MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS(ISBN=9781400098330) 英文原版 下载 pdf 百度网盘 epub 免费 2025 电子书 mobi 在线

Charming, debonair, and impeccably attired in a black tuxedo, Dean Martin was coolness incarnate. His music provided the soundtrack of romance, and his image captivated movie and television audiences for more than fifty years. His daughter Deana was among his most devoted fans, but she also knew a side of him that few others ever glimpsed.

In this heartfelt memoir, Deana recalls the constantly changing blended family that marked her youth, along with the unexpected moments of silliness and tenderness that this unusual Hollywood family shared. She candidly reveals the impact of Dean’s fame and characteristic aloofness, but delights in sharing wonderful, never-before-told stories about her father and his pallies known as the Rat Pack. This enchanting account of life as the daughter of one of Hollywood’s sexiest icons will leave you entertained, delighted, and nostalgic for a time gone by.

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　　Deana Martin is an actress, entertainer, and author living

with her husband in Beverly Hills, California. She is the director

of the Deana Martin Foundation and the producer and driving force

behind the annual Dean Martin Festival. Visit Deana on the Web at

deanamartin.com.

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　　Chapter One

　　Inside each of us is a small, dark place we can escape to when

we're in pain. It is a silent sanctuary where comforting thoughts

and memories wash over us, providing a soothing balm for the fear

we're feeling inside. I first discovered mine when I was quite

small. Cared for by an aunt while my mother disappeared for three

days, I was sent to live with my father, a man I barely knew

despite the name I bore.

　　I can vividly recall standing in the foyer of his opulent Beverly

Hills mansion, along with three big boxes of clothes belonging to

me and my two older sisters. A woman I knew as my stepmother picked

up each item between her thumb and forefinger. "No, not this,"

she'd say, or, "This looks clean, we'll keep it," or-with a

sympathetic look-"This can go to Goodwill." One of the boxes was

mine, and

　　I stood staring at my only possessions being picked over and

graded.

　　That first interminable summer in my father's house, I remained

completely mute, breaking my silence only occasionally to whisper

my fears to my sisters, from whom I became inseparable. My arms

were pocked with hives, my skin raw from nervous scratching. While

my father worked hard to maintain his position in Hollywood,

revered by his millions of fans, his little Deana sat clutching the

banisters every night. Dressed in one of my stepmother's baby-doll

nighties, I dripped silent tears on the top step of his grand

staircase, grieving for a loss too enormous for a nine-year-old

child to comprehend.

　　On August 19, 1948, the day I was born in the Leroy Sanatorium,

New York City, my father was busy doing what he did best. I emerged

into the world at the very same moment a desperate woman threw

herself from the window of the Russian embassy across the street.

The media throng that gathered outside to cover the mystery suicide

had no idea that Dean Martin's fourth child was bawling for

attention just feet away.

　　Dad was on the other end of the country at the time, with his

comedy partner, Jerry Lewis, playing at Slapsy Maxie's Café, a

popular new nightclub on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. Theirs

was the hottest ticket in town, and regularly filling front-row

seats were friends like Humphrey Bogart, Tony Curtis, and Janet

Leigh. Sitting alongside them would be stars like Fred Astaire,

Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Jane Wyman, James Cagney, and Gary

Cooper, as well as just about every studio head and entertainment

executive in town. Dad opened each show with a song. The minute he

walked out onto that stage, the atmosphere was electric. His image,

style, magnetism, class, and talent just lit up the club.

Hollywood's brightest settled back into their seats, eagerly

anticipating what lay ahead.

　　Dad and Jerry were superstars, earning around ten thousand

dollars a week just after the end of the Second World War. They

were about to sign a ten-movie, five-year deal with Paramount

Studios worth $1,250,000. They also had a separate recording

contract with Capitol Records and a radio deal with NBC. With three

young children and my recent arrival, Dad was finally succeeding in

paying off the debts that had dogged him for years, and funding the

fairy-tale lifestyle he hoped to create for us all.

