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on Page 66:
You don't know what it's like on those good Saturdays, when my father is feeling happy and one with his family and let's me know by singing in the commanding baritone that won him many free drinks over the years. You don't know what it's like to have a brother who sings like one of the Cowsills. On long family trips, hunting for UFOs or just getting some air, the two of them singing so beautifully that
even the suicidal contemplations of "Goodnight, Irene" sounded almost sweet. And me somewhere between them, chiming in only when they forget a line and then slipping back into silence. Singing was greatly valued in our house; it was a measure of worth as defined by the Gene Barry World Experience.
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