Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1946)

p Scenes like this are found along the Old Spanish Trail (U. S. 90) and the Dixie Highway (U. S. 25), through the heart of the Old South. Hioth are served by Greyhound. ONLY BY HIGHWAY you’ll roll through America’s well-kept front yard "In the evenin’ by the moonlight, you can hear those banjos ringin’ ”, . . . . . and you can, literally, as your quiet Greyhound coach rolls through the twilight streets of a pleasant Southern town, under mossdraped oaks, past fine old white-pillared homes. In the romantic Old South, as in nearly every other part of the United States and Canada, Greyhound buses enter each town and city the front way, usually through pleasant residential districts, beside parks and stately public buildings— on highways that avoid drab industrial districts. That’s because the highways are close to the heart of America— where people live and work and play— and where they turn for truly scenic travel. We have often said —"Only by highway you fneet the real America”— and in making that introduction, Greyhound takes you to America’s front door! This is the best time of year for any trip— whether it be business, pleasure or personal. Go now— go Greyhound— and save money on every mile. GREYHOUND tainers I’ve ever known. One of the most honest persons, too. I remember in particular a night we spent together in New Haven. We were touring in “Best Foot” and had taken an apartment for the few days we’d be there. It wasn’t a very elegant place, but for three days anyway, it was home. Junie put up her picture of Tommy and laid out her housecoat and nightie. It was raining fiercely and after the evening show, we dragged home some cheese and crackers and a bottle of milk and decided to make a night of it. And may I tell yoh something? I rediscovered Junie all over again. I found out that her being so quiet and far-away wasn’t because she was shy or aloof or disdainful. I found out that because Junie had been so hurt as a child she had no room left in her heart for any more pain. We were sprawled on the rickety double bed, the single hanging bulb swinging crazily with the wind, when she started to talk. “I want quiet,” she whispered, “and love. I must love, I must be loved to feel whole, Nancy. I don’t want to sound like a spoiled kid whining for sympathy or a ham trying to grab a spotlight. Oh, I don’t suppose that anyone who’s never been terribly hurt could know what I mean.” But I knew what she meant because I’d been hurt — terribly. So we talked about life and living and dying, about the wonderful mother I’d lost when I was only eight, who’d died just as quietly and just as bravely as she’d lived, while I stood in the next room and felt the blood slowly ice in my veins. We cried for a minute then, June and I, with the rain making soft, mournful noises against the dirty window. Presently she said, “I want to live and love for all the time I lost when I was a kid with half my body in a plaster cast and my heart crying for something to call my own. I had a dog and when he died I cried for weeks. But when my grandmother passed away, it went much too deep for tears. I still haven’t cried for her and it still hurts down inside. I think if ever I become happy enough, I’ll be able to cry for her.” AND of course, again I understood what she meant. Funny, in a way. Because compared to us, night and day were identical twins. I like fun, loud fun with plenty of people and noise. Sure I’ve cried into my pillow. What gal hasn’t? But with Junie you always felt that it vfras the inner she, the spirit or the mind or the soul that reacted. I often used to wonder exactly what made us tick. Not, you understand, that we didn’t have our squabbles. And find me two women who don’t enjoy a good, violent bicker! Darling Gene Kelly was in one of our more ambitious productions, beautiful, wonderful Gene Kelly who, along with Betsy and baby Kerry and the Dick Whorfs are about the closest “family” I have today, in theater or out. It was during the rim of “Best Foot” and Junie and I used to shop practically every afternoon. One day we’d been out after some casual afternoon dresses and came back to the theater panting, broke, dripping with bundles and deliriously happy. Then I tried on one of my dresses, a dark purple shirtwaist number with long sleeves and an elegant skirt that dissolved hips. Junie grew rigid. “I didn’t see that dress,” she gritted. “Heck, honey, half of New York saw it, it was in the window.” “Salesgirls always bring out the cutest stuff for you,” she nearly wept. “Salesgirls love you.” And before I had time to either pull her hair or kiss her, she was stamping her feet and insisting, “I want that dress — why didn’t they show me that dress — nobody loves me!” 130