I GREW UP IN WACO, where papa was a cotton buyer. He traveled a lot, and one day, after I had graduated from high school, he said, “I’m going to Los Angeles to sell some cotton. Would you all like to go with me?”
So we moved to California. And as we were riding down Sunset Boulevard, I saw the Crosby building. Oh, that was something. I said, “Papa, stop!” He said, “What for?” See, we hadn’t gotten a place to stay yet. I said, “I’ve got to see Bing. I’ve got a song for him to sing.” I had a briefcase with me, full of songs I had written. Papa said, “Girl, you’re squirrelly. Don’t you know Bing’s not in that building?” I said, “Somebody’s bound to know him.” He said, “Go ahead and go on in. I’ll wait.” My mother, of course, she never said anything.
So I walked up to the girl who was sitting at the switchboard and said, “I want to see Bing Crosby.” She said, “Bing’s not here,” so I said, “Well, who else is here?” She said, “Larry Crosby and Everett Crosby and Daddy Crosby.” And I said, “Tell Larry”—because that’s the first one she named—“Tell Larry that somebody from Texas is here to see him.” She asked me if I had an