Radio Digest (June 1932-Mar 1933)

I her, which she seemed to be reading and sorting into neat little stacks. And as fast as she sorted them. Daddy Singhi pulled others out of National Broadcasting Co. envelopes, and from his comfortable place, on the divan, tossed them down to his daughter while hubby Peter, at the baby grand piano, was evidently jotting down song requests which May handed him. Seated at a handsome mahogany table nearby, May's sister Carrie was rapidly addressing envelopes. The room fairly breathed an atmosphere of welcome. One could not possibly feel like an intruder. There was an intimacy about it that made one feel at home — possibly it was the "feminine" touch — pillows placed invitingly about — odd lamps glowing in corners — novelty cigarette lighters to amuse . . . and last, but certainly not least in May's affection, the goldfish. "This is certainly what I'd call a lucky break," I greeted. "Why right before me, I see the answer to my questions. . . ." "And it's lucky for us, too, that you dropped in, for we certainly are up to our necks . . . Just toss off your coat, roll up your sleeves, and treat this as you would your own fan mail," May invited. "Do you mind if I throw my coat on that beautiful orchid bed in the next room?" I had to see it — my curiosity was getting the best of me. "Go ahead — have a good look at it — that's the bed May was born in," Daddy Singhi proudly informed me. I went investigating. Never had I seen such a massive mahogany bedroom suite ! The dresser extended at least a quarter of the length of the room. Its glass top was a huge frame for photographs of radio and stage friends which May and Peter had slipped under it. In the little anteroom, adjoining the living room and bedroom, a huge cabinet caught my eye. On its top were scattered sheets of music, and closer inspection disclosed numerous drawers all alphabetized. This, ob Pviously, was part of Peter de Rose's music library of songs — many of them contributed by radio fans. "I'm sure you'll find much more interesting things out here," May coaxed, as I delayed. And sure enough I did ! Right in the middle of the floor, the maid had placed a barrel, overflowing with letters. Maybe that was her idea of a barrel of fun on a Sunday afternoon but I just couldn't see it that way. "There you see the source of our programs," Peter volunteered. "They say one has to dig for knowledge — so here's your chance, ye Inquisitive One ! "It would take more than a barrel to stop me now," I bragged . . . but I'm not saying what two would do. Well, here goes. ..." and I pulled out a handful of letters. "If you come across any requests for 'Back in the Old Sunday School' please put them in this large envelope," directed the Ukulele Lady. "Of all Peter's compositions, including our popular theme song 'Somebody Loves You' and the number he wrote on our first wedding anniversary 'When Your Hair Has Turned To Silver,' this 'Back in the Old Sunday School' has brought the most requests for copies, and letters of appreciation. So we've concluded that it is the simple ballads which have a universal appeal. Folks like to keep alive their ideals through song. And that's the observation of Phillips Lord, too, with whom I collaborated on the lyrics," May commented as we glanced at one letter after another. .FROM everywhere came these letters some postmarked Massachusetts, Florida, Ohio, New Jersey, Connecticut, New York, and Colorado, and apropos of May's remark I'd say that there are still many people who cherish Sunday School, throughout the country. Also that Silver and Golden Wedding Anniversaries are not uncommon. Here is a request, from a minister's daughter in Colorado, for you to sing 'Back in the Old Sunday School' as a surprise on the nineteenth wedding anniversary of her father and mother. And here is one from a crippled lady of seventy-five, who was a member of a Methodist church choir for forty years. This one is from a farmer's wife, who says she listens in every Saturday to the 'Sweethearts of the 15 Air,' while she does her baking, as that is the only time she has to listen to the radio. She wants you to sing 'Under the Old Umbrella,' and 'The Little Old Church in the Wildwood' on her nineteenth wedding anniversary. Now here is a bit of thoughtfulness — a daughter is asking you to sing 'Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet' as a surprise on her mother's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. And, believe it or not, here are a couple married thirty-six years, who would like to hear the 'Sweethearts of the Air' sing 'Silver Threads Among the Gold' . . . Mmmmm, the ministers who joined them together must have used cement — too bad more of it isn't used today." With a sigh and a smile May glanced up from her sorting to remark: "It's surprising the slant on human nature that Peter and I get from our fan letters. It is truly inspiring — for it reveals that those sterling qualities of unselfishness, faith, and love have surmounted the evil effects of the world war — the Jazz Age — the bootleggers — and the depression. We have daily evidence of children's thoughtfulness for their parents in requests for their favorite songs on their parents' birthdays and anniversaries ; mothers asking for children's songs ; sweethearts sending messages to each other. Why a man wrote that he and his sweetheart had been separated for years because of a serious illness, but that they were to see each other again for only a few hours, which would be made more happy if we would sing 'Paradise' for them at that time. Then there is the chap in prison who asked us to sing a certain song for his wife — and her request in return. And there are the deserted husbands, wives, lovers still holding fast to their dreams . . . their letters always pleas for us to sing especial favorites in the hope they will awaken memories and bring the straying loved ones back again. These radio friends tell us their faith in romance is kept alive by the duration of our romance, for they've been bearing Peter and me on the air for a good many years now, and believe in us." Her words recalled to me the inception of the Breen de Rose romance. May and Peter had been singing love songs together for a good many years, when Mr. and Mrs. Public decided to play Cupid by writing letters to each saying that they knew the 'Sweethearts of the Air' must be engaged or married or they could not put so much feeling into their songs. And then an admiring listener. Dr. David Minor, a retired minister, wrote and asked if he could meet them, and when he did so, the "two" were made "one," and for the last three years (Continued on page 37 i