#hedges capers

[sloshed-cinema]

The Legend of Hillbilly John (1972)

Appalachia is chock-full of things that go bump in the night. Every hill and holler brings with it legends of some creature or ghost that stalks the woods, and there is plenty of folk wisdom and superstition to go around. The Legend of Hillbilly John (aka Who Fears the Devil, depending on where you get it) is steeped in that sensibility: John subdues evil in all forms, from a large vulture-like bird to a crazed old man to potentially the very government itself, all with a tune on his lips. Because that’s the other side of it: this film is also chockablock with hillbilly tropes and standbys. Even the first minutes are a treasure trove. A group of cantankerous hill folk hate the highway being built, a man tipples from his whiskey still, and the Devil and the Government are in cahoots to make it all worse for the rest of them. Narration is quick to draw a line between satanic influence and the bourgeois progress of things like highways and other such atrocities. Maybe John is gonna go fight Canada over the tariffs imposed while ignoring the fact that his entire community probably voted for the dumb fuck who incited all that mess. Who knows. The creatures he battles have a charming claymation nature to them, and there is a moralism to the discovery of the ancient ghost-demon who promises gold but only delivers eternal sexy times with a gross old lady in punishment for greed. Talk about a paper bagger. John of course is as pure as the true silver of his guitar strings and cannot be corrupted.

Vast stretches of this film consist of John’s wanderings in the wilderness, generally accompanied by his dog and sometimes by his lady friend Lily. The songs sung during this period are lovely in a simple way, with the absolute banger that opens the film being a highlight. If this can also drag at points, it’s more than made up for by occasional gonzo filmmaking choices. When John’s grandpappy tries to strike down the Devil, his encounter is so traumatic that it rends the very filmstock of the movie, causing the effect of a projection error. The ghostly encounter atop the mountain of gold has a delightfully eerie quality to it, and a head-scratching episode stepping back in time plunges the film into sepia-adjacent tones. It’s slack, but not without its merits.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'Grandpappy' or 'Ugly Bird'.

A song starts.

Cantankerous locals.

BIG DRINK

A dog clearly has concerns about things.

It suddenly becomes an experimental film.

[mywifeleftme]

224: Hedge & Donna Capers // Special Circumstances

Special Circumstances Hedge & Donna Capers 1970, Capitol

I recently found this record on the street in Portland, Maine and I have to admit to rescuing it purely because I’d never seen a mixed-race ‘60s folk duo before. Special Circumstances is a lot better than I’d expected from a discarded folk-pop record—one mafia-related disappearance or Glenn Frey connection away from a Light in the Attic reissue, say. (We do get Bernie Leadon playing a bit of dobro, which is in the vicinity.) The husband-and-wife duo of Keene Hedges Capers and Donna Capers (née Carson) harmonize as smoothly as you could wish, and the instrumental credits are littered with session studs, including Flying Burrito Brother and pedal steel legend Sneaky Pete Kleinow and Carole Kaye on bass. Janis Ian also drops in to lend piano to Hedge & Donna’s rendition of her treacly number “He’s a Rainbow.”

The pop-leaning tunes (like “Rainbow” and “Sunshine”) aren’t the best use of anyone’s talents but they’re not especially grating,  and the album’s late pivot to gospel is more pleasant than enervating, but Special Circumstances punches its ticket with a run of sublime ballads on the a-side. Most of these songs are Capers originals, but their quality is really a testament to the pros who can make even pedestrian songwriting sound like the relieving warmth that radiates from a good stretch. On “Becoming” the players cup Hedge and Donna’s close harmonies and spiritual sweet nothings like a flower holding a pair of drowsing field mice. The soul jazz-tinted medley that follows (“Higher Country / Uhuru / Adunde”) is more ambitious, Donna’s lead vocal landing somewhere between Sandy Denny and Miriam Makeba as the mystical, minor key “Higher Country” dissolves into a series of African chants. The lazy stream from the title track to “Strawberry Malt” features some of the prettiest country-folk backing you’ll hear on any record from 1970. I’d happily stick these four songs up against nearly anything I’ve heard from the recent glut of b- and c-tier folk reissues.

Overall, Special Circumstances gets a pass from me for its becoming lack of overt commercial ambitions, and the easy craftsmanship nearly every part of it displays. It’s not perfect, but to my surprise it’s managed to grab my ear despite coming home amid a pile of records I actually paid for, even if I’ll probably seldom play the second side again.

224/365

[onenakedfarmer]

Watching

WHO FEARS THE DEVIL aka THE LEGEND OF HILLBILLY JOHN John Newland USA, 1972

[ninetimesbluedemo]

i wish there were hedge and donna records on spotify :(

[fangirlinglikeabus]

catching up on wildfell weekly and i think my feelings on the assault remain...complicated

to be fair it does seem lawrence is deliberately provoking gilbert to some extent:

I gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a look, at which he placidly smiled.

equally gilbert does seem to be waiting for an excuse to give vent to his anger:

waiting for some more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates of my soul and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and swelling within.

and i think that part of the reason this scene is disturbing to a lot of people (including me) is because of the extremity of lawrence’s reaction to being hit:

He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of lightning—brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him? An icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan.

like yeah he probably should’ve known better than to keep chatting to a guy who was obviously pissed off at him (especially since according to gilbert he usually picks up VERY easily on coldness) but he also probably wasn’t expecting such a violent blow (nor, i suspect, are most people reading this book for the first time!). and i know that gilbert believes he’s defending helen’s honour but he still hasn’t like...had a conversation with her about it all even though she said she would explain things, so i find it very hard to sympathise with him once he reaches this point because it seems like he’s making decisions about and for helen without consulting her. like i’m sorry but maybe find more healthy outlets for your anger than assaulting someone my dude, even if you think he deserves it. stevie davies notes:

the preposterous violence characterising Markham’s behaviour and language to his imagined rival is analogous to the violence staple to Wuthering Heights, and the source of the objection taken by reviewers to Wildfell Hall's narrator as one who ‘would serve as the ruffian of any other novelist’ (E. P. Whipple, ‘Novels of the Season’, American Review 66, October 1848, in CH, p. 262), to whose ‘brutal temper’ Charles Kingsley objected (‘Recent Novels’, Fraser’s Magazine 39, April 1849, in CH, p. 272).

at least he brings lawrence’s pony back for him…?

i would like to point out though that there’s a reasonable level of distance in how gilbert describes himself here:

With execrations not loud but deep I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done my duty in attempting to save him—but forgetting how I had erred in bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my after-services had been offered

i doubt the gilbert of middle age would behave in such a way, which i think is one of the benefits of the epistolary format as it’s used in this novel: it’s a sort of assurance that he’s improved from this really quite brutal moment

[plus-low-overthrow]

Hedge & Donna - She Said, She Said (Polydor)

Keys, Mike Melvoin - - - - - - - - - > The Beatles Funk Orchestra

[luveline]

wait hear me out.. bodyguard!sirius au 🫣

for you my love (new au let’s goooo) | fem!reader ♥︎ 1.2k

Sirius Black is possibly the worst person in the world they could've chosen to assign as your bodyguard. He's an excellent bodyguard, has proven this swiftly and with finesse on two separate occasions, and still, you struggle to settle under his watch. 

He's terrifying. Not because he's a bodyguard, though the lean muscle of his naked arms is intimidating, and he's very tall, but because he's beautiful. Silken black hair that he keeps tied up in a small half-bun behind his neck frames an angular face. He has dark, sweet eyelashes that point straight, and similarly dark brows that seem permanently arched in bemusement. 

You feel on pins under his gaze at all times, desperate for him to think the same. Desperate to be beautiful in that same effortless manner. 

"Relax," he chides, a hand curled firmly over your bare shoulder. 

You don't deny you're tense. He should know by now that you're more often than not in a panic, like your body's made up of frayed nerves. 

"Can't we go home?" you ask. 

"Afraid not, sweetness." 

You watch your mother move across the stage where she's hosting and sigh. "I hate politics." 

He laughs. "No, you hate your mother. Politics are important." 

"My mother's politics have never once been important," you say. "She should campaign against things that are actually important. Like rising austerity, or the mistreatment of homeless people." 

"Now, don't say that," he drawls, his breath warm against your ear. "Think of all those poor pigeons she's saving tonight." 

"It's absurd." 

Sirius hums. "While I don't think your mother's on the wrong side of things, I agree that her campaign is ridiculous. Every new ordinance puts you at risk." 

Your mother's political career is a drop in the ocean, but a couple of months ago she'd managed to draw the attention of one alt-right group in particular. A letter threatening your life had arrived in the mail, and Sirius has been by your side pretty much ever since. You do wish, selfishly, that she would stop this. You're an adult, and you've less privacy than a child now that you're constantly supervised. 

"Sometimes, I think she loves pigeons more than me," you mumble. 

Sirius laughs, delighted by your joke, and pats your shoulder. His hand burns your skin, you swear. You're gonna look down and see his handprint branded into you. 

"You're much prettier than a pigeon, doll. I'd choose you." 

Why is his hand on your shoulder? You can't remember. He'd been moving you out of the way, maybe, and forgotten to take it back. You hate that he's touching you, worried he can feel the capering beat of your heart, but you prefer him behind you than in front. He can't see your face, you can't see his. 

Like he can read your mind and he hates you, he turns you to face him. 

"Shall we go outside for a bit?" he asks. 

You blink. Sirius doesn't usually ask you if you want to do things. He may work for your mother but you're still the boss (kind of). He tries to let you do whatever it is you want to do. 

"Okay," you say. 

He leads you out to the patio with a hand just barely touching your back. Outside, the summer night air is warm, and the sky is a wash of pinks and yellow. It's oddly quiet.

You creep curiously to the stone railing and look down over a perfectly manicured garden, hedges shaped like flamingos and a mosaic veranda surrounding the centrepiece, a marble fountain in the shape of a baby. Rich people spend their money on the damndest things.

"I was hoping you'd feel more comfortable out here." 

You sigh as he comes to stand beside you. No hopes of that when he's near.

"But you're tense everywhere we go," he adds. 

"'M just tired," you say. 

"Are you?" He leans against the railing on his elbows and doesn't look at you. Sirius takes such big gaps between speaking that sometimes you assume he's done. "I have a theory." 

You stretch your hands out over the railing, more than enough space between you both. The stone is like pumice, gritty and pocked full of holes. It scratches your palms. 

"I think," —he turns his face to yours, expression disarmingly impassive— "I make you nervous." 

You think? 

You catch your own smile too late. Sirius sees it too, and his eyes crease as he squints at you mildly. His eyelashes, those dark thickets, meet in the corners. You stare at them, your gaze skipping over his light irises, his unusually large pupils. 

