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The Brighter Day

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ZoeTate, I do believe this was the show Hall referred to in his interviews. I remember thinking of this when Hal Holbrook discussed how beautiful the speech was at Grayling and Sandra's wedding.

Regarding Bell, he did work under Irna Phillips, who was the show's creator. It's possible he wrote for some of the series as I believe she did have ghostwriters.

Minor point, I believe it was Althea, not Liz, who had the breakdown.

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wife of newspaperman Max Canfield, in The Brighter Day. A woman who faces up to life, without wincing. Murial was talking about this woman, about her appeal and her courage, before she went on to talk about her own life as a young wife as a young wife and widow, as an actress and fashion model, as teacher of models and producer of fashion shows, and as a TV star.

"Lydia and I have several things in common," Murial said. "She comes from Boston, which was my husband's home, and where I lived, too, for many years. We both lost our husbands, but Lydia has remarried, after a long series of personal frustrations which might have downed a woman less brave. Now her new marriage has brought new problems into her life, but she is not one of those complaining, whining, bitter wives. She has built up tremendous inner resources. She has outer charm and inner strength, and each complements the other.

"That's what makes Lydia so real," Murial went on. "Like the rest of us, she can't be happy and gay all the time. Don't we all have our moods, our days of being sweet and charming, our days when we gets upset over small and big problems, get impatient with ourselves and with others? Don't all women have moments of sophistication, when they behave like mature human beings, and moments of childish angers and anxieties? Lydia is that kind of woman. It gives her dimension.

"Herb Nelson - a highly intelligent actor and solid sort of person, who plays Lydia's husband Max - feels the way i do about both these people. Max has dimension, too. The story has dimension, and truth, as do all the people in it. We're a congenial group - the actors, producer Terry Lewis, director Del Hughes. We love what we're doing, and we get along well off the set as well as on."

Like Lydia, Murial learned to face reality fairly early. She sometimes quotes a friend's remark: "All actors and actresses believe in fairy godmothers who will come and wave a wand, to confer on them the best parts and the greatest success." Long ago, Murial discovered that any wand-waving would have to be strictly of her own doing, although she is not at all sure that it's only actors who rely on fairy godmothers. " I learned about that when I was coaching young girls in modeling. They would want so much to work, and would sometimes do so little about improving themselves."

Murial was born in New Hampshire, of a non-acting family which settled in Boston, when she was quite young, and she belongs that group of actors who got their training mostly in practical work. Later on, when producers and managers asked her where she had studied, she was reluctant to admit that, instead of attending classes, she had actually been in show business since she was seventeen.

Finishing her schooling at a "finishing school" in Fairfax, Virginia, Murial was already well on her way as an actress when she met and married Francis Hart, a Boston banker and businessman who also had a passion for the theater, and talent for it, and was always torn between the two worlds. They spent their summers on Cape Cod, where both worked with the Cape Cod Playhouse in Dennis - Fran Hart as its publicity representative, and Richard Aldrich, Fran's friend from schooldays, as its producer. Later, Fran became president and treasurer.

During the first summer of her marriage, the "honeymoon summer," Murial had to remember everything she had ever learned about charm and glamour, and those additional resources of strength and humor. Francis Hart had two children by a former marriage, a daughter Bunny (Fredericka) and a son Russ. "I was getting used to my new life and my new responsibilities," Murial recalls, "and the children were getting used to me. The man who worked for us at the house that summer, broke his leg the second day we were there, and was laid up a long time. Dick Aldrich was staying with us that season, along with a couple of young men apprentices. We had a large house, and the greats of the theater who came to the Cape were in and out of our home, welcome guests. Ethel Barrymore, Bette Davis, David Niven, scores of others. We had little parties after the performances. There was rarely a quiet moment. It was exciting, stimulating, wonderful - but just a little like living in Grand Central Station for a young girl unused to it." As the seasons went on and Murial got to know Gertrude Lawrence, Dick Aldrich's wife, and to work with her in several plays, she found out more about this thing called charm. "She was one of the first women I knew to impress me so forcibly with the fact that a woman is first a woman, and then she is anything else she wants to be.

"On the stage, of course," Murial continues, "she was the brilliant actress who concentrated completely on her work and gave the very best in her. During rehearsals, she would help me tremendously, teach me how to get comedy out of a line, for instance, at which she was so wonderful. She was generous in our scenes together, helped me with clothes. It was instinctive with her, however, to play her own part with everything she had. I knew that, once on a stage with her, she was saying, figuratively: Now I have done everything for you that I could, and you are on your own. I have thought of that often since, when I have tried to help and advise girls studying to be models. You can tell a girl everything you have learned, and then it is up to her."

Murial had always done some modeling, along with her theater work, and she has a model's figure today - five feet, five-and-a-half inches, 115 pounds, graceful carriage. During her marriage to Fran, they both became interested in starting a model agency with a friend, Mildred Albert, who already had a school in Boston in which Murial was teaching. It's still in existence, with Mildred and Phillip Brown as her parents and Murial speaks fondly of the "Hart models," many of them girls she has helped train. The business is known officially as Promotions, Inc., but is more colloquially referred to as the "Hart Agency."

"For five years, we produced the huge Boston Herald annual fashion show, which required months of preparation. We began the idea, in Boston, of fashion-show luncheons for the big department stores. I not only trained models, organized shows and chose wardrobes and accessories, but I did loads of fashion commentary."

After Francis Hart passed on, in 1950, Murial began to think about devoting more time to acting. She went on tour in "Autumn Garden," with Fredric March, playing in seventeen major cities.More recently, she was in "Heaven Can Wait," co-starring with Steve Cochran.

The great challenge, however, was television. The first TV dramatic roles, and then the opportunity to do big-time commercials: "I was new to television and new to this kind of 'selling,'" Murial points out, "but everything I had learned as a model - and especially as commentator for hundreds of fashion shows - was there, inside, to help me. I was learning to take my own advice, the advice I had been handing out to other girls, but I had the advantage of knowing it had worked for them and could for me, too. Knowing this it gave me courage. And poise, and authority. Every girl should learn - early, if possible - that every bit of experience she gets, whether she welcomes it or not and whether it ties in immediately with what she wants, will some day help her with some other thing that she wants."

Murial learned a great many things about girls who want to be models, and girls in general. All want to improve themselves, but not all are willing to work for it. Even the shyest, most timid, have many preconceived ideas about themselves, that are difficult to change until the girl herself wants to change them. It was hard to teach some girls to walk with head up, so the world could see them and they could see the world. It was difficult to suggest changes in hairdressing, when the answer came, "But I like it this way."

"Many girls want to 'make it,' in modeling, in business, socially, but on their own terms," Murial reflects. "Many can, but most of us cannot. When girls complained to me that another girl was getting all the jobs, I would ask them to analyze why. Were they doing the best they knew how, about their hair, their grooming, their clothes? Were they making the rounds, showing themselves available for jobs? It has always seemed sensible to me to look at some other woman whom you admire - often a movie or television star - not with envy, but with a desire to find out why she is so lovely, why her clothes seem so right for her, what there is in her voice and her manner that gave her charm and glamour. What where is in her life, and her background, to bring out these qualities."

In her own case, when the producers of The Brighter Day were seeking an actress who had certain special qualities for Lydia, they discovered them in Murial through television. By that time, she was well known in the new medium, and had volunteered to help, on a Sunday off, by appearing on a telethon to raise funds for arthritis research. Del Hughes, director of The Brighter Day, with whom she had worked three years before in the "Autumn Garden" company, tuned in the telethon that Sunday morning.

"There's Murial Williams," he said, and remembered her fine performance in the play. Watching her interview patients, he suddenly realized that there was the girl who had the qualities they had been trying to find. He called the producer and a date was set for Murial to read for the part. That was more than two years ago. Interesting, satisfying years in many ways.

Murial's stepchildren, Russ and Bunny, are now grown up. "Still very much a part of my life," she says. A bachelor girl since the death of her husband. Murial thinks of the married state as the happiest one for a woman: "I would like to marry again, if it's right." Meanwhile,she's finding contentment at home, companionship with friends, and is watched over fondly by a huge French poodle.

Two charming women in one person: Lydia Canfield of The Brighter Day - and Murial Williams, who has developed the charm and courage and femininity to lead bother their lives.

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Murial Williams sounds like a fascinating woman. I don't see that kind of woman being involved in the soaps anymore or even five years ago when there was still a strong soap presence in New York. 'The Brighter Day' seems like it had an interesting talent base.

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whose paths had not crossed his since school days. There are moments of despair followed by heartwarming encouragement and practical assistance. Blair's rise in the theatrical field was not the rocket trip to overnight stardom so often glorified in "backstage" scenarios. Quite the contrary.

When he was fourteen, Blair left his home town of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to join an aunt and uncle in Portland, Oregon. "The Davies family moved to Oregon more or less in shifts," he explains, "grandparents, aunts and uncles, myself, and finally my parents. There wasn't a great deal of loose change floating around, so I went to work as a dispatcher for the Portland Electric Power Company during the day, and finished my high-school education at night school.

"During the summers, I worked with my uncle on the power lines. Being a big-boy for my years - by the time I was fourteen, iI was already almost six feet tall - I especially enjoyed those summers with my uncle in Oregon's great outdoors. Today, the best I can manage , with my broadcasting schedule, is an occasional weekend visit with friends in the country to help them with their gardening. At transplanting trees I'm particularly greet!"

After graduation from night school, Blair joined the Portland Civic Theater, and in the process of doing any mental jobs they might offer him, discovered the career he was to pursue. At this time, there was a well-known stock company in Portland called the Henry Duffy Players. After a time with the Portland Civic Theater, Blair managed to convince Henry Duffy that the thing he needed most in the chorus of his "No, No, Nanette" production was the questionable singing voice of one Blair Davies. Three weeks in the production convinced this teenager that here was the life for him.

"As I look back on it," Blair muses, "this was terrific background. I learned to do just about everything connected with a theater.

"Then, when I was twenty-one, I thought my lucky break had finally hit. As the result of a role in 'It's a Wise Child,' I got a Universal Pictures contract and went to Hollywood. I don't really know exactly what happened. Suffice it to say, it was not my luck break. For six months, I sat on the lot. All I managed to wangle was a test with another unknown...Bette Davis. It was a scene from 'Waterloo Bridge,' and was the first time either one of us had been before the camera. The result? Well, we were both fired two months later. If it hadn't been for Henry Duffy, I don't know what I'd have done.

"At the time, I was released from my film contract, Mr. Duffy was in rehearsal with a revival of "Irene.' Somehow or other I managed to talk him into believing I could dance...thereby getting a job in the chorus line. Actually, I couldn't dance a step, which soon became painfully obvious to the two boys on either side of me. At the first rehearsal break, they - John Jones and Karl Brigandi - took me aside and suggested that, if I'd stay out of their way for the rest of that rehearsal, they'd teach me to dance 'after hours.' During the next three weeks, no two people ever worked harder than John and Karl...and for no other reason than friendliness. Though we've lost contact, over the course of years, it pleases me to know that these two great guys have reached the tops in their respective professions - John as a record-breaking pilot, and Karl as a renowned orthopedic surgeon.

"Whatever success I've achieve I have always thought I owed in good measure to them. They could have let me fall flat on my face. After a disillusioning experience in Hollywood, and with hardly a copper in my pocket, if I had gone down, it might have been for the last time, as far as the theater was concerned."

The day came when "Irene" closed, and Blair, with renewed courage, returned to Hollywood and the Pasadena Community Playhouse. To eat at least somewhat regularly, he became an iceman.

Then it happened again. A friend held out a hand. Having heard of a radio audition which was in progress, this friend took up a post on a street corner which she knew was on Blair's delivery route. For well over an hour, she stood on the corner waiting. When he finally arrived, there was no longer time for him to change clothes, so - dripping wet in the ice-delivering clothes - Blair raced to the studio to win his first big radio role.

But, in 1936, the call of the legitimate theater became too great and, in November, he landed in New York, once again jobless. Being a fairly frugal person, Blair had salted away a fair portion of his $200-a-week earnings while riding the crest in Hollywood. The next couple of years were lean. There were two short-lived Broadway shows, an occasional radio spot, and a commercial movie or two. Eventually, his "see-me-through" reserve was gone, and, like many another struggling young actor, he turned to the New York World's Fair for sustenance.

