When I was a child, I loved listening to the radio when Dean Martin sang, “That’s Amore”.

The sun wanted to burn me to a crisp. Quickly gathering as many ground cherries as I could, I hurried into the shady, coolness of the farmhouse. In the kitchen, I dumped my golden treasure onto the table and sat down to take their husks off.

As usual, Mom’s ever-playing radio on the counter was tuned to WDLB, our local station. The DJ announced, “And for all you tender-hearted lovers, here’s ‘Sukiyaki’.” I loved this Japanese song despite not understanding a single word. The tenderness of how it sounded touched my fourteen-year-old heart. At one point the singer whistles the song’s tune. It sounded so beautiful. I wished I knew how to whistle.

From upstairs, Mom’s voice floated down to me, “Kathy, come up here and try on the dress I’m sewing for you.”

When I got upstairs, Mom was still guiding material under the rapidly moving sewing machine needle. I asked, “Mom, can you teach me how to whistle?”

Pulling the material out from under the needle and cutting the thread, Mom turned to me and commented dourly, “Crowing hens and whistling women always come to a bad end.”

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