Quite some time ago, I planned for this summer to be one of peace and quiet, with very little conducting and a lot of time to focus on other projects. For the most part, this is working out well.

On the book front, I have nearly completed a fourth volume of my writings. Primarily a memoir, Words Without Songs fills in some major gaps in what I have written previously about my life, with lengthy chapters about my father and mother as well as one about my brother. Because so many people have asked about my family’s relationship to Frank Sinatra, there is also a chapter devoted to “The Voice.” In addition, I recount various pranks my cohorts and I used to pull, some of them quite outrageous.

For a complete change of pace, I decided to take most of the summer off, starting in June and going through mid-September. I agreed to participate in a couple isolated events, but they are not with the usual suspects. One of them occurred in early June.

I was sitting around, working on the two books—yes, I have almost finished one and started another—when an interesting proposal popped up on my computer screen. To comprehend what it really meant, you must understand that the cultural history of Missouri is quite complicated. We are only 300 miles south of Chicago, but Memphis is just down river. Are we considered part of the South or the North?