After a short period of ushering at the Westinghouse exhibit, Blair was given the opportunity to assist in the staging of the Westinghouse show. During the winter months, he was an associate producer for one of Westinghouse's advertising agencies, but spring found him back at the Fair.

The next two years were devoted to a wide variety of roles in stock and touring companies and, although Blair wasn't entirely unhappy on the road, he was grateful for the role as understudy for Fredric March, in "The Skin of Our Teeth."

"It certainly wasn't that I wanted anything to happen to Mr. March," Blair grins, "but I must admit I did have a premonition that something was going to happen. Exactly ten days after I was hired, it did - and I was in front of the footlights trying to take Mr. March's place. Believe me, that was a tough spot. Though I had memorized the lines and had watched all the performances, I had never had a third-act rehearsal. Until the curtain rose, the audience would not know that, instead of seeing the great Fredric March, they would be seeing a comparative unknown. They would have every right tin the world to get up and demand a refund. Well, when my curtain call brought forth a couple of 'Bravos,' I was almost beside myself. I don't suppose anything will ever duplicate the thrill of that moment!"

Perhaps that is as much as a person should expect of a show...or maybe even a lifetime. But 'Skin of Our Teeth' had still another great moment in it for me. After two weeks, Mr. March returned to the show. In front of everybody, he shook my hand and said: 'Florence tells me you're getting some things out of the third act I completely overlooked. I'd like to discuss it with you, if I may.'

"I was so elated over these experiences that even Uncle Sam and his call to duty didn't depress me. In fact, as it turned out, I was probably one of the happiest men in the Army. I was assigned to help build the first Armed Forces radio station in the China-Burma-India Theater of Operations. I soon got to love India - the people, the culture, the lore. SO much so, in fact, that after the war I almost left the theater to take a commercial job in India. However, I couldn't resist a lucky break - a lead in the road company of 'The Constant Wife.' By the time we returned to New York, the job was gone."

Which is, undoubtedly, just as well. By 1948, Blair had become one of New York's busiest actors. In that year alone, he did thirty-five TV shows, plus a number of industrial shows and commercial pictures.

Now, his heavy schedule with The Brighter Day curtails most of these activities. But, since he likes the Rev. Dennis role so much, Blair is quite content with the routine. "You see," he explains, "while in India, I read everything I could lay hands on regarding the various philosophies of the country. That led to heavy reading of other philosophies, and I now have an unusually well-rounded library on subject. Needless to say, all this has helped immeasurably with my understanding of the role of Rev. Dennis, and I find this character as a very satisfying experience - both as an actor and as a person.

"When the Reverend holds out a helping hand," says Blair Davies with devout sincerity, "I know it's not just 'theater'...after all, I, personally, have had hands held out to me, so I know The Brighter Day's philosophy is both good and sound...and makes for a better world to live in."

Edited by CarlD2

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Thanks for the super article on Blair Davies. I have several episodes of The Brighter Day and have always been somewhat fascinated by it. It seems to be the red-headed stepchild of Irna Phillips creations, even though it was initially quite popular. One is left to wonder why CBS discarded it so unceremoniously and what might have been had it been treated with more love and respect.

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Thank you so much for reading! I know this stuff has a limited audience so I'm happy when other people enjoy it. Do you know what happened to Blair? His last credit at IMDB is around 1966.

I wonder if the show didn't have any strong voice fighting for it, the way most of the CBS shows in this era did. It may have been seen as old-fashioned or warmed-over. Or perhaps the recasting of key roles caused a problem. The show really could have run for a long time with the right care.

Edited by CarlD2

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Blair died about a decade ago. I remember reading his obituary. He lived somewhere in New York, I believe, and was either in his very late 80's or early 90's. I believe that he retired in the 1970s which is why he has no credits following the ones from 1966. He may have done stage work, too, as he had earlier in his career. I have never thought to check on that. No, I read all of your articles and love them. Please keep posting more when you have the time and inclination!

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Thank you for letting me know. I'm glad he had such a long life. I wish these actors had been interviewed in later years to talk about their shows, or what they could remember of their shows. I think the only person connected to Brighter Day who has spoken about it in recent years is Sam Hall.

