Judy Garland on Judy Garland (15 page)

I was three months old (how often you've told me this, Mom!) when you first noticed what you called “the first signs talent” in me—you always sang to me when you rocked me to sleep, you've told me, and you noticed that when you sang just sort of usual songs, like “Baby's Shoes” or “[Rock-a-Bye], Baby,” I'd go smack off to sleep. When you sang sort of rollicking, spirited, “Yo, Ho” songs, I'd gurgle and bat my eyes and flip my hands around as though I was telling the Sand Man to scat! And when you sang sad songs, especially “In the Gloaming” or “The End of a Perfect Day.” I'd cry. I'd cry real wet, sobby tears!

That's how you first knew, you say, that I was “sensitive to music.” Well, be that as it may, certainly my first sort of large, blurry memory is of music, music all the time, music all over the house. “We shall have music wherever we go” should have been the Gumm motto! I can remember how you and Daddy and Suzanne and Jimmie sang—in the bathtub, at meals, at your housework, as well as in the theater, of course. Daddy had a
beautiful
voice. Anyway, you've always insisted that my response to music “showed” abnormally early and was abnormally acute. And as it makes me feel rather “special” I like to think you were right—you always are, Mom, and that's not gross flattery!

The “First Tooth” is also one of your favorite “baby” stories about me. I was four months old to the day, it seems, and you had invited guests for dinner. And I made the dinner hour hideous by yowling my lungs out,
not
musically, and continued throughout the evening! When you couldn't stand it any longer, you gave me a thorough “searching” and discovered that I had cut, not my first tooth, but my first
teeth!
The two uppers had come through. Mom always tells people, “She was doing things double, even then!”

My First Word, I believe, was uttered at the ripe, old age of nine months. And the family was unimpressed because it seemed to be the very banal, baby word, “Goo.” Then, Daddy noticed that whenever I said “Goo” or whatever it was, I always proceeded to
do
something, like throwing my rattle at the cat or putting a glass ornament in my mouth, and then they all realized that I was not saying “Goo” but “Do.” (I still think that's a debatable point, Mom, but have it your own way!)

I took my First Step at the age of eleven months, Baby-Book History records. Previous to that first step, I've been told, I managed to get around by hitching myself across the floor, delicately balanced on one hip bone! Even my doting parents couldn't make anything precocious out of
that!

My First Interest, it seems, was in picture books. Well, I can believe that. I've always been crazy about books. And I can remember for myself that my first real favorite was the story of
Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp.
Right now, I'm reading
Mein Kampf
and finding it pretty tough going, too. But I honestly think that if we want to understand what's going on in Europe and how it got like this, we should read the book!

I never played with dolls,
never.
I'm told that when I was a mere infant, I'd make horrible faces if anyone just handed me a doll. And I remember myself that my first really nice doll was given me by Mary Pickford when I won the
Herald-Express'
“Better Babies” Contest. I think I was two and a half or something like that.
*
I don't remember the contest but I do remember that the Great, Big Beautiful Doll sat in my playroom along with other, not-so-elegant dolls and that I thought it was just a piece of bric-a-brac, not something to
play
with. I think I know why I hated dolls,
they reminded me of little
dead
people! All cold and still. I liked live, warm, cuddly things. I still do. The first toys I ever really played with, I remember, really
used,
were a toy piano and a toy xylophone. I never had a piano lesson in my life but I liked to bang on that toy piano.

I'm not sure whether I really remember my first Public Appearance or whether I've just heard Mom and Daddy talk about it so often that I think I remember. I do remember that I sang “Jingle Bells” and that I chose that song my own self. I do remember it was Christmas week and I was about three years old, and that I wore a white dress which Mom made for me and that Suzanne and Jimmie (I always called Virginia, Jimmie) pinned sprigs of holly all over it, even where I sat down! And of course I remember, Mom, how you taught us three kids lots of songs. And you've told me that I amazed you by my persistence in making trios out of duets (so that I could be included in with my sisters!) and by my quickness in catching onto tricks and phrases. Anyway, so the Family Saga goes, when the curtains parted on this First Appearance on Any Stage of Baby Frances Gumm, there I stood, and when the orchestra gave me my cue, I started to sing, without a moment's hesitation or the slightest sign of shyness. You insist that I kept perfect pitch, perfect time, and didn't miss a word!

