Frank Sinatra's daughter recalls her father's humble beginnings as the son of immigrants in Hoboken, NJ.
My father was an only child, and a lonely child. He was born in 1915, in Hoboken, NJ, the son of immigrants who'd arrived in this country with the will to make their way and not a whole hell of a lot else. They ran a restaurant and saloon, where Dad sang propped up on the player piano, and they outlasted Prohibition and the hard times that followed.
Dolly Sinatra was the social animal, the politically connected one, who spent her spare time buying votes for the local Democratic machine. (A woman with advanced ideas, she would chain herself to City Hall at a protest for women's suffrage in 1919.) As Dolly's ambitions broadened, she finagled a fireman's post for her husband, Marty, a job that stole him away from home for days at a time. They were doting parents, and their skinny, blue-eyed son was the center of their universe. But they were also working overtime to make sure he'd have a better life. They weren't always seeing Dad off to school, or asking how his day had gone when he got home.