Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

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Jeanne Crain and family at their favorite picnic spot — their 3t home. Paul Brinkman, Jr., riding his dad, is Jeanne and Paul take the balmy autumn California sun near their curving, flagstone pool. The built-in barbecue hearth makes it an ideal place for their outdoor entertaining. around the throats of the mountains. Then, one day when it was so wet that we had to eat our lunch in the car, we saw a glowing rainbow spin against the sky. Below, where the scrub and oaks jutted on a sort of rounded shelf, we saw our house— just the way it would be, just as it is. We love our house because it's not a showplace. It's a house in which every corner has that lived-in feeling. Our two-year-old, Paul, has the run of the place. Visitors sometimes are startled to see him staggering through the living room with a set of light aluminum steps in his small arms. With great determination he heads for the bookshelves or the kitchen to get what he wants. He's a self-reliant youngster who, instead of tugging at my skirts when he wants a set of jungle books or a glass of water, just gets his steps and lives his life. . Our way of living is very informal. In our orchard we now have 70 young trees, just beginning to bear fruitoranges, lemons, limes, loquots, sapotes and Tangolas— and when friends drop in they are more than likely going to find me bending over a stove ladelling a sweet-smelling mass of marmalade. And if they're properly respectful of my art, I'll give them some to take home! Painting I love. And so does Paul. Skeet-shooting he loves. And so do I. I find myself out on the shooting range with Paul at least one afternoon a week. The next afternoon, he'll be daubing away on an oil portrait of little Michael. It's really funny how two people can grow alike in their interests. Every now and then I discover Paul loaded with an armful of my art books, carrying them off to study at his corner of our bedroom desk. Perhaps he was inspired by the portrait Henry Clive did of me— the one we have hanging in our entrance hall. Whatever it was that started him painting, we'll probably soon be adding an extra wing for a painting workshop. I'm not sure about that, though. We always manage to center our activities in our living room and it always seems to have room enough for our expanding ideas. I'm mad about clipping recipes and home furnishing ideas out of women's magazines. Even after I get the magazines chopped to ribbons I still refuse to throw them away. I'm so afraid that I may have missed something, they all find a place in the book shelves for possible future reference— along with Baby Paul's animal books, ceramic pixies and no one knows what else. The other day I said to Paul, "Let's go on a picnic." "Sorry, not me," he answered. "I've got work to do. You go on a picnic." So, out by the swimming pool, little Paul, tiny Michael and I sat down to our picnic lunch. You can guess what happened. In a little while that husband of mine joined us, grinning. I caught him looking out over the hills from which we once searched for just this spot. "Hmmmm," he mused. "Who would have thought it would all turn out as wonderfully as this?" "Who?" I repeated, indignantly. "Why, we did, that's who!" Paul smiled — then put his big arms around all three of us The End 36