Chicago. 1940. I am about to sing my first solo in front of an audience.
I am four years old.
My Father, a fundamentalist Minister, has drafted me to sing in a Sunday service. When I finish “God Bless America”, the congregation erupts with cheers, applause, and shouts of “Amen!” My Father wraps me in a bear hug and growls “you are terrific!” My mother sits at the piano her eyes brimming with pride.
I love how it’s making me feel. And with that my dream is born.
I want to be a singer.
Not a fighter pilot. Not a fireman.
Not even shortstop for my beloved Chicago Cubs.
This is the story of how my dream came true.