There are, really, two Dinah Shores: the Basie Dinah and the Adaptable Dinah. They add up to America's most successful TV actress, seen by 32 million viewers of NBC's Chevy Show. The show, with its stylish snap and homey warmth, reflects perfectly the Total Dinah, The Basic Dinah was brought up in Nashville, with nice southern manners-which she has kept. She has a good husband-whom she has also kept. Her natural verve made her a cheerleader in high school and college, and her voice won her New York radio job with another unknown named Frank Sinatra, who was so awed by her ladylike ways that he once socked a man for saying a dirty word in front of her. In the TV studio-and at home, where she is the same sunny girl TV loves—the Basic Dinah has a female sense of the fitness of things. She has kept many of the same staff around her for years. She is not at war with others because she is not at war with herself.
For Dwight D. Eisenhower-walking around his Gettysburg farm the severing stroke of retirement should be more-shattering than for most men who are cut off from a consuming life's work. No longer are Ike's days filled with the awesome power and decisions of a General of the Army or a U.S. President–nor is his way smoothed by a retinue of aides. To see how he is doing, an old friend from white House days, Life photographer Edward Clark, went to visit the Eisenhower farm and produced the warm document shown on these pages. The still busy general, Clark found bristle with energy. He keeps a weather eye on his 190 acre farm a big operation with nine men and a herd of more than 30 purebred Aberdeen Angus. Ike is very proud of the farm, and his august guests—including the recent ones. General Alfred Gruenther, ex-AEC head Lewis Strauss. Clement Attlee get guided tours. In his Gettysburg office the former President spends eight hours-a-day, writing his memoirs, answering mail, seeing visitors. The letters come 200 a day--requests from former top aides for opinions (which he gives); invitations to speak at dedications, conventions (which he usually declines); demands (which he never sees) that he march on Washington and throw Kennedy out of the White House before it's too late.
“I got awful sick of Pyle this last year," an ordinarily amiable gentleman remarked recently. "The whole country's so intent on making him a god darned little elf I don't understand it How people can get all tied up in Pyle is beyond me." The speaker was Ernie Pyle's oldest friend and college classmate, Paige Cavanaugh. His job at the moment is to make sure that The Story of GI Joe, a movie about the infantry as seen through Ernie's eyes, does not overly glamorize its journalist hero Cavanaugh is bored by the apotheosis of Pyle and has said so in writing. In a letter to Ernie, he announced, "I have completed my plans for the postwar world and I find no place in it for you." Certain differences between the public's conception of Pyle and his own knowledge of the subject provide Cavanaugh with much tart amusement, By his articulate admirers Ernie has come to be envisaged as a frail old poet, a kind of St. Francis of Assisi wandering sadly among the foxholes, playing beautiful tunes on his typewriter. Actually he is neither elderly, little, saintly nor sad. He is 44 years old, stands 5 ft 8 in tall; weighs 112 lb., and although he appears fragile he is a tough, wiry man who gets along nicely without much food or sleep. His sense of humor, which leavens his columns with quaint chuckling passages, assumes a robust earthy color in conversation. His laugh is full-bellied. His profanity is strictly GI. His belch is internationally renowned, "Ernie is the world's champion Belcher," a friend once remarked enviously. " He doesn't burp, he belches. It’s not a squashy, gurgly belch, but sharp and well-rounded, a clean bark with a follow-through. It explodes." Although Pyle is America's No. 1 professional wanderer, he is fundamentally a sedentary person who likes nothing better than to sit in an overheated room with a few good friends.
Folk music has plenty of room for almost everything and everybody because its range is huge–from funereal laments and bitter satire to sweet ballads and rollicking fables. Old-timers like Burl Ives and Josh White have been mining this range for years, but right now a whole school of irreverent young groups is playing folk songs for laughs. When Dave Guard's new Whiskeyhill Singers launch a number, they often give it the full comedy treatment. Other lighthearted folk singers have helped heighten the mania that is sweeping records, TV, nightclubs and the concert circuit. The brightest of the new folk singers are shown in these pictures acting out their favorite numbers in their own distinctive and varied styles. Not all of the performers rely solely on laughter. In fact, they exploit the enormous breadth of the folk music repertoire to shift easily from broad humor to touching drama. Almost all of them dress up and popularize the old and often familiar tunes—except the finest new singer of them all, Joan Baez. She is a loner, a rabid traditionalist who specializes in sad songs of love and death which are delivered with a stylistic purity that places her in a class almost by herself.