He looks rather cat-like. 

"I do," he says. 

"I– Yeah. Yeah, you make me nervous. Your presence is a reminder, you know, that I'm not safe." 

"Ah, but that's not true. You're very safe with me, pretty girl. Haven't I proved that already?" He smirks at you. "No, you're nervous, and it isn't because of my job." 

Sirius moves almost lazily. His head tips to one side, a short curl fluttering against his cheek. 

"So what is it?" 

How do you explain it? He's gorgeous, and his good looks paired with his smooth demeanour leaves you off kilter. You don't mean to be so weird, but your lips move of their own accord. 

"Do you think I'm pretty?" you ask him, insecurity much too obvious in your tone. 

The smugness he'd been entertaining drains. He stands a little straighter. 

"Sorry," you say, cringing. "You don't have to answer, I know it's a loaded question. Uh, I think that's why you make me so nervous, is all. You're really handsome, and I've never been anything special, mum always says it’s a shame they haven’t found a more natural alternative to plastic surgery–“

“What?”

You snap out of your tangent, flushed with heat. “Sorry.”

“Your mum thinks you need plastic surgery?”

“No, but. You know, we’re on TV sometimes, she wants us to look perfect.”

“You are perfect.”

You shrink at his sharp tone, but you realise that it isn’t you he’s directing his anger at. It takes a moment for his statement to sink in, and when it does, you can’t not smile. You cover your mouth to hide it unconsciously. 

Sirius doesn’t back down from his declaration, though the anger melts from his expression, leaving behind a chest-pounding earnestness. 

“Yes, I think you’re pretty. If that’s what you’re worried about, please. Don’t be.”

Speechless, you nod jerkily, as if a puppeteer controls your movements. Applause sounds loudly from the open patio doors, and Sirius straightens up fully. 

“Best go back in, angel. She’ll want pictures.”

Again, you can’t find the words to answer him. His anger at the idea that someone might find you unattractive sloshes around in your head. You're surprised you don’t tip over. Luckily, you have a guiding hand on your shoulder to lead you back inside. 

“Perfect pictures,” he says quietly. 

[weclassybouquetfun]

Hannah leading the TED LASSO pack.

Doing tourist tings.

"We saw you from across the bar and we like your vibe.."

With TED LASSO ending (and it is ending. I don't care about all the hedging that still persists about, "We told *this* story", the show's done. They need to hush their butts with that) it's time to look towards the future. What is on the horizon for AFC Richmond.

The cast next gigs...Oooh whee, what's up with that? What's. Up.With.That?

-Jason Sudeikis will appear in Charlie Day's directorial debut FOOL'S PARADISE.

-Hannah Waddingham: Will co-host Eurovision next month, appears in the four part Masterpiece mini TOM JONES

, will appear in THE FALL GUY with Ryan Gosling, MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: DEAD RECKONING Part 2, will have a Christmas special and will do voicework in Dan Harmon's animated series for Fox KRAPOPOLIS (alongside Matt Berry and Richard Ayoade) and voicework in 2024's animated film GARFIELD with Chris Pratt voicing the titular lasagne loving cat.

-Brett Goldstein: Brett will also do voice work for GARFIELD. He's also currently writing series two of Apple+'s SHRINKING

-Toheeb Jimoh can be currently seen on POWER on Amazon Prime. He's currently in rehearsals for his return to the stage in ROMEO AND JULIET for the Almedia Theatre.

-Nick Mohammed: Unsure whether the series that he created/writes and stars in INTELLIGENCE will be renewed as a series or as a wrap-up film, Nick has other works going. He costars in MAGGIE MOORES directed by John Slattery (MAD MEN) and stars Tina Fey and Jon Hamm; he will do voicework in the sequel to CHICKEN RUN titled CHICKEN RUN: DAWN OF THE NUGGET and he has a role in the upcoming Disney+ historical series THE BALLAD OF RENEGADE NELL which will star Alice Kremelberg (ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK), Frank Dillane, Joely Richardson and Craig Parkinson.

-Jeremy Swift: Will do voice work in the animated cat caper 10 LIVES joining Bill Nighy, Sophie Okonedo and Simone Ashley. Jeremy also joins the Disney Descendants universe for the musical DESCENDANTS: THE RISE OF RED. He currently has a cd out.

-Phil Dunster: Phil is sticking around Apple TV+ for the time being as he joined series two of their drama SURFACE which stars Gugu Mbatha-Raw (the first season saw her opposite Oliver Jackson-Cohen).

-Juno Temple: Juno was already in the DC universe with a role in THE DARK KNIGHT RISES, but now she joins Brett and Cristo in the Marvel world with a role in the upcoming VENOM 3. She also has a role in the upcoming EVEREST about George Mallory's attempt at scaling the mountain. It will star Ewan McGregor, Sam Heughan and Mark Strong. However, before all that, expect to see her in series 5 of FARGO.

-Cristo Fernandez is a jobbing actor. You will hear him in TRANSFORMERS: RISE OF THE BEAST as Wheeljack

he will do voicework in SCOOB! HOLIDAY HAUNT, he appears in four shorts, the feature 3 FLOWERS and it was just announced that he's joining series 3 of Apple TV+'s ACAPULCO and the Disney+ adaptation of ALEXANDER AND THE TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY.

-Moe Jeudy-Lamour (Thierry Zoreaux Van Damme) will costar in the sequel to cousins Stephen and Robbie Amell's film CODE 8. It will be released on Netflix.

New Village People has dropped.

-Moe Hashim: Moe will costar in Roland Emmerich's gladiator series THOSE ABOUT TO DIE.

-Charlie Hiscock: Will appear in Yorgos Lanthimos' POOR THINGS alongside Margaret Qualley, Emma Stone, Willem Dafoe and Mark Ruffalo.

-Sarah Niles: Will turn up in the long gestating reboot of THE TOXIC AVENGER starring Peter Dinklage, Jane Levy, Elijah Wood, Kevin Bacon and Jacob Tremblay. She can currently be seen in ITVX's RICHES.

-James Lance: Always one for voicework, James has lent his talent to the short HANGING which is the writer debut of background Greyhound Joe Street (far right).

[timelesstimesgoneby]

Dreamworks The Croods Franchisees Prehistoric belts cave journel short Prehistoric Dear Diary: World's First Pranks short Prehistoric To Gerard Family Movie Night: Little Red Bronana Bread short Prehistoric to gerard short Prehistoric Prince Of Egypt 1250 BCE Kung Fu Panda Franchisees (1046-256 B.C. Panda Paws short 1046-256 B.C. Sinbad 733 BC and 212 BC How To Train Your Dragon Franchisees 1010 AD Legend Of The Boneknapper Dragon short 1010 AD Dawn Of The Dragon Racers 26 short 1010 AD Bilby short 1010 AD Bird Karma, short 1010 AD Friend vs Food short 1010 AD The Secret Sheep Societ short 1010 AD Shrek Franchisees 14th to 17th century Shrek In The Swamp Karaoke Dance Party short 14th to 17th century Far Far Away Idol short 14th to 17th century Shrek's Yule Log short 14th to 17th century Donkey's Caroling Christmas-tacular short 14th to 17th century Puss In Boots: The Three Diablos short 14th to 17th century Road To El Dorado 1512 Megamind 1939 Megamind The Button Of Doom 1939 Spirit 1 1860s Spirit 2 1870 Wallace And Gromit Curse Of The Were Rabbit 1950s Stage Fright short 1950s Chicken Run 1950s B.O.B.'s Big Break short 1968 Boss Baby Franchise 1980s The Boss Baby And Tim's Treasure Hunt Through Time short 1980s Tiny Diamond Goes Back To School short 1980s Precious Templeton: A Pony Tale short 1980s Antz 1998 Captain Under Pants 1997-200s Shark Tale 2004 Club Oscar short 2004 Madagascar Franchise 2005 Penguins in A Christmas Caper short 2005 the enchanted island of madagascar short 2005 Over The Hedge 2006 Hammy's Boomerang Adventure short 2006 Flushed Away 2006 Bee Movie 2007 Monster Vs Aliens 2009 Rise Of The Guardians 2012 Turbo 2013 Mr Peabody And Sherman 2014 Home 2016 Boovies: This Is Being Boov short 2016 Boovies: Almost Hom short 2016 Boovies: Testing Lab short 2016 Trolls Franchise 2016 Abominable 2019 Marooned shorts 2019 Show & Tell shorts 2019

[just-here-for-the-moment]

7 x 7 - List 7 of your comfort movies and tag 7 people

This is where I copy and paste my answers and start a new thread, because reblogging a list of text 3 miles long gives me a headache.

I got tagged by @quica-quica-quica AND @pintsizemama AND @dihra-vesa for this one! I'm gonna be sore tomorrow...

The Thing (1982) Love it, love it, love it. Watch it every Halloween and again earlier in the year.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) When I don't know what I feel like watching I always turn this on. It's just actiony and I don't have to use my brain and I get to watch Chris Evans being all beefy and charming.

Rebecca (1940) Super creepy film adaptation of the novel by Daphne du Maurier, and it was Alfred Hitchcock's first American film. Gothic and creepy and just... ugh, I get shivers just thinking about it. So great!

The Muppets Take Manhattan (1984) Because, you know, child of the 80s. And this one has the imaginary flashback to the Muppet Babies that spawned the cartoon, which was also awesome. (And I'm going to sneak an extra in here and tell you to also go watch The Great Muppet Caper from 1981, too! Because it's the perfect double-feature for a day when you're stuck in bed with the flu.)

Clue (1985) Because it's Clue. Just go watch it again. You probably already have it memorized. "One plus two plus one plus one, not one plus one plus two plus one..."

Hard Boiled (1992) An early John Woo feature when he was making his name in Hong Kong cinema. Cheesy, early 90s, so many bullets and explosions and coreographed fights and just so, so, so good. I love it. And c'mon, Chow Yun-Fat? So cute in this movie!

Valley Girl (1983) I hate Nicolas Cage SO MUCH and this is one of only 2 movies of his I will watch, because he's a baby here, he's not the annoying "Nicolas Cage" of today yet. A slumber party staple of the 80s/90s, from the dinosaur days when you would have to go rent VHS tapes. Fun fact: the French Maid from Clue is the same actress as the hippie mom in Valley Girl, Colleen Camp! She's a fucking chameleon. You wouldn't ever guess it's the same lady. (I'm going to sneak another one in here and tell you to watch it in a double feature with Fast Times at Ridgemont High from 1982 to get the full 80s high school experience. And in that movie Nicolas Cage shows up in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it role as a nameless punk antagonizing Forrest Whittaker the football player.)