　　My mother, Betty, called Dad at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel the

night I was born to tell him he had a new daughter to add to his

family. He was so deeply asleep when he took the call that he

thought it was someone fooling around and hung up. Hours later, Dad

rang back to see if his hazy memory of the previous night was

correct. It was true. Mother had given him another baby girl.

Between them, they settled on the name Deana Angela. Dad had always

wanted at least some of his children to be named after him. Having

successfully chosen the names Craig, Gail, and Claudia, Mother was

only too happy to comply with Dad's request. At the hospital, the

registrar misspelled my name, writing it as Dina on my birth

certificate, much to Mother's annoyance. It was a mistake that was

to be repeated throughout my life. When the gossip columnist Walter

Winchell wrote in his Sunday column that my name was Dinah, my

mother was exasperated. She sang the line from the song, "Dinah? Is

there anyone finah in the state of Carolina?" and muttered, "Can't

Winchell get anything right?"

　　It was two months before my father finally met me. His West Coast

debut of The Martin & Lewis Show and his first movie role with

Jerry in the film My Friend Irma kept him more than three thousand

miles from 315 West 106th Street and Riverside, New York. That was

where I shared an apartment with my mother, brother, and sisters

and our housekeeper, Sue. Staying with us were my maternal

grandmother, Gertrude, and my young aunts Anne and Barbara, who'd

come from Philadelphia to help with my arrival. In the apartment

above us was the singer Lena Horne, whose children played with us

from an early age.

　　I finally came face to face with my father in Philadelphia, where

Patti Lewis, Jerry's wife, accompanied the Martin family to a

long-awaited reunion. Having taken me in his arms, he beamed

adoringly into my big hazel eyes. Dad then announced that we were

all moving to California. We returned to New York almost

immediately to start packing, while my mother's family traveled

home, their task complete. It was an emotional parting. To add to

the tears, Mother's close friend, the actor Jackie Cooper, came to

bid her good-bye.

　　"I wish you weren't going to Hollywood, Betty," he told her,

giving her a warm embrace. "I just know it's gonna break your

heart." Mother wondered what he knew.

　　For a brief period after my arrival, my parents enjoyed real

happiness. Dad loved being a family man, and reveled in being a

star. He could hardly believe how much his fortunes had changed.

"Who'd have thunk it?" he would say. "For a boy from Steubenville,

Ohio?"

　　He was always proud of where he came from, and mentioned it

whenever he could. My grandfather Gaetano Crocetti had traveled to

Steubenville shortly after arriving at Ellis Island in New York in

1913. A nineteen-year-old farm laborer, he came from Montesilvano,

Italy, near Pescara on the Adriatic coast, following his two elder

brothers to eastern Ohio. Steubenville was thirty-five miles west

of Pittsburgh and had a large Italian immigrant population. Once

settled, my grandfather became a barber. He embraced his new life

but never lost his impenetrable Italian accent or his love for the

old country.

　　My grandmother Angela Barra was born in Fernwood, Ohio, to

parents who emigrated from Italy. She was raised by German nuns who

taught her all the things that a young lady needed to know: The art

of cooking, caring for a home, and, most important, they taught her

how to sew. This was a skill, that she developed into a lucrative

profession, as she became known as the finest seamstress in the

region. Because of her, all of the boys in the neighborhood had

beautifully handcrafted clothes, either new or altered from older

suits. When we were children she made many of our finest outfits,

all matching, and it was she who gave my father his impeccable

sense of style. She also gave my grandfather his American nickname

"Guy." On Sunday, October 25, 1914, at the age of sixteen, Angela

married Guy at St. Anthony of Padua Church in Steubenville, Ohio.

Their first child, Guglielmo, known to me as Uncle Bill, was born

on June 24, 1916. Dad, who was baptized Dino Crocetti at the same

church, was their second child. He was born June 7, 1917.

