Whenever I hear this kind of music, in my mind I see people dancing. It's a familiar waltz, although I don't know the name, and I have the vague thought, as I always do when I hear waltzes, that it was probably used for many a trapeze act.
We're in the car, almost
to Powell's, and Stephen in the passenger seat is whistling along. As
the piece starts to wind up to its end, Stephen's whistling stops, and I
can hear his brain working to guess the name.
"Roses from the South?" he says. His voice is equal parts sure and tentative.
turn the last corner, drive past Powells' Couch Street entrance, the
Christmas tree there through the entryway window, the displays of books I
set up in the cases flanking the door.
"Drive slowly," Stephen says, as we start to roll toward where I'll let him off.
The music ends, and the radio gal with the voice that annoys me, the oddly halting voice, says:
"Tha... twas the beautifu... lStrauss walt... z... Roses from the South."
Stephen claps loud, then raises his fists in the air.
"He shoots, he scores!" he shouts.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is as close to sports as my husband gets.
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