Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

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BING CROSBY and his A COOL CAT HOT MONEY Some folks think that Bing Crosby's casual air is just a pose. But those who really know him will tell you that nothing could be farther from the truth. There's the time Bing's twenty-room colonial house in North Hollywood caught fire and burned to the ground. Bing got word of it from his friend and lyricist, Johnny Burke, who had been phoning all over town trying to locate him. Burke finally caught up with him at the Brown Derby where Bing was lunching after a round of golf. Breaking the news gently, Burke said: "Listen, Bing, before I say anything, I want you to know everyone's okay." Bing had shot a 74 that morning, and was in good humor. "Isn't that nice, Johnny," he said amiably. "And how's your family?" Burke tried again, and this time he made no effort to soften the blow. "Look, Bing, your house just burned down!" There was a moment's pause, then Bing drawled : "Huh, that old barn! Did they save anything?" Somewhat exasperated. Burke told him: "You'd better hurry out here right away and see for yourself!" "But I just ordered my lunch!" Bing protested. And he wasn't kidding, either. Since the family was safe, he saw no reason to skip his lunch. After all, he'd had quite a workout on the golf course, and he was real hungry. When Bing finally did drive out to look at the pile of smoking embers, he started to poke around the ashes until he came upon one of his shoes. It was charred but still intact. Noncha A lant as you please, Bing stuck in a hand and fished out what he was looking for— $1500 in bills. He*i placed it there to take to the racetrack next day. As it turned out, this hot money was all that had been saved from the flames! " 'Did all that work just so's you could get back that battered ole guitar up there?' the man asked me. " 'Sure,' I said, ' — how else am I gonna practice to become a famous enter-tainer if I ain't got no guitar?' " 'Well,' the man said, 'well, son, you know, the price on this guitar is up to twenty-two dollars now.' " 'What?' I said. 'Why?' " 'Interest, son,' the man said. 'It's hard to explain; but it's a fact. A fifty-cent a month fact in this here business.' "I began to cry like a baby, I was so disappointed. " 'But,' the man behind the counter said, after listenin' to my cryin' and wailin' for a little while, 'I've always said that someday I was gonna have to be sobbed into an exception in the matter of interest. And I guess today's that unlucky day for me, eh?' "With that, he climbed a ladder to the high shelf, took hold of the guitar, leaned over and handed it to me. " 'Now scat out of here,' he said, 'and make sure you practice hard on this danged thing. Or I'll haunt you from my very grave after I'm gone.' "I took the guitar and I touched the man's hand, just to show him how much I appreciated what he'd done. "'Scat!' he hollered again. "And I scatted, all right. "And I went back home and I began to play and practice and sing — till I was hoarse some nights from singin' so much, and till my fingers got red and raw and nearly bleedin' at the tips sometimes from pluckin' away so much at those strings. "But I didn't care. Didn't bother me how hoarse or bruised I got. "I had an ambition. "And I knew there was to be lots of hard work involved. . . . "I had lots of luck along the way, too. When I was about thirteen my brother Ronald and I formed a duo and entered a contest on a Greensboro TV station. We won, and stayed on that show for fifteen consecutive weeks. Then, in high school, I organized a quartet called The Rebels and we did lots of singin' together, all through those four years. Just singin', singin' singin' away. "Of course, my life wasn't oil music. I managed to study my schoolwork some. I played football — which is where I got my nickname, Crash. Because I could always use the extra money, I even got a parttime job with the Lorillard company in Greensboro, liftin' tobacco from the big boxes that came in from the fields and dumpin' this tobacco into the machines it was supposed to go in. "No, I didn't spend all my time with my music and with my thinkin' about the future I wanted to make for myself in it. "But I've got to tell you that I sure did manage to spend most of my time this way. "There was only one period, I remember, when I didn't care what happened about my music, or about anything, in fact. "That was the time, four years ago, when Ma died. "Not only was Ma a hard-workhv woman at home — what with ten children to raise and take care of — but she worked at the mill, too, the same mill where Daddy worked, till practically the end of her life, just to help out. She was such a wonderful woman. She'd give you her last dime — the very last dime she had. And she was a very religious woman. I went to church as a kid, but I guess you could never call me over-religious that way. Anyway, when Ma was sick I knew it would please her if I went and got baptized, something she had always wanted and that I had kept puttin' off. It pleased her, all right. "She died of cancer. You know how