Patti Page I Nearly Knew You

Why is it that someone both nice and famous has to die before you find out that you could have been friends? That's the way it was with Patti Page and me.  Oh, what could have been!  I once could have known her as Clara Ann Fowler, the name she was born with, and went by, at Daniel Webster high school, Tulsa, Oklahoma.

We were this close: she died New Year's day this year, age 85.  I am still fairly alive and only three years younger.  She was born in Claremore, a Tulsa suburb, November 27, 1927.  I was born in Chicago on September 15, 1930.

Therefore we were both born in the fall -- or nearly so in my case -- in the heart of flyover country. But wait. It gets better.  I moved to Tulsa in 1935.  She moved to Tulsa about 1940 - 45.  I didn't leave until 1948, so we were actually in Tulsa for years together!  Well, at the same time.  She didn't leave until 1947, and where did she go?  Chicago! My home town!  Talk about adolescent ships that (almost) pass in the night.

Meanwhile, back in high school, she probably graduated from Webster, which is on the west side of Tulsa's Arkansas river, in the spring of 1945.  I started at Central High, on the east side of the Arkansas, in the fall of that very same year.  We were almost in the stands of the same high school football game together!  Well, almost at the same time.

Patti began her career singing at radio station KTUL, which I listened to along with most Tulsans.  The program's sponsor was the Page Milk company; she replaced the first "Patti Page."  Unfortunately, I drank Glencliff Dairy stuff.  I'd have switched if I had known!

No, I wasn't struck by the lyrical quality of her voice, at least to the point of remembering either her vocalizations or her name.  Musical tastes in our house were more genteel, thanks to the cultural dictatorship imposed by my mother and certain of her more pretentious friends.  Operatic voices and instrumental classics dominated.  Rudolph Frimil was about as low as we went.

In fact the first time I became fully aware of a little ditty called "The Tennessee Waltz,"  it was played by a philharmonic orchestra full of lush strings on the snooty "Bell Telephone Hour" radio program. A cultivated voice introduced this unconventional choice with praise for the instinctive good taste of the American people in its response to the simple elegance of a lovely melodic theme. 

I had already been captivated by the tune, and felt a tad guilty about indulging such lowbrow stuff.  The cachet of a highbrow program helped me get over it.  Perhaps there was more to music than operettas and Viennese waltzes.  After growing up I favored the mellow tones of Ella Fitzgerald when I wasn't being carried away by the soaring voice of Sarah Vaughn, and eventually found jazz.

"What are they playing that for?" Mother wondered.  I understood her reaction better when "Rock Around The Clock," and all that has followed, drove jazz idioms and "The Great American Song Book" of Ella and Sarah from most musical venues.  Patti withstood the "noise as music" trend longer and better than most, with such tunes as "Old Cape Cod," "Mocking Bird Hill,"  "Steam Heat," and of course "Tennessee Waltz."

Nobody could escape Patti's version of her greatest song once it was out about Christmas of 1950.  We all almost did, though.  Mercury Records was searching for a flip side to a forgettable something called "Boogie Woogie Santa Claus,"  and settled on a modest country hit of a couple years back.  To date she has sold between 10 and 15 million singles, second for a time to Bing Crosby's top selling "White Christmas."  Less remarked is that it was the last song ever to sell one million sheet music copies.

Read these lyrics slowly and silently to yourself and listen for Patti's voice in your head:

I was dancin' with my darlin'

To the Tennessee Waltz

When an old friend I happened to see

I introduced her to my loved one

And while they were dancin'

My friend stole my sweetheart from me

I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz

Now I know just how much I have lost

Yes, I lost my little darlin'

The night they were playing

The beautiful Tennessee Waltz

Patti died in a nursing home in Encinitas, California, a coastal community north of San Diego.  My favorite Aunt Irene lived and died there also.  I will continue to miss them both.  And Ella and Sarah, too, if you want to know the truth.  And to hell with Elvis and his god damn blue suede shoes.