Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1952)

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It was our daughter, Dana, bless her little heart, who helped break the strain of my homecoming, after we had decided over the long-distance phone to reconcile. You can’t do too much reconciling over a telephone. And we were both strained when I called you from the East, where I’d been making personal appearances. But even before leaving Hollywood, I’d made up my mind that if you would allow me — I w-as coming home. You met me at the plane, all three of you. It was a warm sunshiny afternoon, but it wasn’t the sun that blinded me when I came down the ramp and heard a baby’s voice yelling, “Hi, Daddy!” You’d been coaching her all the way to the airport, I found out later, and you’d pointed her father out among the other passengers. Dana’s greeting eased that first tension, and helped facilitate that wonderful feeling of being part of a family again. Wonderful is an inadequate word. There really isn’t any word that tells the warm, homey day-to-day story. Like going into a family huddle concerning your new chic short haircut. We’re alike in so many ways. We think alike on politics, religion, and literature. But when it comes to extreme styles or hair-dos, you are more conservative. Which figures, I suppose, since you are the one who wears them. “Let’s just see how you’d look with your hair cut short,” I kept insisting. You pointed out, with some logic, that once we’d “seen,” it would be too late. However, finally you agreed, and made an appointment at the salon. But you really rationed the scissoring. “How do you like it?” you asked expectantly, when you got heme. “What did you do, just get it set?” I inquired, observing no change. You insisted they’d cut it. The next week you let them shorten it an inch more. You inched it off so cautiously, it took you six weeks to get your hair cut. Until, finally, I called the shop and instructed, “Look, this is going to break us. Sit Marge down — and cut it off!” They did. And when you came home you looked just as I’d predicted— like a long, low? whistle. We both laugh more now. We’re closer together than ever before. Wiser and more understanding. We discuss things we never used to be able to discuss. I talk more, which helps immeasurably. You can’t shut each other out. When you doit isn’t marriage. What happened to all the feverish goals I used to have — to beat the world at this and that? My most fervent desire, now, is to get those new headboards finished for our bedroom. I just want to be with you and Jamie and Dana, and for us to enjoy life together — without rushing it. And I want to build that new home on our lot in the Valley. Psychologists with academic know-how, theorize that we remember only what we want to remember and forget the painful and the unpleasant. They may have a point. Those seven months I was away are blanking out completely. It’s beginning to seem as if they’d never happened. Not that it was too simple, at first. Catching up on a marriage isn’t. Perhaps because you’re both trying a little too hard, being too considerate, and too polite. That is, until such domestic procedures as building a window-seat bring you down to familiar earth again. Fixing up “our” house aided in the readjustment.We shopped for rugs and furniture together. I set up a workroom in the basement, and we had the living room painted the customary “Chandler green.” Then, one morning, I embarked on the project of upholstering the window-seat I’d built in it with some of those old floral drapes. I had my difficulties. But I don’t have to tell you. You were standing over me most of the time. You and the children and a gentleman for whom ordinarily 1 entertain the highest regard— my fatherin-law. All of you kept kibitzing, offering innumerable suggestions calculated to be helpful — but which can confuse any creative craftsman. “Daddy, what are you doin’?” our daughter, Jamie, wanted to know. Daddy didn’t know what he was doing — and he would have preferred not to be reminded of that painful fact. “From my experience — your father began, and he was experienced. “Why don’t you just pull it together?” you suggested. “But foam rubber gives,” I pointed out, with authority. Now that the window-seat is finally completed, the creative problems have been dissipated. A chuckle remains — plus a darned attractive and comfortable seat. But tonight, while admiring it from a distance, I was remembering when we bought the drapes that made that cover. . . . remembering, too, a couple of thousand words about other experiences that have concerned the two of us. Reflecting that wherever we love is indeed home, and what a lucky guy I am to be there. The End Watch your local theatre for RALPH STAUB’S screen snapshots of “HOLLYWOOD NIGHT LIFE” for an on-the-scene film of the famous PHOTOPLAY GOLD MEDAL AWARDS DINNER featuring Doris Day Frank Sinatra William Holden Ann Blyth Ruth Roman Bob Stack Richard Widmark Tony Dexter John Hodiak Cecil B. DeMille and many others A COLUMBIA SHORT SUBJECT— DON’T MISS IT! 90