Saturday, June 15, 2019

The Great Gildersleeve Show


THE GREAT GILDERSLEEVE, situation comedy. BROADCAST HISTORY: Aug. 31, 1941–March 21, 1957, NBC. 30m, Sundays at 6:30, 1941–46; Wednesdays at 8:30, 1946–54; weeknights in 15m strip-show format at 10:15, 1954–55; then 25m, Thursdays at 8, 1955–57. Kraft Foods, 1941–54; multiple sponsorship thereafter. CAST: Harold Peary (Aug. 31, 1941–June 14, 1950) as Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, water commissioner in the town of Summerfield, USA. Willard Waterman as Gildersleeve (Sept. 6, 1950–March 21, 1957). Walter Tetley as Leroy Forrester, Gildersleeve’s wisecracking nephew. Lurene Tuttle (1941–44) as Marjorie Forrester, Gildersleeve’s niece. Louise Erickson as Marjorie, mid-1940s; Mary Lee Robb as Marjorie thereafter. Earle Ross as Judge Horace Hooker, Gildersleeve’s friendly nemesis, rival, and fellow lodge member. Lillian Randolph as Birdie Lee Coggins, the Gildersleeve maid and cook extraordinaire. Richard LeGrand as Mr. Peavey, the druggist with the twang. Forrest Lewis as Peavey, late in the run. Arthur Q. Bryan as Floyd Munson the barber, another member of Gildersleeve’s lodge, the Jolly Boys, and a nonstop talker when wielding the scissors. Ken Christy as Police Chief Gates, another Jolly Boys member, who added deep harmony to their frequent songfests. Gildersleeve girlfriends: Shirley Mitchell as Leila Ransom, conniving southern-belle widow; Una Merkel as Adeline Fairchild, Leila’s cousin; Bea Benaderet as Eve Goodwin, the school principal (1944); Cathy Lewis as Nurse Kathryn Milford, a Gildersleeve heartthrob of the 1950s, sweet and unattainable. Ben Alexander (mid-1940s) as Bashful Ben, one of Marjorie’s early suitors. Richard Crenna as Bronco Thompson, the man Marjorie finally married. Gale Gordon as Rumson Bullard, the rich, obnoxious neighbor who lived across the street from Gildersleeve. Jim Backus as Bullard, ca. 1952. Tommy Bernard as Bullard’s son Craig, a chip off the old block. Pauline Drake as Bessie, Gildersleeve’s well-baked secretary at the water department. Gloria Holliday also as Bessie. ANNOUNCERS: Jim Bannon (1941–42), Ken Carpenter (1942–45), John Laing (1945–47), John Wald (1947–49), Jay Stewart and Jim Doyle (1949–50), John Hiestand. ORCHESTRA: William Randolph (1941), Billy Mills (1941–42), Claude Sweeten (into mid-1940s); Jack Meakin (later 1940s), Robert Armbruster (1950s). PRODUCER-DIRECTORS: Cecil Underwood, Frank Pittman, Fran Van Hartesveldt, Virgil Reimer, Karl Gruener. WRITERS: Leonard L. Levinson (1941–42), John Whedon and Sam Moore, Jack Robinson and Gene Stone, John Elliotte and Andy White. Also: Paul West, Virginia Safford Lynne. SOUND EFFECTS: Floyd Caton, Virgil Reimer, Monty Fraser.