No pressure tags: @1800-fight-me @honestly-shite @oberynmfmartellman @the-ginger-hedge-witch @writeforfandoms @anxiousandboujee @babiiface95

[which-star]

Here I am, yet again craving your amazing writing. #45 for carulia or papertiger :)

I want to have you

Her claws scraped across a brick wall, Sheena peering past it. There in front of her was the prize. She grinned, baring her teeth into a venomous smile. Easy as pie.

It only took five steps to get to the prized Japanese artifact. Sheena had taken exactly five when something dropped down from above and grabbed the artifact before she did. The someone reached for Sheena at the same time, whirling her around till they were face to face and the imposter was holding the artifact out of reach. Sheena instinctively growled, but stopped when she recognized the familiar smirk inches from her face. The hold of panic in her chest loosened as did the pressure on her collar.

"What are you doing in my territory, kitty?" Paper Star hummed.

"What do you think?" Sheena asked quietly. Louder, she said forcefully. "Let me go."

"Oh, Tigress." Tanmy's lips ghosted over her cheek. "Always so serious all the time."

Sheena rolled her eyes. "If it weren't for the risk of having you trip over those lasers, I would push you." Instead, contrary to her words, Sheena's hands found purchase on Paper Star's waist and pulled her closer. The spiked jean jacket hiding her hands from view. "How about you stop interfering with my mission and get out of my way before I punt you into next week."

"You already did that last time," Tammy whispered under her breath, "and you can do it again anytime." Sheena choked on an unprofessional gasp.

Smirking, Tammy's free hand let go of Sheena's collar and gently covered a hand on her waist. Sheena's grasp tightened the slightest bit more before loosening and turning to lace their fingers together. Tammy's thumb rubbed the back of her hand before she stepped away.

"You ruin all the fun, kitty." She called over her shoulder as she disappeared. The pout was obvious in her voice. "I just wanted to play with you."

Sheena rolled her eyes, fixing her caper suit. She brought out her hands, palms up, and the artifact fell right into them, along with a pink origami tiger. The artifact she kept on hand, but she slipped the tiger into one of her pockets.

"Here, send that to the Faculty." She said, feigning annoyance at the Cleaners as she handed the artifact off. The helicopter whirled away, almost blowing her off the roof, but she stood firm.

An elevator ride later, Sheena was striding outside through the side entrance and straight into an alleyway. She was walking towards the streets when a blur caught her shoulder and she was spinning. Sheena spun closer to one side and, suddenly, Paper Star was in front of her when she stopped, leaning against the wall like she was there the whole time. A hand grabbed her collar and pulled her into a searing kiss.

Sheena instinctively reacted, a hand finding Tammy's waist as the other propped herself up against the wall. Tammy's hands wrapped around her neck as Sheena pushed in closer. It felt like an eternity wrapped into a second when they parted.

"For someone so teasing," Sheena murmured breathlessly, "you really like being pinned under me."

"Only you." Tammy's eyes glittered. "It's your fault for being so..." she lost her focus, a hand taking off Sheena's mask. "There's those eyes," she muttered faintly to herself.

Smirking, Sheena hedged, "so...?"

There was no reply and Sheena couldn't even ask about the eyes comment before Tammy was pulling her in again.

Her knee lifted and Tammy jumped, legs straddling her waist. Sheena's arms immediately moved downwards for support, lifting off the wall and switching their positions. Tammy moaned, high and needy, and she swallowed the sound with her tongue.

"We shouldn't stay here," Sheena said in between kisses. "There's--"

"Relax, kitty." Tammy traced her nose with her lips. "I got it covered."

"When you say you got it covered, people are usually hurt."

"Shh, isn't it so romantic?"

Sheena let out a dry chuckle. "We're the furthest thing from."

Tammy pulled away, her hand delicately pushed a lock of blonde hair behind Sheena's ear. She inspected Sheena's face for a while, as if memorizing every feature, before saying, "let's go to the carnival."

"What?"

"There's a carnival tonight. I wanna go."

"Okay." Tammy made no move to get out of Sheena's arms. Sheena lifted a brow. "Am I supposed to carry you?"

At that, a pout played on smeared magenta lips. Tammy leaned in and hugged Sheena tightly for a moment before her legs unwrapped themselves around Sheena's waist and landed on the ground.

"Where to?" Sheena asked when her mask was given back to her. Her stomach growled.

Tammy laughed, a hand latching onto Sheena's and dragging her to the streets. "My hotel's not far, I have your clothes, and then we can get food. Sound good?"

Her stomach agreed, but. "The carnival?"

"That can wait, it's not going anywhere. The sun just set, Sheena, we have the whole night."

---

By clothes, Tammy meant every single article of clothing she'd stolen from Sheena. Sheena had lifted up one of her hoodies, and with that, a sidelong glance to Tammy. "I was wondering where this one went."

"It's comfy!" Tammy objected, fingers flying as she folded a paper rose.

"Uh-huh," Sheena sounded unsurprised as she picked up a black cap and put it to the side for later. She frowned, not recognizing one of the clothes on here. It was a two-toned hoodie, the colors separated straight down the middle. One side was teal, the other black. "What's this?"

"Yours?" There was no inflection in Tammy's voice. Suspicious.

"I've never bought anything like this."

"Must've forgotten about it, then."

Sheena looked at its tag. Japanese. "Unless I somehow know Japanese. I don't think so." She smirked. "You bought this, didn't you?"

"What if I did?" Tammy leaned back on her hands, smiling smugly. "I thought it was cute."

Sheena's hands felt the fabric, it was thick and soft. Good quality. She draped it on her forearm along with black shorts before grabbing the cap and going into the bathroom.

When she got back, Tammy was changed into Sheena's previously mentioned hoodie: a dark green thing with a tiger graphic emblazoned on it. Sheena had bought it as a joke with El Topo and Le Cherve, the two of them getting their corresponding animals as well. On Tammy it was slightly oversized and tucked under a belt and black pleated skirt.

"Teal looks good on you," Tammy teased.

Sheena looked over Tammy's outfit with clear approval, and shrugged. "Tigers look good on you."

---

"But did you have to wear the cap?" A slight plaintive whine colored Tammy's tone. They were walking on the streets now, Tammy hugging Sheena's arm.

"I like the cap," Sheena defended.

"Whatever," Tammy grumbled and pulled her into a tonkatsu place.

The tonkatsu was good, great even. Sheena awkwardly shifted in place at the Japanese flowing out of Tammy's mouth to the waiter, who spoke back excitedly. The only thing Sheena understood was her name, which made her straighten, hoping stupidly that it were only good things being said.

"She thinks you look exotic," Tammy informed her as soon as the waiter left.

Sheena had to laugh. "Am I?"

"In Japan, yeah. She also recommended we visit the carnival, which we are." There was a possessive edge to her voice. "I think she likes you."

"Who doesn't?" Sheena smirked, drinking her water. "Apparently I'm exotic here."

Tammy rolled her eyes and dug into her tonkatsu. And later, when they were at the carnival, Tammy kept clinging to her arm. Sheena didn't mind, though she pretended to put up a fight before 'giving up', relishing in the closeness between them.

Around them, people shouted and conversed, walking up and down the carnival paths. Booths, rides, and games lined the sides and Sheena couldn't help but bask in the sights. There were so many colorful lights lining everything and shining on Tammy, highlighting the contours of her face and hair and mesmerizing Sheena in the process.

They had ridden a lot, if not most, of the rides offered by the carnival. Sheena had quickly discovered to no surprise that Tammy liked the adrenaline rush just like she did. Her favorite had been the classic rollercoasters while Tammy much preferred the spinning ones, the ones that looped them around and twisted them in the air.

Sheena stopped as they passed by the ferris wheel, looking at the slow movement of the spokes. Tammy peered up at her and Sheena asked, "wanna ride that?"

"Should we?" Their eyes met and Tammy lifted a brow. "I mean, we're anything but romantic, remember?"

"Insufferable, that's what you are." A shake of her arm failed to dislodge Tammy. Sheena scoffed. "I was just offering."

Tammy thought it over and grinned. "We should ride it. If only to prove you wrong."

"We'll see about that."

It was... nice, actually. But most of the beginning was spent kissing, so Sheena couldn't vouch for the view. Unless the view was Tammy.

Tammy forced them to stop kissing at the top and take a selfie, which Sheena willingly obliged to. Her cap had long been pushed back by now, and Sheena lazily took it off. She watched Tammy fumble with the phone intently, getting distracted by her face. She didn't even realize when the camera clicked and the photo was taken.

Tammy smirked, meeting her surprised eyes through the screen. "I'm keeping that one."

"I wasn't looking! I don't even know what I looked like!" Sheena complained and they took another one. This time both facing the camera.

There was a moment where they just sat and took in the sprawling view below them. Sheena leaned into Tammy and sighed contently.

Their hands interlocked, but they both didn't say anything about it. Didn't say much at all when it came to what was going on between them. The stolen moments between missions, the hidden phone numbers they had memorized, the fact that they had each other's clothes lying around. Nearly touching something a lot like love, but then slipping away before the emotion even brushed their skin.

It wasn't love, but it was something close to it. Quietly, they sat together until the ferris wheel ended.

---

"You know we're here." Sheena patted Tammy's back. They were in front of the hotel when Tammy had suddenly stopped and hugged Sheena.

"But you feel so good," Tammy mumbled, pushing her head further into Sheena's shoulder. Her arms tightened.

Okay, so not letting go anytime soon. Sheena groaned something about Tammy being clingy before navigating the two of them through the hotel doors.

"What do you think about the hoodie?" Tammy asked casually, her voice muffled, as if she wasn't the one making Sheena's life hard. They shuffled past the lobby and towards the elevator. "I can always take it back, it's very my style."

"Oh, this?" Sheena smirked, keeping  hand on Tammy's back to make sure they didn't bump into anyone. "I'm keeping it."

Tammy sounded immensely satisfied. "Good."

"And maybe I'll let you keep my hoodie too." Sheena pushed the elevator button closed. "I do like seeing traces of myself on you."

Arms stopped squeezing around her chest and wrapped around her neck instead.

[floridensis]

just scored a bunch of lignum vitae seeds from the parking lot for the plaza by my house

theyre super slow growing so growing from seed isnt the best for if you want them for your yard but why not grow some heirlooms?

im so glad they redid a lot of the landscaping there. most of the schefflera and exotic fig hedges are gone and replaced with a variety of native plants. the hedges are beautyberry and jamaican caper, and they have orange geiger, lignum vitae, and paradise trees, something i dont know and feel isnt native but the bugs love it, and one gumbo limbo. its really nice

their lignum vitaes are seedling wildly right now. ive been wanting to get some but i never seemed to be able to find them at the right time and am always too early and theyre not ready yet or too late and theyre gone. FINALLY found some all in one cluster, nice

[atortoiseinimladris]

Can I request Elrond meeting and falling in love with a faerie that he finds dancing near the hidden passage outside of Rivendell’s walls? I love your work! ❤️

Ohh, you most definitely can. I love this idea so. 🧡  Rated G.

