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Tom Selleck owes me an apology. Anyone my age knows the unobtainable standard he set for a teenage boy just coming into maturity. Why, do you ask, am I seeking contrition from him?

Good looks? No.

Suave disposition? No.

All the ladies? No…well maybe.

I’m talking about the hair…his stinking perfect hair.

When all of the girls had a picture of the Magnum PI in mind, how could any of us real boys measure up? Curly coiffure, bushy mustache, chest hair, leg hair… There it is! Leg hair. Recently, smooth has become stylish and I would have been perfect for this new generation. But that isn’t my generation. When I was in high school and college, the girls wanted hair and lots of it. Hair I didn’t have.  Well, that’s not absolutely true. Science should study my leg hair because it is translucent like that of a polar bear. It’s there, just not to the naked eye. It only shows up if I have a deep tan, which is near impossible for someone of Swedish/Germanic descent. Undaunted, I went to the pool, laid out, and held my legs just right so that passing females might possibly get the proper angle to spot a few strands.

As a freshman in college, I went so far as to purchase a tanning package. I donned little glasses and laid on top of the plastic surface to bake. And bake I did. Remember the shorts Magnum used to wear? Not long like they are today, 80′s shorts came way up on the thigh. Hoping my tan would expose leg hair from the top of my leg to my toes, I even pulled them up higher. Oh yeah, I got burned in very sensitive areas. It hurt for weeks and didn’t help my hair stand out whatsoever.

We all have physical characteristics we would rather minimize or hide completely. Just the other day, I was talking with a friend who told me her 10 year-old daughter E had been called fat by another girl. My heart sank. Her sweet little girl is now self-conscious about something as irrelevant as my smooth legs. She is active and isn’t overweight in the least, but also isn’t waif-thin like so many women our society seems to put on a pedestal. Such a tragedy.

I want so much for her and other little girls to see what truly matters about themselves instead of what is fleeting.

Your beauty should not consist of outward things … Instead, it should consist of what is inside the heart with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very valuable in God’s eyes.

That’s what is important. I hope my daughters know that. I pray little E learns that too. We have to tell them they are beautiful and keep on telling them until they understand. That’s how God sees them.

◊

So Tom, whenever you are ready, it has taken 25 years, but I am finally over your provocation and prepared to accept your apology. It’s been a long time coming.

Photo credit to Alan Light

When our children were younger, I used to love taking them in the truck with me to run errands. With so many kids, the trips were a necessity and provided rare one-on-one time with whichever child agreed to go. I loved it right up until one unfortunate ride with my youngest. Here is text from that fateful trip.

Dad, drivers have all kinds of signs don’t they?

Yes, there are road signs to tell us when to stop and how fast to go.

No, that’s not what I mean. I mean drivers have signs they give…with their hands.

Sure, they wave to each other after one lets the other in front of them. That’s a kind thing to do.

Yes, but what does this mean? (giving me the perfect one finger salute)

Where did you see that? (Spoken calmly so she wouldn’t adopt this as a favorite gesture) 

That man over there did it. Did you let him in front of you?

No, that means I must have done something wrong and he was telling me about it.

What did you do?

I don’t know, maybe I cut him off or he thought I drove too close to him.

Do you use that sign?

No, honey, I don’t use that sign.

Does Mommy?

No, Mommy doesn’t use that sign.

What if Mommy does something wrong, would you do that to show her? (Once again, saluting me in the mirror)

No, we would never use that sign to Mommy. It isn’t a nice sign.

Oh. So we shouldn’t use that sign?

No, we shouldn’t use that sign. (she examines her finger wonderingly)

How about we listen to the radio?

Okay! I like the radio.

(I fumble through the dial and settle on a station where the song quickly yields to a woman’s voice)

Women, do you suffer from low libido… (frantic push of the search button)

Daddy, what’s a libido?

Um, I think it’s an animal found in darkest Peru.

Like Paddington?

Exactly.

I’ve never heard of it in his books.

Maybe we haven’t gotten to that one yet.

Why is it low?

I don’t know, Sweety (how is this kid hearing every stinking thing? New station)

Men, listen to me. erectile disfunction is a serious problem… (FRANTIC PUSH as I fall victim to a conspiracy of the evil gods of radio)

Daddy…

…Er…How would you like to go to McDonalds for a chocolate milkshake?

YAY!!!!  McDonalds!!!! 

But it’s almost lunchtime. Will it be okay with Mommy?

