I remember the spring of 1928. I was almost twelve years old. We opened, and there was a brand new roll of music on the Merry-Go-Round. The tune it played, “Ramona,” had been recently popular. I was familiar with it and delighted in humming and singing the song. The words were pure romance to me. I could just see “Ramona” with the “rambling rose in her hair,” meeting her
lover “by the Waterfall.” He “blessed the day she taught him to care.” My naive impression at my age of the beauty of their idyllic love was not disturbed when he admitted he “dreaded the dawn when he awoke to find her gone.” I had yet to learn of that kind of love. I only knew that I felt sorry for him when she had to leave and spoil their romantic meeting “by the waterfall.”
