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On her stepfather's small farm near Lowell, Ind., Barbara Paul Sears ("Bobo") Rockefeller, 35, the miner's "Cinderella" daughter who married Winthrop Rockefeller in 1948 and separated from him 2½ years ago, cried out against the false glitter of gold. Of the $1,000,000 trust fund set up by her husband last February for their three-year-old son, Winthrop Jr., Bobo said contemptuously: "It doesn't mean a thing. It's inadequate if he's to be raised to the station in life that a Rockefeller should be . . . A Rockefeller wasn't born to be raised on a farm." She said she will not tell little Winnie that he is a millionaire: "He grabs at everything in sight at the toy store, [but] I tell him: 'We can't afford it, dear.'" Bobo described herself as broke, an installment-plan buyer, knee-deep in cooking and other menial household chores. When told that her husband's lawyers had said that Winthrop had given her a tax-free $128,000 since their separation, Bobo was "absolutely flabbergasted." Said she: "Untrue . . . absolutely disgusting." But all Bobo really wants, she indicated, is a reconciliation: "I love Winthrop. I always have. After all, he is the father of my first child. There's an old saying that a woman never forgets the father of her firstborn. I'll never forget him . . ."
After a year in the U.S. Army, including nine months of German occupation duty, Pfc. Vito Farinola, 24, better known in his civilian days as Crooner Vic Damone, was home again to tackle an assignment right down his alley. Following official orders, Vic dropped into a Manhattan recording studio, cut a platter called The Girls Are Marching, a rousing new number which the Defense Department hopes will help recruit 80,00 women.
In Rome, Maestro Arturo Toscaninl, 85, bothered by a year-old knee injury, put his ailing leg in the hands of Hypnotist Achille ("The Sorcerer of Naples") D'Angelo, widely known in Italy for cures attributed to his mesmeric touch.
Down Memory Lane
Riled by G.O.P. Presidential Candidate Dwight Eisenhower's statement that "beyond pure Socialism lies pure dictatorship," old (67) Socialist Norman Thomas, himself a six-time presidential election loser, shot off a bristling letter to Ike. Main point: "Do you think you will get [the aid of Socialist Britain and Scandinavia] in the defense of Western Europe or of the world by the kind of blanket affirmation that you made . . .?"
In France, a U.S. sailor, lunching with a shipmate at Juan-les-Pins' chic Municipal Casino, bet his buddy a dollar that the slim woman under the huge hat at a nearby table was Greta Garbo. The headwaiter relayed Greta's denial: "Sorry, the name is Brooks."
Tossed out on a Greenwich Village sidewalk with his belongings and young wife for being two months behind on his $42.50-a-month rent, Maxwell Bodenheim, 61, eccentric poet-novelist of the '20s (Replenishing Jessica, Naked on Roller Skates), was in need of a friend. New York City's Welfare Department, said Max, had let him down by assuring him that the rent would be paid.
All in a Day's Work