Phil Wood's Letters
Prelude #4
Love. Love. Love!
From Philip Wood Senior
To Phil Wood Junior
1940
On The Set[1]
Dear Boy,
I’ve “taken a leaf out of Frank Craven’s notebook” to write you a letter. Pardon the glare of the Kliegs.[2]
I think the time has come for some advice. Your recent letters home have been so frankly Rusty-conscious that surely I won’t be censured for replying.
At such a time, the average father would ask a few questions: can you afford it? Have you considered her? Aren’t you both too young? Being a very poor imitation of the average parent, I would simply like to ask:
Are you young enough? Have you considered yourself? Can you – emotionally – afford anything less?
Right now, you are probably older than you ever will be again. If you truly love, and if your love is truly answered, you will realize if fully when, very old with time but very young with long loving, she becomes a girl at last. But if either loveth not, you will never grow younger.
Have you left off considering Rusty long enough to consider yourself, the instrument of her happiness? Not “are you equipped to make her happy,” but is she so equipped that your effort will be efficacious? What does she look for in you, and have you what she looks for? What is the image you hold to the mirror of her life – will it fill it with radiance? If so, and if hers so fills your mirrored need, proceed – both of you, swiftly, into the long embrace.
Can you, either of you, emotionally afford delay of [illegible]? I don’t mean consummation of your lives’ beauty, I mean simple utterance of the sustaining and inspiring fact of your mutual faith. I don’t mean rash action; I mean imperative pledge. Can she afford half answers, or can you afford not to kneel at the shrine of her? There are those–
There are those that would soil or obscure this matter with materialistic prerogatives: unfortunately, perhaps, for you, yours is not such a sire. I have heard of money, but I don’t know what it is; I have heard of this and that impediment, but I don’t recognize such things. All I know, after a thousand years of growing younger and younger in the sunshine of your mother’s faith is–
That if you love her and she loves you, all else flowers in falling therefrom; wise diligence and wise restraint; surprises of life. If not, [illegible] can be hurt much by one’s not [compromising?]
Now I’ll wager that the average parent would write me off as mad, but if you’re a lover you will understand, and if she is a lover she will understand.
All I hope is that this mutuality is true. For then: reach out for your essential rose! Cherish its bloom with every tenderness, every solicitude; but let not your heart pine for its beauty. Neither let it want for the shelter of your heart; but speak truly each to each, and march even now together.
You see, life has given me so very much: only an infinity of beauty and truth. And the breast that fed you and the hand that led you have only amplified its gift a thousandfold. Now, apparently, the nothings are to be added: money, and more money, and rest. These are yours, too. Yours and Gretchen’s, Rusty’s and ––his. And theirs: your children.
Only, with them, won’t you take the sound advice of a very improvident father? Love.
Love.
Love!
Your Dad
Since his 1916 debut in years of treading the boards and paying his dues Philip Wood Senior built up a reputation as a respected, but not quite famous, Broadway character actor. Talent alone was no guarantee of financial security – 9n the words of a contemporary newspaper, “Critics raved while he starved,” – and between shows, he wrote essays, poems, and plays which brought in enough for the family to get by. He originated the role of Simon Jenkins in the comedy Room Service in 1937, and brought the character to life on screen alongside the Marx Brothers and Lucille Ball. While the movie version of Room Service was no huge success, the Woods hoped it was the beginning of a more lucrative career in film. It earned enough that the family was able to move from Hastings-on-Hudson back to Manhattan.
The following year, Philip was cast in another film adaptation: Our Town, based on a play written by family friend Thornton Wilder. He flew out to California for the production, staying with his cousin, Olga (Wiksell) Campbell, and her family. The above letter to Phil Junior was written during the filming of Our Town.
Everything went well on set – newspapers even reported that Philip Wood received spontaneous rounds of applause from his cast mates after filming some particularly challenging scenes – and filming finished in early 1940. The cast was asked to stay in California for publicity events and in case any scenes needed re-shooting. Philip extended his stay with the Campbells – but he never got to see the film’s debut. On 4 March 1940, he went to bed as normal and never woke up. His heart failed, and he died in his sleep at the age of 44.
The sudden tragedy was a devastating blow to Margretta, Phil, and Gretchen. In his wartime letters, Phil makes frequent references to memories of his father, wishing he could ask for advice on life’s problems once again. Gretta, in Gretchen’s words was “left a widow at the age of 42. Daddy’s estate consisted of $3,000 in an insurance policy. She became a considerably less lovable person.”