The moment “Dean Martin” strolled on stage at the Legacy Theatre in Lake Delton—drink in hand, cigarette dangling, voice smooth as silk—I was back in my teens. I could see myself standing in our living room, wearing a colorfully patterned culotte dress while my mother knelt to pin the hem. Dean Martin’s record spun on the stereo, his velvet voice floating through the house and mixing with the scent of dinner on the stove.

More memories came rushing back—favorite TV comedies like That Girl and The Dick Van Dyke Show, Friday night football games with friends, and those H-bomb drills where we ducked under our desks as if that would save us. I remembered the worry in the air during the Vietnam War, fall hunting trips with Dad, bringing home my first dog, Pepper, and long Monopoly games with friends that ended in laughter and Horlick’s malted milkshakes. I could almost taste the drive-in A&W root beer Grandpa treated my siblings and me to on warm summer nights. I remembered the scandal over Elvis’s gyrating hips, the stack of well-loved Trixie Belden books beside my bed, and my penny loafers lined up by the front door.

Then “Sammy Davis Jr.” took the stage—sharp suit, red glittery shoes, thick glasses catching the light. The band launched into I’ve Gotta Be Me, and the words hit home. Whether we’re right or wrong, the song says, we have to go it alone. Sipping my drink at our table for two, I thought about all the times I’d tried to march to someone else’s beat—laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny, cringed at racist comments but stayed silent, or stood idle when I should have acted. The moments that truly shone were when I trusted my instincts and followed my own dreams.

Then “Marilyn Monroe” floated in, wearing a slinky gown, rhinestone diamonds, and a white feather boa that shimmered under the lights. When she leaned down to rub the bald head of a man in the front row and cooed in that breathy voice of hers, he looked absolutely smitten. Marilyn sparkled with her own kind of light—confident, playful, and unapologetically herself.

“Frank Sinatra” followed, sharp in a tailored suit and top hat, every bit the legend. As he sang My Way, I could almost see the flicker of our old television set warming up before his image appeared, blue eyes twinkling with that cool confidence. I didn’t really understand that song when I was a teenager, but I do now. As Paul Anka’s lyrics say, “Regrets, I’ve had a few.” Glancing around the audience—many gray-haired—their reflective faces told me they did too. We’ve all traveled each and every highway, made our share of mistakes, and, more often than not, done it our way.

When the four performers gathered for the finale—Dean with his drink and cigarette, Sammy in his red glittery shoes, Frank tipping his hat, and Marilyn dazzling under the lights—I realized that’s what made them legends. They didn’t try to be anyone else.

As the applause faded and the lights dimmed, I sat for a moment, smiling. The Rat Pack had done more than take me back in time—they’d reminded me of something timeless. We may not be performers under the spotlight or movie stars wrapped in boas and rhinestones, but in our own quiet ways, we’ve all had moments to shine. Whether raising families, building businesses, creating something new, or simply finding joy in what we love, we each have our own rhythm—our own song. And if we’re lucky, we get to sing it—our way.