Good Night, Frankie

It's nine. Orion has already set behind the mountains. Soon the summer constellations will take over the sky. The crescent moon won't set for some time yet. The night is silent. Expectant.
Maura, the head of School is out of town this week, with students visiting D.C. I'm "holding down the fort" while the whole world freaks out about the swine flu, most especially parents of young children. I deal with their concerns, tighten policies and protocols, prepare for things that one really can't prepare for.
And yesterday Frankie Manning, beloved father of lindyhop, died. He was in his 90's, had danced at the Apollo in his youth (can you imagine?) had gone to Hollywood to dance in some forgettable movies (Hellsapoppin), had spent his adult life forgotten, had been rediscovered during the swing revival of the 90's, had been revered around the world by young white dancers. A true gentleman. Generous. Humble. A lady's man. A spark of life so pure. Now the dance community mourns him.
As do I. I lift a glass of sparkling pinot gris. Good night Frankie.