Secret of the Blue Moon

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Twice in a Blue Moon

View The Blue Moon inflorescence is soft and compact, larger than the other varieties. Touch Already at the opening of the plastic bag, you can smell the fragrances in the air.

ISBN 13: 9780552575423

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This website uses cookies to improve your experience. Round out these indulgent fries with ranch dressing, served on the side. Kris Martins Eater — Atlanta. I live in Texas, and this is by far the best pizza place I have eaten at. Just celebrated my girlfriends birthday there, the management and staff were excellent in helping me celebrate it.

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We were huddled together in a room, confessing our deepest secrets. I'm more convinced now that it should be, because I can no longer be assured that without my intervening it will be—one of these days. A scholar of any discipline would demand as much. I knew the stories but not the facts. Maybe he knew that, too, and wanted to fill me in. Or maybe he was in a reflective mood on that sad occasion.

But now I was 44, packaged in a slim dark suit and serviceable pumps, my hair tied at the nape of my neck. We were on the second floor of a brownstone on Third Street, around the block from the Brignola family home. It belonged to my Aunt Margaret, my godmother and my Uncle Briggy's widow. The oldest of the nine, Briggy had died two years earlier.

My husband, an attorney, was working the room, bantering with relatives, a backhanded way of assuaging his own deep grief. Our year-old daughter frolicked in a flowing dress—maybe relatives were tweaking her cheek now. Our two-year-old son was with my in-laws, 40 miles away, just over the Massachusetts border. My Uncle Chris and I were aligned in a new way. In family albums from the earliest years, he had carefully placed pictures of himself and Niel as children seated in or standing outside of a car with a running board.

In another, they are standing in the foreground—the car itself lies in the distance, like a promise, or a distant dream. My father is holding a humongous ball; Neil with her equally large doll is to his right. I think back to the s when I was a child. It was still the s. Childhood memories are elusive, this one being no exception other than I remember several specifics about it.

Fred Vanore Cami Secret Blue Moon Studios

I remember being captivated by a drawing my father had sketched, colored, and placed in the corner of the mirror over his dresser. It was of an antique car with a running board; and the coloring was exquisite, the pale blues and pinks and greens evenly coating the surfaces, each hue contained within its allotted space.

As a budding artist, I was impressed because I hadn't yet mastered coloring within the lines. I sensed because of such examples that he liked things done properly. And the song was a serious matter to me; I guess I had heard one too many whisper. So I suggested we converse in the easy chairs in the living room. I folded my hands in my lap, and sat up straight. I mumbled something about having heard the stories. And that much rang true because he still had his long-bladed racing skates with the black boots.

And he drew a circle with his hands as if designating how a long-ago vision had become a piece of artistry that had endured for decades. Richard Rodgers had been furious, or so went the scuttlebutt in the published reports. I was 13 when that version came out, and I loved dancing to it even as what they had done to the song itself unnerved me.

Rosie Clooney. Ella Fitzgerald.

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Tony Bennett. And even Elvis. It would make my mother boil; not a meal—nay, not even a cup of coffee—was offered in that tiny house on a hill where they lived when I was a child, my mother would say, seething. My Aunt Niel, too, perfectly—exquisitely, really, for she looked like a model—put together in the simplest of pieces: a long slim skirt, a sleeveless white blouse, a stylish coat or shoulder bag making it an outfit, the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Blue Moon Has Secret Canadian Double Identity

Or later, when she left Troy with her husband, an engineer who worked on construction projects throughout the country, and would send to us paintings she had done in oil. One was of my sister as a little girl seated on a hassock; many were of fruits and flowers. My aunt had clipped articles about the way Jackie dressed, and had decorated and entertained in the White House. I could see my way clear from this pattern of visual artistry to the flat on Second Street in South Troy where my father had, long ago, composed the poems that I found after his death.

He had placed them in a beautiful but now tattered leather-and-cloth portfolio. There were about two dozen, dating to , when he had graduated that January from high school graduations back then were in January and June. It was dated March 17, My Uncle Briggy—my godfather—had been groomed by my grandfather because he was the oldest to become a doctor, and in doing so, lift the fortunes of the family.

But Briggy played an instrument: the guitar.

Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon
Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon
Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon
Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon
Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon
Secret of the Blue Moon Secret of the Blue Moon

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