Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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I'm going to be a great piano plaver when I grow up." "Honest, Woody?" "I have to practice quite a lot. It would have been just too bad if I'd busted a finger or something on that big galoot." "Gosh," I breathed. And then a wonderful idea came to me. "Gee, Woody, do you suppose I could come over to your house some time and watch you practice?" I think he was pleased, but he certainly didn't show it. "Sure, I guess so," he said, "you can if you want to, but I don't think it'd be very much fun for anybody who doesn't know anything about music." "But I could learn, maybe. It'd prob'ly be a good idea for me to learn something about music. Will you be practicing next Saturday, Woody?" "Yeah, I guess so — in the afternoon. Well, I gotta turn down this corner now. So long." "So long, Woody," I said, and as I watched him march down the street I knew in my childish heart that I'd never love anybody else the rest of my life. And the trouble is — I haven't! Those were wonderful days. Not wonderful just because they were gone now, but really wonderful, even at the time. Here we were now, both grown-up, riding along through the rain in the same car — so near to each other and yet separated by the deep gulf of all the years that we hadn't seen one another. He's changed, I thought, but probably I've changed, too. Maybe we've both changed so much that we're two entirely different people. I watched him out of the corner of my eyes, and he did look strange. Just a tired soldier thumbing a ride to get back to camp before two o'clock. He could have been anybody. But he wasn't just anybody! He was Woody — my Woody, and I'd never let him go again. I hadn't meant to let him go, before. Even in those difficult days of high school — that period when you're no longer a child but not grown up either, when you're trying to adjust yourself to a world that's strange and frightening — even then I'd loved Woody. HE wasn't happy in high school. He just didn't fit in. His father had died and he had to work after school to help out with the family income. That kept him out of almost all our school fun and consequently nobody knew him very well. He was always "that odd Buckley boy." To everyone but me. I kept as close to him as I could, and I knew most of his thoughts and almost all of his dreams. He had stuck to his piano playing. Music was the one important thing in life to him. It haunted him. He used to hum vagrant little tunes to himself and when I asked him what they were, he'd just say he'd made them up. He couldn't have given up his music if his life had depended on it. But he could and did give up the football and basketball games, the school plays, the parties, the picnics, all the happy young things that the boys and girls our age did in those days. He was either working in the grocery store or home practicing on the piano. So I had to make up my mind whether to stay home, too, or go to the parties and games with someone else. I tried to be noble about it and stay home, but that didn't last long. I was too restless and active. I went with other people, and I think Woody knew about it and it hurt his feelings. But he couldn't, in justice, say anything about it, so he just withdrew more and more into himself. Lots of times, though, coming home from a dance or from a football game, I'd see the light burning at his house and hear the piano being played. And I got into the habit of stopping in for a few minutes to listen to the music and to talk with Woody. A S I look back now I realize what a ** heavy burden it was for a young girl to carry — the utter devotion, the encouragement, the cheering-on necessary to keep the light of faith burning in Woody's breast. Because it wasn't easy for him. I was sure he was a genius — or at least had a very precious talent — and I kept at him to practice, to make up more songs, and above all to write the songs down. But he had no faith in himself. He'd say his songs weren't good enough, and I'd insist that he try anyway. Finally, when he gave in and submitted one of his songs to a music publisher, it seemed that he'd been right and I wrong — because the song came back with a printed rejection slip. Then one day we were wandering along the river and Woody was whistling a tune. "What's that?" I asked. "That's pretty." "Oh, it's just a silly little thing that popped into my mind. It's not good at all." "But it is, Woody," I insisted. "I like it — whistle it again." He whistled it obediently. "Have you written it out yet?" I asked him. "No," he said, a little angrily. "Don't you realize, Lorraine — that's not music; it's just a stupid old melody that doesn't get anywhere. It's like ABC — it's not music." But I was being stubborn that day. "I don't care if it isn't music, I like it. It sings itself along. It's almost like a — lullaby or something — or a love song. I can almost hear the words to it. Are there any words to it, Woody?" "No," said Woody shortly. "Then, would you let me put words to it? Would you write the music out and let me do the words? I have a special feeling about this song. Please, Woody?" "Aw, Lorraine — it's no good." NEXT MONTH — THE MOMENT THEY MET The Delightful True Love Story of Jay Jostyn, Radio's Mr. District Attorney, and Ruth, Who Followed the Call of Her Heart RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRR08