A Woman's Intuition
When Pam and jerry North start out on one of their crime-hunting trips on the Mr. and Mrs. North radio Programs, they soon find themselves embroiled in all sorts of difficulties .Often, it’s Pam’s intuition-her hunches- which gets them free of those difficulties and brings the Norths safety home again . There’s a real-life parallel to that, for when Alice Frost, who plays the role of Pam North in the radio series,
and her own husband start on one of their less hair-raising adventures, more often than not it’s Alice’s intuition Which Keep them out of trouble-or, she confesses in her story , gets them into it!
Pamela North and Alice Frost (who is Pam on the air) have much in common - particularly a belief
That it never pays to underestimate the power of a “hunch”, especially the female variety
My HUSBAND- not Jerry North, my husband on our Mr. and Mrs. North radio program, but my real husband-and I were impatiently waiting for an elevator on the fourteenth floor of a New York
office building. We were expecting early dinner guests at our apartment so we were in a hurry. But when the green light flashed for the elevator and the door slid open, I had a strange sensation and my muscles froze.
“Let’s wait for the next one. Bill,” I said nervously.
“I’ve got a funny feeling.”
He grimaced, took my arm and urged me into the elevator while the other passengers started.
“We don’t have time for hunches now,” he muttered as the door closed.
Before I could answer, the car began to drop and an elderly woman pushed in front of me, her high pitched voice reaching out to the elevator boy.
“Young man,” she scolded. “You passed my floor.”
Then everything happened as quickly as if we were living out a nightmare. The elevator gathered speed.
The operator’s face suddenly became red and glossy with sweat. He strained against the handle trying to stop the car. The floor numbers sped by in a white blur. The old woman screamed and my knees weakened, began to buckle. My stomach seemed to be oozing out of my ears.
“The emergency button,” Bill yelled and made a lunge for the control panel.
There was a jolt and the old lady fell against me. I was knocked to my knees, waiting for the crash, the end. Then just as suddenly everything was still and gradually I realized we were safe. The elevator had
stopped in the cellar after a fall of fourteen floors.
Thirty minutes later we were lifted through the emergency door. My hands were still trembling. Although we had almost been killed, no one was hurt.
“I knew something would go wrong,” I reminded Bill Later. “I felt it in my bones before we got in the car.”
He dismissed me with a shrug and said, “Alice, can’t you stop being Pamela North when you’re away from the studio?”
I didn't argue the point. A long time ago I learned that there isn't a man alive who will openly recognize the power of a woman’s intuition. It’s got something to do with their male ego or maybe it’s because they can’t understand or explain it. But I believe in hunches and that’s why I’ve always felt natural in the role of Pamela North. Pamela’s an intuitive woman who makes the most of it. I understand that. If it hadn’t been for intuition, mine and my mother’s, I would probably still be a frustrated actress living in Minneapolis.
Mother was wonderfully intuitive woman and the brightest part of my early life. She had to be, for father was a very strict Lutheran minister who believed his daughters should be taught to be good housekeepers and to ignore the outside world.
My childhood wasn’t much different from thousands of other little girls who play with their dolls and dream of being heroic nurses or singers decked in jewels and sequins. My special dream was of being an actress. But if father was to have his way, my public appearances would have ended at the age of four when I sang “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” in the church auditorium.
He couldn’t very well object to my participation in grade school plays such as “Hansel and Gretel” which added substance to my dreams, (Continued on page 80)
Mr. and Mrs. North with Alice frost as Pam and Joe Curtin as Jerry, is heard on CBS, Tuesday nights at 8:30, EDT.
A Woman’s Intuition --
(Continued from page 47)
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But he did put his foot down when I got in high school. I remember proudly announcing at dinner table that I’d won the leading role in a school play.
“You had better be content with singing,” he said sternly. ”Acting is not for ladies.”
“You mean I can’t take the part?”
“No. Absolutely no.”
I pleaded with him and hopelessly turned to my brother and older sisters for support. Then mother spoke up.
“It’s not really acting,” she said. “It’s recreation for the children a kind of gamed period. After all, Alice isn’t an actress. She’s just a child.”
Before dinner was over mother had broken down his defense and father gave in. But she understood that for me the theater wasn’t a game. Even then she had been following her intuition and as she told me years later, when I had my first role in a Broadway play, “I always had the feeling you would be a good actress.”
