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| (My weekly column, Bronx newspaper) |
Back in my old neighborhood, Little Italy of the Bronx, circa 1950s, we kids were all little indentured servants, which meant we had to help with the Saturday household cleaning or risk getting wooden spoons, or anything in our mother's hands flung at us. My cousin Evelyn Grosso (whose mother once threw a bloody chicken at her during an argument!) lived two blocks from me, once said something I never forgot: "Every Saturday morning, on every block, that's all you'd hear ~ Frank Sinatra singing through the open windows."
Why? Because not only was he Italian, and one of our own, he was also at the very top of his game and his music made the mundane chore of cleaning fun. Hell, his music made life fun. And bearable.
This morning, the first Saturday of a summer so many years since then, I pulled out my Sinatra CDs and was transformed to another time, a happy time, when life was still ahead of us and our dreams were yet to be fulfilled.
As I listened to "Come fly with me, come fly, let's fly away..." I instantly recalled every detail of whatever was happening at that time of my life. Still a young girl, I was intrigued by the exotic thought of just flying off with someone ~ no plans, preparation or permission...and he ended the song with "And pack a small bag!" which embarrassed me no end! (I was, and still am, very shy.)
"Hey there, cutes, put on your Basie boots and come dance with me, what an evening for some Terpsichore!" And that is how I learned what the word 'Terpsichore' meant.
What better way to learn the word 'ennui' than by hearing "My story is much too sad to be told, but practically everything leaves me totally cold. The only exception I know is the case, when I'm out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui, and I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face!" That, of course, from the fabulous Cole Porter's 'I Get A Kick Out of You.'
I knew Sinatra's music so well that the instant I heard the first note of one of his songs, I'd start singing along. My father once said, "How do you do that??"
Sinatra wasn't perfect. He was a self-confessed "18-carat manic-depressive" but that's what happens if you get too close to stardust...it falls away, and a real, live, complicated, impossibly talented human being takes its place.
I had the intense pleasure of meeting Frank Sinatra at his compound in Palm Springs in February 1981. Dinner, a movie, and hanging around the bar until 3:30 in the morning still seems like an impossible dream. But, thanks to Jilly Rizzo and the serendipitous music industry for which I worked, it did happen. And Frank Sinatra was, indeed, a gracious and warm host, and very kind to me. He had just turned 65 and joked that he was "looking forward to his first Social Security check."
The stardust remained intact that evening, as I kissed him good-night and he said, "I like you ~ come back for another visit!"
I just did that this morning, Mr. Sinatra. Your music will forever allow us to 'come back for another visit' and for that I am eternally grateful.
