Jack was born November 4, 1911 at our home in Scranton, Pa. and was christened John Matthias Landt, after John Naylor, an uncle by marriage, and after our father, Matthias Cole Landt.

During my growing-up years, and indeed, thereafter, until he died, Jack was a part of me - an appendage - I accepted him like I accepted my arms or my legs. After Grandma Benson died, we brothers moved into Grandma's room where we slept together. We got along well as bedfellows, but it was something else during the day. Jack far preferred playing with me and my friends rather than with the smaller kids his own age. On the other hand, we older kids didn't want my little brother hanging around and messing up our games. But, when I tried to send Jack away, he would scream for our mother, who invariably sided with him. "Either you take him with you, or else you stay here in your own yard and play with him," she stated.

One early evening, shortly before we were called in to our suppers, several of us kids were playing "Red Light, Green Light." As usual, little Jack was with us, although he wasn't being allowed to join in our game. Instead, he stood on the sidewalk aimlessly tossing small stones across the road. Suddenly, a shiny, black horse-drawn van turned the nearby corner into our street, and we all scattered to the roadside as the vehicle approached at a smart pace. I'm sure Jack didn't aim at the horse, or he surely would have missed - his pitching technique in those early days was not very accurate. Unfortunately, the horse, a handsome, glossy-coated, beautifully groomed trotter, ran directly in front of the stone Jack had tossed, interrupting the missile's flight. The poor animal was startled at being struck and would have risen up on its haunches had it not been restrained by the wagon's traces. The driver, obviously very angry, leaped out of the wagon as soon as it stopped, ran directly to Jack, who started screaming. The man scooped Jack up in his arms, and ran back into the seat of the van.

We gazed stupefied on the happening. But when the man picked up the reins and made as if to drive off, I ran to the van in terror and called out to the driver, "Oh please, please, let my brother go. He didn't mean to do it, honest he didn't." By this time, tears were streaming down my cheeks and I'm sure I made a pitiable sight.

The man just looked at me. "I'm going to take him down to the police station," he said, "and have him arrested and put in jail."

At this I became even more terrified. "Please, oh please don't put him in jail," I pleaded. "Oh let him go, please let him go." In my fright, my knees began to tremble and I gradually sank down on them. "Please, please," I sobbed. "Don't take him; let him go and take me instead."

Jack, meanwhile, still clutched tightly by the driver, had finally stopped screaming and lay quietly with only an occasional sob. Now, he suddenly forced himself up to a sitting position and stared out on me on my knees by the side of the cab. His face was grimy with dirt and streaked where the tears had made a path down his cheeks. The driver, somewhat cooled off and probably starting to enjoy the situation, spoke: "Why would I take you? If I let your brother go, he'll just go on throwing stones and hurting others." "

Oh no, no he won't," I promised. "Please let him go, and I'll see to it that he'll never throw another stone as long as he lives."

The man, by now, must have thought he'd had enough fun with us, for, without another word, he released my brother, who immediately started running for home and screaming at the top of his lungs for our mother. I ran chasing him and scolding at him until we reached the house. At that point, my mother took over the scolding - at me, for not looking after him better. All Jack got was a hug and a kiss and a trip to the kitchen sink for a face-wash.

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I could sing. And because I could sing I was "shown off" to the guests whenever my parents had company. "How about singing for us, Karl?" - I was shy so I hated to hear that request, and I would blush and shake my head every time.

"I'll sing, Mama," Jack would say, and, to resolve the problem, Mama would say, " Why don't both of you sing, then?" And that's how Jack and I started singing together.

I was about twelve and Jack nine when that began. I had, by that time, been given a ukulele, which, after I learned to play it, I plunked for accompaniment as we learned and sang the popular songs of the day: "It Happened in Monterey," "Avalon," "I'm Sitting on Top of the World," and all those wonderful old tunes.

