When Doris Day sang through

the night club smoke as it wafted

over her passing through her

flowing golden locks and chiffon

gown, but apparently not affecting

her voice, “The magic is my love for

you,” and it was the summer of

1953 and I’m eight years old and

standing in my underpants as the

wind blows through the open wind-

ows of the second floor of our

south side of Chicago home and my

mother, over the sound of the radio,

shouts up the stairwell, “Robert Edwin,

you better not be bouncing on your bed.”

Jeannie Hedstrom and I broke that up-

stairs make-do trampoline the week

before. I shout back, “I’m just standin’

here, mom,”  as I slip into the bathroom

and Doris Day gives way to Kate

Smith’s “God Bless America.”