Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1943)

"^ 7-1 PLACE A SMALL 2? piece of a wQ KLEENEX' TISSUE BETWEEN GARTER FASTENER. AND STOCKING. LESSENS STRAIN AND PULL, THUS HELPS TO PREVENT RUN5.' (from a Utter by M. C. A., Charlestown, Mass.) I WAS A.W.O.L. (Always With Out Iinen) until i discovered that kleenex served the pvrposb and saved laundrv bills .' (from a httcr by V. E., Jr., Menard, Texas) {GOOD IDEA! SEND KLEENEX TO YOUR BOY IN THE SERVICE!} m lfL When the Lights Come On Again AFTER A SAD MOVIE-IM FIT TO BE SEEN.' NO MORE RED NOSE WHEN I CARRY SOFT KL SEN EX : (from a letter by W. T.. Muncie, Ind.) WIN *2522 rxn WAR SAVINGS BOND Wish Mom could always get Delsey — it's soft Kke Kleenex OELSEY Toilet Pcper (*T M. Reg. U. S. Pal. Off.) 78 (Continued jrom page 76) that we have done a job if our experience moves other women who fear for the safety of our children to act before it is too late. You may not have the wherewithal at hand to start a nursery by yourself. But if you are really in earnest, you can interest others in your neighborhood to join you. Someone might give you a place rent-free. Others will dig into their attics, linen closets and purses to help furnish the nursery. Still others will volunteer their time. All that's needed is the will to do it. According to the report on Working Women in Los Angeles County Child Care Committees, 362,698 women were working in Los Angeles county in February, 1943. To date, 82,777 children up to sixteen are affected. The time has passed when mothers who work can leave their children in the care of a housekeeper. The housekeepers are working, too. So is Aunt Mary. And so is the neighborhood girl down the street. THERE are those who fight the advent of nursery schools, clamoring that woman's place is in the home, that a mother of small children shouldn't be working, anyhow. But who is to say who should work, and who shouldn't? How many of those mothers whose place is in the home are working because their husbands died at Pearl Harbor? How many little girls are looking after their kid brothers and sisters while father dodges torpedoes in the Merchant Marine? And how many mothers are working because, for the first time in their lives. they can make enough money to see tha: their children eat decent food, wear warrr clothes, have medical and dental care when they need it, anda chance in tomorrow's brave new world? Who are we to say that women are working for "luxuries?" Who am I to begrudge women things I have taken for granted for years? My child has had "nursery care" froir the start. Why should I, who have taker my child's health and well-being for granted, tell a mother who wants more o: the good things for her child that she must not work? The question is academic, at best. Womer are working. Our country has askec them to work. Millions more of them will be working before the war .is won, doing needed, useful work, releasing men now in industry and agriculture to swell the armed forces. They can be proud that they are in the fight. It is up to us who can't make airplanes and who can't fight, to see to it that they can work with free minds and free hearts, knowing that their children are safe from harm. Remember, one woman giving her services to a nursery can release to our defense plants twenty mothers who would otherwise have to stay home to take care of their children! There will be pitiably little chance for the Four Freedoms in tomorrow's world if tomorrow's citizens are lost. The End Tell Me a Love Story (Continued from, page 47) and off to the right he could see a swimming pool glinting in the darkness. Might be all right, at that. "Darling!" said Marjorie, opening the door delightedly after he'd rung a few times. She seemed to his suspicious eye even more charming than usual. Kissing him ecstatically, she started to show him the house at once, beginning with the bar. It was glowing with dark panelling and red leather furniture and already his famous collection of beer mugs was on the wall. "Nice," he said, beginning to relax. "But wait till you see the living room!" said Marjorie, gaily pushing him into it. It, too, was furnished to perfection and complete down to the last ash tray. And so she took him through the house, room after room . . . the dining room, kitchen, then upstairs to the guest room, her own charming room. Then she hesitated. Brian began to feel suspicious again. "Look, love of my life," said he, "into what cranny did you squeeze me?" "Well . . ." said Marjorie uncertainly. Then she swung open a door. It was a lovely room all right, big and spacious — but unfortunately it was completely bare save for the iron bed from the maid's room! Marjorie was talking fast while he gazed at it. "I've ordered everything for it but nothing's come yet!" said she. Then she rushed to the closet, her heels clattering on the bare floor. "But see — all your clothes are here, already hung up!" she pointed out triumphantly. Brian, exhausted after his 300-miledrive back from location, opened his mouth to deliver an angry lecture on the welcome given a tired man — and then instead he began roaring with laughter. Between shouts of mirth he told her there was no one else like her; first moving into a new house behind his back and then trickily showing him every lovely room in it before she led him into the barren cave that was to be his for the next few weeks until furniture arrived! And that, in a nutshell, describes the Donlevy marriage, its success and its core. Marjorie goes her own sweet wifely way, instead of his — and he begs for more and more of the same. DUT Hollywood's most unique marriage D started seven years ago with Hollywood's most unique courtship. And, as we keep saying, without the headwaiter it would never have started at all! Brian was then brand-new to California, and if you'd shouted, "Who's the loneliest man in Hollywood?" he'd have spun like a top. He was fresh from eleven years on the New York stage, he was playing villains in B pictures, and he knew nobody. He lived in an enormous house in the hills behind Beverly and his sole companion was a surly police dog who bit everyone, including Brian. His only contact with his fellow man occurred every night, when he drove down to the Trocadero night club and spoke to the headwaiter on his way in. "Good evening," they would say gravely to each other. Then Brian would have a solitary drink and go home to his snarling dog. Well, one night Brian had an acute attack of loneliness and after his usual greeting to the headwaiter he added an invitation to live under the same roof. The next morning a sedan drove up to Brian's door. From it emerged John Steinberg (that's the headwaiter's name), with many suitcases and trunks, and a happy Italian chef named Mario, complete with towering white chef's cap. For the next year and a half the three lived together — the actor, the headwaiter and the wild-eyed Italian chef. Life was jolly, food was superb and everything was fine except that Brian still didn't know any girls and at night he was as lonely as ever. Which his good friend John Steinberg noted and worried about. So when New Year's Eve rolled around,