By the time I’d graduated from high school, acting had become a sensitive subject in our home. I made it clear that a theatrical career was the only thing I wanted out of life and father was shocked. He stubbornly insisted that I enroll in a music seminary. And if it hadn’t been for a woman’s intuition that would have been the end. However, mother came to my rescue under rather strange circumstances.
Father was traveling to Chicago for a conference of ministers. Not often did he make a trip and although he didn’t show it, he was excited. You can well imagine how he reacted when mother suggested he call the trip off.
“It’s just that I have the feeling something will go wrong there,” she said.
“That’s foolish talk,” he answered. When I asked her what it was all about she brushed aside any claim to second sight or foretelling the future by saying, “It’s just woman’s intuition. That’s all.”
The day we saw father board the train, mother was gloomy and father exasperated.
“Stop this silliness,” he told her.”I’ll be back safe and sound in four days.”
But four hours later he walked into the living room, his face pale and drawn. Just outside of Minneapolis the train had jumped the tracks. Several people were badly injured and one man killed. As he told the story, I noticed a new respect in his eyes whenever he looked at mother.
A week later she took him aside and pleaded my case again. Probably she told him how desperately I wanted an acting career. Perhaps she told him that my life would be ruined if I were frustrated.
Afterwards he called me into his office. Looking as if he were about to hand me over to the devil he said, “Alice, I’m going to arrange for you to join the Chautauqua circuit for a month. Maybe that will get acting out of your system.”
It didn’t. The month with the Chautauqua only added fuel to my fire of ambition, although looking back at those four weeks now is slightly amusing. The Midwestern Chautauqua circuit imposed very rigid standards on their productions. Most authors would never have recognized their work after
The censor had deleted and rewritten whole parts. All men become either honest, fearless heroes or black villains. Even mothers were portrayed as frail, Sexless woman who still believed the stork delivered babies. There were more chaperons than actresses with the company and even the stagehands were forbidden to smoke with the threat of instant dismissal. But I enjoyed it all and learned a little more about acting.
I stopped off in Chicago on the way home. Strictly on a hunch I made the round of actors’ agents although it didn’t make sense anyone would want me with my limited experience. When an agent said, “Miss Frost, I’ve got a place for you at Miami Beach in a stock company,” I was only half prepared.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said.”I have to go to Minneapolis on business for a couple of weeks.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “It’ll wait.” I was dizzy, dazzled and completely stage struck until I anticipated the scene I’d have with father. Then I came down to earth with a crash. But if my intuition had only told me what to expect, I should have been more miserable. What I discovered when I got home turned me numb with shock.
My father was seriously ill. Two days later he died.
It wasn’t till after the funeral that Mother was able to talk to me, She asked about the tour, and hoping to cheer her up I told her that an agent in Chicago had thought enough of my acting to offer a job. I had already put out of my mind any idea of leaving home.
“I want you to go to Miami,” she said.
“No, dear,” I told her. “I want to stay with you now.”
She had barely heard me.
“Your brother and sisters will be here,” she said. “Anyway I always disagreed with your father about your being an actress. Now I want you to take advantage of every opportunity.”
A week later I was in Miami, and there I learned more about the theater and something about being hungry.
Shortly after I arrived, the backer of the show was killed in an accident and we ran into some hard days as we tried to carry on alone. If we had a popular play, the theater was packed and we ate well. Other times we didn’t have enough money to buy scripts for a new play until twenty-four hours before it was scheduled to start.
At the end of a year we decided to disband, so I went to the telegraph office and wrote, “Mother, the prodigal girl is returning” and sent the wire collect.
However, I had no idea of giving up. During the year in Miami, I’d gone from bit parts to second leads. My hopes were high but there was only one move for an ambitious young actress: to Broadway!
“I’m all in favor of your going to New York,” mother declared. “But there’s one hitch.”
I looked at her in surprise. It wasn’t like her to add any reservations.
“What is it?”
“I want to go with you.”
And that’s how mother came to pull up her roots in Minneapolis after living there for forty years. She probably realized I would need her moral support in job hunting. She was a good Scout and an incentive for me, for I wanted to be successful for her sake so she could live comfortably. She well deserved it and I’m grateful for the measure of good fortune I had before she passed away.
