Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1949)

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It works deeper than a razor, below the surface of the skin. Safer too from razor cuts and scratches. Neet leaves tender skin soft and smooth, free from razor stubble. Just apply Neet like any cream, then rinse off and hair disappears like magic. 92 Half my mind I devoted to making the usual — and boring — cocktail party small talk, and the other half I employed in asking myself: Married? If so, vi^here's his wife? Engaged, maybe? Or — not very likely — single? Being the conservative member of the family, it was some months after we started going together before Bennett admitted that he was, at the same time, wondering the same things about me! Our hostess, a woman who believes in going to the heart of any matter with firm purpose, managed to get us each away from the other for a quiet chat with her before that party was over. "Bennett Kilpack is an actor," she told me, "but as unlike the ordinary conception of the 'temperamental artist' as an actor can be. He's easy-going, calm, steady, and as British as the House of Parliament. Women find him very interesting. So far as I know, however, he's not interested — " she paused, looked at me, laughed and added — "elsewhere." HAVING carefully documented him for me, she sought out Bennett and gave him my dossier. "Dorothy is a widow," she told him. "Her husband was killed in an automobile accident. She has a young son, John, and they live with Dorothy's mother in the suburbs. Dorothy is very musical, has a beautiful singing voice, has done some ballet work. She does quite a bit of dating, but so far as I know she's neither engaged nor in love " What fun Bennett and I ad, much later on, comparing notes on that dear, scheming woman! Bennett and I went together for three years before we were married. Of those three years, we were engaged for six months. A little simple arithmetic will bring you to the conclusion that it took Bennett some two and a half years to get around to proposing. Everyday, for two years and a half, he called me on the phone. He sent me flowers. We went out together three or four times a week. He kissed me goodnight. But nothing concrete — no "will you?" When, at last, he did propose it was simply to say to me, very casually, "How would you like to fly down to Maryland next weekend and be married?" I waited just a moment, to assure myself that he had really said what I'd thought he'd said, and then I answered, "I wouldn't." Realizing how that sounded, I hastily added, "Wouldn't that is, like to fly down to Maryland. You see," I explained, "when I was married the first time, I eloped. Which means that Mother wasn't with me. This time — ■" That was in February. We were married the following September in the little wedding chapel of the church my mother attended in Mt. Vernon. Mr. Keen made it impossible for Bennett to get away for a proper honeymoon, so instead we took weekend trips, browsing about New England in the car. Two city-haters, we were, searching for a country house. An old country house. We lived, right after we were married, in an apartment on Beekman Place — very attractive, as apartments go. But to hear Bennett describe it, you misht have thought it a prison. "A city apartment! It isn't living!" On one of those weekends of ours we found our house, in the Green Mountains of Vermont. It was of venerable years — one hundred fifty of them. There was an acre for every year. "This means," we told each other exultantly, "that we can grow our own ve'^etables, wander in our own woods, fish for trout in the spring, really live and breathe . . ." Much of the redecorating and repairing we did ourselves. Bennett took next to gardening, planted and grew most of what we ate in the way of fruits and vegetables. I canned and preserved and dried and pickled the produce, and did — I still do — all my own cooking. Now and again Bennett takes a hand in that department, too. His specialties are steaks, broiled out of doors, and a marvelous baked ham. The steaks he soaks in soy sauce over night, a prescription which would make the toughest steak tender and imparts a what'sthatwonderful-taste flavor. His baked ham is spiked with cloves, coated with brown sugar, baked in wine, and served up with the most perfect, rich gravy — the secret of which he keeps even from me! Saturday afternoons, Bennett always went to the village of East Dover for the mail, and to "set a spell" around the cracker barrel in the combination post office and general store, listening to postmaster Ted Moody talk about the beauties of Vermont and the "varmintage" of politics. In the mornings we were — and are, still — always up early. This partly because of chores to be done, partly because of Lassie, Bennett's beloved Springer spaniel, who feels it her duty to waken each member of the family, at the crack of dawn, with a moisty, loving kiss. Let me tell you something about Bennett, that efficient, well-organized man. Wouldn't you think he'd be able to discipline his dog? The truth of it is that she has him completely under her thumb. Lassie is not allowed to sleep on the living room chairs. So she sleeps on the living room chairs. Lassie is not allowed — but need I go on? But she's such a winsome, charming wench that I can't find it in me to make more than a purely routine protest. FOR two people who are as temperamentally opposed as Bennett and I — he a regular Gibraltar of slow-paced steadiness and I quick and flighty — we get along remarkably well together. Of course there are differences between us, but such minor ones. I am, for examole, reasonably neat about the house. Bennett is unreasonably neat about the house. No matter how much you keep the house "picked up," Bennett can alwavs see one more thing to be picked up. You can't, in our house, keep magazines and newspapers around for more than a week. If you want to keep them longer — and sometimes I do, for that recipe I've been meaning to copy down, that article I want to re-read — you literally have to hide them. Certain things I am — a competent wall-paperer, for instance, handy at wiring lamps and repairing blown fuses, besides the things that any normal housewife counts as routine. But one thing I cannot say of myself — that I have a head for business. Bennett has. I am probably one of the few lucky housewives in' these United States who has no bills hanging over her head — no light bills, gas bills, telephone bills. Bennett takes those, and all others, over — to my profound relief. The conservatism of Bennett I've spoken of before, but there was a time when it failed him. When we were first married, my hats, on more than one occasion, caused a certain amount