Modern Screen (Jan-Jun 1946)

When he came downstairs, he was carrying a drawing of a bumblebee wearing a pugilist's turtleneck sweater and boxing gloves on the upper FOUR of his paws. When Mr. and Mrs. Walt Disney were guests at the Wordeman home one night— and when Cojo wasn't around — Mary Wordeman showed the bumblebee drawing to Mr. Disney. "Send that boy over to me if he ever wants a job," glowed Donald Duck's director. "He has the talent to do exactly the kind of thing we need — and can seldom find." exploring nature . . . When Mary Wordeman wrote to her son, who was on his way to serve in the Army of Occupation in Korea, and asked him to let her know at once what he wanted for Christmas, he answered that he wanted all the drawing materials that could be crammed into one of those regulationsized overseas mailing cartons. He wanted pastels, poster paint, charcoal, poster board, and drawing paper. This last had to be paper-knived into fairly small sections to satisfy mailing restrictions, but at least Cojo would have something to work with. He wrote, "The scenery is super; I want to record it in color. And I reckon I can learn a lot about expert craftsmanship from some of the types of Oriental art I see around here." How's that for taking advantage of a situation — and having fun, too? Cojo's intense interest in natural history led him to tell a newspaper writer, while he was working opposite Shirley Temple in "Kiss And Tell," that he was going to make exploration his life work. He mentioned specifically, his ambition to chart the Amazon Valley. This news had barely hit print when Cojo began to get mail. One husky Tech Sergeant in Georgia wrote that he was about to be demobilized after having served his hitch and that he, too, had always cherished an ambition to chart the Amazon Valley. He said he didn't have any dough except his mustering-out pay with which to finance such an expedition, but he'd be glad to chuck it in, if Cojo could get financing elsewhere. Cojo had to answer that the army was going to take care of his voyages of discovery for a few years, but that he would keep the sergeant in mind, if things developed in the future. A girl wrote to say, "Gosh, when you talk about the Amazon, don't you realize that the region is simply alive with snakes? Ugh!" Cojo grinned. As a kid, some of his best friends were snakes. In the morning, his mother used to go to his bedroom door, open the door, but remain just across the doorsill. Before she entered the room, she scrutinized every inch of floor space, and all shadowed corners, because Cojo had a pet black snake that he loved with a great affection. The black snake had a perfectly satisfactory wire box in which he was supposed to sleep, but Cojo decided that the snake was lonesome. If it were possible, Cojo would sneak his four-foot playmate into the house when Mary wasn't looking, and into his bed. On several occasions, Mary went in to kiss the boy goodnight, and was startled — to put it mildly — to find a heap of coiled reptile peacefully slumbering beside Cojo's tousled head. Luckily, Mary Wordeman is not a screamer. She would withdraw to the door and call in a ringing voice, "Courtland Jourolmon, you wake up this very instant and take that nasty old snake out to his wire box. I will not have a snake sleeping in my house." While Cojo was taking his basic training in Texas early last spring, a group of men were gathered on the parade ground one morning, so Cojo joined them. The men were keeping a respectable distance from a fine, fat serpent. Cojo moved into the circle, knelt down, fondled the snake and looked it over carefully. Then he killed it without haste, but with great care that it would be thoroughly dead. One of the men said, "That was a funny thing to see you pick up that snake, look it over, then kill it. You acted as if you would make a pet of it." Said Cojo, "Because the weather's so cold, the snake was sluggish, so he was safe to handle for a minute, but that was a copperhead. I had to kill him." Instead of killing the copperhead with a club, Cojo could have, if necessary, dispatched him with one shot from a revolver — that's how accurate his shooting eye is. All during his school days, Cojo won successive sharpshooting medals. Whenever he received a trophy or a memento of any kind, he would mail it to his mother. Now she has a velvet-lined box filled with silver, gold and bronze medals. While Cojo was still in Texas, he sent her another medal: The silver oblong, blueenameled, on which is superimposed a silver rifle, indicating that the man who wears it has earned a rating of expert rifleman. Cojo's letters from Korea are usually brief and to the point, but there is one sentence that he never omits. Somewhere there is always this question, "How's Kurt? Tell him hello for me." Kurt is Cojo's kid brother, a very husky gent who was a year old on November 4th. When Cojo was at home, it was quite a CMON, JOIN THE PARTY! Wild about June Allyson? Got a yen for Pete Lawford? Wouldn't