　　My grandmother was an excellent homemaker and a wonderful cook.

Her sons were raised on traditional Italian cuisine such as

spaghetti and meatballs, veal or sausage with peppers, and Dad's

favorite-pasta fagioli. My grandfather was a respected barber, and

his sons were never lacking for anything. All he ever wanted was

their health and happiness. He also hoped that one day they might

work alongside him in his barbershop.

　　Dad grew up in a close-knit neighborhood that served as an

extended family. With his cousins John, Archie, and Robert, he

played bocce ball and baseball in the lots behind their houses and

swam in the Ohio River. There was church every Sunday, where Dad

and Uncle Bill were altar boys; Boy Scouts, where he was the

drummer; and the Sons of Italy social events. Until he was five

years old, Dad spoke predominantly Italian, but that changed when

he started going to school.

　　Learning English as a second language gave Dad a slow and easy

style of speaking that remained with him for the rest of his life.

Like all children, he began picking up phrases and expressions from

his school friends and soon sounded just like them. Unlike his

studious brother, Dad spent much of his spare time watching

westerns at the local movie house, the Olympic. Sometimes he would

hang out at the poolrooms and nightclubs that were opening to cater

to the increasing numbers of steelworkers in the town, which became

known as "Little Chicago." It was great entertainment, and all done

openly within a few yards of his father's shop.

　　For a time some of Dad's friends joked that the only chair he was

heading for was not the swiveling type in his father's barbershop.

Dad even added a funny line about that into the song Mr. Wonderful

years later, that went, "Back home in Steubenville, they're

doubting all this, I swear. / They're still betting six-to-five I

get the chair."

　　Dad once told an interviewer, "I had a great time growing up in

Steubenville. I had everything I could possibly want-women, music,

nightclubs, and liquor-and to think I had all of that when I was

only thirteen."

　　My father learned from an early age that charm, good looks, and a

smile could help him find everything from employment to hot bread

at the Steubenville Bakery. He was, at different times, a milkman,

a gas station attendant, and a store assistant.

　　He loved to sing, which he did at any opportunity, never passing

up an invitation to entertain. He had a beautiful voice an...

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编辑推荐

　　Charming, debonair, and impeccably attired in a black tuxedo,

Dean Martin was coolness incarnate. His music provided the

soundtrack of romance, and his image captivated movie and

television audiences for more than fifty years. His daughter Deana

was among his most devoted fans, but she also knew a side of him

that few others ever glimpsed.

　　In this heartfelt memoir, Deana recalls the constantly

changing blended family that marked her youth, along with the

unexpected moments of silliness and tenderness that this unusual

Hollywood family shared. She candidly reveals the impact of Dean’s

fame and characteristic aloofness, but delights in sharing

wonderful, never-before-told stories about her father and his

pallies known as the Rat Pack. This enchanting account of life as

the daughter of one of Hollywood’s sexiest icons will leave you

entertained, delighted, and nostalgic for a time gone by.

媒体评论

　　“From her heart, Deana Martin has told a frank and honest

account of what her life was like with her famous father and

family. It has been a wild ride, with lots of ups and downs,

written with honesty, love, and understanding.” —Regis Philbin

书籍介绍

Charming, debonair, and impeccably attired in a black tuxedo, Dean Martin was coolness incarnate. His music provided the soundtrack of romance, and his image captivated movie and television audiences for more than fifty years. His daughter Deana was among his most devoted fans, but she also knew a side of him that few others ever glimpsed.

In this heartfelt memoir, Deana recalls the constantly changing blended family that marked her youth, along with the unexpected moments of silliness and tenderness that this unusual Hollywood family shared. She candidly reveals the impact of Dean’s fame and characteristic aloofness, but delights in sharing wonderful, never-before-told stories about her father and his pallies known as the Rat Pack. This enchanting account of life as the daughter of one of Hollywood’s sexiest icons will leave you entertained, delighted, and nostalgic for a time gone by.