CHRISTMAS WITH NANA


Small_Porch[1]IMP

 

 

 

Gallery LouLou, Santa Fe, NM

The throw of the dice this week lands on the night before Christmas. I can almost hear everyone talking at once, the children’s laughter, and the crackling fire. I can smell Nana’s baked turkey and buttery potatoes, as I sip hot chocolate and imagine which presents beneath the tree are mine. Last night while watching A CHRISTMAS CAROL, I was reminded of Christmas with Nana. If I want to experience something I’ve lost, or something beyond the horizon, I watch TCM.
As the story transitions moved from the rich class to the poor, I thought of the disparity between the two societies at Christmas. Some of us are thankful to receive one gift, and others are hiring the Christmas Tree Decorator to decorate their tree.
Christmas with Nana in her deeply cushioned home in Encino was perfect. I  sank  into the velvet pillows and moon shaped sofa. She whisked through the house on high heels, dressed in East coast tailor-made suits, draped with an old- flowered print apron,  and waving a dish-towel. For the duration of Christmas Eve and Christmas day while all of us screamed, giggled and dropped candy on the shag carpeting, Nana tended to my Mother, my Aunt Pat, and her six children, my step-grandfather, who was in charge of documenting every moment on Kodak. I remember the porcelain cookie and candy dishes Nana filled, the eggnog with a pinch of nutmeg, the flecks of decorative snow we picked off the tree, ornaments attached to everything, and the tiny marshmallows in my cocoa. Nana went all out on Christmas. She used to confess with Sunday school shame, “I hate to say it, but our house is the prettiest on the street.”

My grandfather was perched on a ladder for days decorating the house. All of us children were wrapped in blankets and gathered around the tree in the living room. In order for anyone to cross to the den, they had to navigate around an assortment of limbs, dolls, and toys. Nana made me believe in Santa Claus and the reindeer’s. I reminded her to clean the fireplace before we went to bed so Santa would not be burned.
All of these memories are flushing out from THE CHRISTMAS CAROL, and mirroring the story in a paradoxical way. Because I was a fortunate child, and surrounded by so much love, Christmas is still about that flicker of human kindness, giving presents, and dissolving religious boundaries. A great way to begin the New Year, and with that, I wish you all a Very Happy New Year. .
Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

THANK YOU WORDPRESS


MEOW MERRY CHRISTMAS.MEOW MERRY CHRISTMAS.

THANK YOU WORDPRESS.  My odyessy of love stories have reached readers in Egypt, Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Mexico, South America, the Soviet Union and the USA. I cannot find time to read all the books on my shelves because I am reading the  poetry, literature, and memoirs on WORDPRESS.

“As  a dancer and prancer  at heart,  my feet are my hands,  and my hands are my heart.” 2014

 

 

 

A BLESSING OF PUZZLES


 

The embryo of  thought. Sometimes it is negligible,  as is life.  I am the puzzle maker  and every time I try to carve the right size square, I fall off the board and have more material to write about!  The  puzzle is so vast that it covers our life time and the pieces are the choices, and non-choices that fit into themes.  We are a theme,

My life, is like a melody, a Gershwin tune. As  a dancer and prancer  at heart,  my feet are my hands,  and my hands are my heart. Yes , Christmas is in the shop isles, and cafes, the windows displays and string lights mated to children’s eyes, in blissful delight.  a doll size tree left on my patio, with a note that made me grin, and the Direct TV technician who who solved the signal loss,   that his job, but when I asked him why the CD/DVD trays  didn’t work in the Movie Theater he pulled out cables, jogged to his truck and brought new ones, installed and un-installed the cables until, ” There is your trouble; someone unplugged this one.”  A moment that matters when you are given more than you ask for , and it is a big deal for a vacation rental to be  wired, and entertaining. Last week it was the tub faucet,  the previous tenant yanked the knob out instead of turning  it and pulled out the whole shaft.  Outside is  the spillage stain  on the concrete driveway, the week before that, the circuits in my bedroom went out randomly…. the house functions as an older lady,  she was built in 1907. We call it Gallery LouLou, but truly it is Elliott Barker’s home..

I am to blame for these follies, and I exercise my poise and power when I have paying guests. I love hosting 80 percent of the time because strangers from all over the world (this summer from Moscow) walk up the driveway grinning.    20141211_164203

 

 

 

RELIC OF REBELLION


BEFORE  I think  how to respond to a stranger,  I  feel them;  the gestures,  expressions, tones of voice,  movement,  conversation, mannerisms, and the eyes.   I acknowledge feelings first, then I think.

UNMANNERLY  I can improvise a dance to any music,  except ballet and tango.  I don’t feel rigid and life’s burden lifts when I dance.   Lately, at dusk my day ends with vinyl soul and rock and roll music. It works wonders for the dinner hours on your own.

ISADORA DUNCAN

THE sense of sprite  or gloom in the city reaches me when I’m driving.    I feel a whirl of sensory  perception from the drivers faces.   To witness  the joyous reciprocal ink of friendship between shop keepers, cops and other cops, city workers, and service technicians trying to fix satellites, and cables  in a city of inconsistent infrastructure.