The business-minded star of singing Westerns has parlayed a horse, a guitar and an agreeable voice into a multimillion-dollar empire.
This little news item is the sort of thing that occasionally brings a shadow of annoyance to the otherwise ruddy cheeks of Gene Autry, the singing cowboy of screen and radio. For Autry, currently billed as "Public Cowboy No.1,”or alternately as "America's Singin’est Cowboy.” does not like to see indications of his income, in whole or in part, publicly displayed. That kind of publicity he figures, is not good for a guy who for 15 years has been establishing himself in America's ears and eyes as just a simple cowhand with a voice. What is not good publicity is not good business, and of the latter Autry is clearly an expert judge. In the last three years he has been proving by concrete accomplishment that he is a businessman of action and acumen in the old American way. Autry is a chunky, slim-hipped, smiling man who rates so high in the minds of singing western fans that a lot of them become impassioned when they try to talk about him. "Four nights ago," wrote one in a recent issue of Autry's Aces, the publication of the Autry fan club, "Gene became the topic of conversation in, of all places, the cocktail lounge of the Athletic Club here in Omaha.
Ten-year-old Betty Lee Bennett has been up in the air a good part of her life. When she was six months old her father. Alfred Bennett, who is vice president of the Taylorcraft light-plane company, took her up for a ride. and at 3 she tried the controls. Last September she began training to solo, first by driving the family car around an open field by herself, then by taxiing a plane around an airport for hours. Almost every day her father gave her a lesson and two months ago he felt she was ready to fly alone. The actual flight, which took place in Cuba because 16 is the minimum age for solo flying in the U.S. made Betty Lee the youngest solo flier on record. LIFE photographed her slight by setting up a robot camera in the plane: each time Betty Lee moved the aileron controls she took her own picture. The 10-minute slight was perfect. During it. Betty Lee seemed completely calm–far calmer than her father, who, though he insisted he was not nervous, suffered an understandable attack of fatherly fidgets.
Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania, Now 95 Years old, is the only one in the U.S.
In 1847 bright, persevering Elizabeth Blackwell wangled her way into the Geneva (N. Y.) Medical Institution. Two years later she graduated with distinction, becoming the first woman in the U. S. to obtain an M.D. degree. But when her sister sought to duplicate Elizabeth's feat she found the school doors closed to her. Mid-19th Century America felt that no nice girl should be interested in the study of medicine. In 1850 a group of six Philadelphians, feeling that girls like the Blackwell sisters should be encouraged, founded the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania a block from the house where Betsy Ross sewed together the first American flag. They too, encountered prim obduracy. The American Medical Association refused to recognize the “irregular" institution. No professional journal would print its announcements. The county medical society excommunicated its professors. But aspiring women flocked to the school, which in 1867 changed its name to the Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania. Although it once had many imitators, it is now the only U.S. medical college solely for women. Its battle for acceptance is long past. Currently 160 students are studying medicine in its well-equipped modern building which stands on a high tract in Philadelphia on which, a legend has it, Thomas Jefferson once hoped to build the Capitol of the U. S. Its 2,000 graduates are no longer merely tolerated but are highly respected by the medical world. Many embark on the hard career of medical missionary. America's first woman medical missionary was a member of the W. M. C. of Pa. class of '69. During the war the school's dean, Dr. Margaret Craighill, became the first woman doctor ever to be commissioned in the Army Medical Corps.