When we arrived in Manhattan, the great hordes of people overwhelmed me. Not the thousands I had expected to see on the streets but the thousands of actors I found in casting offices competing for jobs. Actually many directors seemed to like the way I read parts but took exception to my appearance.
“You make a swell ingénue,” a producer summed it up, “When you’re sitting down.”
There was nothing I could do. If it had been fat, I could have worked it off or if it had been my hair, I might have become a brunette but there’s no way to cut half a foot off a woman who’s five feet seven inches tall!
I can’t truthfully say that I was about to give up, but I was seriously thinking of going back to the Midwest circuit where tall girls weren’t considered freaks.
The break came when I overhead two girls mention in a drug store that they were going to try out for Franchot Tone’s new play, “Green Grow the Lilacs.” I studied them enviously neither one was over five feet four inches.
Gupling down my coffee, I walked quickly out of the store toward the theater where they were casting. At the corner I stopped and said to my-self, “What’s the use? You’re just as tall as you were yesterday.” I stood there, considering the situation carefully.
“Make a hunch,” I told myself. So I did and felt a weak undernourished kind of confidence creep into my legs and I walked on.
The moment I got into the theater, a man pushed his hat over the black of his head and asked, “Can you act?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“I hope so,” he said wearily. “We’ve been looking all over New York for tall actresses.”
I got a part and that led to better roles on the stage in a series of revivals and then to playing Portia in Orson Welles’ “Julius Caesar” and the lead opposite Joseph Cotton in “Shoemaker’s Holiday.”
I suppose you could say I backed into radio. It happened while I was at liberty, a theatrical expression meaning financially busted. I had gone through two pairs of shoes and dozens of offices looking for a part. I had given up lunches and was about to forego dinners. Then strictly on a hunch I phoned a friend of mine in radio. I hadn’t seen him in over a year and there is only one explanation for his name popping into my head: intuition.
He sounded happy and prosperous.
“I’m putting together a new show for Walter O’Keefe,” he explained. Then as an afterthought he said, “You know, I’ll bet you could handle the comedy.”
He won his bet, and working on that program led to other comedy roles with Bob Hope, Stoopnagle and Budd, Fanny Brice and Robert Benchley.
And when I got tired of playing light roles, it was intuition a gain that got me out, for who in her right mind would turn down a part in an Orson Welles stage production? “You’re a natural for the comedy lead,” he told me.
But I had a hunch that this was the right time to make a break so I said,
“Thanks but I’m looking for something
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Serious. I really need a change in pace.” Instead of saying good luck and walking away, he suggested I try out for the part of Portia.
I got the role and it convinced even radio people that I could get tears as well as laughs. If ever a woman played a variety of characters from when on, it was I. I played a Japanese girl, a 112 year-old woman, Booker T. Washington’s mother, a neurotic, an alcoholic the title role in “Jane Eyre,” a strip teaser in “Burlesque” and a multitude of others. It led to roles in daytime serials and best of all to my meeting Bill Tuttle, my husband.
Bill directed Big Sister when I was a regular member of the cast. We were together five days a week, and what impressed me most at the time wasn’t his good looks-although Bill is as handsome as they come. It was his kindness to everyone. Regardless of age or circumstances or importance, he was patient and sweet with everyone.
Believe me; I didn’t marry him on a hunch. That is one of the big exceptions in my life. For many months we had a casual “Studio romance.” During breaks in rehearsals we munched sandwiches together and told each other the stories of our lives.
I found him very imaginative, with a great deal of Irish charm attractively tempered by his New England background. What he thought of me, I discovered on our first date when we went to twenty-one Club.
“This is to impress you,” he said.
“I’m impressed,” I told him.
Until midnight we filled up on impressions and then impetuously he suggested a stroll. We walked out of Twenty-one and turned into Fifth Avenue. Just as impetuously Bill flagged down a cab.
“How much do you want to drive us to Mary land?”
With the usual Broadway direction, the driver asked, “Why do you wanna go there bud?”
“I’d like to get married tonight,”
Bill explained.
The driver named a figure. Bill turned to me and asked, ”Will you marry me?”
I hesitated for six months I hesitated and then, I answered “Yes!”
In June of 1941 we were married. It was all love, with no doubts and no necessity for calling on intuition to make a decision. But Bill, to his male chagrin, found that hunches were to play a big part in our marriage. The indoctrination began immediately, during our honeymoon.