SOME of my principles are unsupported with experience,  but more with GROWING UP WITH GANGSTERS  training that I cannot erase.    My  theme is unbalanced, I take the extreme path instead of the path with arrows.  It is why writing settles my sea-saw.  As I sit in my antique wooden chair looking out, a  feeling  leaps to the clouds;   creamy linen-white like parasols floating through the radiant royal blue sky.  A  tiny thread of blush pink ribbons the outskirts of Santa Fe.  Beneath this canvass are the stick branches of winter trees, then a gust of wind blows the last leaves into a dance.  The sedate and quiet surroundings relieve my spinning head and I just continue to sit and not fidget.   Every pedestrian that passes becomes a source of study. There is a woman who walks weekly with a Parrot on her shoulder. This draws attention to her and she relishes the conversation with her Parrot, who appears to love to sit on her shoulder.  The old man with the bent back that walks with his chin resting on his chest is a storyteller.  I have a difficult time understanding him.

HE’S  told me that he knew Elliott Barker;  who owned my house for fifty or more years and was the  distinguished New Mexico game warden, environmentalist, and author who coined Smoky Bear.  After the cub was rescued Elliott took him to President Roosevelt and asked that the bear become the mascot for preventing forest fires.   Men and women with legacies like that leave some presence in their residence. I think that is why I feed the twenty-five birds, six doves, white-tailed hawk, and Homeboy, the squirrel.  I live in Elliott’s office.  Maybe even wrote where  he did.

THERE  is always commotion and a raucous of human emotion coming from the hotel across the street.  Staff workers chatter into laughter, truck loaders shout and spit,  deliveries stop traffic and sometimes a bad boy yells out obscenities.   Cops are always dropping by to check-on some hotel hiccup.  Dog walkers tug at their dogs and the Santa Fe street vagabonds dart by staring at the brick sidewalk.   This street activity is in slow motion pumping along with the beat of my heart.

SOME people appear to drag their bodies rather than the other way around. I wonder if all the global google news has weighted us down.  Young bohemian gals walk by  and turn towards the house when they hear the music.   Facial strain and deadness erase their youth,  even when the music is pumped up jam or rock n roll.   This nonchalant  detached  behavior  bothers me because I am an aloof!      The exchange of human voice and expression is our background symphony, along with the birds, crows, power saws, blowers, and sirens.  This street is part of my theme;  a juxtaposition of affluence and simplicity.  I am a 21st century flapper clinging to the roar of independence, self-expression and breaking rules.  If  we  feel the chord of festivity,  we should not hold back.  I am going out now to see if  I can feel Christmas.  images XMAS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DROPPING OF THE THINKER


It’s been a month since I’ve seen the Thinker.   The time was spent luxuriating in thought and activity.   They became days of resurrecting my business, writing, and staying at home, where my fantasia of comfort welcomes me.  Above my bed, I hung an umbrella. A vintage peach faded Parasol. One day, while I was searching for a place to store my ribbons, I looked up and watched the light sprinkle through the Parasol.  So that is where I stored the ribbons. When I am in bed during an afternoon nap,  I see abstractions of figures:  dancers, faces,  gods, and gorillas.  The Thinker noticed the abstraction. I think he said, ” Wow, this is incredible. Do you see the legs? And there is the face.”  He took everything in and profited  from imagination.  He had a thousand virtues, that regrettably did not serve him.  dsc01740.jpgI don’t know why.  You know I want answers, that is why I write.

ladailymirror.wordpress.com/

Larry Harnisch Reflects on L.A. History

The Clubhouse Blogs

"Insight from the community"

myvvoice

Escaping reality or facing reality.

The 12866

Saratoga Springs, New York - Arthur Gonick, Editor

Casey Handmer's blog

Space, Travel, Technology, 3D Printing, Energy, Writing

Cristian Mihai

builds stuff

Travel

Live Your Dreams Don`t Dream Your Life

Elizabeth Blair Books

Even a bad guy can have redeeming qualities

CravenWild

Style, Books and Life with Hermione Flavia.

RIELPOLITIK

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER / IGNORANCE IS BLISS - YOU DECIDE

J. H. Graham

Author of the Avery Shepard Detective Mystery Series

The Book Review Directory

For Readers and Writers

A MAN OF ACTION

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

ladailymirror.wordpress.com/

Larry Harnisch Reflects on L.A. History

The Clubhouse Blogs

"Insight from the community"

myvvoice

Escaping reality or facing reality.

The 12866

Saratoga Springs, New York - Arthur Gonick, Editor

Casey Handmer's blog

Space, Travel, Technology, 3D Printing, Energy, Writing

Cristian Mihai

builds stuff

Travel

Live Your Dreams Don`t Dream Your Life

Elizabeth Blair Books

Even a bad guy can have redeeming qualities

CravenWild

Style, Books and Life with Hermione Flavia.

RIELPOLITIK

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER / IGNORANCE IS BLISS - YOU DECIDE

J. H. Graham

Author of the Avery Shepard Detective Mystery Series

The Book Review Directory

For Readers and Writers

A MAN OF ACTION

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

%d bloggers like this: