his clothes, I
guess. He was tall — almost six feet tall,
I'd say — slim, and blond. Extremely attrac-
tive. I would have bet that he came from
one of the Scandinavian countries. He
stood there, seemed to ponder his course
of action. Like me, he seemed sort of cast
adrift. These were mere impressions, of
course — quick flashes that probably re-
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The accent was French. Barbara experi-
enced an inward jolt of surprise. And she
had had the chap pegged as a Dane or a
Norwegian!

Gesturing toward a telephone booth
inside the building entrance, the young
man said, "I am trying to make a call.
Please, could you give me change for a
half-dollar?" Barbara obligingly dug into
her coat pocket, opened her purse and
fetched out a quarter, two dimes and a
nickel. The blond young man exchanged
coins and uttered profuse thanks.

"He spent a remarkably short time inside
that phone booth," Barbara recalls — add-
ing, "and I suppose I lingered outside too
long a time. Maybe I rationalized it by
telling myself I'd wait just a few more
minutes for that date of mine to show up."

Voila. In no time at all her French-
accented Scandinavian again was standing
near, looking even more lost, more forlorn.
Obviously, his call had resulted in a
"doesn't answer." Now he brought out a
pack of cigarettes and fumbled elaborately
and unsuccessfully for a match. His blue
eyes caught Barbara's. He shrugged his
shoulders. The gesture seemed to say,
"Again, I need a small favor. . . ."

Barbara dug into her pocket a second
time and took out a book of matches. A
flame was lit. It has been burning intensely
ever since. . . . Looking back at that
strange moment, Barbara insists she was
determined not to reveal that her own
date had failed to show up. It seems that
her determination wavered somewhere
during that fateful little interval of cau-
tious small-talk after the blond young man
lighted his cigarette. It seems that he
intuitively understood the situation and
quickly made it clear that he, too, had been
left stranded. Then he put forth the
philosophical argument that it would be
wasteful and unintelligent for each of
them to go their separate ways- — alone and
forsaken — and would she please have din-
ner with him?

Barbara Hall — the gal for whom poise
and nonchalance are a professional "must,"
the gal who was later to stand up before
an audience of millions, calmly answering
difficult posers concerning the works of
Will Shakespeare — was panicked and flus-
tered by the sudden suggestion.

Dinner! And there she was, wearing
faded blue jeans and a vivid Italian- styled
sports blouse under her camel-hair polo
coat. What's more, she had precious little
ready cash in her change purse — and it
was a rule with her not to let new
acquaintances pick up the restaurant
check. . . . However, even the most strin-
gent rule had its exceptions, she reasoned.
And she was faced with the alternative of
a cheeseburger, eaten in lonely silence.
And — that was a charming accent accom-
panying the young man's otherwise excel-
lently spoken English. And — he did have
that small-boy air of helplessness, of
aloneness in a strange city.

After thus weighing the various factors,
Barbara said yes, she would accept his
invitation to dinner. A strange encounter,
she told herself. In a way that was hard
to define, it contained more than a small
tingle of excitement. Sensing it but not
actually knowing it yet (not any more
than she could know of the other good
fortune destined to come her way), Bar-
bara Hall had begun her climb to a plateau
loftier, even, than any that Hal March
would ever point to.

And so she dined with the stranger, the
handsome young Frenchman — whose name,
she learned, was Lucien Verdoux. His
home was Paris. His second "home" was
New York and, approximately every six
days, the duties of his job set him down in
either place. Lucien's job? Trans-Atlantic
airline pilot.

The food they ate in a little restaurant
in Manhattan's West Fifties is scarcely
remembered by Barbara. Vividly stamped
in her memory is Lucien's word-picture
of his own Paris. Lucien's words became a
window through which she saw the wide
boulevards, the gaiety of night life in
boites like La Lune Rousse on the Rue
Pigalle . . . places like the Cirque Med-
rano drawing crowds in another part of
Montmartre ... or gory melodrama being
enacted at the Theatre du Grand Guignol.
Of the art galleries and the concert halls
... of the beauty of Notre Dame seen
from a bridge on the Seine.

Understandable for a Lucien Verdoux
to speak with such love about his native
city. After all, Barbara had known fellow-
Americans who described Paris in glowing
phrases. Presently, though, she and Lucien
were discussing New York, and other
aspects of America. A delighted, fascinated
Barbara sat listening as Lucien spoke with
the same ardor, the same first-hand
knowledge about the joys of Jones Beach,
about a pilot's-eye view of stately Wash-
ington, D. C, at sunset, about American
movies — "I am mad about your Westerns!"
— and especially about jazz. She learned
that, for Lucien, jazz was not merely
another enthusiasm — it was almost a way
of life. He had heard every style of it
played, listened to it in every kind of place
in the States and on the Continent.

And they discussed Barbara, too — with
Lucien's eyes intently and seriously on
hers as she traced her job-by-job, frustra-
tion-by-frustration journey to nowhere.
She spoke of her more recent steps in this
journey, spoke of the expediency that
caused her to take a job "on the line" at
the Copacabana — one of Manhattan's
smart-smart night spots, but certainly not
her true goal . . . and then to her present,
bread-and-butter job again as a showgirl
in the 1957 edition of the "Ziegfeld
Follies."

And so, on an evening in April, the first
momentous event had taken place . . .
the personal one. Shortly after, Barbara
was saying to herself, Only a few hours,
and I feel I've known him all my life.

Now to the second, the public event. It
is June — some weeks later — with the sun
bravely trying to brighten the drabness
of an old five-storey tenement house not
far from a bridge that spans Manhattan's
East River. On the top floor, inside her
$26-a-month cold-water walk-up, Barbara
answers the telephone. It is a call from
the $64,000 Question office. Listening to
the voice with combined elation and dis-
belief, Barbara hears the producer's Girl
Friday say, in effect: "Got your interesting
letter. Saw your photograph. Come on
over and fill out an application."

That was Barbara's "ready" cue. Waiting
in the wings, so to speak, she did some
prodigious Shakespeare cramming and
presently went "on stage" for a perform-
ance that won the hearts of millions.

Barbara Hall — actress, showgirl, scholar
— regards herself as a double winner. Of
her other prize, she says, "I've had
romances with young men during college,
but they are paled to insignificance by my
relationship with Lucien. We have this
constant sense of instinctively sharing the
same appreciation for things, thinking the
same ideas, enjoying the same things. We
have no need for glamour. Why, we can
be dressed in blue jeans and sitting on a
junk heap and feel we're on top of the
world!"

And Barbara also says, "I'm going to
study up on jazz as I did Shakespeare. I'm
going to work twice as hard so that I can
match Lucien's appreciation of jazz."

And Barbara further says, "I want our
children to speak French— and I'm going
to speak it along with them."

More Than a "Movie Star"

(Continued from page 56)
Madeleine recalls. "I was always happy
to write those notes, but I couldn't have
felt less like a movie star. As a matter
of fact, I never meant to be a movie star
at all. I wanted to be a doctor. Nothing
dramatic, just a general practitioner like
Anne Gentry, the part I play five times
a week on radio. This role is, in a way,
a childhood dream come true."

The war years were not exactly the sort
of stuff that dreams are made of, but
Madeleine, like countless others who went
through them, emerged with an entirely
new approach to life, with a deeper un-
derstanding, not only of the needs of the
body but the needs of the human heart.

Proof that this feeling she has for
people comes across in her NBC Radio
show, The Affairs Of Dr. Gentry, is evi-
denced in the fan mail, so different from
most of the letters she got in Hollywood.
These are from serious, intelligent people,
some of them in the medical profession.
Madeleine is particularly proud of those
from doctors' families, who tell her they've
"never sensed a false note." Others com-
ment on Anne's professional manner with
her patients — her warmth and under-
standing. If there were awards for "per-
fect casting," Dr. Gentry's producer, Hi
Brown, would be collecting them all.

"There's hardly an incident in the Anne
Gentry scripts that doesn't ring a bell in
my memory of those war years," Made-
leine reports. "I particularly enjoy the
rivalry between Anne and Philip Hamilton,
the surgeon. I saw so much of that sort
of thing in hospitals overseas. Even though
they must work together, the two great
powers of medicine and surgery seem
always in conflict. The surgeon is in-
clined to think of himself as godlike —
which isn't strange, I suppose, when you
have the skill to tie a bit of brain together.
The physician feels that he is the one
who cures, and thinks of the surgeon as
a good carpenter or technical man. They'd
rather die than admit it, but it's true, and
it's fascinating to watch and listen to."

The Gentry show premiered in Jan-
uary of this year and, from the begin-
ning, Madeleine has been delighted by
the literacy and charm of its scripts. She
made only one suggestion. She thought
Anne was "a little too antiseptic" at the
start. Too holier-than-thou. She called
writer David Driscoll and said, "Now that
Anne has been established as a very moral
person, can't we pep her up a little? Let
her fall on her face or something? She
ought to buy a silly hat once in a while,
have a harmless flirtation. After all, she is
a widow." David agreed, and that's how
art-dealer Paul Luger was born.

Madeleine has affection for all the char-
acters in the show, and a deep respect for
the actors who play them. "They are
all so good. That's one reason why the
recording sessions go so smoothly. I've
gotten so I look forward to Thursdays,
when we record all five episodes for the
following week. The studio is very re-
laxed and very quiet. So concentrated it's
almost like prayer."

No Trappist monk, the sound engineer
took occasion at least once to liven the
proceedings. One day, while the cast
was rehearsing a scene in which Paul
Luger is showing Anne a delicate, price-
less Ming bowl, the sound man deliberate-
ly dropped one of the 5-and-10 variety.
"For an instant, our instinctive reaction
was one of shock and horror," Madeleine
recalls. "Then we burst into a sort of
hysterical laughter."

Anne herself has few opportunities for
this sort of good-natured fun. Madeleine

sees her as a woman who is dedicated, and
who lives under the constant strain of
career-versus-motherhood. "I understand
her problems very well, her tremendous
devotion to medicine and to her children,
Rod and Carol."

In private life, Madeleine has no trouble
matching Anne in the domestic depart-
ment, either. Married to publisher An-
drew Heiskell, she has an adorable brown-
eyed daughter, Anne-Madeleine, age six,
and very definite ideas on what it takes
to make a marriage work. Her first hus-
band, British Captain Philip Astley, was
very tolerant about her career, but he
was in England while she seemed to be
in Hollywood most of the time. "Mar-
riage has to be lived together," she says.

The Andrew Heiskells do just that.
They have a duplex apartment in New
York overlooking the East River, for en-
tertaining and an occasional late night on
the town, and a twelve-room white Co-
lonial house, complete with guest cottage,
on the Sound in Darien, Connecticut. The
average commuter might well cast an
envious eye at their well-ordered world
and hesitate to refer to them as "typical
suburbanites." Actually, nothing would
delight the Heiskells more.

"Except on Thursdays, when I go into
town to record, I'm a typical housewife,"
Madeleine gaily explains. "I'm up at seven,
drive my husband to the station for the
eight-o'clock train, then back to take the
little one to school. Next there's shopping,
gardening, the mail. Time flies!"

Suddenly, it's three o'clock. Anne-
Madeleine is home and the "cookies and
milk" set must be organized.

"We always make a big occasion of
Daddy coming home," Madeleine says.
"I meet the train at ten to seven. Mean-
while, the stage has already been set. All
toys have been picked up and stored
away, a bowl of ice made ready for
drinks. Then Anne -Madeleine has her
bath and changes into a fresh dress. She
looks forward eagerly to Daddy's arrival.
It is the most important part of our day."

In his role as publisher of Life and a
vice-president of Time, Andrew Heiskell
travels a good deal. Madeleine tries al-
ways to accompany him. So far this
year, they have been to Europe, as well
as to Chicago, Washington, Houston and
White Sulphur Springs. Because she is
a woman with a conscience, she worries
about leaving her daughter.

"Somehow," she says, "there is never a
right time to leave a child." Fortunately,
there is "Grandmere," Madeleine's French
mother, who has been living with them
for the past three years. "Andrew is such
fun with Mother around the house," Made-
leine confides. "He speaks French like a
native. He was born abroad and spent
the first twenty years of his life there.
Mother loves it when he refers to her as
our 'built-in baby-sitter.' "

For a couple who must, of necessity,
do a tremendous amount of reading, there
could be no more perfect haven than their
charming, three-story home, with its
broad expanse of lawn sweeping down to
the water. The living room is large, with
French doors opening onto a terrace. The
furnishings are primarily Louis XV, Pro-
vincial, with an occasional exception like
the color television set. There is a built-
in bookcase along one wall and a spinet
which Anne-Madeleine is learning to
play. The Henry IV table at the back of
the divan bears two large, very old, very
fragile Chinese lamps — mute testimony to
the quiet manners of the Heiskells' two
Sealyhams, Susy and Robbie, who have
the run of the house.

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In contrast to the pale yellow draperies
in the living room, the floor is carpeted
in brown. Before the fireplace there is
a large rug of a soft Chinese red, and
sitting easily upon it are a large divan,
coffee table and three easy chairs. The
divan and two of the chairs wear slip-
covers of block linen combining yellow,
brown, pale green and the same soft
Chinese red in a French pattern chosen
primarily for "dogs and children."

Madeleine's study is on the second floor,
a charming room reflecting the warmth of
her own personality. There are built-
in bookcases lining the rear wall and, at
the front, windows overlooking the water.
Framed above her desk are two of her
dearest possessions— the French Legion of
Honor award for her post-war work with
Europe's lost children and in the rehabili-
tation of returnees from concentration
camps, and the U. S. Medal of Freedom,
this country's highest civilian award.
Madeleine became an American citizen in
1943, but her affection for her native Eng-
land is apparent. "When I look out over
the water," she says wistfully, "it's nice
to know there's nothing between us and
Europe but two lighthouses."

.Living on the water has its disad-
vantages, though, she is frank to admit.
During the last hurricane, there was sea-
weed all over the third-story windows.
"But we love it," she says. "Weekends, we
sail together. Oh, not at all in the grand
manner. We have two small boats. A
kayak, which you blow up, for paddling
or sailing, and a 'sail fish' with a keel and
sail. It holds three and we often take
Anne-Madeleine, lashed to the mast. She
doesn't swim very well."

What she lacks in the aquatic depart-
ment Anne-Madeleine makes up in charm.
An intelligent, dignified child given to
changing her dresses three times a day,
she can usually wind the other small fry
right around her finger. But, when she
needs help in the gentle art of persuasion,
there is always Mother.

"She came in one day," Madeleine says,
"complaining that her best friend, Billy
Mitchell, wouldn't go down to the beach.
I told her to try asking him very sweetly,
to say, 'Billy, dear, won't you please do
it for me?' It worked — but then I got to
wondering if the child psychologists would
approve!"

Madeleine's own childhood was a study
in contrasts. Born in West Bromwich,
England, of a French mother and an Irish
father, she led a "very poor but sheltered"
life, so uneventful that, had there been any
gypsies to foretell her exciting future, no-
body would have believed it. John Car-
roll, a professor of languages at the Uni-
versity of Birmingham, was a brilliant
man but a strict disciplinarian with a
penchant for saying no. "Mother, bless her,
used to take my sister and me for long
walks and all three of us would laugh
loudly at the silliest things, just for sheer
relief of pent-up emotion."

Small wonder that the child Madeleine
spent many hours with her nose buried
in the books her mother had brought from
France. Before she was twelve, she had
read, in French, everything from Balzac

to Zola. Not to mention every book on
medicine that she could lay her hands on.
She doesn't remember the time she didn't
want to be a doctor.

She wanted to get a medical degree at
the University of Birmingham, but her
father insisted she carry on in his field —
philology. Bitterly disappointed and re-
sentful, Madeleine ignored her own
classmates and, much to her father's dis-
pleasure, sought out the medical students,
whom she was sometimes able to persuade
to sneak her into the dissecting room,
where she never "batted an eye."

This same courageous spirit, which has
been so" evident throughout her career,
stood her in good stead when, four years
later, she was faced with her first impor-
tant decision. Chosen by her fellow stu-
dents to play the lead in the senior play,
she received — as a result of her excellent
performance — an offer to join the Bir-
mingham Repertory Company, profes-
sional birthplace of such celebrated stars
as John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier and
Ralph Richardson. Once again father said
no, and, with the magnificent defiance of
an Elizabeth Barrett, Madeleine left her
father's house. For two weeks, she tutored
the children of a Polish second-hand deal-
er and, with the magnificent sum of thir-
ty-two shillings, set out for London to be
interviewed for a teaching job.

For three months, she taught French at
a private school in Brighton. But the
stage bug had bitten deep, and when
her performance in an amateur show
prompted a total stranger to write and ad-
vise her to consider the theater seriously
as a career, Madeleine turned her back on
teaching forever. She wrote to Dennis
Eaidie, an actor-manager in London, and
this started a chain of events that resulted
in her touring in several road shows.
When a nationwide search was launched
to discover "the ideal British film type,"
Madeleine applied for a screen test and
won. The resultant publicity skyrocketed
her to stardom overnight.

Outstanding among the films she made
for Gaumont-British were "I Was a Spy"
and "The 39 Steps," directed by Alfred
Hitchcock. It was the latter which
prompted Walter Wanger to sign her for
Paramount Pictures. Before she sailed for
Hollywood, in 1936, she had also starred
on the London stage in such plays as "Mr.
Pickwick," with Charles Laughton, and
"Beau Geste," with Laurence Olivier.

Not exactly amateurs in the promotion
department, Hollywood exploited Made-
leine's talents and delicate beauty until
she became a household word. As Bob
Hope's "Favorite Blonde," she was feted
the length and breadth of the land and
made many guest and dramatic appear-
ances on radio. "I did Cavalcade Of
America so often," she recalls, "the wits
were soon calling it 'Carrollcade.' " She
made approximately fifteen films in Holly-
wood. Among them, "The General Died
at Dawn," "The Prisoner of Zenda,"
"Lloyd's of London," "My Son, My Son."

Madeleine's last film, before she turned
her back on Hollywood to participate in
the war effort, was "One Night in Lisbon,"
with Fred MacMurray, a light comedy
based on "fun and games in a bomb shel-

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ter." So closely did events of the story
approximate those surrounding the death
of her sister, who was killed during an air
raid in London in 1940, that Madeleine
refused to do it. "The studio threatened
to sue if I didn't go through with it," she
recalls bitterly. "It made me ill, having to
re-enact the scenes where the bombs fell,
just as it happened to Margaret."

At the completion of the picture, she
asked for a leave of absence and quit
Hollywood to work as Entertainment Di-
rector for the United Seamen's Service in
New York. A year later, eager to take a
more active part in the war effort, she took
some "quick courses" at the Red Cross in
psychiatry, social service and rudimentary
first-aid. In 1943 — having signed a docu-
ment in Washington relinquishing thea-
trical work for the duration — Red Cross
hospital-worker Madeleine Carroll, in the
most significant role of her fabulous ca-
reer, sailed for Africa and then on to Italy.
Here she tended the wounded from Monte
Cassino and Anzio, and followed the allied
advance into France, ultimately working
on a hospital train which picked up
wounded at the front and took them to
base hospitals.

"The trick was to go as far into German
territory as you could and then retreat."
she explains. "The Germans had little re-
spect for the neutrality of the Red Cross.
Several of our hospital trains were sabo-
taged. With wreckage across the main
railroad, supplies couldn't get through to
the front."

In a man's war, Madeleine's beauty and
fame were both an advantage and a dis-
advantage. The scales weighed heavily in
her favor with many difficult cases who
recognized her from the screen, "even
with muddy boots and dirty face." But the
less seriously wounded were a constant
problem, "making like wolves in the mid-
dle of Times Square." They enjoyed teas-
ing her with, "You're not the Madeleine
Carroll." And she would reply, "Of course
not. I'm the poor man's Madeleine Car-
roll." She smiles as she recalls, "This
good-natured banter would strike us all as
hilarious at three o'clock in the morning."

Her most satisfying work came with the
badly disfigured and the amputees, many
of whom she sent to Dr. Howard Rusk,
who headed an important Air Force re-
habilitation program in the States. "I'd
try to impress the boys with this," Made-
leine explains solemnly. "I'd tell them we
were going to take the word 'cripple' right
out of the dictionary. They were going to
have a job, drive a car, hold their girl.
They were skeptical, at first. The ones
who had girls were sure they would never
look at them again. I'd say, 'Listen, you
tell your girl Madeleine Carroll will date
you any time.' It seemed to help."

Many of those who enjoyed Madeleine's
excellent performance in the smash
Broadway play, "Goodbye, My Fancy," in
1948, found themselves wondering if the ^
play's references to Life Magazine had any
bearing on her marriage to the publisher
of that periodical. "The answer is no,"
says Madeleine. "Andrew and I met for
the first time in 1940. It was on a Pan-
American Clipper out of Portugal. Hitler
was on the march. I was feeling miser-
able. Andrew started talking to me and I
soon realized his mood was as dark as
mine. He had been managing the Paris
office of Time and was on his way back to
the States. We talked all through the
night."

They had no way of knowing then, these
two, that eventually fate would intend
them for one another. Her own happiness
sometimes makes Madeleine feel a bit
guilty about Dr. Anne Gentry: "She's a
lonely figure, in a way. I hope she'll mar-
ry again."

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RADIO
MIRROR

DECEMBER, 1957

MIDWEST EDITION

VOL. 49, NO. 1

Ann Mosher, Editor
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor
Claire Safran, Associate Editor
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor

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

PEOPLE ON THE AIR

No Fooling (Ed Wynn) 3

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 4

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 6

TV Radio Mirror Awards for 1957-58 (final Gold Medal ballots) 32

Goodbye to 57 Pounds! (Dorothy Olsen) by Harold Baron 34

Lady Luck Pitched a Curve (Danny Costello) by Helen Bolstad 36

Perry Como : The Pied Piper of TV by Martin Cohen 38

Why Do Women Hate to Be Called Housewives?

(Arlene Francis) by Gladys Hall 42

Elvis Presley's Fight for a Private Life by Lilla Anderson 44

You Asked For It (Art Baker) by Maurine Remenih 46

Hamburgers Hot ! (Ralph Camargo's recipes) 50

The Voices of Mystery (True Detective Mysteries, Treasury Agent,

Gang Busters, Secrets Of Scotland Yard, Counterspy) 52

Love at Second Glance (Mary Lou Harrington) by Dora Albert 56

Romance in a Whirlwind (Patrick O'Neal) by Frances Kish 58

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR

The Greatest $64,000 Category of All (Hal March) by Dianne Scott 20

Getting to Know Him (Patti Page) by Betty Etter 24

Western Giant (James Garner) by Gordon Budge 26

That Sentimental Softie: Frank Sinatra by Maxine Arnold 28

YOUR LOCAL STATION

You Can't Keep a Good Man Down . ( WGN, WGN-TV) 8

The Record Players: There Oughta Be a Word by Josh Brady 10

Fabulous Finch (WJIM, WJIM-TV) '. 12

Guy on the Go (KDAL, KDAL-TV) 14

Let's Dance! (KTVH) 15

Life Begins at Midnight (John J. Miller) 18

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES

Information Booth 11

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 13

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 16

Movies on TV 17

TV Tattle-Tale 44B

Beauty: Dashing Lady (Haila Stoddard) by Harriet Segman 60

Cover portrait of Perry Como by Art Selby of NBC-TV

BUY YOUR JANUARY ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE DECEMBER 5

- fc PUBLISHED MONTHLY by Macfadden

.*"D Publications, Inc., New York, N. Y.

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RE-ENTERED as Second-Class Matter, June 28, 1954,
at the PostOffice at New York, N. Y., under the Act of
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Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group.

NO FOOLING

Life begins at 70 as Ed Wynn
still makes 'em laugh — and cry.

"W/"hen Ed Wynn decided to play it
straight, after fifty -four of the
funniest years in vaudeville, theater,
radio and television, it was on the ad-
vice of his son Keenan. "Even a rail-
road track doesn't last fifty -four
years," said Keenan, "and that's made
of steel." Keenan meant the comic
value of his dad's trick inventions and
funny clothes. Today, comedians are
wearing what both Wynns, father and
son, call "Oi-vay League clothes." . . .
So, in a bit of inspired casting, Ed
appeared in the film, "The Great
Man." "I used to spend twenty -four
hours a day thinking of how to make
people laugh," Ed says. "Now I have
to think of how to make them cry."
Since then, Ed has appeared in a
number of outstanding roles on TV,
will soon be seen in the Warner Bros,
film of "Marjorie Morningstar," and
was the first all-time great to be hon-
ored on Texaco Command Appear-
ance. He even does some comedy —
"but without the funny clothes" — as
in, for example, his November 2 guest
shot with Perry Como. Only Broad-
way isn't likely to see Ed — not with
four grandchildren ordering com-
mand appearances in California. . . .
At 70, Ed hasn't made a comeback.
He's launched a completely new ca-
reer. The old one started when Ed
sold ladies' hats, his father's product,
and made other salesmen flip their lids
— by clowning in them. Soon, the boy
from Philadelphia was on stage as
"The Boy With the Funny Hat." He went
on to become the only American on
the opening bill of the Palace and —
when the newly -installed lights that
announced the acts failed — the first
emcee in the United States. He wrote,
produced and starred in a long series
of hit Broadway revues and comedies.
At one time, he spent $800,000 of his
own money to make himself known
as "The Perfect Fool." "Then I went
on radio to become Texaco's 'Fire
Chief,' " Ed laughs, "and in one week,
the original trade-name was forgot-
ten." Ed considers his talent as a gift.
"Why, I had a brother," he grins,
"who couldn't even whistle."

•••••••••••••••••••••a

•••••«••••••••

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WHAT'S NEW ON

Feting Ed Sullivan: Mickey Hargitay,
Jayne Mansfield, the Jack Bennys.

Baby Susanna steals scenes from mom
Sale Storm, ZaSu Pitts, Roy Roberts.

Par for Groucho Marx as he has the
last laugh about Ed Sullivan's golf.

For What's New On
The East Coast, See Page 6

By BUD GO ODE

Walt Disney, after filming the in-
troductions for the season's Disneyland
shows, got himself a butch haircut.
Now it's hard to tell him apart from
one of his youthful Mouseketeers.

Frank Sinatra's 17-year-old daugh-
ter Nancy drives a pink Thunderbird.
Both her mother and Frank took re-
cent trips to Europe. Nancy had a
chance to go, but refused both offers,
saying, "Nope, I want to wait until I'm
older — then I can appreciate it."

James Garner, on the Maverick set,
had a hard time keeping from being
embarrassed kissing actress Karen
Steele, right in front of director Budd
Boetticher and crew — Karen's direc-
tor Boetticher's gal! . . . Garner was
surprised at his popularity in the War-
ner's commissary — all the stars have
been coming over to his luncheon table
telling him how much they liked Mav-
erick. "And a year ago," he said, sur-
prised, "I couldn't get anyone to talk
to me."

Guy Mitchell and his Danish bride
Else moved in with Guy's family on
their San Fernando ranch while wait-
ing for their own home. Guy loves to
cowboy it and is teaching Else to
throw a rope around one of his Dad's
fat steers. He's also hoping to hang a
lariat on a fat rating.

Alice Backes, who plays John For-
sythe's secretary in Bachelor Father,
learned shorthand in high school and
hasn't forgotten it. In fact, when John
dictates to her on the show, she actu-
ally takes it down. "Never know when
it might come in handy again," she
says.

The mother of Tony Dow (he'sWal-
ly on Leave It To Beaver) was once a
Mack Sennett bathing beauty. . , .
Eight-year-old Jerry Mathers, Beav-
er on Leave It To Beaver, loved his
recent summer vacation. "We went
swimming nearly every day," he en-
thuses, "and I got a new bike, it's
black and white. And I caught a toad!"
. . . Jerry has a sister, name of Mari-
lyn, whom everybody calls Susie; and
a brother named Mark, whom all call
Jimmy. Nobody knows why Mark is
called Jimmy — but Marilyn nick-
named herself. When she was two
years old, she liked the neighbors'
mongrel dog, Susie. So there you are.

At a recent Hollywood party for Ed
Sullivan, Ernie Kovacs arrived a lit-
tle late, wearing a sport shirt in two
shades of yellow. Said John Forsythe,
"Ernie, I love your new pajama top."
- George Burns proudly recounts the
behavior of his two granddaughters,
Liza, 1, and Laurie, 3. He beams as he
describes Liza madly pushing Laurie
around in the baby carriage. That's

what the man said — George, we mean.

Gale Storm says her one-year-old
baby, Susanna, had been lying around
the house long enough and they de-
cided to put her to work. Susanna will
be seen in one of Gale's Oh! Susanna
series. Says Gale, "Susanna's mad be-
cause I have to get her a social se-
curity number before I can deposit
money in her account." The day the
baby finished filming, Gale's two
youngest sons, Peter and Paul, started
on the next show. "I was lonesome for
the children," says Gale, "and the pro-
ducer is trying to keep me happy by
bringing the kids to the set. I know
the boys are happy with the money
they're making, because now we can
afford to double their allowances."

Art Linkletter of CBS-TV's House
Party reports that when one of the
children on the show was asked whom
he'd like for a mother or father he re-
plied, "I'd like to have you for a daddy
and Jayne Mansfield for a mother."
When Art asked why he'd made such
a choice, the youngster said, "Because
Jayne Mansfield is so beautiful all
over. I thought you'd appreciate that."

At a dinner party which CBS-TV
gave for Ed Sullivan, Groucho Marx
arrived wearing light-blue coat and
pants, black vest, blue-black loafers
and his lovely wife, Eden, on his arm.
He ran straight up to Ed and started
handwrestling. When Jayne Mansfield
arrived, she kissed Groucho. He
blushed. Groucho??? When he re-
covered, Groucho asked Ed how his
golf game was. "In the 80' s," said the
solemn one. Quipped the Grouch, "Not
bad for nine holes."

Lois Linkletter says that, every
time she and Art take a vacation trip
with Bob Cummings and his wife
Mary, the Cummings' have a new
baby. They are all scheduled for a
mid-winter Acapulco vacation, says
Lois. She wouldn't be surprised if the
Cummings children number six by
the end of 1958, which will surpass the
Linkletters' total of five. Mary Cum-
mings says she'd like a sixth, too.

When Jack Benny arrives at a
party, the orchestra frequently breaks
into "Love in Bloom." Benny says, "It
embarrasses me. I don't know whether
to smile and bow, because they really
might not have seen me and just
played the tune accidentally."

Tommy Sands will take his own
show on the road between January 15
and 20. Tommy insisted prices be
scaled from $1.50 top for the first few
rows to 75^ in the back to keep within
reach of all teenagers. They're the
ones he'll be playing for and Tommy's
not trying to pull an Elvis Presley and

THE WEST COAST

Jew talent? Senior squeezes the accordion, but Lawrence Welk, Jr., strums a
guitar as he rehearses "Farewell My Coney Island Baby" with the Lennon Sisters.

make a million overnight. . . . Tommy
has already spent some of the profits
by sending two dozen American
Beauty roses to Molly Bee every day
she was in bed with pneumonia.

Larry Welk, Jr. and his four pals,
the Lennon Sisters, spend every free
moment on the nearby Venice Beach
— rain or shine. As a result of wiling
away the hours during their beach
picnics, Larry and two of the Lennons,
Kathy and Peggy, have worked up a
fine trio. Their specialty is "Farewell
My Coney Island Baby" and it won't
be long before they'll debut it on Papa
Welk's Saturday-night show.

The stars have favorite shows. Clau-
dette Colbert's is Telephone Time on
ABC-TV. She thinks host Dr. Frank
Baxter is a dear. She likes the show so
well she called to ask producer Jerry
Stagg if he could find a property for
her. Stagg, so happy to get Claudette
in one of her infrequent television ap-
pearances, said to take her pick. You
;can see Claudette playing Mary Rob-
jerts Rinehart in "Novel Appeal" on
I December 3.

Lyle Bettger, who stars in the
Court Of Last Resort, recalls the ten-
year period when he first started act-
ing and appeared on the Broadway
stage in nothing but flops. In 1937,
Lyle remembers, he earned only $320.

Twenty years later, he earned that
much in one morning.

Walter Winchell, filming on the
old Paramount-Sunset lot, complains
that, though he's on a diet, the bulk
of his Walter Winchell File shows
have him seated in the Stork Club.
"I've had two breakfasts, and half a
dinner already," he complains, "and
the day is only half over. At this rate,
I'll never lose any weight." . . . Win-
chell's granddaughter, by the way, is
due in December.

John Conte borrowed a Brownie
camera to shoot some pix of wife,
Ruth, and she, in turn, shot some of
John. They didn't expect much of
their first amateur efforts, but the pix
turned out so well that they went
down to a camera shop the next day
and each got a new $289 Rolleiflex.

Alfred Hitchcock's CBS video
show will be seen in France and Ger-
many before the year is out, with a
Japanese outlet also being planned.
Hitch, an accomplished linguist, will
do his own lead-ins in the French
and German shows . . . but Japanese!

John Scott Trotter continues to
lose weight. This summer he went
from 285 lbs to 198 — buying a new
wardrobe in the process. As John
Scott gets thinner, his tailor gets fatter
— around the wallet.

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WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST

By PETER ABBOTT

Million-dollar deal would have left Sid Caesar with time on his hands.
He preferred to make up for lost laughs in a new show with Imogene Coca.

Lost song will be the theme on Telephone Time as Hoagy Carmichael and
Walter Winchell re-tell the tale of "I Get Along Without You Very Well."

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

Cool & Far Out: Hugh O'Brian will
be in N.Y.C. this month. Will he re-
create his romance with that June
Taylor dancer? . . . The gal listed in
TV credits as Judy Lewis is Loretta
Young's daughter. Note the physical
resemblance. . . . Strong bidding for
glamorous Jane Russell as guest sing-
er. .. . Dilemma this season: So many
musicals that singing stars will be
playing what amounts to a "TV
vaudeville circuit." Dean Martin ex-
plained why he turned down thirteen
TV shows at NBC. For every guest
star who sang on his show he'd have
to return the favor, which would
mean doing twenty-six shows. . . .
Sylvania Electric, which pioneered
in shortening the picture tube, has,
as an ultimate target, a TV receiver
that will be no more than four inches
deep. You'll be able to hang it on the
wall next to your Picasso. ... To
collect almost a million dollars for the
next seven years, all Sid Caesar had
to do was sit tight and, at the very
most, do two or three "specials" a
year for NBC. But Sid wanted to do
a regular weekly show. When NBC
couldn't find a bankroller, Sid ter-
minated the contract. ABC -TV had
better luck in the sponsor hunt. Mad-
ame Helena Rubinstein enters the TV
arena for the first time, as sponsor of
the reunion of Caesar and his original
video foil, Imogene Coca. Starting
January 26, they'll be seen Sundays at
9 P.M. over ABC-TV. . . . Julie La
Rosa, so depressed when wife Rory
lost her first baby early in pregnancy,
is chipper again. Target date for the
stork this time is April.

Short & Sassy: Confidential to Ed
Sullivan: Steve Allen showing signs
of confidence and planning six weeks
off next summer for a European vaca-
tion. This is unusual: Steve has never
been out of the U.S.A. . . . You can't
say that Godfrey holds grudges. Nell
Van Ells, who has subbed for Tony
Marvin, is Phyl McGuire's former
husband and figured in some of those
front-page stories a couple years
back. Phyl was pleased that her ex
got a break. By the by, Arthur will
be in Chicago this month. . . . Jerry
Lewis explodes on TV on Election
Day, November 5. Jerry's final TV
show last season got lousy reviews,
but he points with pride at 200,000
letters of praise he got from the pub-
lic. . . . Everyone on the Phil Silvers
show is overweight. Reason is that
feeling so rare in an actor's life: Se-
curity. . . . And yardbird Doberman
(Maury Gosfield) will have a net-
work kiddie show, in addition to other
duties. . . . Jack Barry's separation
continues, but no move has been made
to make it legal and there's still hope
of reconciliation. It can happen.
Lovely Bess Myerson, in the same
miserable mess last year, is now hap-

Sugarfoot Will Hutchins doesn't like people who
get lost in the crowd. He himself isn't likely to.

Here's Frank Blair's family-size family! Front: Bill, Frank, wife
Lil, Patricia, Theresa, Paul. Rear: Mary, Tom, John, and Mike.

pily reconciled. . . . Mel Allen cele-
brates his twentieth anniversary as a
sportscaster and his forty-fourth an-
niversary as a bachelor. . . . Jean Gil-
lespie, who plays a teenager, Marge
Davis, in Young Doctor Malone, is also
playing Esther Hunter, the mother of
six, on Ma Perkins. . . . We didn't hear
it, but they report that when Randy
Merriman asked a contestant, "Do
you take your wife out often?" the
man answered, "I take her every-
where but it's no use. She always
finds her way back."

Big, Big, Big Family: No one ceases
to wonder at the size of Frank Blair's
family. His oldest boy is 21; his
youngest a baby of six months. In
between, there are six others. "We
have two platoons," Frank says, "the
growing and the grown." Wife Lil has
only one maid helping her with 13
rooms and eight kids, but says she
has plenty of spare time even though
the family is seldom split up. The
kids prefer the home fires. "Once we
sent the older boys to Scout camp for
three weeks," she recalls. "After a
few days they wrote that if we didn't
come for them, they'd hitchhike home.
And when the eldest went off to a
National Guard camp for a month, we
figured we wouldn't be seeing much of
him. He was forty miles away, but
somehow he got home for dinner al-
most every night." Lil notes that she
felt a little self-conscious last time she
reported to the obstetrician. "I'm forty
and that seemed old for pregnancy,
but the new baby has made me feei

younger, happier and look better."
Frank Blair, around the home, is just
as soft-spoken and intellectual as he
is on the Garroway show. "Instead of
speaking sharply to the kids when
they're in the wrong," Lil says, "he
sits down and talks to them for up to
two hours." The family shares an en-
thusiasm for boating. Frank, who has
5,000 flying hours, is helping his older
boys get their wings. He is also en-
thusiastic about rock 'n' roll. "Lil and
I took dancing lessons three years
ago and now enjoy dancing to the beat
as much as the kids." Amazingly,
neither Frank nor Lil grew up in large
families. He was an only child. She
had a sister. About plans for further
expansion, Lil said, "I don't know. If
I had been told 22 years ago, when we
married, that I would have an eighth
child at forty, I wouldn't have believed
it. We planned on only five."

Ready, Aim, Plop: Lee Vines, Robert
Q's announcer, now turning up in
dramatic roles. Had lead in CBS
Workshop and role in Second Mrs.
Burton. . . . This season Garry Moore
plans the all-time giveaway. For a
weekend, he will give away the entire
cast, including himself, Ken, Durward,
Denise, et al. . . . Garry very proud
of older son, Mason. Lad put off entry
into Harvard to accept a scholarship
in England. One of three boys chosen.
. . . Singers on Hit Parade get $750
weekly, not high pay so far as TV
goes, but it means lots of exposure to
the public. . . . Little Lu Ann Simms,
ex-Godfreyite, making TV comeback

via kiddie circuits. Will be a regular
with Captain Kangaroo. Lu's baby,
Cindy, is now two and Lu reports,
"She's enthralled when she sees me on
TV, but howls the twenty-five min-
utes it takes for me to get back to the
apartment. I wonder what she thinks
happened to me." . . . Now that Jaye
P. Morgan's divorce from actor Mike
Biano is final, New York columnists
keep marrying her off to everyone she
dates.

Sweet Sugarfoot: Kind of a Tab
Hunter type is Will Hutchins, tall,
slender dirty -blond who stars in title
role of Sugarfoot, new ABC-TV West-
ern. Says Hutch, "I'd never been on a
horse or held a gun before, but I've
always wanted to be an actor." Hutch,
25 and six-one, was born and raised
in L.A., studied at Pomona and
U.C.L.A. First time in Manhattan and
excited. "I'd like to live here. I was
in a restaurant (Lucky Pierre's) last
night where they broiled meat with a
blow-torch. How about that? And the
jazz here is just great." Besides Louis
Armstrong and Billie Holliday, Hutch
has a taste for eccentric foods. Like
bean soup with a splash of cottage
cheese or a health cocktail called "Live
Longer" that includes fruit juices,
wheat germ, soy beans, blackstrap
molasses, sunflower seeds, etc. "It
keeps up my energy," he explained,
then complained, "Everyone asks me
about girls. I guess I'll have to date
more. Tell, you my type. I flipped for
Audrey Hepburn. I guess I like the
type of girl (Continued on page 13)

Ted Thome's own story has

as much human interest as any he has

ever reported for WGN and WGN-TV

A bout with polio changed the course of Ted Thome's life. It meant
a new career and an early start for Chicago's popular Late News man.

You Can't

When the royal romance of Grace Kelly .
was taking first place in space among wire
services, newspapers and magazines, it
received a curt wrap-up from Ted Thorne,
who reports the 6 o'clock news on WGN
Radio and the Late News on WGN-TV. "I'm
sure everyone has heard enough of the
Grace Kelly story," said the Chicago newsman,
"so we'll just drop it for now . . ." By the
time Ted had signed off, every light on the
switchboard was lit by calls from irate women
accusing Ted of being heartless and inhuman.
The next night, Ted went on the air and
explained that he himself was the father of
two children and had nothing against romance.
The switchboard lit up again, this time
with masculine voices objecting to this stand
and praising his first one. "Well," said
Ted, "there's nothing like experience in
this business." ... Of experience, Ted has
plenty. One of the youngest of the country's
major newscasters, he had an early start.
John T. (Ted) Thorne was an active youth
aiming at a career in professional athletics
when he suddenly found himself crippled by
an attack of polio during the summer of 1942.
If Ted couldn't participate, he decided he'd
write about sports. He began with his school
paper. Then the Michigan City, Indiana
News Dispatch invited the seventeen-year-old
boy to become their sports editor.
So the crippling disease that had struck Ted
turned him into the youngest sports editor of
any daily newspaper in the country. . . . Ted
took time out for Indiana University, then
became a news writer for radio stations and,
after a while, an on-the-air newscaster and
also deejay. Among the highlights of his news
career are included interviews with candidates
in the last presidential race, the Whiting,
Indiana oil refineries fire, and the taping of a
murderer's confession at the scene of the
crime. This last interview took place even
before police had had the opportunity
of questioning the suspect. In the excitement
of this scoop, Ted, with the corpse lying
right there in the street, kept referring
breathlessly to the "alleged dead man."
. . . Ted and his wife Nancy live in New
Buffalo, Michigan, in a five-room bungalow
set on a half-acre of trees and shrubs.
During the summer, Ted often takes Jeffery
Lee, 5, and Deborah Jo, 2, to the beach
before he leaves for work. In cooler weather,
there's an indoors romp. . . . Ted's manner is
friendly and he has developed the pattern
of winding up each broadcast with a humorous
or human-interest story. His favorite
Christmas story is of a fourteen-year-old
girl from an orphanage who had saved her
money all year and finally accumulated $35 to
buy presents for all the other children at
the orphanage. But, while she was shopping
downtown, her purse was snatched. She
called WGN for help, and Ted broadcast the
story. Listeners sent in more than $200
— and all in good time for the presents to -arrive
at the orphanage on Christmas Day. "These,"
says Ted, "are the rewards of being
a newsman." For Ted Thorne, a good man
whom even polio couldn't keep down, the
rewards will continue to be many.

■

Keep A Good Man Down

Story time comes early in the day for Nancy, young Jeffery Lee and Deborah
Jo, and Ted. The man of the house leaves for work after lunch and comes home
after midnight. Below, the four Thornes get a headstart on Christmas, as well.

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THE RECORD PLAYERS

Four of your favorite deejays
alternate in this space. This month, it's
Josh Brady of WBBM in Chicago

Nowadays, singer Bill Lawrence
left) has Breakfast With Brady.

oughta t>

Word

By JOSH BRADY

The psychiatrists must have a word
for it. This business of giving a
thought to someone you haven't seen
or heard from in a long time — and
then having this person pop up shortly
thereafter — well, it happens so often
that, if they don't have a name for it,
they should . . . It's not exactly
telepathy. It happened to me again
recently.

I was perusing the new record LPs
that had arrived in the music library
here at CBS in Chicago and came
across a new one called "In the Mood
for Love," with a picture of Bill
Lawrence on the cover. And it oc-
curred to me that I hadn't seen or
heard much of this lad since he was
the hit of the Godfrey show back
around 1949. I knew he had gone
into service, but I wasn't convinced
he'd become a career man in the
service. What the heck had happened
to Bill Lawrence? Well, it was only
a matter of hours, later the same day,
when this thing the psychiatrists
should have a name for actually hap-
pened to me. I was informed that I
had a new singer on my Breakfast
With Brady show starting next Mon-
day. And when I was told it would
be Bill Lawrence, I got that old feel-
ing . . . The psychiatrists should have
a name for it.

I met Bill the next day and began

to inquire about the Bill Lawrence

story. Bill is about twenty -nine years

of age. People think he is a lot older

T because it seems so long ago that he

v was with Godfrey. Actually that was

from about 1948 to '50 . . . but he was
very young then. Bill began singing
when he was about five years of age
and he still recalls singing "My
Reverie" at the walkathons in his
home town of East St. Louis. He
studied voice at the age of fourteen
and attended East Side High in St.
Louis. He numbers among the three
mistakes of his career the fact that he
passed up two scholarships to get
into the singing business quickly — he
earned a dramatic scholarship plus a
music scholarship at the University
of Illinois. His first big break was the
local talent contest he won while
visiting a brother out in California.
As a result of this contest, he was
hired by the late Jimmy Dorsey.

Any embarrassing moments in your
career, Bill? "Well, yes, the time I for-
got the words to 'Ballerina' while
singing with Dorsey at the Palladium
in Los Angeles. I got panicky and
blurted right out, 'I've forgotten the
words!' " I'm sure that, at this stage
of the game, Bill still forgets words,
but he'll hum or make up new lyrics
and most listeners won't even notice.

After the Jimmy Dorsey stint, Bill
Lawrence won the Godfrey Talent
Scouts show and, as a result, Godfrey
gave him a spot on his regular show.
This was back in 1948 and lasted until
Bill went in the service in 1950.

Bill enjoyed the Godfrey show
very much and thinks very highly of
Mr. Godfrey. Bill says he was never
fired from the Godfrey shows — he left
to enter the service. Furthermore,

according to Bill, it was of his own
volition that he did not return to the
Godfrey shows after service, because
he says he did have the invitation.
And, by the way, Bill calls this that
third mistake he has made in his
career — the fact that he didn't go
back with Godfrey. He claims he got
a little bad management advice.

Bill Lawrence was the victim of the
oblivion that befalls so many who go
into the personal-appearance field.
That's where he has been up until
now. And somehow, when a once-
prominent artist, gets lost for a while,
a lot of unfair stories sometimes crop
up. Like the one about the radio
announcer who thought the mike was
off. (They're even telling that one
about me back in my home town of
Duluth. ) Bill is as fine a chap as you'll
run into. He's a few years older and
a few pounds — not too many — heavier,
just as handsome and as cooperative
as you'll find them. He's been en-
gaged a couple times, but is still
single.

And now that he's back on radio as
a part of the all-live morning spec-
tacular, from 6 to 9 every morning on
WBBM, he's coming back real strong.
He's on the station that gave this
country such stars as Patti Page, the
Andrews Sisters, Dale Evans, Janette
Davis, Les Paul, Buddy Clark . . .
And, oddly enough, ten years after
his stint with Godfrey, he's on the
Breakfast With Brady show in Chi-
cago at 8:45 A.M. . . . right before
Godfrey.

Josh Brady is heard over WBBM in Chicago, each Monday through Friday, on Breakfast With Brady, 8:45 A.M.; Eloise And Josh. 10:30 A.M.:
Josh And Eloise, 3:15 P.M.; and Take A Break, 3:45 P.M. He's heard Saturday, from 10:30 to 11:30 A.M., and Sunday, from 9:05 to noon.

INFORMATION BOOTH

Confidentially — a Dick

Please give me some information about

the TV Richard Diamond, David Janssen.

T. C, Somerville, Mass.

Talent will out! In the case of David
Janssen, star of CBS-TV's Richard Dia-
mond, Private Detective, talent "outed"
very early. At six months, he was "prettiest
baby" in his home town of Naponee, Ne-
braska, and not long after that he went "on
tour" — a stage baby accompanying his
mother, who was in the cast of "Rio Rita"
and other shows. . . . David grew up back-
stage and loved it. He learned to play
piano and accordion and, altogether, ac-
quired as much theatrical know-how during
those childhood years as many stage vet-
erans pile up in decades of trouping. . . .
In Hollywood, after his mother remarried,
David studied the three R's and made
twice as many movies. The day he grad-
uated from Fairfax High, he put on his
first "straw hat" — or was it a sou'wester? —
and took off East for a season of summer
stock in Maine. Two Broadway plays he
was cast for never opened, so back West,
some more movie work and then the Army's
Special Services division for two years.
After discharge, he was cast as an Army
captain in a Warner's film being shot at
Fort Ord — his old camp. The newly ac-
quired bars at the shoulder brought him
all kinds of good-natured hazing from his
old buddies — all enlisted men, naturally.
. . . Television was beginning to pick up
the drift of Janssen's talent when Dick
Powell, who played Richard Diamond on
radio, happened to notice his work in
the movie, "Lafayette Escadrille." Powell
tested 50 actors for the part of Diamond
on TV, but Janssen won out easily. ... A
bachelor, David lives at home with his
parents. He's looking for a girl with "good
common sense" who will love him for him-
self alone — not his publicity value. David
is six feet tall, 175 pounds, with brown

Perry Mason's legman (William Hopper, right) readies for action in tense conver-
sation with Perry (Raymond Burr). Hopper's own life reads like top adventure fiction.

Dick Powell, David (Dick) Janssen are
radio and television "Richards," too.

eyes and hair. This "private dick" actually
was named Richard by his parents, but
changed name to David for professional
use. Janssen enjoys keeping up with a
heavy reading schedule, and follows "most
sports."

Graham Feature

Compliments and salutations on this
month's (October's) issue of TV Radio
Mirror for the many interesting resumes
of our popular and entertaining stars. But
especially commendable was the feature
story on Billy Graham and his family. . . .
Billy Graham's religion has helped so many
people — especially young people — by tak-
ing the stuffiness out of religion, helping
them to know faith is something to be
lived with day by day, something which
can be applied to all our problems, if it's
only given the chance. The story on the
Graham family does much to prove this.
Mrs. L. R., Fredricton, N. B., Canada

Calling All Fans

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

Mouseketeers Fan Club, c/o Sherrie
Bargatze, 3802 Murphy Rd., Nashville 9,
Tennessee.

Future Stars Fan Club, c/o Carolyn
Reaves, 5305 Acadia Terrace, Fairfield,
Alabama.

Sal Mineo Fan Club, c/o Lois La Char-
ity, 31 South 5th Street, Zanesville. Ohio.

It's No Secret

Please write about William Hopper,

who is Perry Mason's contact, Paul Drake.

E. S., Cleveland, Ohio

It's no secret Perry Mason's right-hand
man is a private eye. And many people
know that this "eye," in private life, is
William Hopper, veteran film and TV
actor. Bill has had a personal life as
varied and adventurous as any Erie Stanley
Gardner could ever dream up for Drake.
An actor before World War II, when Pearl
Harbor put a violent period to our neu-
trality, Bill enlisted in the Navy and served
in the South Pacific with the O.S.S. under-
water demolition teams. Then, a much-
decorated hero returned to Hollywood and
a salesman's life for eight years — till a
Warner Bros, director signed him for "The
High and the Mighty." In "Rebel Without
a Cause," he was Natalie Wood's father.
On TV, Bill has appeared on Warner
Bros* Presents and Cheyenne.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's
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.

FABULOUS
FINCH

They like to call him
"Michigan's Arthur Godfrey," but
Howard Finch has a special way
of his own on WJIM and W JIM-TV

Howard's a veteran, a veep — and a man who'll try any-
thing. In a diving suit, he explored WJIM's new pool.

At home, Howard charcoals a steak for Jane and daughter
Debbie. Dachshunds Hilda and Hansel wait for the scraps.

A junior, home-grown edition of Arthur Godfrey —
that's how Michigan thinks of Howard Finch of
Station WJIM and WJIM-TV in Lansing. The resem-
blance is there. Godfrey has curly, sandy -red hair. So
does "Howdy" Finch. Likewise the freckles. Both have
originality, personality and versatility. Godfrey will
try anything, from letting an elephant bring a paw down
on his chest to playing bass fiddle with the Vagabonds.
Finch is not a man to balk, either, whether it's climbing
into a diving suit to explore the pool at the new WJIM
Country House or subbing on a cooking show and creat-
ing "Shrimp a la Finch." Howard goes Arthur one better
in the music department, for he not only plays a very
good ukulele, but also a bit of violin and piano, a very
fine clarinet — and, in a pinch, can sit in with the trap
drums. ... A native of Battle Creek, Howard Finch was
one of America's International Oratorical Champions at
age sixteen and won himself a trip to South America.
One of his earliest radio associates was Joe Kelly, with
whom he put on the first Quiz Kids show in Battle Creek.
Soon after, Howard joined the staff of Lansing's WJIM,
and he is now vice president of Gross Telecasting, Inc.,
the basis for operation of both WJIM and WJIM-TV. . . .

At one time or another, and often simultaneously, How-
ard has been a writer, director, salesman, producer,
sportscaster, newscaster, emcee. Perhaps the favorite
Finch is the friendly, philosophical one that carries over
from his famous Linger Awhile broadcasts to his current
Moments Of Meditation, seen daily at 8: 55 A.M., and his
Goodnight Prayer, the sign-off for both WJIM Radio and
TV. Howdy adds a little foolishness to the philosophy as
he hosts Country House Matinee, a daily variety and
audience-participation show scheduled at 3:30 P.M. He
telecasts the Noon News and also airs all the Michigan
State football games for a nine-station hookup that is
called the Michigan National Network. . . . Howard's
philosophy is the homey, family kind, and he practices it
with a family of his own. He met his wife Jane when
she joined the WJIM staff as an executive secretary.
They now have a daughter, Debbie, who's eight, and a
son, Duncan Howard, born last August. As the young-
sters grow up, they can catch up on what made their
dad a part of almost every family in listening and view-
ing distance. A book will soon be published that will
give permanent form to the hundreds of most-requested
bits of humor and philosophy of the fabulous Finch.

WHAT'S NEW — EAST

(Continued from page 7)

who is spontaneous, good-humored,
completely herself. I don't like people
who just go along with the crowd."

TV in Hi-Fi: The King, Bing Crosby,
coming back fresh this year in radio
and TV, with new and very persuasive
crooning of "Avalon," "I'm Con-
fessin'," "Georgia on My Mind," and
others backed up with the radio trio
of Buddy Cole. Decca calls it "Bing's
New Tricks." . . . And the Durante
duets with Hope, Crosby, Cantor,
Helen Traubel and Peter Lawford that
made TV history have been waxed
into a Decca Album, "Club Durante."
He's so great. . . . Sweetie Gisele
MacKenzie has responded to a demand
for an album of romantic French
songs. As a native of Winnipeg, she
sings French and English with equal
fluency. This charming assortment is
whipped cream and dessert all the way
and it's in a Vik album, "Mam'selle
Gisele." . . . Garroway's bright-eyed
Helen O'Connell achieved fame first
as a vocalist with Jimmy Dorsey. Her
recordings of "Gi-een Eyes," "Tan-
gerine," and "Amapola" sold a total of
seven million. Now Helen has re-
created these songs along with nine
others for Vik in a twelve-incher
called, appropriately, "Green Eyes."

Program Preview: On November 12,
a man in Philadelphia, William Hale
Thompson, will be greatly moved by a
tribute to the devotion of his deceased
wife. On TV's Telephone Time, the
story will be told how Hoagy Car-
michael came to write the famous "I
Get Along Without You Very Well."
Pressed for a new song for a radio
premiere, Hoagy found the poem, "I
Get Along, etc." in an old file. It had
been given to him by a coed at a
Kappa Kappa Gamma dance when he
was an undergraduate at Indiana.
Hoagy wrote music to the verse and
everyone thought it was great, but
then they had to have permission of
the poet. Winchell, in his radio show,
initiated the search for the writer and
they found the sorority gal had copied
the poem from a magazine. It had
been written by a housewife as an ex-
pression of her devotion to her hus-
band. Jean Thompson was located in
Philadelphia but found to be very ill.
They got her legal release, but the
truth is that she died the same eve-
ning the song premiered nationally.
Fame knocked minutes before death.

The Crystal Ball Dept.: With all the
Westerns blazing away on TV, it had
to happen. Word comes of a new series
in preparation titled Man Without A
Gun. If this trend takes hold, we'll
have "Man Without a Horse," then
"Man Without a Shirt," until eventu-
ally the cowboy is stripped down to
Tarzan's loin cloth. And then we'll
have an onslaught of jungle dramas
with heroes speaking one -syllable
words and grunting as they swing in
the trees. It can happen here.

New Patterns
for You

4774 — Ideal cover-up apron for kitchen chores.
Sew in gay cotton, contrast binding. Printed Pat-
tern in Women's Sizes. Small (36, 38) ; Medium
(40, 42); Large (44, 46); Extra Large (48, 50).
Small size takes 2 yards 35-inch. State size. 35^

9021 — Simple, becoming lines in a half-size
fashion that takes well to either dressy or casual
fabrics. Printed Pattern in Sizes 141/^-241/4. Size
16% takes 3J/2 yards 39-inch fabric. State size. 35^

9178 — Stunning two-piece dress with graceful
princess bodice. Printed Pattern in Misses' Sizes
12-20. Size 16 takes 4% yards 35-inch fabric ;
Y2 yard contrast. State size. 35^

4774

SIZES

S- 36-38

M— 40-42

L-44-46

Ex. L-48-50

Send thirty-five cents (in coin) for each pattern to: TV Radio Mirror, Pattern Depart-
ment, P.O. Box 137, Old Chelsea Station, New York 11, New York. Add five cents for
each pattern for first-class mailing. Be sure to specify pattern number and size.

CUY ON THE CO

Carl Casperson is
seen and heard over KDAL
but his busy schedule
is still hard to believe

Carl is at sixes — as to his shows and children — and in seventh heaven. June
is holding Leigh; Mary, Kay, Dean are on floor; Carl and Robert next to dad.

There's only one Carl Casperson, even if he wears three
hats over at Station KDAL Radio and TV in Duluth.
And, though all work and no play may make Jack a dull
boy, it makes Carl an outstanding entertainment figure
in the Midwest. The "no play" is a bit inaccurate, though,
for Carl somehow stretches the day to make room for a
romp with his family. . . . Behind the scenes, Carl's official
title is Program Manager of KDAL Radio. For most men,
this would be a full-time job, but Carl juggles two others
along with his desk duties. As a radio personality, he
starts each weekday with the Last Word show, at
10:35 A.M. At 3 P.M. each weekday, he presides over
Party Line, a program which Mrs. Homemaker can call
about anything from a household problem, to a recipe
she'd like to pass along, to a lost or found article. During
a typical week, anything from using bear grease to pro-
mote the growth of hair to a new cure for insomnia might
be discussed. On Saturdays, at 4 P.M., Carl is proprietor
of Music Shop, and he's back the next day with Serenade
To A Sunday, from 1 to 5 P.M. . . . Carl has been with
KDAL since 1948 and, when KDAL-TV came into being
in 1954, he simply switched on another facet of his talent.
He's seen each weekday at 10: 10 P.M. with Weather

Report and he hosts the IGA Theater each Thursday from
10: 15 to midnight .... On camera, on mike or in person,
Carl projects a friendly, "from me to you" personality.
His interest in broadcasting began as he watched with
fascination the construction of a radio station in his home
town of Ashland, Wisconsin. He was still a senior in
high school when he began his career as an announcer
at Ashland's WATW and, after being graduated from
Northland College, he continued his radio work. He went
on-the-air in Augusta, Georgia, and then in Iron Moun-
tain, Michigan, where he met and married June Kennedy,
the receptionist, bookkeeper and copywriter at the same
station where Carl was a very popular announcer. . . .
When the Caspersons arrived in Duluth, they set up
housekeeping in a small, vine-covered bungalow. They
outgrew that quickly and are now happier by the half-
dozen in an eight-room Colonial home. Carl and June
have three sons — Robert, 12, Carl, 8, and Dean, 7 — and
three daughters — Mary, 5, Kay, 4, and Leigh, 2. Carl's
hobbies include swimming, golfing, and a stamp collection
that was greatly enriched by his wartime travels for the
Merchant Marine. Without even crossing the Duluth city
line, Carl Casperson is still very much a guy on the go.

LETS
DANCE !

John Fisher hosts KTVH's
Hi-Fi Hop — but, he says,
the kids are the "stars'"

On cameras, teens take the spotlight. At home,
John and Jo Ann dance attention on baby Elaine.

Teenagers by the hundreds dance at Hi-Fi Hop's outdoor first-birthday bal

The kids are dancing again! That's the news that has Tin
Pan Alley doing handsprings — but it's news that's being
made as far away from the musical main stem as Wichita,
Kansas. Each weekday at 5 P.M., over Station KTVH,
Central Kansas teenagers fill the studio to munch on potato
chips, wash them down with soda pop and, thus stoked up
on energy, dance. At their homes, other teenagers keep
an eye on the screen and an ear tuned to the beat as they
follow in the blue-suede footsteps of their twirling contem-
poraries. All this terpsichore is called the Hi-Fi Hop and
is hosted by John Fisher, an amiable, informal fellow who
knows that the best beat comes from the heart . . . John
kids with the kids, awards prizes and keeps the rock 'n' roll
and romantic records going. The teenagers, he says, are
the show's "stars," and that's what he calls them. The TV
camera follows the dancers, focusing now on the intense
concentration of a teen's face, moving to pause a few seconds
on a pair of feminine flats moving beside two larger, heavier-
soled cordovans, catches a swirl of crinoline or the grin
of someone who's just stepped on his partner's toes. . . .
The host, of course, is the most. Born in Los Angeles, John
says his ambition always was to be on radio or TV. When
his family moved to St. Paul, John, then in high school,
tried for his first job on a teen-age deejay show. He
didn't get it! He had more success when he returned to
California to win a scholarship to Fullerton Junior College,
where he majored in music. "I studied classical singing
for four years," he relates, "Now, the only singing I do is
on the show — sparingly — and in the bathroom." ... A
stint in the Army, though, found John singing for the NCO
Club's band and then broadcasting for Air Force Radio.
When he switched back to mufti, he studied at the American
Institute of the Air in Minneapolis, then became an
announcer for KCAJ in Charles City, Iowa. At coffee breaks,
he'd go to the nearby Allen's Cafe. By the time he moved
to Wichita in 1955, John took with him the proprietor's niece,
Jo Ann Esser, as his bride. . . . The Fishers live in a com-
fortable, two-bedroom house with their infant daughter,
Elaine Rochelle. Both Jo and Elaine occasionally visit the
Hi-Fi Hop, an added treat provided by John Fisher, the
man who's taken the song-and-dance route to the hearts
of teenagers — and viewers in their post-teens, as well.

Country girl and city boy,
Shirley Jones and Pat Boone
discover a lot in common, at
the reins of a racing sulky.

MZU>MO
MIRROR

Ky 'Jm H ^^

*^i

*vi

^ " Ji-

By JANET GRAVES

A stiff? So Kovacs thinks.
But Lemmon is ribbing him.

Brando and friend Garner
compare problems in Japan.

TV favorites on

your theater screen

April Love

20th; cinemascope, de luxe color
Pat Boone's right at home in a homey,
down-on-the-farm musical that returns to
the screen the charm of such beloved pic-
tures as "State Fair." He plays a kid
who gets into trouble in Chicago and is
sent on probation to his uncle's farm.
There's an amusing clash between Pat's
city ways and the country know-how of a
pretty neighbor, Shirley Jones. And his
initiation into sulky-racing brings the
movie a tang of excitement. You'll be
hearing plenty of the tunes from the pic-
ture's score, like the melodious "April
Love" and "Give Me a Gentle Girl" and
the lively "Do It Yourself."

Sayonara

WARNERS, TECHNIRAMA, TECHNICOLOR

As lovers in this deeply touching drama,
Marlon Brando and Miiko Taka get fine
support from a pair of players well-known
on TV: James Garner, Red Buttons. The
story is set in Japan, while the Korean
War is on. There Marlon, of the U. S.
Air Force, and Miiko, of the Japanese
theater, meet and fall in love, defying
Army disapproval. Garner doffs the West-
ern get-ups of his Maverick role to play
an officer who also casts an appreciative

eye on Oriental beauty. But it is Red who
scores the surprise hit of the film. As a
comic, he's been considered through on
TV. As a dramatic actor, he begins a
new career, playing a GI devoted to his
Japanese wife.

Operation Mad BalD

COLUMBIA

You'll have a ball, as noncom Jack Lem-
mon and his pals plot to get together with
lovelies who hold commissions in the Army
Nurse Corps. (That's against the rules,
men!) Lots of the laughs in this laugh-
filled farce are supplied by Ernie Kovacs'
performance as a pompous officer, the
boys' chief obstacle. And Mickey Rooney,
often a TV performer, also shows his
all-around skill.

At Your Neighborhood Theaters

The Joker Is Wild (Paramount, Vista-
Vision) : Singer-actor Frank Sinatra uses
both talents to play Joe E. Lewis. Strong,
wry, offbeat music-drama.

The Three Faces of Eve (20th, Cinema-
Scope) : TV-trained Joanne Woodward is
an Oscar-bidder as a Southern housewife
tormented by her evil hidden self.

The Helen Morgan Story (Warners, Cine-
maScope) : Ann Blyth plays the unhappy
singer; Paul Newman and Richard Carl-
son, her men. The tunes are tops!

Showing this month

ACT OF LOVE (U.A.): Wistful romance
of World War II. Lonely GI Kirk Douglas
has an affair with Dany Robin, homeless
French girl, and the adventure turns seri-
ous. Robert Strauss is Kirk's buddy.

ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRU-
SOE (U.A.) : Splendid film version of the
beloved classic. As the most famous of
castaways, Dan O'Herlihy makes you share
each moment of solitude, desperation, peace,
courage. James Fernandez plays Friday.

AFRICAN QUEEN, THE (U.A.) : Hum
phrey Bogart's Oscar-winner teams him with
Katie Hepburn. As a disreputable river rat
and a prissy spinster, they face danger and
rind love, deep in Africa of World War I.
Funny, exciting, touching.

CANTERVILLE GHOST, THE (M-G-
M) : Pleasantly comic ghost story. In War
II, GI's including Robert Young invade the
castle haunting grounds of cowardly spook
Charles Laughton. With Margaret O'Brien.

CANYON CROSSROADS (U.A.) : Doing
a lively switch on the Western, Richard
Basehart hunts uranium instead of gold,
courts Phyllis Kirk, battles a claim-jumper
who rides a 'copter.

DEADLINE AT DAWN (RKO) : Modest
but effective suspense tale, involving dance
hostess Susan Hayward in the danger that
threatens sailor Bill Williams.

GOG (U.A.): The machines get out of
hand in this wild science-fiction item, ' as
U.S. agents Richard Egan and Constance
Dowling investigate mysterious havoc at a
space-station laboratory in New. Mexico.

HEIDI (20th): Films from Shirley Tem-
ple's heyday now return to show wliy she
was the most popular of talkie-era child
stars. In the charming juvenile story, she
is the little girl visiting grandpa (Jean
Hersholt) in the Swiss Alps.

KATHLEEN (M-G-M) : Sentimental dra-
ma takes Shirley into teen years, as a wor-
ried youngster whose rich dad (Herbert
Marshall) wants to marry a siren (Gail
Patrick). But wholesome Laraine Day is
around, too.

HOME OF THE BRAVE (U.A.) Power
ful study of race prejudice. James Edwards
is a Negro GI; Lloyd Bridges and Frank
Lovejoy, fellow soldiers on a dangerous
Pacific-island mission.

REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM

(20th) : In a light-hearted musical bearing
no resemblance to the old-time favorite
story, Shirley Temple's a resourceful orphan
who crashes radio. Her dance sequences
with Bill Robinson are highlights.

TOO LATE FOR TEARS (U.A.) : In a

rough action story, Lizabeth Scott plays a
dame who just loves money. Arthur Ken-
nedy's her honest husband; Dan Duryea, a
hood who's not as tough as Liz.

TORRID ZONE (Warners) : Rowdy,
risque, entertaining. On a Honduras ba-
nana plantation, boss Pat O'Brien slugs it
out with foreman James Cagney. Stranded
show-girl Ann Sheridan livens the plot
further, setting up rivalry.

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Li-fe Begin
* Midnight*

John J. Miller knows celebrities

by the column, but the years leading

news item was a young stranger

John and Cindy tour the town together, though she's more of
a homebody, now Gregg's on the scene. "Valentine" approves.

When the phone rings for John, it's news — anything
from celebrity capers to major or minor mayhem.

When Hollywood filmed "Sweet Smell of
Success," a picture of a columnist as a heel,
part of the kick was in trying to tag real names
to the celluloid figures. The initials J.J., by which
the anti-hero is known, and his eyeglasses —
"but only the upper part" — can be traced to John
J. Miller. "Those are the only things I can recog-
nize as being borrowed from anyone I know,"
says John. "The picture is great entertainment,
but it's science fiction." . . . Columnists aren't cads,
says John, who thinks the true picture is that of a
fellow who loves the city best from her dusk-to-
dawn hours. John's capsule reports on Broadway
are heard every hour on the hour on some seventy
radio and TV stations around the country. For
three years now, or ever since he was old enough
to get a drink in the pubs he patrols, he has been
bylining the news of his nightly vigils in the
New York Enquirer, and his column is also
syndicated in six other newspapers. "To me, what
I'm doing as a job is really play," says John.
"If it weren't my job, I'd be doing it anyway,
as often as I could." . . . John's life as a columnist
fits nicely with his marriage to Cindy, a former
singer a la Jeri Southern. The Millers generally
are on the town together until half -past one,
when Cindy returns to their East End Avenue
apartment and John continues the prowl alone
until dawn. With this schedule, they've no
complaints about their infant daughter Gregg
keeping them awake at night — it's the baby cries
at noon that might disturb the Millers, if Gregg's
arrival weren't the headline of their year. . . .
John estimates that a little more than half of
his friends are involved in show business in
some way. Some star performers, like Sammy
Davis, Jr., are close personal friends. "But that
wouldn't keep me from printing an item that might
embarrass Sammy," says John, "and what I like
about Sammy is that he understands there are
two different realms." ... At twenty-one, John
Joseph Miller is probably the youngest syndicated
Broadway columnist in the country. But he's bee:
at it since age eleven, when he compiled news
from sports pages and sold carbon copies to his
family at five cents apiece. Soon, he was selling
copies to his schoolmates, too, then adding neigh-
borhood and personality items. The column
flourished to the point where its publisher was able
to switch from carbon copies to mimeograph. By
the time Generoso Pope heard of it and hired John
for his Enquirer,' the column had a mailing list of
2,500. Seems John J. Miller was born at midnight
and has been bewitched by that hour ever since.

Can a wife hold her world together with her love?

come from different worlds, you and he. Yet always in the past . . . your love,
faith in the future, has kept you close. Secure in each other. Now though,
|>mes the real test. Your husband's brother is out to tear down the happiness
Ve built. He's ruthless . . . and you're afraid. This time, will the strength of
love be enough? This time, is there even a halfway chance to save your
arriage? You can get the whole story- even while you work-when you listen

lavtime radio. Hear OUR GAL SUNDAY on the CBS RADIO NETWORK.

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time.

,ooo

The Greatest

ry off all

Presenting Peter Lindsey March, whose picture was shown
on $64,000 Question program when he was only a few
hours old. Hal and Candy prep him for second sitting.

To Hal March, there's no question
about it. The category? Fatherhood.
And, in baby Peter, Hal and Candy
have their own little all-time winner I

By DIANNE SCOTT

Once upon a time there was a baby — a -first
baby — and in the case of Peter Lindsey, a most
unusual baby. He was on The $64,000 Question
when he was two hours old. His category was
fathers — and he had courageously chosen Hal March!

About the name Peter Lindsey, however, he
had no choice. His four-year-old brother, Stevie,
named him long before he was born.

"This child of ours would have been named
Peter if he'd turned out to be a girl. It wouldn't
have made any difference," Hal laughs now. "Stevie
has been up to his neck in girls since he was born.
He had a sister, a mommie, a nurse and, if
I was away from the house, he was surrounded

continued

"Country life is great," say Hal and Candy. They moved
from city after Peter's birth. With them are Candy's
Melissa and Steven, children by her former marriage.

The
,000 Category off all

(Continued)

by women. So, from the first, Steve was determined he
would have a brother and we would name him
Peter. He had a little friend he'd met in Central Park
named Peter — a little guy who was all boy, all
man — and that's what Stevie wanted. Not a Billy
or a Donny or anybody else."

To Stevie, this brother-to-come was very
real and very near. Hal and Candy had answered
his natural questions as honestly as they could.
"There's been no mystery — no saying the baby would
come from heaven," Hal says. "Stevie used to
come into our room every morning and visit 'Peter.'
He'd say 'hello' to Peter first, and then to Candy
and me. He would put his ear close to Candy's
tummy and say, 'Good morning, Peter.'

" 'Suppose God gives you another sister,' I'd say,
trying to prepare him.

" 'I've got one sister,' Stevie would remind me.

" 'Well, it's possible for God to give you another
one,' his mother would say.

"Stevie would think about that. Then he'd say, 'Well,
if God gives me another sister, I'm going to throw
both of my sisters out of this apartment.' He
was quite determined about it. He'd say, 'He's my
brother. And his name is Peter.'

"I think we might have had a little discussion
about it if he'd wanted to (Continued on page 79)

Kock-a-bye baby. Fond father March has proved very
handy with Peter, enjoys helping Candy care for him.

Hal March emcees The $64,000 Question, CBS-TV, Tues., 10 P.M.
EST, as sponsored by Revlon, Inc. He moderates What's It For?
NBC-TV, Sat., 10 P.M. EST, sponsored by Pharmaceuticals, Inc.

' wf

LMI

...-

Five big smiles for the camera. Loving parents Hal and Candy March, with Melissa, Peter and Steven.

Steven and Melissa, have turned into high climbers in
their own back-yard playground. Candy supervises play.

Peter Lindsey's not a member of the back-yard set as yet,
but commands plenty of attention in his own bailiwick.

£f&-

By
BETTY ETTER

Patti at Windsor Castle. Which way?
Feeding piqeons is fun! Patti in Trafalgar Square.

Next stop Paris, then Zurich. Charlie's camera took all pictures.

For Patti Page and Charles O'Curran,
their first European jaunt together
was even better than a dream come true

Her two big bags were packed, the precious green
passport was safely stowed away in her handbag,
the borrowed camera slung over her shoulder. Patti
Page took a last look at herself in the mirror and smiled.
It was a nervous smile, but a happy one, too. Six
months after their marriage, Patti and her husband,
dance director Charles O'Curran, were embarking on

their honeymoon — and Patti's long-dreamed-of trip to
Europe was about to come true.

A honeymoon, marriage counselors say, is a time set
aside after the excitement of the courtship and the mar-
riage, for a bride and bridegroom to get to know each
other. And that is exactly what it was to be for Patti
and her new husband, Charles. (Continued on page 61 )

Patti Page sings and acts as femcee on The Big Record, seen over CBS-TV, on Wednesdays, from 8 to 9 P.M. EST, as sponsored bv
Pillsbury Mills, Inc., the Kellogg Company, Armour and Company (Dial Soap), and the Oldsmobile Division of General Motors Corp.

• ■■ ■

WESTERN GIANT

Introducing James Garner, star of
Maverick, who may be a tough guy on TV,
but has a heart tied close to home

By GORDON BUDGE

In almost every young girl's life there's been a time
when she's fallen in love with some hombre who was
never meant to settle down. Such a roamer drifted
onto the ABC-TV network last month in the person
of tall, dark and handsome Bret Maverick, played
by newcomer Jim Garner. In the minds of the show's
writers, gambler Maverick is a man's man, the
kind who'll chance a bet on the last card, the fastest
horse, most killing gun or willing woman. The
series is based on Maverick's exploits as he vaga-
bonds his way from one Western town to another.
But Bret Maverick is no stereotyped Western hero:
He doesn't ride a trained white horse, wears no white
hat. In fact, the horse, an unnamed sorrel, is down-
right mean. The first day (Continued on page 66)

James Garner stars in Maverick, seen over ABC-TV, Sunday, from
7:30 to 8:30 P.M. EST, as sponsored by Kaiser Industries Corp.

Garner is a fine natural athlete, swims at Malibu Beach
whenever busy movie and TV schedule permits. Below he
appears in a scene from Warner Bros, movie "Sayonara"
with Marlon Brando, Red Buttons and actress Miyoshi Umeki.

Daring gambler Bret Maverick, central character of ABC-TV's
new series Maverick, is played by newcomer James Garner. His
tough-guy role is all an act, since in real life he is one of
the mildest of men. Above he's with wife Lois, daughter Kim.

fratvk: siinatra

The Hoboken Kid came up swinging —

to spectacular success. But his

heart is as tender as his courage

is tough — particularly, where

those three youngsters are concerned

By MAXINE ARNOLD

He moved restlessly in the school auditorium,
watching the wings with an anxious blue
eye, a father's anxious blue eye ... a fa-
mous thin fellow in a conservative suit, watching
for a familiar, bobbing ponytail attached to a fig-
ure in a bright orange-and-green ballet costume
whose performance was all-important to Frank
Sinatra. It was opening night for nine-year-old
Tina . . . her first since she'd been taking dancing
at Vilma Ebsen's School of Ballet. The recital

Though Frank and Nancy Sinatra have been divorced, since their
third baby was born in 1948, Frank is still the most devoted of
fathers. In fact, it was his love for Tina (now 9), Nancy, Jr.
(17) and Frank, Jr. (13) which inspired his current TV series.

Below, with daughter Nancy after
a trip to Australia. He has always
wanted his children to have every
advantage of education and travel.

From the first, he encouraged
young Frank and Nancy to love
music. Now he has reason to be
proud of their budding talents.

The "juniors" accompanied him to 1954
Academy Awards dinner, proved they re-
turned his love in full — with a gift
he treasures even more than his Oscar.

Continued w

Sinatra (left foreground) with Bill Henri's band at New
Jersey's Rustic Cabin in 1938 — when Harry James spotted
the singing talent destined to lead Frank to first fame.

FRANK SINATRA

(Continued)

was to be in the form of a "flower show," Tina had
announced excitedly, and she was a "California wild
poppy" . . . one of a chorus of California wild poppies.

Tina's mother had made her costume and then, at the
last moment, she'd had to be out of town. Frank Sinatra
had brought Tina — an endearing little pixie whom her
father calls "Pigeon" — to the school auditorium . . .
and now he waited anxiously for his own particular
California wild poppy to come on. . . .

It was a far different local opening from Frank Sina-
tra's own. He'd entered the film capital, termed a
"freak phenomenon" who wouldn't last. A new singer
with Benny-blue eyes, a warm, electric smile and a
sliding-trombone sound — all of them well supported by
a microphone he held like it was Marilyn Monroe. He
came to town singing "All or Nothing at All" with sexy,
long, sliding, soft notes that elicited swoons and a solid
soprano squeal from his audiences.

At the Pasadena station, mobs squealed when he ar-
rived, and loudspeakers blared his latest recordings.
Looking at Sinatra standing there in the door of the
train — a thin fellow almost eclipsed by well-padded
shoulders and a red polka-dot bow tie — you wondered
where all the music came from. Later, you were to find
the music came from a volcano of talent. It was soon
apparent Frank Sinatra knew exactly where he was
going . . . and his voice had already been there.

Once, amid all the fever and the screams and the
whole exhausting show, you'd found Frank at rehearsal
grabbing a fast lunch in front of the microphone, as
usual. He was eating a sandwich between bars of

939 — just second-from-left

Pied Pipers. But even then,

"he had a tremendous sound .

with Tommy Dorsey's

as Jo Stafford says,

. . and more than that."

1953: Return to fame — in drama, not song. But
the Hoboken Kid had to fight to win the right to
play Maggio in movie, "From Here to Eternity."

"People Will Say We're in Love," and he looked beat.

"Is it worth it?" you'd asked then. "I hope so," he'd
grinned wearily. . . .

Today — tonight — it was worth it. Sitting in the audi-
ence, Sinatra proudly watched while a little girl in green
satin and a fluff of orange tulle, accompanied by eleven
other "California poppies," did a simple classical varia-
tion on the stage at Paul Revere Junior High. An en-
dearing little girl who moved very painstakingly, as
though her whole future depended on her performance
there. Tina's father, however, had just taken care of her
future very handsomely, signing a three-year contract
with ABC-TV for $3,000,000 a year— and sixty percent
of the residuals. Long a holdout from weekly television,
Frank signed for the residuals . . . for Tina — Nancy,
Jr., 17 — Frank, Jr., 13 — and his former wife, Nancy
Sinatra. As he's said, "For years, I've been looking for
a way to get into a position to set up a trust fund for
them. This is the way I can (Continued on page 63)

The Frank Sinatra Show is seen on ABC-TV, Friday, at 9 P.M. EST, as sponsored by Chesterfield Cigarettes with Bulova Watch Company.

Proud son of Natalie and Martin Sinatra, Frank
wouldn't be "pushed around" in front of fireman
dad he idolized — as a little-known battle reveals.

Filmdom was skeptical when "Swoonatra" arrived there in
1943, at height of bobby-sox acclaim. But he was top news
to reporters — including writer Maxine Arnold (center).

Actor: Academy Award in 1954
was humble, surprising answer
to previous Hollywood critics.

Musician: Frank has conducted
orchestra on tours, as well as
for Capitol recording sessions.

Comedian: With Mitzi Saynor
"The Joker Is Wild," Frank

re-enacts life of Joe E. Lewis'.

Showman: From movies (above, with Kim Novak
in "Pal Joey") to clubs (right, at Sands Hotel
in. Las Vegas) — and now TV! Show biz wonders how
he can stand the pace. But Sinatra doesn't fal-
ter. Always in his heart, there are the children.

Vote lor Your Favorite PROGRAMS on Radio and Television

(Write name of one program in each column for each classification except
the last two designations below columns)

CLASS

Daytime Drama_
Evening Drama_

Daytime Variety.
Evening Variety_

Comedy Program
Music Program

Quiz Program.

Women's Program.

Children's Program.

Mystery or Adventure.
Western Program

Best Program on Air_
Best New Program

FAVORITE RADIO PROGRAM

FAVORITE TV PROGRAM

Favorite TV Panel Show.

Favorite Radio Record Program.

(Cut out this ballot and mail to TV KADIO MIRROR AWARDS, Box 1767, Grand Central Station.
New York 17, N.Y. It is not necessary to All in both radio and television sections of this ballot.)

Once again, your golden opportunity to
reward the personalities and programs
which have meant most to you during the
present year ... to honor your favorites
with TV Radio Mirror's highly-prized
Gold Medals, as awarded in the only
nationwide poll decided by those most im-
portant of all critics . . . the listeners and
viewers themselves! It's now the eleventh

year of this decisive balloting. And it will
be "lucky eleven" indeed, for the stars and
shows which win your votes. But the votes
must be in, to be counted, and they must
be postmarked no later than December 10,
1957 ... so that a staff of independent
tabulators can start the monumental task
of adding up your choices! Fill in your
ballots now . . . the most secret, most

Who will get the coveted annual Gold Medals as your favorite
stars and programs? The decision is yours — here is your final ballot

Vote for Your Favorite STARS on Radio and Television

(Write name of one star in each column for each classification
except last designation below column)

CLASS

FAVORITE RADIO STAR

(specify show on which star appears)

FAVORITE TV STAR

(specify show on which star appears)

Male Singer

Female Singer

Comedian

Comedienne

Dramatic Actor

Dramatic Actress

Daytime Emcee

Evening Emcee

Musical Emcee

Quizmaster

Western Star

News Commentator

Sportscaster

•

Best New Star

Favorite TV Husband and Wife Team_

(Cut out this ballot and mail to TV RADIO MIRROR AWARDS, Box 1767, Grand Central Station,
New York 17, N.Y. It is not necessary to All in both radio and television sections of this ballot.)

democratic of all ballots, since you needn't
even sign your name — just register your
honest opinions. Your votes-of-confidence
will not only give credit where credit is
due . . . for the many, many hours of en-
joyment your sets (TV and/or radio) have
been giving you . . . but will set the pace
for the editors in the months to come,
showing them just which subjects you

would most like to see covered in Ameri-
ca's top national magazine for radio and
television ... In fact, the parade of best-
loved personalities and programs will start
with the May issue of TV Radio Mirror,
which annually presents all your winners
in picture and story. . . . Vote today.
Remember, your ballots must be post-
marked no later than December 10, 1957.

Dorothy's more confident now, facing NBC Bandstand mike with
such "pros" as emcee Bert Parks and maestro Skitch Henderson.

* *

€Z>

'n>>\y il*

**&L

i J

•

* « .1

Goodbye to 57 Pounds !

Dorothy Olsen got tired of hearing people say, "You
have such a pretty face. Why don't you lose
weight?" A well-meaning photographer was the
last person who made her feel depressed by saying
it. As a result, in the pictures he snapped she looked
like a condemned prisoner who had eaten her last meal.

Dorothy, the singing schoolteacher featured on
NBC Bandstand, had a weight problem because
psychologically she was a compulsive eater. Like so
many big people who sparkle with fun and laughter, she
didn't realize that an emotional drive, not ordinary
hunger, made her eat too much. (Continued on page 76)

Dorothy sings on NBC Bandstand, as heard over NBC Radio, M-F,
10:30 to 11 A.M. and 11:05 to noon, under multiple sponsorship.
She was a winner on Name That Tune, CBS-TV, Tues., 7:30 P.M.,
sponsored by Whitehall Pharmacal Co. and Kellogg Co. (All EST)

Pretty Dorothy Olsen shed weight
through hypnosis, and learned that
handsome is as handsome — thinks

By HAROLD BARON

Small fry adored their harp-playing Today husband Ami helps Dorothy keep He's proud, too, when the tape shows
teacher — even those who had to be watch on the weight she must lose, in another inch gone. Dorothy won't tell
told why people are different sizes. order to look as lovely as her singing, measurements till she reaches her goal!

Sewing and cooking are her hobbies. Making new things to Dorothy has also switched from bulky two-piece outfits to
wear is
so long

a pleasure now. And steaks are still on her diet-
as she plays "Jack Spratt" and eats only the lean.

solid-color dresses (above, at Jr. Plenty shop) which make
her look as trim — if not so tiny — as Susi, the family cat.

Home run led Mary Truitt straight to Danny's heart.

By HELEN BOLSTAD

How does a television career start? Singer
Danny Costello, who rode a roller-coaster
route of ups and downs before reaching a
featured spot on the Arthur Godfrey shows, be-
lieves his began — not in a studio — but in a ball-
park, when third baseman Mary Truitt Peacock
lunged for a ball, missed, and sprawled flat across
a field as slick as wet green silk. Mud smeared
from the shoulder of her fresh white blouse to
the hem of her scarlet Bermuda shorts, Mary
picked herself up and glared at him. Says Danny
now, "I would never have (Continued on page 74)

Arthur Godfrefs Talent Scouts, CBS-TV, Mon., 8:30 P.M.,
is sponsored by Thomas J. Lipton, Inc., and The Toni Co.
Arthur Godfrey Time is heard on CBS Radio, M-F, 10 A.M.
—seen on CBS-TV, M-Th, 10:30 A.M.— under multiple spon-
sorship. The Ford Road Show Starring Arthur Godfrey is
heard on CBS Radio, M-F, at 5:05 P.M. (All times are EST)

Lady Luck
Pitched a Curve

But Danny Costello still scored a hit

on the Godfrey shows — because of
the pretty miss who's now his missus

Talent Scout Jan Davis helped Danny hit a musical homer on TV.

Music is their life, but baseball is still their love: Ex-pitcher Danny,
softball player Mary, and their lively "bat boys," Tommy and Danny, Jr.

Show-biz friends: Max Kendriclc (center),
Paul D'Amato of 500 Club, Atlantic City.

THE

The public writes, Perry Como
sings a heartfelt reply in
his album, "We Get Letters."
The private answer to a
nation s affection lies here —
in candid words of those who
know Como best, offstage . . .

By MARTIN COHEN

They say he has a "special magic" for
children. This little miss wouldn't use
such big words. It's really very simple:
She just follows her heart — and Como's.

PIED PIPER OF TV

Pretty "postmen" Dolores Erickson, Pat White, Dori Smith, Aura Vainio deliver mail on show's
song-request segment (Perry calls it "the chairs-on-the-table spot," for reasons of his own).

Bags of letters get dragged into NBC every day.
About a thousand of them are addressed to the
guy with the magic eyes, Perry Como. The letters
come from grandmas in Chicago, teenagers in California,
matrons in New Orleans. Men, women and children
write, write, write.

"Look, I know what it means to sit down and write a
letter," Perry says, "and every one I get makes me feel
wonderful. I just feel bad when someone comes up to
me and maybe says, 'I'm the lady who wrote you from
Pensacola. Do you remember me?' Well, I only wish
I could read all the letters and remember all the names."
Perry pauses, rubs his upper lip, then begins to smile.
"I had a letter just the other day from a woman in
Youngstown, Ohio. She remembered the old times, 'way

back before Ronnie was born. Those years I was singing
with Frankie Carlone's dance band around Ohio. I
think her letter requested me to sing 'Prisoner of Love,'
then she added, 'Do you remember you danced with
me one night twenty years ago?' I showed it to my wife
Roselle. We've been married twenty-four years. I said,
'Honey, where were you when I was dancing with
this lady?' "

The man Como is of average height, but the Como
grin, the famous shrug and the dark brown eyes are
far from average. The eyes speak of warmth and affec-
tion, and anyone who meets the guy will vouch that this
is for real. Dee Belline, Perry's brother-in-law, who
has been with Perry about eighteen years as promotion
manager, says, "Perry can't talk to man or child with-

Continued

THE

PIED PIPER OF T\

The public writes, Perry Como
sings a heartfelt reply in
his album, "We Get Letters."
The private answer to a
nation's affection lies here — |
in candid words of those who
know Como best, offstage . . .

By MARTIN COHEN

tfWtRODAr

Pretty "postmen" Dolores Ericlcson, Pat White, Dori Smith, Aura Vainio deliver mail on show's
song-request segment (Perry calls it "the chairs-on-the-table spot," for reasons of his own].

They say he has a "special magic
children. This little miss wouldnt
such big words. It's really ve'J *L-
She just follows her heart— and <-°

"Look, I know what it means to sit down and write a
letter," Perry says, "and every one I get makes me feel
wonderful. I just feel bad when someone comes up to
me and maybe says, 'I'm the lady who wrote you from
Pensacola. Do you remember me?' Well, I only wish
I could read all the letters and remember all the names.
Perry pauses, rubs his upper lip, then begins to smile.
"I had a letter just the other day from a woman in
Youngstown Ohio. She remembered the old times, way

iomtlnmrd

VMMfr: THE PIED PIPER OF TV

(Continued)

Program rehearsal: Music director Mitchell Ayres, Perry,
Billy Rowland at piano. Musicians have been with Como
for years — tribute to a great star's even temperament.

Recording session: Como strums guitar, Al Caiola plays
banjo. Joe Reisman, RCA Victor musical director, is at
right — Steve Steck of the Ray Charles Singers, at rear.

out putting his arm over the guy's shoulder or touching
a sleeve. His warmth is so outgoing that someone once
advised us to insulate him. from outsiders. Anyway,
I think this is what the TV audience feels and says in
the letters they write to him."

The letters indicate this by their sentiments and the
kind of songs they request. An admirer from Louisiana
writes hopefully about the "revival of so many oldies"
and says, "I don't feel too badly asking for this one,
'When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano.' " From

the Bronx, a daughter notes, "Mother and Dad will be
celebrating their golden wedding anniversary and this
will be quite an occasion. May I ask for a great favor?
Will you please sing 'Anniversary Waltz'?" And from
a Texas teenager, "I think that you are the most won-
derful person that I have ever seen. You are the only
man over thirty-five that I really do like. My favorite
record up to date is 'Round and Round.' I also like Pat
Boone and Tommy Sands but you top them all." A
mother in Altoona, Pennsylvania, writes, "We like every -

Perry would love to be a golf "pro." Oddly enough, the
song he sings on the course, in the shower — anywhere — ■
is one he's never recorded: "It Could Happen to You."

After-game discussion in club house at Concord Hotel:
Perry and his wife Roselle at right, Como's brother-in-
law and promotion manager, Dee Belline, at far left.

Small folk — whether performers or "audience" — willingly flock around their Pied Piper, sensing Perry's love for children.

thing you sing. My four-year-old Ellen, just as soon
as your show comes on, steps up to the TV set and
kisses you." And so the letters and requests go. Choral
conductor Ray Charles, speaking about the song re-
quests, says, "The thing that never stops amazing me
are the letters asking for old songs. And what further
amazes me is what Perry does with the old songs, even
the most hackneyed ones. There are numbers I wouldn't
think of suggesting, like 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart.'
Perry sings it and he sounds great. I think it's his pure
sincerity."

What manner of man is this Como? A guy as simple
and sweet as his music? Well, let's see. When Perry is
off TV, he is at home in a rambling house distinguished
by ten quarts of milk on the doorstep. (Perry explains,
"Every time the kids take a forkful of food, they wash
it down with a whole glass of milk.") The house is
handsome, with swimming pool. It is located in the very
fashionable and wealthy section of Long Island called
Sands Point, but that's where Perry's resemblance to a
millionaire ends. And the Como way of life is by choice
— for Perry makes a million (Continued on page 78)

The Perry Como Show, NBC-TV, Sat., at 8 P.M. EST, is sponsored
by Kimberly-Clark, Noxzema Chemical Co., Radio Corporation of
America, Whirlpool, Sunbeam, American Dairy Assn., Knomark.

Modest Perry was humble but deeply touched, receiving
Harlem Y.M.C.A. "Royal Salute" award from chairman
Alan J. Dingle (left) and Dr. W. Kenneth Williams.

Above, housewife Arlene at home with husband Martin
Gabel and their son Peter. Beiow, on NBC-TV's Arlene
Francis Show with announcer Hugh Downs (standing).

Housewives?

"Too much" to do? Or "too little"?
Arlene Francis — who enjoys being a
housewife — has an inspiring answer

By GLADYS HALL

Why is it that today's housewives don't like to
be called "housewives"?

Why — when one of them does use the term — does
she almost invariably refer to herself as "just a
housewife"? Why that belittling "just"?

Why does Mrs. Average American Housewife im-
plicitly depreciate herself — and the job she does?

Is she ashamed of being a housewife?

If so, WHY?

^TJood questions, all. Fascinating questions. And
no better or more fascinating person to an-
swer them than Arlene Francis — actress, femcee,
panelist, head of her own daily program on
NBC -TV — but, most importantly in her own
mind, a housewife. Not "just a housewife," but
proud of being one. She's learned how others feel
about it, though — both the humble and the proud
— from her three-and-a-half-year tenure on
NBC-TV's recent, beloved Home show, which
brought her into contact, in person and by mail,
with countless housewives all over these United
States.
First, as to Arlene's (Continued on page 72)

Busy TV star Arlene has help for apartment in town but
does all her own housework at real home in the country.

The Arlene Francis Show is seen over NBC-TV, M-F, from 10
to 10:30 A.M., under multiple sponsorship. Arlene is also a
panelist on What's My Line?, as seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 10:30
P.M., for Helene Curtis and Remington Rand. (All times EST)

Though time-savers have "freed modern woman to develop other talents, too, Arlene loves to cook.

Feeding the family is still an important job, but she can
why housewives yearn for variety of occupations "outsid

see

e."

Gardening is one of many "chores" which can
lead to interesting projects beyond home itself.

Say music decorates the entrance to "Graceland." But those
iron gates, which shut the curious out, also shut Elvis in.
Few visitors can see his luxurious new home — except by plane.

Guards round-the-clock must turn away the friendliest of
callers. Elvis's uncle, Travis Smith (below), may sometimes
take pictures for fans — but dares not let them in the grounds.

Presley's Fight

Palace — or prison? A revealing
glimpse into the home where Elvis
hides from the glare of publicity

By LILLA ANDERSON

As befits the prince of teenagers, Elvis Presley,
when he enters his recently acquired
lemphis mansion? walks on red carpet richer,
deeper and more luxurious than European
royalty ever knew. Splashes of gold accent his
king-sized, custom-made furniture. To enhance
the enjoyment of his leisure hours, there is a
splendid swimming pool and a magnificently
equipped recreation room. Beautiful Hollywood
starlets and aspiring, handsome young actors
are numbered among his many house guests. Yet
the singer who was known for his neighborli-
ness, when he lived in a low-rent housing
project, today complains (Continued on page 70)

Some still prefer taking their own, even if it's only
a blurred snap over the top of the stone wall — jagged
and barb-wired to thwart "raids" of souvenir-hunters.

iWSiW;.',;';

HHRHHHHH

■H

Gay music decorates the entrance to "Graceland." But those
iron gates, which shut the curious out, also shut Elvis in.
Few visitors can see his luxurious new home— except by plane.

Guards round-the-clock must turn away the friendliest of
callers Elvis's uncle, Travis Smith (below), may sometimes
take pictures for fans— but dares not let them in the grounds.

Presley's Fighi

Palace— or prison? A revealing
glimpse into the home where Elvis
hides from the glare of publicity

By LILLA ANDERSON

As befits the prince of teenagers, Elvis Presley,
when he enters his recently acquired
L lemphis mansion? walks on red carpet richer,
deeper and more luxurious than European
royalty ever knew. Splashes of gold accent his
king-sized, custom-made furniture. To enhance
the enjoyment of his leisure hours, there is a
splendid swimming pool and a magnificently
equipped recreation room. Beautiful Hollywood
starlets and aspiring, handsome young actors
are numbered among his many house guests. Yet
the singer who was known for his neighborli-
ness, when he lived in a low -rent housing
project, today complains (Continued on page 70)

only
d

Some still prefer taking their own, even

a blurred snap over the top of the stone wall— |ag9

and barb-wired to thwart "raids" of souvenir-hur ' '

for a Private Life

*"*

YOU ASKED FOR IT

By MAURINE REMENIH

The things you ask for! It might be
reasonable to assume that Art
Baker, popular master of ceremonies
for the ABC -TV series, You Asked
For It, acquired his magnificent mane
of white hair just trying to keep up
with the requests the fans send in. It
might be— but it isn't. That snowy
top of Baker's has been his trademark
for years, since he turned prematurely
white-haired more than a decade ago.
There are, however, some signs of
silver at the temples for the show's
producer, Cran Chamberlin. And here
there's no doubt that the mad chase
for show material, over the past six-
to-seven years, has been a contribut-
ing factor. Backstage television jobs
are notoriously hectic, but one of the
most hectic operations of them all is
within the You Asked For It organ-
ization.

It stands to reason. Over the years,
the show has been built around the
requests sent in by thousands of View-
ers. Viewers are people, and like the
comedian said, "People are funnier
than anybody!" But, even though the
show provides its originators with a
few hair-graying — even a few hair-
tearing and hair-raising — moments, it
also furnishes them plenty of laughs.
Chamberlin, who admits to dreaming
up the idea in the first place, claims he
created a "Frankenstein monster." He
points out that the show, which he
thought would have a life expectancy
of several years at best, is now a ripe
old veteran, and is getting stronger
and more popular as the months

Continued

Art Baker and staff will go anywhere, do anything, for their viewers.

But honestly, folks, some of those requests should never have been made!

Above, producer Cran Chamberlin and Art Baker re-live
(although they'd rather not) a comic misadventure from
You Asked For It. Expert really performed 1 ,000 push-
ups as scheduled — but script and camera crossed him up.

"Fuzzy" (above with Art and trainer Chester Hayes) was
a natural. Animal stunts outnumber all other requests,
go over big — though "more fun than a barrel of monkeys"
proved to be truer for staff than for the TV audience.

Acting as referee for boxing-kangaroo "Bam" and trainer
Floyd Humeston was just all in the day's work for Art.
Emceeing a wrestling match between man and alligator,
however, turned out to be a frustrating battle of wits.

Lineman's demonstration of new method of resuscitation
for victims of electrical shock had remarkably dramatic
repercussions. At least two lives were saved, in month
following, by viewers who learned how from the program.

YOU ASKED FOR IT

Show's cameras range far afield these days, both here and abroad, covering as many
subjects as an encyclopedia. Through cooperation of Cleveland's Chief Story (above
with Art), You Asked For It obtained police department films of robbery at St. Clare
Savings and Loan Company. Bandit subsequently saw films on TV — and turned himself in!

pile up into years of filling viewer requests.

Part of the show's increased appeal is due to
the fact that the You Asked For It staff have
extended their boundaries. Where they once
covered only the United States, with an
occasional spot from abroad, nowadays the whole
world is their beat. And Chamberlin, for one,
is now anticipating that his job will include
international-size headaches, instead of purely
local problems.

Those local problems have been funny enough,
however, to last most producers a lifetime.
One of Chamberlin's favorites came off several
years ago. (Or, to be completely accurate, it
didn't come off.) The staff had been receiving
letters at intervals from various viewers
afflicted with nostalgia for the "good old days"
and with memories of the Steel Pier in Atlantic
City. Each and all of these viewers requested
another look at Cannonball Richards, a hero
in his day who had been one of the attractions
at the Pier. In his act, Richards had stood
like a man of iron while a cannonball was fired
square into his mid-section.

Investigation disclosed that Richards was now
a resioe^ of Long Beach, California — just a
hop, skip and jump down the Freeway from the
ABC -TV Hollywood studios, where the show
originates. So a runner was dispatched forth-
with to escort Mr, Richards back to the studio.
The stunt was set up, the old firing-piece dusted
off, and all was in readiness for the show.

Examination had provied that Cannonball
Richards was in terrific {Continued on page 82)

Russian bears are big business inside the U.S.S.R. —
show business, that is. Program journeyed to Moscow to
make movies of ursine stars, performing a centuries-old
art, never before seen on this side of the Iron Curtain.

Program runs gamut from eternal tragedy
to transient comedy. Below: Its cameras
take viewers to Hiroshima, Japan, with
eye-witness commentary by Nobuko Sakoda
— who was nine years old when the A-bomb
fell on her home city. Right: In far less
serious vein, Art pits his skill against
that of a highly-touted "bowling horse."

You Asked For It — and Art Baker will do anything to
oblige. Well, almost anything, except play with these
cats! Mixup provided two — one famed as a cowardly lion,
the other notorious as a man-biter. But which is which?

Ham bur

Hot!

Ralpn — who's acted in both English and Spanish
on CBS Radio — combines favorite foods from both
sides of the border, in Hamburgers a la Camargo.

Ralph Camargo, ivhose forebears
were Mexican, warms up a traditional
American dish and serves it forth !

f ucky the family in which father has a fine hand
with the cooking. And doubly lucky the
family in which father not only knows how to
grill a steak, but is master of such mysteries as a
spicy sauce for hamburgers, a meaty chili, a specially
varied green salad. The Ralph Camargos, who
live in Connecticut, happily depend on father's
kitchen genius. Ralph, who is a veteran radio actor,
came by his chefdom naturally. His forebears
were Mexican, and the California Camargos — though
three generations removed from their .native land —
had a strong feel for Mexican cooking. Ralph learned
the secrets of the spicy Mexican dishes as a boy.

Typical of Ralph's "family fiestas" is the bi-lingual
hamburger dish for which the recipe is given
opposite. With its sauce, Hamburgers Camargo are
designed to warm up a winter menu which
includes macaroni and cheese. He also suggests a
tossed salad which combines lettuce, romaine,
endive, tomatoes, avocado, cucumber, radishes — or
other vegetables. Top off this hearty winter meal
with chocolate angel-food cake a la mode, with
coffee or milk — and you'll have "lived it up"!

Mrs. Camargo, former actress-model Florence
Skeels, is also a good cook. She is of English-
Danish descent, born in Butte, Montana. The
Camargos met in Seattle, Washington, when both
were acting in radio there. Now suburban resi-
dents, with Ralph commuting from Connecticut to
New York for his acting commitments, the Camargos
dine "a la father" about once a week. Mrs.
Camargo likes her "day off" — and the hamburgers.

Well-bred Bedlington that he is, "Tassie" finds the Mexican-
American aroma of his master's dish tempting beyond all barks.

For daughters Vicky, 12, and Felice, 17, a taste treat. For wife Florence, a day off from cooking.

HAMBURGERS A LA CAMARGO

Place in a large bowl:

3 pounds lean beef, ground
Toss lightly with a fork, to break it up. Make a
slight hollow in the mass, and drop in the following
ingredients:

2 eggs, slightly beaten

dash of bottled hot sauce
4 dashes Worcestershire sauce or steak sauce
1 teaspoon salt

freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 teaspoon celery salt
1 teaspoon prepared mustard
% teaspoon garlic powder
% teaspoon onion salt
1 teaspoon crumbled oregano
Mix lightly with a two-pronged kitchen fork. Then
put 2 thick slices of cracked-wheat bread into a little
warm water. Press water out with the hands and
crumble the wet bread over the meat mixture, and toss
with the meat until blended. Always work lightly.
Shape into patties as large and thick as desired. These

can be cooked on a hot, slightly greased grill, or under
a broiler or over charcoal. To get the charcoal flavor
when cooking indoors, sprinkle with one of the fine
charcoal seasonings available at any food market. Cook
2 minutes on each side for medium and 4 minutes for
well-done meat. Serve with Salsa Sauce.

SALSA SAUCE

Makes 1 pint of sauce.
Combine in a quart saucepan:

1 cup canned green chili peppers
1 (8 oz.) can tomato sauce
Unless you want a very hot sauce, rinse chili peppers
in cold water and cut or wash away all seeds.
Peel and dice:

1 small onion
Cook it in a little salad oil until onion is transparent,
then add it to the chili mixture. Bring to the simmering
point, cover and let stand until it is served. If any sauce
is left over, cool, then pour into a jar with a tight
cover and store it in the refrigerator.

On CBS Radio, Ralph Camargo is Max Sebastian in Backstage Wife, M-F, 12:15 P.M., and Barney Stern in Road Of Life. M-F, 1:45
P.M. He is frequently heard on City Hospital, Sat., 1:05 P.M. (All times given EST)

MutuaVs great weekly line-up of ivell-documented adventure proves
crime truly doesn' t pay — except for such top "impersonators" as these

That mystery and adventure ap-
peal to thinkers, as well as doers,
is proved by MutuaTs exciting
across-the-board series on weekday
evenings — True Detective Mysteries,
Treasury Agent, Gang Busters, Se-
crets Of Scotland Yard, Counterspy
— at least three of which are con-
sistently among the top ten once-a-
week programs "most listened to" in
America!

There's the ever-present thrill of
the chase, of course. But beyond that
is the excitement of actuality: These
crimes happened. These criminals
were caught. (The Scotland Yard
series, produced in England by
Harry Alan Tower, is based on
classic cases chosen by famed British
reporter Percy Hoskins.)

It's a combination which guaran-
tees both entertainment and public
service. Over the years, True De-
tective Mysteries — in cooperation
with the magazine for which it is
named — has helped capture scores
of fugitives, paid out tens of thou-
sands of dollars to listeners and
readers, through its special "Line-
up" feature.

Stories dramatized on this pro-
gram are drawn from cases already
marked "closed." Emphasis is on
the reasons for man's misbehavior,
rather than his misdeeds (only four
shots have been fired in some 1,000
broadcasts). "Dostoyevsky's 'Crime
and Punishment,' " says scholarly,
Manhattan-born writer-director Pe-
ter Irving, "had the answers to all
modern-day criminal problems.
True Detective proves that crime still
starts with the character of the
individual."

Fidelity to realism demands the
best of acting, and Mutual's justly
proud of its performers. Executive
producer Warren Wade (who took
over the reins of the Phillips Lord
creations — Treasury Agent, Gang
Busters, Counterspy — after the un-
timely death of Leonard Bass last

LARRY HAINES

June) is himself a former actor.
Born in Akron, Ohio, he began as a
"juvenile" under Broadway's great
Belasco, became a pioneer in both
radio and TV.

At NBC, Wade did the first ex-
perimental telecasts, the first TV
dramas, mobile-unit and 90-minute
shows. At WOR-TV, he originated
the concept of "multi-weekly pres-
entation" now seen nationally in
Million Dollar Movie. A colonel in
the Signal Corps, he put together
the Army's first TV unit. He knows
broadcasting techniques — and what
good acting means.

Such acting is the trademark of
Larry Haines, alias Joe Lincoln of
Treasury Agent — and a mainstay of
mystery-adventure on all networks.
Born in Mount Vernon, N. Y., he
met his wife Trudy during school
days there, and they now live in a
split-level house at Westport, Conn.,
where Larry has become quite a
gardener in rare leisure hours.

An actor ever since leaving Yonkers
College to do stock with the West-
chester Players, Larry's busy day-
times on TV as Stu Bergman in Search

JERI ARCHER

For Tomorrow, on radio as Lew
Archer in The Second Mrs. Burton.
He likes the challenge of radio — "be-
cause it leaves so much to the imagi-
nation of the listener, demands so
much from that of the actor."

Jeri Archer, born in Newark, bred
in Summit, N. J., started acting with
local groups and radio stations in
high school. Her career got into full
swing when a role was specially
created for her, as Mitzi Green's
sidekick in "Million Dollar Baby."
She's done a number of Broadway
plays since, hopes to do others.

At 11, Jeri was already producing
playlets with rich character parts for
herself. Today, she's still fond of
radio because its versatility (plus
her own) permits her to play every-
thing from crusty spinsters to glam-
orous spies. "At Mutual," says the

Warren Wade (whose imposing hat is equally famous behind the scenes of both
radio and TV) gives on-mike direction to three ace performers: Don MacLaughlin,
star of Counterspy; Jeri Archer, featured on many a Mutual mystery-adventure,
including Gang Busters; Larry Haines, who's heard as star of Treasury Agent.

tall redhead, "my specialty seems to
be the Jekyll-and-Hyde woman —
the smooth, dignified swindler who
is really an evil witch at heart!"

Don MacLaughlin has not only
been David Harding in Counterspy
from that series' first days, back in
1942, but also Dr. Jim Brent on
radio's .Road Of Lije and, more re-
cently, Chris Hughes on TV's As
The World Turns. Don takes special
delight in Counterspy: "What aver-
age family man can carry a gun,
surround a house and round up
criminals?"

Very much a family man today, at
home as well as in daytime drama,
Don was born in Webster, Iowa, and
was educated all over the country —
winding up with graduate work at
Arizona U. He got his radio and
dramatic starts in Tucson, but found

his bride, Mary, in New York. Now-
adays, they make their home with
their three teenagers in a small Ver-
mont town.

Son of an orchestra leader and a
"Ziegfeld Follies" beauty, William
Redfield was born to show business,
in New York. Billy spent his early
years in Washington, D.C., wanted
to be a ballplayer — till he returned
to Broadway to make his stage debut
at 9. Radio, TV, stage and screen
have claimed him ever since, except
for an 18-month hitch In the Army.

Billy met his wife, Betsy, while
doing a play with her sister, Julia
Meade. They were wed last March,
expect their first-born next January.
"The girls are Yankee fans," he
grins, "but I've been converting them
to the Dodgers." Baby's bound to be
either a ballplayer or a grandstand

DON MacLAUGHLIN

Continued

The Voi<

(Continued)

WILLIAM REDFIELD

goddess — unless show-biz proves too
strong for the third generation, too.
Manhattan-born Ethel Everett's
family was dead-set against her be-
coming an actress, wanted her to be
a teacher ("I still have the certificate
in a bottom drawer somewhere").
Ethel became active in dramatics
while attending Hunter College, got
her first chance at Broadway when
her play group won a competition.
The stage proved less lucrative than
radio and TV, where she has been
much in demand for some years now.

ETHEL EVERETT

Her roles, she says, seem to fall
into two categories: Sane or insane.
Ethel's been both psychiatrist and
patient, both murderess and victim.
"I'm the perfect audience for a mys-
tery show," she twinkles. "I can
never guess beforehand who-done-it
— even when it turns out I did it!"

Peter Irving has called Robert
Haag "one of the finest narrators I
ever worked with." Long familiar
in daytime serials, Bob likes working
with documentary material, instead
of fiction, on T.D.M.— "the first 'real'

ROBERT HAAG

LAWSON ZERBE

role I've ever had," he says in the
voice that goes with being almost
6-feet-4. "There's a certain satis-
faction in doing public service."

Bob, in fact, started out to study
law, before little-theater work
changed his plans. Born in Cullom,
111., he attended high school in
Springfield, Mass., got his first radio
experience at WBZA. Today, he
commutes between New York and
Wilbraham, near Springfield, and
agriculture is his avocation. "When
you come from a farm," he says,
"you never really get away from it."
• Birthplace for Lawson Zerbe was
Portland, Oregon, but he grew up in
Dayton, Ohio, where he attended the
Cooperative High School and later
had a scholarship at the Dayton Art
Institute. With only vague ideas of
becoming an artist, Lawson spent

Peter Irving puts a stellar cast through the paces of True Detective Mysteries:
Left to right — announcer Dan McCullough, top radio cop Bill Zuckert (standing),
T.D.M. narrator Robert Haag, actress Ethel Everett, actor William Redfield.

much more of his time tinkering
with cars — and organizing his own
stock company, which actually got
paid for playing at local clubhouses.

Lawson got some mike experience
in Dayton, landed his first real "pro"
job at WLW in Cincinnati, eventu-
ally headed for New York. Radio
there welcomed him from the start
— his first big network assignment
was a top crime show — and he's been
in -great demand ever since, for roles
requiring high emotional tension.

Bronx-born Bill Zuckert went
through local public schools — "but
not very far." He quit to run an
elevator, passed a Civil Service
exam, moved to Washington and

found himself in the Office of In-
dian Affairs — where he stayed long
enough to acquire permanent status.
("If the acting business ever goes
bad on me, I can always go back to
the Indians. It was interesting!")

But Bill counted up and discov-
ered he'd done 50 or 60 community -
service shows on the networks for
free, in his spare time. He headed
back for New York, to make a living
at acting — and has scarcely missed a
well-paid week on the air since.
True to his Government background,
he is nearly always cast on the side
of the law — but he has also played
Dillinger for Gang Busters' re-
enactments of that crime classic.

All heard over Mutual, from 8:05 to 8:30 P.M. EST: Mon., True Detective Mysteries; Tues.,
Treasury Agent; Wed., Gang Busters; Thurs., Secrets Of Scotland Yard; Fri., Counterspy.

BILL ZUCKERT

The Voic<

WILLIAM REDFIELD

goddess — unless show-biz proves too
strong for the third generation, too.
Manhattan-bom Ethel Everett's
family was dead-set against her be-
coming an actress, wanted her to be
a teacher ("I still have the certificate
in a bottom drawer somewhere").
Ethel became active in dramatics
while attending Hunter College, got
her first chance at Broadway when
her play group won a competition.
The stage proved less lucrative than
radio and TV, where she has been
much in demand for some years now.

ETHEL EVERETT

ROBERT HAAG

LAWSON ZERBE

role I've ever had," he says in the
voice that goes with being almost
6-feet-4. "There's a certain satis-
faction in doing public service."

Bob, in fact, started out to study
law, before little-theater work
changed his plans. Born in Cullom,
111., he attended high school in
Springfield, Mass., got his first radio
experience at WBZA. Today, he
commutes between New York and
Wilbraham, near Springfield, and
agriculture is his avocation. "When
you come from a farm," he says,
"you never really get away from it
• Birthplace for Lawson Zerbe was
Portland, Oregon, but he grew up m
Dayton, Ohio, where he attended the
Cooperative High School and later
had a scholarship at the Dayton Art
Institute. With only vague ideas ol
becoming an artist, Lawson spew

Peter Irving puts a stellar cast through the paces of True Detective Mysteries:

Lettto right— announcer Dan McCullough, top radio cop Bill Zuclcert (standing),

■U.M . narrator Robert Haag, actress Ethel Everett, actor William Redfield.

much more of his time tinkering
with cars— and organizing his own
stock company, which actually got
Paid for playing at local clubhouses.

Lawson got some mike experience
;n Dayton, landed his first real "pro"
Job at WLW in Cincinnati, eventu-
al headed for New York. Radio
were welcomed him from the start
first big network assignment

as a top crime show— and he's been

•great demand ever since, for roles
squiring high emotional tension.

Bronx-born Bill Zuckert went

"rough local public schools— "but
not very far „ He qu.t to run an

*vator, passed a Civil Service
am- moved to Washington and

But Bill counted up and discov-
ered he'd done 50 or 60 community-
service shows on the networks for
free, in his spare time. He headed
back for New York, to make a living
at acting — and has scarcely missed a
well-paid week on the air since.
True to his Government background,
he is nearly always cast on the side
of the law — but he has also played
Dillinger for Gang Busters' re-
enactments of that crime classic.

BILL ZUCKERT

I heard over Mutual, from 8:05 to 8:30 P.M. EST: Mon., True Detective Mysteries; Tues.,
eas"ry Agent; Wed., Gang Busters; Thurs., Secrets Of Scotland Yard; Fri., Counterspy.

ecmaf^

Unlike Joan of One Man's Family,

Mary Lou Harrington has found just the right man,

just the kind of marriage Father Barbour would approve

By DORA ALBERT

It's an old-fashioned romance, an
old-fashioned marriage. But they
met on a blind date — Mary Lou
Harrington, the brown-eyed, dark-
haired Joan of One Man's Family,
and Joe Dialon, to whom she has
been married for the two happiest
years of her life. One of Mary Lou's
closest girl friends, Marilyn Wroe,
whom she has known ever since they
were in the sixth grade together,
was giving a Hallowe'en party. For
a whole year, Marilyn had been
worrying about Mary Lou's lack of a
serious romance. Ever since Mary
Lou, who had dated one boy steadily
for more than four years, had broken
off with him by mutual consent.
(They had found themselves drifting
steadily farther and farther apart.
Though he was six months older
than Mary Lou, she was more mature
than he in many ways — and both of
them realized, possibly with regret,
that they weren't really right for each
other.) (Continued on page 83)

Looking at husband Joe Dialon, holding
baby Alan, Mary Lou is glad she wasn't
too old-fashioned about "blind dates"!

Professional touch: Joe — ace cameraman for George
Putnam's news show over Station KTTV — records his
greatest scoops in home movies of wife and child.

Amateur disaster: Joe's luck has been bad, when it comes to home
gardening. His do-it-yourself weed killer stopped growth of all the
nice green grass, too. Mary Lou has more faith in their ability to
raise happy children, hopes to have others, just as lively as Alan.

Mary Lou Harrington is Father Barbour's granddaughter, Joan, in the be-
loved serial drama, One Man's Family, created by Carlton E. Morse and now
heard afternoons on NBC Radio, Monday tlvoiis* ..Friday, 2:30 P.M. EST.

•im*»m<+ ' " »'■""

'*n

:*•

■

By FRANCES KISH

Nothing that could happen to Patrick O'Neal as Dick
Starrett, in Sheldon Reynolds' new Dick And The
Duchess series on CBS-TV, could be more roman-
tic and adventurous than Patrick's own experiences of
the past year or so. To begin, there was the sheer luck
by which he happened to be on the spot to be chosen
for Dick — instead of three thousand miles away in Cali-
fornia. It had been Cynthia's idea to come to New York
to see the New Year in ... so there he was, in the right
place at just the right time.

There is Cynthia herself and the romantic way in
which they met. They had the same agent, who kept

trying to bring them together ("Cynthia is a fine girl" —
"Patrick is a fine fellow") . . . but, until she saw Patrick
on a television screen, Cynthia hadn't shown much
interest in the proposed meeting.

There was their almost impossible plan to be married
on the eve of his leaving for Europe last January to
make the pilot film for Dick And The Duchess ... a mar-
riage in which literally a dozen people helped, many of
them perfect strangers to both. And their idyllic two-
month honeymoon in Europe, after the film was shot in
London and Paris . . . except that they almost got lost
in a blizzard driving over a (Continued on page 68)

What a year for Patrick O'Neal!
Love, marriage, stardom in the new
series, Dick And The Duchess —
all within just the past few months

European honeymoon was the icing on their wedding cake. River
Thames looked peaceful indeed, from Westminster Bridge, after
that hectic ceremony in New York and hasty flight to England.

Transatlantic phone keeps them close to America, even while in
London. Evenings, on the quiet balcony of their Knightsbridge
home, Cynthia cues Patrick for next day's Dick And The Duchess.

Sentry outside Buckingham Palace may be more
imposing — despite Patrick's noble "guardsman
stance" — but Cynthia staunchly believes her
bridegroom will always be best man anywhere!

Patrick O'Neal co-stars with Hazel Court in the
title roles of Dick And The Duchess, as seen over
CBS-TV, each Saturday, from 8:30 to 9 P.M. EST,
sponsored 'jv Helene Curtis and Mogen P -id Wines.

Actress Haila Stoddard has time for everything that matters.

Haila Stoddard makes every minute count —
including those she devotes to beauty

By HARRIET SEGMAN

Haila Stoddard, of television and theater, has time
by the tail. Sample day: She deposits her husband at
the 7:12 A.M. train at Briarcliff, New York, returns
home to pack her son off to school, complete with lunch,
drives off at ten for her 11:15 CBS-TV rehearsal,
rehearses from after the show until 5:45 for the next
day, reaches the theater at eight for a leading dramatic
role — and, all the time, remains on tap to fill in, if needed,
on ten minutes' notice, for Rosalind Russell in "Auntie
Mame." If she's not in a play, Haila and husband Whit-
field Connor spend the evening at work as a writing
team. Then they drive home to Briarcliff. Obviously,
all this takes organization and self-discipline. "I
just don't have time to be (Continued on page 69)

Busy Haila acts on TV's Secret Storm (above),
and is Roz Russell's standby in "Auntie Mame."

Sunday at home, and husband Whitfield
Connor helps in decorating experiment.

More weekend domesticity: Daughter Robin
and Whit help Haila prepare special dinner.

[Getting to Know Him
(Continued from page 25)
"We'd known each other for three
years," says Patti, "but we'd never really
spent twenty-four hours a day together
before. We'd never had time."
Now, at last, they had it. Six long
weeks together, with no separations, no
pressure of work, no public appearances.
Six weeks when they could be just Mr.
and Mrs. O'Curran, American tourists.

They had planned their honeymoon for
months, even before they were married
last December in Las Vegas. They had
talked for hours, over the telephone wires
from Los Angeles to New York, about
where they would go, what they wanted
to see. Charlie, who had been abroad
three times before, would be the guide,
but Patti had some very definite ideas.
"I wanted to see the Tower of London
and the changing of the guard at Buck-
ingham Palace," she says, "and all the
things I'd been reading and hearing about
for years. Paris, of course, and Rome.
"Friends we met in England thought we
I were crazy, but we didn't care."

The sailing was gay and fun, as a
honeymoon sailing should be. Mr. and
Mrs. O'Curran's suite on the lie de France
was jammed with friends. Stewards
rushed in and out with champagne and
baskets of fruit and flowers. Everyone
chattered away like mad. Charlie who
loves people and talk, was here, there, and
everywhere.

The "All -ashore" signal sounded at last
and Patti and Charlie looked at each other
over the luggage and the flowers and the
empty glasses. Then suddenly she was in
his arms. The honeymoon had begun.

The He de France is a luxury liner in
the best French tradition. The carpets are
thick and soft, the furnishings exquisite,
the service perfect, the food divine. And
Patti and Charlie had nothing to do but
enjoy it. Breakfast in bed, with the
freshly baked croissants they were to get
to know so well ... a stroll around the
, deck . . . shuffleboard . . . dancing . . . the
nights when, hand in hand, they watched
the shine of the moon on the water, looked
up at the stars, bigger than Patti had ever
seen them before.

It didn't take long for the word to get
around that one of America's most popular
singers and her husband were on board.
Invitations to parties began arriving, and
Patti was asked to sing.

They debarked at Plymouth, late in the

I afternoon, and took a car, instead of the

I boat train, to London. "We thought we

were being pretty bright," Patti laughs,

"but the boat train got in at 10:30 P.M. and

it was half -past one in the morning before

we made it. And there were fans, I heard

later, waiting at the station in London for

I me." Thoughtful always, Patti disliked

the idea of disappointing the young folk

who had gathered to see her.

It was on the road from Plymouth to

London that Patti got her first taste of

I England's non-iced drinks. Thirsty, they

j had decided to stop at one of the quaint

I old pubs which dot the highway.

"Our drinks were lukewarm, but we saw

5 a refrigerator just back of the bar so we

thought we could safely ask for ice," says

Patti. "But when we did, the barmaid

hustled out to the kitchen and came back

with two ice cubes, one of which she

dropped carefully into each glass." She

I giggled. "It wasn't very cold ice, either."

London in July was London in the rain.

^ And while the drinks were warm, the

weather was cold. Patti, who had packed

I only summer clothes — "I didn't even take

| a suit" — scurried out and bought a coat.

Between showers, and in them, too,

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23. Bing Crosby
25. Dale Evans
27. June Allyson

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34. Roy Rogers

35. Sunset Carson

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53. Richard Widmark

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Charlie made sure that Patti saw London.
The Tower of London . . . Buckingham
Palace . . . the changing of the guard . . .
Westminster Abbey . . . Soho . . . Madame
Tussaud's Waxworks . . . The House of
Parliament with Big Ben on its top . . .
everything Patti had wanted to see.

And they took pictures. "Charlie," Patti
says, "turned out to be an inveterate
picture-taker, once we'd visited a camera
shop in London and learned how to op-
erate the Rolleiflex camera loaned to us by
David Workman, a New York photog-
rapher." Patti was photographed feeding
the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, in front
of Buckingham Palace, and at Windsor
Castle, to which they made their one jaunt
outside of London proper.

One evening they went to the theater,
where they saw Laurence Olivier and his
wife Vivien Leigh in "Titus Andronicus."
"It was the first Shakespearean play I'd
ever seen," Patti says candidly. The play
— and the theater — were all Patti had
dreamed of: The stalls, which turned out
to be just orchestra seats . . . the tea
brought to their seats between acts . . .
the 7:30 curtain, with time for a late
dinner afterwards.

They met old friends — the Les Browns,
Bob Hope, Eddie Albert — and made new
ones. And they laughed, curled up to-
gether in a big chair in the living-room of
their suite, over some of the strange Eng-
lish expressions. "I lost two stone last
year," a new acquaintance told Patti. And
the Oklahoma-born singer never got up
the courage to ask her how much a "stone"
was. (Editor's Note: It's fourteen pounds.)

They saw their first British television.
Their suite at the Savoy had been oc-
cupied, just before their arrival, by "an
ambassador or something" for whom a TV
set had been installed. By wheedling,
palm-greasing, and just plain refusing to
let anyone take it out, they kept the set.

"It was great," says Patti. "A finer
screen than ours, which made for a
wonderful picture."

While Charlie and Patti had been dash-
ing around like typical tourists, sightseeing
days and dining with friends evenings, the
British press had been bombarding them
with requests for interviews. "They
couldn't believe that we'd come over just
for fun," Patti says. But eventually she
gave in and for a week the O'Curran
honeymoon became one press-interview
after another.

"One of the things every reporter asked
me was why my voice was higher on tele-
vision (Patti's filmed series is shown in
England) than it is in real life. Then one
day I went down to the studio to have
some pictures taken in front of the screen
on which one of my films was being shown.

" 'That's too fast,' I told Charlie. 'They're
playing it too fast.' And sure enough, we
discovered that they ran twenty-five
frames to the second, while here we run
twenty-four. Just that little difference in
speed made my voice sound higher."

Despite the rain and the cold, "England
was a fairyland." The city of London,
with its narrow, winding streets, its quaint
shops, its huge lumbering buses . . . the
tiny English cars sputtering along on the
left side of the street . . . the luxury of the
Savoy, where "the service was exquisite,
but I can't say as much for the food.
In the morning, tea was brought to our
room, but it's hard to get tea after lunch
or dinner, the way we can here. The
English serve it at breakfast and at tea
time; say it's too much work to make it
other times.

"The gay night-life was wonderful. Sum-
mer is London's big social season. We had
supper at Ziggy's, where show people
gather. Once we saw Princess Margaret's

lady-in-waiting dancing in a London club.
It was exciting, all of it."

All this — and being together, too.

Patti fingers the broad gold band, her
eyes glowing. She's a different Patti
these days — softer, prettier, and with a
shine of happiness that she makes no effort
to hide. The gold band, she explains, is
not the ring Charlie slipped on her finger
last December. Thai one is platinum, set
with five huge pear-shaped diamonds, and
too dazzling for everyday wear. Patti keeps
it carefully in its velvet case, taking it out
only for special occasions. For regular
days, she wears the flexible gold band
made of links to match her watch bracelet.

It was raining when Patti and Charlie
left London.

"Take the boat train to Paris," friends
had advised, "and be sure to get up when
you get beyond Dover, so you can see the
white cliffs."

The boat train, Patti explained, runs
from London to Dover, where the cars are
switched directly onto the ferry to cross
the English Channel, so the occupants can
stay in their berths all the way to Paris.

"We got up," Patti says, "but we couldn't
see a thing. We didn't find out till we got
home that we should have dressed and
gone out to the observation car."

x aris, when they arrived, was gray and
lovely in the rain. It rained . . . and
rained, and rained, while Charlie hauled
an increasingly reluctant Patti out to see
everything. The Eiffel Tower . . . Notre
Dame . . . the Arch of Triumph . . . the
Louvre, of course.

Their headquarters was a suite at the
Prince de Galles, a luxury hotel just off the
Champs Elysees, and around the corner
from the salon of Christian Dior. They
laughed together over the huge bathtub,
above which hung a cord "so you could
call a maid if you wanted your back
scrubbed." And they kept the door of the
suite firmly locked against the servants
who, European style, come and go with
scarcely a knock to announce their en-
trance.

They breakfasted, invariably, in their
suite. But breakfast became so late, and
the lunches were so huge, that Patti found
herself falling asleep immediately after-
ward. So they hit upon a pattern — coffee
when they woke, breakfast later, and
nothing more until dinner. And a late
dinner at that, in one of the famous Paris
restaurants — Maxim's, the Tour d'Argent
(where Charlie sampled the famous
pressed duck), the Monseigneur, where a
bevy of violinists surrounded their table,
serenading them in the candlelight.

In New York, Patti loves to shop. Given
a free afternoon, she heads for Fifth
Avenue like a homing pigeon. But in
Paris, Patti bought little; some perfume,
gloves, beaded bags. She slipped around
the corner one afternoon without Charlie
and visited Dior's boutique, where ex-
quisite blouses, scarves, gloves and other
such frou-frou were on display. But the
Patti Page you're seeing on The Big Record
is dressed in American gowns.

With the French language, Patti had
little difficulty. She just let Charlie handle
the conversations, nodding, smiling, and
adding a "merci beaucoup" or a "bonjour,
madame," now and then.

"Charlie's theory is to talk fast, whether
he says anything or not," Patti laughs.
And it's easy to see that getting to know
her husband was more fun for her than
munching French hot dogs in the Eiffel

January TV Radio Mirror
on sale December 5

Tower, with all of Paris at her feet.

"He started talking as soon as he saw
anyone coming, and he kept it up until
after they'd left. He was 'bon jour-ing' and
's'il vous plait-ing' all over the place."

The days in Paris were rainy, but after
their sightseeing jaunts there were the
glamorous nights, with visits to night spots
in the Montmartre, Montparnasse, and
the swanker clubs in the Champs Elysees
section. They by-passed the Folies Ber-
gere; saw the floor show at the Lido in-
stead. "But no pretty girls," adds Patti.
"Nowhere did Charlie see a pretty girl."
It hadn't occurred to her, obviously, that
Charlie had eyes for no one but the girl
at his side.

From Paris it was only a short flight to
Switzerland, with Zurich, Lucerne and
Interlaken entrancing them both. "I loved
Switzerland," says Patti, her eyes a little
dreamy as she thinks back on the quaint,
picture-postcard villages and the mag-
nificent view of the Jungfrau from their
hotel windows.

In Zurich ("Where you can just pick up
the phone and dial anyone anywhere in
the world"), Patti went a little mad over
the food. Before she left, she added a
Swiss cookbook to her fist of purchases.
It's in English, but she hasn't had time yet
to discover whether the recipes live up to
the cooking in the Hermitage.

"They served a veal dish that was
divine," says Patti. "Three strips of veal,
cut very narrow, with a sort of white sauce
over them, and served with rice, or
noodles, or those potatoes they call rosti."

It was in Zurich that Charlie was always
making jokes with the cab drivers, Patti
says. "He told one that I wanted to go
somewhere to hear Scandinavian folk
music, and the driver, very seriously, said,
'Is it imperative?' "

But there was rain in Switzerland, too.
Patti and Charlie began to feel that they'd
been born with wet feet and sodden rain-
coats. Should they go on to Rome and the
south of France, as they had planned,
hoping to find the sun? Or should they
spend the last two weeks of their honey-
moon in a spot where they knew there
would be sunshine?

It didn't take them long to decide. Back
to Paris, onto a plane. Almost before they
had a chance to dry out they were in Palm
Springs, California, where they luxuriated
in the heat and the sun for two all-too-
short weeks.

The Nick Castles were their hosts there
and, as Patti watched her husband playing
about the pool with the two Castle chil-
dren, she learned something more about
him: Charlie, the bon vivant, the gay
man-about-town, was only the shell of the
real Charlie.

"I used to be afraid to say I didn't want
to go out at night," she confesses now,
"but we haven't been out once since we
got home. I've discovered that Charlie is
happy as a clam just sitting home eve-
nings."

That's what they're doing now, when
they can be together. The honeymoon, un-
happily, is over, and once more they must
be separated for long periods of time.

Patti is kept in New York by her weekly
television show while Charlie has com-
mitments in Hollywood.

"He has the Presley picture to do before
Elvis goes into the Army," Patti explains.
"That will be finished before Christmas.
Then he'd like to do a Broadway play."

Meanwhile, as the phone bills mount
because of their constant cross-country
calls, Patti's been searching for a larger
apartment. One big enough for two — or
more. And hugging to her the memory of
her honeymoon and the husband it helped
her to really know and love.

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That Sentimental Softie: Frank Sinatra

(Continued from page 30)
I get one started and see it through."
Opinion in Hollywood is divided as to
1 whether this is the wise way — or the time.
Whether — what with his many movies, his
Capitol records, his night-club appear-
ances, and all the rest — Frank Sinatra
• should be spreading himself thinner with
I weekly television. Whether he isn't gam-
bling his popularity at the box-office.

Typical of this all-or-nothing-at-all star
(and of his fabulous career founded on
j challenge), Frank has gone in swinging,
[ with the highest-budget half-hour in tele-
vision— plus spectaculars — at a time when
such giants as Sid Caesar and Jackie
Gleason and many a top show have been
toppled by over-exposure in the hungry
medium of TV.

Sinatra's ace production staff believe
that his versatility is the answer . . . that
this rules out any danger of over-expo-
sure. As producer William Self says, "We
feel the variety nature of the show will
lick that — and Frank can handle anything.
I don't know of any finer actor or singer
today than Sinatra." Scripter Bill Mor-
row confidently puts it this way: "If TV's
knocked out the giants, they'll need a
strong personality. Television will need
some more giants — can use a Sinatra."
Varying his shows in much the same
way Frank successfully switches tempos
in his Capitol Records albums today, he
will star in thirteen musical half-hour
shows and thirteen dramatic shows this
season. He'll host ten dramatic shows, and
he will do another one-hour spectacular
in addition to the premiere. He plans us-
ing top names in the musicals, and will
also feature each of his children on one
show.

Seventeen-year-old Nancy and two girl
friends, Jane Ross and Binnie Burrell (a
very talented young coloratura who's aim-
ing for a career in light opera), have a
trio called "The Tri-Tones." They've been
singing together since junior high, per-
forming at the Veterans Hospital, the
Brentwood Country Club, and special as-
semblies at University High. "On one
show," said Bill Morrow, just before the
premiere, "Frank will sing with Nancy —
and Nelson Riddle will make an arrange-
ment for a four-part song for Frank and
the trio.

"Frank Junior's a fine pianist," Bill con-
tinued. "He plays classical music — but
he'll probably step down a little bit for
our show and accompany his dad on some-
thing in the pop field," he adds with a grin.
"Tina? I think we'll probably use Tina
on one of the live hour spectaculars. She'll
do something with her dad — maybe Frank
will put on the ballet shoes and dance
with her."

They planned a "month's shooting" for
all thirteen half-hour musicals. How could
they do it? "I don't know," Bill admitted.
"And I've never seen it done — but then,
Frank already has some 'firsts' to his
credit."

Frank's "first" and his whole phenome-
nal career are the result of "his over-
whelming talent," as conductor-arranger
Nelson Riddle observes. "Talent will out—
that's an old saying — but only if it's in a
sufficient quantity. Frank's is a block-
buster, not only in music but in all the
arts. His ability as an actor carries over
in phrasing and interpretation. Frank has
that sympathy for the written word,
whether it's said or sung."

Versatility. Excitement. Magnetism. Mu-
sic. . . . They're all an important part of
the Sinatra story. But there's another
compelling ally in Frank's corner now.
Sinatra himself, today. The fire and the

heart and the music of him, all pulling
together. He's a one-man Marine Corps
in show business, striking in all direc-
tions— but with only one objective.

Recently, a friend asked Frank how he
was accomplishing so much today. Frank's
personal explanation was: "I'm doing
things one at a time. You know how I
used to be — trying to do a lot of things
at one time. I used to get so many things
on my mind, and I'd get so confused I
couldn't get anything done. Now I'm tak-
ing first things . first, and I'm not trying
the next thing until the first thing's done.
Man, I'm getting a whole lot more ac-
complished!" The friend laughed. Sina-
tra is doing just about everything at once
today. But, importantly, Frank's is no
longer a divided heart and energy.

Songwriters eulogized Sinatra's inter-
pretation of lyrics from the beginning,
saying, "He sings every song like it's part
of him." And they were right. Every
song was. The two meteors — the music
and the man — were Siamese twins. The
same emotional intensity which made
headlines also early foretold the finest of
actors, and still shades a lyric until it
cries the story. "I aim to be a story-
teller," Frank said, the first time we met
him. "Music is a backdrop for a poem.
The lyric's the thing."

Today, he himself tells a happier story —
with one ending. He's no longer pulling
against himself, his ambitions, his loves
and his angers. He has two loves, his
children and his career. His goal — which
is also for them — is one and the same.
Today, nobody can stop him. But, even
when pulling against himself and losing
power, Sinatra — son of an Italian fireman,
born on a Jersey waterfront — rose to fame
such as the world seldom sees.

Those who seem bent on analyzing
Frank Sinatra so clinically today are like
people who arrive at a movie in the mid-
dle of the picture — and immediately be-
come authorities on the whole plot. You
want to tell them, "Wait and see the be-
ginning of the picture, before you're so
sure what the middle's about — and where
it will all end."

Fundamentally, of course, Sinatra hasn't
really changed since the day he arrived in
Hollywood — except in his objectives. He
was a true talent from the beginning.
When Harry James found Frank singing
at the Rustic Cabin in New Jersey for
twenty-five dollars a week, he was im-
pressed by "his way of talking a lyric —
the feeling — the way he made the story
come through." . . . Connie Haines, who
was James' vocalist when Frank joined
the band, remembers the first date he
played with them — in Baltimore, Mary-
land. "Frank wasn't billed. The fans
didn't even know his name. But they were
standing at the stage door, yelling for
him." ... Jo Stafford, a "Pied Piper"
when Sinatra joined Tommy Dorsey's or-
chestra, wasn't impressed that first day
he walked on the theater stage — "but, by
the time Frank had finished singing eight
bars, I thought, This is the greatest sound
I ever heard! He had a tremendous sound.
But he had more than that . . . just call
it talent."

He was bom exercising his American
prerogative for freedom of belief and
speech. Success in no way ever inspired
this trait of Frank's. Challenge and con-
troversy— in whatever proportion — never
slowed him. From the beginning, he was
on his feet when he felt justification, even
before the bell rang. And you often ad-
mired him — because he so often said what
you would like to say and didn't dare —
at a time when he shouldn't have dared,
either.

According to musicians and friends, this
was always true, too. Although Tommy
Dorsey's band was the top spot for a
vocalist, Frank didn't hesitate to take a
walk into the unknown . . . that, typically,
proved a turning point to fame. There
was a large hassle subsequently over Dor-
sey's fat percentage and Frank "buying
himself back" from him — but the kick-off
was also typical, though little-known. It
was the last day of the band's engagement
in Indianapolis and Dorsey was kidding
around with his trombone behind Frank's
number while he was singing. He'd done
this many times before — and Frank had
laughed. But finally it was too much . . .
and, besides, Frank's father was in the
audience.

"I've had enough," Sinatra said. Three
words which were to prove the turning
point, more than once, in Frank's life and
career . . . and no general could ever say
them more decisively. From the begin-
ning in Hollywood, with just one foot in-
side the sound-stage door on a movie
lot, he would protest where established
stars didn't dare . . . when he felt justi-
fied. He just wouldn't report to the set.
Frank would take on a top executive, in
whom he felt authority had been con-
siderably misplaced, without so much as
a blink of his big blue eyes.

His confidence was always exceeded
only by his talent, but Sinatra made a
career of building others' egos, too, and
giving them breaks that changed their
whole futures. Stories are legion of his
generosities in giving others a chance in
the sun. Many have been mentioned.
Skitch Henderson, a fine pianist, was just
out of the Army, looking for a future,
when Frank starred him on his radio
show. "I like to see people light up,"
Frank used to say.

He was the first pop singer to sing in
the Hollywood Bowl . . . and he was in no
way discouraged by the longhairs who
frankly questioned the wisdom of Frank
Sinatra's replacing opera-concert star
Gladys Swarthout, who couldn't appear.
Despite the fact that the Bowl was oper-
ating at a financial loss and needed a
Sinatra, some symphonies then were
afraid the hallowed surroundings would
never be the same.

He really had them hanging from the
Milky Way that night. Every celeb in
Hollywood who had a daughter was there
(including Bing Crosby, who hadn't).
The fans were screaming, "Sing to me,
Frankie." Right in the middle of "Old
Man River," a battery of photographers
yelled, "Smile, Frankie, smile." And Con-
stantin Bakaleinikoff, who'd just preceeded
him on the program, conducting "The Nut-
cracker Suite," was a genially bewildered
fellow. He kept saying, "Not even the
Russian Revolution — even — "

Yes, from the beginning ... up and
down and up the ladder . . . Frank
Sinatra's had quite a few "firsts."

Frank has termed the year 1951 the
darkest for him professionally. "I couldn't
get anywhere with my career or any-
thing." He will be ever grateful for the
boost Bob Hope gave him at that time.
"Bob gave me a spot to do in one of his
TV shows — this was early in the one-
hour TV show. All the industry was
watching to see whether I could get off
the canvas and come around again. And
Bob set me up so beautifully on the
show . . . arranged for me to have all the
laughs." t

It was "Maggio" who put him back into
the big money, however. And, typically, "
this was Frank's gamble . . . and his
victory. He was five-hundred miles into

the interior of Africa, discouraged, and
relatively broke — billed by the govern-
ment for around $108,000 back income tax
— and no good offers to alleviate it. He
was torn between his second marriage
and his career, flying around the world
like Captain Jet, trying to keep night-
club dates and rejoin wife Ava Gardner
on foreign locations. Show business said
Sinatra was virtually on his way out. The
old magic no longer seemed to have them
in his spell. The Hoboken Kid was going
down for the count.

But the Hoboken Kid was just getting
his second wind. He'd had his heart set
on the role of Maggio in "From Here to
Eternity" before Columbia Pictures even
bought the book. Frank felt he knew
the tough-talking, wisecracking, warm-
hearted Italian as well as his own skin.
He went in swinging for it personally—
"I didn't even send my agent." He talked
to producer Buddy Adler "and anyone
else who would listen to me." Production
was a long way off, but Frank wanted to
get his licks in there first.

He watched — and read items — and
waited . . . while others were signed for
the picture. Finally, thousands of miles
away in Africa, a disheartened Frank got
the good news that the studio was making
tests and would test him if he wanted to
come back — at his own expense. His own
gamble.

Within thirty-six hours, Frank was
in Hollywood. Producer Buddy Adler
handed him the test scene — the drunk
scene — and Frank took one look at it and
handed it back. "I don't need this," he
said. He already knew it. Later, the
producer admitted his feeling at the time
was: "Well — that's what you think. We'll
see about that." But, as he added, "I
didn't feel he had a Chinaman's chance,
anyway, so I just said, 'Well — okay.' "
Frank was the last to test, and late in the
afternoon, Buddy Adler got a call from
the director, Fred Zinnemann, saying,
"You'd better come down to the set.
You're going to see something unbeliev-
able."

When the word spread about his per-
formance in "From Here to Eternity,"
Frank had the world on a string again.
But — paradoxically — by then, his second
marriage had failed, too, and he seemed
too disheartened to care. Film and televi-
sion offers were pouring in. He'd turned
down "Waterfront" because he had so

many previous commitments — "it's just
cutting the time too close." There wasn't
enough of him to go around for all the
mediums wanting him.

"I'm beat," he told us one night at a
television rehearsal. "I'm doing three
radio shows a week for NBC, I've been
recording two nights, and I'm rehearsing
here all day — " He said it all like a man
just repeating words. No spark. No big
victory. Too drained of all emotion to
care. He didn't go along with all the
talk that he was sure to get an Academy
Award. "Oh, no— I'm not looking for any
Oscar. It's just because it's offbeat for
me — you'll see." He only brightened once
. . . when he said his daughter Nancy had
seen the picture — "and she loved it . . .
their mother took all of the children to
see it."

By the time of the Oscars, however, it
was a different Frank, a jubilant Frank,
who went to the Awards dinner, flanked
by Nancy, Jr. and Frank, Jr. . . . and
gripping in his hand the medallion the
children had given him. with his guardian
angel on one side, a little Oscar on the
other, and inscribed, "To Dad — From Here
To Eternity."

It was a happy Frank who said, after
that evening, "Everything is ahead of me.
Man — I'm on top of the world. I'm buoy-
ant."

Today . . . the "freak singer" who came
to Hollywood leaning on a microphone
has fifty-five people working for him in
connection with his career and his various
enterprises. As Frank has said, with a
grin, "Suddenly, I'm a one-man industry."
And he is. At Columbia studios, where
Sinatra was paid eight thousand dollars
for "From Here to Eternity," he recently
got a reported $150,000 for "Pal Joey"—
and twenty-five percent of the picture.
He has a healthy percentage of Para-
mount's "The Joker Is Wild," in which he
plays comedian Joe E. Lewis, and of his
current "Kings Go Forth," co-starring
Natalie Wood and Tony Curtis ... to be
followed by "Jazz Train," with Sammy
Davis, Jr.

Throughout "Pal Joey," he was confer-
ring, between scenes, with his television
staff about his weekly ABC-TV show. He
was recording at Capitol Records at night
until two A.M. And he was making per-
sonal appearances on weekends. Between
pictures — if there's an extra week — he
plays a date at the Sands Hotel. When

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he's in Hollywood, you'll usually find him,
late in the evening, gladhanding the pa-
trons and doing everything but baking
pizzas at Patsy D'Amore's Villa Capri
restaurant — of which he has a percentage.

Suddenly, he's a one-man industry . . .
and nothing but sevens. . . .

After seeing a private showing of "The
Joker Is Wild" recently, Nancy Sinatra, a
very fair critic, told friends she consid-
ered this "the best thing Frank's ever
done. He's so like Joe E. Lewis in some
scenes, it's a little frightening."

Portraying the beloved cafe personality
was one more challenge for Frank Sinatra,
and one he took but seriously: "It was a
hard picture for me — because I'm not a
funny man. It was doubly hard — because
Joe E. Lewis is very much alive and has
thousands of fans who would gladly boil
me alive if I didn't do right by their Joe.
But it was a picture I had to make. I've
loved the guy since I met him in 1938,
and I wanted this film to be made with
understanding and loving hands."

The picture shows it. Frank's com-
ment, when he saw it for the first time,
was, "Boy, we've got a gasser, a real
goodie. If the people don't like me in
this — I'm through." He also hazarded a
guess that, if Joe E. Lewis's fans didn't like
him in it, he was likewise through . . .
soon on his way to parts unknown.

He's as "through" as Hollywood's bright-
est new star. On a two-a-day concert
around the country, just recently, Frank
proved the old Sinatra magic still has them
very largely in its spell. In Albuquerque,
Denver, El Paso, Phoenix, Seattle, Van-
couver— at the Cow Palace in San Fran-
cisco— it was the same story. An ovation
wherever he appeared. The soprano
squeals have given way, today, to thun-
derous applause from both sexes — and all
ages. The same public Frank Sinatra is
now meeting on TV screens across America.

The pace was hectic, but worth it. Frank
worked all week before the cameras on
"Pal Joey," and made flying appearances
on weekends, accompanied by a twenty-
six-piece band, a dance team, and a com-
edian. He played twelve stops in three
weekends, an afternoon show in Albu-
querque on Saturday and a night show in
Denver, Sunday afternoon in El Paso and
Sunday night in Phoenix. And so on. But
the welcome he received everywhere was
worth it.

With his warm, intimate way of talking
to an audience, his quick wit, his songs —
his way with words — Sinatra had the audi-
ence hanging on his every word — spoken
or sung.

The Sinatra versatility at work. The
same magic, the warmth, the humor, the
music. For Frank, meeting his public
face-to-face across the country and being
welcomed so warmly was a rewarding and
heartwarming experience. Expanding him-
self on weekly television is no real gam-
ble . . . just another challenge in the life
of Francis Albert Sinatra. Television can't
drain him professionally or personally.
He's too much talent — and too many
men. . . .

To those who view more passively the
adventure of living — and so clinically re-
view those who live it more adventurously
— Frank is always somewhat of a mystery.
You want to say, "Quit trying to explain
him. Just enjoy him . . . his music and
his magic. His bright, hot, exciting talent
that touches and brightens the drabber
fives of many, many fans who live it up
a little more through him."

Today's Sinatra, however, has changed
in the one all-important way . . . which
releases all cylinders for the future. He's
no longer torn between two lives — per-
sonally and professionally. The music and
the emotion are channeled one way — his
future and his family.

His family still live in the Holmby Hills
estate he bought, with its swimming pool,
projection room and rolling lawns. But
they live relatively simply. There's a
playroom that can accommodate a hun-
dred guests, but the only time it's used
is when Nancy, Jr. entertains her club
at University High, numbering about forty
girls. Nancy Sinatra talks occasionally
about selling the house. It's Frank who
talks against it, saying, "Keep it for the
kids." There's a Japanese couple, but
Nancy makes many of the children's
clothes — and cooks most of the meals.
And Frank drops by to see the children
frequently.

Frank and Nancy Sinatra are an intel-
ligent example of how to be parents
though divorced — how to see to it that
the children never lack for love or atten-
tion from either side. They share the
responsibility. They talk over any prob-
lems and, if there's any minor disciplining
in order, it's Frank who lowers the boom,
grounding them from a movie or a party
or some pleasure.

Of Frank the father, a close friend of
the Sinatras says, "If Frank were a father
living at home, I don't see how he could
be more generous or considerate or
thoughtful or affectionate."

When Tina had measles not long ago
and had to be closeted in a dark room for
ten days, her father bought a new record-
player and a batch of kiddie records — and
called her constantly through the day,
keeping her company. For Nancy, Jr.'s
seventeenth birthday, Frank surprised her
by driving over a pink Thunderbird with
white leather upholstery, and the family
dined at the Villa Capri together.

Frank has unqualified admiration for
the wonderful job Nancy Sinatra's done
raising the children. They're poised, in-
telligent and unspoiled. They've never

attended private schools. Their mother
believes in public schools and has wanted
them to grow up like the wonderful nor-
mal kids they are. She's kept them out of
the spotlight as much as possible. Frank,
Jr. gets a weekly allowance of seventy-
five cents, and Tina's was recently raised
from a quarter to thirty-five cents. All
three children take piano and are talented
musically, and Frank couldn't be more
delighted. When Nancy, Jr. was younger,
her father used to talk about how happy
he would be if she loved music as he did.
"She has a great ear for music now," he
would say, "and, although she isn't con-
scious of it, I'm training it all I can." He
used to wear out his collection of classical
records playing them for her absorption.
Nancy, Jr. is very talented in composing
and arranging music now.

Frank, Jr., who resembles his dad very
much, is a musical wizard. He's been
taking piano eight years and he's a bril-
liant young pianist. He hears his father's
numbers and works out his own interpre-
tations on the piano without music. He's
quite a clown and shows a real flair for
showmanship.

On one weekend concert appearance,
Sinatra took Frank, Jr. along. When the
plane was airborne, Frank brought his son
down the aisle and introduced him to
Harry Klee. Young Frank had just gotten
a new flute a few days before, his father
explained, and he'd brought it with him:
"Look — will you talk to him about his
flute?"

"Are you going to give up playing the
piano now?" one of the musicians asked.
"Oh, 7io," Frank, Jr. said quickly. "I
have too much time in on that to think of
giving it up. It's all to my advantage to
stick with it now."

Frank, Jr. would usually ride with his
father from the plane, but, when the mu-

sicians got to the auditorium, he'd be
standing there with his flute. "Maybe we
only had three minutes to talk — but he
was ready and waiting. I've never seen
a more intelligent thirteen-year-old. He's
real sharp and he can come out real
fast — but he knows when to be quiet,
too," says Harry Klee.

Frank, Jr. talked about the seventy-
piece school orchestra at Emerson Junior
High. He talked about his composition
class and the arrangement he had to make
for the seventy-piece band. "He was so
smart, he talked so intelligently, and he
knew so much about music — by the time
he'd finished talking, I was ready to go to
work for him," Sinatra's flute player
laughs. "They have a wonderful grown-
up relationship, Frank and his son."

When the bandwagon first rolled and
the teenagers were swarming around him,
Frank used to look at them — and talk
about what he wanted for Nancy, Jr. when
she was seventeen. What he wanted to
be able to give her. The home he wanted
her to have . . . one she could be proud of
— and bring her friends to. The college
education . . . the musical training. He
wanted her to be able to realize the im-
portance of environment — "the neighbor-
hood where I was born was . . . not so
good." Today, Nancy is seventeen. Their
father is able to provide his three children
with the college education he didn't have.
The advantages he didn't have. The en-
vironment he didn't have. And the re-
siduals from Frank Sinatra's weekly tele-
vision show will be a trust fund — a legacy
— to insure the future he wants for them.

And there is another legacy. . . . That of
a scrappy kid from Hoboken, a volcano of
music and talent, 'who— with no advan-
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Western Giant

(Continued from page 27)
of filming, it threw Oklahoma-born, saddle-
bred Garner on his ear, grinding Warner
Bros.' back-lot dust into his silver-but-
toned vest and new black hat. Jim, an
ex -footballer, rolled safely out of harm's
way, good-naturedly accepted the jibes
of the camera crew.

Gambler Maverick, as producer Bill Orr
sees him, is a roamer, destination any-
where, willing to take chances on life,
laughs or love. Independent and rootless,
he's tumbleweed free. His prime motive
is money. He admits it. He's not a do-
gooder, doesn't necessarily play accord-
ing to the rules. Bret Maverick is out to
get everything he can without hurting
anyone else — too much.

Garner's Maverick has come into the TV
game of chance with a fat poke — namely
the powerful and combined backing of
Henry J. Kaiser Industries, Warner Bros,
and ABC-TV. This trio have enough faith
in handsome newcomer Jim Garner's
ability in the Maverick role to bet him
against a couple of pros — Steve Allen
and Ed Sullivan. With a half-an-hour
headstart on these two, it is hoped the
new Maverick show will be able to hold
its audience against the charms of Allen
and Sullivan.

A rangy six-foot-three, darkly hand-
some Jim Garner is perfectly cast as
Maverick. Besides this physical identity,
Garner's background, outlook on life and
personality are good modern-day counter-
parts to the early adventurer.

Garner was born to Weldon and Mil-
dred Bumgarner in Norman, Oklahoma,
April 7, 1928. His mother died when he
was five, he was raised by his father and
two older brothers until he was fifteen.
Jim's father was in the upholstery and
carpentry business, and also kept a small
country store. "The best part about the
store," Jim remembers fondly, "was the
peanut butter — in bulk." He muses, "Re-
member when it was sold that way? . . .
I used to live in that store, every time I
walked by the peanut-butter crock I'd dip
in and swipe a gob. Delicious."

Jim went to grade school in Norman,
but his teachers complained they couldn't
get him interested in his studies. One of
the reasons was that Jim didn't see any
use in school — he was getting rich on the
outside. He and his older brothers mowed
lawns. He says, "While the other kids read
a chapter of 'Ivanhoe,' I could earn twenty-
five cents. My brother and I were known
as the richest kids on the block." When
asked about summer vacations, Jim hesi-
tates, then says, "I didn't have a summer
vacation — guess you could say I was on
vacation all the time."

But, contrary to his own low opinion of
his scholastic ability, Jim earned enough
credits to come back later to Oklahoma
University, where he studied business
administration for a time, though he was
never graduated.

Garner describes his childhood and early
teens as one big vacation. But he also
worked hard. He clerked in his father's
store. He cleaned chickens. "I worked at
that job the shortest time of any job I
ever had," says Jim, "but I suppose some-
body has to clean chickens." He worked
on a dairy farm. He next graduated to
cleaning out at the University. "I was
thirteen years old when I got this ad-
vancement to janitor. One of the best jobs
I ever had — my own boss completely.
Used to get up at three-thirty in the
morning, wind blowing, ice a half-inch
thick and trudge off to the school. Made
fifty cents an hour. But the job really
wasn't as bad as I make it out — actually

fun, for we used to sled downhill on the
ice to work."

Garner never in his wildest dreams
thought of himself as an actor or per-
former. In fact, he considered himself an
introvert, dreaded getting up in front of
his class to recite. Generally affable and
easygoing, Jim's expression grows serious
as he recalls this early period Of his life.
"I hated to be laughed at, I wasn't sure
of myself. As a result, I was the sort of
kid who always hung around in the back-
ground at parties. I can't explain it, but
growing up wasn't easy for me."

Jim's good looks didn't make it easier.
He had one family friend in Norman,
Oklahoma, who insisted on getting a
talent scout or coach up to see Jim, to
encourage him to go into motion pictures.
"I didn't want to appear in front of mil-
lions of people on a screen," says Jim, as
he recalls this crisis. "Why, if I was late
for church, I couldn't even walk down the
aisle to a front pew. But I did spend a
great deal of time as a kid, wondering
about my career. I thought a lot about
getting into sports — my brother Jack was
a professional baseball player, now in-
tends becoming a professional golfer, and
my other brother, Charles, is a teacher.
I guess not knowing what I wanted to
do made me restless."

So, at sixteen, Jim was off to New
Orleans, where he signed on as a seaman
aboard a sea-going tug. He spent one
year in the Merchant Marine. In the
interim, his father moved to Los Angeles
and went into the carpet-laying contract-
ing business. Jim joined his father there,
went back to high school in Hollywood,
worked in a gas station and helped his
dad in his spare time. But Jim was not
too happy in Los Angeles and decided
to return to Norman, Oklahoma, where
he completed his high-school education.
He also joined the Oklahoma National
Guard. Garner was one of the first Okla-
homa infantrymen to land in Korea, served
fourteen months with the Fifth Regimen-
tal Combat Team of the 24th Division, was
awarded the Purple Heart for wounds suf-
fered in action. Jim Garner comes by his
fighting ability in Maverick the hard way.

After war service, Jim returned to
Los Angeles. "My dad came to me one
day," reports Jim, "saying, 'Look, you
don't want to lay carpets all your life.
Why don't you go out and find something
more interesting, something you could
better use your talents on?'

"I sat down one night and tried to look
at myself objectively: So I had height,
fair looks (without bragging), and I
kept hearing all those people saying, 'You
ought to be in pictures.' All right, I
figured I'd been around the world, seen
how all kinds of people lived and acted
under all sorts of circumstances, maybe
I'd learned enough to be an actor. I
decided to give it a year's try."

Shortly after returning from Korea,
Jim had made friends with a young soda-
jerk named Paul Gregory. Jim happened
to spy his name on the front of a
La Cienega building one day, shortly
after he'd finally made up his mind to
try to crack the entertainment industry.
Gregory the soda-jerk was now Gregory
the producer ("The Caine Mutiny Court-
Martial"). The "ex" gas station attendant
confronted his old friend about a job in
movies. Gregory found a spot for the
good-looking young man he thought had
talent, gave him the job of cueing Lloyd
Nolan, then in rehearsal for "Caine."
Producer Gregory later put Jim into a
small role as one of the six judges in the
play. Jim's acting career had begun.

In thinking back on his performances,

Jim says, "In the past, I had always said
that show business wasn't for me — I'd
wanted no part of it. Somehow, I think
I was still fighting this battle every night
I got up on that stage in front of a theater
full of people. But, in the play, the judges
never speak. So Paul Gregory and Charles
Laughton, who later helped me, didn't
know what I was going through. They
probably thought my rather intense ex-
pression was good acting."

Then one of the supporting players left
the cast and Gregory offered the meaty
role of Maryk to Garner. "You could
call this my black moment," muses Jim.
"My first reading and rehearsal were
rotten. I was tied up . . . and felt that if
acting were to be this hard, I'd quit. But
I couldn't quit. I'd held so many other
jobs for short periods. When I'd gone
into this acting game, I'd promised my-
self I would stick to it until I'd won or
lost. So, all through rehearsal, I was
miserable ... I was afraid of reading
badly . . . afraid of doing the wrong
thing. At noon, Mr. Laughton came over
to me saying, 'Jimmy, boy, you and I
are going to lunch . . . we're going to
have a little talk.'"

At lunch, Laughton told Jim that he
and Mr. Gregory had great faith in his
acting ability. If they hadn't thought so,
they wouldn't have offered him the role
in the first place. In fact, they'd have
dropped him from the company.

"Their faith gave me courage," says
Jim, "perhaps only momentarily, but it
was all I needed. My fear, after all, was
only ego. I didn't want to be criticized,
and this so tied me in knots I couldn't
make the first few steps. After lunch,
I went back . . . and did my best. That's
all anybody can do. It wasn't good. But
it wasn't bad, either, and the more I
worked at it, the easier it became.

"From this experience I learned a
simple but important lesson: If you have
a problem, jump in and tackle it — don't
put it off. I think we relearn this lesson
all through our lives."

With the end of the road-company tour
of "Caine," the wanderer part of Jim
Garner's career was nearing its end. On
his return to Hollywood in 1955, he took
two small roles in Warner Bros. TV
serial, Cheyenne. His acting, now im-
proved by coaching under Anthony
Mannino at the Herbert Berghof School
in New York, was strong enough to catch
the eyes of Warners' talent department.
Jim was screen-tested, then placed under
contract. In rapid succession, there fol-
lowed roles in "Toward the Unknown"
and "The Girl He Left Behind."

Garner's big break came when he won
the important role of Captain Bailey,
friend of Marlon Brando, in "Sayonara."
After viewing the "Sayonara" rushes," the
studio immediately upped him to the title
role of Colonel Darby in "Darby's Ran-
gers." Garner proved he could carry
a major vehicle on his own. And he was
given the lead in the hot new television
series, Maverick.

If there's one word that best describes
pre-Maverick Garner, it is freebooter.
"In my bachelor days," says Jim bluntly,
"if I wanted to take off for Cucamunga,
I took off for Cucamunga."

Then came marriage and responsibili-
ties. Though Garner, like Bret Maverick,
is a devil-may-care sort of guy on the
surface, underneath he's a serious and
meditative individual. He dropped his
footloose-and-fancy-free ways when he
and his wife Lois were married in 1956.

Lois and Jim met at a mutual friend's
house. He describes his initial reaction

as follows: "I came up to the pool. Every-
body was in bathing suits but me. Some-
body said, 'Lois, this is Jim Garner.' "
Eyes met, hands clasped, friendly smiles
exchanged. Jim, in a state of shock at
Lois's beauty, swears that was all he
remembers for the rest of the afternoon.

Lois's memory, on the other hand, is
more precise: "Jim proved to be the most
remarkable man," she enthuses, as if
she'd made the discovery again for the
first time. "Somehow, you can tell what
kind of heart a man has by the way he
acts around children. Or — more truth-
fully— by the way children act around him.

"There were twelve kids in the pool,"
she continues, "and they climbed all over
Jim like monkeys in a tree. They played
something called 'monster of the deep' —
Jim was the monster. He lasted all after-
noon, and was still laughing at the end."

That Jim loved children was important
to Lois, whose own daughter, eight-year-
old Kimberly, was just that day coming
out of the hospital after being confined
with a severe, though not crippling, case
of polio.

But Jim and Lois hit it off from the
start. "We laughed at one another's
jokes," Jim says, "and what impressed me
right off, Lois laughed at all my jokes."
He adds, as an after-thought, "And not
all my jokes are funny."

Jim and Lois were married within the
month. He says candidly, "I don't do
things halfway. We could have been
married sooner, but we were helping
Kimberly to get back on her feet." He
adds with a grin, "Otherwise, we would
have had a real whirlwind courtship."

l oday, Jim's schedule — which is fairly
frantic, considering the fact that he shoots
an hour-long TV film in five days — still
allows him time to be with his new and
growing family. The Garners are expect-
ing a child in December. But they are
not as free as before Jim's career went
into high gear. "The three of us used to
spend whole weekends at the beach,"
Jim says nostalgically. "Now we're lucky
if there's an afternoon available."

Kimberly and Jim developed a loving
relationship in spite of the fact that he
is the disciplinarian around the house.
"Kim will only study the things she's
interested in," Jim reports. "This won't
do. Somebody has to give in, and since
I'm the boss, it can't be me.

"Well, I spanked her just once — and,
since she will probably read this, I have
to say it was only the first time. But,
believe me, I was, worried about how she
was going to take it. Afterwards, she
slowly went back to finish her lessons,
moping around for about an hour. I
thought maybe I'd lost a daughter. Then
the doorbell rang, and some of our mutual
friends came in. We greeted them, and
Kim piped up proudly with, 'Jimmy gave
me a spanking!'

"You know," says Jim seriously, "it's
the way children say things that's impor-
tant. If they like you, somehow they'll
let you know. If they don't, believe me,
they won't leave you in doubt. I can't
tell you how glad I felt inside when
Kimberly, smiling and proud, told of the
spanking. It certainly is important to be
accepted as a child — and I can tell you
it's just as important to be accepted as a
parent."

Today, big Jim Garner and his bride
are happily settled in their new apartment
and dream of a home of their own in the
near future. With his career zooming,
Jim has found that perseverance does
pay off. Surrounded by the love of his
family, Jim finds that in real life as well
as on the TV screen, Lady luck has smiled
on Jim Maverick Garner.

PHOTO

What

Her

Mother

Thinks of

JAYNE

MANSFIELD

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Romance in a Whirlwind

(Continued from page 58)
mountain pass in Switzerland . . . and
Cynthia was hospitalized briefly in Rome.
("She did a marvelous Camille," says
Dick.)

Now to pick up the story on the eve of
their second trip abroad, for Patrick (the
only American player in the cast) to
make a whole series of films as Dick Star-
rett, American insurance adjuster as-
signed to London and married to the
daughter of an earl (played by the well-
known British and stage star Hazel
Court), whom Dick teasingly calls "the
Duchess."

The next day, Patrick and Cynthia were
flying to London, and already you could
feel the mood of Old England, although
the place was still New York, at the
O'Neal apartment. Patrick had instructed
you: "Come to this block on Third Ave-
nue and you find an Antiques Bazaar.
Ask for us. They will know."

He was quite right. They did. The
bazaar was an old curiosity shop, straight
out of Dickens, except that a debonair
and modern young man with a nice smile
waves the way through the delightful
clutter of objects to a little white-railed
stairway at the rear leading to the upper
. floors. They, too, are furnished with
antiques — but in less profusion.

l^ynthia's brown bob is shoulder length,
her blue eyes not quite so deep as
Patrick's, or maybe his seem bluer be-
cause his hair is so dark. She is fairly
tall for a woman (five-seven), as he is
tall for a man (six-one). You notice her
well-shaped mouth, her pretty profile,
and her poise. You notice his strong fea-
tures and darkly marked brows, his
laughing kind of face and the way his
eyes send out little sparkles while he
talks. He was just thirty this Septem-
ber 26. She was twenty-three last April 19.
"I was an actress," she says. "Was, be-
cause now, whatever else I may do, I
mainly want to make a home for Patrick.
Oh, I may see some of the London fashion
magazines while we're over there and try
to do some modeling. I might even do
an occasional part in Dick And The
Duchess with Patrick. But I don't see
how I can be a wife, and make a home,
and look forward to being a mother some
day and plan a full-time career, too."

Patrick interrupts. "They wanted to test
her," he says quickly, "when they were
looking for an actress to play Marjorie
Morningstar — Natalie Wood got the part —
but she turned down the chance to test.
It wouldn't have worked out for Cynthia
to be under contract. Here I am going
to London for six months, and maybe a
year, and she couldn't have gone along
if she were tied to a studio. We feel
that acting is like any other kind of work
for a wife, and a fine thing, as long as
the emphasis is on us and the home life
first, and as long as it doesn't separate
us."

Cynthia talks about seeing Patrick in a
Matinee Theater broadcast before she ever
met him. "We had this same agent, and
he just sat me down and told me to watch
Patrick. We had been rehearsing next
door to each other, both for Matinee
Theater dramas. He had been telling me
they had this wonderful actor from New
York, and I knew then what he meant.
I thought he was great."

"We went to a swimming party at a

T writer's home in Beverly Hills, the first

v day we met," says Patrick. "It was rather

R instantaneous for us both, but we waited

another three days to make a date, until

Cynthia was through with her show."

"After that," says Cynthia, "we saw
each other every day we could."

Seven months to the day after they met,
they were married. Last January 17.

Dick And The Duchess speeded up the
wedding date. They were East on vaca-
tion. San Francisco-born Cynthia Bax-
ter had never seen Times Square on New
Year's Eve, or the celebrating crowds all
over the city of New York.

"Cynthia was staying with a girl friend
of a guy friend of mine," Patrick recalls.
"I was staying in this apartment. Nicole
Milinaire, Sheldon Reynolds' executive
producer and right-hand, had to find
someone immediately, because they were
ready to make the pilot film. A hundred
actors must have read for the part — I
stumbled over quite a few when I went
in. We talked, and I read, and in a few
days Nicole called me up and said I had
it, if I still wanted to go. We got down
to terms, and I was set to fly to Paris at
once and then go to London. I broke
the news to Cynthia."

They had a dinner date, and Cynthia
picked him up at his apartment. He had
been delayed, was still in the shower.
She waited, holding back tears at the
coming separation. "I think more clearly
than usual when I am in the shower, for
some reason," Patrick twinkles, "and I
decided we should get married right away.
I yelled to Cynthia from the bathroom —
if you could call that a proposal."

Cynthia sat down on the floor near
the bathroom door and cried so hard she
could hardly answer Patrick. "The rest
of the evening I did nothing but gibber,"
she swears. "Patrick was in charge of
everything."

"I was in charge," he admits, "but I was
like an automaton. I don't know now
how I did it." His parents had come up
from Florida to see him off. Cynthia's
father flew in from California. Patrick's
father found a lawyer friend who knew
a Supreme Court judge who could help
them comply with the provisions of the
three-day law governing marriages in
New York State but might be able to
speed up the various steps.

They were at the passport office at
ten-thirty in the morning. Someone
wired Washington and the passports were
issued in a few hours, instead of days
later. At noon, they had their blood tests.
Reports which usually take a couple of
days were back in a couple of hours.

People were dispatched all over New
York on errands. Patrick's father got the
wedding ring for him, a wide gold band,
worn above a narrower matching band.
Cynthia's father picked up her suit at the
shop where it had been ordered. Patrick's
mother picked up his suit at the tailor's.

Their lawyer friend sent one of his
young men over the ground the young
couple would have to cover in a pre-
scribed time, since their plane was leav-
ing International Airport for Paris early
that evening, and every moment would
count. The man rehearsed and timed the
whole procedure, going on foot from
building to building in the snow, making
all the advance arrangements, clocking
the time needed to get the marriage li-
cense, even running up the steps of the
building. Elevators were held for them.
The judge, imposing in his black robes,
recessed court to sign the required three-
day waiver.

"Our folks," says Cynthia, "waited at
City Hall and we had to go back there. We
ran all the way, to be married in the
most unromantic ceremony anyone ever
had, by a man who rattled off the words
like a tobacco auctioneer."

They made a seven o'clock plane that
evening, celebrated with champagne,
landed in Paris . . . and Patrick was on
the streets of London the next day, for
some of the Dick And The Duchess scenes,
then back to Paris for two more weeks of
filming. After that, they were on their
own seeing all the romantic landmarks.
After a vacation week in Paris, they were
off across Europe on that two-month
honeymoon.

In Switzerland, with no food between
them except one chocolate bar, they
started up over a mountain pass late one
night, after plowing through a small snow-
covered village, finally decided the bliz-
zard was too heavy and they had better
get back to the little inn and stay over-
night. Next morning, they learned that
the road ended a few miles beyond and
the pass was snowed in completely for
six months out of twelve. In Rome, Cyn-
thia picked up a debilitating virus and
spent a depressing week in a hospital.
But their whole trip was so wonderful
that neither blizzards nor "bugs" could
have spoiled it.

.Patrick had become an actor, in the
first place, by what he calls "a process
of elimination." He took mathematics at
college (the University of Florida), but
didn't like it well enough. For the same
reason, he had no interest in engineering,
into which many of his friends were going.
He liked history, but didn't think he was
good enough at it. Business didn't appeal
to him. He liked the theater. Dramatics.
He was good at that. And he was gradu-
ated with a BA. in Theater and stayed
with it.

His experience has included plenty of
summer stock, stage plays — notably the
Broadway production and a summer tour
of "Oh Men! Oh Women!" with Franchot
Tone and Betsy von Furstenburg. Two
Hollywood movies — "The Black Shield of
Falworth," with Tony Curtis, and "The
Mad Magician," with Vincent Price.
("Good parts in not very big pictures.")
On television, he has appeared in almost
every dramatic program, on one or more
of their shows. ("Good shows, but not
always big parts.") In the United States
Air Force, he was made a television
director in the TV Squadron, where he
felt right at home.

Recently, Patrick has been doing some
writing, most important of which is work
on a screen adaptation of a story by the
noted author, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings,
who comes from his own area in Florida
(he's from Ocala). He wants to produce
or help produce it himself.

There's a role in the story for a girl
and Cynthia might like to play it, but this
is somewhat doubtful. They are both
against husband and wife working to-
gether (except, perhaps, for an episode
or two in Dick And The Duchess, which
would be fun). Explains Patrick, "As
long as somebody in a family has to work
for a living, it should be the man. That
means me. I'll take care of all that, and
Cynthia will take care of me."

"We want a good life together and each
will have to give up some things for the
other," Cynthia explains. "We have a
phrase we use frequently — When you are
doing something you don't want to do,
but should do, you are getting to be
mature."

So far, however, everything the Patrick
O'Neals have ever wanted to do — and
much more — has come their way. Ro-
mantic, adventurous, wonderful things.
With a prospect of going on and on. Like
the adventures of Dick And The Duchess
themselves.

Dashing Lady

Haila and actor husband share mutual
interests — here, coffee and new script.

(Continued from page 60)
tired or ill," Haila says. Likely as
not, a reporter will have to interview her,
as this one did, via a series of written
questions and answers exchanged while
Haila sits under a hairdryer. Simple
beauty care is one of her time-savers.
"I believe in keeping skin nice and clean,"
she explains, "so that I don't need too
much make-up." Her method? Soap and
water. She does wear lots of eye make-
up. "I'm blonde and need it. I've learned
to put on lipstick and mascara in my car,
between green lights," she laughs. "I used
to startle the policeman at Fifty-seventh
Street, but he's used to it by now." She
uses bright pink lipstick to accent every-
thing she wears — navy, black, orange,
yellow, beige. "I always have two or
three beige outfits," she says. "At the
moment, two suits and a chiffon cocktail
dress with a stole in shades graduated
from beige to cocoa. Beige is as basic
as black, and more cheerful." She loves
unusual shoes — stripes, polka dots, flo-
ral prints, glass slippers, and orange shoes
to spark beige. The rules for good act-
ing, claims Haila, are the same as for
being an attractive woman. "Be interested
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Presley's Fight for a Private Life

7!)

(Continued from page 44)
to long-time friends that he is lonely.

