TV Radio Mirror (Jan - Jun 1956)

(Continued from page 58) from the table and headed for the stage, poised and charmingly graceful in her fulllength gold satin gown. ... "I don't deserve it," she said with sincerity and modesty, as she accepted the award, "but you have given me a goal to work for. . ." Any further statement she might have had on her mind was cut short by a thunderous ovation. As I watched Dinah leave the podium, I couldn't help recalling our childhood days together. To Mother, to Dad, to me, and to the rest of her family and friends, she was just little Fannye Rose then — and hardly the charming, well-organized girl into which she developed. I'll never forget the day Mother called both of us to her room, before we took off for a birthday party. Fannye Rose was then three, pretty and peppy and full of the dickens. . . . "Now you listen to your sister," Mother impressed upon her. "Do what she tells you to do, behave like a little lady, and don't stuff yourself." One hour later — along with almost two dozen other boys and girls — we were seated around the huge, beautifully decorated table, crowded with cakes, cookies, ice cream, and hot chocolate. Because Fannye Rose and I were at opposite ends of the table, she had to yell at the top of her voice to get my attention above all the noise. "Bessie!" The chatter immediately died down. Everyone looked at her. Fannye Rose picked up a spoon so heavily laden with ice cream that it dripped down on both sides. "This isn't too big a bite, is it, sister?" . . . Embarrassed — I was then at the very "proper" age of ten — I pleaded with her to take a little less. With a sigh of disappointment, she dutifully obeyed. In a way, it isn't surprising that my sister developed into a self-assured, successful performer. Even as a child she loved an audience. There were occasions, however, when her timing was a little disturbing! . . . One evening, my boyfriend and I were sitting on the front porch, feeling as romantic as only teenagers can get. Suddenly the upstairs window flew open, Fannye Rose stuck out her head, and started singing "My Old Kentucky Home." . . . That almost ruined my first romance! Before my boyfriend came back, I made my little sister promise to refrain from using us as an audience again. "Doesn't he like my voice?" she asked in disappointment. "Of course, he does," I assured her. "But, when you grow older — get into your teens — you'll learn there are times when you'd rather not listen to someone's kid sister sing. Do you know what I mean?" She said she did. But the next time he came back, it was obvious she didn't. . . . We were sitting in our favorite spot the following Saturday night, enjoying the moonlight from the swing-chair on the front porch, When Fannye got back into the act once again. She'd kept her promise about the singing, all right . . . she played the ukulele instead! Of all the childhood habits I recall, few stand out more than her perpetual appetite. Today, my sister sticks to a wellbalanced diet, but as a child she could never seem to get enough to eat. ... I remember one evening in particular, when T Mother and Dad had a date to play cards v with some friends, and they'd asked „ Maurice Seligman — whom I later married — and me to take Fannye Rose along on our date. Having decided to go for a ride, we 80 My Sister — Dinah Shore bundled her into the back seat, where she soon fell asleep. On the way home, we stopped at a drive-in for a bite to eat. Maurice, who hadn't had his dinner, felt starved. Rather short of money at the time, he seemed quite happy that Fannye Rose wasn't awake. The moment the car hop brought the menu, Fannye Rose woke up. It didn't take her long to make up her mind what she wanted. "I'd like a chicken sandwich," she announced. I noticed that Maurice began to squirm in his seat. It was the most expensive item on the menu. But Fannye Rose wasn't through. " — And a malted milk shake," she added. "With three scoops of ice cream." I'd already ordered my hamburger, so the waitress turned to Maurice. "And your order?" ... "A coke," he said unhappily, because that was all he could still afford. Of course, little Fannye Rose didn't realize what she was doing, at that time. Actually, she is — and has always been — one of the most generous persons I have ever known. As Fannye grew up, she developed into such a likeable, popular young girl that the telephone would buzz at our house at all hours of the day or evening with her ardent admirers at the other end7 of the line, trying to make dates. In those days my sister had a particular weakness for football players — big, strong, muscular hunks of men who looked as though they were competing for the Mr. America contest. It was about one of these that Mother became a little concerned one evening. "Bessie, you have to talk to your sister right away," she told me when I came back from a date. "When your dad and I came home we found her in the living room — necking!" I couldn't see anything dreadfully wrong with that, but then my parents were a bit more conservative. However, the idea of my giving my sister a lecture made me feel uneasy. "Why don't you talk to her?" "You know it'll have more influence coming from you. . ." In those days I didn't realize why, but I do today. There's often a bigger gap between mother and daughter than between sisters — or even girlfriends who are closer to each other in age and outlook. This holds just as true today with my own daughter, Linda, who is just nineteen, and my son, John, who is fifteen. Many times, Linda prefers to talk about her problems to her Aunt Dinah, whom she considers "more her age," than to me. As for John, he thinks me a moron when it comes to his favorite subject, cars. But Aunt Dinah — particularly since she started to sell Chevrolets on her bi-weekly television show — is the "expert" in the family, and he can discuss the subject with her for hours. . . . Considering Dinah's present characteristics, it seems hard to believe that a person could have changed that much, in some respects. For instance, nowadays she is the best organized woman I know. It is amazing how smoothly she runs her household and integrates her motherly duties with her career obligations. She never seems rushed, always manages to keep a cheerful disposition, no matter how many problems are thrown at her simultaneously. Her sense for organization was more than evident on a recent trip to Oregon. During her two-day stay, she let herself be interviewed by forty editors of highschool papers in southern Washington and northern California, saw every disk jockey in the area, had lunch with Governor Paul Patterson of Oregon and dinner with Mayor Fred Peterson of Portland, spent one hour signing autographs in' a department store in Portland, and another hour for the same firm in Salem, collected 10,000 toys for needy children, sang at the "Crystal Ball" for teenagers and attended a meeting of the district Chevrolet dealers at Portland's Masonic Temple. She was also appointed temporary Fire Commissioner in Portland, had a meeting with PTA representatives, received a scroll from 7,500 girls . . . and, all along, made certain that her husband, George Montgomery— who accompanied her on the trip — had enough time to go duck hunting! She accomplished all this because she had planned her trip in advance so carefully that she could tell me, before she left, where she was going to be almost every minute of the day. Her wardrobe was designed to facilitate changes, with one set of accessories to match two or three outfits, and all fitting into two cases. I wouldn't have believed this could ever happen, recalling the time Mother scolded our maid for picking up Fannye Rose's clothes. "Let her put them away, Yaya," mother insisted. "You spoil her something terrible . . ." "Yes'm," Yaya replied, and dropped all the clothes right back on the floor — till Mother had left the room. Then she picked them all up again and put them neatly away. Mother finally got wise to it. Since she couldn't very well blame our maid for wanting an orderly house, she herself would get the clothes out of the closet again and scatter them where they'd been on the floor — for Dinah to pick up. My sister's wardrobe saw more wear by this constant picking up, putting away, and dropping again on the floor, than when she actually had them on! It was necessity that forced Dinah to change: When she was out on her own, without Yaya to look after her, she could be as neat as a pin. Actually, Dinah hates disorganization. As a child, she just didn't want to go through the motions of doing something about it — as long as she had someone to do it for her. In my opinion, my sister's happy disposition is one of the pillars of her success. In her younger days, this was brought about through our own happy home life, and the wonderfully close-knit relationship between our parents and ourselves. That's why our mother's passing — the first really tragic event in Dinah's life — shook her so hard. When it happened, Maurice and I — married a year — were living in St. Louis, where my husband studied medicine. Dad was away on business and Dinah was at home, all by herself to cope with the situation. It came as a double shock, because Mother hadn't even been ill. As a matter of fact, she had participated in a golf tournament the day before. Fannye Rose seemed psychic about what was going to happen, judging by what she told me after Maurice and I rushed home upon receiving the news. She went to school that Tuesday morning as usual. About ten-thirty, right in the middle of a class, she felt something was wrong with Mother. She didn't know why, or what — after all, there had been no indications— but she knew she had to get home, quickly. Fannye Rose asked to be excused from class. Since it was against all rules to leave class without a concrete reason, the teacher turned her down at first. But