Baby, if all Mommy hears about from this trip is the milkshake, I’m in great shape.

◊

Photo Credit: By JPRoche (Own work) CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)

When our children were younger, I used to love taking them in the truck with me to run errands. With so many kids, the trips were a necessity and provided rare one-on-one time with whichever child agreed to go. I loved it right up until one unfortunate ride with my youngest. Here is text from that fateful trip.

Dad, drivers have all kinds of signs don’t they?

Yes, there are road signs to tell us when to stop and how fast to go.

No, that’s not what I mean. I mean drivers have signs they give…with their hands.

Sure, they wave to each other after one lets the other in front of them. That’s a kind thing to do.

Yes, but what does this mean? (giving me the perfect one finger salute)

Where did you see that? (Spoken calmly so she wouldn’t adopt this as a favorite gesture) 

That man over there did it. Did you let him in front of you?

No, that means I must have done something wrong and he was telling me about it.

What did you do?

I don’t know, maybe I cut him off or he thought I drove too close to him.

Do you use that sign?

No, honey, I don’t use that sign.

Does Mommy?

No, Mommy doesn’t use that sign.

What if Mommy does something wrong, would you do that to show her? (Once again, saluting me in the mirror)

No, we would never use that sign to Mommy. It isn’t a nice sign.

Oh. So we shouldn’t use that sign?

No, we shouldn’t use that sign. (she examines her finger wonderingly)

How about we listen to the radio?

Okay! I like the radio.

(I fumble through the dial and settle on a station where the song quickly yields to a woman’s voice)

Women, do you suffer from low libido… (frantic push of the search button)

Daddy, what’s a libido?

Um, I think it’s an animal found in darkest Peru.

Like Paddington?

Exactly.

I’ve never heard of it in his books.

Maybe we haven’t gotten to that one yet.

Why is it low?

I don’t know, Sweety (how is this kid hearing every stinking thing? New station)

Men, listen to me. erectile disfunction is a serious problem… (FRANTIC PUSH as I fall victim to a conspiracy of the evil gods of radio)

Daddy…

…Er…How would you like to go to McDonalds for a chocolate milkshake?

YAY!!!!  McDonalds!!!! 

But it’s almost lunchtime. Will it be okay with Mommy?

Baby, if all Mommy hears about from this trip is the milkshake, I’m in great shape.

◊

Photo Credit: By JPRoche (Own work) CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)

Although outwardly it may appear that I am in full possession of my life’s reigns, I’ve come to realize that I control very few things besides my attitude. Most events occur around me while I jab at the air to try to influence their outcome. Like a giant game of cornhole, I throw the bean bag in the air, lean left, hold my tongue just right, and hope it goes in the hole. To give my analogy an Olympic flair, I’m swishing a broom violently in the hopes of pushing the stone to the left. I think we are all very reactionary in how we approach life because the demands of family, creditors, employers, government (and the list goes on) dictate most of our schedule.

I enjoyed my college philosophy classes, but remember nothing except my professor who had spindly legs supporting a massive belly. His poor knees creaked and cracked as he paced around the room. I’m sure he would say my theory is some type of classic Plato “–ism” where we are sitting back watching our lives on screens, only able to choose between limited outcomes.

Don’t overestimate my depth. I’m not philosophical at all. I only know that I have no choice in many things – even in my house. But at home, at least I am the Sadistic Overlord of Technology! Don’t you love the title? I gave it to myself. I should probably put it in bold. The Sadistic Overlord of Technology. If anything remotely technological doesn’t work the way one of my family hoped it would, I am to blame. I get blame, ergo, I get the title.

Take, for instance, our printer. It was one of the first wireless printers and worked perfectly for a long time. It still works fine…for some of us. Three of us have Windows 8 and it seems to like that OS. But it gave up trying for Windows 7. My wife and oldest daughter have Windows 7. I have updated the drivers and tried everything I know to do. But when they push print, it will print no more than one page before it dies. Usually it prints about half a page, violently spits the paper onto the floor, and goes into some form of cleaning mode that makes them scream in frustration. Since both are night owls, this nearly always occurs after the Overlord has gone to bed.

My attitude when awoken to fix the printer is where the word Sadistic got added to my title. I’m not much help after I’ve gone to sleep – part by mental capacity and part by groggy choice, I admit. The help desk is closed! I come out of the bedroom like Jack Nicholson poking his head through the door in The Shining – “Here’s Johnny!”