We were driving through Michigan and our destination was a resort hotel with an eighteen-hole golf course. In order to get there by evening we had to make a ferry that left Lansing at three o’clock in the afternoon. It was the last ferry of the day.
About one o’clock, with only hundred miles to go, Bill stopped the car at a crossroads.
“We turn left here, don’t we?” he asked.
“No, turn right,” I told him.
“Let’s check the road map.”
We looked in the glove compartment, on the floor, on the seat and behind the seat. No map.
“I’m sure it’s a right turn,” I repeated.
“No,” he said and turned left.
It was a lovely ride with the top down, rolling through wooded hills and lake land. But an hour and a half later Bill began to glance nervously at his wristwatch. Suddenly he stopped and pointed to a road sign. It read, Lansing--- 150 mi.
“We will never make it,” Bill groaned.
“The ferry leaves in half an hour.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m sure we’ll get there in time.”
“It’s impossible,” he told me, exasperated. “It’ll take us two hours to get there.”
“I know we’re going to make it,” I said firmly. “I feel it in my bones.”
I was sticking my intuition out that time and during the two hours it took us to reach Lansing, I didn’t say another word. As we approached the ferry, I felt so tense I had to close my eyes. Then I heard Bill’s voice, hoarse with amazement.
“I don’t believe it!”
I looked up, and there was the ferry. Fifteen seconds after we were abroad, it chugged off. A worker explained the ferry had been two hours late on its run all day.
“You called that one too,” Bill admitted.
“Just a woman’s intuition,” I told him, blandly.
Then a heavy-set, blond man got out of his car and walked over to us.
“See you’re from New York,” he said. “Where you headed for?”
We told him the name of the hotel although I could tell from Bill’s manner he had instantly disliked the man.
“What do you want to go there for?”
The fat man asked. “Worst place you
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When the man left, Bill turned to me and said, “He’s just an old blowhard.”
But the situation reminded me of the escapades of Mr. and Mrs. North when Jerry sizes up a man as a murderer and Pamela’s intuition tells her the chap is innocent.
“He might be a blowhard,” I told Bill, “but I’m afraid he’ll be right.”
“Silly woman,” Bill said just as a father had told me mother, as Jerry has told Pamela and as legions of other men have told their wives.
We got to the hotel before sunset. As soon as we checked in, Bill went out to look at the gold course. When he came back his face was woebegone.
“The course is worse than an army training ground,” he moaned. “I guess the man on the ferry was right.”
I turned my back quickly so that he wouldn’t see that I-told-you-so look in my eyes, but I was too late. He was beginning to feel a bit crushed with the accuracy of my predictions.
The next day we left there fast. I wanted to wear black to match the mood of the day but the best I could manage was a dyed-blue linen dress.
It was one of those summer days when a bit of the sky is sunny and the other nine-tenths flushed with rain clouds. So Bill suggested we put up the canvas top before we got wet.
I studied the disgruntled look on his face. He had lost his chance to play golf. Worse than that he’d discovered his wife had hunches that were practically one hundred percent right, which is disconcerting to the male ego. So even though I was sure it would rain, I made the sacrifice,
“I’ve got a hunch, Bill,” I said through tight lips. “I’ve got a feeling the clouds will right over.”
He looked up at the sly again then glanced at me as if I were crazy.
So I repeated the lie again, “I know it isn’t going to rain.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, your hunches are always right.”
And it happened. Just the way I know it would. Raindrops as a grapefruit poured down. By the time we stopped the car and lifted the top, both of us were thoroughly soaked.
Then Bill took a look at me and burst out laughing.
My chest, my arms, my stockings and even the seat of the car were a watery blue. The dye had washed out of my dress!
But best of all, my hunch was wrong. Well, it’s all right for Pamela North.
She can get away with it for half an hour every Tuesday evening but when you’re living with a man day in and day out, the accuracy of a woman’s intuition can become a touchy subject. The male ego is a delicate thing. That’s why I’ve learned to pull my hunches.
___________________
Have you ever “played a hunch?” Radio Mirror will purchase for the publication in a future issue of the magazine, the five stories sent in by readers which the editors consider best illustrate the power of a woman’s intuition. Decision of the editors will be final, and no letters will be returned. Payment of $20.00 will be made for each story chosen. Limit your stories to 300 words, and send them to “Hunches,” Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., N.Y. 17, N.Y., postmarked not later than July 10.
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