father’s day brings back memories of my dad singing Frank Sinatra songs

When I hear Frank Sinatra in an elevator or on the car radio, it takes me back to our brick home in the city where I grew up.

A Friday evening long ago, and I hear my father somewhere in the house alternately singing and humming “Fly Me to the Moon.”

I walk down the hall and peek through the open door where he is tying a Windsor knot with a red necktie. Standing before the dresser, he gets ready for a night out with my mother and some close friends.

He had been working 10 hour days, selling wall and floor tile all week.

But today was payday, and tonight he will be the life of the party, finally getting to use his salesmanship not for business but pleasure, as he tells jokes over high balls, then sweeps onto the dance floor with his wife.

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