“The Swamp of Jazz”

Full disclosure, kind readers: during my public school years I was an unalloyedly precocious rapscallion with a big sense of humor (to myself, anyhow), a bigger attitude, and an unassailably huge mouth…(go ahead, snicker and take your aside: “so, what’s changed?”). My pediatric dentist, with either a sense of pity or irony, told my mom I had a “large mandible.” Most of my misbehaving surrounded music class. For example, I was the first second grader in my school’s history to be expelled from chorus. Even then bowing at the altar of St. Spike (Jones), I “woof, woofed” during rehearsal after the line “when the dog bites” as we doggedly plowed through “My Favorite Things.” Mrs. Hahn sent me to the principal, who forbade me to set foot in the music room at any point she was in there. Metaphorical restraining order firmly in place, he offered me to the school librarian during chorus, igniting the embers of my passion for reading. Mrs. Hahn left her position under a year later (a happy event in which I had no hand…honest…). Replacing Mrs. Hahn was Mr. Forrest, a dandruff-laden orb of a fellow who insisted on singing everything. “Good morning, you boys and girls,” he’d warble like a cantor in search of a synagogue, and we’d dutifully copy his melody: “Good morning, Mr. Forrest.” I soon realized he had perfect pitch. What better way to torment him th