Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1944)

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Feed your Canary FRENCH’Stoday and every day ! LABGEST-SELLING BIRD SEED IN THE U. S. The Married Life of the Cary Grants (Continued from page 32) reigns supreme in the kitchen. “I love to cook,” said Mrs. Cary Grant, “but I make such a mess in the kitchen I know it disturbs Nelly. I would love to take cooking lessons somewhere if there were somewhere I could go — ” She left the sentence suspended. But what was left hanging in the air was part of that age-old fear of being misunderstood. What a Roman holiday it would be if Mrs. Cary Grant, the former milliondollar baby, took up peeling potatoes at some cooking school! Barbara’s life has been filled with these little things she would like to do but has never been permitted to indulge. Lance Reventlow, Barbara’s seven-yearold son, who is crazy about Cary and is never far from his side, came in and plopped himself down by his stepfather. “Aren’t you going to play any more tennis. General?” he asked. “General?” I repeated, puzzled. “That’s what Lance calls Cary,” Barbara explained. “No one knows why.” Her eyes followed them as they left the room — Cary so tall and dark — and the little boy so very blonde. “He adores Cary,” she said. “He would love to be called Lance Grant.” “I suppose Lance has what might be termed a military turn of mind,” Barbara laughed. “We have to dress him in uniforms of all kinds with trick badges. One night Cary brought him home a Commando hat and he went to sleep with it on. We had to sneak in later and take the uncomfortable thing off his head. He can’t seem to really make up his mind which branch of the seryice he wants to be in. One minute he is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army and the next he’s a Captain in the Navy.” The little boy has Barbara’s fairness and looks like her although he is a husky child, large for his age, and she is so small. “But remember, I was a very plump little girl,” she added, “before I dieted.” If Barbara has one worry clouding her happy life these days it is because she is afraid they live out so far in such a secluded spot that Lance will not have enough children to play with. “He wants to be with children all the time,” she said, “and I want him to have many playmates. As a child, I was so terribly lonely. I don’t want Lance to have that kind of childhood. Children should not be alone. He goes to school and almost every day he brings home some of the youngsters to play. But getting them back and forth is a problem and takes a bit of doing with the gas shortage and all.” Cary is so busy going from picture to picture (he’s doing “My Client Curly” at Columbia now) and working such long hours I asked her if she were not often lonely herself so far from town. “Yes,” she admitted, “it is a lonely spot here, but there is a difference in being lonely and being lonesome. I’m too happy to be lonesome.” It is not true that the Grants live like recluses and never entertain. “When Cary is working,” Barbara went on, “he frequently brings home his director or producer for dinner. And when he is between pictures we frequently have a small party. “I hate big parties. I guess I had my fill of them for life the year I came out in New York when it seemed there was just one big party after the other every night. But when the ‘Cc^er Girls’ came out to make their movie at Columbia we had a small party for them and we have others of ten or twelve people. That’s a good number— just enough. Then you can really talk to people. At bigger parties people just seem to talk at each other.” Cary and Barbara have no “rules” for a happy marriage. They do not insist on being seated next to each other when they dine with friends or of never dancing with anyone else or any other of the sentimental gestures of many newlyweds. If Cary is working late, he dines alone in town. Or on fight nights he goes with the boys to the boxing matches. THOUGH Barbara grows as mum as the I Sphinx when the subject is broached, I know she keeps herself occupied duripg the day with the many charities she quietly sponsors. Her London home has been turned over to the Officers of the Balloon Barrage Brigade and here in Hollywood there is a canteen in a lonely district that was not only organized by Barbara but which she supports entirely on her own. “And” she laughed, “there’s always the Victory garden. Our tomatoes weren’t so good this year — but, oh, the corn on the cob!” Barbara’s serene face can flush angrily over the silly stories that she is eager to return to Europe after the war. It was one of the tragedies of her life that she permitted Count Haugwitz-Reventlow to cause her to renounce her American citizenship at the time she married him and when she was in love with him. She loves America and is an enthusiastic California rooter. “I have never felt so well or so strong in my life,” she said. “I hardly know myself. I love it here in California. Look at this marvelous place.” She led me over to the wide window that revealed the sweep toward the ocean framed by the tall mountains. But it was not wholly the breath-taking view that brought the contented little smile to the corners of Barbara’s mouth. For, down on the tennis court, Cary had just gently smacked a tennis ball right into the plump ‘tummy” of his small blond stepson. The End. Want one? There’s a nice copy of March Photoplay on its way to you. You should have it around February 9 or as soon thereafter as wartime transportation permits If you reserve your copy now 78