Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1949)

( Continued from page 33) we were moving. I hurried down for a last-in-the-house breakfast. Bob grinned, “Come on — stack it up, Doll. Lots to do today.” Uncle Buck said, “Well, Queen, another move!” I must tell you about Uncle Buck. He was a member of a song-and-dance team I used to watch as a kid at the old Liberty Theatre in New York City. My big sister Millie used to work in the chorus there and I haunted the wings, building my ambitions and loving every moment of it. Uncle Buck first encouraged me in my dancing. He’d talk about show business and when he went out to the delicatessen on Broadway to get a snack for the theater gang, he’d take me along. We had a regular little routine. Uncle Buck would ask me what I wanted and I’d always answer, “A turkey leg.” “Turkey leg, huh?” he’d say, as though it were a surprise — then — “Well, Joe, give the little lady the finest you got. She’s going to be a big star someday.” I knew he was my friend. It seemed then I was always hungry. I thought when I became a star as Uncle Buck said I would, I’d be content to have only what I really needed. p 70 ONLY what I needed! In these last busy weeks of getting ready to move, I came across mountains of things — things stored away for the day when we built the new house. The movie projector, the Steuben glass — things like that. Acquiring that Steuben glass was quite a complicated process for me. Several years ago, I decided, for some unknown reason, that I must have a complete service for twelve. My business manager, that king of “no, no” men, said I couldn’t afford it. I argued. Reasonably, he said, “Why? You don’t need it.” I countered, “But I want it.” I remembered the day when I had pressed my nose against the Fifth Avenue window where Steuben’s glittering display sparkled, gazing at the wonder of the incomparable glass, never realizing that some day a man would tell me — a star — that I couldn’t afford it. He was right, of course, but I have determination. I decided I’d buy just a piece at a time out of the allowance I’m permitted. It wasn’t long before I realized I’d be ninetynine before I achieved that full glass collection. So I mentioned one day, casual like, that if anyone was aching to give me a birthday or Christmas present, why, some Steuben glass such as salt-andpepper shakers would be just fine. Before my birthday was over I was saying, “If one more salt-and-pepper shaker comes through this door, I’ll hang myself!” But I was glowing. One, because I was touched that so many were so generous and two, because I love all my Steuben. I got it in such quantity that I’ve never been able to unpack it all — there wasn’t room in the small house in which we’ve been living! This morning, with the moving men breathing down my neck, I walked over to the closet and took inventory of something else I don’t need. Those rows of dresses and suits. But even these new things bring back memories and I found myself thinking of the first really warm winter coat I ever owned. I had had two jobs at once. One spot at the Shubert Theatre and another at a floor show at the Everglades, a night club just a block away from the Shubert. The timing was such that I could do my stint at the theater, frantically rush out of that costume, run through the snow and slush to the night club, rush into that costume, do my stint and tear back to the theater. It was quite a routine and I had to have a coat to protect me against the bitter wind sweep Moving Day ing over my feverish body. I bought the coat on the installment plan and prayed the two jobs would hold out until it was paid for. They did. Since that time no coat has ever been so treasured. I turned from the closet just in time to see the movers taking down my Paul Clemens painting of a dancer in her dressing room after an exhausting performance. Each time I look at it I feel as I did when I first saw it and knew I had to own it. Clemens created that painting with perfect understanding. I know, because my feet have been that tired. The painting brought back the memory of the moment when my luck turned me from a weary chorine into a definite personality. The story has been told often, but I never tire of it — just as I never forget Willard Mack, who taught me so much. Take, for instance, the opening night of “The Noose.” When the curtain came down, everyone in the company knew with dismal misery that the play was a flop. But Willard, undaunted, went right to work He changed the whole motivation, rewrote that tiny part of mine into the character. We didn’t leave the theater during those twenty-four hours of hectic rewriting and rehearsal — but countless cups of coffee later, when the curtain had come down again, Willard Mack, master showman, playwright and director had proved himself again. “The Noose” was a hit. An exhausted but happy company trouped off the stage. Mack stopped me, shook my hand and said, “Ruby Stevens is no name for a star.” He glanced at the backstage walls covered with yellow playbills from old attractions. From two of them his quick eyes built a combination. He grinned. “Hello — Barbara Stanwyck.” There I was, an ex-chorine, started on a long road. (THOUGHT then that