Bing Crosby (7 page)

The family settled readily into the neighborhood. As Kate recalled, “All around us were young married couples, congenial and
all of a sort in tastes, economic position and general outlook. Nobody was wealthy. Everybody was happy.”
¹⁰
In the fall of 1908, she walked young Harry to the Webster School and registered him in first grade, though he was only five,
the proper age for kindergarten. Webster did not offer kindergarten, so perhaps she lied about his age, impatient to get him
out from under her feet. Yet Harry had plainly usurped his mother’s attentions. Whatever else charmed Kate about her jug-eared,
towheaded youngest boy, she cannot have failed to see herself mirrored in his face.

The older boys were different, easier to describe: Larry was bookish, soft-spoken, owlish in glasses not unlike his father’s;
Everett was pugnacious, a provocateur with little interest in school and defiantly sure of himself; Ted was quiet, a loner,
a diligent and imaginative child who wrote stories and studied electronics. The three older boys looked like their father:
they had the rounded, fleshy Crosby face and small, dark eyes. Harry, too, had his father’s thin nose and thinning scalp.
Still, he was decidedly a Harrigan, the only boy to inherit his mother’s cool, prominent, hooded blue eyes; her prim lips;
and the triangular jaw she got from her mother. Even the way his right cheek folded at the mouth in an irrepressible smirk
linked him to Kate. In her later photographs, that smirk is as close as she got to smiling.

The Harrigan moodiness was also familiar, as were his quickness to take offense and his indisputable charm. Everyone who knew
young Harry would speak of his constant singing and whistling that heralded his arrival. He was given more leeway than his
brothers, his father conceded. “We were both so lenient that it’s no wonder our other boys called Bing ‘Mother’s and Dad’s
pet.’ Not that he was
spoiled. He got his tannings. But he — well, he was different in a way. Made it sort of hard to spank him much.”
¹¹

In third grade he was informally and indelibly renamed. It was 1910, the year a local matron, Mrs. John Bruce Dodd, founded
a movement to establish a national Father’s Day. Harry, six years old, discovered a full-page feature in Sunday’s
Spokesman-Review,
“The Bingville Bugle.” Written and illustrated by humorist Newton Newkirk, of the
Boston Post,
the “Bugle” was a broad parody of a hillbilly newsletter, with gossipy tidbits, minstrel quips, creative spelling, mock ads,
and hayseed caricatures. Harry Lowe told writer Quentin Reynolds that his boy pestered grown-ups to read it to him. He’d point
to the page and plead, “Bing! Bing!” until someone gave in.
¹²

One older boy he did not have to pester much was fifteen-year-old Valentine Hobart, who lived two doors away. Valentine liked
Harry and shared his enthusiasm for the “Bugle,” which the
Spokesman-Review
dispersed not in the comics section (its drawings served primarily as teasers for the lengthy text) but in a supplement filled
with stories by Jack London, H. Rider Haggard, O. Henry, W. W. Jacobs, and other popular writers. The “Bugle” motto boasted,
THE LEADING PAPER OF THE COUNTRY — BRIGHT, BREEZY, BELLICOSE, BUSTLING,
and augured with remarkable accuracy the yokel humor that Arkansas-born comedian Bob Burns popularized on Crosby’s
Kraft Music Hall
in the 1930s. It incorporated back-fence scuttlebutt (“There was a light in the front parlor of the Perkins’ residence last
Satterday ev’g until as late as 9:30
P.M.
… Tom staid a little mite later than usual on this occashion, didn’t he Sadie?”); “pomes” by “well knowed pome writer, Miss
Sally Hoskins”; recipes for items such as harness grease; drama reviews (“Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Played by Real Actor Folks, was
Give in the Town Hall to a Large and Intelligent Audience”); and hard news (“Hank Dewberry had a turrible experience with
his red bull thet he will remember with loathing as long as he lives”).
¹³

Harry had an infectious and appreciative laugh, and Hobart took a shine to him, calling him Bingo from Bingville.
¹⁴
Shorn of its last vowel, the improbable nickname stuck. Other versions of its origin were later publicized. One had him named
for a floppy-eared character in the parody named Bingo, though Newkirk never actually drew such a creature. A Paramount Pictures
press release explained that as
a boy, Bing played cowboys and Indians, cocking his fingers like a gun and shouting, “Bing bing bing,” a tale reprinted for
decades to come. Everett, a fount of misinformation, replaced the cowboy story that he helped popularize with a third version,
in which Bing’s name was earned with a baseball bat, which he used to knock out clean hits called “bingles.”
¹⁵