****                                   

Thus We Capered Amongst The Stars

The cold evening light adorned his ebony hair, starlight twining with capering shadows and encompassing Elrond’s form. His brow was haloed by a circlet of ivory and palest blue wildflowers, weaved together with willowy green stems and long silvery ribbons which twirled about his shadowy hair as though he were descended from winter itself. The robes that swayed about his lean form were the colour of waning evening, his shawl turquoise and embellished with silvery frills that glimmered ethereally when they caught against the moonlight.

Tonight had been the first night of the Yuletide festivities, the only one thus far to be hosted within the cobbled walls of his newly established stronghold. Imladris had been decorated by strands of silken blues and rose-copper, its flourishing gardens encased with silver and turquoise glitters so that the grasses gleamed as though dusted by faeries when the sky darkened and the candles were lit. Elrond himself had gladly received a sprinkling of the gleaming powder upon his cheekbones before the evening had begun; even the breeze seemed to decree that he had been at birth touched by starlight.

He danced alongside the stars until he could no more, relishing in the soft melody of the harp as he had been taught when he was naught but seven years of age. The braziers had been lit some time ago now, but Elrond felt himself drawn not to warmth but to solitude amongst the gentleness of the night; his heart yearning for the quiet chuckling of the waterfalls and the faint rustling of the hedges. It was here that he contentedly sat now upon a chiselled stone bench; his tousled hair blowing against the breeze and flicking lightly against his glittered cheeks. It was here that he saw her.

She was beautiful, she who Elrond beheld before him. There was an ethereality about her as she bowed that enchanted every fibre of his being as though the grey of his eyes was something planetary, orbiting her every move. Elrond moved to her like a shooting star destined to collide; his hair entwining itself with hers until his own ebony locks joined with her silvery ones and they formed within the brambled gardens a constellation of the most whimsical sort.

All his life Elrond had yearned to find physicality amongst the stars, for all his life he had known many burning fires which had both joined with and sundered themselves from him in a seamless pattern of love and loss. Though he were usually so cautious, it had always been murmured amongst those closest to him that Elrond felt everything more deeply than most; a state of being which he demonstrated wholly when his lips met hers as though duty had never mattered, for she was the stars and he was the sky and despite the positions others had summoned him to fulfil Elrond knew in that instance that there was nothing but the sky and the starlight.

A veil was thinned that night between reality and ethereality as vigorously green leaves haloed their heads and the stars danced with joy above them; Elrond’s glittered cheek brushing against hers until they were both adorned with pale blue starlight gleaming upon a rosy, blushing canvas.

“Come.” She beckoned, holding out a pale hand enticingly.

Though Elrond had never before been wayward, such was his nature as he went. They danced amongst the stars until the coming of the morrow.

[thecurvycritic]

Michelle Pfeiffer is Stone Cold Spectacular in French Exit

Daneille MacDonald is guzzling martini's, Lucas Hedges is giving your bored acting and Michelle Pfeiffer is stone cold calculating in Sony Pictures Classic French Exit NOW availabe on digital and DVD #frenchexit

    Films that have a not so obvious plot point and are a little quirky always intrigue me.  Based on the book by Patrick deWitt  and directed by Azazel Jacobs, French Exit is a darkly comedic flick with one-of-a-kind tragic circumstances, serving as a brilliant  high society, mother-son caper that is oddly prolific and moving. Starring Michelle Pfeiffer, Lucas Hedges and Danielle MacDonald,…

[dear-mrs-otome]

Feed a Cold - MLQC (Victor)

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice/Love and Producer Warnings: Slight spoilers for something heavily implied from Chapter 4 on. Summary: 2k words of purely self-indulgent ‘taking care of the sick’ fluff, sparked by some phone calls and dates. I’ve got requests to tackle but this wouldn’t leave me alone. @justine-the-guillotine I hope you enjoy!

She looked like hell.

He’d expected as much, from the moment Goldman had told him she was cancelling their meeting because she was home ill. He’d expected to see her looking wan and pale, but the dark smudges under her eyes and the haphazard hair that greeted him when she opened the door, the feverish pink stain that rode high on her cheeks, they all still made his heart do an odd sort of stutter-step. As if it had stumbled over its own feet.

“Victor.” She blinked blearily up at him, half-sagging against the open door listlessly in a faded oversized sweatshirt with some inane cartoon character on it and shorts that were doing their best impression of hotpants.

“That is my name, yes. Congratulations.” He hoped his words were brusque enough to cover the strain plucking at his voice.

She blinked, again, her eyes crinkling with confusion. “Why…why are you here?”

He sidestepped the question as easily as he dodged around her, letting himself into her apartment. “You didn’t show up for your report today,” he said severely, just to enjoy the moment of panic that put a bit of a spark back into her listless gaze as she straightened abruptly.

“I called Goldman, didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Victor hedged.

“That I was sick. That I…” Her words dissolved into a sneeze, and she pulled a tissue free of the box tucked under her arm. “Needed another couple of days to deliver it.”

He let his gaze wander the place as she fluttered helplessly nearby. A studio apartment, not small but still a studio, decorated in a nauseating palette of pinks and pastels he was utterly unsurprised by - stuffed floor to ceiling with knick-knacks and kitsch. His studiously ignored the huge bed occupying one wall and let his eyes linger on the cello, standing proudly in a corner where the sun from the nearby window burnished it. An idle part of him wondered if he could ever convince her to play it for him.

Elgar, maybe…although she seemed much more like a Saint-Saëns person. He wanted to see those slim fingers coax the delicate strains of ‘The Swan’ from it. Watch her breathe life into something cold and inanimate.

“He told me,” Victor finally allowed, circling about to the small kitchenette tucked up against one wall. He set the vacuum flask in his hand down on her postage-stamp counter, slipped the suit jacket from his shoulders to fold neatly over a nearby chairback, and helped himself to rummaging through the cabinets. “Which is why I’m here. Things are pivotal right now. LFG needs you back as soon as possible.”

I need you, rattled the echo of that sentence within his own head.

He shook it away and opened another cupboard, rewarded with a stack of dishes only to find that her bowls had tiny animals capering about the rims garishly. Why had he expected anything different?

With a moue of distaste he pulled one down, and a soup spoon from a nearby drawer, gathering them all up to bring to the table that sat in the center of her apartment.

Canting her head to one side, her gaze lingered curiously on the container he held. “What is that?”

“It’s congee,” he explained shortly. “Don’t pretend you weren’t about to order some more of that delivery swill.”

She had the good grace to look sheepish as she sank onto one of the chairs at her small table, trying and failing miserably to keep the eagerness off her face. “I don’t know what you have against takeout.”

He paused in pouring out a measure of porridge, and fixed her with a hard look. “It’s greasy. And stuffed full of preservatives and who-knows-what sorts of mystery flavorings and chemicals. Glorified junk food.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. We don’t all have a personal chef to prepare us home-cooked meals every time we’re sick,” she huffed, a frown pinching her brows adorably.

“Well, now you do.” He set the bowl down before her with a clank for punctuation, before the ramifications of his words dawned on him and he scowled. “Try not to spill it all over yourself and waste my efforts.”

“You…made this? Yourself?” She was still staring at him when he pushed the spoon in her direction, and he busied himself with closing up the thermos to avoid meeting those wide, disingenuous eyes. By the time he’d turned back around, she had spooned up a bit and taken a hesitant taste, and he watched her features light up.

“This is delicious!” she exclaimed, in between mouthfuls.

“Of course it is,” he scoffed, resisting the urge to preen at her unnecessary compliment. The chair made a faint scuffle of sound as he pulled it out and sat down across from her, folding his arms on the cool wood of the table before him as he watched her eat with gusto.

This, he realized, was what he had regretted most when she came into Souvenir. Not that she hadn’t eaten his pudding offering, but that he hadn’t swallowed his pride and let himself come out of the kitchen to watch the way her eyes brightened with every bite. Heard for himself every tiny appreciative sound she made, or witnessed the flicker of her tongue catching an errant drop of porridge greedily.

Saw the contented smile on her face, and savor the knowledge that he had put it there.

In his food, he could put the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. Smile for me again, as he minced the ginger that would warm her belly. I worry about you, in the delicate shreds of chicken braised to near-melting. Lean on me, in the curls of spice-laced steam and scallion garnish.

Need me like you need this. Like water, like air. Like food.

At last, with a happy sigh, she pushed the empty bowl away and leaned back - only for him to stand, and scoop her effortlessly into his arms. “You should sleep.”

“I can walk,” she protested, but it sounded weak. Like a kitten mewling petulantly.

“Can you?” he drawled, in a voice that clearly said he doubted so. One that was validated when she gave up immediately and curled towards him, looping her arms around his neck in a way that made him feel more powerful than walking out of any successful boardroom meeting ever had.

As if he could take on the entire world, so long as she reached for him without hesitation like that.

He sat on the edge of her bed, indulging himself with keeping her slight weight on his lap. Finding himself loathe to let her go, now that he had ahold of her and she seemed so content to stay there.

Maybe she was merely delirious. Maybe she’d regret allowing him this tomorrow. But for now…

His silent musings were broken by her soft voice. “Thank you. Or maybe I should say, who should I be thanking? Are you Victor the CEO or Victor the Souvenir chef right now?”

He blinked down at the dark crown of her head. “I’m…” He hesitated, and felt foolish for having to even do so. “Neither. Just Victor.“

“Ah.Well, then thank you, ‘Just Victor’.” Her lips quirked in an impish smile he could just see as she tipped her gaze up to meet his. “And maybe you can do a favor for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell ‘Victor the CEO’ he’s a bully. And a tyrant. A veritable bespoke-clad despot,” she said, that infuriating little grin still curving across her face.

Is that all?” he asked dryly, his eyes narrowing peevishly. “Don’t hold back now, by all means.”

“No.” She let her mischief slip away and held his eyes pointedly, though he’d have been powerless to look elsewhere regardless. “Tell him…he needs to smile more. And mean it.”

One of her fingers poked lightly at his cheek and he caught it, stifling the urge to press his lips to her fingertip. Settling instead for folding his own around it as he chose his words cautiously, feeling as if he were tiptoeing across a minefield. “And ‘Victor the Souvenir Boss’, is there something I should convey to him?”