The Great Gildersleeve began with a departure, when a portly man of 42 years stepped onto a train in a mythical town and started a trend known as the series spinoff. Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, owner of the Gildersleeve Girdle Works, was taking a business trip from his hometown, Wistful Vista, to Summerfield, a small town at the end of the line. But except for occasional visits, Wistful Vista would not see Gildersleeve again. He would give up his old occupation—making “Gildersleeve’s Girlish Girdles”—but would never give up his reputation as a windbag, a most eligible bachelor, or a bumbling-but-enthusiastic ladies’ man. The character emerged from Fibber McGee and Molly as a strong comedic entity. Actor Harold Peary had joined the McGee cast in 1937, playing scores of bit parts, often two or more in a single show. His range was vast: he could switch into almost any Americanized foreign dialect, from British to Chinese to a Portuguese piccolo player. He could play thugs, Jews, and Indians, a talent honed by long experience. Peary was born in 1908, son of a Portuguese immigrant, and christened Harrold José de Faria. He once pinpointed his first radio job as Jan. 21, 1923, at KZM, Oakland. In the late 1920s he worked at NBC in San Francisco. The Spanish Serenader, a series vintage 1928, gave him a chance to use his singing voice as well as acting talent. Landing in Chicago in 1937, he soon became one of radio’s insiders, gaining a reputation as a top utility man. For a year he played various characters named Gildersleeve on the McGee program: then he approached writer Don Quinn with an idea of a meatier role for himself—a pompous windbag, perfect foil for McGee, who himself ran the biggest bluff in Wistful Vista. For Quinn it was simply a matter of creating a single Gildersleeve, moving him to 83 Wistful Vista, and letting the fur fly. Peary’s first show as Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, neighbor, was Sept. 26, 1939: he was seldom absent from then until his final regular appearance, June 24, 1941. Gildersleeve and McGee argued constantly. Peary’s classic line, repeated in almost every show, was “You’re a haaaarrd man, McGee!” His “dirty laugh,” perfected during the McGee run, was certain to ring out whenever one of McGee’s schemes backfired. Quinn knew at once the value of sarcasm in comedy: never again would McGee fail to have a rival in the long battle of words. Nor was this principle lost on Leonard L. Levinson, the first Gildersleeve writer.