At the same time, an army of devoted
fans daily besiege his gates. It would
surprise virtually all of them to be told
that the hero they clamor to see should,
at times, feel cut off from the human com-
panionship which they are all too eager
to give. Yet, when one visits Memphis,
the evidence mounts that it is their very
adulation which has forced him into
isolation. He struggles to attain that
freedom of movement and choice of in-
terests which most Americans hold as a
birthright.

Elvis told one old friend, "I got the feel-
ing I had to get out. So I went downtown
and I bought me a make-up kit." He
gave no indication how far he went on
the false-whiskers-putty-nose routine.
He did say he wore a hat. He also ad-
mitted he was somewhat less deceptive
than Lon Chaney. "I tried to sneak out
the back way — but, man, it was no use.
When I hit the road, they were after me."

iMvis has learned ' that there are penal-
ties as well as premiums, attached to be-
ing, at twenty-two, a singing, acting, jet-
propelled self-made millionaire. Unlike
most of his fellow millionaires in a day
when high taxes have cut both income and
ostentation, Elvis lives behind high iron
gates, guarded twenty-four hours a day.

Elvis bought the fourteen-acre estate
early in 1957 — "on the spur of the mo-
ment, as he does everything," says one
friend. It formerly was owned by a phy-
sician who had a stable of prize-winning
show horses. Doubtless there are some
persons who would have found its re-
ported eighteen rooms a burden, in these
days when domestic help is scarce, but
it suited Elvis even when — as he told a
friend — "it was filled with cobwebs and
the plaster was cracked." Before return-
ing to Hollywood to make a picture, he
ordered its renovation and decoration,
and phoned his mother every day to
learn how the work was progressing.

The house stands on the crest of a
wooded ridge, its white paint gleaming
through the tall trees, quite the picture
of what Northern fans believe a Southern
mansion to be. Underneath its pillared
portico, one could set down the small East
Tupelo house where Elvis spent his child-
hood years — and have room left over. To
the side of this porch, Elvis has built a
huge kidney-shaped swimming pool, to-
gether with cabanas for his guests. On
summer nights when parties are in
progress, the blue-green light reflected
from the pool outlines the hill and sil-
houettes the trees, a beacon for those who
must view from afar.

And "afar" is the spot from which most
people must view Elvis's new elegance.
Reporters and photographers, as well as
fans, are barred. This ban has included
one newsman who numbers himself among
the Presley "discoverers." He is said to
have presented himself at the gates one
evening, only to find that in the court
of the rock 'n' roll king he was suddenly
persona non grata.

Attempting to secure an accurate de-
scription of the furnishings is akin to
seeking information on the latest atomic
device. Decorator George Golden, whom
some Memphis clients describe as "a
genius with modern design," has been
pledged to secrecy. Friends, too, are ex-
pected to hold their tongues. Some
people, remembering the way Elvis
originally shocked the New York press
by implying he expected to be paid by
interviewers, suggest a reason for the
secrecy. They predict, "His manager can

make money on anything. He'll sell the
exclusive story to some magazine for a
pretty penny, you'll see."

This much trickles through the Presley
curtain: That splendiferous red carpet
reaches through entrance hall, drawing
room, music room and dining room. The
walls are Wedgwood blue, the warm and
dusky shade which one sees in antique
vases. The furniture, in contemporary
styling, harmonizes. In the drawing room,
upholstery is in white and a blue which
matches the walls. The dining room is in
black, white and gold.

Elvis, who once used the wages earned
at a tool factory to make a down payment
on his first plain little piano, now has, in
his music room, one especially finished
in white and gold.

The party rooms of the house are
located in the basement, where Elvis has
installed a hi-fi set which is the envy
of all his musical friends. For those who
like games of skill, there is a fine billiard
table. A twenty-foot sofa is fronted by
a kidney-shaped coffee table, eight feet
long, mounted on cross box stretchers and
decorated with the opening bars of Elvis's
hit record, "All Shook Up." The notes
are executed in bright plastic.

The lushest room of the house, accord-
ing to those few visitors who will talk,
is Elvis's own bedroom. Walls, drapes
and bedspread are royal blue. The carpet
is white nylon, an inch-and-a-half thick.
The bed itself makes anything Napoleon
dreamed, up seem as simple as a do-it-
yourself project. The frame and mat-
tress are eight feet by eight feet, but the
white tufted leather headboard stretches
a magnificent twelve feet, with night
tables attached to either side. Built into
this imposing structure is an electronic
switch box which controls every lock in
the house. Should Elvis choose, he can
open his front gate without ever lift-
ing his head from the pillow.

The bathroom, too, causes exclamations.
Among its fancier details is a carpet of
mouton fur.

Graceland, since Elvis moved in, has
become a magnet which draws his fans
from all over the world. In one four-hour
period on a summer Saturday, a reporter
took a census and found that they came
from eighty-eight cities and towns in
twenty-three states — plus Thailand, Hawaii
and Canada. For all their journeying,
they see precious little, because one of
the first things Elvis did was to order
the construction of a high stone fence,
jagged at the top to discourage climbers.
It is reputed to have cost him $20,000, but
one sharp-tongued observer thought it
totally bereft of architectural beauty.
"Looks like the wall of a prison," was his
comment.

The high iron gates, decorated with
guitars, afford a view up the long and
winding drive. They also constitute a
traffic hazard — because motorists slow
down to peer through them.

How to penetrate the sacrosanct pre-
cincts of Graceland has stimulated the
imagination of many a teenager. Naturally,
as the Presley curtain draws tighter, the
fans grow more curious and more de-
termined, pitting their ingenuity against
the security service provided by two of
Mrs. Presley's brothers, Travis and Ed
Smith. Uncle Travis guards the gate from
early morning until six P.M. Uncle Ed
then takes the night shift.

Uncle Travis has become quite a pho-
tographer. He will oblige a tourist by
accepting a camera which is thrust
through the bars and into his hands, drive
up to a vantage point and snap a pic-
ture of the house. It's when they get past

his vigilant eye that he worries. "Elvis
blows his top when I let one get through,"
he admits.

Two who managed this difficult maneu-
ver did so under cover of a rainstorm.
Uncle Travis spotted the two drenched
girls running up the drive, lickety split,
and took after them in his car. They
reached the house and were leaning on
the doorbell by the time he caught up.
They proved to be lucky, however. Elvis
got word of them, came out on the porch,
chatted for about ten minutes, then posed
for a picture, his arms around their soak-
ing wet shoulders.

An extremely athletic young admirer
scaled the six-foot barbed-wire-topped
fence which runs through the back of the
property and was discovered hiding be-
tween the air-conditioning plants. Another
was pulled out from under a Cadillac.
One found back of a bush was scared to
death. "Don't call the police," she begged.
"I'll never do it again." Uncle Travis
conducts such over-ardent youngsters
back to the gate and lets them go.

Trespassing took a more serious aspect,
the night Uncle Travis discovered a half-
dozen boys trying to hoist the heavy cast-
iron lawn furniture over the fence near
the little house where he lives. Elvis
heard his shouts, piled into a car, dashed
out through a side gate and chased them.
He forced their car to the curb, but when
they begged him to let them go, he
agreed.

His elders, however, thought this was
the time to take a stand. They called the
sheriff's office. Deputies, investigating,
first thought the marauders had escaped.
Later, they were identified as coming
from the neighborhood. Vernon and
Gladys Presley, Elvis's parents, appeared
in court against them, but when the now-
frightened kids pleaded it was just a
thoughtless prank, they agreed to their
release — with a warning.

What effect has all this had on a young
man who, for all his fame, is only twenty-
two years old? A young man who came
from a family unaccustomed to the con-
stant glare of publicity?

Among some of his old friends, there is
a deep sympathy, an admiration for the
way he has met each challenge, and
sometimes a gratitude for his favors.

In the sympathetic group, you'll find
some of the older men and women who
helped him get his start. If he chooses to
drop in at their homes for a visit —
usually late at night — they can be counted
on to welcome him, entertain him, and
never repeat any of the conversation.
Said one, "We'd like him to know that,
in our home, he is a welcome guest, not
a celebrity. We want him to feel that here,
he, too, is entitled to a private life. Elvis
is, and always will be, our friend."

One who doesn't mind being quoted is
Captain Fred Woodward of the Memphis
police. He's been around ever since sur-
prised fellow citizens of Memphis dis-
covered that they had a celebrity in their
midst who could create a commotion just
by crossing a street. Captain Woodward
likes Elvis. "We don't furnish Elvis any
protection, officially," the Captain points
out, "except when there is some public
function where he is supposed to ap-
pear, like the Danny Thomas benefit show
for St. Jude's Hospital, or the Blind Bene-
fit football game or the opening of the
range where the police department
teaches people to drive cars. Then he is
entitled to an escort, just like anyone
else."

Unofficially, on off-duty hours, however,
Captain Woodward visits the Presley

home and sometimes accompanies Elvis
on minor excursions. "Lake the time he
just walked in at this place where they
were having a Cerebral Palsy party. Were
those people thrilled!"

One of Elvis's most enjoyable after-
noons last summer was spent aboard Cap-
tain Woodward's cruiser on the Missis-
sippi. "He really got a chance to relax
there," says the Captain. "Only time any-
one spotted him was when we passed
the excursion boat. Then it looked like
everyone made a bee line for that rail.
We avoided it, coming back. We didn't
want to risk anyone crowding and falling
overboard."

Another steadfast friend is George Klein,
a classmate from Humes High School who
edited the school paper. George subse-
quently worked at a radio station, but
was delighted when Elvis invited him to
go along to Hollywood. "We stayed at the
best hotels, I saw how movies were made,
I even had a bit part in 'Jailhouse Rock.'
It's really been an education, and I have
Elvis to thank for it. This is going to
be a great background for my own career
in broadcasting. I've learned a lot."

There are others who have not been so
appreciative. Singer-actor Faron Young,
who has known Elvis since both ap-
peared on small country -and -Western
shows in the South, says outspokenly,
"He's picked up a few characters who just
sponge off him. One day, when I heard
one of them ask Elvis for a quarter for a
pack of cigarettes, I guess I blew up. I
asked Elvis why he didn't get rid of such
creeps. It must have registered, because
a few days later I heard he had sent the
guy packing."

Undoubtedly, a few old friends have
had their feelings hurt. Says one enter-
tainer, known for his extreme shyness,
"I bumped into Elvis one day and he
asked me to call. I did, twice. The first
time, I was told he was sleeping. The
second, I was told he was in conference
with his mother and couldn't be disturbed.
That was enough for me. If he wants to
see me again, he knows where I live."

Among Memphis people who are not in
the immediate circle, there appears to be
a growing admiration. Some, who always
put the capital "S" in Society, volunteer
a comment that the Presleys will never
be admitted to certain clubs— but they
also concede he has not asked to be in-
vited. The young man who has had to cope
with plenty of gate-crashing at his own
home shows no indication of wishing to
do any of his own.

At the Chamber of Commerce, Gen-
eral Manager W. P. Brooks points out
that Memphis has always been proud of
its singers: "Kay Starr, Snookie Lanson,
Marguerite Piazza all came from here."
None of them, however, has created quite
such a flurry as Elvis. "We get a pack
of letters each week asking for pictures
and information. One writer even asked
us for a blade of grass from his lawn."

The Memphis Press Scimitar gave its
views in an editorial headed "The Pres-
leys." Appearing shortly after the furni-
ture-stealing incident, it read: "All good
wishes to Elvis Presley as he leaves for
a week or more out of town.

"Considering the great strain placed
upon this youth and his family by the
public, the suddenness of their rise from
obscurity, we feel that the Presleys have
conducted themselves well. Seldom has
family solidarity been so spotlighted.

"It is a real treat to be able to tell,
from day to day, not only the quirks and
works of a celebrity, but of a young man
and his mother and dad, and his uncles
and cousins, living in a goldfish bowl
while continuing to act like what they
are— real Memphians and real Americans."

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hy Do Women Hate to Be Called Housewives?

(Continued from page 42)
own qualifications for a currently down-
graded occupation which she herself
believes should be at the top of any
woman's career list. Arlene is the wife
of actor-director-producer Martin Gabel.
She is the mother of ten-year-old Peter
Gabel. And she takes these "most impor-
tant" jobs most seriously. "I have break-
fast with my child every morning," says
Arlene. "I am almost always there when
he gets home from school. We always
have dinner together. We take vacations
together. We play tennis together. We
are baseball fans, Martin and I, baseball
being Peter's dish of tea. We have com-
mon interests — and the time to share
them."

The Gabels have an apartment in New
York and a country house in suburban
Mt. Kisco. In town, they have a couple
to "do" for them. In the country house,
where they spend every weekend, and
as much other time as possible, there
is no help. "Up there," Arlene says, "I
do the housework myself. Roll up my
sleeves and get dinner. My husband and
son think I'm a sensational cook — and,
after all," she laughed, "how many people
do I have to please? Did the whole house
myself, too — the interior decorating, that
is. All very country-house gay, my
bedroom all red and white, downstairs
all orange and yellow and white, with
accents — a green chest here, a tiny green
Victorian sofa there. When we first
bought the house, my husband and I
spent our weekends painting. At coun-
try auctions, we picked up chests for
ten dollars or so, did them over, antiqued
some of them, marbleized others, made
them look pretty fancy." Arlene also
laid the carpet herself — wall-to-wall, the
length and breadth of the first floor.
("Carpet squares, sandalwood and white,"
she explains, "with adhesive on the other
side. Easy to do.")

"To me, 'house' and 'home' are almost
the most important words in the world,"
Arlene says. "And two of the most beau-
tiful. And 'housewife' a very good thing
to be called — for to run a good house, to
keep her family well-fed, happy, healthy
and comfortable, is the basic job of
every woman in the world. Yet house-
wives, and many of them, do resent the
term 'housewife.' I know they do, because
they tell me so.

"As to why they do, I just think the
term 'housewife,' which has the conno-
tation of washing and ironing and cooking
and scrubbing and putting up box-lunch-
es and getting the kids off to school, all
the things the wife at home is in charge
of and does — and should do, it's her job —
is not quite as glorious as the ladies
would like it to be! Nor as satisfying to
the ego as the terms that refer to other
jobs, such as artist, actress, airline stew-
ardess and so on. I think the housewife
feels that her job doesn't give her an
identity, a place in the world comparable
to that of the career woman or working
girl. I think it is the lack of recognition
that irks.

"I also think," Arlene adds, "that, while
being a housewife may be her basic job,
it need not be her only job. I think that
the housewife who refers to herself as
'just a housewife' is being defensive
because she knows that being a house-
wife is not a full-time job, in most cases
nowadays. Today, according to statistics,
three out of every ten wives — some
T twelve million in all — are wage-earners
w as well as housewives. Can it be them-
R selves, I wonder, that the seven out of
ten who are 'just housewives' resent?
"Time was when to be a housewife
72

was a round-the-clock, full-time and
over-time job. The housewife baked
her own bread, cake and pies. She spent
hours, and was obliged to do so, over the
old hot stove. She swept and scrubbed
her floors. She did the family wash —
by hand. In those days, one never, I feel
sure, heard a housewife refer to herself
as 'just a housewife.' She was proud,
and rightly so, of the job she did. And
of the title it carried.

"Now, with the modern appliances or
'electrical servants,' as they're sometimes
called — the dish-washer and dryer, the
clothes-washing machine and dryer, the
mangle, the vacuum cleaner, the floor
waxer that virtually do a woman's work
for her and certainly do cut house-
working time in half — with the prepared
cake, biscuit, muffin, pie-crust and you-
name-'em mixes, the frozen foods, the
precooked heat-and-eat meals — the house-
wife can use the time she didn't have be-
fore the dawn of the Machine (and
Mixes) Age to be a housewife and pretty
much anything else she wants to be (or
do) besides. And, in my opinion, she
should.

"If the housewife today has a talent
of the kind careers are made of, and is
herself career-minded, she can develop
the talent. If she has no particular talent
or training, but wants a job outside of
the home, she can take a course that
will fit her for any kind of a job which

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most appeals to her or for which she
feels best fitted. And she doesn't have to
be rich to do it, either. My secretary,
Muriel Fleit, recently took a course at the
YWCA in," Arlene laughs, "package-
tying! A six-week course. Price, nine
dollars. At the Y, you can learn to rhumba,
type, take shorthand, make hats, massage,
bathe babies, swim — and, for all I know,
skin-dive!

"If the housewife doesn't need a paying
job, or doesn't want to work the nine-to-
five shift required of most employees— but
still suffers from the common malady of
'just housewives,' which is monotony-
she can do part-time work. Social work
of some sort. Civic work. Neighborhood
baby-sitting. Or there is always a hospi-
tal where she can roll bandages. (It
sounds Pollyanna, I know, but only by
doing something for someone else can we
reach self-satisfaction.)

"I am all for marriage and a career,"
Arlene says, in an all-out tone of voice.
"Or, if 'career' seems too pretentious a
word for it, for marriage and a job of
some sort outside of the home. I believe
that the woman who makes contacts of
her own, on her own, can only bring
something of value to her marriage —
open eyes, open heart, tolerance, and an

understanding of people and of how they
behave which only being out in the world
can give.

"Conversely, I feel that the woman who
is at home alone with the kids all day,
especially if she lives in the suburbs, feels
frustrated, takes to fretting, becomes sus-
picious of her husband — Why is he so
late? What is he doing? — which can only
cause a lot of unhappiness in marriage.

"The happiest homes I know — and my
own is one — are the homes in which the
wives and mothers have interests other
than those contained within their own
four walls. Mary Martin is an enor-
mously happy girl. So is Phyllis (Mrs.
Bennett) Cerf. So is actress Kitty Car-
lisle, wife of playwright Moss Hart. So
are most of the wage-earning wives I
know, whether they be secretaries, hair-
dressers, seamstresses or Broadway stars.

"But what of the child of the career or
working woman, people often ask. Doesn't
he feel deprived, and 'different' from the
other kids, because of an absentee
mother? To be honest about it," Arlene
says, "when a child is very small, I sus-
pect he does wish he had a Mom like the
Moms of the other kids. He sees his class-
mates being picked up by their mothers
after school and taken to the park, or
wherever — and he probably thinks, Gee,
why not me, too? When he is very young,
I am pretty sure he does think and say
exactly that," Arlene smiles that from-the-
heart smile of hers, "because when Peter
was a very little boy, about three years
old, he admonished me one day, 'You go
to too many works!'

"But for the times I didn't pick Peter
up at school and take him to the park —
because I couldn't — we would have a spe-
cial adventure of our own. A boat trip
around Manhattan Island. A baseball
game. An afternoon at the movies. A
heart-to-heart talk at bedtime. An hour
spent with a child, the interest and atten-
tion focused on him, is more important,
to my mind, than twelve hours of just
being with a child around the house.

"I think it pays off in the end," she
says. "The many times I — and Martin,
too— have had to leave Peter are com-
pensated for by the fact that the child
should realize he is not always going to
have someone there. And if he is brought
up, as Peter is being brought up, in an
atmosphere of love and mutual under-
standing and compassion and individual
independence, he will be, as Peter is, a
very secure and very happy child.

"I just don't believe there is any valid
reason, or any excuse," Arlene asserts,
"for a woman today to be 'just a house-
wife.' Even if she hasn't any particular
urge to have a job, she can develop her
own resources, extend her interests and
her horizons. Every town has its clubs
where women can meet and exchange
ideas. Garden clubs. Book or reading
clubs, where they can sit around and dis-
cuss books. Town meetings which they
can attend, for the purpose of discussing
ways and means of improving the com-
munity. We women," Arlene laughs, "tend
to be alibi-prone. We 'haven't time' to do
this or that because we have to put up
Junior's lunch. How much time, actu-
ally, does it take to put up Junior's lunch?
Face it. Face yourself. Admit that you
have enough time to gossip with your
next-door neighbor — but not enough time
to do your bit by speaking up at town
meetings in order to help improve the
community in which you live.

"Even if the situation at home is such
that the housewife is unable to be away
for any length of time — and circumstances
do alter cases, of course — she can still be

more than 'just a housewife.' She can
take time all the time to improve herself.
She can become familiar, through read-
ing, with the great art of the world, the
great literature of the world — with the
great world, period. The great world of
the past, the great and challenging world
of the future. If a housewife just sat
down and read a newspaper every day,
that would be a step forward. And, by
improving yourself, you are doing some-
thing creative, too — for, if you yourself
are improved, the world is improved."

Arlene is glad, she says, and deeply
grateful that she is a housewife and a
career woman, as well. She loves the
people, the many different people, being
"out in the world" has permitted her to
meet and know. She regrets the passing
of the Home show "because, after three-
and-a-half years, I miss the people the
show afforded me the pleasure and privi-
lege of working with. Goodbyes I find
hard to say." Because of her interest in
people, she loves doing interviews, such
as the memorable one she did, shortly
before Home went off the air, with poet-
author Carl Sandburg and his wife. But
she plans to "ease into" some of these
former features, such as the interviews,
which will be easily adaptable to her
present show.

"I also like to think," she says, "that
The Arlene Francis Show will be so suc-
cessful that I can 'travel it,' so to speak,
as I did for the Home program, when I
went to Japan, Holland, Monaco, Eng-
land— and here at home, all up and down
the West Coast, Cape Cod, Florida, and
so on. We were pioneers — even before
Wide, Wide World — in the travel-for-
television department. We're not doing
the service departments, such as we did
on Home, but service is so well done to-
day, on so many levels — in magazines,
newspapers and other media — that it is,
we feel, expendable. Oh, I'll drop a few
household hints now and then," she
laughs, "ad lib a bit. Let a new egg-
beater be born, I am certainly going to
mention it! But mainly it'll be a gay
program, this variety show of mine, all on
an entertainment basis.

"Dearly as I love television, however —
and radio and the theater — if, tomorrow,
all three mediums were to be wiped
from the face of the earth, I would not
settle for being 'just a housewife.' I
would never be content not to work —
and, preferably, outside the home. Social
work of some sort, perhaps. Civic work.
But, whether in the home or out of it,
I would have to set goals for myself in
certain definite lines of endeavor'. A cer-
tain number of books to be read in a cer-
tain length of time. A correspondence
course of some kind. Learn a language,
perhaps. Or why not two languages?

"I would hope to live my life as fully
as Mrs. Leonard Lyons (wife of the col-
umnist), who writes, makes speeches at
school, plays baseball with her husband
and four sons, is active in every type of
civic work, is aware of — and fascinated
by — everything that goes on in the world.
Extremely witty and bright, Mrs. Lyons —
who doesn't hold a wage-earning job or
have a career as such — would certainly
list her occupation as that of 'housewife.'
And housewife she is. 'Just a housewife'
she is not," Arlene laughs.

"Nor would I be, even if I were never
to face a microphone again. Nor do you
need to be, Mrs. Average American
Housewife, wherever you are. And don't,
please, tell me otherwise. For, if any-
one tells me they can't do anything, I
spend my time talking them out of it,"
says Arlene Francis, who knows every
housewife should be proud and happy
— even if she has to be talked into it.

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(Continued from page 36)
made it through all these seven lean
years if it hadn't been for Mary— and I
would never have met Mary if I hadn't
first made her mad at me."

It happened in Tallahassee, Florida, on
a June night in 1950 when the game of
the Tallahassee Pirates (farm club of
the Pittsburgh Pirates) was rained out.
"But the rain didn't stop the girls' soft-
ball league from playing," Danny recalls.
"We saw the lights on in their stadium,
so four of us decided it would be more
fun to watch the girls than to go to a
movie."

He was Danny Costello, southpaw
pitcher then, and already the hard-luck
kid. Born in Jersey City, in the "little
Italy" section, he grew up with baseball
in his blood. When Danny was seven, his
mother, Jean Costello, married Michael
Lorello, who is now a labor arbiter for
the International Hod Carriers Union.
"My stepfather is the greatest guy that
ever lived," says Danny, "and he sure
could play ball. He was one of the best
natural hitters ever to come out of Jersey.
People still talk about the day he belted
a ball five hundred feet."

Mike passed his baseball lore on to
Jean's small sons, Frank and Danny. By
the time Danny was a sophomore in high
school, professional baseball contracts
were being offered him. He signed with
the Pittsburgh Pirates and everyone
thought he was headed straight for the
majors.

He was warming up, playing in one of
the Pirate's farm clubs when Lady Luck
pitched the first of many fast curves.
That first one wasn't so bad. It even had
a few advantages. The Army tagged
Danny for military service and put him
into the Medical Corps. As an operating-
room technician, he assisted at eighty
operations. He also took the special study
course the Army offered and received his
high-school diploma.

The second curve was a heartbreaker.
Danny calls it "one of the freak accidents
of baseball." The Pirates again were ro-
tating him through their farm clubs, when
Danny broke his arm. "I pitched so hard
I cracked the bone half way through. It
hurt, but I played out the season." An
operation the following winter disclosed
that the bone had splintered. Danny, in-
stead of being advanced to big-league
ball, was sent back to the Tallahassee
Pirates to recover from the injury.

JJanny's loss was the Tallahassee fans'
gain — particularly a certain feminine fan
named Mary TruHt Peacock.

Danny spotted her the moment he and
his teammates entered the park where the
girls were playing softball. "There she
is, guys," he called out. "There's our
blonde. The one that always sits in the
box seats at our games. Let's sit over
there."

They clattered through the half-empty
grandstand to the bleachers back of third
base and, with all that fiendish glee
usually reserved for kid brothers, they
immediately let the women's softball
league — and particularly Mary Truitt Pea-
cock— know the Pirates were in the stand.
If a ball came within fifty feet of her,
they yelled, "Get a washtub."

The dirty look Mary gave them inspired
Danny to new deviltry. Just as a ball
sailed in her direction, Danny yelled,
"Hey, Mary, you dropped an earring!"
J Instinctively, her hand flew to her ear.
Too late, she remembered she never wore
earrings when playing ball. She missed
the ball by a mile.

"That was two errors on Mary in one
74

inning," Danny recalls. "She was losing
the ball game single-handed. But it was
when she came up to bat that we really
let her have the razz." As she stepped
to the plate, shouts of "Mary's at bat —
there goes the ball game" greeted her
from that all-too-familiar left field.

But Mary surprised them. Coolly she
waited for a pitch which she wanted and,
when she struck, she really swatted. Babe
Ruth himself couldn't have done better.
Straight and true, the ball sped toward
the horizon and Danny and his pals were
on their feet yelling, "Run, Mary, run."

Today, Danny says, "I admired her
spunk. I liked the way she could hit a
homer under pressure. Right then, I knew
I wanted to know that girl better. But I
couldn't admit it to the fellows. I had to
tell them that I wanted to stick around
until she came from the showers. I said
that, if I didn't apologize, she was liable
to come over to our game the next day
and heckle me right off the mound."

Apologize Danny did, and he also in-
vited her to the Pirates' game and to din-
ner after the game. "I'll never forget how
she looked," Danny says. "She went into
the clubhouse a ballplayer, mud streaked
and breathless. She came out of the-
showers a beauty, with her hair curling
in damp ringlets across her forehead. She
was wearing the prettiest flowered
dress. . . ."

The dinner and the long walk home the
next evening gave Danny a chance to
learn more about this ball-playing glam-
our girl. She was a secretary by day, she
told him, working for the Welfare Depart-
ment. She lived in a red brick house sur-
rounded by wide white porches. She was
usually called, after the Southern fashion,
not just "Mary," but "Mary Truitt." Her
small brother, James, was called "Sonny."
Her father, James Lamar Peacock, was in
the shoe business. "And he's pretty
strict," she added, when Danny asked for
a date on the following evening. "You'd
better get to the house early so that you
can meet Daddy and Mother. I don't
know what they're going to say about
my going out with somebody they don't
know."

Danny took the hint. While slacks and
sports shirt were his customary attire, he
arrived in suit, white shirt and tie. "I
got all duded up," he says, "but that
night we really got into trouble."

Lamar Peacock had been cordial, but
specific. He wanted Danny to have Mary
Truitt home by midnight. Danny agreed.
But, unfortunately, he wasn't driving the
car. Another ball player and his girl were
newly engaged and they just couldn't
bear to part, not for many, many hours.
It was two A.M. when Danny brought
Mary Truitt up the walk, and every light
in the living room was blazing.

Danny recalls: "I apologized and ex-
plained. Lamar listened, but I got my
orders. If I wanted to see Mary again, I
was to have her in the house at midnight."
Mary remembers: "I cried half the night.
I was sure I would never see Danny
again."

But Danny had made up his mind and
his heart. He discovered, too, that won-
derful Southern institution, the porch
swing. "We sure gave it a workout that
summer. I took Lamar at his word, and,
if I got Mary home a few minutes early,
we sat on the porch until the clock started
to strike."

When Danny left for Jersey City at the
end of the season, they had an under-
standing. "Danny never did propose to
me," Mary says. "We iust knew that we
were going to get married."

As his love for his stepfather had led

Danny to baseball, so, too, had his ad-
miration for his Uncle Jerry led to sing-
ing. Uncle Jerry had sung with a small
opera company back in Italy. He had
never attempted to sing professionally in
the United States. But, on feast days, when
the whole family got together, Uncle
Jerry's arias provided the big climax.
Wide-eyed with admiration, Danny, listen-
ing, would think, Gee, 1 wish I could do
that, and Uncle Jerry had encouraged
him. A neighbor from Hoboken, Frank
Sinatra, had gained fame as a singer,
Uncle Jerry stated, and, in his opinion,
Danny had as good a chance as Sinatra.
Danny, his ambitions focused on base-
ball, had always thanked him with a
smile, "That's good to hear, but let's not
count on it."

But suddenly, that September of 1950,
he was counting on it, for he had been
home only a few days when the Army
had news for him. The Korean war was
on. They needed every medic they could
get. There was a polite request that Danny
return to duty. There was an implication
that, if he didn't, eventually he would be
conscripted.

Danny says, "I went into a panic. I
knew that the only thing in the world that
I wanted was Mary. Even if we could
have only a few days together, I wanted
her to be my wife. I didn't know how
I would support her. If I didn't need to
go back into service right away, I'd sing,
I'd carry bricks, I'd dig sewers, I'd take
any work I could get, just so that we
could have that little time together."

When he telephoned to ask if she would
come North immediately, Mary proved
that the kind of spunk which let her hit
a homer, under pressure, on the softball
field, also carried over into everyday liv-
ing. Away went her plans for a white-
satin wedding. With family and friends
loving and close. "I decided that a suit
which I had would do," says Mary, "The
only things I bought were a new hat,
gloves and purse."

Danny Costello and Mary Truitt Pea-
cock were married by a justice of the
peace on September 27, 1950. Four weeks
later, the Roman Catholic ceremony took
place in the rectory of the church. "We
got married twice," says Danny. "We
know it's for keeps."

Danny's parents made them welcome
until they found an apartment, which
Danny calls their hi-lo special: "It took
a high climb to get to this attic, and
there was a low ceiling when you got
there. I bumped my head every time I
stood up — and my money went down to
nothing every time I paid the rent of
eighty dollars a month."

Their struggle for survival was intense;
Danny's battle for bookings seemed hope-
less. "I'd work all day as a laborer, then
I'd get dressed up and go across the
river to Manhattan to make the rounds of
the agents, looking for bookings. The
trouble with that was that those guys,
too, went home at five o'clock. Or out to
a club. Or somewhere. Anyhow, by the
time I got there, they weren't in their
offices."

He grew discouraged and wanted to
quit. "That's when I found out what a
great guy my dad really is. You know
the way they find an 'angel' to put on a
Broadway show? Well, I've got an 'angel,'
too, and it's my dad. When we'd get down
to nothing, he'd always have the money
for the rent or whatever we needed. Dad
believed in me. Just like he once wanted
me to play big-league baseball, now he
wanted to see me make it as a singer."

Danny knew he had to make what he

calls "that almighty move." Encouraged
by his stepfather, he quit his construction
job and spent full time making the rounds.
At Johnny Dell's office, he got a hearing.
And, while he was singing, Walter Bishop,
a veteran ASCAP songwriter, wandered
in from the next office and asked, "Who's
the boy?" — and, after hearing a few more
bars remarked, "I like that."

For Danny, it was the start of a friend-
ship. It also led to Danny's engagement
to sing with the band on a cruise ship
bound for Nassau. "I got paid two hun-
dred dollars and had the boat trip," says
Danny. "Then I didn't work again for a
year. Sure, they liked me. Some of the
passengers even wrote letters to the line.
But it didn't do any good. They had their
entertainment booked ahead, twelve
months solid."

They moved, according to Danny, "from
attic to cellar," just before their son
Tommy was born on October 20, 1951.
"Actually, it was a nice little apartment,
and we had fun. There were a lot of
other young couples in the neighborhood
and we were all getting started."

Then the young couples became the
yardstick by which Danny measured the
difference between show business and
other business. As the young men learned
their jobs, they got raises in salary. They
bought that first car. As their families
increased, they bought houses and moved
away. The young Costellos were the only
ones left of the crowd.

Danny wanted to quit. His stepfather
replied to that by giving him forty dol-
lars to buy a new suit and urging him to
try one more audition. The "fours" proved
to be Danny's lucky number — for that
audition was his fourth for the old TV
show, Chance Of A Lifetime. Danny won
it, and he won the talent contest for five
consecutive weeks. The prize was a thou-
sand dollars a week. That simmered down
to $3,500 take-home pay.

Then Mary said, "Let's invest it." Danny
asked, "How?" Mary said, "That's easy.
In the investment which will pay the
highest dividends. You."

JVlary and Danny can still count up the
extent of their splurge. Danny spent a
hundred and twenty-five dollars for a
dinner jacket. It was his first, and classi-
fied as working clothes. They moved from
their thirty-five-dollars-a-month base-
ment flat to one on the third floor which
cost fifty. They bought a few extras.

The rest of the money, as they say,
"went into the act." Sixteen hundred
dollars for special song arrangements and
scripts. Six hundred dollars for photos to
send out to fan clubs. Postage counted
up. Mimeographing was needed. It
mounted up. Before they knew it, they
had only four hundred dollars left. "That's
when we thought we had better get some-
thing for ourselves," says Mary. "So we
bought a sleeper couch. On time."

The publicity and interest generated by
Danny's appearances on Chance Of A
Lifetime produced a flash flood of book-
ings, but the public forgets fast. Danny
hoped for a recording contract. The rec-
ord companies were having a bit of a
famine themselves. Danny was told again
and again, "You'll have to record it your-
self. If you've got a master, maybe we'll
release it for you."

Danny checked costs. To set up a priv-
ate recording session would cost twenty-
five-hundred dollars. "That's when I got
out my card from Laborers' Union, Local
325, Jersey City, showed it to my dad and
announced I was going back to work.
Show business was fine for a guy with
money back of him, but I had had en-
ough."

MikeLorelloihad a different idea. "I'll
fdrhish''th#>money/?i he-told Danny/ <- ' I

With hopes high, Danny cut two sides,
"My Own" and "We're Not Children Any
More." M-G-M released it. Danny com-
presses the outcome into a few words:
"It was a bomb."

Bitter over his disappointments, Danny
sought solace from his friend Bill Dana.
"Dana and Wood were a long-time comedy
team. Bill is now a TV writer. I went up
to his apartment looking for sympathy."
He found, instead, what Danny calls, "The
four hours' talk that changed my life."

Danny says today, "He sure straight-
ened me out in a hurry. I realized it
wasn't enough to have some natural talent.
I had to polish it, work, learn, find out
what it takes to get that extra sparkle,
so that I'm the guy they pick at the audi-
tions."

Danny went home to Mary and an-
nounced his decision. "Put away the
union card. Now I know what I'm up
against and I'm going to lick it. I'm go-
ing to go to school." School, for Danny,
was no formal enrollment in the classes of
any institution. Instead, he chose per-
sonal coaching, voice lessons. Diction
lessons. Later, acting lessons. Two weeks
later, he auditioned for the first time for
Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts. He was
told, "Come back in six months."