Bing was sensitive about the genesis of his name. Though notoriously free with what Huck Finn called “stretchers” and indifferent
to most accounts of his life and career, he corrected Paramount’s press release (which perpetuated numerous errors he let
stand) in order to ground “The Bingville Bugle” in his history. But he never discussed the more intriguing issue of why a
grown man cultivates a childhood nickname. In
The Bank Dick,
W. C. Fields considers a name: “Og Oggleby. Sounds like a bubble in a bath.” What then does
Bing
sound like: the direct hit on a spitoon? The NBC chimes? The collision of two martinis? If nothing else, it conveys the affection
of its bestowers.

After Hobart named him, only his mother persisted in calling him Harry. In school he signed his work Harry, but even his teachers
took to calling him Bing. The name would be used by his wives and lovers, colleagues and partners, family and friends all
his life. From the outset of his career, it seemed as natural and fitting and finally as commonplace as Tom, Dick, or Elvis.
The name disarms, flatters the wary, demands a certain conviviality of all who approach. Bing. El Bingo. Le Bing. Bing Kuo
Shi Bi. Der Bingle. Rarely has a nickname so aptly defined the person it identified. He was Bing at all times, except before
the law and the church. He reserved Harry for his alter ego in a running 1940s radio skit (a character of the “Moonlight Bay”
era, he explained, his father’s generation) and occasions of high seriousness, like meeting the Pope. And he handed it down
to his fourth and fifth sons.

Bing was a solid if unremarkable student at Webster, popular and able to hold his own in and out of the classroom, even though
he was a year younger than his classmates. To the dismay of his teachers, he did not have to work hard to do well and sometimes
appeared to do no work at all. He was considered bright but lazy. A good friend, Francis Corkery (who would become president
of Gonzaga University), thought of him as happy-go-lucky, too carefree to be a true leader; he
recalled that Bing was always ready to go along when the gang raided fruit trees for apples and cherries. Francis and Bing
had jackknives and whittled together. Corkery remembered him as good-natured and always singing. Though shy with girls, Bing
was outgoing with boys and good at sports, despite his small stature. In fourth grade Frank and Bing played on the Webster
School baseball team. In his dark jersey with striped sleeves and leggings, Bing stands in the front row of a team picture,
hands on hips, eager and poised.

Gertrude Kroetch, Bing’s fourth-grade teacher, remembered his class practicing ovals in penmanship. She had set a rhythm,
counting fours. All the kids did the ovals except Bing, who, finger cocked and one eye closed, shot his classmates one by
one with an imaginary gun. Not wanting to interrupt her counting, Miss Kroetch pantomimed her own gun and fired it at Bing,
who began to “make those ovals furiously,”
¹⁶
His mother recalled an afternoon when he was sent home from school with a note. Bing had disrupted the class with his “whispered
remarks and pantomime.” The next time it happened, he was sent to the principal. “What did [the principal] do?” Kate asked
him. “He dealt with me,” said Bing. “And?” “That’s all. I think I get the idea now.”
¹⁷
The principal had bent Bing over a chair and whacked him with a yardstick.

Corporal punishment was hardly unknown to him, notwithstanding the parental favoritism. If Dad tended to disappear when a
licking was to be administered, Kate was willing; and the children feared her hefty wooden hairbrush and strap. Her implacable
authority earned Kate a level of respect denied Harry, but something less than love, perhaps because her approval was so often
linked to her ambitions. She was always searching for a star. When Kate thought Ted might become a priest, she relieved him
of chores; when she decided Catherine could succeed on Broadway, she insisted on years of piano lessons no matter the cost.
The children claimed to venerate her for being steadfast and sensible, yet privately they found her manipulative and severe.
One way or another, she was setting up each of them to disappoint her. In later years four of her children — Bing emphatically
not among them — conceded that despite their admiration and respect for their mother, they never truly loved her.
¹⁸

