I had my stage debut when I was 5 years old.  My dad was an actor and entertainer in our small rural town of St. Joe, Missouri, and every year at the holidays, he did a little tour for charities and hospitals and performed his Maurice Chevalier act.  I was his arm candy.   Dad wore his best suit and hat, and I wore my scratchiest white dress and carried a lace umbrella.  We hoofed our way across whatever rickety stage they set up for us, no accompaniment, just dad snapping his fingers and singing Monsieur Chevalier’s famous “Thank Heaven For Little Girls.”  He crooned the words to me in a buttery, fake French accent, “Tank heav-on for leetul guhrls… dey grow up in de vehhhhreeeee nizest waaaay….”  Around and around he spun me, “… for leetul guhrls get beeeger ehvree day….”  I held on tight to his sweaty hand as we made our glissade across the floor, me spinning the heck out of my umbrella and him beaming his continental charm to every lady and gent in the audience.  Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!  They loved us!  “Another!” they yelled.  “More!”  “Don’t stop!”  Who could ever walk away from such a glamorous life, I thought!  And I never have.