We would sit out on the porch - our porch or anybody's porch - and sing away as long as anyone would listen. We learned all the songs of The Happiness Boys, Paul Whiteman's Rhythm Boys, The Revelers quartet, and every other group who made recordings in those days. We acquired quite a repertoire for a couple of young amateurs who had no thoughts of anything other than performing for the neighbors and friends.

Well, we did go professional for a short time in Scranton. That was when brother Dan came back from Florida and found his kid brothers doing an act on the front porches of the neighborhood. Next thing we knew, he had us booked on the WGBI (the local radio station) variety program. That led to our being hired to do a one-hour program by ourselves, sponsored by "Battery Bill, just around the corner from Mulberry Street."

Our Theme Song (oh yes, everybody on the radio had a theme song in those days) was written by brother Dan and went:

"Oh, you hear about bills most every day,

There's the dollar bill and the bills you have to pay;

Some bills would make you bilious if you were a billionaire,

But there's nothing wrong with Battery Bill,

You'll find him on the Square."

And then we would add, "- Just around the corner from Mulberry Street."

Believe me, a one hour program of singing, purely singing, accompanied by a ukulele, is no simple matter; for one thing, we ran through our whole repertoire, which we thought was so extensive, in less that twenty minutes and had to start all over again at the beginning. By the third time through, I'm sure it became boring. Maybe that's why Battery Bill didn't renew our contract after our first performance. But he did pay us - yep, we got five dollars that we split between us.

Jack had no ear for harmony, so I always sang the harmony; Jack sang the melody. I made up the arrangements; Jack performed them with me. I led; Jack followed. That was the way it was - for a long time.

We were growing up, Jack faster than I. When he was twelve, Jack was my height. By the time I was eighteen and fully grown, Jack was taller that I and was still growing. He was by then fifteen and a handsome lad, who had always had a girl, even as a small child; and now, he jilted his childhood sweetheart and began running around with a new girl, who lived a distance away and nobody seemed to know. He confided in no one, least of all me. At long last, Jack was moving in his own age-group.

But he was still my brother - we still sang together, slept in the same bed together, were ruled by the same parents and belonged to the same Sunday School class together. He was still my responsibility, I felt, and I was ready to bear his burdens if ever they needed to be borne.

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It was that way when we came to New York. I took on full responsibility for Jack's welfare and I promised my mother and myself and probably God, too, that I'd take care of him in that big sinful city.

And for a long time I did. I was the conscience for the four of us: Jack, Dan, myself, and even Howard White, our accompanist. I wouldn't permit the older boys to drink while we were working, and I saw to it that the money we made was split exactly four ways - after expenses. I saw to it that we rehearsed regularly and sufficiently. I probably was a miserable taskmaster

Here was Jack in the Big City, suddenly thrust into the world of big-time entertainment, singing on the radio over the largest and most famous network in the world, acclaimed in the papers for his and his brothers' miraculous success, being paid more money that he ever had dreamed of - all this and he had barely reached his seventeenth birthday! He was the handsome one of the group - the girls all were in love with him. It was a rich plate for anyone to digest.

In 1933, the Landt Trio and White were signed by the Spang Baking Company of Cleveland, Ohio for a series of broadcasts emanating out of Cleveland. This meant that we had to move there temporarily, which we did - the whole Landt family. It was at that time that President Roosevelt declared a Bank Holiday - all banks closed for a day and some never did re-open. The Cleveland Trust (our bank out there) was one of them.

Like thousands of others, we were caught short without money except what we had in our own pockets. We had but a very few dollars between us - except Jack who pulled out a huge roll of bills from his pocket and blithely asked, "How much can I help you guys?" We learned that Jack hoarded his earnings, never depositing a cent in a bank, instead accumulating them in a shoebox. No one dared criticize him at that time; he had proved to be smarter than the rest of us.

Our stay in Cleveland ended after nine months, and we came back to New York, where, meanwhile, NBC had moved into its new premises at Rockefeller Plaza. The company had hired some handsome young pageboys and girls, all dressed in smart tan uniforms. Jack became involved with one of the pretty, blonde page girls, a matter I was apparently blind to until it became a minor scandal. I don't recall how Jack was extricated from that affair, nor was it ever discussed by any of us. All I know is that the young lady was discharged.

