Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1950)

Christmas All Year Round (Continued from page 57) ly, "is the Society To Prevent One From Forgetting to Give Presents to Christmas Week Babies." Since they're bound to be overlooked, they can use the Breakfast Club's birthday, June 23." Don and I no longer mourn our own lost birthdays. True, as children, each of us found the religious celebration of Christmas deeply moving, yet, we also felt just a little cheated. Even my reigning position as the youngest in a family of eight children didn't help much. Fifty-one weeks out of the year I got just about what I wanted, but not on that one day. Parties were the particular sore spot. I would be invited to other children's birthday parties, but I could never invite them to one of my own. We'd entertain them at other parties, but it was never the same. Even Fate was against me. Take the matter of the birthday party which almost happened. I was going to be seven, and mother had promised a big celebration. My /hole grade was invited. Preparations /ere made, and I was plain puffed up nth importance. Each cookie which came out of the oven was a special tribute to my being in the world. The minutes, each counted, ticked away to the late afternoon of December 19. I was concentrating on wishing it was tomorrow when my brother Jim left the house on an errand. Jim was walking down the street, minding his own business. In a third floor room, some man we didn't even know was also minding his own business, but he chose that exact moment to chop something with an axe which was loose on its handle. The axe head flew off, sailed through the window, and struck my brother. His wool stocking cap probably saved his life. Jim stumbled into the house gashed across the scalp and as bloody as if the Indians had tomahawked him. Mother gave one scream, dumped a bottle of peroxide over his head and rushed him to the doctor. Jim recovered, but my party didn't. I had to stand up in school the next day and announce tearfully that I would not be able to entertain my class. Years later, I learned the same sort of thing had happened to Don. A celebration was planned for his tenth birthday. His sister Agnes got pneumonia. Same story. No party. As if to make up for such childish disappointments, my Christmas luck changed when I grew up. The way it changed put stars in my eyes. I had a wonderful job, the most wonderful one in all Milwaukee, I thought, for I was secretary to the dean of the College of Journalism at Marquette University. Being less than twenty and secretary to the dean is one way to be invited to the campus parties. Tops on the list was the Christmas Journalism Jamboree. The year was 1929, and I arrived at the plush Hotel Pfister in the best flapper manner. My boyish bob framed my face in precisely plastered points. I had a bright new dress which just touched my kneecaps, and to protect my party shoes against the snow, I wore fourbuckle galoshes. It was the style to wear them wide open, and when I walked, they provided a sound effect I defy any radio technician to imitate. Crossing the ornate old lobby of the fashionable Pfister, my feet made enough noise to draw the attention of everyone in the place. That was all right with me, for I was being escorted by a fellow named Marty, whom I considered the handsomest lad in Journalism. However, by the time the last number came, Marty and I were content to sit it out. At least I thought I was content. I changed my mind when a tall and even handsomer senior stepped up and asked me for the dance. I had glimpsed Don McNeill at school, but I really didn't know him, a fact which left me blushing in confusion when he asked if I would care to go out with him. I murmured something to the effect I would have to know more about him. In the finding-out department, brothers are an asset. Mine constituted a family Gestapo. The comment at times had been disconcertingly frank, but after investigating Don McNeill they made glowing reports. The dean confirmed them. When Don phoned, I didn't hesitate. That was one date I knew I wanted. His graduation as valedictorian of the Class of '29 brought the first great emotional crisis. Those lost birthdays had made presents doubly important to me. I finally settled on a pair of bronze bookends, but presenting the gift frightened me. I finally settled the matter by persuading two girl friends to accompany me to the door of Don's apartment. There I set the package on the floor, rang the doorbell, and scampered away fast before anyone could answer. Despite my shyness, Don was becoming the man most likely to succeed, both in my heart and in his career. His career was doing nicely. On the Milwaukee Journal he was a triplethreat man, holding simultaneously jobs as radio editor, cartoonist, and announcer on the newspaper's radio station. Then the Louisville CourierJournal offered him more money. By the time Christmas rolled around again, letters had become a faint substitute for a personal appearance. I had a vacation, but Don didn't. He wrote pleading that I come to Kentucky. However, it wasn't until Don proposed that we discovered we shared the frustration of lost birthdays. We were driving through a park when he cleared his throat and said, "Would you care to marry me?" I answered just "Yes." Then both of us blushed and couldn't say a word. Don broke our embarrassed silence by asking, "How old are you, Kay?" "I was born December 20, 1906. When were you?" "December 23, 1907." When I realized I was a year older than he, I wailed, "This will never do." Don, however, was pleased. It was right in his family tradition. His mother was a year older than his father; his grandmother a year older than his grandfather. Then he asked, "Did you ever have a birthday party?" We didn't lack conversation after that. Each of us poured out stories of things which had happened to rob us of our birthdays, things only another Christmas week baby could understand. And as I said, Don and I no longer mourn our own lost birthdays. We've used them to help bring a happier birthday to others. You'll know we are thinking of them and praying they may have a brighter future when, with new joy in our voices, we say to you this year, "Merry Christmas!" fefl// PULL UP A PILLOW, pretty, and let me tell '♦v \ MW1 you about my dreamy JOAN LANSING P.M. That's my Favorite Man — and he answers to the familiar name of JOHNNY OLSEN, one of the great entertainers on the air. Of course, I have to share him with millions of admiring mademoiselles from 6 to 60, but he's still the lad who elicits "oh Johnny's" from me whenever I tune in on his "LADIES BE SEATED" program. Why, I'm just about glued to the chair while JOHNNY cavorts through a half -hour of fun with the females. And all those wonderful games and prizes! Incidentally, you'll find it most rewarding, too, participating in the "LADIES BE SEATED" Kindly Heart Award. JOHNNY tells all about this heartwarming listener feature on the program every week-day afternoon. You can join my generous JOHNNY (dear F.M. that he is) over your local ABC station at 3:30 P.M. (EST). When he says "LADIES BE SEATED" . . . kerplunk! . . . down I sit for a relaxing time, enhanced by pleasurable puffs on the F.M.'s (and my) favorite cigarette, Philip Morris, of course. BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, there's no place like home . . . especially when it houses ART LINKLETTER'S happy "HOUSE PARTY," one of the nicest places to visit come high noon any weekday. This jovial jamboree takes the cake for being one of the gayest sessions sparking the airwaves. Hear Pillsbury's "HOUSE PARTY" (better batter that cake with Pillsbury, pretty!) with ART LINKLETTER, than whom there is none better, noon to 12:25 P.M. (EST) on ABC. GIVE ME FIVE MINUTES MORE, (wasn't that a "pop" tune once?) 'cause there's five minutes more to complete the half-hour link with "LINK." In this gal's opinion WALTER KIERNAN can't be beat when it comes to humanizing the news and making complicated, worldwide events seem simple, even to me. He's really been around, too . . . and how I do envy the experiences he's had interviewing the outstanding personalities of the day. Catch KIERNAN keynoting the news with "ONE MAN'S OPINION" every Monday through Friday, at 12:25 P.M. (EST) over your local ABC station (yep, it's another wonderful Philip Morris program). MY TUNING TIPS Breakfast Club 9:00 AM. EST Don McNeill's wake-up-time. My True Story 10:00 A.M. EST Stories of human emotions. Bride and Groom 2:30 P.M. EST Boy meets girl — and weds. ctoooUtostoq Advertisement 81