Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

I ipn't be an actress. I don't want to marry 1 actress, and I do want to marry you." This was typical of Dana's straight-fromie -shoulder honesty, avoiding any future isunderstanding or an arbitrary afterarriage edict to the effect that, ''As my iie, you can t have a career as an actress." U s it was, the choice was mine, and I've ;i ;ver once regretted trading in one sj ightly-used theatrical make-up box for a -] «ok book, an efficiency apartment and ana. A home and a family were the ost important measures of success to »i m and I realized then that they were to : : e, too. ! ; In the first months of our marriage, Hi ana must have despaired of developing i homemaker out of such green material. Maere were lumps in the mashed potatoes, mps in the socks I darned, even my bedmi aking was lumpy. But he never seemed •! mind, never once voiced the thought tat must have occurred as he lifted a ' aden biscuit — "Honey, maybe you should M'ave stuck to your acting." Once a week, e had dinner at Mother's — probably the s ily reason we managed to survive my | irly cooking. iji We have moved three times in the course our 10 years, each time because the mily outgrew its quarters. Luckily, at k time when building was at a standstill, I e found our present home in Toluca Lri:ake, so right for us that we half-expected *W see the children's clothes hanging in 1 le closets as the agent showed us through. uilt originally for a family of three boys. s rooms are homey and sprawling as a is juse for growing youngsters should be. : After the small fry have said goodt-ight — sometimes for the 11th time after me many last-minute reprieves — Dana and es review the day's doings, tomorrow's Eliroblems, next summer's vacation. Some: mes we talk for hours. Or rather Dana f-j-ilks and I listen. Talking is Dana's favorite indoor sport, whether there are just le two of us or whether he has a larger i -adience. And if he can work up a good, Mist-moving argument on any subject from i ' nited Nations policy to the correct conis; ruction of a double malted, he is in his ni.ory. I For an occasional spree — and this must He the Hollywood version of the busman's if jjoliday — we go to the movies. In that case, ip'iana can work in only one trip to the fCjitchen, when we come home. Otherwise, l|e shuttles between the refrigerator and \e den all evening. He is an ardent iceox forager, so I try to keep his favorite swbacks on hand. In Dana's vocabulary, a ^snack" is a whole watermelon, a quart of MODERN SCREEN milk, or similar light delicacies. And from a wealth of experience behind a soda fountain, he fancies himself a talented sundaeartist, creating lavish extravaganzas from a battery of syrups and garnishes he keeps on a shelf above the freezer. "This one I call Andrews' Ambrosia,' " he will announce, adding a final gob of whipped cream to a sky-high mound of ice cream swimming in assorted goo. "They used to line up three deep at the fountain for 'em." Perverse as children are, ours can be little angels at home, but in public, when you especially hope they'll be fairly tractable— that's when they can be downright heathenish! In New York's Grand Central Station when, a few months ago, we were on our way back to Hollywood from England, we had an hour to kill before train time. To anyone, except a mother or father, that would seem like a reasonably easy task. Two parents, two children — nothing arduous about that. kids will be kids . . . Well, first of all, as we emerged from the taxi and Dana was busy with porters and baggage, Kathy whispered to me, in ladylike disgust, "Mother, look what Stevie sat in!" She pointed primly to a squashed chocolate which, she knew darned well, she had parked on the seat. Once inside the station, I hustled Stevie off to the rest room to wash the messy blob from the clean suit, just 20 minutes off its hanger. Back to Dana, standing under the big clock where we'd agreed to meet. No Kathy in sight. "Where's Kathy?" I asked, straightening my son's cap for the 10th time. "I thought you . . ." Dana started helplessly. We finally located Miss Kathy, thumbing thoughtfully through a stack of magazines at a station newsstand, unaware of the baleful glare of the clerk. By now we had quite a large crowd following us, some who had recognized Dana but just as many who were spellbound by the horrible things Stevie was doing with a wad of bubble gum. "Let's get them a soda. That'll keep 'em quiet," whispered Dana, by this time perspiring freely and looking 98 percent the harassed father, only two percent movie star. We ducked into the station drugstore and found four places at the fountain. By now faces were pressed against the glass of the drugstore windows. "If only Stevie won't play with his ice cream. ... If only Kathy won't upset her glass," I hoped against hope. Well, he did and she did. And for good measure, Stevie dropped his spoon with a clatter and plummeted after it, head-first. How we ever got to the train and on it is all lost in a chocolate haze. Stevie was still clutching two bedraggled straws, which he pressed against Dana's coat, leaving a pair of straggly imprints on Father's proud new Bond Street tie. Finally our little darlings were both tucked in for the night, and Dana and I sank weakly on the opposite berth of our compartment. Just in time to save ourselves from complete madness, we burst out laughing. "Mrs. Andrews," Dana said, bopping me on the nose with a pillow, "do you realize you and your bedevilled offspring have just set Hollywood glamor back at least 20 years?" Maybe we are a disappointment to people who think that happily -married movie couples never emerge from the hand-holding stage. But we've only got four hands between us, and that's just one apiece for keeping four young Andrews sprouts in line. And for romance? We go to the mnvips. 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