Issue 75, Spring 1979
“IT DON’T MEAN A THING IF IT AIN’T GOT THAT SWING”
My parents died and suddenly I was left with nothing to do. I went back to the piano, but Mozart would no longer calm me, Hadyn no longer excited me. I played lawn croquet and fell asleep in the topiary’s shade. I attempted needle-work, but my fingers were long and clumsy. A friend introduced me to mahjong. We played for hours and I was very bored.
Other friends came back from Somalia, carrying elephant-foot hassocks and ostrich-feather poudahs. Everyone was “doing” Africa in those days. I watched the tourists step off the cruisers, dark as porters.