Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1950)

'i Far be it from YOU! If you smoke a lot, why not do this: take advantage of Listerine Tooth Paste's new special formula, especially before any date. There'sareason:mint-coolListerine Tooth Paste is made with Lusterfoam, a wonderful new-type cleaning ingredient that literally foams cleaning and polishing agents over tooth surfaces , . . removes yellow tobacco stains while they are still fresh . . . whisks away odor-producing tobacco debris. Get a tube and "feel that Lusterfoam work"! Know they'll never say '^Tobacco Mouth" about you! Lambert Pharmacal Co., 5*. Louis, Mo. tfau*/^ Give Tobacco Mouth the brush-off with . . . 88 v-VS^T six and one-half solid hours, (there were two games; a double-header, remember) Bill hung onto that microphone and talked. First with confidence and assurance, then a little tired, a little tense, then with cracking voice and straining eyesight, and finally in some cross between a cackle and a whisper, barely managing to fill the airwaves with sound. There wasn't a soul to relieve him during the entire six and one-half hours. His benefactor apparently believed that throwing a man into the water was the best way of teaching him to swim. Junior was elated too. Mr. Slater wasn't able to teach math, or even say a word, for the next three days. He didn't realize it then, but that Saturday afternoon marked a turning point in his life. He went on with his job as head of the Math Department in Minneapolis and eventually became headmaster of a private prep school in Brooklyn, New York, but William E. Slater, the educator, was becoming a shadow and Bill Slater, sportscaster and announcer was slipping into his place. In those days, he would do free lance radio jobs and juggle his time between the two divergent careers. One had to be left behind, but to this day, William E. Slater still tours the country— when he has a chance^-to lecture on "The Bankruptcy of American Education" or "Adolescence, Betwixt and Between." That's a side of his versatile personality that some people don't know. When you tune in on Luncheon at Sardi's, Twenty Questions, Sports For All, or any of the many other shows Bill is on, it's hard to believe that he is as relaxed and easy going as he sounds. Believe me, he is. Come around to my apartment some afternoon and see me swamped under mail, telephone calls and my notes on the research for Twenty Questions. If I look a little bleary-eyed — I am. You see, the answer to my problem of being a radio widow was to jump, head first, smack into the middle of Bill's career. I monitor all his shows, answer all of the mail I can, handle his social and business engagements, clear his publicity, tackle the details of his business contracts, see that he eats well and regularly, and generally smooth over every minute of his working day. I married a full time job and I love it! I never miss a show of Bill's. If he is on the radio, I tune in and make notes on the entire performance. I watch all the television, too, at home, so that I see him the way the audience sees him. His best friend and severest critic, I put him on an exercise regime a few months ago because television added twenty pounds to his appearance. The friends who had protested that he looked perfectly all right as he was were the first to admit that he seemed years younger as the pounds melted. Since Bill knows that I never miss a broadcast or a telecast, he will, occasionally pull a private practical joke. On his Sports For All show on television a few weeks ago, Bill opened with a live, eight-foot Indigo snake coiled around his neck. If Bill seemed to be grinning a bit too broadly for a man with a snake so close to his throat, it was only because he was thinking of me, ready to faint at home in front of our television set. Home to us is an apartment in Manhattan. It's spacious and comfortable, but designed for practical living. My living room is a pretty, soothing place with dove grey walls and carpeting, lime green sofas and lemon yellow ac cessories. There's a television den for Bill, with a place for his books and built-in storage for his clothes. There's a terrace outside with lacy white lawn furniture and a "city garden" of geraniums and ivy. We can almost see the river from our windows and barely hear those famous city noises. But the best feature of all is that Bill can walk to any New York radio studio from the apartment. He gets eight hours sleep a night without rushing to catch a commuter's train in the early, grim winter mornings. I'm proud that Bill loves the apartment so well that he comes home to read or nap between broadcasts, instead of falling into the wasteful practice of killing time in studio lounges or local restaurants. Being city dwellers of necessity, we try to get the most out of this exciting town we live in. Part of Bill's job on Luncheon at Sardi's is to chat with Broadway and Hollywood stars, so it is our pleasant task to see as many "first nights" as possible. I love to dress for these evenings. As a New York shopper, living a few blocks away from fabulous Fifth Avenue, there's plenty of opportunity to get the most ultra creations of the New York and Parisian seasons, hot off the sewing machines — if I wanted that sort of thing. However, my tastes run to conservative, softly tailored dressmaker suits in pretty colors for the days, and more formal, sophisticated dresses for evenings at the theater. I pass the "creations" by. They have a bad habit of being outmoded a year after you buy them. In the summertime, when New York is a steaming dusty oven, Bill and I stay at a country club just thirty minutes away. While we're there we swim, boat, play tennis and see all the people that we haven't time to see in the winter. Bill's schedule is lighter in the summertime and he can commute back and forth to New York. Being in radio usually means no vacations so we take ours by hook or by crook! Last summer, our next door neighbor was Ezio Pinza, famous Metropolitan opera star, who has been such a hit in "South Pacific." I am a great admirer of his and hovered around the bathroom wall, on the other side of which was his suite. I was hoping he'd sing in the shower. After a few days I got my reward — one solid hour of gargling! Mr. Pinza was saving his voice. Bill hardly ever saves his voice. He can work on the radio, chat through the afternoon with friends, and then at night — over a glass of milk and a snack in our kitchen — give me an account of the day's events. I know some married people who, when left alone with one another, stare blankly ahead with not a thing in the world to say. Not us! Sometimes we go on far past midnight until I beg, "Please Bill, let's go to bed." He will follow me in reluctantly as if there were much more on his mind. Then he'll fall asleep before his head touches the pillow, while I toss around and discover he's talked me right out of my sleepiness. The only time that Bill didn't discuss his affairs with me was during the war, when he served as a Lieutenant Colonel of the General Staff Corps. Then everything was strictly top secret. On quiz programs Bill finds that a little preliminary chat with a nervous contestant is an absolute necessity. "Of course, everybody comfortably settled in his favorite chair at home, knows all the answers right away," says Bill. "But the poor contestant up in front of an excited audience, facing millions of