Dinah Washington's singing always reminds me of my mother. Her songs are the music of my childhood--steamy, summer days, with Dinah telling "What A Difference A Day Made" on the stereo. My mother had every 45 record by Dinah it seems.

Her clear, bell like voice, with my mother singing loud and clear herself, was the background music of my pre-teen years. Walter Cronkite on the evening news, Dick Clark on American Bandstand, B&W; TV, the Beetles' invasion, 8-cylinder cars, alumnium Christmas trees and Dinah Washington--all cultural icons of the early '60s.

I remember vividly the day Dinah died. The news came over the radio, that played as much as the stereo, but in the kitchen (the stereo had the place of honor in the living room). The local black (Negro) station began to play all of Dinah's hits--their inventory was as extensive as my mother's.

My mother's reaction would foreshadow her younger sister's reaction to Sam Cooke's death a few years later, mine to Marvin Gaye in '84 and my students' to Tupac and Biggie Small during the '90s. A part of your youth dies with the music.