Once in a blue moon a composer turns up who can celebrate the joys of Manhattan, turn a slaughter on tenth avenue into a stunning ballet, salute a beautiful morning in an Oklahoma of the exclamatory imagination, or conjure up a Pacific isle that will always be younger than springtime. No Johnny One-Note, he; I could write a book about his several selves and his two careers, the one with Hart, the other with Hammerstein.
When I am bewitched, bothered, and bewildered, I play a Rodgers waltz and feel like a young lover riding a play horse on a carousel ride, with thee by my side. That's my romance. If I loved you, I would take you to a blue room in a small hotel, and we can dance on the ceiling. I have dreamed of you, my funny valentine, for thou art swell. Logically speaking, this can't be love. Nevertheless, Spring is here. June is bustin' out all over, and isn't it romantic?
Every day is a grand day for singing, every evening an enchanted one, when the songs are by Dick Rodgers, whose birthday this is.
I wish you, Laura Orem, the sweetest sounds of a Richard Rodgers soundtrack on this, your mutual birthday. -- DL