Well, when the chorus ended, so far as the orchestra was concerned, and it was time for me to bow off gracefully, I did nothing of the kind. I started the song all over again! Again it ended. Again I had other ideas. And after five verses and four choruses, Daddy had to march out on the stage, pick up his infant daughter and carry her into the wings amid quote tumultuous applause end quote! “I wanna sing some
more,”
I kept protesting. I remember Daddy telling me this—“I wanna sing some more,” and he said he was sure my voice could be heard out front long after I'd vanished, on his shoulder, into the fringe of canvas Christmas trees.
*

That was amateur night, too, by the way. And
I won the first prize.
And Daddy wouldn't let me accept the prize because it was his theater and he said it was like a hostess not accepting the prize at her own party! That always sort of stuck in my mind and I thought to myself, “Huh, I'll win prizes someday, prizes I can accept!”

Anyway, that was my first heady draught of applause. I loved it then, apparently, and I've always loved it. Between you and me, folks, I think it's the
most
beautiful music in the whole world! And it can come in different ways, too, not only the sound of hands clapping, but in fan letters, good reviews, the shine in your director's eyes when you've done a good scene, lots of ways.

My first memory of my Mom and Dad is watching them doing their singing and dancing act as I sat in an orchestra seat between Suzanne and Jimmie. Especially, I remember hearing my mother sing “I'm Saving for a Rainy Day.” That has always been my favorite song. I used to cry when she sang it. I still do.

I remember how Daddy always arranged the bill in his theater so that our acts followed one another. I mean, Mom and Dad would do their act first and we girls would sit in the audience and applaud. Then we would go on and do our trio singing and Mom and Daddy would sit out front and applaud
us.
That was my first practical lesson of the theater—that it
takes only one good friend to start the ball rolling.

I have other First Memories of my Mom and Dad, too—especially how hard they worked for us—how my mother not only accompanied us on the piano but also made all our costumes, sometimes sewing all night long, and also arranged our music for us and also took care of our theatrical bookings. And Daddy did all the business end of things, took charge of the box office and our traveling arrangements and so on. And then, after all their back-of-the-scenes work was done, they'd get out there on the stage and do their act, fresh and peppy as kids! I don't think there's anything in the world so folksy as a Family Act. It really is “all for one and one for all.”

And most of all, I remember how Dad introduced Mother to the audiences. He was so proud of her tiny hands. Like little, quick birds, they were, I always thought. Anyway, Dad would always do his short dance
routine first and then he'd step forward to the footlights and hold up his hand for silence and say, “I want to introduce a tiny, pretty lady with tiny, pretty hands!”

Maybe it sounds kind of corny now, but it always brought a lump into my throat and tears into my eyes when I was a kid. And it still does, when I think about it, now that I'm eighteen.

I guess you
always
remember your First Best Friend. Margaret Shook was my First Friend. I didn't know until long after we'd left Grand Rapids that Mardie, I always called her Mardie, was the daughter of a maid who had worked for us before I was born. I remember how Daddy taught Mardie and me to sing “My Country 'Tis of Thee” and how he'd play it and we'd stand on the front steps and sing it and we'd make our kitten and puppy and lop-eared rabbit and trained duck stand at attention, too! Once Mardie threw red pepper in my eyes—remember, Mardie?—it was by mistake, of course—and I thought I was blind. Long after the sting had gone out of my eyes I went around making believe I was blind. I guess I liked the attention it got me. I always liked the spotlight, I'm afraid. I've always felt at home in it, like sitting by the fireside, cozy. And I remember that my First Punishment was being stood in a corner. I may as well admit to you now, Mom, that it was no
punishment!
In fact, I got a Kick out of it. It got so that I'd do something naughty deliberately-on-purpose and then I'd go and stand in a corner under my own steam! Because I
liked
standing in a corner. Because it was, in a manner of speaking, also standing in the spotlight! Suzanne and Jimmie would be so impressed when they saw me standing there, they'd sort of tiptoe around.

