At the age of two I crawled up on my fathers lap and the whistling adventure began. The old oak table with the lion claw legs held the brightly burning kerosene lamp. My sister and brother, sitting in the corner of the room were singing and yodeling western music to the tune of an old guitar. Since we lived in the country on a farm, miles from the farm houses there wasn’t a neighbor that I could play with so I would go to the barn, climb the steps to the hay mow and practice my whistling for the pigeons who were an attentive audience. Mother wasn’t exactly thrilled with my determination, as she would say, “whistling women and crowing hens always come to some bad end”.