Please, Not That Again

How burdensome they seemed, wartime oldies that could drive our parents teary: “I’ll Be Seeing You,” with its hint of being swept off in a global riptide; or the shaky follow-up of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” followed by a shakier “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else But Me),” “Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer,” or “Ac- Cent-Tchu-Are the Positive.” We suffered them on the old cathedral radio, crooned by Crosby and Sinatra, had to watch them strangled on The Lawrence Welk Show or laced with Como’s heavy dose of sedative. Dad told us, “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Mom hummed, “Keep the Home Fires Burning”—till our music cut the cord. Brash and free of corn, it hailed rock ‘n’ roll, caught Maybellene at the top of the hill, moaned “m’ baby-doll, m’ baby-doll, m’ baby-doll.” We played it loud and often, but they never understood.