Wednesday, June 25, 2014

more than one blue moon

For many moons, I've been adding little stories
to my autobiography. Here's one I recently wrote:


I used to listen faithfully to a radio station in Maine. 
On summer nights it would play those old 1950s 
songs, do-wop and R&B that I loved. One evening 
while The Everly Brothers were singing, or 
Fats Domino, or Mary Welles, I worked up my 
courage by the telephone. I remember the door 
was open to the porch and the ocean was out there. 
Across the bay the little houses and vehicles were 
dots of reflected water light. It took me two more 
songs to pick up the receiver and dial.
When the DJ answered, I could hear the music 
in the background like the soundtrack of a drive-in 
movie playing with mosquitos in a chrome car 
covered field. I asked if he could play ‘Blue Moon’ 
and he said sure and hung up. That was all it took, 
but I felt instantly at ease again. I could breathe again. 
All I had to do was listen and wait for The Marcels. 
After a commercial break for the horse racetrack
and Mammoth Mart, the DJ returned to the 
microphone and announced the next song was a 
special request and the needle touched the vinyl 
with a rushing crackle. Now, in those days, I did 
think of myself as one of those 1950s teenagers 
I saw in the movies, Diner and American Graffiti
I expected a lot from this DJ, you would have thought 
I was a moth caught in the glow of the radio dial. 
Except the song he played wasn’t what I asked for, 
it was ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’ by Elvis Presley.
Even though Elvis recorded ‘Blue Moon’ in the 
echo chamber of Sun Studios, why didn’t the DJ 
play that instead? Maybe he wanted me to know 
there was more than one blue moon.

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