Radio Mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

RADIO MIRROR and Dorothy Janis slipped quietly to a parsonage at Highland Park, Illinois, and were married. After the ceremony they sped to a nearby airport, hopped into a plane and the groom piloted his bride to their northwoods estate. To their home, the first home Wayne King, at thirty-one, had ever had. IT'S the loveliest place you can imagine. A low, rambling white house set deep in the green hills and long blue lakes of Wisconsin. A cozy house with multi-colored rag rugs and polished pewter and firelight reflections from the yellowed keys of an old melodeon in the corner. Outside in the sun a doll in her carriage has been deserted for the lure of tame squirrels calling for hickory nuts at the back porch door, where woodbine curls like flame around a trellis. To the east is a welltended private landing field, a hangar to keep the Wisconsin weather off Wayne's own plane. And for six hundred and forty acres the rich land stretches and rolls away across the pointed tips of evergreen forests. It's a homey sort of farm, not elaborate. Were you a stranger whose car broke down on the highway you wouldn't feel a bit of trepidation at walking to the fencepost mailbox on which "H. W. King" is painted in not too even black letters and unlatching the gate and going right up the cedared road to the front door. You'd be welcome to use the phone, you'd be proffered a bucket of water for your radiator or a toasted apple or a cup of steaming coffee and sent on your way with a friendly goodbye. And if you were a guest in the white house the place would be yours. With one reservation. Should your hunter's eye be keen for the partridge and bear and wild deer that roam the acres you'd have to confine your shooting to a camera instead of a gun. For you see, the place is not only home for its human residents; it's home for its wild life as well. And that's a very strict rule. For purposes of convenience the Kings have another home, a luxurious and beautiful penthouse at Edgewater Beach Hotel in Chicago. It's a gay bright penthouse whose windows look out on the wrinkled blue face of Lake Michigan, its floors are thick with the soft pile of white rugs, its furniture low and modern and deep-cushioned, and a score of Mickey Mouses romp around the walls of a peach and white nursery. Out on the terrace begonias bloom pink in long lines of flowerboxes, a sandpile gives evidence of a recent session at mud pies. It's a beautiful home and a hospitable one. But if you were a friend of those who live there you couldn't buzz the bell any old hour with a "Hello, Wayne, hello, Dorothy — I was just going by so I thought I'd drop in for a minute." You have to be invited beforehand, for the people who live in the penthouse are very real people who love their home and want privacy and undisturbed quiet to enjoy their lives together. The place they live in represents something very dear to them that must not be subjected to constant casual interruption. Every spare moment that Wayne King has is spent at his Wisconsin estate. In the summers when his work keeps him city-bound the farm is an ideal place for the children — Penny, aged three, who has her father's blue eyes and a fan of yellow curls tousled around them; Wayne, five months, still a mere pink butterball. Some times, even if only for a few hours, the Waltz King climbs into his plane, leaves the crash and tumult of Chicago behind him, flies out to the place he loves more than any place in the world. To rest a while. "I'm tired," he said to me. "I've worked continuously for nine years without a single vacation. I'd give anything for a few months away from all this." Seeing fatigue written too plainly around his eyes, knowing that he could well afford time off since he is one of the wealthiest orchestra leaders in radio, I asked him, "Why can't you put the band in storage for a while?" "My men," he answered. "You see, I owe them a debt of loyalty that prevents my stopping now. They've been with me since I started, since we were all of us young single fellows. Now they have children and homes of their own; they need their salaries every week. I couldn't go back on them. "I know too well what security means to a man. I couldn't take my happiness at the expense of a dozen homes and families." Listening to him talking that night it all seemed to fit in. That the man sitting opposite in the flawless tuxedo had once been a ragged hungry youngster slinging a pickaxe. That a Waltz King should have kindly blue eyes and blond hair that's thinning a little and a gentle soft-spoken voice. 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