Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

do your figure • • • • a favor! Swim . . . or loll on the beach ... in SeaMolds, the swimsuits by Flexees, with super-allure! Shapely bra tops that really stay up; slimmer waistlines; undercover lastique trunks that sleek your hips! Wonders for color and style: $12.95 Just ask your favorite store! STUDS OF STUDS5 PLACE T*/nsun*v* ., FLEXEES ® 92 {Continued from, page 51) speeches that come to them as the show progresses, that seem to fit, as ordinary conversation fits, the mood and conditions of the moment. And there, in its warm, easy going downto-earthness, lies the program's success. The comparable clue to Studs himself is his deep knowledge of the people who live ordinary lives in Chicago. He knows them because he's one of them, and although a modest bit of fame has now come his way, it has given him perspective rather than separated him from his neighbors. Says Studs, "Chicago is everything to me — friendliness, warmth, sustenance." Then, bracing himself defiantly as a fighter about to lead with his left, he adds, "Maybe that's corn, but if it is, it's still for me." Studs fell in love with Chicago the moment he moved in from Manhattan. Shortly after World War I, the hectic pace of the garment center wrecked his father's health, so his parents, Polish immigrants, came west. To support the family, his mother took over management of a rooming house. Studs — christened Louis — was then eight. In a lively household combining characteristics of The Goldbergs and I Remember Mama, his mother was the pivot. Brother Meyer, now a teacher in New York public schools, got Studs his first library card and imparted much of his own love of learning. Ben, his other brother, balanced it with an exuberant joy in living. Baseball lore, also learned from his brothers, proved another asset. Studs, enrolled in McKinley High School where the West Side gangster influence was strong, encountered the Forty-Twos, a sort of junior Syndicate. Although they had a vicious way of smacking the small kids around, Studs never worried, for he was their walking encyclopedia of sports, their final authority on such weighty matters as who pitched for the Cubs in 1921. Later, Studs enrolled in the law school of the University of Chicago, but he found law a disappointment. He found himself entangled in real estate regulations. In protest, he and a classmate retired to the back row where they made up stories. Inevitably, the payoff came. Studs flunked his first bar examination. He tried again and passed, but right there the law and Studs Terkel parted company. Rather than practice, he preferred his part-time job as desk clerk in the family hotel — by now, a step up from the rooming house. All the guests were men — bachelors, widowers, men whose family ties were broken and all of them were lonely. Evenings, sitting in the lobby, they would spin endless stories and Studs would listen. But for a young man with a law degree, being a clerk in a men's hotel was not sufficient. He knew he had to do something. Chicago was then the daytime serial capital of the nation. Drawing on his recollection of the Forty-Twos, he auditioned as a menace and found a part in the cast of Ma Perkins. For recreation, he belonged to the Chicago Repertory Theater where he acquired two things, his name and his wife. The name came first. In the group were three young men named Louis, a fact which confused the director. Terkel, then in the throes of discovering James T. Farrell's Studs Lonigan stories, constantly carried the book with him and constantly talked about it. His enthusiasm, coupled with the director's frustration in summoning the right Louis, resulted one day in the man's explosive shout, "Hey, Studs. Studs Terkel," and the name stuck. It was backstage, too, that he encountered a young social worker. Tiny, shy, Ida Goldberg had a way of saying more with her eloquent brown eyes than others could with a million words. Studs had been wary of entangling romances, but he found Ida utterly delightful. Their friendship turned into courtship. They had fun, despite Studs' lamentable habit of always being broke. Says he with a grin, "You'll recall social workers were the elite of that period. Ida always had more money than I did." Ida, too, laughs at the recollection. "I'd always suggest we go Dutch but Studs was too proud for that. He got around it by borrowing from me. He always paid back, except — " Studs interrupts, " — except the last loan. When we got married, I owed her twenty dollars and I still owe it to her." It's their favorite family joke, now that Studs' talent checks arrive in sufficient quantities to provide a pleasant apartment, well-chosen modern furniture, and nursery school for their five-year-old son. Seriously, however, Studs acknowledges he owes Ida far more. "If she'd been the kind of woman who wants mink coats and diamonds, I'd probably have gone into law practice and earned them for her, but personally I'd have been sunk. It's Ida's willingness to sacrifice which has given us a good life together." The good life built slowly but surely. One by one, Studs found the radio shows, the writing jobs where he could sell his unique talent for merging his own personality into that of his subject. His first commercially successful project was a WGN series on the lives of great artists. Army service interrupted, and on his return, he developed a disc jockey show called Wax Museum where he played jazz, folksongs and operatic classics. His comment on Carmen is still quoted: "This is all about a tomato who loved not wisely but too often." A year ago, offered a role in "Detective Story," he went back on stage and Ida found herself running a sort of theater USO, for Studs was always bringing someone home with him. His fondness for entertaining and his eagerness to see that everyone has a good time is partly responsible for the advent of Studs' Place, for Charlie Andrews, now producer of the show, has long been among their guests. They took as their challenge the spontaneity of Kukla, Fran and Ollie. Says Charlie, "We figured if Burr Tillstrom and Fran Allison could decide on a situation and talk it out, on camera, we could, too. It was just finding the right people." They have found them now. Each Friday, the group works out the following week's story. No one ever plays villain, for