At ninety-five years of age (March 31, 1997), Brooke Astor threw a Charleston Swing Party which went on all night. She was dressed in a long gown of dark velvet, wearing a necklace of emeralds which had been commissioned by her husband as a gift, but he had died before being able to present it to her. Until the party she had avoided wearing the gems. At the gala she gave up the reins to the Astor Foundation, effectively making a presentation of twenty-five million dollars (bringing the amount it has dispensed to a hundred ninety-five million) to the city of New York for museums, parks, and other works for the public enjoyment.

A synopsis from an article by Brendan Gill, The New Yorker, April 21, 1997.

they dance the Charleston
in shades of South Caroline
"It's a la-pa-zoo" -
dark green velvet and gems swirl,
sparkling generosity. - RIT

Grande Dame with mercy
blows out candles this birthday
then dances away,
a Ragtime Queen
in a Caviar Palace. - HB

girl of ninety-five,
fabled life of love and wealth
within velvet walls,
casting pearls on favoured things.
adventure still awaits. - SAM

aches and pains -
dance continues without shoes.
flowered hat and dress,
old friends trying to keep up,
designed unique look, and smile. - LKO

unforgettable,
she has never betrayed
her family
fame or no,
it comes to us all. - KMS

literate maven,
triple-crowned monarch of chic.
clap your hands and laugh,
lest sparkling Brooke passes by,
scattering bread on water. - NPA

eager eyes trace words
on pages of open books.
shelves freshly polished
clasp volumes of old treasures;
Astor's last vision unfolds. - FC

privilege upheld,
lights of wealth aglow,
calamity whirling;
station, position sure,
given away. - BB

nonagenarian,
valedictorian,
up to the minute.
all her skirts still flapping
in journalists' pages. - DEEP

on shifting sands
voices in ragtime dances
silenced
by the last shake
of a jeweled purse. - RGL

Brooke at ninety-five
recalling in emerald depths,
lush banks of youth;
dancing into the future
bequeathed to persons unknown. ECY

the long journey home,
migrating wings seem to taunt
another cold spring,
the family nest
buried in snow. - EAB