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tress - in fact, she turned professional at the ripe age of twelve - her adolescence was anything but haphazard, thanks to two unusually understanding non-professional parents.

"Honestly," Mary Linn glows, "my mother and father are the greatest. I know I'm prejudiced, but they really are. They're the type of people to whom I cold always take my problems and discuss them freely. You know, none of this treading lightly until I saw which way the wind was blowing...and then retracting until a better day. In other words, I never had to think in terms of 'campaigning.' Whatever my problem, right then and there was the time to discuss it...clarify it.

"I may be wrong, but it occurs to me that this is the very reason I don't make mountains out of molehills. Disappointments, for example, don't become tragedies. I was raised to look at a problem squarely, face and accept the facts, and then proceed accordingly. And - perhaps of equal importance - I was raised not to create problems.

"For instance," she explains, "my wanting to become an actress must have presented a problem of sorts to Mother and Dad. Not being theatrical people, what they knew about the theater was only what they gleaned from from newspaper and magazine stories. In a word - 'instability.' Mother and Dad could have made a terrible problem out of this lack of knowledge. But they didn't.

"Admittedly, that it was a fact which would have been pretty hard to ignore...since, at the age of six, I wrote, produced and starred in my first play. I can remember it as though it were yesterday. It was a play in pantomime...mostly...and the minor dialogue consisted of handwritten 'yes' and 'no' signs. Just why I thought the signs were more effective than a good nod or shake of the head, escapes me at the moment. It was probably just what I wanted to show off my written vocabulary!...Anyway, from that point on, I had stardust in my eyes. And, within the bounds of normal, everyday living, my folks encouraged me."

In the course of growing up, the time came for music lessons. Mary Linns' abilities at the keyboard were such that for a while it seemed she might enter the entertainment field as a pianist rather than as an actress. In fact, for a time she did play the piano on the old Horn and Hardart Children's Hour radio program. It was while she was playing for The Children's Hour that her parents decided dramatic lessons would help her, and it was a teacher at the dramatic school who suggested she take a CBS Radio audition.

"Despite the fact that I wrote my own script," Mary Linn laughs, "I passed the audition, and CBS put me on their list of newcomers to be called upon for bit parts. It must have been quite a list, for it was a full year before I heard from them. But the day finally did come. I was twelve - and I was to make my professional radio debut on Our Miss Brooks. And wouldn't you know...the day before rehearsal, I came down with laryngitis! But good!

"Mother must have been beside herself. But, if she was, she didn't let on to me. She just sprayed my throat...and sprayed it...and sprayed it. And, by the time we got to the studio, I had recovered enough to be audible. However, Mother had agreed to do all the talking, except script reading, of course, so that what little voice I had could be saved. Well, after all that, my part turned out to be one short giggle...for $7.50!"

Be that as it may, it wasn't long before CBS was calling her for bit parts - and, as Mary Linn explains, "One thing led to another, and you can be sure I never again made a mountain out of a molehill, as I did that first time. I learned to relax and take things as they come."

Two years later, during summer vacation, Mary Linn went to Ridgefield, Connecticut, where Alexander Kirkland operated a little theater. In connection with the playhouse, Mr. Kirkland ran a drama school for young hopefuls. In addition to their studies, these apprentices also had the opportunity of doing bit parts in a number of the summer productions. If you were lucky, an agent in the audience might spot you. An agent did spot her, and the result was better roles.

"Then, the following year," Mary Linn recalls, "along came what, at fifteen, I thought was the answer to my heart's desire - an opening night on Broadway! Funny, the way things work out...for almost any actor or actress, the really tremendous thrill is a Broadway opening night. I couldn't have been more excited over getting a small part in a play called 'Leaf and Bough.' We opened out of town and, after playing three cities, it became obvious that our stay on Broadway - assuming we ever arrived - would be, shall we say, brief.

"To make matters worse, it was Christmas and I was lonely and homesick. This was the first time I had ever been away from the family during a holiday season. Well, we did make it to Broadway...and I must admit that, despite my state of mind, the opening-night thrill was beyond mere words. But...when we closed three nights later...I must also admit I suffered no great depression. I had had my opening-night thrill. But, of even more importance, I was ecstatically happy to be home. Someday, I hope to be on Broadway again."