“Yeah. He needs to respond to his damn reviews.” She laughed softly, as if her own joke was the funniest thing, and the sound curled up carefully beneath his sternum and made itself at home. Squeezing all the remaining space from his ribcage.

"You’re silly. And an idiot. A great, grand fool.” Harsh words but he couldn’t help the laugh of his own that slipped in between them, warming the syllables to something like a caress.

He wanted to offer her roses, so very desperately. Perfumed words and all the softness she so rightly deserved, until his chest nearly ached with the desire to.

But he was a creature made of thorns, and he didn’t dare to bloom.

Not when petals were so easily crushed.

She only burrowed tighter against him, a small triumphant smile on her face. As if she’d just unraveled some grand mystery. “Maybe I am. And maybe you’re a great, heartless beast. But you’re here. That has to mean something. Maybe neither of us is quite what the other says we are.”

The strands of her hair spilled through his fingers like a rivulet of dark water as he brushed some away from her cheek.“And…what about ‘Just Victor’? Is there anything you want to say to him?” he finally dared to ask.

She wriggled closer, the tip of her nose brushing against the vee exposed by his open collar, and he prayed she couldn’t hear or feel how his heart was bruising itself against his ribs. “Mm. He smells nice.” Her words were a soft warm feather, ghosting across his bare skin. “ And…he has beautiful eyes. Kind eyes, when he thinks no one can see. But I see him.”

He swallowed thickly, and stopped fighting the way his arms wanted to wrap tighter about her. Counted out measureless breaths as she slowly melted against him. “You do, do you?”

“Yes. Because…I love…”

It was barely more than a sigh, and he strained his ears, waiting without daring to so much as exhale for her to finish the sentence. Every moment feeling like an eternity. “You love…?” he prompted, when the silence drew out unbearably thin, sharp edges waiting to cut him at a single wrong move.

The lace of her lashes fluttered against her cheeks at his faint question, but she didn’t open her eyes. “I love…congee…”

He snorted a sound of disbelief at her sleepy rambling, irritated with himself for the disappointment that plucked so keenly at the back of his breastbone. “Idiot.”

But he didn’t bother this time to halt the urge to lean down and press his lips to her fevered forehead, pausing as the wisp of her bangs tickled his nose. Lingering in the moment where she suffused all of his senses, until duty called him back to the world and he settled her gently back against the pillows.

“Rest well.” He folded another kiss into the slack palm of her hand, as if it would hold the warmth of his lips until she awoke, before relinquishing it and turning to gather his jacket. Slipping noiselessly from her apartment on reluctant feet.

The corridor outside was empty as he waited for the elevator, checking his phone and messages absently until the ding of its arrival drew his head up, and he caught sight of himself in the mirrored, polished doors.

He bit his lip against the smile he saw threatening, but it still found a way to cling stubbornly to the edges of his eyes, reflected back at him…and an uncomfortable truth nestled itself inside his heart as he stepped through the open doors and punched the button that would take him back to work. Back to reality.

Back to a day woefully bereft of her.

It could be pruned, and it could be shaped. But the briar had no say in when it flowered after all.

[papermoonloveslucy]

LOOK! TV: TURN ON OR TURN OFF?

September 7, 1971

The September 7, 1971 issue of LOOK Magazine (volume 35, number 18) dedicated their entire issue to the medium of television. Inside, there is a feature titled “Lucille Ball, the Star That Never Sets...” by Laura Bergquist on page 54. 

The photograph on the cover is slightly distorted to give it the look of an image through a TV screen.  The shot was taken by Douglas Bergquist in January 1971. 

The issue presents a variety of viewpoints about the state of television. Is it ‘tired’ or is there an infusion of new energy to take it into the new decade? John Kronenberger writes an article that asks if cable television is the future. Hindsight tells us that it was not only the future, but is now the past. 

“Lucille Ball, the Star That Never Sets...” by Laura Bergquist. 

Bergquist first interviewed Lucille Ball in 1956 for the Christmas issue of Look. 

The photograph is by Douglas Kirkland, a Canadian-born photographer, who not coincidentally, also took the photograph used on the cover. This shot was taken in the garden of Ball’s home in June 1971.  At age 24, Kirkland was hired as a staff photographer for Look magazine and became famous for his 1961 photos of Marilyn Monroe taken for Look's 25th anniversary issue. He later joined the staff of Life magazine.

Bergquist launches the article talking about her friend Sally, who is besot with watching Lucille Ball reruns, preferring Lucy over the news. Under the headline, she sums up the purpose of her interview: “Sorry, Sally. But Lucy is a serious, unfunny lady. So how come she’s a top clown of the fickle tube for twenty years, seen at home 11 times weekly and in 77 countries?”  

LUCILLE BALL: THE STAR THAT NEVER SETS...

(Lucille Ball’s quotes are in BOLD. Footnote numbers are in parentheses.)

My neighbor Sally, nine, turns out to be a real Lucy freak. Though she likes vintage-house-wife I Love Lucy best, she'll watch Lucille Ball 11 times a week, if permitted. That's how often Madame Comedy Champ of the Tube, come 20 years this October, can be caught on my local box. Ten reruns, plus the current Here's Lucy on Monday night, CBS prime time. Friends, that's 330 weekly minutes of Lucy, which should be rank overexposure. Did you know that even the U.S. man-on-the-moon walkers slipped in ratings, second time around?

Quel mystery. Variety last fall announced that old-fashioned sitcoms and broad slapstick comedy are passé, given today's hip audiences. With one big exception - Lucy. When the third Lucy format went on in '68, reincarnating Miss Ball as a widowed secretary (with her real-life son, Desi Jr., now 18, and Lucie Jr., 20), Women's Wear Daily said not only were the kids no talent, but the show was "treacle." "One giant marshmallow," quoth the Hollywood Reporter, "impeccably professional, violence-free, non-controversial . . . 100% escapism." 

Miss Ball: "Listen, that's a good review. I usually get OK personal notices, but the show gets knocked regular."

So why does Sally, like all the kids on my block, love slapstick, non-relevant Lucy? "Because she's always scheming and getting into trouble like I do, and then wriggling her way out of it." A 44-year-old Long Island housewife: "Of course I watch. I should watch the news?" When the British Royal Family finally unbent for a TV documentary, what was the tribe watching come box-time? Lucy, over protests from Prince Philip. (1)

"I've been a baby-sitter for three generations," says Miss Ball briskly. "Kids watch me during the day [she outpulls most kiddy shows]. Women and older men at night. Teen-agers, no. They look at Mod Squad. Intellectuals, they read books or listen to records.... You know I even get fan mail from China?" MAINLAND CHINA? "Hong Kong, isn't that China?" No. "Where is it anyway?"

The Statistics on the Lucy Industry are numbing. In recent years, she has run in 77 countries abroad, including the rich sheikhdom of Kuwait, and Japan, where, dubbed in Japanese yet, she's been a long-distance runner for 12 years. Where are all those funny people of yesteryear - Jackie Gleason, the Smothers Brothers, Sid Caesar, the Beverly Hillbillies - old reliables like Ed Sullivan, Red Skelton? Gone, all gone, form the live tube - except for reruns dumped by sponsors, out of fashion, murdered in the ratings.

Even this interview is a rerun. Fifteen years ago, I sat in Miss Ball's old-timey movie-star mansion in Beverly Hills, wondering how much longer, oh Lord, could Lucy last? She has a different husband, a genial stand-up comic of the fast-gag Milton Berle school, Bronx-born Gary Morton, 49. He replaced Desi Arnaz, her volatile Cuban spouse (and costar and partner) of 20 years, who lives quietly in Mexico's Baja California, alongside a pool shaped like a guitar, with a second redhead wife. "Ever been here before?" asks Gary, now her executive producer, who's brightened the house decor. "Used to be funeral-parlor gray, right?"

Otherwise, the lady, like her show, seems preserved in amber. Though newly 60, she could be Sally's great-grandmother. Of a Saturday, she's unwinding from a murderous four-day workweek. Her pink-orange-fireball hair is up in rollers. Her black-and-blue Rolls-Royce, inherited from her friend, the late Hedda Hopper, is parked in the driveway. But in attitude and opinion, she comes across Madame Middle America, despite the shrewd show-biz exterior. Good egg. Believer in hard work, discipline, Norman Vincent Peale. Deadeye Dickstraight, she talks astonishingly unfunny - about Vietnam, Women's Lib, about which she feels dimly, marriage to Latins, books she toted up to her new condominium hideaway in Snowmass, Colo. "Snow" is her new-old passion, a throwback to her small-town Eastern childhood. For the first time in family memory, this lifelong workhorse actually relaxed in that 9,700-foot altitude for four months this year, learning to ski, reading Pepys, Thoreau, Shirley MacLaine's autobiography, "37 goddamned scripts, and all those Irvings" (Stone, Wallace, etc.). She had scouted for a mountain retreat far away from any gambling. Why? Is she against gambling? "No, I'm a sucker. I can't stay away from the tables."

From yellowing notes, I reel off an analysis by an early scriptwriter. Perhaps she comes by her comic genius because of some "early maladjustment in life, so you see commonplace things as unusual? To get even, to cover the hurt, you play back the unhappy as funny?"

Forget any deep-dish theorizing. "Listen, honey," says Miss B, drilling me with those big blue peepers, "you've been talking to me for four, five hours. Have you heard me say anything funny? I tell you I don't think funny. That's the difference between a wit and a comedian. My daughter Lucie thinks funny. So does Steve Allen, Buddy Hackett, Betty Grable."

BETTY GRABLE THINKS FUNNY? "Yeah. Dean Martin has a curly mind. oh, I can tell a funny story about something that happened to me. But I'm more of a hardworking hack with an instinct for timing, who knows the mechanics of comedy. I picked it up by osmosis, on radio and movie lots [she made 75 flicks] working with Bob Hope, Bert Lahr, the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges - didn't learn a thing from them except when to duck. Buster Keaton taught me about props. OK, I'm waiting."

Well, I hedge, I caught Miss Ball in a few funny capers on the Universal lot this week. Like one day, in her star bungalow, she throws a quick-energy lunch in the blender - four almonds, wild honey, water, six-year-old Korean ginseng roots, plus her own medicine, liver extract. "AAAGH," she gags, then peers in the mirror at her hair, which is a normal working fright wig, "Gawd," she moans, "it looks as if I'd poked my finger into an electric-light socket!" No boffo line, but her pantomimed horror makes me laugh out loud. Working, she is fearless - dangling from high wires, coping with wild beasts. She talks of animals she's worked with, chimps, bears, lions, tigers. "I love 'em all, especially the chimps, but you can't trust their fright or panic. Like that baby elephant who gave a press job to a guest actress." (2) What's a press job? "Honey, once an elephant puts his head down, he keeps marching, right through walls." Miss Ball puts her own head down, crooks an arm for a trunk, and voila, is an elephant. Funny as hell. So off-camera she's no great wit, but then is Chaplin?