Gildersleeve’s long-running feud with crusty old Judge Horace Hooker began on that first broadcast, during the ride from Wistful Vista to Summerfield. Hooker and Gildersleeve, opening their acrimony over a lower berth, would find hundreds of things to argue about over the years. But they would also become brothers in the Jolly Boys Club and, when the chips were down, birds of a feather. In Summerfield, Gildersleeve was the guardian of his orphaned niece and nephew, Marjorie and Leroy Forrester. Marjorie was a teenager who seldom gave any trouble. Leroy, age 12, was a wiseguy. The town was a pleasant slice of rural Americana. Most of the action took place in an eight-block area. There was a city park with an old-fashioned bandstand. There was a large reservoir that—in a promotional map released by NBC—looks impossibly close to the downtown area. It would soon come to play a major role, as on Oct. 18, 1942, Gildersleeve would be appointed water commissioner, beginning an illustrious career that might be described as doing nothing at all. Gildersleeve lived with Marjorie and Leroy on Lakeside Avenue, where their Negro housekeeper, Birdie Lee Coggins, also had a room. He soon became friends with Mr. Peavey, whose drugstore stood at Lakeside and State streets. Directly across State from Peavey’s pharmacy was the rambling old house where Judge Hooker lived. A little further along was Floyd Munson’s barber shop, where the five chief members of the Jolly Boys Club (Gildy, Peavey, Floyd, Hooker, and Police Chief Gates) frequently gathered for conversation and harmony. Peary, using his singing talent, often performed solo, but there were many group numbers introduced to the Jolly Boys’ theme: Oh, it’s always fair weather, When good fellas get together … And if in the end the meeting deteriorated into bickering, Chief Gates would valiantly try to rescue it: “Fel-las! Fel-las! Let’s all be Jolly Boys!” Just down the street from Gildersleeve, in the next block, lived the widow Leila Ransom. In the second full year she became a pivotal character who on June 27, 1943, got Gildersleeve to the altar and to the last line of the wedding ceremony. The show had much of the appeal of a serial, a 30-minute sitcom whose episodes were connected—sometimes into storylines that ran for months—but were also complete in themselves. Gildersleeve’s romances were often at the crux of it: he was sued for breach of promise, got fired from his job, and ran for mayor—situations that each took up many shows. In a memorable sequence beginning Sept. 8, 1948, a baby was left in Gildersleeve’s car. This played out through the entire fall season, the baby becoming such a part of the family that Kraft ran a contest offering major prizes to the listener who could coin the child’s name. But in a teary finale, Dec. 22, the real father turned up and took the baby away. The show was blessed with a stellar supporting cast. At 18, Walter Tetley was a radio veteran, having worked The Children’s Hour, The Fred Allen Show, Raising Junior, and many other dramas and serials. As Leroy, he was a perfect deflater of Gildy’s tender ego. “Are you kiddin’?” he would snarl, bringing out the inevitable Gildersleeve retort—“Leee-eee-roy!” To Leroy, Gildy was simply “Unk,” a guy who tried hard, whose performance was usually outstripped by his intentions. “What a character!” Leroy would bleat as he caught his uncle in the fib of the week. Tetley, who would go on to play the ultimate wiseguy kid on The Phil Harris/Alice Faye Show, could still be heard in little-boy roles into his 30s. Two of the three actresses who played Marjorie, Lurene Tuttle, and Louise Erickson, had vast radio experience between them. The third, Mary Lee Robb, got the role (and played it longest) through her friendship with Erickson, attending rehearsals and reading Marjorie’s lines when Erickson was busy elsewhere. The druggist, Peavey, was the sounding board for all of Gildy’s triumphs and troubles. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Gildersleeve,” was Peavey’s inevitable reaction to almost any Gildersleeve assertion. Delivered in a mellow midwestern twang, it became the best-remembered catchphrase on the show. Richard LeGrand, who played the role, had been in show business since 1901: he had come up through vaudeville, had been heard in his own series, Ole and the Girls, and had worked for Carlton E. Morse on One Man’s Family and I Love a Mystery. Lillian Randolph, who had also played a maid on The Billie Burke Show and eventually took the lead on Beulah, was at her peak as Birdie, playing the role all the way. Birdie was perhaps the most endearing in radio’s long parade of Negro maids, cooks, and housekeepers. She had genuine warmth, an infectious laugh, and a heart as big as the great man’s midsection. She also had a feisty side, being fully capable of deflating Gildersleeve’s ego. She spoke her mind, did it respectfully while making certain that her voice was heard, and remained a sympathetic character to both races in