Swooning

I once spent an evening swooning. I was at Indiana Beach, a resort in Monticello, the "gateway to the lakes" about fifteen miles from my home town. It was a thriving resort that pulled in big national acts. I saw Stan Kenton and his band at Indiana Beach (Maynard Ferguson—remember him?--on trumpet). When I saw the Dave Brubeck trio, I spent the whole evening standing right beside the wooden stage (most people were dancing), gazing with adoration at Paul Desmond as he played his saxophone. Oh, he was sexy. Oh he was handsome. Oh, I was young. I felt that he would surely feel me staring at him and would realize that I was in love, and then he would . . . he would . . .

 

Would WHAT, little girl? You didn't know, did you, what can happen to foolish star-struck teenagers. Well, an angel watched over me (or over HIM) and ensured that he didn't even know I was alive. I swooned with impunity.

 

 

Copyright 2011 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com