Well, I certainly remember my First Tour! We left Grand Rapids soon after I was three. I can remember hearing Mother and Dad talking about how California would be the best and healthiest place to bring up three small girls. I remember all the talk about Dad selling his theater in Grand Rapids and his plans for buying a new one in California. Being practical people,
and
vaudevillians, we decided to make one-night stands along the road on the way out. That's when I began to be The Pest of the Act. Being the smallest of the three, I always stood on the stage between the girls, with an arm around each sister. And I'd tickle first one and then the other! I broke up the act entirely. They'd just go to pieces but I'd go right on singing!
Jimmie thought it was rather funny but Suzanne would chase me all over and around backstage, trying to catch me and spank me.

Sometimes we played jokes on the orchestra, too—and then one night, the orchestra turned the tables on us. We had to stand very near to the footlights, you see, being so little—and this bunch of boys got a very bright idea and
they all ate garlic
and the fumes nearly
asphyxiated us!
But that was nothing to what our First Audience did to us when we first played in California—it was in a small theater in a small northern town, I remember, and before we'd half-finished our first song, the entire house
walked out on us
! That was the night Dad decided that the theater was not for us. And that walkout was my First Introduction to California audiences!

Well, then we settled in Lancaster, California, and Daddy got his theater nearby. I think the first special thing I remember about Lancaster is when I did my first school play there. I must have been about four and a half, I think. Anyway, I was a
dwarf
and I had pillows stuffed all over me. At the end of our act, I was surprised to see the curtain go down before we, The Players, had taken any bows. What kind of a thing was
this,
I thought?—so I just went right out in front of the curtain and started to bow like mad and I just stayed out there, bowing and bowing, and then I had to crawl in under the curtain to get back again! I should have been mortified but I'm told that I wasn't.

My first “starring” role was also in a school play in Lancaster. I forget whether it was given by the dramatic school I attended for a while or the public school, but anyway, I was “Mrs. Goldilocks” and I wore a huge monument of a blonde wig. I had to swing back and forth in a rope swing under some canvas trees and in my zeal of enthusiasm, I swung so hard that I hit one of the backdrops and
knocked my wig off
! And there sat “Mrs. Goldilocks” with little, brown wisps for hair. They never gave me a starring role again! Oh, and as if I can
ever
forget the time I appeared in a school recital in the auditorium of the public school where Suzanne and Jimmie were going! The place was packed. Behind the scenes, my mother held my dress for me. I can see it to this day, a white dress, all ruffles, with panties attached so it would be easy for me to slip into with one motion—
well, just as Mom was holding it ready for me to step into, I heard the opening bars of my number and I rushed out onto the stage,
stark naked!

I must say that I began my professional career as an ill-starred star. Like when I was five I became one of The Meglin Kiddies. And the next Public Appearance I made was in one of their revues in a Los Angeles theater. To us, a Los Angeles theater meant what the Palace did to Broadway. It was the Big Time! And not only was I in several of the ensembles but also, dressed as a Cupid, with bow and arrow and quivers in a silver case, I was to deliver myself of a solo, “I Can't Give You Anything but Love.” And then, again, Disaster! For I awoke on the eventful morning with a cold sore, a sty on my right eye and the horrible results of my First Permanent almost totally disabling me. I couldn't see, my eye was practically shut, my mouth was swollen with the cold sore, and my hair looked like
Topsy's
after a pillow fight. We spent the day frantically trying first aid remedies and I kept my fingers crossed wishing—but you can't wish sties and cold sores away, nor permanents, either, they run their appointed courses. Anyway, Mom says that I showed then, for the first time, that the old “the Show must go on” slogan was in my bones because—a very sorry-looking Cupid did the blind staggers onto the stage. I couldn't even get the quivers out of my case on account of how I couldn't
see
to get them out!