We’ve been dealing with this for a while and I’ve been dragging my heels on getting a new printer. I guess in some way, my sub-conscious sees this as one thing I can control. As you can imagine, there are ripple effects – mainly in attitude towards the overlord.

Come to think of it, control can be a dangerous thing…

Anyone have a recommendation for a wireless printer?

Photo credit: Jack & some cool app on my iPad

The List goes on.

Unending…Daunting…Disheartening

Until I reach a breaking point…

My dismal attempt at poetry? No, just my mind reeling after I read an email this morning. It is build weekend for our high school thespians and once again, I didn’t see everyone else take a step backwards when they asked for a volunteer to lead the charge. Actually, I love being around the kids (who call me PartyMark) and having a small part in the production. This is my fifth build and we’ve done some incredible shows.

Legally Blonde

Moon Over Buffalo

Little Women

The problem is that when I’m meeting with the director about the task at hand, she shows me the large pieces and that’s where my mind stops. She keeps telling me about the other things they will need and I hear Charlie Brown’s teacher, “wapwapwa-wa!” So after finishing the three big pieces yesterday and feeling quite smug in the accomplishment, I got an email with a 20 item list of things to do today. TWENTY! I nearly lost it and decided to do what I always do when I get stressed, go for a run.

When my toasty skin hit the cool air outside, I got a mild skin irritation in an unfortunate location. I figured it would go away, but it didn’t. At the top of my street, I was so distracted with it that I turned right toward the hilly 6-mile course instead of left to the flat 4. The sun rose above the tree line in front of me as I scratched. At first I tried to be discreet and wait for times when there were no cars around. But after a couple of miles, I quit caring. The unrelenting butt-itch won – for the moment.

At about mile four, something funny happened. I guess I didn’t hit my usual run playlist and some songs from the shows the girls have done streamed through my earbuds. They weren’t the best running songs, but they took my mind off the butt-itch and made me focus more on why I’m doing the building than the list. For me, it’s about the kids, specifically my daughters.

We all have lists. Sometimes they are unrelenting butt-itches that won’t seem to go away. I have to remember why I have the list and be grateful that I have the wherewithal to accomplish it. I keep up with Caringbridge posts from a friend who is watching her husband struggle with a brain tumor. He would love to have my list. I take my health for granted too often.

Today, I’m going to go to church, worship well, then hammer out 20 things – one at a time.

How are you going to attack your list?

The List goes on.

Unending…Daunting…Disheartening

Until I reach a breaking point…

My dismal attempt at poetry? No, just my mind reeling after I read an email this morning. It is build weekend for our high school thespians and once again, I didn’t see everyone else take a step backwards when they asked for a volunteer to lead the charge. Actually, I love being around the kids (who call me PartyMark) and having a small part in the production. This is my fifth build and we’ve done some incredible shows.

Legally Blonde

Moon Over Buffalo

Little Women

The problem is that when I’m meeting with the director about the task at hand, she shows me the large pieces and that’s where my mind stops. She keeps telling me about the other things they will need and I hear Charlie Brown’s teacher, “wapwapwa-wa!” So after finishing the three big pieces yesterday and feeling quite smug in the accomplishment, I got an email with a 20 item list of things to do today. TWENTY! I nearly lost it and decided to do what I always do when I get stressed, go for a run.

When my toasty skin hit the cool air outside, I got a mild skin irritation in an unfortunate location. I figured it would go away, but it didn’t. At the top of my street, I was so distracted with it that I turned right toward the hilly 6-mile course instead of left to the flat 4. The sun rose above the tree line in front of me as I scratched. At first I tried to be discreet and wait for times when there were no cars around. But after a couple of miles, I quit caring. The unrelenting butt-itch won – for the moment.

At about mile four, something funny happened. I guess I didn’t hit my usual run playlist and some songs from the shows the girls have done streamed through my earbuds. They weren’t the best running songs, but they took my mind off the butt-itch and made me focus more on why I’m doing the building than the list. For me, it’s about the kids, specifically my daughters.

We all have lists. Sometimes they are unrelenting butt-itches that won’t seem to go away. I have to remember why I have the list and be grateful that I have the wherewithal to accomplish it. I keep up with Caringbridge posts from a friend who is watching her husband struggle with a brain tumor. He would love to have my list. I take my health for granted too often.

Today, I’m going to go to church, worship well, then hammer out 20 things – one at a time.

How are you going to attack your list?

Male Monday

This is a different kind of Male Monday post for me.

