My dad (“your old Uncle Walter”) recorded the song on October 1, 1946 in St Louis. He and Kathleen Barrett (my future mom) were playing with her recording machine, a turntable that cut audio grooves into 78 RPM platters. He is in love.
I have the old platter, now digitized on my computer. I have listened to it over and over, making adjustments, trying to get rid of the hiss and crackles, trying to push aside the veil of time, trying to throw my arms around this 24-year-old crooner, home from war, and madly in love with a woman who was not only beautiful and songful, but smart enough to operate her own recording system.