When her girls were young, my older sister led them on full moon walks. Once a month, when the moon was full, the family would set out, walking into the nighttime. Sometimes the walk was around the block. Sometimes it occurred on hikes through the wilderness. Always, the walks happened when and where the moon happened.
Once, when the family was visiting me in Memphis, the moon rose full. We did not walk along the Mississippi River, marveling at the strong flowing water. We did not tromp through the cottonwood groves of Mud Island, necks craned at the magnificent trees. We went on a full moon walk down Beale Street: brick-paved, honky-tonk lined, birthplace of the blues Beale Street. Thus was birthed this week’s story.
The story is dedicated to my sister. The “moral” of the story is hers; the lesson learned mine. My nieces in their younger lives did do Scottish dancing; I can still see them in my mind’s eye, arms raised, legs bent. My sister’s husband did not run off with his physical therapist; I did have a grandmother whose hair was cut only once in her life. The rest of the story—reality, fiction—well, lines blur, don’t they?
I hope you enjoy the story. If you do, please thank my sister.
“Full Moon Walk”. Listen to the story here:
Remember: You Cain’t Do Nothing with Love