First, I have to give props to Ari, who introduced me to the Male Monday meme. We reconnected for a short while this past summer on Twitter and she continues to be one amazing young lady. No doubt, I’ll soon be saying ‘I knew here when…’!

This coming Thursday would have been my dad’s 92 birthday. I owe my love of reading to my dad. He (and my mom) did so many things right! I remember they did have a copy of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care book in the house, but I don’t believe they ever referenced it. I think they parented by the seat of their pants and I think they did a fantastic job of it, especially with reading and education.

When we my brother, sister and I were really young, I can remember my dad telling us stories of Little Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks. I can remember sitting in his lap and climbing all over him as he retold these stories each time with the same excitement as if it were the first time. I think our favorite was the Three Little Pigs. We heard that one a lot!

What an incredible way to introduce us to stories and to build the desire to want to hear more of them! No doubt he was establishing our lifelong love of reading. My brother, sister and I are still readers as are our children!

The Mott Branch library has been rebuilt!

I have no idea how young I was when dad took us to get our first library cards. He probably did it as soon as we could write our own names! I remember going to the Mott Branch Library in Toledo to get books. My dad had his quirks. He didn’t care to go inside places. He had to have gone inside with us to get signed up, but my memories are not of him being in that library with us. I was, and am, OK with that. If I had needed him to go inside, he would have. I particularly remember all my overdue book fines and my dad grumbling as he paid them. But, he did pay them and I never heard about it again.

Dad supplied our home with his favorite publications: US News and World Report (which I didn’t like because it never had pictures for school reports), Readers Digest (which I will still read!) and The Toledo Blade. He bought encyclopedias, the World Almanac and those condensed books the Readers Digest used to publish. Our house was filled with reading materials! While he was more of a magazine and newspaper reader, he loved to see us read. We didn’t really talk a lot about books or reading, but by taking us to the library, filling our home with reading materials and doing so many other things that indirectly supported our reading habits, he told us that this was important. And that we were, too.

John Inverdale, BBC Sports commentator, put both feet in his mouth when he started to describe the looks of Marion Bartoli, 2013 Wimbledon Women’s Singles Winner. He said – and I quote from The Guardian - “I just wonder if her … Continue reading →

Simba: Father?!
Mufasa’s ghost: Simba, you have forgotten me.
Simba: No! How could I?
Mufasa’s ghost: You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life.
Simba: How can I go back!? I’m not who I used be!
Mufasa’s ghost: Remember who you are.
©Disney

My father was a salesman. I don’t think I realized this when I was a little kid growing up in the Midwest, but he definitely was one, even though his real occupation was working as a foreman for the Indiana State Highway Department. Back then, I’d spend time with my dad who was always looking to find ways to supplement his income to make an honest living. On weekends, Dad would drive me around in one of his old, beat-up cars or trucks he fixed-up himself. My family and I wouldn’t get too used to whatever vehicle he was driving at the moment, as it generally wouldn’t stay around long. The car merely served as a short-term means of transportation, and a roving billboard that advertised its own sale. While he didn’t have any long term relationship with the vehicle, he did have a certain attachment to it that came from having pride in his work, illustrated through his own mechanical abilities, which enabled him to fix things that were broken.

On any given Sunday, Dad and I would be out on a mission, looking for other “For Sale” signs on tractors, lawn mowers, cars, trucks, boats or trailers parked haphazardly in some stranger’s yard. We’d spend hours on end in search of whatever we could find that not only suited Dad’s liking but also matched his mechanical skills to buy, fix-up and sell again for a profit.

On any one of those days, my handsome dad would pull our car into some random driveway, climb out, smooth back his hair, hoist his pants and walk confidently up to knock on the stranger’s door as I stayed lingering, paces behind. “I’m here about the lawnmower you’ve got for sale out front,” he’d say, and then he’d follow the owner out to the yard to look the product over, while I stood quietly nearby.  I learned a thing or two about the basics of selling alongside my dad back then. After all, he was the master of the “wheel and deal,” and one of the best negotiators I’ve ever met. But while my father would sometimes negotiate the terms of the sale or offer a barter or trade when he didn’t have just enough money, the biggest lesson I learned back then is that my father, ultimately, didn’t mind paying a fair price for the right product.

Part of my father’s “business plan” included his self-reliance on his mechanical knowledge and his ability to fix-up something that was broken, while still keeping in mind its full potential or value. This is what differentiated him from other buyers and sellers in the local area. He understood the cost of parts and labor as well as what was involved in buying something that needed to be fixed for resale. He’d buy it, only if he felt he could breathe new life into it and if he was guaranteed a profit for it when he turned the product.

Looking back on all this now, I realize my father would have made an amazing entrepreneur/business owner. He had the right mindset and business acumen. He never compromised who he was or deviated from his goal of turning a profit to put food on the table or to simply provide for his family. He’d buy something. He’d fix it up. He’d resell it. And, then he’d start that process over and over again, honestly and fairly, always being mindful of his profit margins along the way. If he were still around today, and if he had an actual business, I know that he wouldn’t have wavered from his business approach much along the way. After all, he was in the business of making money.

While all of this may be nothing more than simple lessons I learned early on in life, they made a fairly significant impact on me, nonetheless. In this crazy, mixed-up economy we are experiencing today, it’s so easy to become desperate and to sell yourself, your qualifications and your talents short. If you devise the perfect formula for success, it should include differentiating yourself to create value, to make an impact and to stand out, while still minding those margins to make sure you get fairly compensated in the process of all of that hard work and steadfast determination. Rely more heavily on what you know: Buy a product, fix it up with your client’s brand and sell it–at a fair and honest price. Showcase your skills and knowledge, and this will differentiate you from the masses. “Remember who you are,” but most importantly, don’t compromise yourself along the way.

Tonia Allen Gould is President/CEO of  TAG! The Creative Source, a consumer promotions and marketing agency headquartered in California.

In true Irish fashion my Dad passed away Sunday morning. The prior Sunday he suffered a massive heart attack. As a result his brain was damaged and, reluctantly, we had no choice but to let him go. After a very long night he finally passed on. It turns out that the last story he needed to tell was that he passed away on Saint Patrick's Day.

My Dad taught me many, many valuable things. Among them his great sense of humor, gift of story telling and love of the outdoors.

He never missed an opportunity to tell someone that I was a "cartoonist"- something he was very proud of and, admittedly, could never quite understand. I can remember many times, at his request, drawing eagles on cocktail napkins for all of his friends- my first art commissions as I was often given quarters or dollars for the drawings. As I was growing up he would take me on fishing trips from the far north of Quebec, New Brunswick, Ontario, to northern Maine, as close as our own Pennsylvania and, of course, his beloved Delaware River. Those are some of the most cherished memories I have to this day.

Anyone who knew him will miss him dearly. Thank you so very much for all of the prayers and notes of kindness. With Daisy away in Switzerland last week I have no doubt that it was God's answer to your prayers that held me together.

These Highlights illustration clippings are just some of many that I have drawn my Dad in.

He's gone.  Poof! Like that.  Yesterday, he smiled and nodded and dozed; talked to his children and grandchildren on the phone; slept as we sat and reminisced about endless pounds of bluefish from his deep sea fishing trips and of gathering duck eggs in the Spring. 

This morning, we gathered in that hospital room again.  We cried.  We laughed, though not as much.  As each of the "locals" arrived, Mom cried a little more.  We waited for a nurse or doctor to tell us what to do as his shell lay there, an empty reminder of what we have lost.

And then Mom held out her hands and we joined in a circle.  Mom touched Dad's shoulder on one side.  My sister touched his shoulder on the other side and we prayed together, as one.

Oh, Dad, see what you have done?  Your children, together, loving you, loving each other?  We each prayed that prayer, believing different things as we did, but united in our loss. 

I want you back.  I have things I want to ask you.  I will ask my sisters and brothers.  Together we will tell stories and you will be there.  I hope.  I pray.  Hope sustains.  It is our family motto.

Well, last week my Dad reached the grand old age of 90.  (Cheers deafen the blogger as she grins.)  And as oldest daughter and avid amateur party-planner, I took the helm and planned an awesome party for my Dad for last Saturday.  (I also had a ferocious head cold that evolved into an upper respiratory infection.  But, who cares about that?)

So, here are some things I learned in the process:
1.  Don't count on a 90-year-old to show up for his own party.  He did not show.  As a matter of fact, he ended up in the hospital for emergency surgery the very next day.  Some people will do anything to avoid a party!!!!
2.  You can add diacritical marks to a Pages document just by holding down a couple of keys.  I've already forgotten what those keys are but now that I know it can be done I will find the instructions.
3.  Those "Help" windows are actually helpful in many, many programs.
3a.  Use those "Help" windows.  Staring at a computer screen will not get the job done.
4.  The best ideas are hatched right before the party when there is no time to implement them.  For instance, Face Sudoku - thanks to my sister CG.  There are 9 siblings and 9 numbers in Sudoku.  Just substitute a different face for each number and there you go.
    OR, slide photo Bingo.  Make Bingo cards with photos from the event's slide show and everyone will be sure to watch the slide show very carefully.   (My family LOVES slide shows.  Our spouses - not so much!)

