Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1945)

99 : SPArt/ey £Tem/i/e I was surprised when my brother Jack, who is in the Army Air Corps, and my other brother George, who is in the Marine Air Corps, wrote that they didn’t want anything — not things anyway — for Christmas. All they wanted was a promise from me. “Shirl,” they said, “it would be a good Christmas for us if we knew that you planned to finish high school.” They said they knew how hard it is to stick to one’s studies when . so many apparently more important things are going on. They knew it was a temptation for teen-agers to quit school altogether and take a job — a war job — to get it finished faster. They said that was one of the things the boys were fighting for. They were fighting so that our lives would not have to be disrupted. The grown-ups, they said, can handle the war. I guess the thing that I would like most for Christmas is that laughter and fun would come back for all of us. It seems to me that in wartime so many people are worried about their sons and husbands and sweethearts, and that there isn’t the same free feeling we used to have. And I guess there won’t be until we are at peace. It is not that my friends and I don’t have lots of fun. We do. But we all have the feeling that we have no right to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. I hope that when my little nephew Stanley reaches his sixteenth Christmas, he will not be looking forward to fighting another war. Some candid tinsel talk by six stars with standout ideas If 1 were writing a letter to Santa Claus it would go something like this: Dear Santa: As one large man to another — surely you know what I mean when .1 say the only thing I want out of your pack is a new kind of screen role. Okay, I am not exactly a small guy. Neither are you. But do I have to be a mysterious and sinister oversized guy, year after year? I know. You’re typed, too. But nobody hates a jolly fat man, especially when he’s so free and easy with the presents. But my kind! Little kids whimper when they pass me in the streets. You’ve probably forgotten, Santa, but I used to be a comedian. Then somebody found out I had a pretty nasty leer in stock. I should have kept it a secret. I’m trapped now. Nothing can save me but a miracle, or a word from you, dear Santa, to the headman at my studio. Put in a word for me, friend, and I won’t even ask you for those extra red ration points I really need to keep up my strength. I know exactly what I want, for Christmas, and I’m afraid it’s quite a lot. I hope Santa Claus hasn’t put all his money into War Bonds, for I want a fur coat, a pin with rubies and diamonds in it and a soft quilted satin robe with high-heeled mules to match, and . . . and lots more. I guess I shouldn’t be so greedy. But, you see, it isn’t for myself I want all these expensive things. Christmas Eve is my mother’s birthday and we always have a wonderful party around the tree. First Mama opens her birthday presents and then I open my Christmas presents. And we have a fire in the fireplace and most of the regular lights turned off so the tree can sparkle and I get to stay up very late — almost till ten o’clock — and it is so exciting! My mother is so wonderful — I love her so much and I can’t buy very much that’s good enough for her witfr my dollar a week allowance and, gee, if Santa Claus would only arrange things so I could give her everything she wants, it would be a really wonderful Christmas. Of course in case there is anything left over for me I would love to have a cuddly teddy bear, or a monkey, or maybe even a panda. I think pandas are cuter than any old doll. But I can save up for a panda if only Santa will help me get that fur coat.