In 1950, Mary Linn was graduated from a New York City high school and, after a family conclave, decided that - even though she wanted to be an actress - she should first complete her education. Bennington College in Vermont seemed to be the perfect answer, since part of the curriculum consisted of "work periods" during which the students actually work in their chosen professions for credits.

During her first work period, Mary Linn was lucky enough to pick up a contract for an important role in TV's first daytime serial, The First Hundred Years. It proved to be the end of her college career - and the beginning of a highly successful TV career. "When the time came to return to college," Mary Linn explains, "I just couldn't bear to give up my TV role. At the time we all wondered whether I was doing the right thing. But it was soon clear that the decision had been a good one."

Then came 1952. A red-letter, banner year in Mary Linn's young life. Besides walking off with the title role of A Date With Judy, she won the radio role of Babby in The Brighter Day...eventually annexing the TV role, too. And on June 19th, she met a young man a t a party! "Bob Pitofsky made quite an impression on me that first night," she grins. "No matter what I did, I couldn't get him to pay one bit of attention to me. I finally resorted to asking my date about him and was promptly told to relax...Bob was going steady - and, anyway, I looked too young.

"Up to this point, looking younger than I was had always been lucky for me. What I mean is, when iI first got the role on Brighter Day, for instance, Babby was supposed to be about fifteen. Well, it's hard to find a fifteen-year-old with as much acting experience as a nineteen-year-old who looks fifteen - as I did. The same thing had been true of Judy."

"So, up to the time I met Bob," she says ruefully, "it had never occurred to me to wish I looked a couple of years older! And there didn't seem to be much I could do about it. You know, you are what you are, and that's that. Anyway, if he was seriously dating a girl, that, too, was that. But it didn't stop me from thinking...and, the more I saw him at parties and dances, the more I found myself comparing my own dates with this young man I barely knew.

Then, when I least expected it, it happened. Exactly one year to the day after we met, Bob called me for our first date. Believe it or not, we had a miserable time. Everything was wrong. We couldn't, either one of us, be ourselves. By the end of the evening, we were quibbling over everything.

"But Bob, bless him," she beams, "didn't let too much water run under the bridge...and, by the time he called for a second date, we had both settled down to being ourselves. The result was a wedding in September, 1954.Forgive me for saying so, but it was a lovely wedding at the Waldorf-Astoira Hotel and a scrumptious honeymoon in Florida. And, when we came back, we came back to the apartment we're in now. Of course, there wasn't as much furniture as there is now... in fact, there was very little. But Bob and I could come back to our own place, and fix it up bit by bit.

"Neither Bob nor I are very handy around the house, but we do have ideas, and with the help of my aunt - who's a perfectly wonderful decorator - we've wound up with what we think is a really attractive home. We love it and hope all who enter it will love it along with us."

Mary Linn has every right in the world to love her attractive five-room apartment across from New York's Central Park. If things like her wall of bookcases in the living room - which open up to reveal four closets hidden behind them - are the envy of New York, it's with justification.

"Every once in a while," she admits, "somebody questions why two working people need five rooms...and aren't we foolish to invest so much in permanent renting? I think the idea behind the latter question is: Why make a home out of an apartment? Maybe it's strange to lots of people, but not to me. You see, I was born and raised in a New York apartment. So was Bob. We're not suburbanites. We like the city. Our friends, from childhood up, are here. So, this is our home. As for the five rooms and two baths...Well, someday we hope there will be more of us and, as far as space is concerned, we're ready for that event. And then there's the park right across the street...and that's what city parks are for, isn't it?

"So perhaps you can see why I think I'm such a lucky girl. I have the happy blending of two wonderful families near by - mine and Bob's...a husband I love very much...a career that is extremely satisfying - and a future that looks brighter every day. What more is there?"

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Variety reports that the October 24 and 25th 1961 episodes of TBD will feature 4 blind actors,employed as part of a storyline dealing with a woman who shied away from marriage due to her need to devote herself to her blind mother.

The idea to use real life blind actors came from a fan letter in which the writer stated she had seen a blind performer on a local show.and wondered if the show could use them.

Does anyone know what character that was?

Edited by Paul Raven

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