The Voice.
My father adored her.
He joined the Navy in
1940 with dreams of becoming a pilot; he had his flight training in
Jacksonville, Florida.
After successfully completing flight school, he flew transport planes
for the US Navy during the war, hopping between Miami and Rio every few days.
Before he married my mother, he lived in
a small house in Miami with three other US Navy pilots and a chimpanzee named
Violet (she’s a whole different story), a charismatic group of flyboys who
spent their evenings in the bars and nightclubs of Miami, slamming down drinks,
appreciating the women and listening to jazz and swing bands that toured the
area…Basie, Goodman, Dorsey, etc.
And then along came Ella
Fitzgerald.
The first time he
heard her sing, my father was transported.
He spent an entire night at a little table in a nightclub, smoking
Chesterfields, sipping Manhattans and listening to a voice that left him
speechless.
When she took a break between sets, my father (emboldened, I’m sure, by
the alcohol), approached her, asked if he could buy her a drink.
She said yes.
He never could
remember what she had to drink; he remembered her eyes and her laugh and her
voice.
The Voice.