The girls who go to the University of Kansas are as different in their looks and backgrounds as the buildings in which they live. The buildings (left) are sometimes classic, sometimes Tudor, sometimes Georgian. Some of the girls are dull and some bright, some pretty and some plain, some grinds and some “jivers.” In a typical freshman class of 700, about 110 will be farmers' daughters, 75 merchants' daughters, 40 teachers' daughters, 25 bankers' daughters. Their State University is at Lawrence, perched on the highest hill in eastern Kansas. It is a surprising town to find in the most middle of the Midwestern States. Settled by New Englanders, it is very much like New England except that the wind blows all the time. The streets are lined with spreading elms and some of the houses have captain's walks. In regular session, 1,500 girls attend the University, which is co-educational. For the most part they have a very good time at college, often living better there than they do at home. A fourth of them occupy sorority houses; less than a third, dormitories. The rest board out around town. Their college life is heartier, more social and much more frankly concerned with boys than it is at an Eastern women's college. Almost all the girls are Kansans who settle down in Kansas after graduation. As alumnae, they are the most closely knit group of people in the State, binding all Kansas together from town to town by friendships made at Lawrence. The way they learn to live, to dress, to behave, to look at life and culture, affects their future and the future of their State in a hundred small and subtle ways.
If, as the natives whisper, Daniel Webster sometimes revisits his childhood haunts when the wild winds whistle through the New Hampshire hills, he would find no more baffling sign of the U.S. at war than the sight of 650 rugged bare-legged girls drilling on a bleak, snow-covered field (above). These girls, students at the University of New Hampshire in Durham, are the first organized college group in the U.S. to undergo pre-graduation training like men's ROTC which will fit them specifically for service in the WAAC, WAVES, and other auxiliaries of the armed forces. For the last six weeks they have been embarked on a new intensive physical-education program which soon will be duplicated in many State universities and colleges. This new program was worked out in Washington by a committee representing the Army, Navy, WAAC, WAVES, Army and Navy Air Corps and college teachers of dancing, sports, games and physical education. It abandons purely recreational activities in favor of military drill and calisthenics (based on U.S. Army Basic Field Manual), emphasizes body building and toughening achieved through hiking, conditioning exercises, and a going-over on the rigorous, man-sized obstacle course. Freshmen, sophomores and juniors are required to put in at least three hours a week on the new program. Most seniors, who expect to join one of the auxiliaries or to undertake work in war industries, take the course on a voluntary basis. Although they have no official uniform, the girls wear light-blue shorts and blouses for indoor exercise and sometimes for more strenuous outdoor activities. Thus far the only hitch in the rigid training regime, shown on this and the following pages, developed when the university's imminent Military Art Ball made it necessary to let up on all exercises for a few days because the girls were too stiff to dance.
Iowa's No.1 artist who died last winter gets big retrospective show in Chicago
Last February Grant Wood died. Last October the Chicago Art Institute put on a big retrospective show of his works, some of which are reproduced on these pages. No sooner had the Art Institute doors opened than the battle over Wood's paintings began again-a battle that had been raging among art lovers ever since Wood first returned home from Paris in 1929 to paint his stern-faced neighbors and the countryside of Iowa, where he was born and brought up. Those who do not like Grant Wood’s paintings are violent in their disapproval. Some critics contend that Wood had no taste, that his work was oppressive because of its coldness and lack of emotion. Others acclaim him as the great messiah of modern American art and place him on a pedestal as one who dared turn his back on French influence and dared paint the homely scenes of America's Midwest. Wood always regarded himself as an artist with something important to say about a variety of subjects. His Daughters of Revolution was his factual comment on an organization that was being generally criticized for being reactionary instead of revolutionary. His Death on Ridge Road sprang from Wood's desire to deliver a message on U. S. automobile fatalities. Though he had something to say about the Ancient Arabic Order of the Mystic Shriners and its behavior and collected much material on that group, he never got around to putting his words and ideas into paint. Yet for all the controversy that whirled about him, Wood remained, until his death at 50, a gentle and mild-mannered man little concerned with the opinions of the World outside those of Iowa. A neighboring farmer's approval of one of his pictures meant more to Wood than all the acclaim of worldly art critics,