Early in the spring of 1934, Jack and I attended the annual Boat Show at Grand Central Palace where we discovered that it was possible to purchase what to us, who'd never been on anything but a rowboat, was a huge vessel - a twenty-five foot Chris-Craft cruiser with cabin equipped to sleep six for only $1995. Landlubbers that we were, we couldn't resist the temptation, and, between us, we bought the boat. We kept it on Long Island Sound and had many happy experiences with it. However, we soon discovered that what we thought was a huge vessel was but a tiny craft on the Sound, which whipped up some pretty big waves at times.

A year later, we traded it for another, larger Chris-Craft Cruiser - this time a thirty-one footer. We paid an additional $1000 for it! By this time, we both had learned a lot about boats and the vast power of waves and water, but Jack was the true sailor. He had joined the yacht club in Douglaston and had been made Commodore.

Meanwhile he had met Ethel Foy, who would later become his wife, and his social life turned almost exclusively to her and her friends. I think that is when I lost all influence over Jack, and moreover, a lot of knowledge about him.

In 1937, the lives of all three Landt brothers were drastically changed when Howard White, our accompanist since the beginning, died suddenly. Howard's velvety accompaniment blended so perfectly with our smooth style of harmonizing that it was almost impossible to duplicate with another pianist. It was months before we found anyone with whom we felt comfortable, and, even then, it was we whose style had to change to fit with that of our accompanist. I'm only discovering the truth of that now in these later years as I listen to off-the-air recordings of us with different accompanists. The original Landt Trio and White died with Howard White; what survived was a new and different Landt Trio.

The Schenectady-based advertising firm of Leighton and Nelson was the agency for the D&H Coal Company, by whom we were sponsored at the time of White's death. George Nelson, one of the partners, started taking a personal interest in us after that, and hired Jack to select and hire models used in some of their advertising promotions.

I should mention here that, through all the years of our joint career as the Landt Trio and White, all our earnings had been divided equally among us. As advertiser after advertiser dropped us after Howard's death, it became more and more difficult for each family unit - Jack, now married to Ethel; Dan to Lois; myself and my parents. Dan, who was, by then, living in Pound Ridge, went into the real estate business as a sideline; Jack already worked for Nelson; and I began creating jingles - for George Nelson.

In the fall of 1938, the Landt Trio, including our respective families, moved to Schenectady, NY, where we, by then, were under contract with Leighton and Nelson to broadcast on radio station WGY and to make personal appearances at various towns in the area. We remained there two years when world events, among other things, caused us to move back to New York where we were placed under contract with the Columbia Broadcasting System to do the five-day per week Sing Along program. Our accompanist, Curley Mahr, had taken a job in an essential war-related industry to avoid being drafted, and Johnny Cole took his place.

We all liked Johnny Cole a lot, Jack especially. Cole liked to gamble, but knew when to stop, and Cole liked to drink, but knew how to handle it. I don't think Jack did either very well.

Some years later, the trio had formed a music publishing company, Coast to Coast Music, and upon our return to New York, we published a song titled "Goodbye Dear, I'll Be Back In A Year." It caught on immediately and got on the top ten most popular songs. Unfortunately, shortly after the song got started, President Roosevelt extended the draft to two years. Our offices were swamped with sheet music returns for weeks after. Jack's business experience working for George Nelson served him well through this episode, and he took over the whole operation from beginning to end.

After a serious accident in 1951, Jack was hospitalized for most of a year, during which time he was diagnosed with diabetes. The trio stopped performing, and, once he was out of the hospital, Jack went into business for himself. We didn't see a lot of each other in those last years. He died of complications from his diabetes in 1959.

Jack was a very private person, and kept all his problems to himself. Yet, in so many other ways, Jack was a warm and affable brother. He was a lot more daring and adventurous than I. I think he probably had a lot more fun, as a youth, than did I, and I envied him for it.