June 1962, Sunshine Home for Blind Children, Northwood, England. Frank Sinatra walked into the common room where 30 children sat waiting. Ages 5 to 12, all of them blind, some since birth, some from accidents or illness. They couldn’t see him, but they knew who he was. They’d heard his voice on records on the radio.
That voice was the only Frank Sinatra most of them would ever know. He sang for them that afternoon, talked with them, held their hands, answered their questions. He’d answered thousands of questions in his life from reporters, from fans, from heads of state. He always had an answer, always knew what to say.
Then a six-year-old girl raised her hand. She had a question nobody had ever asked him before. Frank knelt down beside her. “What color is the wind?” she asked. For the first time in his 46 years, Frank Sinatra had absolutely no answer. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The silence that followed and what it did to a man who’d spent his entire life speaking through sound tells you something about Frank Sinatra that no song ever could. This is that story.
In June of 1962, Frank Sinatra was at the absolute peak of his power. Not just his career, his power. He was 46 years old. He’d already lived three lifetimes worth of success, failure, and comeback. He’d been dropped by Colombia Records in 1952, declared finished by the press, written off by the industry.
Then he’d won an Oscar for From Here to Eternity in 1954 and came back bigger than before. By 1962, he owned pieces of casinos. He had his own record label. He was making a million dollars a year. The Rat Pack was at its height. He was untouchable. But Frank had a rule about fame. Use it. Don’t just have it.
Use it for something that matters. He visited hospitals, showed up at benefits, played private concerts for causes nobody photographed. He didn’t talk about this work publicly, didn’t use it for press. He just did it quietly. The way men of his generation did things they believed in. In June 1962, Frank was in London for a series of concerts at the Royal Festival Hall.
Sold out. The British press followed him everywhere. He was staying at the Seavoi being Frank Sinatra in the way only Frank Sinatra could be. But on June 12th, his schedule had a block that said Sunshine Home. The Sunshine Home for Blind Children was in Northwood, a quiet suburb northwest of London.
It had been founded in 1918 to care for children who’d been blinded during the First World War. By 1962, it housed about 40 children, orphans mostly, or children whose families couldn’t afford the kind of specialized care that blindness required. In 1962, the kids at Sunshine Home didn’t get many visitors, certainly not famous ones.
When the staff told them that Frank Sinatra was coming, most of the children didn’t fully understand what that meant. They knew the name, knew the voice from records, but they couldn’t picture him. Couldn’t imagine what Frank Sinatra looked like in a room. Frank arrived at 200 p.m. He walked in wearing a suit. Always a suit.
Even for an audience that couldn’t see it. Frank Sinatra wore a suit. That was the discipline, the respect. You dressed for the occasion, not for who could see you. The children were gathered in the common room, 30 of them that afternoon. Ages 5 to 12. They sat quietly. Some of them faced the wrong direction.
Some stared straight ahead at nothing. Some had their eyes closed. A few wore dark glasses. They’d been told to be on their best behavior, that a very important man was coming to visit. Frank walked in and the room went silent. Not because they saw him, because they felt the shift. The way a room feels different when someone important enters it.
The way air pressure changes. Hello, Frank said. Just that one word. And you could see it in the children’s faces. Recognition. They knew that voice, that specific grain and warmth. The voice they’d heard on records, on the radio, the voice that was Frank Sinatra to them. Hello, Mr. Sinatra,” the children said back.
Some of them in unison, some a beat late. Frank sat down in a chair the staff had set up for him, but he didn’t stay there. He got up almost immediately and walked over to the children, knelt down beside the first row. “What’s your name?” he asked a boy who looked about 8.
“Timothy, sir, you don’t have to call me sir.” Timothy Frank’s fine. How old are you? Eight’s a good age. You like music, Timothy? Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Frank, I like your songs. My mom had a record before I came here. Songs for swinging lovers. I listen to it all the time. Frank’s face changed, softened. That’s a good record.
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One of my favorites. You have a good ear. He moved down the row, talked to each child, asked their names, asked what they liked. Some of them were too shy to answer. Some grabbed his hand, and wouldn’t let go. Frank didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, held their hands, let them touch his face so they could know what he looked like.
One girl, maybe 9 years old, traced his features with her fingers, ran them along his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw. You have a nice face, she said. Thank you, Frank said. That’s very kind. After he’d met all of them, Frank said, “Would you like me to sing something?” The room erupted. “Yes, please. Yes.
” There was no piano, no band, no microphone, just Frank Sinatra standing in a common room in a children’s home in Northwood, England, singing a capula for 30 blind children. He sang young at heart. He sang the way you look tonight. He sang all the way. His voice filled the room the way it filled concert halls, but softer, more intimate, like he was singing just for them because he was.
The children sat perfectly still. Some of them smiled. Some of them cried. Not sad crying, overwhelmed crying. The crying that comes when something beautiful is happening and you don’t have words for it. When Frank finished, the children applauded. Not loud, not wild, just sincere. The kind of applause that says, “Thank you for this.
” Frank sat down again. “Anyone have questions?” he asked. Hands shot up. A dozen questions. Frank answered all of them. “What’s your favorite song to sing? Do you get nervous before concerts? Have you met the queen?” He was patient, present, gave every child his full attention. Then a small girl in the back row raised her hand. She looked about six.
Dark hair, pale skin. She wore a simple dress and dark glasses that hid her eyes completely. Yes, sweetheart. Frank said, “What’s your name?” Margaret. Margaret. That’s a beautiful name. What’s your question, Margaret? Margaret tilted her head slightly like she was thinking very carefully about how to ask what she wanted to ask. Mr.
