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I have a great brother-in-law. He is interested in me. My kids. Obviously my husband. He pays real attention to us. He'll send us emails about what interests us. He loves the kids with his whole heart, pays attention to their interests. Tonight, for example, he sent my husband an album (in fact, he sent us albums before we even had a record player). The album is "Razzmatazz". Spelling? I'm too lazy to look at the album cover. They're a group my husband was interested in during his teenage summer of 1982, on Cape Cod, when he worked at a restaurant called "The Columns." First, he was a bus boy. Grueling work, but he had a mission. To be a waiter. By summer's-end, he was promoted. And boy was he proud of himself. He was in his element; exact and sure of himself, not a believer in conversation, but thinking that the guests were not there to make conversation with him. And he was swift and quick with his service. On the job, he wore a formal white waiter's jacket and a crisp black bow tie. And as he worked, there was a band across the room that was playing swing music. He had never heard that kind of music before. But as he listened to the old-fashioned, energetic melody, he couldn't help but relax a bit, begin to enjoy the music while thinking about the beach he'd visit the next morning, the murmur of diners in the room a low comfortable buzz, the clink of forks on plates and spoons on dishes cozy to him--childhood memories he'd tell us all about repeatedly over the years. And his brother, my brother-in-law, remembered. He bought us this album, LP, vinyl, whatever you call it, now; how thoughtful of him.

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