COLLECT CALL

Frank Sinatra was at the height of his popularity. We were too

young to go to see him in person but my friends and I listened to him every

Saturday night on Your Hit Parade and bought all of his records. Every

month we would buy a movie magazine and cut out pictures from it to

add to our scrap book of our favorites. 

One movie magazine had a story about the Sinatra family and it

actually printed his home address. I got a crazy idea. Me and my two best

friends all squeezed into a pay phone booth and I dialed the long distance

operator. Assuming what I hoped was an adult voice I said, “This is a

personal friend of Nancy Sinatra. I have her home address but I somehow

misplaced her phone number.”  We had made up a name that sounded like

someone she might have call her collect.

The first two operators hung up immediately. But the third one

said in a tired voice, “Hang on…”

Who knows where Frank was that morning? Maybe Nancy was

bored or lonely or just curious, but miraculously—or so it seemed to

us—she accepted the call!  Suddenly we heard a woman say, “This is

Nancy,” Oh my God! I babbled—first apologizing for calling her collect

and then we began peppering her with inane questions such as,

“What did little Nancy eat for breakfast?” “What’s Frank’s favorite color??

and the like. 

Nancy asked our ages and I said, “Ruby and I are 12 and Mary

is 11.” Then she said, “What are we four girls going to do to keep the rest of

the girls in the world away from Frank?” Can you believe that? Mrs. Frank

Sinatra really said that to us. She wasn’t the least bit annoyed or nasty, but

warm and friendly. And maybe a little sad, now that I think about it.

We then told her we would send her the money for the phone call and

said goodbye. When the call ended, the operator informed us the

charge for the call was $4.40.  We raced home and emptied a Nestles

Quik can, drew boxes on a sheet of paper and started putting coins

in the can, and each time we made a deposit we would dutifully

record it in one of the boxes. “Ruby, 10 cents. Tina, 15 cents.” It took

a long time but finally we had four dollars and forty cents. 

We went to the post office and told the clerk we needed a

money order for $4.40 made out to Mr. Frank Sinatra. The postal

worked joked, “What? Frank needs your $4.40?” But nevertheless we

got our money order, mailed it, (along with our savings record), and

were happy to do so.

            Well, almost a full year went by (you can imagine the amount of

fan mail Frank received at the peak of his fame), but one day I

received an envelope in the mail. I opened it and out fluttered the

money order, and then a note. “You girls worked so hard to save this,

we think you should have it back and spend it yourselves.” (signed)

Frank Sinatra. Did we flip? You bet!!!

FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS

My dad always wanted to be an architect and was going to school at night to follow his dream. But when the depression hit, nobody was building anything and jobs were as scarce as hens teeth. He was married to my mom and they had me and my younger brother Ronnie and my dad was driving a taxi. If he made 50 cents a day he was lucky. He heard the New York Bus Company was looking for drivers, but you needed experience driving a truck. So my dad boldly walked into a truck company and asked the owner if he would give my dad a reference.  

“Why should I do that? I don’t know you!” the astounded owner asked. Now my dad was very charismatic, handsome, and persuasive, and never one to take no for an answer. He spoke to the owner in Italian and said he was a good driver and was unable to feed his two small children. The owner finally capitulated and gave him a reference, which enabled him to get a fairly secure job with the bus company.

This is why he was so taken aback when his wife told him about The Fifty-Two Dollars.

You have to realize, in the 1930’s little luxuries were almost non-existent. In East Harlem, even candy was such a rare treat that our parents had to hide the Brioschi, fizzy crystals used for upset stomachs, on a top shelf to keep it away from the kids.

Almost everything was purchased “on time.” The insurance man came once a week for the 25 cent payments on the policies that would—in 20 years—grow to a five hundred dollar bonanza when little Johnny or Mary was ready to get married.

Everyday items such as tablecloths and curtains were acquired the same way—60 cents down and 50 cents a week—who could afford to buy them otherwise?

One day when I was eight, a salesman appeared at the door lugging a case containing 12 wondrous  volumes of children’s books called My Book House, which he explained to my mom would provide a complete education—from nursery school to college years. For my mom, the clincher was a then little-known children’s story called The Little Engine that Could. As the salesman dramatically intoned, “I think I can, I know I can,” my mom was convinced. This would teach her children that any mountain could be surmounted—you just had to think you could!

I will never forget that humid August night when my dad walked wearily through the door, completely exhausted in his hot, scratchy bus driver’s uniform. He had just come off his shift driving a bus packed with passengers through the streets of Manhattan. This was before air conditioning, exact change, or automatic doors that opened to let passengers on and off. He was greeted by my mom excitedly babbling, “They are the most wonderful books, Mario! ‘I think I can, I know I can!’  And only one dollar a week for 52 weeks!”

I realize now what an enormous sum that was for a man struggling to bring home maybe thirty dollars a week.

My brother and I held our breath as the battle raged on.

“FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS!”

“I think I can, I know I can!”

Eventually mom won and the wonderful books were ours forever. Ultimately my children and my brother’s children learned all about Don Quixote, The Snow Queen, The Water Babies, Oscar Wilde’s Selfish Giant, The Midas Touch, and many many more. Truly these books were indeed an education.

And absolutely the best fifty-two dollars my mom ever spent.

Editor’s Note: Here are some pages from volume four of My Book House, Through the Gate. I loved this book so much my grandmother wrote my name and address on the title page for fear I would leave it somewhere since I brought it with me everywhere. I’ve also included a sampling of pages from my favorite stories—The Fisherman and His Wife, the Snow Queen and the Midas Touch. I also had to laugh when I saw my scribbles on the last page. “Cat. Dog. Lisa.”  (Click on the images to enlarge them.)

Welcome to my blog! Pour yourself a drink, pull up a chair and enjoy reading one of my true stories! I welcome your feedback. Love, Tina