Medford mail tribune., September 13, 1959, Image 41

A., '
toy Jeanne Martin
IT wasn't the hundreds of guests crowding the
annual "Share" charity party for mentally re
tarded children that made me catch my breath as
L looked up at the ceiling. It was my husband,
Dean Martin, precariously balancing himself on a
saddle 100 feet above the night-club dance floor,
singing "I Can't Give You Anything But Love,
Baby" as he was slowly lowered to the stage.
I'd tried to talk him out of the' stunt after he be
came nauseated from the height during rehearsals
the night before, and almost fell off. He wouldn't
listen. He said that it was the most effective way
to start the evening's entertainment and worth
risking his neck!
That's typical of my Dino, who's been taking
chances all his life. Marrying me was one of them.
He knew" how different we were in-background,
attitude, temperament. I'm happy to say it has
worked out all right. On Sept. 1 we celebrated
our 10th wedding anniversary.
The years have not always been easy for either
of us. .We were separated twice, once nearly di
vorced. We were confronted by lawsuits, finan
cial difficulties that nearly ruined us and the split
with Dean's partner of eight years, Jerry Lewis.
I was spoiled by his generosity one day and com- .
pletely ignored the next. It took me years to be
come adjusted to Dean's well-meant but utterly
unpredictable behavior. Our wedding was a good
indication f what I could expect as Dean's wife. It
started as a typical Hollywood affair with hundreds
of guests, invited and otherwise, reporters, pho
tographers, gay decorations, soft music, champagne,
caviar and a groom who seemed to vanish .the
moment he was-supposed to say "I do."
. When the ceremony reached the point where the
minister asked Dean for the wedding band, his
hand slipped into his pocket and came out empty. '
It went in and out of all the other pockets, without
success. With a blank' expression and a shrug of
his shoulders he turned, to his best man, Jerry
Lewis. Jerry fumbled through his pockets and ,
shook his head. No, he didn't have it either.
No one, including me, knew what to think when
Dean's face suddenly lit up, and without warning
or explanation he dashed to an adjacent room. Not
till later did he explain that he'd1, realized the ring
must have been among the items aken out of his
pockets and left on the dresser when he changed
into his wedding suit.-
But it wasn't. It had fallen-into the wastebasket,
which the maid emptied into the trashcontainer.
At least that's what Dean hastily figured out as he
"raced to "the "street, 'turned the trash can upside
down on "the sidewalk and searched through the
contents till he came up with the ring.
And so we were married. " - -
A month later I thought he'd deserted me. Dean
had worked late that night on a television rehearsal.
When he finished about 3 a.m., he was so tired that,
instead of coming home,- he automatically headed
for his parents' house, as he had done before
we were married. When he arrived, he quietly
took off his shoes, tip-toed to his old room, fell
into bed and instantly went to sleep.
I worried all night. When he didn't show up by
eight the next morning, I frantically called the
police, hospitals and Dean's parents. His father,
unaware Dean had slipped into the house, told me
he hadn't seen his son in two days.
I was just packing my bags when Dean broke
into the room, sorry and apologetic. At the sight
of him I burst into tears of anger and relief. Then
I unpacked.
I quickly learned not to let my feelings get hurt
too easily. For the first few months he often called
me by his first wife's name. At times he still gets
confused about the children. This may not be too
surprising. He has four from his previous marriage,
and three by me. It took me a long time to get
used to Dean's forgetfulness.. During our first five
years as husband and wife he forgot my birthday
three times. He still doesn't recall our anniversary
unless I remind him usually by filling the house
with flowers. Once he even forgot Christmas.
But my biggest adjustment was necessitated by'
his gambling habits and by gambling I don't
mean just dangling from the ceiling for a benefit
show, throwing away $5,000 in Las Vegas in 12
hours or having a slot machine moved into our living
room. He's taken chances on people, real estate,
prize fights, income tax, everything! Usually he
wins. Sometimes he loses. That doesn't discourage
him. '
His gambling spirit really shouldn't surprise me.
After all, Dean used to be a professional. His father
once told me that when he first saw his son at the
hospital nursery, his little fists were clenched so
tightly he could have sworn they held a pair of
dice. They might as well have. Dean learned to use
" them before he was out of the first grade.
By the . time Dean reached his teens, taking
chances had become second nature to him. Once,
he told me, he took a girl to a club which offered
a $5 first prize for the dance contest. Dean counted
on winning it to pay the check. He won. Another .
time he made a down-payment on a second-hand
sedan, confident a job he had applied for would
assure the balance. He didn't get the job and the
finance company got the car.
Dean often talks about his childhood in Steu
benville, Ohio, when he was Dino Crocetti and
lived in a three-room house on Slack Street.
There wasn't enough yard to put up swings and
slides. Even if there had been, there wasn't enough
money to buy them: If he wanted to play off the
street, he walked across the road 'to the public
library play ground or used the municipal pool at
Beatty Park. Only once did I detect any resent
ment against these early days. About six years -
if
till
f "I
Despite fear of heights, Dean sang suspended
above stoge for charity benefit performance.
ago we ran into a girl whom Dean apparently had
a big crush on as a teen-ager. "She would never
go out with me," he recalled with a hint of bitter
ness. Seeing my curious expression, he added, "She
lived on top of the hill we lived downtown."
Because his .father barely made, enough as a
. barber to support his .wife and.lwo.sons, Dean did.
his share to boost the family income but not in
the conventional manner of delivering newspapers
or pushing market baskets for elderly customers. "
He delivered whiskey for a bootlegger!
When our children weren't around, Dean once
admitted to me he never cared much for formal
education. "All I was interested in," he said, "was
English, and arithmetic." Dean was absent from
school so much, his truant officer usually walked
past the ball park or the old swimming hole at .
Wintersville, three miles from Steubenville, to see
if he was there before even checking the school.
Dean quit school in the 11th grade to go to work
full-time as a gas-station attendant till his older
brother Bill (now -his personal manager) got Jiim...
a job in a steel mill in Weirtory W. Va. Occa
sionally -Dean, still, has . nightmares about the. mis
hap that made him quit: a four-ton coil of steel
dropped from a crane, missing him by inchest""'
Knowing how gentle he can be today, it's difficult
for me to visualize him running around with a -group
of toughs who made him so adept at fighting
'that he tried it professionally, under the name of
"Kid Crochet." Five defeats and two broken noses
later, he decided that this was another bad gamble.
, (Continued on page 11)
family Weekly. September 13, 1959