Sinatra, she said, “What color is the wind?” The room went silent. Frank stared at her, opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came out. The staff members in the back of the room watched. One of them later said she’d never seen Frank Sinatra at a loss for words before, and she never saw it again.
What color is the wind? Margaret asked again. Like maybe he hadn’t heard her. Frank heard her. He just didn’t have an answer. He’d been asked thousands of questions in his life by journalists who wanted scandal. By fans who wanted secrets, by intellectuals who wanted to understand his artistry. He always had something to say, always knew how to deflect or charm or answer directly. Words were his business.
Sound was his business. He’d spent 46 years learning how to use both. But a six-year-old blind girl had just asked him something he’d never considered, something nobody had ever asked him, something he didn’t know how to answer. What color is the wind? Frank looked at Margaret. She was waiting patiently.
The way children wait when they’ve asked a question they genuinely want answered. She wasn’t trying to be profound. She wasn’t trying to stump him. She just wanted to know because she’d never seen color. And she’d never seen wind, but she’d felt wind. She knew wind existed. She knew it moved.
She knew it had temperature and force. And she’d been told that things had colors. So, naturally, in the logic of a six-year-old who couldn’t see, wind must have a color, too. Frank knelt down beside her chair. He was quiet for a long time, 30 seconds, maybe a minute. The other children started to fidget. The staff members exchanged glances.
Finally, Frank spoke. His voice was different, softer, almost uncertain. “Margaret,” he said. “I don’t know.” Margaret nodded like that was an acceptable answer. “I’ve never thought about it before,” Frank continued. I’ve seen the wind move things. I’ve felt it, but I’ve never thought about what color it might be.
Do you think it has a color? Margaret asked. Frank thought about it. Really thought about it. Maybe, he said. Maybe it’s different colors at different times. Maybe in the morning it’s blue. Maybe in the evening it’s orange. Maybe when it’s cold it’s white. And when it’s warm it’s yellow. Margaret smiled. That sounds nice.
What color do you think it is? Frank asked. Margaret tilted her head again, thinking. I think it’s silver, she said. Because it feels like it’s moving fast, and silver things move fast. Frank nodded slowly. Silver. That’s a good answer. Better than mine. Can wind be two colors? Margaret asked.
I think wind can be anything it wants to be, Frank said. Margaret seemed satisfied with that. She sat back in her chair. Frank stayed there beside her for another moment. Then he stood up and returned to his chair at the front of the room. He answered a few more questions into two more questions, but he was different now, quieter, more careful with his words, like something had shifted inside him that he was still trying to understand.
When the visit ended, Frank shook hands with the staff, thanked them for letting him come. One of the staff members, a woman named Dorothy, walked him to his car. “That was very kind of you, Mr. Sinatra,” she said. The children will remember this for the rest of their lives. Frank nodded. But he was somewhere else thinking about something.
Are you all right? Dorothy asked. That girl, Frank said. Margaret, the one who asked about the wind. Yes. How long has she been here? 3 years since she was three. She was born blind. Cataracts. Nothing could be done. Frank was quiet. Then he said she asked me a question. I couldn’t answer. Dorothy smiled.
Childhren do that sometimes. No, Frank said. You don’t understand. I’ve been asked everything by everyone. I always have an answer. Even if it’s the wrong answer, I have something to say. But she asked me something I’d never even thought about. And I had nothing. What color is the wind? Dorothy said quietly.
What color is the wind? Frank repeated. He looked at Dorothy. She’ll never see a color. She’ll never see wind, but she knows it exists. She knows it’s real and she wants to understand it. The only way she can, by putting it in terms of something she’s been told exists, but can’t experience. Dorify nodded. That’s how the children here understand the world.
Through touch, through sound, through questions like that. Frank stood by his car for another moment. Then he said, “I’ve spent my whole life singing about things I can see. Love, loneliness, cities, faces, but she’s asking about something she’ll never see, and she still wants to know its color.” He got in the car, drove back to London, performed that night at the Royal Festival Hall, sang every song perfectly.
But according to people who were there, something was different. He was more present, more careful with the lyrics. Like he was thinking about each word before he sang it. In conversations with friends, he’d tell the story of the little blind girl who asked him what color the wind was. And every time he told it, he’d get quiet at the end like he was still trying to figure out the answer.
Years later, Dean Martin asked him about it. You still thinking about that kid’s question all the time? Frank said, “What’d you tell her?” I told her I didn’t know. That’s not like you, Frank. You always have an answer. That’s the point. Frank said, “I didn’t. And I should have.” She asked the most honest question I’ve ever heard and I had nothing.
So, what’s the answer? Dean asked. Frank shook his head. I still don’t know, but I think about it. What color is the wind? What color is something you can feel but never see? That’s heavy, Frank. It is. Frank said, and that six-year-old understood something I didn’t. That you don’t have to see something to want to know what it looks like.
You just have to believe it’s beautiful. Margaret’s questions stayed with Frank Sinatra for the rest of his life. Not as a burden, as a gift. A reminder that no matter how much you know, no matter how many stages you’ve stood on, or how many records you’ve sold, a six-year-old can ask you something that changes the way you see the world.
Or in Margaret’s case, the way you see something you’ll never see. What color is the wind? Frank never found the perfect answer, but he never stopped thinking about it. And maybe that’s the real answer. That some questions aren’t meant to be answered. They’re meant to be carried, thought about, lived with until one day you realize the question itself was the gift.
What color do you think the wind is? Write it in the comments.
