My father, Albert James Knez, was born in Chicago 100 years ago today. In his honor, I will relate one of his favorite stories to tell about himself.
My dad liked music and would have liked to sing, not as a performer, but just be able to sing along with a favorite song on the radio or with Mother and us kids when we sang songs in the car. But the plain awful truth was he couldn't carry a tune in a suitcase. Once during the singing of a hymn in church, I heard him join in, very, very softly, and even when he got somewhere near the tune, he was a half tone flat. It was really rather touching, though, and I was sure that God was pleased by the effort if not the result.
Because he was so widely known to be unable to sing, he loved to tell people how he always got straight A's in music when he was in school. His music teacher, to keep his off-key warbling from ruining the other students' singing, made a deal with him that as long as he didn't sing with the other children, she would give him an A for the class. But he loved the singing so much and wanted so badly to take part that sometimes he just couldn't help himself and would begin to sing along, at which point his teacher would remind him to stop by saying, "Albert, you're singing again!"
Happy birthday, Dad -- I hope wherever you are, you're singing.
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