Frank Sinatra, My Father by Nancy Sinatra

Author:Nancy Sinatra [Sinatra, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780671625085
Google: 9EiE2i6i-PUC
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1986-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

BOOTS

Walkin'

Meanwhile, my marriage to Tommy Sands was a happy one. We were two kids, traveling around, having a good time. In trying to build a serious, lasting career following his initial success as a teenage idol of the fifties, Tommy worked hard. He had a solid nightclub act put together by his manager, Ted Wick, and arranger, Don Costa. He was also beginning to get some movie roles. Our future looked bright. I was content to move with him rather than seriously pursue my own career at that point. In 1960, with President Kennedy newly installed in the White House, we had moved to New York, to our own new pad, a one-room apartment on East Fifty-fifth Street. Marty and Dolly furnished it for us. Tommy enrolled in Lee Strasberg's classes at the Actors Studio.

We spent wonderful evenings at Strasberg's home. One night there was a famous guest and she caused me to realize that, like everyone else, I had tended to believe every myth and fable about celebrities. Instead of the brassy, breezy, sexy, empty-headed blonde, I found Marilyn Monroe to be wonderfully sweet softer, more casual, and prettier than I had expected. A lesson learned.

We spent a lot of time with my grandparents. One night we took them to Patsy's restaurant for dinner and then to a Broadway show When we came out of the theatre we couldn't find a cab to take Marty and Dolly home. The traffic was awful. My grandfather, who had asthma, became ill from the exhaust fumes. Grandma yelled at him for forgetting his "trumpet"-the atomizer spray that opened his bronchial tubes. He couldn't breathe. His asthma was so bad that she often had to give him an adrenaline injection to ease an attack. But she had not carried one with her. The same thing had happened to him not long before when he carried a piece of furniture from the elevator to our one-room apartment. I felt guilty and stupid for not having hired a car.

We had been in New York for about a year when it became known that the Russians were placing missiles in Cuba. One afternoon my dad, after receiving a tip from the White House, called from Palm Springs. He was cryptic: "Chicken, book reservations ... pack a bag. Watch the President tonight ... be ready to leave as soon as he's finished. I'll have Bob (the driver) pick you up." Though he didn't tell me until later, my father knew that J.F.K. was about to announce the Cuban blockade. He had been told by a Kennedy aide to get his kids out of town because "if they have missiles aimed at Washington, you can bet they'll hit New York at the same time." I didn't have to know the reason because I knew that if Dad made that kind of a call, we should get out.

Back in L.A. Dad showed all of us-Mom, Tina, Frankie, Tommy, and me-a map of deserted airstrips in the United States that had been built for use during World War II.

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