Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1948)

and various trophies awarded him for war work. From here it is only a step back into the living room, to admire a favorite “trophy” recently acquired by Dolores. A Grandma Moses. This little old lady of Shenandoah Valley started painting at the age of seventy, and canvases, such as this New England snow scene, now bring amazing prices from them as can afford ’em. “Bob didn’t have too much to say when I first hung this,” says Dolores, “but came Christmas, and he bought two smaller ones by Grandma, for the children’s room — ” Two shelves of the book-case are filled with The Theatre magazine, every issue since 1901, all handsomely bound in leather. In an unplanned way, you get to opening the volumes — reading the old playbills and reviews aloud, chuckling over the illustrations, and recounting anecdotes you have heard about the stars of yesteryear. Only one literary work in the house is more precious than these — the copy of the Peace Treaty and its immortal signatures, presented to Bob, and which, also bound in leather, occupies a place of honor on the center table. “I’ll tell you what comes next,” says Dolores. “You’re going to have to look at his war souvenirs. He even made Mary Benny look at them and she just wailed, ‘I’ve got a bunch of those old snake-skins, and guns, and ashtrays made out of bullets, that Jack brought back. Didn’t anybody bring home pretty things, like rare jewels or something?’” These souvenirs of Bob’s war tours through Europe and the Pacific will someday have a museum of their own, when the Hopes build a larger home. They are now kept in a “Fibber McGee” closet in his dressing room. Painted on the bottom drawer of Bob’s wardrobe is a blue ring circling a bullet hole, with the inscription, “And he said it wasn’t loaded. Sept. 4, 1945.” The lettering was added by his wife. “Those guns make me nervous,” she explains, “even though he had an expert look them over and supposedly unload them. One day he was showing the collection to Thornton Delehanty and one went off in his hand. I wish you could have seen his face — he stood there looking sheepish for a minute, then tore downstairs. ‘I’m going to see if it got the cook,’ he yelled. ‘Dolores will never forgive me!’ ” BOB’S bedroom, adjoining the dressing room, features a bed at least eight feet wide. A particularly fortunate circumstance because tonight it is shared by young Tony, who likes to kick around. “What used to be our guest room is the nurse’s room since Norah and Kelly took over,” your hostess has explained, earlier in the day, “so you’re sleeping in Tony’s bed.” It seems like a special honor — particularly since Tony has left his searchlight and airplane model right on his dressing table, confident that you won’t disturb them. Then, too, there’s Linda sleeping right across from you, under a twin candlewick spread. And inside the door hangs an interesting work, titled “Program for the Day.” Beginning with “7 a.m. — Say morning prayers,” it accounts for every hour right on down to “7 p.m. — Say evening prayers, Lights Out!” When you wake next morning The Program is already ruined so far as you, personally, are concerned. Linda informs you, without reproof, that it is almost nine o’clock. Dolores and the two youngsters are off to Mass. Bob is being “eased awake” by cold orange juice and hot coffee served in his room — a household device for preventing him from sleeping all day on Sundays. Guiltily, you turn over for one last wink. . . . Your own orange juice you take later in the gayest kitchen you’ve found in some time. Curtains are a bright blue print and cupboards are decorated in Swedish peasant design with yellow and blue predominating for an indoor-sunshine effect. Over the silverware compartment is a whimsical inscription in Swedish, traditionally effective for “warning the witches away.” BE that as it may, there is. a certain witchery in the hot blueberry muffins that appear shortly afterward with the buffet breakfast on the terrace. With the muffins putting a hex on your usual regard for calories, you butter them lavishly and help yourself uninhibitedly to the variety of eggs and sausages and fruit laid out in covered dishes and platters for your temptation. As a corrective measure you later take a ride over the rolling lawns on Linda’s bike, finding it easy pedaling until gravity reaches up and throws you. The afternoon somehow slips away from you. For a while there is much talk about getting all dressed up and having tea at the Country Club. That’s before you get involved in another playsession with those newest miracles, Norah and Kelly. And before you discover that simply sitting with iced glasses in the comfortable chairs on the sundrenched terrace is the best possible position in which to listen to those stories which issue end on end from Bob, the chain-joker. Suddenly Sunday has gone just like the Saturday night before it, in amazingly simple enjoyment. In small talk and big laughter, in a household vibrant with warmth as well as whimsicality. The End ADVERTISEMENT “That's not for sale! That's my Pepsi-Cola /” 11