Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1949)

You can do it with any amount of space, with anything from one light to a hundred. Such lights cost about seventy-five dollars each. They are. admittedly, a luxury, but they give great drama — and again, they demand no upkeep. Consult both a good electrician and also, if possible, a good landscape architect before installing them, unless you have a genius eye of your own. Much of the East seems to labor under the delusion that Western decoration means an exclusive use of boots and saddles, of “brands” on the cretonne and silver ashtrays shaped like cow-puncher’s hats. Well, sometimes, in very casual settings, such motifs are still used — but they are definitely dated, and going out. The Bill Boyds, on their ranch, do have some windows curtained in the softest, natural suede, under valance boxes covered with the suede and leather fringe and Indian silver rings used as the final ornamentation. This is good with Navajo rugs and good, solid ranch furniture. Sometimes, also, a most effective use is made of cowhide pillows, spotted here and there upon a couch but the general tendency is to follow the principle the Dan Duryeas have in their rambling home which overlooks the San Fernando Valley. The Duryea living room, a fairly formal one, with green walls, mulberry hangings and chairs in mulberry and yellow, opens out on a barbecue terrace. Here, as at the Iveses’, you find an open fire for heating or the preparation of food. Here, also, is casual outdoor furniture, suited to lounging and the intense activity of two small boys. If you analyze this, it means that there is more than one aspect to such a house. It means the life that goes on in it can have variety without effort. Formal entertainment is quite as easy as “hamburger dates.” The adults have room to live, as well as the children. No one needs to be inhibited, and everyone can enjoy life according to his mood of the moment. Now that’s living, partner. So why don’t you get a bit of it yourself — rather than some elaborate clock or dust-catching “objet d’art” which won’t give you any fun at all? The End Why I'm Not Afraid to Marry Wanda ( Continued from page 24) Anyhow, I’m pretty positive now that it is the only marriage for me. Of course, if I didn’t really believe Wanda wanted it to be her only marriage, too, I wouldn’t be getting into it at all. Because we’ve had to get over enough Hollywood handicaps as it is. It’s the way we’ve managed to do this, incidentally, that gives me confidence in our future. As I am writing this, my girl is in Rome, shooting on “Prince of Foxes.” She’s been there since last April. I’m in Hollywood, where I’ve just completed Allied Artists’ “Bad Boy.” Six thousand miles separating us. A fine romance, I think not! I can’t count how many times in the past eight months I’ve wanted to go kick down the Twentieth Century-Fox Studios for keeping Skipper in Rome all this time. Skipper, as I guess you’ve heard, is my pet name for Wanda, though sometimes I call her Charlie. That is, when I don’t call her Slug. She calls me Soldier, but I’m trying to cure her of that. The mere sound of that word makes me afraid she’s going to break out some “C” rations and my stomach still says “no, thanks” for that memory. The crazy impulses I’ve had in these last eight months! Like the dozens of times when I’ve figured over and over how I could sneak into an airport, crawl into the back of a plane, along with some spare parts, and then bail out over Rome. Just when I’m set on some such scheme, a letter like the one Wanda sent me early in September arrives and stops me cold. Or, maybe I should say, warm. Warm with tenderness. Skipper’s no kind of a letter writer. Neither am I. Incidentally, I could go on with this “she isn’t and neither am I” routine for hours. You know how it is when you’re in love. The big thrill is discovering all those “I liked such-and-such and so do you” and “I don’t like such-andsuch, and isn’t it wonderful that you don’t either,” Well, Skipper doesn’t smoke or drink and I don’t either. I never asked her why she doesn’t, but I’m glad it’s a fact. With me, keeping off liquor and cigarettes isn’t moral. I just hate the waste of them — the waste of time and money. I’ll explain about that letter my girl sent me in September. There was a photograph enclosed of a little dark-eyed kid. Some little Italian boy, I suppose. But on the back of it, Wanda had written, “This is Danny.” That broke me up completely. Why? Because Danny’s the name of our son-to-be. Our first-born-to-be. After Danny, we plan to have Kathleen. We hope. Then we get two others, another boy, followed by another girl. Or maybe what we’ll get is four girls in a row, like Eddie Cantor, or four boys, like Bing. But we will have four and we want them soon so that we can grow up with them. Then maybe later, we will have three or four more. Even having those first four is looking a long way ahead. But that’s the way Skipper and I dream. And what else is marriage but two people dreaming the same dream for their whole lives and working together to make it come true? Listen to me! I guess I should confess I didn’t expect to get married so soon and least of all to a movie actress. Girls — or so a certain little girl who is a movie actress has told me — think about marriage all their lives. A fellow doesn’t do that. The way it is with a guy is that he starts with an idea of his dream girl. Then, if he finds her and she lives up to the dream, the mood of marriage just sort of drifts over him. He’s trapped for life and scared about it and glad about it, all at the same time. During the war, my dream girl began to take form. Back home in Kingston, Texas, I never had a steady girl. Never had the time or the money for a steady girl. I’m the second oldest of us seven Murphys. My father died when I was twelve, my mother when I was sixteen. The three youngest kids had to go into an orphanage. We all hated that, but it was the best we could do. The first thing I did when I hit Hollywood and collected some dough was to get them out of there. They’ve got a real home now, or at least as good a home as you can make when there’s no mother and father. I went to work at twelve. I tried to get into the Marines in 1941 when I was seventeen. The next year, the Army took me. I didn’t have any girl to write to while I was overseas. I wished I did. My idea of a girl was of one who was petite, not beautiful, but nice. I wanted a girl who was all woman, but not one you would have to carry around on a pillow. When they washed me out of service with a fifty per cent disability that includes a trick stomach, a hip that snarls in cold BUY NOW! 52 PIECE SERVICE FOR 8 STERLING INLAID SILVERPLATE Copyright 1949 The International Silver Co. Holmes S Edwards Div.. Meriden, Conn. 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