The first apartment I lived, in down in Savannah Georgia, was on the upper level of a giant house that was split into 4 units. As there were four of us, each with our own room there was no living room. But just off our porch was a tiny room, we called the lounge. It was just big enough to hold a carpet, a couch we had reupholstered in fake velvet and a four-legged cabinet that housed a record player and radio player, which we had bought for fifty dollars at an estate sale. Walking through the house of that sale, there were beautiful songs from the forties and fifties playing, which we learned were coming form this cabinet. For such a price we bought it on the spot and the lady threw in a stack of records–big band, jazz, bossa nova, Tijuana brass. We couldn’t believe our good fortune. We took to it immediately, filling our home with this music from a different era. I can still remember the warm glow of its light. It introduced us to Frank Sinatra, Glen Miller, Billie Holiday, Count Basie, and Etta James. The wonderful, wondrous, inimitable Etta James. What a lovely voice. Made the easiness of my day that much easier and much more beautiful.

Rest in Peace Ms James.