you like them to know how you feel? Then come on and join the gang. "How to Join a Fan Club," an M.S. Service Chart, tells you all about the MODERN SCREEN FAN CLUB ASSOCIATION; how to get free snaps, club journals, etc. See Super Coupon, page 22. sight to see him lugging around fatcheeked, round-eyed Mr. Wordeman, Jr. When Kurt was hungry, Cojo gave him his bottle; when Kurt turned out to be a drip, Cojo rushed reinforcements in the form of three-cornered slacks. Cojo, when he reached San Francisco on his way to Korea, was able to notify his mother, so Mr. and Mrs. Wordeman rushed north to tell him goodbye. The first thing Cojo asked was, "Did you bring that old soak, Kurt, along?" No, they had left Kurt with the nurse. They had been afraid that the trip would be too much for so small a traveler; he might have caught cold. Really, everyone tried to explain at once, it was no place for a baby. Cojo rested his hand on his mother's arm, "That's okay," he said gently. "Just tell the youngster so-long for me for awhile." During the several days that the Wordemans were with Cojo — as often as he could get a pass — Cojo's mother noted a vague change in him. She tried to analyze it: He had always been rather a quiet person, but now his quiet was not so much of uncertainty, as of perfect adult assurance. His questions were to the point, and neat as a bone. His answers were firm and fast. Mary Wordeman, groping in her mind for an explanation, finally found it: Cojo had gone into the army very much a boy. Just eighteen, he had been carefree, easy going. But now, not quite nineteen, he was a man who had taken a man's responsible place in his outfit. At night, she said to her husband, "I know I'm foolish to cry, but I just can't help it. I'm used to thinking of him as my baby, and I suppose I've got to get over that. He's a man, and very much of a man. I guess I know now how a mother feels when her only daughter gets married." Cojo knew that a change had taken place in their relationship. He had always kidded his mother in exactly the same casual way he had kidded his girl friends. He teased her about her hairdo, her sloppy joe sweaters, her pleated skirts. Because she had been only seventeen when he was born, they had practically grown up together. Now his attitude had changed. He had begun to call her Mother instead of the junior name, "Mommy." The last time they were together, he cupped her shoulder in his big hand. "Don't you go worrin', now. I'm going to be all right. I've had excellent training, and Fm going to profit by it" To Mr. Wordeman, Cojo said, Tve decided definitely that I want to study architecture when I get home. Two years at U.S.C., then some practical experience. I figure it would be a mistake not to take advantage of the good start you could give me in the profession." (Mr. Wordeman is a well-known architect) When someone asked if Cojo didn't plan to return to motion pictures, he said, "I've never looked on it as a life work. You see, when I get back, I may not be as gangling as I am now. The reason they liked me was because I was an adolescent. Having outgrown that stage, I mayn't appeal to directors. I figure I'd better have a profession in mind." A girl friend? Absolutely. Cojo's family will not disclose her name on pain of Cojo refusing to write, but it's safe to say that she's exactly the type of girl who could live around your corner. She wears her hair parted on one side and fastened with a silver barrett the ends hanging straight and free. She dotes on saddle oxfords for outdoors, ballet shoes in the house; she likes blue jeans for sports, sweaters and skirts for school, and simple, straight dresses for movie dates. Cojo brought her to the studio one day, whereupon everyone carefully looked her over. Several days later someone said, "That's a sweet girl, Cojo. Looks like a good scout" "I'll say she's a good scout" enthused Cojo. "That girl can climb a mountain right beside me, keeping up my pace, and never even getting winded." when a gal's a pal . . . She can also give him a fast game of tennis, and he's plenty good, having played in the Vince Richards category. She also shares his excitement over a double hot fudge awful-awful. Every afternoon, before Cojo went into the army, he and the GF. whipped over to the local sugarbowl and sat for hours, working at mounds of ice cream smothered in fruit syrup, chocolate goop, ground nut meats, and gobs of whipped cream. Stuffed as barrack bags, they would hie themselves to Cojo's home where they would sit around the Capehart and play recordings — strictly on the sweet and sentimental side. You may take your Spike Jones, your Louie Armstrong, your Krupa, but Cojo and his fluff will stick to Glenn Miller, Lombardo, some Dorsey, Freddy Martin and such smoothies. So the kid in Korea has plenty on his mind and plenty to come back to: Pictures, architecture, a Disney offer, a wonderful home, Kurt, and a girl friend. So, in Cojo's case, G.I. means Great Indications — for a slick future.