The left eye of the Bengal tiger stared me down. Mouth open, teeth barred, he raised his paw in the air above my head. My eyes bulged. My hands shook. The wall of constantly rumbling family voices behind me blurred everything. I readied to pounce. But then, Grandma came up behind me to rest her hand just lightly enough on my shoulder to let me know she was there, and Mom yelled from the kitchen into the living room: "Play Moon RIver, Laury." We tamed the silk Bengal tiger that lived in the gold bamboo frame above my piano once more.
Although Henry Mancini's Moon River was our favorite, my repertoire included: "Till There Was You," "If Ever I Would Leave You," "More," and, many others that screamed a bunch of hopeless romantics lived in that very middle class, north county, St. Louis suburb. Even though I traded piano lessons for pompoms, the weekly scene continued. That hopeless romantic stuff didn't get me very far. My versions of those old standards would be: "Till There Was Me," "If Ever I Would Leave Me," and, "More," would have to be "Too Many to Count." But, Moon RIver was always Moon River.
I've often wondered if it was Grandma's soft touch or Mom's hollering in the midst of all that huckleberry friending that carried me on my journey to my own Moon River. My friends and acquaintances called me an inspiration and brave. But, I knew I had to go. Now, I wonder what happens when I put my magic to paper? Does it disappear when imprisoned by the page, or does it tickle the souls of kindred spirits, offering an invitation?
And, you are invited to return tomorrow for more.
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