Radio-TV mirror (July-Dec 1954)

Record Details:

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(Continued from page 66) world, this may be as difficult as conquering Mt. Everest. And the hot bowl of soup? Drinking it down takes on the forbidding aspect of swimming across a steaming lake. The adult spoon is just an added burden! The fact is, the world was mainly designed for adults. The poor kids were seldom given a thought. Is it any wonder some parents have problems making their kids eat! The single problem of kids not eating, of course, does not come just because the chair is too high or the spoon too big. Children refuse food for many reasons. I think one sure way of overcoming this problem, though, is to try to see the world through your child's eyes — and then give him more attention and more love. We've had eating problems at our house, too. But I think we solved them with love and understanding. Our son Morgan, for example, did not have a strong appetite because he had been delicate as a youngster. My wife was in labor twenty-eight hours with Morgan. The birth, I think, should have been by Caesarean, but we were traveling and couldn't find a doctor in time. Morgan was born — not red and pink, like most babies — but an ashen blue. He had an uphill fight for the first few years and, as a result, he didn't have the strongest appetite. But we understood the youngster and his early problems. We gave him love, and at meal times I tried to make a game out of eating. It was all I knew how to do — to make his meals as pleasant and gay as possible. I probably ate more than I should, but at least Morgan ate his fill. With his sister, Patricia, we had an eating problem, too— but in reverse. As she grew older, Patty couldn't keep her hands off the candy. I know this is a common problem and, in our case, I think ray wife Bebe and I were partly to blame. Whenever candy came into the house, we took great pains to find hiding places for it. But our performance only attracted more attention to the candy. The question we had to answer was: Why was Patty constantly after the sweet stuff? Her mother and I took her aside one day and discussed it. For a youngster, I think Patty displayed some very complex thinking, for this is what we found: Pat still had her baby fat. She was chubby. She said she didn't want to be chubby, for she was beginning to want dates with the boys. But chubby girls didn't always get them. That was the conflict . . . What she had done was to unconsciously put herself out of the conflict by eating candy. As long as she stayed chubby, she was not competing. So she ate candy — to compensate for not dating. The first thing we did was to guarantee our own love and understanding. Then we explained to her that all girls have baby fat, but they usually lose it sooner or later. She would lose hers, too, if she kept away from the candy. In addition, we took the attention away from the candy by bringing it out in the open — leaving the choice up to her. She nibbled at it in between meals for a while. But in a few weeks she'd had all the candy she wanted — and, since that time, has grown wiser and slimmer. Children learn by doing. Sometimes they are unintentionally destructive. They even get hurt. You will not solve a problem of this type with a scolding, spanking or sarcasm. "Johnny, you've torn the knees out of your pants again! You'll get a spanking for sure!" Or, without the threat Loving Is Living have tried very hard to have torn both knees!" The sarcasm is just as bad as the threat. It's worse, sometimes, than the spanking itself. The poor child knows his pants are ripped. He can see it. He can feel it. He doesn't need to be told. And it's entirely doubtful that he deliberately tore them and skinned his knees. He was playing and it just happened. He feels sorry enough for it as it is. He doesn't need a scolding. He needs love. I remember, for example, a little girl I interviewed before a program last month. She was too upset for us to let her be on the show. When I asked her why she was so sad, she said, "Oh, Pinky, my dolly's arm's broken." "Well, little lady," I said, "I understand. We'll just have to get another dolly as soon as we can." "No," she said almost on the verge of tears. "My sister won't let me have another dolly. She got that one for me. She said I broke it and she won't get me another. . . ." Later, I learned the rest of the story. The little girl's mother worked as a waitress during the day and the older sister looked after her. Sister had bought her the doll with her own money. It was a sweet thing to do. But — when it was broken, "guardian" sister was upset. She blamed the child for not taking proper care of her toys. Because money was scarce in their little family, she felt justified in saying she wouldn't buy another. Older sister, of course, didn't have enough experience to realize that her younger sister was probably aching as if it were her arm that was broken and not the doll's. She should have seen by the tears, at least, that her little sister's heart was broken. The youngster didn't need a scolding or punishment. She needed love. Love has always been a support in my own life. As a youngster, it came from my parents. As a performer, it came in the form of attention from my audience. But, mostly, I think of the love and support I've received from my wife. I began my career as an amateur in St. Paul, Minnesota, when I was five years old. They called me a child prodigy because of my voice. My dad was the orchestra leader at the Garrick Theater where I sang in kiddie organizations. I used to invite the acts to our house for dinner. Then, after my mother had fed them a huge meal, I'd get them to teach me their routines. One morning when I was thirteen, I woke up and my beautiful voice was gone! But the stage was in my blood. I practiced the dance steps the other performers had taught me, and I talked my part of the act. I was lucky for quite a while. I traveled in an act called "Rice Pudding," THE UNITED WAY 74 of a spanking, but still bitterly, "You must with Felix Rice at the piano, and Bobbie Arnst, Johnny Weismuller's wife, on stage. I met my wife, Bebe Danois, in 1932, when I was at the Academy Theater in New York. "Song Writers on Parade" were part of the bill. They had six pianos and twelve writers playing and singing their hit tune. Two of the writers, Al Sherman and Al Lewis, and their wives were unusually kind to me, took me for coffee and generally scared away my loneliness. I remember telling Al Sherman one day that I wished his wife had a sister. The next Sunday, Al's wife's sister came down to visit. I met her backstage and was smitten. After the show, I walked her from Fourteenth Street to Forty-Fifth, stopping three times for ice cream sodas! We were married by a judge in Brooklyn three days later. Our honeymoon consisted of the trip to St. Paul for a church wedding with the family. Then we were back on the road with the show. If it hadn't been for Bebe's love, show business could have defeated me a dozen times. I'd no sooner get started up the ladder than something would happen to knock the props out from under me. To begin with, we were having a hard time in the States. Talkies had killed vaudeville. I thought if I could get to London my type of comedy would be a hit. Finally we were seen by an Australian agent and shipped "Down Under." We were an immediate hit. London heard and cabled for us — then, just as we were to leave, the girl in the act came down with a tropical sickness. She was too ill to leave. .Back in the States, I had just gotten started again, had a chance to go on the radio with Rudy Vallee, when Morgan, our son, was born. At the radio station I was a nervous wreck. I didn't know if my wife and child were alive or dead. Jimmy Wallington, the announcer, tried to cheer me up. But — when I got in front of the mike — I didn't know what I was doing. I talked so fast, the audience didn't have time to laugh. That was my first mistake in radio, and it set my career back another ten years. When the baby was old enough to travel, we crossed and re-crossed the country in a seventy-five-dollar touring Chevrolet with newspapers on the floorboards to keep out the cold. I only mention these hardships to make one point: There were no complaints from Bebe. And it was her devotion and love that kept me going. But not all our luck was bad. In 1939, I went into New York burlesque. I swore I'd be the only "clean" comic in burlesque. I was, and I was a hit. That led to New York musical productions, motion pictures, and a four-year contract in Hollywood's Earl Carroll Theater. Then television. One thing I remember about myself as a child performer is — my brashness. I admit I've been tossed out of stage-door entrances by the scruff of my neck by any number of stagehands because "Pinky was a terror!" There was a reason for my being a smart aleck. On the road, I missed my parents' love and attention. Though it didn't get me any love, "acting up" always got me plenty of attention. So I know from experience that this is one reason why kids don't behave. Last month, for example, we had a brash youngster on the show. When he first came down to see us, though, he was quiet and considerate. But, as the hour rolled on, he got into everything. He continued acting up for the whole hour, until everyone backstage was pointing their fingers and muttering, "Stay