mid-1940s America. Earle Ross played Judge Hooker with a billygoat laugh. Ross was often heard in Hookertype roles on other comedy shows and for several seasons was part of the Lux Radio Theater dramatic troupe. Shirley Mitchell brought a dripping dose of honeysuckle to the Widow Ransom. “Throck-mahhhtin,” she would coo, becoming such a strongly negative character to female listeners that at one point members of a California women’s club picketed NBC, urging Gildersleeve with their signs not to marry her. Mitchell, who had come to Hollywood from Toledo, Ohio, in the early 1940s, had been on the verge of giving up radio when her luck turned and, almost overnight, she became a major supporting player. She was also heard as Alice Darling on Fibber McGee and Molly, a naive, slightly addled voice that bore no resemblance to the drawling belle she became on The Great Gildersleeve. Una Merkel gave an equally convincing southern performance as her cousin, Adeline Fairchild, and for a time in 1948 a spirited rivalry was waged for the great one’s affections. This had a predictable outcome, with Gildersleeve engaged to both women at the same time. The show was one of radio’s most consistent until 1950, when Harold Peary announced that he was quitting his starring role. Rumor had it that Peary had held out for more money. His series was still carrying a rating in the midteens—certainly no disgrace at any time, and highly respectable in radio’s final years, when the once-lofty Hope, Bergen, Benny, and Fibber powerhouses were doing little better themselves. Peary admitted he was bored: he had slowly tired of the role and was frustrated that his onceremarkable versatility had been eclipsed under a blanket of Gildersleeve typecasting. People forgot that he had been a singer, he said, and that he had been one of the best of the old Chicago dialect men in the days before he moved with Fibber McGee and Molly to Hollywood. This might have killed most shows, but NBC and Kraft had on tap one Willard Waterman, who had once been denied acting jobs on McGee because his voice sounded so much like Peary’s. Waterman and Peary had traveled similar routes on their climb through radio. Waterman had arrived in Chicago around 1936 and had played many of the same bit parts that Peary would do the following year. While Peary was establishing himself on McGee, Waterman was working The First Nighter Program, Ma Perkins, and The Story of Mary Marlin. Like Peary, Waterman was a prolific and versatile talent, doing up to 40 parts in a week. In the fall of 1950, Waterman became the new Gildersleeve. Peary, meanwhile, jumped to CBS with a new sitcom, Honest Harold. In a dual review (Gildy vs. Gildy, Sept. 29, 1950), Radio Life summed up the general reaction. Waterman was a “splendid” replacement in a tough situation “about which actors have nightmares. The Gildy chortle and other mannerisms closely associated with the role were left out, and Waterman was to build his own interpretation. On his opener, he won over the studio audience almost to the point of receiving an ovation at the broadcast’s close. Cast members rooted for him wholeheartedly, Frank Pittman gave deftness to direction, and Waterman’s own intrinsic thespian integrity contributed to an initial performance that was greeted with enthusiasm.” The same review panned Honest Harold as derivative, unexciting, and, in the end, “just another show.” It would fail in its lone season to develop any appreciative audience, while Gildersleeve under Waterman did a slow, inevitable fade and expired in 1957, at the advanced age of 16. Though Peary played the role in its best years, he and Waterman shared about equally in real time as Gildy at the NBC microphone. After Gildersleeve, Peary shaved his mustache, lost 50 pounds, and, in 1954, turned up as a disc jockey on KABC. He died March 30, 1985; Waterman died Feb. 1, 1995. Like McGee, the series is abundant and easily available to collectors and listeners. The long run begins with the first show, Gildersleeve’s arrival in Summerfield in 1941. There was a certain ’30s silliness to cast off: a growth spurt that seemed to come to all timeless radio comedy around 1942–44. Suddenly Gildersleeve was a polished, smooth entity, a joy to hear. Well represented in this run is Gildy’s romance with Leila Ransom. The listener can hear the children grow up, be present at Marjorie’s wedding, share the birth of her twins. Leroy remains the same throughout: so do the wonderful Birdie and the equally fine Judge Hooker. It has the sound of a happy show before and after Peary’s departure. Listeners can judge that for themselves as well, as the series is solid on tape during the transition period. This listener’s opinion is that the show didn’t lose much. Waterman didn’t sing the solos, and the laugh certainly wasn’t the same (more a chuckle, Waterman later said, a deliberate attempt on his part to stay away from a characteristic that “belonged” to Peary). In all other aspects, the resemblance was remarkable.



