Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1953)

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But the old gray witch of loneliness was often with her. That was perhaps why she drank more than was good for her. This kept her friends worried. I reveal this, feeling that Dixie wouldn’t mind, because she was an honest, forthright woman and would want me to tell the truth. She bothered nobody; and I never heard her condemn anyone for his failings. With such a precedent, it would ill behoove me to point up her one weakness. But it should be known that during her pregnancies about the only thing Dixie could keep in her stomach was brandy. You’d have thought that after a couple of children, she’d have called it quits. But you didn’t know Dixie. Doggedly she continued until she had her husky quartet of sons. Each of them is a tribute to her upbringing. Dixie could be — and was — a stern disciplinarian. So her children, despite the cradle of fame in which they were born, are completely unspoiled. And they adored her. Philip won an elocution contest on the subject of “Taking Mother to a Football Game,” About a year ago another son wrote a beautiful, almost book-length letter which he addressed simply: “To My Mother.” Dixie was as grateful as a child who’d been handed a new toy when others thought of her. One Christmas Eve I was dining with Merle Oberon, who had a dozen guests at the table. Suddenly her face lit up. “I wonder what Dixie’s doing tonight,” she said. I suggested that we call up and find out. She was waiting at home for Bing. No, she didn’t know when he’d come. Except for the cook and the maids she was all alone. The boys were asleep. “Why don’t you come over and join us?” said Merle. No, she couldn’t do that. It was Christmas Eve; she wanted to be home when Bing arrived. Merle hung up. “I know what we’ll do,” she said. “We’ll go over and get her.” When we got there, Dixie was all dressed up for her man. She wore a black velvet gown, diamond earrings, clips, bracelet, and a diamond solitaire ring to match. She’d dolled up like this, not expecting visitors. She was simply waiting for Bing. It took a lot of persuading; but finally we prevailed, and she came back with us. But I think I never saw a lonelier girl during the four hours she was in our company. She had only two drinks. Sitting on the floor, she reached out, touched Merle’s hand, and said in a forlorn voice, “Thank you. It means so much.” Her shyness would not permit her to say more. Once when Dixie and I were in New York at the same time, I called to invite her to lunch. “If you had called me yesterday, I would have joined you like a shot,” she said. “But I’m packing to go home tonight.” “Home?” I asked. “Bing’s staying another two weeks, isn’t he?” “Yes,” she replied. “That’s why I’m going. I’d rather be lonely at home. I’m staying at the Garden City Hotel in Long Island. Have you ever been there?” I had. Once in my youth I had gone there with DeWolf Hopper to watch a golf tournament. I still retained in my mind a picture of the front porch: A mile of rocking chairs with sweet old ladies rock ing and knitting; Imitting, rocking, and gc'siping. Dixie had sat there three days while Bing was out playing golf. So she went home. And who could blame her? In fairness to Bing, I must point out that he was not neglectfiLil by intent. He had many friends for whom Dixie did not care. As a big wheel in show business, he had become practically a citizen of the world, while Dixie had retired further and further into the small group that contained her family. Bing was constantly meeting people, doing benefits, and attending to business affairs. This required much of his time. Dixie was proud of his success; but it did not detract from her loneliness. Dixie was born in Chicago; her real name was Wilma Wyatt. From what I can gather, her childhood was quite normal, except for that touch of shyness which was with her all her life. She didn’t like the rigid discipline of school and early cast her eyes on show business. She began taking singing lessons from Benny Miroff. One day her father saw a newspaper notice of an amateur contest being conducted by Ruth Etting. “This is your opportxmity,” he told his daughter. ’’You’re going to enter that contest.” Young Wilma was so timid that she changed her name so her schoolmates wouldn’t know if she tried and lost in the competition. “I was so bad and nervous,” she laughed in later years, “that Ruth Etting must have known that I was a real amateur. She voted for me.” The award was a fourweek engagement at the College Inn. Wilma got herself an agent and changed her name to Dixie Carrol (later she changed it to Dixie Lee) . Out of the blue came an offer for her to play in “Good News.” Dixie practically went into shock. Singing in a small night spot among friends was one thing; but tackling a musical headed for Broadway was quite another. Her agent had to force her to take the job. In New York, as destiny would have it, the star of the show got sick; and Dixie took her place. “The band,” she used to muse gleefully, “was hysterical over my dancing. The boys just hoped that I’d do one number right.” In her frank way, she had notified the producer that she was no great shakes as a dancer before going with the show. This violated one of the basic axioms of show business: Always say yes when you’re asked if you can do anything. Her agent pointed this little matter out, but it never took with Dixie. She had to be honest even if it cost her a job. Nevertheless, the musical proved a good showcase for her. Motion pictures were changing from silents to talkies, and Hollywood was falling on its face trying to get Broadway people who could speak and sing. Before long the movies signed Dixie. “In Hollywood,” she said, “I suddenly foimd myself a big shot because I was a Broadway star. Yes, I’d been on Broadway— almost seven weeks.” Despite her self-disparagement, she had the quality of a true star. Her career was on a rapid upgrade when she met Bing. At this time she was living with Peggy Renier and Holly Hall. Both these girls had dated the singer and found him attractive. But Bing often broke dates with them. This burned Dixie, who had a proud independent nature. What right had this two-bit crooner to break dates with her friends? She wanted to meet him — but only to give him a piece of her mind. Finally she met Bing. Even then he had the garish garments and nonchalance for which he is now famous. “He was a bad dancer,” Dixie recalled afterwards. “He liked me, I think, because I could dance.” But the crooner, who’s charmed the