Danny cites the turning point. "This
time, I wasn't disappointed. I took their
advice to get more experience. I found
some small bookings. And I auditioned
once a month for six months. It sure was
a great day for me when Miss Esther Stoll,
who ran the auditions, said, 'Go, brother.
You're ready.' "

With Mary as his talent scout, Danny
went on and won. There was only one
drawback. Mr. Godfrey was on vacation.
Jack Paar was sitting in on Talent Scouts
and Peter Lind Hayes was running the
morning show. Mr. Godfrey never heard
Danny.

Danny's real break came later, when the
show was in Miami. Pat Boone had an
engagement on the road. Mr. Godfrey
walked down to the beach to join Janette
Davis and the McGuire Sisters and asked,
"Whom shall we put on in his place?"
Unanimously, they said, "Danny Costello."
Said Godfrey, "If you all want him, that's
it."

For Danny, it has led to repeated ap-
pearances, on the program and another
recording, this one on the Caravan label,
titled "That's Where I Shine," and "My
Creator," a religious number. "You can't
call it a hit," Danny admits, but it's a step
in the right direction.

However, the real turning point in Dan-
ny's career came the day Janette Davis
introduced him to Max Kendrick, who is
associated with Warner Bros. Publishing
Co. "That was my lucky day," says Dan-
ny. "He liked me and took a personal as
well as professional interest in me, and
taught me more in two months than I had
learned in all the years previous in show
business. Max is just about the best friend
a guy could ever have.

Several months have passed since that
first meeting. And, with Max and Danny
working together, things are really begin-
ning to happen. Already, TV films, mo-
tion picture contracts, even a Broadway
play, are being discussed. Like Mary, in
that long ago ball game, Danny can count
some hits, some errors. But it looks as
though he, too, is about to hit that home
run.

And Mary and Danny have their idea
of a homer completely defined. Danny,
Jr. was born on June 5, 1955. Says his
proud parent, "We're now raising two ball
players. We figure we need about nine-
teen acres and a house with double doors,
doors we can fling open in the morning
and say, 'Okay> kids, it's all yours.' H@0
ahead dnd-'furi!'"- ^o.i Bid bA

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(Continued Irom page 34)
"For six years, when I was teaching
school," she says, "I helped children with
their problems. In spite of that, I didn't
learn how to apply psychology to myself
or other grownups."

Inside every fat person, it has been said,
is a thin one struggling to get free. After
Dr. Milton V. Kline, psychologist and
writer on hypnosis, began using hypnotic
therapy to help free the "real" Dorothy
inside, she was able to shed fifty-seven
pounds. Now at last she has lost weight
and kept it off. The story of how Dorothy
did it is the story of a girl honest enough
to face reality, find psychological help and
learn the truth about what makes her tick.

Dieting was something that Dorothy had
tried many times, but only with tempo-
rary success. Once, when she was in her
early teens, she went on a cottage-cheese
diet and lost thirty pounds. "I had an
aunt with beautiful size-fourteen clothes,
and I wanted to wear them," she explains.
"Except for clothes, being big never both-
ered me. Pretty dresses only went to size-
eighteen, and I wore size-twenty. But,
every time I lost weight, I'd end up gain-
ing it back — plus a little more!"

In Turkey or Central Europe, where
ample proportions are stylish, Dorothy felt
she would have been belle of the ball.
"I'll never be skinny," she said, "but I
don't want to be that kind of glamour
girl. Some skinny girls are mean because
they're hungry."

No one with rollicking humor like
Dorothy's could be "mean." Radio listen-
ers often write to ask: "Who's that girl
with the infectious laugh? Hearing her
cheers me up." The response to her
warmth is particularly evident in children,
because they don't hide their feelings.
Several years ago, when Dorothy was
teaching school, however, one little girl
was afraid of her.

"She was one of those adorable Dresden-
china type girls," Dorothy remembers.
"I'm outspoken, robust, and I could see
her withdraw. A week after school had
started, I sat on a chair in front of the
class and said, 'Some of you are afraid of
me. I talk louder, laugh harder, scold
louder, and I'm bigger than the other
teachers. But I promise that, before the
term is over, you'll realize I'm like the
dog who barks but doesn't bite. One little
girl is afraid of me. I was once told the
best way not to be afraid of someone is
to think how funny she would look in her
petticoat. You try that with me, and you'll
laugh instead of being scared.'

"After that, the little girl relaxed and
became friendly. Children, particularly
five and six-year-olds, are fascinated by
differences in size. They used to ask me
why I was so fat. I'd tell them there are
differences in everything. Some people
have black hair, others are blonde, some
have blue eyes, others have brown. We'd
start comparing how funny differences are
and end up giggling.

"To keep children interested," says
Dorothy, "you need a bag of tricks." One
of her best was to bring her Golden Auto-
harp to class. This is an easy-to-play
stringed instrument like a zither. She
would sing and play folk songs and teach
them to the youngsters. The latest re-
cording of some of her songs is on RCA
Victor's Bluebird record, "Lullabies for
Sleepyheads."

Dorothy loved youngsters and they

J trusted her. Part of the time, she taught

■ in a school for disturbed children. They

had emotional problems which blocked

their being able to study and learn in the

way that happy children can. Trying to

Goodbye to 57 Pounds!

help them, she had long talks with the
three psychiatrists and one psychologist
at school. She began to realize that all
of us have problems, whether we're aware,
of them or not. To help us handle them,
many of us need professional help.

In a classroom, Dorothy never doubted
that she had the children's approval.
When grownups entered, however, she
began to feel uneasy. They seemed to
represent a challenge. As she became
more interested in psychology, she began
to wonder why. Her own childhood had
been difficult in some wavs. "My father
was a perfectionist," Dorothy explains.
"He was a mechanical engineer, the kind
of person who said there was no room for
failure. For a child, his standards were
impossibly high."

When Dorothy was six, her parents sep-
arated and she was raised by her mother
in her Grandmother McDonald's home.
She had a wonderful cook and the food
was lavish. "My grandmother was from
the South, and the McDonald girls were
noted for their delicacies — hot cornbread,
golden popovers, crispy pastries, and fine-
flaked biscuits that tasted even better with
rich gravy poured over them generously.

"It would be hard to stay thin in that
household. My mother managed, even
though she could bake the best angel-
food cake I've ever tasted. It looked
pretty, too. She had a trick of twirling on
the butter icing with a knife so it looked
like a magazine picture.

"It's not true that heaviness runs in
families. The tendency to overeat does.
So often, too, we use food to comfort us.
I remember when I was a youngster and
cut my chin, my mother gave me a pat of
butter and said, 'This will make you feel
better.' As I grew up, I got used to com-
forting myself by eating whenever I was
under stress or strain.

"My vice is hot dogs. Not just any old
kind, but the ball-game or cart-on-the-
corner kind of hot dogs you eat with
sauerkraut. When I reach a point of low
resistance, instead of catching a cold as
most people do, I give in and eat a hot
dog!"

Dorothy's intelligent curiosity led her
to overeating, too. Foreign foods and new
foods interested her. In restaurants, she
ordered the specialties, no matter how
loaded with calories they were.

Once, after winning a music scholar-
ship and singing with her home-town
band, Dorothy decided to lose weight if
she had to wire her jaw shut. She went
to a reducing school, ended with a skin
condition and malnutrition. Another time,
she decided that she wanted to be a pro-
fessional singer, so she dieted down to
size-sixteen from size-forty-two. Then
she started making the rounds of the
booking agents. "You have a nice face,
a nice voice," agents would say — and then
add, "but why don't you lose some
weight?"

"That straw broke the camel's back,"
Dorothy says now. "I have a big frame
and I decided that, if I had to be skinny
to be a singer, I'd be a schoolteacher!"
Up went her weight again.

While she was still studying to be an
elementary-school teacher, she met and
married a friend of her brother Harry, a
commercial fisherman named Arti Olsen.
Arti had been a whaler in Norway and
because of that unusual occupation, the
CBS-TV program Name That Tune wanted
him on their show, after the Olsens had
filled out audience-participation cards.
Arti was at sea when a call came, but the
man liked the jolly quality in Dorothy's
voice on the phone, so he asked her to
come in to be screened. Fortunately, she

took her brother, Harry Bell, who has
always acted as her adviser, with her.

Mr. Salter took him aside after the
audition and said he wanted to use Doro-
thy but he was afraid she might fall and
hurt herself because she was heavy. On
the program, two people race up to ring
a bell before answering the questions.
Harry assured him that she was a good
dancer and light on her feet from running
with children on the playground.

On the night of her first appearance,
Dorothy was disheartened when she saw
that her opponent was tall, thin, and
long-legged. Even though he ran faster,
he missed one song which Dorothy was
able to name and she went on to win the
$25,000 prize. Meanwhile, Steve Sholes of
RCA Victor signed her to record "The
Little White Duck," which she had sung
on the program. It quickly sold 150,000
copies.

After making personal appearances to
promote the record, and seeing herself on
the TV monitor, she knew that she had
to lose weight. "I went to a doctor outside
of New York state," Dorothy says. "He
gave me pills and injections. I lost thirty
pounds, but I got dehydrated and my skin
broke out. Frightened, I went back to my
own physician, Dr. Vincent Fiocco. He
had me stop medication, the condition
cleared up — and I gained the weight
back."

Then Dorothy began to appear with Dr.
Frances Horwich on Ding Dong School.
"Miss Frances used suggestive psychology
with me," Dorothy recalls. "She talked
about losing weight herself and gave me
suggestions about how to dress more be-
comingly.

"I knew that I had a weight problem
but what I didn't understand was that,
basically, I kept overeating when I was
under stress. Food had always been a
source of comfort to me.

"I loved to sing but I didn't have enough
faith in myself. I remembered watching
Bert Parks on many shows, and it was
hard to accept finding myself on the same
side of a mike with him, singing on NBC
Bandstand."

In November, 1956, Dorothy read an
article about Dr. Milton Kline, Director,
Institute for Research in Hypnosis at
Long Island University. It interested her
and so, like a typical schoolteacher, she
clipped and filed it. Again, she consulted
her own doctor. He was open-minded
about the use of hypnosis and asked,
"What do you think?"

"If my eating is a problem," Dorothy
answered, "I should be able to face it."

Medicine had done no good, she couldn't
stick to a diet — so, finally, on a rainy,
cold day last February, she called Dr.
Kline. No one should undertake any
method of losing weight without a thor-
ough physical examination. Since Dr.
Fiocco had given Dorothy a check-up and
his approval, Dr. Kline was willing to
proceed.

In the hands of anyone but a competent
therapist, hypnosis — like surgery or any
medical technique — can be dangerous. A
person under hypnosis seems like a sleep-
walker, except that he believes and does,
within certain limits, what the therapist
says. "The subject often may experience
reality through the therapist, rather than
through his own senses," Dr. Kline once
said. "If the therapist says, 'It is dark,'
the subject may experience darkness and
reacts as if it were dark."

In Dr. Kline's office, before he hypno-
tized her, Dorothy asked if she could
take her shoes off. Then, while she con-
centrated, he talked to her slowly and in

rhythmic patterns. Dorothy felt as if she
were sliding down a coal chute inside
herself, the kind of feeling she has just
before falling asleep.

"I always knew what Dr. Kline was
saying," Dorothy has told me, "and, even
after I was hypnotized, I'd think to myself
that I could raise my arms if I wanted to —
but I didn't want to."

Before waking her, Dr. Kline told Dor-
othy that she would be less interested in
food, think less about it, but she would
have a feeling of well-being. "I woke up
feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,"
Dorothy says. "When I was leaving, Dr.
Kline asked if I had my shoes on. One
patient had walked out and forgotten her
shoes."

How can hypnosis help an overweight
person? I interviewed Dr. Kline and he
told me that many people seek psycho-
logical help for overweight, particularly
when they can't control their eating. With
hypnotherapy, or with other psychological
help, a patient can deal with some of the
feelings and emotions which created an
undesirable pattern of eating, and thus
gain more voluntary control. So long as
the desire to eat is voluntary, it's all right
to eat a lot — if that's what we want. The
problem arises when we eat involuntarily,
when we become passive observers, and
the desire to eat takes hold of us the way
fatigue does.

Therapy under . hypnosis can help a
patient stay on a diet. But more impor-
tant is helping a compulsive eater to rec-
ognize what experiences in his life made
him seek emotional satisfaction in food
instead of in his daily living. If these past
experiences were as obvious as a punch
in the nose, the problem would be simple
Usually they are so subtle and deep that
it takes psychotherapy over a long period
of time to dig them out. How long a time
depends on how deep-rooted and complex
the problems are.

"I was afraid I'd make a mistake, when
I first began to sing on NBC Bandstand,"
Dorothy recalls. "I had always admired
Skitch Henderson, our conductor, and he
terrified me, although people on the show
assured me there was no reason for it. I
goofed my lines and got lost in the middle
of a song. The band had to keep playing
and afterwards I wept bitter tears behind
the curtain at the back of the stage.

"I talked with Dr. Kline and gradually,
like seeing them in a reflector, the rea-
sons I was afraid of Skitch came to me. .
I respected him from far off and wanted
his approval. I didn't have enough faith
in myself because, for one thing, my
father — without realizing it — had set im-
possible, rigid standards. With such nega-
tive thoughts in my mind, it was inevitable
that I make a mistake. I was trying to
discipline myself the way my father had
disciplined himself.

"Finally, I was able to see Skitch the
way he was, kind and helpful. I was no
longer afraid of myself or him, so one day
I was able to screw up my courage, throw
my arms around him and say, 'I'm not
afraid of you any more.' In fact, every-
one on our NBC Bandstand show has been
helping and encouraging to me."

When she was recording "The Little
White Duck," Steve Sholes had asked
Dorothy to sing the last verse in a minor
key.

"Oh, I can't," she said.

"Don't say you can't," her brother said.
"If you can't, they'll tell you."

"He was right," Dorothy smiles. "It
turned out well. I used to say that I
couldn't sing in harmony. Now I say,
'Help me and I'll try.' The same holds
true with my dieting. Dr. Kline has helped
me find out why I was eating too much,
and now I can keep from gorging myself
with food the way I used to."

Dr. Kline never has told Dorothy spe-
cifically what to eat. Her overeating was
not due to ignorance of what was fatten-
ing. Now she can stick to a comfortable,
low-calorie diet. For breakfast: Tomato
juice, two eggs, toast, and coffee. In a
restaurant for lunch, she doesn't look at
a menu, so she isn't tempted. She orders
chopped meat broiled, sliced tomatoes or
green salad, and coffee. For dinner: Lean
meat, low-calorie vegetables, salad, and
fresh fruit, gelatin, or canned dietetic fruit
for dessert. Instead of the French cookies
and pies she ate before, Dorothy treats
herself to an occasional piece of hard
candy. Sucaryl sweetens her coffee and
Dr. Fiocco has prescribed vitamin and
mineral pills. During rehearsals, she may
drink coffee — but, if she gets pastry for
Skitch, she doesn't eat any herself.

lhere is more to Dorothy's changed ap-
pearance than losing weight. A friend of
her brother's, Sonya Box, gave her lessons
in exercise and posture. "I've learned how
to pull back my ears and stand more
erect," says Dorothy. "Having a smiling
face is important, too."

There's no reason why a large woman
can't be attractive: "I wear plain V-neck-
lines and sleeves that come below the
elbow. No more skirts and blouses, or
patterned materials. Instead, solid-color
dresses self-belted or with belts the same
color. I sew many of my clothes myself.

"Once I find a good pattern, I stick to
it. I don't see how an active woman can
wear straight skirts. Besides, they pull
above my knees when I sit down to play
the Golden Autoharp. At a party or at
work, I don't want to worry about how
I'm sitting. I'm more interested in what's
going on around me. And, finally, I've
found a store that caters to large-sized
young women — the 'Jr. Plenty' department
at Lane Bryant.

"Instead of oxfords, I wear heels now.
I buy pretty shoes and small, unusual
hats. I never wore hats before, but
brightly colored ones call attention to my
head. I've started to use make-up and my
hair-do is new. My husband likes long
hair, but mine is now short on the sides
and less severe than before. A hairdresser
styled it, but I trim it myself now that
I know what he was trying to achieve.

"Except for pearls, I don't wear neck-
laces, and I wear few bracelets. I do wear
earrings more often, however, since my
hair is up.

"I'm not sure that audiences like me
more just because I weigh less and dress
differently, but I know that agents and
producers do."

For her audiences, Dorothy likes best
to sing folk songs and pop songs. She
sings ballads but, since she's far from
being a sad person, people are not con-
vinced when she sings a sad song. "When
I sing a rhythm song, I feel like a child
who snitches a cookie and gets away with
it," Dorothy smiles. She sings them
tongue-in-cheek, with a wink at the
studio audience as if to say, You know
and I know that I'm just playing. I'm not
trying to convince you that I'm a rhythm,
singer.

What does Dorothy weigh now, after
losing fifty-seven pounds?

"I won't answer until I'm down to one
hundred and forty," she says, with a laugh.
Although some pounds still have to go,
eating no longer exists as a problem. That
period of anxiety is over and she can
take off as many pounds as she wishes,
because now she can stick to a diet. She
has had the courage to face the unpleas-
ant truth of why she overate. Maybe she
can write her superb accomplishment into
a far-from-sad ballad and sing it in her
inimitable, happy way: "Oh What a Beau-
tiful Feeling!"

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Como: The Pied Piper of TV

(Continued from page 41)
bucks a year or better. He could, if he
wished, have a servant for every room in
the house, with one extra just to squeeze
toothpaste on his toothbrush.

In reality, there is but one maid who
helps with the housework. Roselle does
all the cooking. For example, at a recent
party for fifteen of Perry's co-workers, she
set the table, prepared the meal and
served it. Once upon a time, there was a
French chauffeur on duty at the Como
residence, but not for long. Perry found
the man a driving job with another fam-
ily. Says Perry, "We didn't think it was
fair to keep him on, until we took some
French lessons."

Going out to a night club is a seldom
thing. For a great performer, such as
Sinatra or Nat "King" Cole, the Comos
will make the drive into town to be at
ringside. Perry almost never wears a
tuxedo for these infrequent outings. He's
had tuxedoes. A few years ago, he had
one that he'd worn once. When he was
asked for a donation of clothing to be
auctioned at a benefit, he gave them the
practically brand-new suit. This past year,
he had to appear as guest of honor at a
benefit for the Friars' Club in New York.
So he bought another tuxedo. But that,
too, has disappeared. "Tuxedo?" he says,
"Who needs one?"

There are three children at home in
Sands Point: Ronnie, seventeen, David.
eleven, and Terri, ten. Perry has literally
quarantined them from publicity. A pho-
tographer hasn't been inside the driveway
of Perry's house in years. The idea is that
the kids should grow up in a home rather
than a fish bowl. And they are brought up
like kids whose fathers have an average
income. When Ronnie was coming into
Manhattan to attend school at St. Xavier's,
he came by train and subway. He spent
well over two hours a day commuting.
And home entertainment for Ronnie, Da-
vid and Terri is built right into the house.
Television is a staple. Music is the rule,
whether at piano or phonograph.

Dee Belline says, "You ought to see the
way Perry has with kids. Nephews, nieces,
all kids are crazy about him. He's got a
special magic with children. I don't know
what it is exactly — his patience, his smile,
his great affection. Take my two, Dennis
and Judith. The boy is fifteen and his sis-
ter, thirteen. Well, they are both nuts for
Pat Boone and Elvis, but they're mad
about Uncle Perry. Let anyone say a word
against Perry and they jump to his defense
like tigers."

1 his Pied Piper aspect of Perry's ex-
tends beyond the family. Any Saturday
night at the studio, you'll find adults in
line with their children. After the show,
they line up again at the stage door and
wait for Perry. He has never ducked out
on the audience. He signs autographs,
poses for youngsters with cameras and
kneels down to talk to the little ones.
Often, the mother or father will say, "You
Jrnow, Mr. Como, we wouldn't have waited
in line like this for anyone but our child.
She insisted that she had to see you." And,
just about that time, the child usually gets
timid and hides behind her mother's skirts.
"When you see Como on television,
you're seeing the same personality we
know off camera," says Goodman Ace,
Perry's head writer. "We write this show
for Perry 'as is.' He's a family man and
happy about it. So into the show go lines
J about his children and his wife. When a
celebrity appears as a guest, Perry doesn't
ask about the man's new record or latest
movie. Instead, he will say, 'And how are
your kids?'"' ''' '

Goodie explains that the most popular
kind of comedy on TV is built around the
insult joke — but Perry can't tell one. "It
would be out of character. To my knowl-
edge. Perry has never insulted anyone.
An insult joke wouldn't ring true. For
him, we write the gentle joke. But, ac-
tually, he's no comedian. He's a personal-
ity with experience and a great sense of
timing."

One big problem during the season is
to get Perry to accept awards that come
his way. Perry doesn't want to stand still
and be told how wonderful he is. Goodie
says, "We are pleased that he gets awards
but he complains that it's embarrassing to
have someone come up and say, 'Mr.
Como, in appreciation of the wholesome
entertainment you have rendered et cetera,
et cetera.' Perry maintains it bores the
people. We know that it makes him self-
conscious. So we always have to make a
joke out of any award he receives. We
have to sort of kid him into accepting it."

Perry, of course, is noted for being easy
to get along with. But he is, also, tireless
in rehearsal. He will go over a bit of
dialogue or action any number of times
until it comes out right. He takes criticism
and suggestions. On the other hand, he
doesn't merely swim along with the crowd.

"We have differences," Goodman Ace
says, "but I don't mean temperamental
differences. We talk them out. Sometimes
we want him to do a particular song and
he refuses. Sometimes his reason is that
the song has been sung to death. We have
to remind him that many people want to
hear Perry Como sing it."

The most popular musical feature on the
weekly show is the "We Get Letters" seg-
ment. Goodman Ace originated the idea.
He says, "People were writing in and ask-
ing for the old songs. I thought we ought
to put a few minutes aside in each show
for the great standards. Now everyone
likes the idea. Perry calls it 'the chairs-
on-the-table spot.' He says that it reminds
him of the days when he sang in night
clubs. After the show, when the chairs
were on the tables, the band would loosen
their ties and he would sing for himself
and the musicians. This, of course, is the
kind of singing a performer likes best."

Perry's new Victor album is titled, "We
Get Letters." These are songs that were
sung on TV during the past couple of
years. There are a dozen wonderful
standards, including "Somebody Loves
Me," "Sleepy Time Gal," "They Can't Take
That Away From Me," and "South of the
Border." For this album, there were no
regular musical arrangements. Mitch
Ayres picked eight men out of the regular
band and they just sat down with Perry
and made music. Mitch, incidentally, has
been with Perry ten years.

"Not many people know that Perry is a
fine musician in his own right," Mitch
says. "He can do something few other
singers can. He can take a new number
and read it right off the paper first time."
Mitch tells you how meticulous Perry is
at recording sessions. "He feels that every
record he makes he has to live with."

And Como is also sensitive to the feel-
ings of the musicians. During the record-
ing of the last album, the instrumentalists
had solos. After each play-back, he would
turn to the musicians and say, "How was
that with you? Are you happy with it?"
As a result, the album has the same in-
timacy and charm you'd enjoy if you were
on hand when "the chairs are on the
table."

Perry's own favorite song is a private
joke between him and Mitch Ayres. Mitch
,says, "This is funny. You know the num-
ber, 'It Could Happen to You.' Well, Perry"

sings it on the golf course, back in the
showers, in his dressing room at the show.
Lots of people have one song running
through their heads, and this one has been
in Perry's head for years. I don't know
how many times I've had it on the stands
at a recording session but Perry will pass
it by. Ask Perry about it."

Perry, when asked, just says with a grin,
"Did Mitch tell you about that? Well, the
truth is that I don't know why I've never
wanted to record it. Maybe some day I'll
record it under the shower with a putter
for accompaniment."

While Mitch has been with Perry for
ten years, the same thing is also true of
the eighteen musicians you hear on the
show. This, too, is a tribute to Perry's
lack of nerves and temper. He's never
taken Mitch aside and said, "Get rid of
that trombone or that guy in the reed sec-
tion." And when the show originated in
Florida, all eighteen musicians went along,
plus his regular cameramen, technicians
and even the boys who hold up the cue-
cards. Perry wouldn't call this loyalty or
generosity in handing out a Florida trip.
It seems that Perry builds up attachments.

"He likes familiar faces around him,
whether it's at the theater, a recording
session or a party. Perry likes being at
ease. When he has people around he
knows, it's being at home." Mitch adds,
"Of course, it works both ways. We're
comfortable with Perry, too. I wouldn't
have been around ten years if I couldn't
live with him. If I weren't happy in what
I've been doing, I could have left."

In ten years, Mitch has heard a lot of
Como singing and he, too, has his favorite
Como. "I get the biggest thrill when Perry
is on a religious song. He has such great
feeling for that music. When he sings
'Kol Nidre' or 'The Lord's Prayer,' I get
goose pimples — and, believe me, I've heard
a lot of singing. Do you know his all-faith
album, T Believe'? I think this is one of
the greatest things today."

Mitch is, also, Perry's friend outside of
their business association. But the friend-
ship is different from most in show busi-
ness. When they leave the studio, they
never talk business. Says Mitch, "It's
amazing. The moment we walk out the
door, he's talking about something else,
usually golf. After a show, the excitement
is still with you. You may feel like re-
hashing the show. But not Perry. We can
stop in a restaurant for a sandwich and
someone will come up and say, 'That was
a wonderful performance tonight.' Perry
says, 'Thanks,' and goes back to golf
again."

Perry's love of golf is the greatest ro-
mance of the day. Dee Belline remembers
one day Perry was playing with a pro he
very much admired. The pro said that
he'd always wanted to sing professionally.
Perry said, "I'll trade you even." And on
the course, playing with Dee or Mitch,
Perry shows no mercy. Says Mitch, "We
play to win. Perry doesn't believe in
gambling for large stakes with friends, so
we play just one- or two-dollar Nassau.
When I win and Perry has to shell out a
couple bucks, he always says, 'Mitch, that
band better be soft on Saturday.' "

This is a joke, for Perry doesn't like
special treatment at any time. Mitch re-
calls an incident at a restaurant where
they went frequently in past years. "Every
time we got in there, the owner would set
up a pile of Como records. We knew that
he meant well, but Perry didn't like it.
One day Perry asked the man to stop it.
With a smile, Perry said, 'When I hear my
own voice, I have a hard time keeping my
food : down."' r': "; ' "'j

Actually, there is no false modesty with
Perry about his music. He knows what
he can expect of himself. For example, he
goes to a recording session which should
normally take about two hours to cut a
single record. If it doesn't sound right, the
session may go as long as four hours — and,
even then, he may throw it out. Some-
times he takes the acetate, the rough
recording, home to get the family's opinion.

"Ronnie is the expert counsel," Perry
says. "You see, I'm forty-five and I've
lost the commercial touch. I still like a
song that's sweet and simple. Well, that's
not what the kids want, but you can't
complain. Sometimes Ronnie will listen to
a new recording and say, 'You sing well,
Pop, but I don't get the message.' He lis-
tened to 'Hot Diggety' and told me, 'That's
a gasser.' And he gave the okay to 'Round
and Round.' They both went over a mil-
lion. Ronnie said, 'I told you so.' "

None of the Como children show any
special promise as vocalists, although the
kids love music. Ronnie, whose ambition
is to be a schoolteacher, plays the guitar.
The other children take piano lessons.
David, who is in the cowboy stage, prefers
the bark of his cap gun to a ballad. For
Perry's little girl, Terri, father can sing
no wrong. She loves everything he sings.
Though Ronnie and also Perry's teen-age
nephews and nieces have a fondness for
his records, out at a dance they are typical
rock 'n' roll fans.

"There's no such thing as bad music,"
Perry says. "I mean music that has a bad
influence. Sure, some rock 'n' roll num-
bers have racy lyrics. But, usually, the
way they are sung, you can't understand

them, anyway. In my day, we had the
Miller and Goodman bands to dance to.
They had a beat. That's what the kids
want and get in rock 'n' roll. That's all it
is."

But Perry's teen-age fans number in
the thousands. You can see some of them
in the theater on Saturday nights. Perry
is proud of them. They are enthusiastic
but well-behaved. In all of his years of
radio and TV, he's never had any trouble
with teenagers. They haven't screamed off
the studio roof or torn his coat or bloodied
his nose. To them, Perry is the guy next
door, something other than the swoon
type. There was a teenager named Dibbie
who came around to the stage door for
years. She was the president of one of
Perry's fan clubs. When she fell in lova,
she brought her fiance to meet Perry.
Then Perry got a wedding announcement.
Eventually, she was at the stage door once
more. This time with a seven-weeks-old
baby. She wanted Perry to see her first
child.

But those who can't bring babies send
letters and they continue to come from
everywhere, reflecting Perry's warmth.
"Thank you for all your kindness. God
bless you and your family," says one. A
fifteen-year-old writes, "You are the one
man on TV who most resembles the man
I would like to marry. My mother, father,
sisters and all my friends like you very
much. You are the ideal husband and
father." And another closes with the
thought, "I thank you and wish you and
your family health and happiness" — which
is exactly the way Perry feels about his
audience.

The Greatest $64,000 Category of All

(Continued from page 22)
name the baby Evelyn or something like
that. But Peter's a nice name. We didn't
argue too much about it," says Hal.

The middle name, Lindsey, was, how-
ever, his parents' own choice. "Peter Lind-
sey March," his father would say, savor-
ing it.

"I figure hell probably be an actor any-
way— so why should he change his name
later?" Hal says. "Let's start him out
with a good actor-type name." And so
Peter Lindsey March, a mere mite of a
man weighing in later at five pounds,
thirteen ounces, was influencing a family's
future — and his father's present — long be-
fore he arrived.

Hal March has been married some six-
teen months — and very happily — to his
beautiful Candy. He loves her son Stevie
and daughter Missy, aged 2. With their
own first-born on the way, Hal be"jan
dreaming of getting out of the city apart-
ment to the open country. He envisioned
a back yard out in the country where
sturdy children could run and play.

"It's just unfair to the kids," Hal would
worry paternally to Candy — who agreed
with him. "Look at Missy, going down in
the elevator twice a day, then across Fifth
Avenue into the park to play — all regi-
mented, no freedom to run." And now —
with Peter Lindsey coming . . .

So Pete's parents found an immense
brick house with an acre-and-a-half of
yard out in suburban Scarsdale, and they
also eyed a lovely fieldstone country place
to buy later on. Planning for title fu-
ture . . . even as, out in Hollywood, the
production plans of Paramount Studio
were being adjusted for Hal March's first
starring picture, be;ng timed for the ar-
rival of his first-born.

If that first-born proved to be a boy,
Peter's godfather-to-be, NBC executive
David Tebet, was already making enthusi-

astic plans to put him through Princeton.
. . . Also, of course, there awaited Peter
Lindsey March a ready-made audience of
millions of fans . . . and, true to tradition,
he was not to keep them waiting long.

Paramount had wanted Hal March to
report for "Hear Me Good" in Hollywood
the month before, but Hal had said, "No,
I won't leave Candy under any conditions
now." Candy had the finest of doctors,
their very good friend, Dr. Jerry Salva-
tore, whom they'd met when he was a
contestant on The $64,000 Question ("His
category was 'Food and Cooking,' " Hal
grins now). But Hal wanted to be near
Candy throughout the whole thing, and
to be there to convoy his wife and baby
home safely from the hospital that mem-
orable day.

Increasingly . . . with the production
date on the picture nearing, with moving
vans coming, and with Candy growing
more and more uncomfortable . . . Candy
and Hal kept worrying about coordinating
the family's activities.

One day, about five days before the
baby was supposedly due, Candy and Hal
drove over to New Jersey to the doctor's.
In the course of a routine examination,
Candy remarked, "Doctor, what if the
baby comes — and Hal can't be here? They
can't push the picture back anymore," she
added, smiling wearily.

"Well — you can have induced labor, if
you want to," the doctor surprised them
by saying. Hal and Candy looked at him
questioningly, and then at one another.
Induced labor — what was this? The doc-
tor explained there was almost no risk
involved, so long as the doctor was there
every second watching very carefully.
"Would you like to go home and think
about it — or would you like to make up
your mind now?" he asked.

And, as Candy recalls, "We discussed
it in the office, and then Jerry said, 'Well,

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all right — tomorrow morning.' Well! When
he said tomorrow morning, the both of us
almost fainted!"

For all today's modern methods, there's
nothing that quite prepares a man for the
magic moment when he hears he's a
father. As Hal recalls, "It's a funny thing,
but over a period of hours there — you
never really anticipate the flash there's
a boy or a girl. You just don't think of
what it's going to be like when that hap-
pens. Throughout the day, I was really
just geared to, 'How's Candy?' "

"She's doing fine," the doctor would
assure him.

"Have you any idea how long — ?" No,
they had no exact idea.

And again, "How's Candy?" And
again . . .

Around five P.M., when the baby's god-
father, who'd been waiting with Hal all
day, had gone back briefly to the office
at NBC to clean up some last-minute de-
tails, and Hal was chatting with the head
of the hospital and sharing a convivial
toast with him, Dr. Jerry Salvatore
came in.

"How's Candy?" said Hal — automati-
cally.

"She's fine," the doctor said. "How do
you feel?"

"Just fine," beamed Hal.

"Well, that's good — because Candy just
had a baby boy."

At which point, as Hal laughingly re-
calls, "I hugged the doctor and I went
crazy. I waited at the elevator for Candy
to come down from the labor room and
she was punchy, and I kissed her a couple
of times, and we both got intoxicated from
the ether they'd given her. And I saw my
son — "

He didn't look like any beauty-contest
winner then," smiled Candy. "He was a
healthy little boy and we were both
thrilled about that. He was cute, very
bright — and that's all we hoped for. We
didn't especially pray for a boy or a girl — "

"But he was so tiny! It was a blow to
my ego, you know," grins Hal. "Because
I weighed ten pounds and my sisters
weighed over twelve— and Candy was
pretty heavy — I'd just assumed we were
going to have a brute, you know. And
then, this little five-pound, thirteen-ounce
male. But it was wonderful and I thank
God for it — because it meant an easier
delivery for Candy.

"And Peter's going to be a big boy,"
his father goes on pleasurably. "He has
huge hands and huge feet. If he just
grows into them, he'll be about six-foot-
three. You can tell from this picture.
Look at those hands — "

"He's gaining weight. And he looks just
like Hal now," his mother notes.

"This kid is just like his mother and
his daddy, really," Hal interposes gallantly.
"I was hoping the baby would look like
Candy."

"Not since it was a boy," Candy says
firmly. "He looks so much like Hal. He
has his brown eyes, the same eyebrows.
His hair is very dark and thick. And
you can tell by his bone structure — "

"Well, of course, it would seem impos-
sible to tell yet — but there is his bone
structure," Hal concedes gracefully. "He
has very broad shoulders — and no hips at
all," notes the former Frisco gridiron
flash.

"A terrible loneliness," Hal describes

the three weeks when he had to leave

Candy and make a picture in Hollywood —

so soon after their baby was born. "I didn't

even know our little boy yet. I couldn't

r really identify myself with him," says

v Hal. And Candy adds, "We'd just gotten

B home from the hospital. Hal had only

held the baby two times — three times, at

most — when he had to leave. . . ."