Four days a week, through the Thursday night filming before a live audience, she labors like some hungry Depression starlet. Monday a.m., she sits at the head of a conference table, lined by 12 staffers, editing the script. Madame Executive Tycoon in charge of everything, overseeing things Desi used to do. Also the haus-frau, constantly opening windows for fresh air and emptying ashtrays. She wears black horn-rims, three packs of ciggies are at the ready. "Do I have to ask for a raise again?" she impatiently drills the writers, "I've done that 400 times." "QUIET!" she yells during rehearsal, perching in a high director's chair, a la Cecil B. DeMille. "Isn't somebody around here supposed to yell quiet?" She frets about the new set. "Those aisles - they're a mile and a half wide. What for?" The audience is too far away, she won't get the feedback from their laughs are her life's blood. (Once I hear Gary Morton on the phone, in his British-antiqued executive office, saying: "We need your laugh, honey. Go down to the set and laugh; that's an order.")

That physical quality about her comedy, a la the old silent movies or vaudeville - which were the big amusements of her youth - seems to transcend any language. (A Moscow acting school, I was told, shows old Lucy clips as lessons in comic timing.) So what did she learn from that great Buster Keaton?

"At Metro, I kept being held back by show-girl-glamour typing. I always wanted to do comedy. Buster Keaton, a friend of director Eddy Sedgwick, spotted something in me when I was doing a movie called DuBarry - what the hell was the name? - and kept nagging the moguls about what I could do. Now a great forte of mine is props. He taught me all about 'em. Attention to detail, that's all it is. He was around when I went out on a vaudeville tour with Desi with a loaded prop." What's that? "Real Rube Goldberg stuff. A cello loaded with the whole act - a seat to perch on, a violin bow, a plunger, a whistle, a horn. Honey, if you noodge it, you've lost the act. Keaton taught me your prop is your jewel case. Never entrust it to a stagehand. Never let it out of your sight when you travel, rehearse with it all week." Ever noodge it? "Gawd, yes. Happened at the old Roxy in New York. I was supposed to run down that seven-mile aisle when some maniac sprang my prop by leaping out and yelling 'I'm that woman's mother! She's letting me starve.'" What did you do? "Ad-libbed it, and I am one lousy ad-libber."

After 20 years, isn't she weary of playing the Lucy character? "No, I'm a rooter, I look for ruts. My cousin Cleo [now producer of Here's Lucy] is always prodding me to move. She once said Lucy was my security blanket. Maybe. I'm not erudite in any way, like Cleo. But why should I change? Last year was big TV relevant year, and I made sure my show wasn't relevant. Lucy deals in fundamental, everyday things exaggerated, with a happy ending. She has a basic childishness that hopefully most of us never lose. That's why she cries a lot like a kid - the WAAH act - instead of getting drunk."

Aha! Is Lucy the guileful child-woman, conniving forever against male authority - whether husband or nagging boss - particularly FEMALE? ("None of us watch the show," sniffed a Women's Libber I know, "but she must be an Aunt Tom." Still, I ponder, hasn't that always been the essence of comedy, the little poor-soul man - or woman - up against the biggies?)

"I certainly hope so. You trying to con me into talking about Women's Lib? I don't know the meaning of it. I never had anything to squawk about. I don't know what they're asking for that I don't have already. Equal pay for equal work, that's OK. The suffragettes rightly pressed a hard case - and when roles like Carry Nation come along, they ask me to play them, perhaps because I have the physical vitality. But they're kind of a laughingstock, aren't they? Like that girl who gave her parents 40 whacks with an ax? Didn't Carry Nation ax things, was she a Prohibitionist or what?" (3)

She'd just said nix to playing Sabina, in the movie of Thornton Wilder's The Skin of Our Teeth. Why? "I didn't understand it." She turned down The Manchurian Candidate for the same reason. "Got that Oh Dad, Poor Dad script the same week and thought I'd gone loony." If she makes another movie, she'll play Lillian Russell in Diamond Jim with Jackie Gleason, "a nice, nostalgic courtship story that won't tax anyone's nerves." (4) 

Is Miss Ball warmed by the comeback of old stars in non-taxing Broadway nostalgia shows like No, No, Nanette? (5)

"Listen, I studied that audience. I saw people in their 60's and 70's enjoying themselves. That had to be nostalgia. The 30's and 40's smiled indulgently, that Ruby Keeler is up there on the stage alive, not dead. For the below 30's, it's pure camp. I don't put it down, but it’s not warm, working nostalgia, but the feeling 'Ye gods, anything but today'

"Maybe I'm more concerned about things that I realize. I told you politics is definitely not on my agenda - I got burned bad, back in the '40's signing a damned petition as a favor. (6) Just say the word 'politician,' and I think of chicanery. Too many subversive angles today. But I must be one of millions who are so fed up, depressed, sobbing inside, about the news...the atrocities, the dead, the running down of America. You can't obliterate the news, but the baddest dream is that you feels so helpless.

"I was sitting in this very chair one night, flipping the dial, and came to Combat! There were soldiers crouching in bushes, a helicopter hovering overhead. Nothing happening, so I make like a director, yelling, 'Move it! This take is too LONG!' It turned out to be a news show from Vietnam. That shook me. There I was criticizing the director, and real blood was dripping off my screen... That drug scene bugs me. It's ridiculous, self-indulgent. We're supposed to be grateful if the kids aren't on drugs. They're destroying us from within, getting at our youth in the colleges. OK, kids have to protest, but how can they accomplish anything if they're physically shot?

"One of the reasons I'm still working is that people seem grateful that Lucy is there, the same character and unchanging view. There's so much chaos in this world, that's important. Many people, not only shut-ins, depend on the tube, too much so - they look for favorites they can count on. Older people loved Lawrence Welk. They associated his music with their youth. Now he's gone. It's not fair. (7) They shouldn't have taken off those bucolic comedies; that left a big dent in some folks' lives. Maybe we're not getting messages anymore from the clergy, the politicians, so TV does the preaching. But as an entertainer, I don't believe in messages.

"Some Mr. Jones is always asking why am I still working - as if it were some crime or neurotic. OK, I'll say it's for my kids. But I like a routine life, I like to work. I come from an old New England family in which everyone worked. My grandparents were homesteaders in New York and Ohio. My mother worked all her life - during the Depression in a factory."

What does she think of the new "relevant" comedy like All in the Family? "I don't know... It's good to bring prejudice out in the open. People do think that way, but why glorify it? Those not necessarily young may not catch the moral. That show doesn't go full circle for me."

Full circle?

"You have to suffer a little when you do wrong. That prejudiced character doesn't pay a penance. Does he ever reverse a feeling? I'm for believability, but I'm tired of hearing 'pig,' 'wop,' 'Polack' said unkindly. Me, I have to have an on-the-nose moral. Years ago, the Romans let humans be eaten by lions, while they laughed and drank - that was entertainment. But I’m tired of the ugly. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing, that's my idea of entertainment. Anything Richard Burton does is heaven. Easy Rider scared me at first because I knew how it could influence kids. But at least that movie came full circle. They led a life of nothing and they got nothing. Doris Day, I believe in her. Elaine May? A kook, but a great talent. Barbra Streisand? A brilliant technician."

On her old ten-minute daily interview radio show, (8) she once asked Barbra, like any star-struck civilian: How does it feel to be only 21, a big recording artist and star of the Broadway hit Funny Girl? "Not much," said Barbra. "That cool really flustered Lucille. It violated everything she believes in," says cousin Cleo Smith, who grew up with Miss B in small-town Celoron, N.Y. "For her, nothing ever came easy. She didn't marry until she was 30, or become a really big star until she was 40. She's still so hard on herself, sets such rigorous standards for herself as an actress and parent. She honestly believes in all the old maxims, that a stitch in time saves nine, etc. She's literal-minded, a bit like Scarlett O'Hara. Does what needs doing today, and to hell with tomorrow."

Her self-made wealth a few years ago was reckoned at $50 to $100 million. After her divorce, she reluctantly took over the presidency of the Desilu studio and sold it six years later to the conglomerate Gulf & Western for nearly $18 million. Does that make her the biggest lady tycoon in Hollywood? (The 179 original I Love Lucy reruns now belong, incidentally, to a CBS syndicate; her second Lucy Show, to Paramount. She owns only the current Here's Lucy - OK, go that straight?)

"Hah! Like Sinatra, I owe about three and a half million bucks all the time. That figure is ridiculous. All my money is working. I lost a helluva lot in the stock market last year and haven't recouped it. It's an illusion that people in show biz are really rich. The really filthy rich are the little old ladies in Boston, the old folks in Pasadena, who've had dough for years and haven't been seen since."

The divorce from Desi Arnaz can still set her brooding. "It was the worst period of my life. I really hit the bottom of despair - anything form there on had to be up. Neither Desi nor I has been the same since, physically or mentally, though we're very friendly, ridiculously so. Nobody knows how hard I tried to make that marriage work, thinking all the trouble must be my fault. I did everything I could to right that ship, trotting to psychiatrists. I hate failure, and that divorce was a Number One failure in my eyes... Anything in excess drives me crazy. He'd build a home anyplace he was, and then never be around to enjoy it. I was so idealistic, I thought that with two beautiful babies, and a beautiful business, what more could any man want? Freedom, he said, but he had that. People don't know what a job he did building that Desilu empire, what a great director and brilliant executive he was yet he let it all go....Maybe Latins have an instinct for self-destruction..."

Was that the conflict, a Latin temperament married to an old-fashioned American female? "It has a helluva lot to do with getting into it and getting out. The charm. But they keep up a big facade and don't follow through. No, the machismo didn't bother me, I like to play games too.

"Desi and I had made an agreement that if either of us wanted to pull out of Desilu, the other could buy. I wanted to go to Switzerland with the kids, anywhere to run away, but he wanted out. The I found out that for five years, our empire had taken a nose dive, and if I wanted to get my money back, I had to rebuild it first. For the first time in my life, I was absolutely terrified - I'd never run any show or a big studio. When I came back from doing the musical Wildcat on Broadway, I was so sick, so beat, I just sat in that backyard, numb, for a year. I'd had pneumonia, mononucleosis, staph, osteomyletis. Lost 22 pounds. Friends told me the best thing I could do physically, psychologically, was go back to work, but could I revive Lucy without Desi, my old writers, the old crew?"

