Memoir: Chapter 2

Back to the top; the edge; the upper left-hand corner; the beginning of the chart. When I was three-and-a-half and four years old, I spent the great majority of my waking hours listening to 78 RPM records while rocking in my rocking chair. I spoke only to my parents and my sister. My relatives figured I was mentally challenged (in those days "retarded"). I listened mostly to records my father brought home from the juke box in the tavern next to the liquor store he partially owned. This was in 1947, and our record player was the kind on which you had to keep replacing the needle about every ten records. It had a little built-in cup to hold the used needles. I also listened to some classical music, most notably Peter and the Wolf as narrated by Basil Rathbone; also Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance," as recorded by Oscar Levant. Now that's important because he was the pianist and bandleader on the Al Jolson radio show.

Al Jolson was my idol. I knew (still know) every word of every song from "The Jolson Story." I cried every time I listened to "Sonny Boy." And I cried every time I listened to "My Mammy," especially the part where he talked: "Mammy! Mammy, listen to me! DONTCHA' know me? I'm your little BABY!" I guess that was my very early introduction to rap. Problem is, it was a white man performing in blackface affecting a very questionable (insulting?) black dialect. Hey! What did I know? I was four years old! Unfortunately, all rational judgment and logic notwithstanding, I still love Al Jolson. And I don't like rap. Go figure.

Anyway, when Al Jolson died -- I think it was 1950 and I think he was sixty-four years old and I'm pretty sure his heart gave out after an exhausting tour of Korea to entertain our troops there during the "conflict" -- I was inconsolable. So I prayed every night for at least three years that a miracle would occur. Here's what I prayed:

I wish Asa Yoelson would come alive and that he could sing just like before and that I could meet him and talk to him.

Every night. I used his real name instead of Al Jolson because I thought maybe God would appreciate the use of his real name and take my prayers extra seriously. No luck. Al didn't come back. When I learned many years later that Al Jolson was, by all accounts, an insufferable egomaniac, I didn't care because I knew that deep down he was very nice and very generous and he had a heart attack while performing for our troops even though he knew he was sick. I know he was very nice. As a matter of fact, I know he was a wonderful person. So just shut up.