But, now, my Dad has another hurdle to overcome.  Just how he will get back to charging the net for a backhand return, I don't know.  He won't be playing tennis anytime soon.

5. The last thing I learned is this.  Time is finite.  Don't waste any of it.  90 years seems like a loooong time but it is never long enough if you love someone.

In October 1942, my dad, Hank Henry, joined the Marines. He served as a radio operator in the Pacific Theater – Guam, Okinawa, and Guadalcanal. Because Dad was characteristically quiet, his children did not learn until we were adults ourselves that he had only fired one shot during the war, after he thought he heard a sniper on his way to the latrine. Although he never killed anyone, he saw plenty of death. Later, he was an Armed Forces broadcaster for station XABU in Tsing Tao in Occupied China.

And much, much later, he became my dad, and then my brother's and sister's dad. When TV came along, he was told to lose his trademark mustache, because only villains wore mustaches.

RIP, Daddy.

You would think everything lives on in the Internet, but the newspaper columns my dad wrote about a dozen years ago seem to have disappeared.



Anyway, here's my dad's column, retyped:

Witnessing Nat Cole's greatest hit
A recent brochure on the Ashland Cabaret Theater's upcoming musical, "King of Cool, the Life and Music of Nat King Cole" brought back memories of my encounter with the great singer 50 years ago.

As a teenager, I had dreamed that I would someday become an expert on the music of the swing era's big bands and the signers who appeared would them. I would then use this knowledge as a disc jockey in a big market or to write about the music scene for a magazine like "Downbeat."

I started collecting facts and anecdotes about people in the music business in 1942 and returned to the field when I came back from the war.

In 1950, before Nora and I married, I spent my vacation in Hollywood, interviewing people in the record business for source material. By then, the industry had turned to huge tape recorders for making record masters. Home-type tape recorders were still rather rare, but I rented one from a record store and lugged it over to Capital headquarters. There I recorded interviews with several singers and with Dave Dexter, a vice-president of the firm.

Dexter offered to get me into a recording session the next morning. The star, he said, would be Nat King Cole. Nat was 32 years of age then, a wonderful jazz pianist who did not consider himself a great singer, but he was.

The session was recorded on the morning of March 11, 1950. The studio had a large stage and bleacher seating for about 50 people. I was the only audience. On the stage was the Lex Baxter Orchestra and Chorus, a total of about 30 people.

In the middle of the stage was something that looked like a telephone booth made mostly of glass. Cole stepped inside and put on a pair of earphones. Having him in isolation allowed the engineers to record his voice on one tape, the orchestra on a second machine, and the chorus on a third. The final "marrying" of the tapes would be done days or week later with the producer, the arranger and the orchestra leader calling the shots.

The third song I heard that morning was almost not recorded. I learned from Dave dexter that Nelson Riddle, the arranger for the session, had pushed for the song, but Nat thought that the lyrics about a painting by Leonardo da Vinci were too esoteric for his fans, but he finally gave in. The song was "Mona Lisa." It became Nat King Cole's greatest hit ever, even bigger than "Unforgettable," which came later. "Mona Lisa" remained at the top of the charts for months and that one song helped make him a millionaire.

Through popular with fans, Nat King Cole faced discrimination throughout his life. He was the first black performer to have his own television show. It ran for two seasons in the 1950s, but NBC was unable to find one advertiser willing to sponsor a black singer.

By the mid-1950s, big bands were disbanding everywhere. Small groups had long been recording under the category of "Rhythm and Blues" or "race records," but those designations were rnamed "Rock and Roll" by the music business after Elvis Preseley appeared out of nowhere. He didn't coin the name, but he rode the tide of change.

With the disappearance of big band, my hundreds of pages of material not he music scene were suddenly outdated. By 1960, even Nat Cole's records were not tracking up sales as big as they had before. He died Feb. 16, 1966, of lung cancer, a victim of his two-packs-or-more-a-day habit. His death came exactly a month short of his 50th birthday. Yet the tremendous sales a couple of years ago of the CD "Unforgettable" by Nat's daughter, Natalie, revived interest in the man.