You didn't like being a woman executive? "I hated it. I used to cry so much - and I'm not a crier - because I had to let someone go or make decisions I didn't understand. There were always two sides to every question, and trouble was I could see both sides. No one realizes how run-down Desilu was. The finks and sycophants making $70,000 a year, they were easy to clean out. Then during the CBS Jim Aubrey regime, I couldn't sell the new pilots we made - Dan Dailey, Donald O'Connor, Ethel Merman. I couldn't sell anything but me." (9)

Was it tough to be a woman bossing men? "Yeah. It puts men in a bad spot. I could read their minds, unfortunately, wondering who is this female making this decision, not realizing that maybe I'd consulted six experts first. I'm all wrong as an executive, I feel out of place. I have too many antennae out, I'm too easily hurt and intimidated. But I can make quick surgical incisions. I've learned that much about authority - give people enough rope to hand themselves, stand back, let them work, but warm them first. Creative people you have to give special leeway to, and often it doesn't pay off. Me, I'm workative, not creative. I can fix - what I call 'naturalize.' I'm a good editor, I can naturalize dialogue, find an easier way to do a show mechanically.

But I didn't make the same marriage mistake twice. Gary digs what my life is, why I have to work. We have tranquility. We want the same things, take care of what we have."

She shows me Gary's dressing room, closets hung with shirts and jackets - by the dozen. "My husband is a clothes and car nut, but it's a harmless vice. Better than booze or chasing women, right?" (His cars include a 1927 Model T Ford, a Mercedes-Benz 300 SL, an Astin Martin, a Rolls-Royce convertible.)

"Anyone married to me has an uphill climb. Gary and I coped by anticipating. We knew we should be separated eight, nine months a year, so he tapered off his act, found other thing to do - making investments, building things. He plays the golf circuit, Palm Springs, Pebble Beach, and tolerantly lets me stay at Snowmass for weeks. Sun just doesn't agree with me. He didn't come into the business for five years. I didn't want to put him in a position in which he would be ridiculed. I could tell that he was grasping things - casting, story line. I said, 'You've been a big help to me. You should be paid for it.' "

On a Friday night, I dine with the Mortons. Dinner is served around 6:30, just like in my Midwest hometown. Lucille is still fretting about this week's show - "over-rehearsed; because there were so many props, the fun had gone out of it." Gary, just home from unwinding his own way - golfing with Milton Berle, Joey Bishop - asks if I'd like something to drink with dinner? Coke or ginger ale? "No? I think we have wine." No high living in this house, but the spareribs are superb. "Laura asked me an interesting question," he tells his wife. "Like isn't there a conflict when a husband in the same business - comedy - marries a superstar? I told her I'd never thought of it before."

They met the summer when Lucille was rehearsing Wildcat, and he was a stand-up comic at Radio City Music Hall, seven days a week. "We both came up the hard way," he says. "I got started in World War II, clowning for USO shows. I've been in show biz for 30 years and can appreciate what she goes through. Lucy can't run company by herself. Maybe with me around, when she walks on the set, her mind is at peace. I pop in from time to time, on conferences, rehearsals. I can tell from her if things are going well, if the laughter is there. She's a thoroughbred, very honest with me, a friend to whom I can talk about anything. She never leaves me out of her life; that's important for a man. Do you know how many bets were lost about our marriage lasting? It's been nearly ten years now, and I've slept on the couch only once."

Past dinner, we adjourn promptly to the living room, and a private showing of Little Murders. It's not a pretty movie of urban American life, and Lucy talks back indignantly to the screen. (10) The flick she rally like was George Plimpton's Paper Lion, with the Detroit Lions, which she booked under the illusion it was an animal picture. "At the end, 12 of us here stood up and cheered, and I wrote every last Lion a fan note. You know that picture hardly made a dime?"

On a house tout, I'd noted the Norman Rockwell and Andrew Wyeth albums in the living room, and a memo scotch-taped to her bathroom wall: "Get Smart with N.V.P."

N.V.P. Is that Norman Vincent Peale, her old friend and spiritual mentor? "Yes. He marred me and Gary. I still adhere to his way of thinking because he preaches a day-to-day religion that I can understand. Something workable, not allegory. Like how do you get up in the morning and just get through the day?

"Dr. Peale taught me the art of selfishness. All it means is doing what's right for you, not being a burden to others. When I was in Wildcat, he dropped around one night saying, 'I hear you're very ill, and working too hard.' 'Work never hurt anybody,' I protested. But he reminded me I had two beautiful children to bring up, and if I was in bad shape, how could I do it? I've learned you don't rake more leaves than you can get into the wheelbarrow. I've always been moderate, but I was too spread around, trying to please too many people. You don't become callous, but you conserve your energies."

What about her kids? Passing a newsstand, I'd noted a rash of fan mags blazoned with headlines about Desi Jr., something of a teen-age idol, and at 18 a spitting image of old pop. (A rock star at 12, he'd recently garnered very good notices indeed for a movie role in Red Sky at Morning.) "Why Lucille Ball's Son Is So Bitter About His Own Mother," read the El Trasho covers. "Patty Duke Begs Desi Jr. To Believe Her: 'You Made Me Pregnant.' " Does the imbroglio bother this on-the-nose moralist?

"I worked for years for a quiet personal life and to have to personally impinged on, with no recourse, is hard. I brought Patty to the house, feeling very maternal about her, saying look at this clever girl, what a big talent she is. Now, I can thank her for useless notoriety. She's living in some fantastic dreamworld, and we're the victims of it. Desi being the tender age of 17 when they met, she used him. She hasn't proved or asked for anything. I asked Desi if he wanted to marry her and he said no. My daughter helped outfit the baby, which Patty brought to the house, but did she ever say thank you?

"Desi's going to CIA this fall." Not the CIA? No, the new California Institute of the Arts, where he'll study music. "Yes, he's very much like his father, too much sometimes - I just hope he has Desi's business acumen. I'm glad he didn't choose UCLA or Berkeley or a school full of nonconformists. Lucie just now wants marriage and babies - maybe she'll go on to college later.

"I took the kids out of school deliberately. Desi was at Beverly Hills High, Lucie at Immaculate Heart."

Why? "I didn't like the scene - it was the usual - pregnant girls, drugs." That goes on at Immaculate Heart? Sure. "A lot of girls who boarded there were unhappy misfits, and Lucie was already working in the nunnery. All the friends she brought home were the rejected. I'm that way myself."

Did they mind, well, your stage-managing their lives? "No, they were as sick of that weird high school scene as I was. I made them a proposition - told them to think it over for a month, while I was in Monaco. Do you want to be on the show? I told them the salary would be scale, that most would be put in trust. They'd be tutored and not able to graduate with their classes. They both thought they were going to the coast, but working with a tutor, they really got turned on by books for the first time. They wanted to be in show business, and I wanted to keep an eye on them."

Of course her show is nepotism, she grants. "Cleo thought a long time before becoming the producer, wondering if it wasn’t overdoing family. Nobody seems to be suffering from it, I told her." Thursday night show time is like a tense Broadway opening night. Gary Morton, in stylish crested blazer, warms up the audience, heavy with out-of-town tourists. "Lucy started out with another fellow, can't remember his name.... What is home without a mother? A place to bring girls." Lucille bursts out onstage, exuding the old MGM glamour, fireball hair ablaze, eyelashes inches long, in aquamarine-cum-rhinestone kaftan. "For God's sake," she implores, "laugh it up! We want to hear from you... Gary, have you introduced my mom?" Indeed he has. Loyal, durable, 79-year-old Desiree "DeDe" Ball, her hair pink as Lucille's, has missed few of the 409 Lucy shows filmed to date, and is on hand as usual with 19 personal guests. Gary also asks for big hands for Cleo, and her husband Cecil Smith, TV critic for the LA Times, who has also appeared on the show. (11) 

One day Desi Jr. wanders on the set, just back from visiting his father in Mexico. He'd gone with Patty Duke and the baby. The young man does have Latin charm, and apparently talent. I ask him a fan-mag query: Is it rough to be the spin-off of such famous show-biz parents?

"Well, I grew up with kids like Dean Martin, Jr., and Tony Martin, Jr., and we had a lot in common." What? "We all had houses in Palm Springs." Any generational problem with Mom? "She's found the thing she's best at, and sticks to it. As long as she has Snowmass, she has an escape, some reality. I realize she lives half in a man's world, and that must be tough on a woman. My father - he worked hard for years, and then he'd had it. This is silly, weird, he felt. He aged more in ten years than he had in 40. I'm like him. I feel life is very short. He's had major operations recently, and he's changed a lot."

Patty Duke is six years older than Desi Jr., paralleling the six-year age gap that separated parents Lucy and Desi. "Patty is a lot like my mother, the same drive, and strong will, a perfectionist...But I'm never going to get married. Marriage is unrealistic, expecting you to devote a whole life unselfishly to just one person. Do you know people age unbelievably when they marry? From what I've seen, 85 percent of married couples are miserable; 14 percent, just average; one percent, happy." (12) 

His mother's own childhood, in little Celoron, an outspring of Jamestown, N.Y., was oh-so-different from her kids'. "She was always a wild, tempestuous, exciting child," say Cleo, "doing things that worried people, plotting and scheming, though she knew she'd get in trouble." Interesting, because that's one basic of the Lucy format, Miss B forever finagling second bananas like Vivian Vance into co-trouble. "One summer, she conned me into running away. It was only to nearby Fredonia, but in her sneaky way she really wanted to catch up to a groovy high school principal who was teaching there. He played it very cool, calling Mom and telling her we were staying overnight in a boarding house. On his advice, when we got home, DeDe acted as if we hadn't been away. That devastated Lucille, no reaction, nothing."

The classic Lucy story line also has her conniving against male authority, whether husband or boss, now played by Gale Gordon. "I need a strong father or husband figure as catalyst. I have to be an inadequate somebody, because I don't want the authority for Lucy. Every damned movie script sent me seems to cast me as a lady with authority, like Eve Arden or Roz Russell, but that's not me.

"No, I don't remember my own father," says Miss Ball. "He was a telephone lineman who died of typhoid at 25, when I was about three. I do remember everything that day, though. Hanging out the window, begging to play with the kids next door who had measles... The doctor coming, my mother weeping. I remember a bird that flew in the window, a picture that fell off the wall.

"My brother Fred [who was born after her father's death] was always very, very good. He never did anything wrong - he was too much to bear. I was always in trouble, a real pain in the ass. I suppose I wasn't much fun to be around." To this day, says Cleo, Lucille suspects Fred is her mother's favorite, even though DeDe has devoted her whole life to this daughter.