I’d come a long way from the day when my sister Millie stood with me, clutching a hatbox which contained all I owned. We had just become orphans and Millie, though she made a precarious living as a chorus girl, was determined to take the responsibility for me. She took me on that dreary day to meet the family in Brooklyn with whom I was to live. Every Friday, after school, I’d take the subway to New York to spend the weekend with Millie who was staying at the old Palace Hotel. She was dancing in “Glorianna,” playing at the Shubert — that’s where Uncle Buck came in and my dreams of stardom began. Those were the days when Ruby Stevens would gladly stay with someone’s kid to get nickels and dimes so she could go to the movies. Yes, I was a movie devotee — passionately admiring my heroine, Pearl White. Then I’d go over to Prospect Park and jump off the rocks, trying to imitate the brave Pearl. Yes, moving day was memory day for me. Maybe it’s that way for everyone. Amidst all the other confusion of that morning the phone rang. At a time like this, no call was welcome, but this was a call for me to appear on the Lux Theatre of the Air. My hectic schedule for the next few weeks drew only a moment’s hesitation. Lux Theatre has priority on my loyalty. You see, there was a time when I earned the title of “suspension queen” of Hollywood. One by one I had turned down scripts which I felt were not right for me. Naturally, with each refusal, the studio placed me on suspension. I had no backlog of savings. So I had to earn money somehow while I wasn’t being paid. Danny Danker, who before his death handled the Lux show, heard about my stubborn selfcreated plight. With the warmth of understanding which marked him, he told me not to worry, I was welcome in radio. I was cast time after time in the Lux shows. With those checks I was able to hold out until I was offered a role into which I could throw my wholehearted enthusiasm. So I had a Lux show to do. And piled on a table were several scripts I had to read. Since the completion of “Sorry, Wrong Number,” I’ve been reading scripts like mad — looking jor my next picture. It’s sort of like looking for a job. (REMEMBER, humorously now, though I didn’t then, my job with the Conde Nast pattern department. Pattern customers frequently ask advice before they go home to whip up their own creations. I was a salesgirl bubbling with such advice. And I gave of it freely. That imagination and not experience prompted my suggestions didn’t bother me at all. The inaccuracies descended upon my proud young head when customers came back complaining that I’d caused them to ruin perfectly good material. When I was fired, I bought a pattern and some material, intending to prove that my deductions were better than printed instructions. I deducted my way through gussets, plackets, facings and darts. I achieved an incredible garment — part of it would have fitted Sydney Green street and part of it Margaret O’Brien. While I was cleaning out my desk for this moving day, I took out the little New Testament I keep there. I’m not a hoarder, but a few things have moved with me through a lot of years and I wouldn’t part with them for anything. Holding this Testament, I remembered the Dutch Reformed Church in Brooklyn, where I presented myself for baptism at the age of eleven. It was such a quiet little place and the pastor, Reverend George Carter, was so kind. He gave me the Testament after he had written on the fly-leaf, “In all thy ways acknowledge Him.” I’ve forgotten that too often. But I’ve remembered it often, too. Without Him would I have all these contrasting memories? In the back of the Testament is an old report card. I used to sign mine myself and envy the kids who had parents to sign theirs. Today, I thought of all the times I have been asked for autographs and laughed at how I had to sneak some of those early signatures. I thought of Public School 152 — a place I hated except for a lovely teacher, Miss Phair. She was wise and gentle, understanding and patient with a dumb kid named Ruby, who hated so many things so earnestly — things like studying and not having any parents or pretty clothes. Ruby, who lived in a fantasy world, self-created. Who defensively jeered at all that Miss Phair tried to teach her. Today I thought of how right she’d been when she warned me in her soft, undemanding voice, “Life will deal you an awful blow, Ruby, unless you come down out of the clouds.” I wish I could tell her how all these long years later, I remember her and her help and how, in some of the tough spots I found I had heard what she said when it seemed I wasn’t listening. Tonight in our new house, move-weary, Bob and I sat down in the midst of piled furniture and knickknacks and surveyed our possessions. However, our everpresent coffee maker was doing its job and I thought, adding up the memories, that life had been pretty generous to us. I thought how Spangler Arlington Brugh from Nebraska and Ruby Stevens from Brooklyn had come a long, long way to meet and merge their backgrounds, tastes, careers and ambitions. I thought, too, how our story is typically American — as realizing the dream of the founders of our country — we have pursued our happiness. The End