In the Aug. 9–15 edition, Randy Tatano’s bit of nostalgia, “Songs Shouldn’t Need Subtitles or a Translator—Reflections on old music versus the new,” rang true to me. I also grew up in the ’50s in an Italian household. I cannot remember where the music and the songs came from other than my mother’s heart and soul. Maybe it was a static-filled old radio. I knew all the words to Sinatra, Dean Martin, and countless others’ songs. I knew, and know, the words from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s songs.
Every song I hear from those times evokes a sad or sweet memory of my childhood and early adult years. There were 10 children in my family. My mom always found joy enough to sing and occasionally the energy to “tap dance” on the kitchen floor wearing her penny loafers.
