Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1948)

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Tampax Incorporated, Palmer, Mass. Accepted for Advertising by the Journal of the American Medical Association a hot cup of tea — wins out. Sleeping rooms are on opposite sides of the house. The master bedroom is done in bleached oak, its counterpane and curtains hand-tinted to a particularly sunny yellow by Marie. The guest room is in a state of making up its mind whether to be den or bedroom, with only a comfortable studio couch so far positive of its use. “You can blame the unfinished state on John,” says Marie. “I was reckless enough to take him along to help me pick out the furniture. He spent the entire afternoon confusing me — likewise the salespeople. I’d ask to see something special and John would pop out with ‘I don’t like your attitude!’ Not to the clerk, but to me. ‘Women are habitually discourteous, don’t you think?’ he’d ask the clerk conversationally and the poor fellow wouldn’t know whether he was in a sale or a debate. I finally gave up. Can you beat that for a help-mate?” “I find myself a very lovable fellow — exuding charm from every pore,” comments her husband contentedly. The exuding is cut short by a sofa cushion aimed by his wife’s expert hand. You sleep later than you’d planned and waken to the sound of splashing and a peculiar type of vocalizing later described as “robusto” by the bathroom baritone: “It has come in very handy at times. Once I joined a stock company in which it was the rule that every member of the cast had to be able to sing and dance. ‘Everybody but you — you are the exception to the rule,’ said the casting director after I had sung and danced for him.” Breakfast is an uninhibited refueling job of prune juice, eggs, thin pancakes, sausage and bacon. “But you will observe we are a household free from French toast,” says young Mr. Lund. “You have no idea of how many months I stood embattled, fighting for my liberation from the silly stuff.” After eating you take a turn around the yard to observe the strawberry patch which, in season, produces “berries so big you wouldn’t believe ’em.” After a sunning session on the porch with its adjoining mountain view, you take a short tour of the most fascinating room in the house — Marie’s clothes closet. Young Mrs. Lund, one of the most strikingly gowned girls in Hollywood, makes all her own clothes. A blue lame evening gown with long intricately fashioned gloves to match — a ballet-length gown of black velvet, a tailored blue gabardine suit and coat. All copied from Schiaparelli cables months ahead of local fashion news. Her mother was a designer and Marie’s a gal who just can’t stand to let her thimble cool. “Have you observed my new slacks — beige burlap and one drop-hip?” Her husband does a mincing imitation. He is in his favorite recumbent position one hour later when cries of “Fire!” accompanied by clouds of smoke and wife, Marie, burst out of the kitchen. The new range, informal as the rest of the family, has ignited with the chicken broiler and is blazing merrily up to the ceiling. Afterward, when the fire has been doused, it can be testified by witnesses that Mr. Lund has not stirred from his couch. “All out?” he asks, without turning his head. “How did you manage it?” “We poured salt on it, you big hero!” “Salt, humm? Very clever — very, very clever — ” For a minute it looks as if Mrs. Lund will not recover her voice. “You should have been here when I cut my finger one night,” she finally says with indignation. “There I was with the finger practically hanging from the bone — and there 'he was stretched out on that couch — and you know what he said? He said, ‘Keep it in the kitchen, dear. I don’t want you coming out here and bleeding on me.’ Can ‘you imagine that?” “Why not? I’m a man who takes cold easily — I have to be careful, don’t I?” The Pride of Paramount twists an imaginary mustache, strokes his hair, and adjusts his feet to a more blissful position. “Gone Hollywood, that’s his trouble,” says his wife, grinning. And suddenly, between laughs, you know the reason the Lunds are so much fun to be with. Because they haven’t gone “Hollywood,” and it’s doubtful if they ever will. Pleased with success, as evidenced by that high humor of theirs, but neither overwhelmed nor frightened-by it. John has made a second picture, “The Perils of Pauline,” with Betty Hutton. A fellow who refuses to go ga-ga over anything, including himself, he quite frankly thinks another type actor would have been better in the role. He prefers vehicles with a psychological twist, and while the studio is busy hand-picking a third role for him, would like to take a fling at something serious on the stage. “Might as well keep my hand in back East, too — you never can tell what will happen in this business.” Meantime, he’ll go on spending those lazy, laughing weekends — which, because John and Marie are such unexpected young people, go so unexpectedly fast! The End like LdieMAJiXf In an That’s how women feel about the dramas, the conversations, the people they hear about on “MY TRUE STORY ” Radio Program. They’re real people! Listen in and share their joys and problems. A complete story every morning Monday thru Friday. Your American Broadcasting Company Station; 10:00 EST, 9:00 CST, 11:30 MST, 10:30 PST. TUNE IN "MY TRUE STORY” 118