In Hollywood again . . . after years of
skimping and working and hoping ... he
realized the fulfillment of a twenty-year
dream of the ambitious teenager, Hal
Mendelson, who'd had such glowing vi-
sions— impatient visions — of life beyond
his father's delicatessen store in San
Francisco. One rainy night, he'd hitch-
hiked to Hollywood with only his dreams
to sustain him. The dream of being an
actor, a success in show business . . . but,
most of all, becoming a motion picture
star.

Starring in "Hear Me Good" at Para-
mount Studios, Hal March was only a few
blocks from the place on Gower Street
where he'd lived in an attic (and mostly
on hope) for so long. But he was so lonely
for Candy and the family, half the thrill
was gone.

"We'd only been married a year and a
half — but I really can't remember what it
was like, the other way," Hal was saying
slowly now. "I don't like being away
from Candy. And — at the risk of sound-
ing maudlin — we'll never be separated
that long again. Then, too, it was so hard
on Candy, having to move to the country
all by herself."

In spite of missing Candy — and visual-
izing his young son growing up without
knowing his own father — Hal March made
plenty of laughter on the sound stage at
Paramount. Together with producer-
director Don McGuire and the cast and
crew of "Hear Me Good," he helped revo-
lutionize the mechanics of making movies
for the whole industry, starring in a
"quality" comedy which was shot in eight
days! Hal's tough conditioning by televi-
sion, his long experience in every medium
and his infallible timing for comedy were
invaluable. Studio executives and other
stars were constant and admiring visitors.

"We rehearsed for two weeks on the
set, with the camera and crew all there
planning the shots. It wasn't too tough,
really. My conditioning is that way in
TV — and I've got a lot of years behind
me," Hal says modestly of his part in
this fabulous operation.

Hollywood was also impressed by Hal
March's humility, his open appreciation
of his "good fortune," and his complete
lack of temperament. Studio publicity
men marveled at his graciousness in wel-
coming visitors and in signing autographs
for them in the commissary.

Before Peter arrived, at a cerebral palsy
telethon Hal headed in Jacksonville, Flor-
ida, the public pledged $10,000 in the
baby's name — "It was the most thrilling
thing." When he was born, there were
hundreds of wires and letters. The re-
sponse from fans who saw his picture
flashed on the TV screen on The $64,000
Question, when Peter was two hours old,
was almost unbelievable.

"People have sent him so many gifts.
Things women crochet, like sweaters and
booties and afghans, you know. Things
people sit down and make that take
hours," Hal says gratefully. They're over-
flowing Peter's room in the large com-
fortable two-storey brick house the
Marches are renting in Scarsdale now.

The Marches are reveling in their sub-
urban living. "It takes forty minutes to
get up there and you can't find it without
a map — and it's fun. The kids have a little
plastic pool in the back yard, and we all
have bicycles," Candy notes.

They have a year's lease on the com-
fortable old brick house with the beauti-
fully landscaped yard "all fenced in the
back, with so much running room for our
three kids" and their diminutive coffee-
colored dachshund, Demitasse the Third.

"There's a very pretty fieldstone house
we have our hearts set on to buy in the
Fox Meadow section of Scarsdale. It has

three bedrooms and two maid's rooms
now, but we're going to make four bed-
rooms and one maid's room — which is
about right for our family." They plan
traditional furnishings, generously inter-
spersed with Candy's beloved antiques. As
they say, it's "one of those houses built
to last hundreds of years" — which is also
right for their family.

There's no commuting problem in the
country. Hal goes to New York twice a
week for his new NBC-TV show, What's
It For? But he leaves late enough in the
morning to miss those who are jetting to
their jobs along the freeway. Every Tues-
day, he leaves the house around seven
P.M. for a leisurely drive in for CBS-TV's
The $64,000 Question. "There's no traffic
on the east side of the highway at that
time of evening," Hal observes, "and I
love the drive. At ten-thirty, I'm out of
the studio and on my way home. It's just
a forty-minute drive — a beautiful drive,"
he enthuses.

In Hal's carefully considered opinion,
he's a very good father. "I think I'm a
darned good father, really," he laughs. "Of
course, we have the other two children,
Stevie and Missy, by Candy's former
marriage (to Mel Torme), and I'm com-
pletely devoted to them. We were mar-
ried when Missy was ten months old and,
whatever problems there were . . . I've
been around. I've been under fire — and
I like being a father very much."

But however conditioned the father, an
infant son offers a few problems neither
Hal March nor all the child-psychology
books available for research can answer
satisfactorily. "I've read the books and
I think books make a lot of sense, but
I've had many problems and I've run to
the books — and I can't find the answer,"
Candy laughs now.

"The book we've read really is Dr.
Spock's . . . and it certainly does tell you
about child behavior. It tells you almost
to the word what a child is going to say
at two or two-and-a-half — exactly the
phraseology he or she uses," Hal marvels.
It doesn't, however, fully cover what a
parent should always do by way of reply.

"It only lets us know our child is not
unusual," smiles Candy.

"Yes, it lets us know what to expect . . .
well, usually," Hal amends.

1 ogether, too, Hal and Candy immedi-
ately shared the problem of getting Missy
to accept her baby brother. "When Peter
first came home, Missy would gladly have
stuck a knife in his back," Candy recalls.
"But we seemingly ignored him, and
made sure she got her proper attention.
We'd go into the nursery and see him
when Missy was asleep. Then, out of
curiosity, Missy would go into the nur-
sery and look at him and walk out — and
she couldn't care less. One day he started
to cry and Missy came running to say,
'Peter's crying — Peter's crying, Mom.' I
offered to let her hold him, and she walked
away in disdain. Then, out of the same
curiosity, one day she wanted to hold
him. She threw her arms out and took
him, and now she loves him. She kisses
him and he's her brother — but it took a
little time, you know."

"Basically, our philosophy with the kids
is to give them security and authority and
plenty of love," says Hal. "And, above
all, our relationship with them is com-
pletely honest. All questions are answered
honestly. Of course, they don't ask me
questions I can't answer — yet. They're
not old enough. Right now, it's pretty
even — because I think like a four-year-
old. When Stevie gets to be six, he may
be a problem in this department," he
laughs.

"When I got married." as Candy says
now, "Stevie acquired another dad, and

he started calling Hal 'Daddy' right away.
But it was 'Daddy Hal' and 'Daddy Mel,'
and it was all a little confusing. Hal sat
down and explained it to him, and after
a while there were no more questions, no
problems. But, when his dad got married,
Stevie didn't understand why he got an-
other mommy and acquired an eight-
year-old sister — who's just adorable, in-
cidentally— and it was very confusing to
him. Telling him was a big problem,"
Candy remembers very well.

"But we explained it to him, and there's
no mystery now. Of course, he doesn't
understand the machinations of all that's
happened. He's much too young for that.
But he isn't confused, which is a good
thing. He can exercise his curiosity with-
out inhibition, without fear," Hal goes on
seriously. "The way we explained it, he's
a very lucky little boy. He has two dad-
dies and mommies, he has a sister he
lives with and another sister he can visit,
he has a baby brother, two houses and two
dogs. He has twice as much as most other
little boys.

"With love and security, there's no
problem. And there is no undue punish-
ment, ever. . When Stevie is reprimanded
for something, he's told why he is — on a
broader scope, in terms of philosophy and
life, other people's feelings and other
people's possessions," continues Hal. "He's
getting a well-rounded education. He's
going to be the big boy in the family —
he's going to take care of the other two
kids . . . and so he's got to be ready."

"He isn't always right or good — but
we're trying," Candy adds.

"I wouldn't want him always to be
good, honey," Hal says quickly. "When a
kid gets to be four, he's feeling his oats.
He'd be the dullest kid in the world if he
were good all the time. Every once in a
while, when he gets rough, he's going to
get a spanking. Bt»i it's not just hitting
i and walking away. I believe in a little
spanking and a little loving — I think
you've got to hit 'em and hold 'em — and
then tell them exactly why you did it.
How much it hurt you to do it. I tell
Stevie this. I explain I owe this to him.
And he's beginning to understand.

"But he's a wonderful little boy, he's
no problem. And he's going to be a fine
man. He's got tremendous spirit, and it's
just great. And Missy — this little girl has
all the prerequisites for being a fantastic
woman. She's physically beautiful, she
has a tremendous capacity both for giving
and receiving love. She's a little vixen,"
he says glowingly.

As for Candy, he says, "I'll never be
able to figure out what I've done to de-
serve this girl.

"We have visions of having a wonderful
i family," he goes on, planning ahead —
J away ahead. "We want the kids to be
friends of ours after they leave home.
\ And, by having a completely honest rela-
tionship with them from the beginning,
it seems to be going in that direction.
When Stevie and Missy and Peter get
' married, we'd like for them to come and
f> visit us as friends, not just feel an obliga-
tion to us as parents —

"I sound like the first father who ever
happened," Hal breaks off suddenly — and
immediately picks up steam. "But the
way it is . . . with Stevie, four, and
Missy, two, and Peter, now going on one —
it's such a wonderful family. I want both
the boys to be athletic, and it seems they
are. Stevie's athletically inclined now,
and Peter — well, he moves his head and
his hands — he's very athletic," his father
laughs. "But the vision I have is of these
two boys taking care of this beautiful
little girl, in the middle."

Hal also has visions of their future, and
helping them to prepare for it. In show
business? "Well ... all I can say is show

business has been wonderful to me. If
Missy were to go into show business, I
would like for her ultimately to quit and
get married — like her mother. You know
Candy was well on her way to a very
successful career when she quit. In fact,
since we've been married, she's had a
million offers to go back."

Today, Hal March's own success in show
business is assured. His public returns
his love — with good measure. There's The
$64,000 Question on CBS-TV. And What's
It For? on NBC-TV. Paramount is all
raves about his first starring movie, "Hear
Me Good." Spectaculars are being planned
specially for him, and movie scripts are
being showered on him.

But, as Hal says, "I'm still under con-
tract to Revlon. I can only shoot pic-
tures during the summers. If I get lucky
with my first — if there is going to be a
motion picture career — we'll headquarter
in the country at Scarsdale and the whole
family will commute to Hollywood. One
thing sure, I'll never be separated from
them. . . . I'll never go through that again.
What's happened to the happy old self-
sufficient bachelor I used to be?"

"We went to a party the other night,"
Candy says teasingly, "and many of his
good old bachelor friends were there.
They still have the same problem — they're
still all looking for a good woman to settle
down with. I feel so sorry for bachelors."

"So do I, honey," Hal agrees. And, look-
ing at a snapshot of their youngest, Pe-
ter's father repeats for good measure, "So
do I."

Next to being a husband, being a father
is Hal March's favorite role. And he
thinks of his future in terms of their own
— measuring success and happiness ac-
cordingly. . . . Hal Mendelson — who set
out in a rain storm across the Oakland
Bay Bridge, leaving the lights of San
Francisco far behind him — has found
brighter lights than he ever envisioned.
After twenty years, a pay-off beyond his
youngest dreams. But he's thankful for
the struggle getting there. For the ex-
perience.

"Candy and I've discussed this many
times," says Hal. "We're very grateful
for what's happened . . . for what's still
happening . . . for the financial rewards
and everything else. But I'm grateful for
all of it. There are no unpleasant mem-
ories. You know, fellows in the business
are always coming up to me and telling
me how happy they are for me today.
Saying, 'Son-of-a-gun, you deserve it
after twenty years.'

"Sure, there were twenty years — and
there were many times I went without
eating — but it didn't bother me too much.
Actually, I had a ball much of the time.
And there is satisfaction when you finally
get somewhere in this business, knowing
you can truthfully say you've done it on
your own.

"You've had breaks, of course," Hal
goes on. "Like The $64,000 Question —
that's the greatest break that ever hap-
pened for me. But . . . you get ready for
that. You learn your craft over twenty
years. You go without work — and, every
time you get up to bat, you learn some-
thing more. You grow. It's all wonderful
experience."

"You grow up a better man, too," Candy
adds quietly.

"That's what I mean. That's the thing,
really," Hal says slowly. "You grow up
better — you hope."

Reward enough today for Hal, if . . .
because of those years . . . he's a father
who's better equipped to give Stevie,
Missy and Peter Lindsey March a more
honest evaluation of life. To be better
able to prepare them for whatever world
— whatever future — may be theirs.

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You Asked For It

(Continued from page 48)
physical shape for a man of his age. But
it seems that, though the years had been
kind to his body, his memory had been
less fortunate. When he instructed the
crew about how much of a charge of
powder to put in the cannon, producer
Chamberlin instinctively sensed trouble.
He tried to suggest, as tactfully as pos-
sible, one rehearsal of the stunt. The
old man scorned even one run-through —
said he could do the act blindfolded with
his hands tied behind his back. Chamber-
lin agreed that he was certain this was
true, but quietly and firmly insisted that
the cannon be fired once before the show.

This proved a flash of intuitive genius
on Chamberlin's part. With a mighty
roar, the cannon went off, sending its
projectile zooming through the side of
the studio and into an adjacent parking
lot. By happy coincidence, someone had
thought to aim it through an open door,
so no damage was done.

Of course, the payoff on this one wasn't
exactly pleasant, even so. Horrified at
what might have happened, the crew
erred on the side of caution when they
re-charged the cannon just before the
stunt went on camera. With a futile little
"Ploop" the cannon ejected the cannon-
ball, which soared weakly in a sad little
arc — and fell smack on the toes of Can-
nonball Richards!

By far the greatest number of re-
quests which come into the show's office
concern animals. And of those requests,
a large percentage involve alligators.
Chamberlin admits to being somewhat
puzzled by this fascination the predatory
swamp creatures hold for the American
televiewing public. But he's agreeable,
and goes about trying to set up as many
of the suggested stunts involving alliga-
tors as can be worked into the show.

There's one such stunt, however, about
which he'd rather not be reminded. It
was to involve the classic wrestling match
— between a man and an alligator. An
elaborate set was built, so that on camera
it would appear as though a chunk of
Okefenokee swamp had been transported
to Hollywood. Into the pool on this
set were dumped two gigantic alligators,
not just one. This was a sort of insur-
ance, Chamberlin felt. If one alligator
seemed disinclined to wrestle, they'd
have a stand-in handy. So he thought.

The rehearsals went along beautifully.
The man who was to do the wrestling
came on-camera, poked a long stick down
into the studio-made swamp, and up
reared an alligator. The two set about
with a great thrashing, and with grunts,
groans and growls which would have
done credit to a match between Gorgeous
George and Lord Hamilton. As the re-
hearsal finished, everyone dashed around
congratulating everyone else on what a
wonderful, stupendous, thrilling stunt they
were about to present.

Everyone, that is, except the alligators.
Now a small bit of nature lore which
Chamberlin had yet to learn — alligators
are lazy characters, who much prefer
not to wrestle, if they can manage to
sneak out of it. And sneaking out of
things is one of their great talents. So
these two fugitives from a ladies' hand-
bag factory got their snouts together,
poked around that man-made pool, and
found a hiding spot under a ledge.

Comes time for the show. On-camera

J strides the alligator-wrestling man, a

' convincing parcel of muscles. He pokes

his long stick into the pool. No alligator.

He pokes again, but still no alligator.

The cameras are grinding away, the!

82 -

second hand on the big clock is making
dizzying revolutions. Still no alligator.
Literally minutes later, just about the time
the man was scheduled to have pinned
the beast's shoulders to the mat — there
was still no sign of an alligator. The
camera panned off the man, still poking
frantically, but futilely, about the stage
pool. Off camera, Chamberlin claims,
great tufts of hair littered the studio
floor, tossed there by despairing techni-
cians who had torn it from their own
scalps.

Chamberlin diagnoses the trouble on
that one as "too much rehearsal." There
have been a number of bloopers on You
Asked For It, where animals were in-
volved. Take the case of the walking
fish. Yes, he really walked — propelled
himself up a slightly inclined board, into
a tank. The only trouble there was that
the director insisted on so much rehearsal
that the fish became fatigued. When
the show went on the air, said fish
couldn't so much as flutter a fin.

The same type thing happened with the
monkeys. Someone wrote in suggest-
ing that they prove or disprove the old
phrase, "more fun than a barrel of mon-
keys." Were a barrel of monkeys fun?
they wanted to know. Chamberlin has
the answer. In rehearsal, they're a ball!

The whole barrelfull of squirming
simians had been set down inside a
wooden enclosure. Into the walls of that
enclosure, small apertures had been cut
for the lens of the cameras to peek
through. In rehearsal, the monkeys piled
out of that barrel, heels over head,
scrambling out in a perfectly riotous
fashion all over the interior of the en-
closure. The crew was convulsed at
their antics. But that was at rehearsal!

By show time, those monkeys had
smartened up. Once the trap-door-type
top of the barrel had been pulled away, as
the stunt went on the air, they'd im-
proved their escape time. They were out
of that barrel so fast the cameras couldn't
even catch the action. They not only
left the barrel behind, but streaked
through the leftis-holes in the enclosure,
and on out over the shoulders of the
cameramen, into the studio. It took a
full day to comb them out of the rafters.
Monkeys aren't very funny to You Asked
For It staffers anymore.

With an active six years behind them,
the crew on the show has become quite
blase about animals — 'most any animals.
Not long ago, someone came into an
outer room at rehearsal time, heard an
unusual noise coming from the rehearsal
stage, and inquired what was going on.
One of the crew shrugged his shoulders
nonchalantly, and replied, "Oh, some
crazy horse is in there roller-skating."
Visions which would put the ordinary
man on the wagon for months are so
common to the You Asked For It crew
as to rarely rate a second glance.

They needed more than a second glance,
however, the night they showed the flea
circus. Or the night they didn't show it,
if you insist on accuracy. A nice payoff
to this story would be that the per-
formers had taken off to inhabit a canine
act which followed — but it didn't happen
quite like that. The camera just wasn't
able to pick up the antics of these minia-
ture acrobats and aerialists. So the viewer
was left to stare at a blank screen, all
the while listening to Art Baker's en-
raptured eye-witness account of their
feats. Chamberlin allows as how it may
have worked fairly well for viewers with
active imaginations, but others were prob-
ably pretty puzzled.

That was just one instance of: ;a stunt

going sour, and leaving some viewers with
the mistaken impression that the program
was trying to spoof them. Another— and
more embarrassing — instance occurred
when the show drafted Jack LaLanne,
physical culturist. LaLanne was sched-
uled to do 1,000 pushups during the
half-hour the show was on the air. The
show opened with the camera on La-
Lanne, off to a brave, strong start with
his first-score pushups. The plan was to
pan back to him midway through the
show, and again as the show ended. But
there had been a slight slip-up — this time
in the script department. They'd stuck
the word "consecutive" into the announce-
ment of LaLanne's feat, and that wasn't
the way Chamberlin and LaLanne had
planned it at all. The strong man was
going to do 1,000 pushups during the
half-hour. That part was true. But he
planned on taking a breather now and
then, spotting a few seconds' rest here and
there — say, after every 100 pushups. The
way the announcement was written, and
read, it sounded as though he were going
to start with pushup No. 1, and not stop
until he'd executed No. 1,000.

So, when the camera panned back on
him halfway through the show, there he
was, lying on the mat, with his face on
the floor. He looked up, spotted the
camera's red eye glowing in his direction,
and frantically took off on another spurt
of pushups. And, just to make matters
worse, the same thing happened at the
end of the show. Although Art Baker
had spotted that "consecutive" in the
script by then, and tried to explain to the
audience that LaLanne had, indeed,
totalled 1,000 pushups during the half-
hour even if they hadn't been consecu-
tive, Chamberlin is convinced that the
majority of the televiewers thought they
were the victims of a hoax.

An off-stage near-crisis occurred when
"Cubby, the Cowardly Lion," was sched-
uled to appear on the show. Baker had
been reassured that no one had ever told
the beast that he wa» a lion, and that
Cubby was afraid of his own shadow.
Art cheerfully agreed to pose for publicity
pictures alongside this ill-adjusted king
of the animal world.

But, when Art and the network pub-
licity man arrived on the set, they found
that something extra had been added.
Among those present was another lion,
who had made news a few days before
by taking sample bites out of several
Southern Californians. And the poor
publicity man hadn't the foggiest notion
as to which lion was which. That time,
Art settled for several poses poking an
experimental finger through the bars of
one of the lion's cages — he still has the
finger, so he figures it was Cubby's cage.

On still another occasion, a snake
trainer was to do a spot on the show.
Although no particular lover of reptiles,
Baker has never had any special fear of
them, and agreed readily enough to pose
with them for pictures. The photographer
decided to take some shots first of the
trainer, with a slithery shoulderfiil of
snakeskin. After the first couple of shots,
he requested the trainer to move his
right arm to a slightly different position.

The trainer was eager to comply, but
unable. As he explained very cheerfully,
it was only minutes before Baker and the
photographer arrived on the scene that one
of the snakes had bitten him, and his
arm was temporarily paralyzed. That
time, Baker suddenly remembered an ur-
gent appointment he had across town.

Not all the stunts presented have been
so, ; optimistically complicated . as that,, of

course. A few have been tinged with
tragedy. There was the reunion of a
company of old-time firemen, complete
with the horse-drawn engine they'd used.
It was a nostalgic bit, and obviously too
exciting for one of the old-timers. Within
hours after they were off the air, he
suffered a heart attack and died.

Other dramatic repercussions have had
happier endings. On one show last year,
a new method of resuscitation was dem-
onstrated, a method highly recommended
for use on victims of electrical shock.
Within a month after the show had been
presented, the staff received two thrilling
letters. One told how a man had saved
the life of his partner at work, when the
partner accidentally touched a high-volt-
age source. Having watched the new
method closely when it was shown on
You Asked For It, the man was able to
apply it, and revive his partner.

A few days later, a similar letter ar-
rived, telling how a woman motorist had
come across an accident victim along-
side a highway. His car had hit an elec-
tric line pole, a wire had fallen, striking
the man. He was in shock when she
reached him. She, too, had "learned"
the method from You Asked For It — and
saved this stranger's life. Somehow, re-
membering those letters, Chamberlin is
able to shrug off most of the times when
the stunts didn't quite jell.

There have been a few things viewers
asked for, but which the show staff found
impossible to provide. Not long ago, after
one segment showed by speeded-up pho-
tography the frantic antics a housewife
goes through during the course of a single
day, a viewer wrote in with a brilliant
suggestion for a variation on the same
theme. Why not show, she suggested,
what President Eisenhower does in a

single day, using this same speeded-up
movie technique. It would have been a
wonderful bit, Chamberlin is quick to
agree. But they knew, without asking,
that it would be impossible to obtain.

Among the few requests which couldn't
be fulfilled have been those asking the
identity of the girls in the Old Gold
dancing cigarette packs — a view of The
Lone Ranger, unmasked — the identity of
Jimmy Durante's "Mrs. Calabash." For
various and undoubtedly valid reasons,
Old Gold and The Lone Ranger's sponsor
and Schnozzola have all refused to divulge
the information requested.

Not a few of the requests which come
in from viewers ask that Art Baker
participate in some stunt. But the one
that took the cake, so far as Chamberlin
is concerned, came from a disgruntled
viewer who suggested: "Have Art Baker
go jump in the lake!"

So they did. The crew moved, bag and
camera, out to suburban Toluca Lake.
Art poised on the edge of this body of
water (impressive in size in Southern
California, but scarcely a self-respecting
duck pond in the Midwest) . And then
he jumped in, with the camera following
him the whole splashing way. It's dubious
if the lake is deep enough for Baker to
have got wet all over in just one jump —
but, on camera, it came off fine.

And the thing which reassures Cham-
berlin is this: Although they'd had three
requests, over the years, for Baker, to
jump in the lake — they got nine letters
from viewers who vigorously objected.
In no uncertain terms, they huffed and
puffed about "that nice Mr. Baker" being
subjected to such indignities.

"And as long as our audience is three-
to-one for us," Chamberlin points out,
"we're in business."

Love at Second Glance

(Continued from page 56)

When this romance had ended, Mary
Lou's family was worried as to how she
would take it — and so was Marilyn. Would
she sit and brood, mope over the past,
and refuse to meet new men? After all
these years of going steadily with
"George" (that isn't his real name), Mary
Lou herself wondered if she would be
able to adjust herself to new dates with
other boys. But Marilyn was determined
to see to it that Mary Lou didn't mope.
She kept urging her to go out, and she
arranged her first date after the break-up.

"It was," Mary Lou confesses, "like go-
ing on a date for the first time in my
life. After talking to one boy for so
many years, it seemed to me I wouldn't
know what to say to anyone else. But,
once I got to Marilyn's house and met
him, it wasn't so bad. I don't know what
in the world I would have done without
Marilyn."

Marilyn was obviously determined to
play Cupid. And, one night in October,
1954, she really succeeded in this role.
That was the night she was giving a big
Hallowe'en party. It was to be informal
(no costumes) but lots of fun. Marilyn
had a hunch that Mary Lou and Joe
Dialon, the brother of one of her girl
friends, would like each other. Acting on
that hunch, she invited his sister to the
party. Then she said, "Would your
brother be interested in coming? We'd
love to have him. I know a girl I'm
sure he'd enjoy meeting."

Since it was to be an informal party,
Mary Lou dressed very simply, in a
gray skirt and gray sweater. Her mother
sighed, "My goodness, you look dull." But
Joe obviously didn't feel that way about

it. His dark brown eyes lighted up when
he saw Mary Lou. And Mary Lou cer-
tainly felt no pain meeting Joe. ("He's
five-feet-eleven, with curly dark brown
hair," she says, "very good looking,
though I wouldn't call him handsome.")

She found he was great fun to talk to.
At the time, he was a film editor (he's
now newsreel cameraman for George Put-
nam), but his conversation wasn't limited
to shop talk.

When Joe told her about his love for
skiing, Mary Lou was very honest with
him. (It isn't in her to be anything else.)
"I don't think I'd ever enjoy skiing," she
said. "I'm sure I'd be chicken."

"I'll teach you some day," he promised,
"and I'll bet you won't be."

Later, when he took her home, he
asked for her phone number. And short-
ly afterwards, he called her. A film he
had edited was being shown that night,
and he wondered if she'd like to see it.

Since it meant being with Joe, she was
very willing, and they sat through a movie
which both of them admit was bad. An-
other girl, after the movie, might have
pretended that it was a great picture,
but not Mary Lou. Both she and Joe
agreed that it was just one of those
things — an independent venture that had
fallen flat on its face.

It may have been her honesty, as well
as her attractiveness, that appealed so
much to Joe. At any rate, the more they
saw of each other, the better they liked
what they saw.

About two months after he had met her,
Joe knew that he was deeply in love
with Mary Lou — that she was the girl
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One night, after they'd had dinner to-
gether and gone to a movie, he stood at
the door of her parents' home in Holly-
wood. He had something on his mind.
The moment he started talking, Mary Lou
had a pretty good hunch what it was.

"I have something to ask you," he said.

"Yes?" said Mary Lou. Her dark brown
eyes danced impishly.

"Well, this is very important to me, to
us." Suddenly, Joe, usually so poised,
began to stammer.

Then, finally, he came out with it.
"Will you marry me?"

Mary Lou didn't keep him in suspense.
"Why, yes," she said. Then she added,
"Dad would be so pleased if you asked
him if you could marry me. I know it's
supposed to be old-fashioned, but would
you mind?"

Joe didn't mind. He wouldn't have
minded anything that night. He was in
seventh heaven. So, like a true old-
fashioned beau, he asked Frank Harring-
ton if he could marry his daughter Marv
Lou, and he received Mr. Harrington's
consent and blessing.

It was shortly before Christmas, and
they decided to announce their engage-
ment on Christmas Eve. Joe bought her
the ring about two days after the proposal,
but she told him she wouldn't wear it till
the night it was officially announced. What
a night that was! The Harringtons held
open house, everything festively deco-
rated for Christmas. Mary Lou's parents
— Frank and Effie May Harrington — had
worked hard all week to have everything
just right for the momentous occasion.

Joe had to work late that night, on his
job as newsreel cameraman. But he was
free between seven and eight-thirty, so
he received their guests' congratulations
at Mary's home during those hours. Of
course, later on, after Joe had to leave
for work, other guests kept drifting in,
and they, too, heard the good news. (If
they hadn't, they would have guessed,
from the happy light in Mary Lou's eyes.)

JYLary Lou had met Joe's folks, even
before the engagement party. She loved
them and they loved her. Joe, his mother
and sister have a cabin at Running
Springs between Big Bear and Arrow-
head, and she had gone there with them
one weekend. Mary Lou, a complete
novice at skiing at the time, had bought
the complete works for the occasion —
boots, skis, poles, ski pants, sweater.

Contrary to her prediction, she hadn't
chickened put on the small hills: "The
first few times, I did well going down
those hills," she recalls. "Shortly after-
wards, I got the flu. We didn't go back
again for about two months. Perhaps if
I'd been able to keep at skiing persist-
ently, I might have become pretty fair
at it. But the interruption must have
discouraged me."

She kept telling Joe she'd do fine by
herself — that he must take advantage of
the chair lift and go up to the higher
slopes. So he finally did. Mary Lou did
some skiing by herself. "But I quickly
lost my nerve," she confesses. "I had
pushed myself off the hill, but I must
have done something wrong. By the
time I got to the bottom of the hill, I
was a wreck. I'd had enough skiing for
the day.

"I started to take off my skis on the
parking lot, but fell flat on my face. I
picked myself up, picked up the skis,
started trying to walk, and fell again.
Then I looked down to see what was the
matter. Two buckles on my ski shoes
J were locking. No wonder I couldn't walk!
R The net result of the day was a couple
of cracked ribs. I'd fallen on a small
metal attachment on the skis."

The accident put an end to her skiing

for the rest of the season. "Now I'm not
too anxious to go back to it," she admits
frankly. "I didn't go in for skiing last
year, because of our baby, Alan, or the
year before, because I was pregnant then.

"Joe hopes to make up for my lack of
enthusiasm by training Alan to ski," she
smiles. "Alan is only a little over a
year old. Joe wanted to make a skier
out of him almost from the day he was
born. I told him kiddingly, 'Don't you
think we'd better wait till Alan can
walk before you try to teach him to
ski?' Now Alan does walk — and I wouldn't
be surprised if Joe starts trying to put
him on skis next winter!"

But back to their marriage, just six
months after their first meeting. Joe
and Mary Lou decided to get married at
Lash Chapel in Hollywood, and the Har-
ringtons had a wonderful reception for
about one hundred and fifty people at
their home.

After the wedding, Joe and Mary Lou
drove to Yosemite for their honeymoon.
First, they drove through rain, then
through snow. But when they got to Yose-
mite, it was beautiful there. They spent
two wonderful days living in the lap of
luxury at the Ahwani Hotel. Then they
had to rush back to Hollywood, so that
Mary Lou could get back to her job, and
Joe to his.

■Normally, Joe and Mary Lou and Alan
live, not in the lap of luxury — but in a
charming, unpretentious, vine-covered
brown and white house in Burbank. It's
a very un-actorish home. The only sen-
sational thing about Joe's life is that, as a
cameraman, he sees the news of the
world happening, covers forest fires, the
Confidential courtroom trial, crashes, ac-
cidents, and other newsworthy events.

In many ways, they are a couple typi-
cal of today's suburbia. They bought their
home — which they laughingly call "early
Burbank" — shortly before they were mar-
ried. They were able to move into it
about three weeks after their wedding.
By that time, they had the kitchen and
bedroom furniture. Minetta Ellen, the
original Mother Barbour of One Man's
Family, had given Mary Lou a pre-wed-
ding shower, at which she received lovely
and practical gifts from everybody who
had anything to do with the show.

There was just one slight shadow hover-
ing over the Dialons the day they moved
into their new home. Mary Lou had
chicken pox! But still, she and Joe man-
aged to discuss their exciting plans for
the redecoration of the house.

One of the large furniture stores in
Los Angeles was having a sale, and Joe
was given the important mission of
buying the first piece of furniture for
the living room. It turned out to be a
large, comfortable chair in yellow, brown
and green. "The baby," laughs Mary
Lou, "now drools all over it."

In its pristine newness the chair was
so handsome that Joe and Mary decided
to furnish the rest of the living room in
yellow, brown and green to go with the
chair. For the sake of practicality, a
dark brown sofa was chosen. Joe and
Mary Lou themselves painted the living
room walls yellow; Mary Lou doing the
woodwork and trim, and Joe the actual
painting and wallpapering. "He's the
handiest man," she says proudly. "He can
fix just about anything."

The painting inside the house was done
in double-quick time. Joe and Mary Lou
had ordered wall-to-wall carpeting for
the hall, living room, and dining room.
Two days before the carpeting was to
be installed, Mary Lou decided it wouldn't
be right to put down new carpeting in a
house that hadn't been freshly painted.
She and Joe worked all one night and the

entire next day painting room after room.

Joe and Mary Lou meet their prob-
lems in a way that's typical of young
suburban couples everywhere. And their
experiences are very similar. For in-
stance, Joe put in the walk leading to
the house, and used a good weed-killer
to kill the weeds between the stones.
Then, imbued with enthusiasm, he de-
cided it would be a good idea to use the
same weed-killer on the lawn, where the
weeds were thriving.

The weed-killer worked beautifully on
the weeds, and just as beautifully on the
nice green grass. The result? Today,
the grass is, as Mary Lou says, "a nice,
early-autumn, dark brown shade."

Joe and Mary Lou, like most parents,
decided that when they had children they
wouldn't spoil them. Of course not.
"But how do you keep from doing it?"
Mary Lou asks, very reasonably. "I have
a feeling that, when Alan is playing very
happily by himself, I should just let
him go on that way, but I can't resist
joining him.

"The other day," she laughs, "I heard
an ad that went something like this: 'Is
your wife a slave to the kitchen? Wouldn't
she like to spend some time in the living
room?' Well, no one has to feel sorry for
me! I'm certainly no slave to the kitchen.
I spend a lot of time in the living room
playing with Alan.

"After dinner, I don't feel I have to do
the dishes immediately. I don't do them
till he goes to bed. I know some women
feel that it is just terrible to let a dish
he unwashed for five minutes. But I think
you can be sensible in these matters. You
don't have to be like 'Craig's Wife' — who,
if I remember correctly, seemed to care
more about her home than about her
husband. Joe and Alan come first with
me," she concludes.

On this regime of love, understanding
and play, Alan has thrived. When he
was first born, Joe and Mary Lou had
reason to be concerned, as he was an
incubator baby, almost a month prema-
ture. Everyone had been sure that Mary
Lou, who is beautifully built, would bring
-a thriving seven- or eight-pound baby
into the world. But no. Alan was four
pounds, six ounces, when he was born—
and the powers-that-be kept him in the
hospital for a full week after she had
been sent home.

At the end of the week, the doctor
said that he was doing so well that they
would let him go home, even though he
was still slightly under five pounds.
But the fact that Alan had gained five
ounces in a week led them to believe
that they didn't have to worry about
him. They were right. Today, he is a
sturdy young man, toddling around the
house on very sturdy young legs. He has
blond hair and brown eyes, and looks
very much like Joe.

Naturally, his grandparents idolize him.
There were three previous grandchildren
(sister Sheila's children) for the Har-
ringtons, but he is the very first grand-
child for Joe's mother. They all make a
big fuss over Alan. The living room is
filled with his toys, including gifts from
his grandparents.

Because they live happily and fully, the
days never seem long enough for Joe and
Mary Lou. In the evening, while Mary
Lou knits or paints, Joe paints, builds a
cabinet, or works on his model airplane.
"It's a monster," she laughs. "The plane
is in our bedroom, the motor in the
garage. It hasn't gotten off the ground
yet, but Joe says some day he's going
to send it off into the air. I hope, when
that day comes, it won't crash."

Well, whether it does or not, the life
of the Dialons will go merrily on.

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Full text of "Radio TV Mirror (Jul-Dec 1957)"

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