Dunning, John. On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio (p. 296). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition. 

Thursday, April 11, 2019

New Horror Programs For April

We have upload some new horror programs on our mystery and suspense channel for April. 

Monday, February 4, 2019

New Horror Programs For Feb 2019

I have been adding some new horror programs to our Mystery and Suspense Channel every months since mid January.
Just added about 140 new programs for the month February. Shows like Vanishing Point, Mindwebs, fear on four, etc...




Saturday, January 19, 2019

Inner Sanctum Radio Horror

INNER SANCTUM MYSTERIES, horror anthology. 


BROADCAST HISTORY: Jan. 7, 1941–Aug. 29, 1943, Blue Network. 25m, Tuesdays at 9:35 until March 16, 1941; then 30m, Sundays at 8:30. Carter’s Pills. Sept. 4, 1943–April 17, 1950, CBS. 30m, Saturdays at 8:30 until Nov. 22, 1944; Wednesdays at 9 until Jan. 2, 1945; Tuesdays at 9 until June 18, 1946; then Mondays at 8. Colgate through Dec. 27, 1944; Lipton Tea, Jan. 2, 1945–June 18, 1946; Bromo Seltzer, July 29, 1946–April 17, 1950. Sept. 4, 1950–June 18, 1951, ABC. 30m, Mondays at 8. Mars Candy. June 22–Oct. 5, 1952, CBS. 30m, Sundays at 8. Pearson Pharmaceutical. HOSTS: Raymond Edward Johnson until May 22, 1945; Paul McGrath beginning Sept. 28, 1945. Also: House Jameson. CAST: Film stars known for the macabre—Boris Karloff, Peter Lorre, etc.—in lead roles, ca. 1941–42. New York radio performers in subsequent leads and in support: Richard Widmark, Larry Haines, Everett Sloane, Lesley Woods, Anne Seymour, Stefan Schnabel, Arnold Moss, etc. ANNOUNCERS: Ed Herlihy for Carter’s Pills; Dwight Weist for Bromo Seltzer; Allen C. Anthony for Mars Candy. CREATOR-PRODUCER-DIRECTOR: CREATOR-PRODUCER-DIRECTOR: Himan Brown. WRITERS: Milton Lewis, John Roeburt, Robert Sloane, Robert Newman, Harry and Gail Ingram, Sigmund Miller, etc. SOUND EFFECTS: Keene Crockett, Harold Johnson Jr. (ABC); Jack Amrhein, Bobby Prescott (CBS). Himan Brown would tell the story years later: in a studio where he once worked, the door to the basement gave off an ungodly creak whenever anyone opened it. One day it occurred to him—he would make that door a star. It was a classic moment in radio broadcasting, for the show that grew out of it would be remembered decades after radio itself ceased to be dramatically viable. The campy horrors of Inner Sanctum Mysteries began and ended with that creaking door. It may have been the greatest opening signature device ever achieved. It pushed its listeners into that dank inner chamber of the mind, where each week for a decade were staged some of the most farfetched, unbelievable, and downright impossible murder tales ever devised in a medium not known for restraint. Though the show was a strange combination of horror and humor, the stories were played strictly for chills. No matter how strained the conclusion or how deeply into his bag of improbables a writer had to reach to knit it all together, there was never a hint that this dark world was anything but real. At the same time, the stories were introduced by a host who trotted out every conceivable ghoulish pun in his effort to liven things up. It opened to grim organ music, a deep generic creepiness that set the stage. Someone was about to die, and horribly at that. The organ became one of the star players: peppered by sharp stings and cascading cresendos, it trickled through the show, brooding, ever-present, worrying, fretting, a macabre bed for the narrator’s voice or a sudden revelation for the villain. This was the epitome of radio melodrama. The opening music was a study in contrasts: three bars in the lowest register, then a sting, and the announcement—Inner Sanctum Mysteries! A doorknob turned. The door swung in slowly, the creaking agonized and broken. Then came Raymond, the host, with gruesome jokes about losing one’s head or hanging around after the show, or perhaps beating the high cost of dying. Ectoplasm with two lumps of cheer. And now, if your scalpels are sharpened and ready, we’ll proceed with the business of the evening … Raymond’s story was about to begin. The early days of Inner Sanctum gave a generous mix of classics and original stories. Boris Karloff was a regular, appearing in, among others, the Poe classics The Telltale Heart and The Fall of the House of Usher. Peter Lorre was heard in The Horla, by Maupassant, and George Coulouris, Paul Lukas, and Claude Rains were also starred performers. But Karloff propelled it: fueled by his film portrayals of Frankenstein’s monster, he appeared more than 15 times in 1941–42. While the network was under pressure from parents’ groups to curtail graphic violence, Karloff wanted even more gore. His public expected it, he argued. But Karloff was gone as a regular by 1943, to return only in infrequent guest roles. The series settled into its own niche, the roles enacted by the unsung radio professionals of New York. The stories turned on the wildest happenstance. Only on Inner Sanctum could a man be haunted for 40 years by the wailing of his dead wife, then learn that the sound was the wind rushing through a hole in the wall where he had sealed her body. Only here would a man be sentenced to life imprisonment after committing murder to obtain a scientific formula that made him immortal. Clichéd literary devices were shamelessly used to fool listeners, the most common of these employing the first-person killer viewpoint, the narrator who was insane but seemed normal. Self-loathing had buried his crimes beyond conscious recall, giving the writers the freedom to conjure up all kinds of ghostly manifestations. Dead men were seen in crowds; ghosts fluttered in the window at midnight; voices wafted on the wind. Without benefit of the guilty knowledge, the listener was recruited as the killer’s sidekick. The listener then saw that ghost, heard that wail, got that chilling call from a long-dead spouse, and the fear of the killer-narrator became the listener’s lullabye. At the end, the host returned for the body count. Everybody dead but the cat, and we only over-looked him because we couldn’t find him … heh-heh-heh … And now it’s time to close that squeaking door … Good niiii-iiight … Pleasant dreeeeeaaaaammmmmsssss … And the agonized squeak reversed, and the door slammed shut. Raymond Edward Johnson used his first name as host; Paul McGrath, who followed in 1945, had a lighter, brighter demeanor, losing a bit of Johnson’s underlying menace. Though the series took its name from, and promoted, Simon and Schuster’s Inner Sanctum line of mystery novels, the radio stories were mostly originals. More than 100 shows are available, valued today as high camp.


Listen to the program on our station: Mystery and Suspense radio network. 


Dunning, John. On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio (p. 347). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition. 

Challenge Of The Yukon Radio Program

CHALLENGE OF THE YUKON, juvenile adventure. 