Family ties were always fierce-strong. After her father's death, "We lived with my mother's parents, for a while. Grandpa Hunt was a marvelous jack-of-all-trades, a woodturner, eye doctor, mailman, bon vivant, hotel owner. [And also an old-fashioned Populist-Socialist.] He met my grandmother, Flora Belle, a real pioneer woman and pillar of the family, when she was a maid in his hotel. She was a nurse and midwife, an orphan who brought up four pairs of twin sisters and brothers all by herself. He took us to vaudeville every Saturday and to the local amusement park. When Grandma died at 51, all us kids had to pitch in, making beds, cooking.

"Yeah, I guess I am real mid-America, growing up as a mix of French-Scotch-Irish-English, living on credit like everyone else, paying $1.25 a week to the insurance man, buying furniture on time. But it was a good, full life. Grandpa took us camping, fishing, picking mushrooms, made us bobsleds. We always had goodies. I had the first boyish bob in town and the first open galoshes.

"My mother then married Ed Peterson, a handsome-ugly man, very well-read. He was good to me and Freddy but he drank too much. He was the first to point out the magic of the stage. A monologist came to town on the Chautauqua circuit. He just sat onstage with a pitcher of water and light bulb and made us laugh and cry for two hours. For me, this was pure magic. When I was about seven, Ed and mother moved to Detroit, leaving me with his old-fashioned Swedish parents, who were very strict. I had to be in bed at 6:30, hearing all the other kids playing outside in the summer daylight. Maybe it wasn't that traumatic, but I realize now it was a bad time for me. I felt as if I'd been deserted. I got my imagination to working, and read trillions of books."

The adult Lucille, talking to interviewers, used to go on and on about her "unhappy" childhood, little realizing that she was reflecting on her mother, to whom she is passionately devoted. "Just how long do you think you lived with the Petersons?" asked DeDe one day in a confrontation. "Three YEARS? Well I tell you it was more like three weeks."

"I left home at 15, much too early, desperate to break into the big wide world. Looking for work in New York show biz was ugly, without any leads or friends or training other than high school operettas and plays and Sunday school pageants. I was very shy and reticent, believe it or not, and I kept running home every five minutes. I got thrown in with older Shubert and Ziegfeld dollies and, believe me, they were a mean, closed corporation. I don't understand kids today who get easily discouraged and yap about doing their own thing. Don't they know what hard work is? Where are their morals? I always knew when I did wrong, and paid penance."

Yet she was venturesome enough to sit in on some recent Synanon group-therapy sessions for drug addicts. "They wanted me to raise some money, and I wanted to find out what it was about. The games were fascinating, wonderful, until I couldn't take it any more. The other participants kept bugging me: What are you here for? Are your children drug addicts? I had to start making up problems."

For two decades, she's been risking her neck in those murderous ratings, outlasting long-ago competitors like Fulton Sheen, and now up against such pleasers as pro football and Rowan and Martin. (13) 

Suppose the ratings drop, what would she do?

No idea. "Might take a trip on the Inland Waterway form Boston to Florida. In my deal with Universal, I can make specials, other movies, TV pilots. I wouldn't have to ski 'spooked' at Snowmass." What's that? "Honey, I have to be careful. If I break a leg 500 people are out of work. (14) I'd be happy in some branch of acting with some modicum of appreciation. Listen, it never occurred to me, in life that I'd fail ever, because I always appreciated small successes. I never had a big fixed goal. When I was running Desilu, it drove me wild when people asked, 'Aren't you proud to own the old RKO studio where you once worked as a starlet?' What $50-a-week starlet ever walked around a lot saying, 'I want to own this studio'?

"I don't know what you've been driving at, what's your story line? But it's been interesting, talking."

FOOTNOTES: HINDSIGHT IS 20/20

(1) This refers to a rare 1969 BBC documentary about Britain’s royal family that gave the public an inside look at the life of the Windsors. In one scene, the family was watching television, and on the screen was “I Love Lucy”, much to the chagrin of Prince Philip. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip were mentioned on the series, especially in the episode “Lucy Meets the Queen” (ILL S5;E15).  

(2) Lucy is referring to a 1967 episode of “The Lucy Show” titled “Lucy The Babysitter” (TLS S5;E16) in which Lucy Carmichael babysits three rambunctious chimps for their parents, played by Jonathan Hole and Mary Wickes. In the final moments of the show, Wickes reveals a fourth sibling - a baby elephant!  The animal went wild and pushed Wickes (what Ball described as a “press job”) into one of the prop trees. The trainer had to physically subdue the elephant to get it away from Wickes, who injured her arm. The final cut ends with the entrance of the baby elephant.

(3) Lucy is conflating (probably intentionally) the stories of real-life prohibitionist Carrie Nation (1846-1911), who famously hacked up bars and whisky barrels with an axe, and Lizzie Bordon (1860-1927), who famously hacked up her parents with an axe. (Photo from the 1962 TV special “The Good Years” starring Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda.) 

(4) There was never a film version of Thornton Wilder’s play Skin Of Our Teeth which was on Broadway in 1942 starring Tallulah Bankhead as Sabina, the role offered to Ball.  There were several television adaptations; one in Australia in 1959; one in England the same year starring Vivian Leigh as Sabina;  one in the USA in 1955 starring Mary Martin (above) as Sabina; and a filmed version of a stage production starring Blair Brown as Sabina in 1983. Although it is possible that Lucille Ball might have been considered for the role of the sexy housemaid Sabina in 1955, the article says that the role was “just” offered to her, so it probably refers to a 1971 project that never materialized. Wilder’s story tracks a typical American family from New Jersey from the ice age through the apocalypse. 

(5) In 1971, there was a popular revival of the 1925 musical comedy No, No, Nanette on Broadway. The cast featured veteran screen star Ruby Keeler and included Helen Gallagher (playing a character named Lucille, coincidentally), Bobby Van, Jack Gilford, Patsy Kelly and Susan Watson. Busby Berkeley, nearing the end of his career, was credited as supervising the production, although his name was his primary contribution to the show. The 1971 production was well-reviewed and ran for 861 performances. It sparked interest in the revival of similar musicals from the 1920s and 1930s. The original 1925 cast featured Charles Winninger, who played Barney Kurtz, Fred’s old vaudeville partner on “I Love Lucy.” In that same episode (above), they sing a song from the musical, "Peach on the Beach” by Vincent Youmans and Otto Harbach. Like the revue in the episode, the musical is set in Atlantic City, New Jersey.  

(6) Lucy is referring to her 1936 affidavit of registration to join the Communist Party.  Lucille said she signed it to appease her elderly grandfather. The cavalier act caught up with Ball in 1953, when zealous red-hunting Senator Joe McCarthy tried to purge America of suspected Communists. Although many careers were ruined, Ball escaped virtually unscathed.  

(7) The popular big band music series “The Lawrence Welk Show” (1955) was unceremoniously canceled in 1971 by ABC, in an attempt to attract younger audiences. What Lucy doesn’t mention is that four days after this magazine was published, the show began running brand new shows in syndication, which continued until 1982. Welk, despite not being much of an actor, played himself on “Here’s Lucy” (above) in January 1970. 

(8) “Let’s Talk To Lucy” was a short daily radio program aired on CBS Radio from September 1964 to June 1964. Most interviews (including Streisand’s) were spread over multiple installments.  

(9)  To showcase possible new series (pilots) Desilu and CBS aired “Vacation Playhouse” (1963-67) during the summer when “The Lucy Show” was on hiatus.  This would often be the only airing of Lucy’s passion projects. “Papa GI” with Dan Dailey as an army sergeant in Korea who has his hands full with two orphans who want him to adopt them. The pilot was aired in June 1964 but it was not picked up for production. “Maggie Brown” had Ethel Merman playing a widow trying to raise a daughter and run a nightclub which is next to a Marine Corps base. The pilot aired in September 1963, but went unsold. “The Hoofer” starring Donald O’Connor and Soupy Sales as former vaudevillians aired its pilot in August 1966. No sale! 

(10) Little Murders (1971) was a black comedy based on the play of the same name by Jules Feiffer. The film is about a young nihilistic New Yorker (Elliott Gould) coping with pervasive urban violence, obscene phone calls, rusty water pipes, electrical blackouts, paranoia and ethnic-racial conflict during a typical summer of the 1970s. Definitely not Lucille Ball’s style of comedy!  Paper Lion (1968) was a sports comedy about George Plimpton (Alan Alda) pretending to be a member of the Detroit Lions football team for a Sports Illustrated article. 

(11) Cecil Smith appeared in “Lucy Meets the Burtons” (HL S3;E1) in 1970 playing himself, a member of the Hollywood Press with a dozen other real-life writers. The casting was a way to get better coverage of the episode (featuring power couple Dick Burton, Liz Taylor, and her remarkable diamond ring). The gambit worked and the episode was the most viewed of the entire series. 

(12) Desi Jr.’s 1971 views on marriage did not last. He married actress Linda Purl in 1980, but they divorced in 1981. In October 1987, Arnaz married dancer Amy Laura Bargiel. Ten years later they purchased the Boulder Theatre in Boulder City, Nevada and restored it. They lived in Boulder with their daughter, Haley. Amy died of cancer in 2015, at the age of 63.   

(13) From 1952 to 1957, Catholic Bishop Fulton J. Sheen hosted the inspirational program “Life Is Worth Living”, winning an Emmy Award in 1953, alongside winners Lucille Ball and “I Love Lucy.”  “Here’s Lucy” was programmed up against “Monday Night Football” on ABC and “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” on NBC.  Instead of ignoring her competition, Ball embraced them by featuring stories about football and incorporating many of the catch phrases and guest stars from “Laugh-In.” 

(14) Lucy spoke too soon!  Just a few months after this interview was published Ball did indeed have a skiing accident in Snowmass and broke her leg. With season five’s first shooting date approaching, Ball was faced with either ending the series or re-write the scripts so that Lucy Carter would be in a leg cast.  She chose the latter, even incorporating actual footage of herself on the Snowmass  slopes (above) into "Lucy’s Big Break” (HL S5;E1). 

Elsewhere in the Issue...

“This Was Our Life” by Gene Shalit includes images of Lucille Ball in the collage illustration. 

A week after this issue of Look hit the stands, the fourth season of “Here’s Lucy” kicked off with guest star Flip Wilson and a parody of Gone With the Wind.  Three days later, Ball guest-starred on his show. 

Not to be outdone, LOOK’s rival LIFE also devoted an entire issue to television, on news stands just three days later.  

Naturally, “I Love Lucy” didn’t escape mention!  I’m not sure why the show’s run is bifurcated: 1952-55, 1956-57.  Actually, the show began in 1951 and ran continually until 1957. 

Click here for more about Look, Life and Time!