In addition to meting out punishment, Kate allocated chores, settled disputes, and governed family traditions. Mary Rose considered
her an extraordinary woman but noted that for all the bother over birthdays, they were observed with a cake and never a party.
Kate disbursed Harry’s wages, and when they weren’t sufficient, she emphasized his failure by dramatically resorting to a
teapot, her emergency bank. “My father didn’t make a great deal of money,” Bing said. “My mother raised us on his small salary
and we all got through college somehow.”
¹⁹
Perhaps he hoped to instill in his own children the reverence he felt toward her when he, too, used a strap, with terrible
results, as he repeatedly acknowledged. Kate, after all, earned him his success: “My mother was such a wonderful woman and
she did so many good things and so much good work and she wanted success and happiness for me. Maybe the Lord, to make her
happy, had good things happen to me.”
²⁰

Harry had no illusions about who ruled the roost. Asked to comment on his world-renowned son in 1940, he volunteered:

My wife really knows much more about him than I do. Not that he’s a stranger to me! But Mother — well, you know how boys act
toward their mothers. I guess I’ve always been the easy-going father. Bing takes after me in that respect. Nobody can rush
him either. I remember the times I’d come home from work and how often I’d be greeted with the story of some disturbing antic
of his during the day. My wife always would say, “Now, Harry, you must speak to Bing. He’s been very hard to manage today.”
I’d look very indignant, promise some sort of punishment, then watch Kate do the disciplining. I just couldn’t bring myself
to punish Bing — or any of the boys.
²¹

Bing considered Harry’s serenity his primary legacy. “Whether inherited or not,” Bing once said, “his ability to relax has
helped me in a life which has had its share of pressure. I don’t worry seriously about anything.”
²²

A block west of the Crosby home lived Helen and Agnes Finnegan, sisters who taught Bing in fifth and sixth grades, respectively.
Helen remembered him as roly-poly and likable, and was proud to claim that he played his first stage role in her class, as
a singing jumping bean, one of twelve (Corkery was another) who vaulted across the stage on pogo sticks in a presentation
called
Beebee.
In sixth and seventh grades, Bing was introduced to two venerable theatrical conventions,
often revisited during his career; he appeared in blackface for a school benefit and in a pink-and-white-checkered dress for
a Christmas play adapted from the
Ladies’ Home Journal.
His fine voice was much admired. “We think Hollywood has ruined Harry’s voice,” Helen Finnegan complained to a reporter in
1946. “He sang much better before he became a crooner.”
²³
Agnes remembered him as clean but sloppy, with his shirttail out, always chewing pencils or gum or both. He had straw-colored
hair, a creamy complexion, outsize ears, china-blue eyes, and a tendency toward chubbiness.

Music was always heard at home. As Harry’s record collection increased, Bing memorized the latest songs. “I had a constant
succession of them in my head. And I had to whistle or sing to get them out.”
²⁴
The phonograph was always on, except after supper on Sunday, when the family gathered in the living room to sing. Accompanied
by Harry on mandolin or guitar, and by a glowing fire in winter, Kate’s contralto fused with Harry’s tenor on “When Irish
Eyes Are Smiling,” “Sweet Adeline,” “In the Good Old Summer Time,” and “Mother Machree,” among others. Harry conducted a male
quartet that included himself, Bing, Larry, and Ev. Ted, an inveterate tinkerer, kept his distance from the harmonizing but
a few years later made his own valiant contribution by building a crystal radio that picked up new songs from a station in
Seattle.

The girls took turns at the piano, recently transported from the house in Tacoma. Harry paid fifteen dollars for cartage,
the price of a new suit he was obliged to sacrifice. It was a present for Kate, who wanted the girls to learn how to play
and needed cheering up. Her childless sister, Annie, had written to boast how well her husband was doing and rubbed salt in
the wound by offering to adopt Kay (Catherine).
²⁵
Only in her children was Kate richer than Annie, yet she made it clear she appreciated the offer and was inclined to consent.
This time, Harry put his foot down. They were not so poor that they had to farm out one of their children. By way of saying
no, thank you, he reclaimed her piano. Kay quickly revealed musical talent and promised to be a beauty. Kate envisioned stardom
for her.

It wasn’t Dad, but a member of Kate’s family — her youngest brother, George, then a robust man in his early thirties — who
became Bing’s first idea of an exemplary performer. An enthusiastic amateur, George made frequent visits from the coast. Bing
adored
him and spent many hours at his side. In later years, when Bing reminisced about George, his voice would rise a couple of
tones and the phrases would tumble out with a cantering dispatch: