This is the week of the “Blue Moon,” and you can see it from my front yard, from my beautiful and magical farm, Bedlam Farm. The way to see it is to take my telephoto lens out and catch it coming over the green mountains in nearby Vermont. And the best way to appreciate it is to be in love, or want to be, and to listen to three versions of “Blue Moon.” My favorite is by Ella Fitzgerald, my second favorite is by the Cowboy Junkies, and my third favorite version is an early one by Frank Sinatra.
The Blue Moon is a crooner’s drink, because it is a song of hope and promise, written in the time of love songs, before love became old-fashioned. Of answered prayers.
It is a personal song for me, the other way to see it. I took my camera and Red out behind the Studio Barn and I talked back to the Blue Moon just as it popped up through the misty night. Blue Moon, I said, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, and without a love of my own. Blue Moon, I sang, you heard me saying a prayer for,
someone I could really care for.
And then, I whispered to the Blue Moon, as Red watched me curiously and some small creatures skitted away through the grass, and Mother the ever-watchful barn cat appeared out of nowhere to listen to me talk and keep me company and the crickets and frogs joined in the chorus.
And then I sang this, in a low and soft voice, my voice gravelly and unsure:
Blue Moon, there suddenly appeared before me,
the only one my arms will hold,
I heard somebody whisper please adore me,
And when I looked to the moon it turned to gold.
Thanks, Blue Moon.