Radio mirror (Nov 1937-Apr 1938)

Philadelphia's criss-crossing side streets. Then, in 1907 — and so long as the MacDonalds lived there — the rooms were furnished with ponderous but few pieces; there was nothing purely ornamental or unnecessary, because the family income was small and Daniel Scotch. Jeanette, remembering for my benefit, closed her eyes and made word pictures: yOU came up the steps and across the porch, and inside the. door there was a reception hall, papered in dark, uninteresting red. To the left was a square, ugly, completely uncomfortable settee, and over it hung the conventional mahogany rimmed mirror with hooks holding coats and seldom-used articles of clothing. In one corner was a big chair, with an adjustable back, and by it a large replica of a turtle. The parlor was typical. It had an upright piano and a bay window. It had chairs, with antimacassars. It had a sign which said, "May The Lord Bless This Christian Hearth." It was a little shabby, because the family lived there a lot. But the MacDonald manse, in this section of town, had a particular distinction. Daniel MacDonald owned his house. . . . A composite portrait of Jeanette's life, during the period spent in Philadelphia — growing up, going to school, learning to sing, singing then, dancing in flying short skirts on theater stages — must of necessity be an incongruous thing. The actual picture of the girl must be more so. There must be glamour in it: the applause of filled theaters, the glow of footlights, the smell of back stage trappings. Under this bright veneer must run the solid structure of her wholesome home life, a kind of dull, naive existence to which young girls, during that period, were subjected. Jeanette, in other words, wore a pantiewaist under her spangles — and I mean that literally as well as figuratively. You must understand this about her, Solemn and chubby, three first; the MacDonalds, pere and mere, were months old Jeanette was a strict Presbyterians and had ideas about 1907 Philadelphia baby. right and wrong. That their daughters should discover anything about the world and its fleshpots before they were of marriageable age was unthinkable. "Jam" — her sisters first shortened her name to this repulsive diminutive — herself was a shy, tractable child; she was the youngest of the children and therefore at a disadvantage, which put a mark on her super-sensitive nature. The utter impartiality with which her parents treated their offspring did little to help the early feeling of inferiority and hurt that grew in her; a little babying might have offset much of her personal unhappiness. In a way, I suppose, it was a good thing eventually. Be 14 cause Jeanette, unnoticed, made the only defense possible; she did things to bring attention to herself. Her methods were various, until one day Blossom taught her a song called the "Glory Hymn." Thereafter she merely sang, as often and as loudly as circumstances permitted, until people looked, and smiled, and said, "Who is that child?" The three little sisters were all "musically inclined," as Anna MacDonald liked to put it. Elsie, at the piano, play?d by ear; Blossom always remembered the words of songs; together they taught Jeanette both music and words, encouraged her to stand on the first landing in the dim stair-well and warble while they applauded below. When Jam was four, Blossom asked her mother one day if she might take the kid down to dancing class. Anna said yes, she might, if she'd take good care of the child. This was very shortly after Jeanette had run away from home one afternoon and been returned by Casey, the man who delivered butter and eggs; he'd found her miles away from home and in the meantime the MacDonalds had called out both police and fire departments to join in the search. Anna was still being nervous about things. On the way to dancing school, Blossom taught her sister (who sat squealing with pleasure, all gussied up in her best sailor suit with a large bow in hen Dutch Bob) the words of "Old Mother Hubbard." There was to be a ballet at the Academy theater next week, with children in it, and perhaps . . . It worked. Blossom brought Jeanette home in triumph ; they had accepted the baby to enact "Moth-, er Hubbard" in the ballet. But at some time during the excitement Jam had lost her ittle gold bracelet. "No!" said Anna. "No ballet. You didn't take good care of her, Blossom." That night Blossom went to a neighborhood theater, did a songand-dance, got $2.50 for it, and brought the money home. "Now," she said, "that'll get a new bracelet. She's got to be in that ballet, Mama, she simply has to!" Anna shrugged resignedly. From then on Jeanette went with her sisters when they competed in the rash of amateur nights Philadelphia was having in those days. Anna and Daniel came along too, of course, standing in the wings so that what small blobs of hearty back-stage sophistication any of them might have picked up — accidentally or otherwise — were lost to them. There was the portion of her childhood, uninhibited, exciting, glorious, as opposed to the routine of living at home — and in school. Little enough worthy of detailed mention happened in that solid, well-ordered, unimpressive house. There, was no maid and so the children helped (Continued on page 60)