TV Radio Mirror (Jan - Jun 1961)

Danny Thomas was thrilled with gift actress-daughter Mario brought him from Europe — an old German beer stein which plays "O Mein Papa!" 72 was a spectacular Christmas. There we were, in our hotel suite, overlooking a city we loved; snow began to drift down lazily on December 23, so we walked to Mass on Christmas morning through a Christmas-card landscape. . . . And all because my daddy said, "I promised to be with my family for the holidays, and I have to keep my word." Daddy is also like this: He has great presence. Many people in show business say that his professional poise is unique; with easy grace, he can manage night-club situations that would floor a less competent performer. Almost nothing jars him. Except leading his family through a personal appearance. A few years ago, Person To Person called on the Thomases. It was all sketched in, in advance. We were to be here, and — in general — we were to say thus and so. Among other antics, Theresa was to play "White Christmas" while the rest of us clustered around the piano, singing. Twenty minutes before we were to go on the air, Theresa (then thirteen) announced abruptly, "I'm not going to play." "You're not what?" gasped Daddy. Theresa repeated her statement, explaining that she had broken two fingernails that afternoon, so her hands looked "awful." She said "Let Mario play." It was my turn to fall to pieces — I hadn't practiced in months. Finally, Theresa was assured that the camera would keep its eye off her hands. That settled, the show went on the air. The rest of us arose to the occasion and carried on as if nothing had happened. We were as cool as an electric fan in the Klondike, but Daddy flubbed several times. He was so concentrated on extracting attractive performances from his family that he had no energy left with which to put himself across. When the show was over, he collapsed into a chair, totally beat and dripping perspiration. ... A few hours later, he received a ribbing telegram from the William Morris agency, to wit: "We're dropping you and signing the rest of the family." As I grew up, I was convinced that I was the only teenager in the world who regularly received lectures from her father on coast-tocoast CBS-TV. By that time, I had started to watch the program every week, whereas — earlier — I had boycotted it. I had my reasons. During my pre-teen days, Bunnie Lubell was Daddy's daughter on The Four-Star Revue. No junior actress was ever scrutinized more closely than Bunnie by Daddy's two daughters at home. We were bitterly jealous of her. One night, Daddy — following the script — attempted to comfort Bunnie because of some childhood mishap. Sourly, I watched him pick her up and hold her on his lap. But when he called her "Daddy's little girl"— I burst into tears and announced wrathfully that I was through forever with watching the show, and I was never, never going to speak to Daddy again. The next day, Daddy had a talk with me. "In addition to my show, your mother tells me you watched a cowboy show last night. A man was killed in that script. Did you believe he was really killed, or was it just makebelieve?" Grudgingly, I admitted that I knew it was makebelieve. "The other day, your doll was sick. Was she really sick, or were you play-acting?" I finally got it. That has always been one of the wonderful things about Daddy. When we children had to be set right, it has been done in terms we could understand. He always let us know that we were still in, still members of the family in good standing, but we were never to do that particular thing again. Sometimes, it hasn't been necessary for Daddy to speak up in mere words. When I started to have dates, there was one boy who came to our house often and stayed late. . . . Well, he and I didn't think it was late, but Daddy held a different opinion. One night, when the boy and I were in the midst of a serious discussion of the school elections, we were abruptly interrupted by the blasting strains of "Pomp and Circumstance" from Daddy's upstairs hi-fi. I got it instantly. It was Daddy's way of saying, "Time to march!" It's been a signal ever since; nowadays, all of my friends and most of Theresa's have caught on. They get a kick out of it. Sometimes, unintentionally, I've supplied Daddy with material for the show. One night, when a boy brought me home from a party a little later than Daddy thought was satisfactory, we had a conference in front of the clock. "Look, Daddy, I'm in college now," I said. "There comes a time in every father's life when he must assume that his teachings have taken root. He has to trust his children. If I should fail to do right, it would mean that you had failed in bringing me up. Daddy, I'm not going to let you fail." We both shed a few tears, then kissed each other goodnight. A few months later, the incident appeared in a segment of The Danny Thomas Show, "Make Room For Daddy." I knew that Daddy was setting me free — but, in giving me freedom, he was also accepting my pledge of responsibility. Daddy likes to say, "My children have always been wise enough to use psychology on me." I think that may be true, but only because he has always used psychology on us. We've learned our technique from a master. After I was graduated from Marymount High School and entered U.S.C. (where I was a member of Kappa Alpha Theta), I decided that I wanted to be a teacher. Although I had done a good deal of modeling of teen-age clothes for Saks Fifth Avenue and for Lanz, I hadn't been bitten by the showbusiness bug. I earned my A.B. degree,