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44
serted he never had been able to see Carlotta (and vice versa) since the afternoon she turned him down flat for a date to go to the junior prom and barn dance at the local high school.
But the damage was done! Our beloved Carlotta Claire, housewife and mother, had been castigated in the columns of the Potluck Falls (Idaho) Bugle!
The sensitive soul of this superb artist of the silver screen had been bared to the coarse jocosities of 57 Idaho sheepherders.
The shepherds, tending the flocks on the potato filled hills, maintained that Carlotta, then known as Gerrydene Clobber, had rigged the election in which she was voted "Jol^i^st Girl of the class of '30 of dear old Potluck High."
The herdsmen claimed a ewe named Minnie Maddern Barrymore actually won the election. In fact, the kindly but indignant shepherds rode Gerrydene Clobber out of town on a rail.
Thus, humbly, the Carlotta Claire we revere today embarked on her dramatic career. Her struggles for the heady heights, her heartbreaks and her triumphs from that gray Idaho eventide to the biasing incandcsccncc of Broadway arc a matter of theatrical lore.
Fame! Autograph fiends! Palm Springs at twilight! Producers at daw — " Well, anyway, humble Gerrydene Clobber had become a star. This modest, unassuming "child of the prairies" had become the most talked of woman in Hollywood. So,
•fi^ December, 1945
after her years on the heady pinnacles, I have probed the heart of this exotic star who has been called by film fans "the soul of mystery."
"Hi, mack!" she carolled. "What 11 you have? A snort of gin or two fingers in a washtub — wow, a boffola!"
I told her I would take a spot of sherry and in that lovely, husky voice she exclaimed: "What do you mean 'a spot of sherry?' Are all the writers in Hollywood petunias, too?"
As we sat beside the small swimming pool she said, languidly: "Some mudhole, eh, kid? Get that diving board — solid gold. I keep it filled with dry martinis and W. C. Fields."
"Our readers, Miss Claire, would like to know some of your favorite recipes, the little intimate dishes you concoct so skillfully when you are just being a wife and mother."
As we sipped our drinks in the shadow of the small, 82-room cottage which is just a simple home I insisted: "Miss Claire, our readers would like to know the secret, hidden depth of genius, that has brought this cozy little nest and fame to you."
"Gwan," she cooed, "your readers can't read. Take another snort."
"But, Miss Claire, this is a question that has puzzled the public for years. All film stars have some sort of charm, beauty perhaps, but yours is a more magnetic, a more pulsating quality that has never been — "
"Are you kiddin'?" She rolled those pansypurple eyes and murmured. "I didn't get this shack by hanging around any sailors in Westlake Park!"