BROADCAST HISTORY: Feb. 3, 1938–May 28, 1947, WXYZ, Detroit. 15m, mostly Thursdays. June 12, 1947–Dec. 30, 1949, ABC. 30m weekly, various timeslots; 1948–49, Mondays-Wednesdays-Fridays at 5. Quaker Oats. Jan. 2, 1950–June 9, 1955, Mutual. Various late-afternoon or weekend 30m timeslots, occasionally two or three times a week. Became Sergeant Preston of the Yukon in Nov. 1951. Quaker Oats. CAST: Jay Michael as Sgt. William Preston of the Northwest Mounted Police, ca. 1938-mid-1940s. Paul Sutton as Sgt. Preston, ca. mid-1940s-1954. Brace Beemer briefly as Sgt. Preston, 1954–55. John Todd as Inspector Conrad, Preston’s superior officer. Frank Russell as the French-Canadian guide who, in the early years, led Preston on long treks into the northern wilds. ANNOUNCERS: Bob Hite, 1938-ca. 1945; Jay Michael; Fred Foy. PRODUCER: George W. Trendle. WRITERS: Tom Dougall initially; Fran Striker, ca. 1942–44; Betty Joyce, 1944; Mildred Merrill; Bob Green; Dan Beattie; Felix Holt; Jim Lawrence; Steve McCarthy. THEME: The Donna Diana Overture. Challenge of the Yukon was the third major juvenile adventure series to come out of George W. Trendle’s Detroit radio mill and make the national networks. The Lone Ranger had been a western favorite since 1933; The Green Hornet had been battling urban corruption since 1938. Challenge took its listeners to the wild north and quickly endeared itself to young listeners everywhere. The show had been running on Trendle’s station, WXYZ, for almost ten years when the network run arrived. Trendle was a master of this kind of programming. His shows bore the common trademarks of simple, vigorous adventure plotting, a staunchly bigger-than-life male hero, and lively music cribbed from the classics. The voices and situations were familiar to Lone Ranger and Green Hornet fans: many of the same actors and writers worked prolifically on all three shows, giving them common threads and similar sounds. By 1938 Trendle had decided that he wanted a new adventure show, written in the Lone Ranger mold but with a dog as hero. WXYZ writer Tom Dougall thought of the northwest motif: he had been raised on Robert Service poems and had an affinity for the background. “He had already solved the problem of the dog,” wrote Dick Osgood in Wyxie Wonderland, a memoir of the station. “It couldn’t be a dog like Lassie because this, Trendle said, must be an action story. It had to be a working dog. And a working dog in the wild days of the Yukon could be nothing but a Husky.” And who but a Mountie would own such a dog? Thus was the master born of the dog, to become one of the major characters of radio fiction. The dog was named Yukon King, the hero of the series in a real sense. Sgt. Preston had a horse, Rex, which he often rode in the summer months, but it was Yukon King who usually saved the day. He mauled bushwhackers and crooks, gnawed guns out of hands, hauled down one villain while Preston polished off the other. Dewey Cole “barked and whined and made other appropriate dog sounds as King,” said Osgood in Wyxie Wonderland. And at the end, Sgt. Preston was always generous in his praise: “Well, King, thanks to you, this case is closed.” There were 484 local adventures aired before Challenge went on the network, according to Trendle advocate Terry Salomonson, who has compiled massive broadcast logs of all three Trendle shows. But it was the network run that made it a pop culture classic, its opening signature an unforgettable piece of radio. With howling winds and barking dogs and gunshots emphasizing almost every word, Quaker Puffed Wheat and Quaker Puffed Rice—“the breakfast cereal shot from guns”—took a listener far “across the snow-covered reaches of the wild northwest.” The shows would never be taken for great literature, but they gave inspiration of a kind that hasn’t been heard much since. Black was black, good was good, and evil never went unpunished. When the Lone Ranger rode again, and Sgt. Preston mushed his way into the frozen north, the vistas were wide and the experience new and wondrous.


Dunning, John. On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio (p. 146). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition. 




Challenge Of The Yukon

We added today Challenge Of The Yukon to our daily lineup on the Wild West OTR Channel.


The Great Gildersleeve Show

THE GREAT GILDERSLEEVE, situation comedy. BROADCAST HISTORY: Aug. 31, 1941–March 21, 1957, NBC. 30m, Sundays at 6:30, 1941–46; Wednesdays...