I was walking the streets, and the descriptive details had since evaporated. I mentally pluck myself out of this moment and open the shades to thought and memory, where all writers meet on some psychic level, the place of imagination and creation, an abnormality of reality.
A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, โBe careful not to enter the world with any need to seduce, charm, conquer what you do not want, only for the sake of approval. This is what causes the frozen moment before people and cuts all naturalness and trust. The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truth is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.โ
SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are mystified by either too much or not enough solitude.
ย I contest what seems endless solitude with my Irish Russian temper, condemning irritants like: street noise, absence of friends, short-tempered customer service reps, world news, and mindless tasks. The fever dulled after the first ice, rain, and snow, and mindfulness triumphed. I imagined my basement of survival would sink. It did not. There is an inner exploration happening, unfolding like spreading new sheets on my bed, that solitude has befriended me all my life. In the best of times and the tedious. I have to find the frolic and follies in the world that I created. I have to laugh alone so I watch screwball comedies, seek humor of my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling up and down the staircase, because I keep forgetting where I left my phone. My head is elsewhere daydreaming. Iโve learned how to repair house calamities; unscrew windows, seal up cracks, fix clogged drains, replace air vents, read the meters, and rejuvenate every wood board, handle, chair, and table with Old English Oil. As one pal commented on a visit to the house, ‘ It’s a perfect day for Old English! The winter forecast is blizzardy and full of warnings I havenโt experienced here; and how can I complain when half of Upstate New York is buried in ten feet of snow. The end of the day pleasure comes in the kitchen; my heart and spirit melt while stirring my weekly gumbo, stew, or casserole while listening to Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and swing music. Winter is a funnel that strips the trees and branches and lets us see through the forest and ourselves.
Part Two. Solana Beach Morrocan Bungalow 2003.Maurice was 84
Maurice married the love of his life on December 25, 1941. They married in December because Maurice had saved one thousand dollars and made one hundred dollars a month. Agnes, his girlfriend in Grant, Iowa, is the woman who led Maurice out to Rancho Santa Fe, California, from his home in Grant. She and her father worked for Ronald McDonald, a prestigious resident in the ranch. She was responsible for housekeeping and cooking, and her father was the chauffeur.
Agnes and Maurice went to the US Grant Hotel for dinner and stayed at the Paris Inn on Kettner Avenue in San Diego. The following day Agnes went off to work. Maurice stayed in the little guest house she occupied on the McDonald property. Two days later Maurice received his draft notice. On December 31, he left his new bride and reported for duty in Escondido. He had one short visit before he left for overseas. Then, the next time he would see her, he would be changed.
Buna
One summer evening, I was sitting on Mauriceโs front porch. Sometimes, we would sit out till after eight oโclock at night talking about different parts of Mauriceโs life. Maurice is really busy in the summer; he tends to his garden of fruits and vegetables, he delivers furniture for all the Cedros merchants, and he helps his friends. He never seems tired, he likes to sit on the porch, have a beer, and tell stories. I used to like it when my father told me stories, but they were unlike Maurice’s. There didn’t seem to be anything he
couldnโt talk about. Once he said, ” You can ask me anything you want.โ
โMaurice, how old were you when you were drafted?โ
โWell, I was thirty-one years old in 1941 when the war broke out. I had to leave my wife, which bothered me, but I wanted to go overseas and fight for my country. There were so many nice soldiers, the best people in the world. I recall two boys from Chicago that were only eighteen years old, they lied to get in the service, and they were the best soldiers you ever saw- they werenโt afraid of anything.โ
โWhere did they send you after you left San Diego?โ
โWell, first, I went to Camp Roberts for thirteen weeks of training, but I got out in nine weeks. Then they sent me to Fort Ord to get my gear, rifles, and clothes. We left San Francisco on April 21, 1942. We got into Adelaide, Australia, after twenty-one days at sea.” Maurice paused like he had to catch his breath. I watched his face, thinking he may want to stop.
โYou remember so much… Do you mind talking about it?โ I asked.
โNo, I don’t mind; it changed my life, everything about it.โ
โWhere did they send you after that?โ
โWe trained for a while in Adelaide; the people in Australia were so happy to see us. I remember they met us at the beach with tea and cookies. The enemy soldiers were getting close. We went up the coast to New Guinea and into Port Moresby; we got there on Thanksgiving Day 1942. As soon as we got off the ship, the bombs hit us; it was the hundredth raid that night. The next morning we were supposed to get to the Stanley
Mountain range, we were in such a hurry. The Japanese soldiers built cement pillboxes and the army wanted us there. So we got in this plane, and they flew us there. Twenty-one at a time. When I got to the island of Buna, there were dead soldiers scattered all over the beach. We lost men so fast. Then, on Christmas Day of 1942, General McArthur ordered us to advance, regardless of the cost of lives. My division was one of the first to stop the Japanese army, the 32nd Division. After we were immobilized and a lot of our men killed, they sent in the 41st Division to take over.โ
Maurice’s memory was like listening to a documentary, and this was the first time a Veteran confided in me. They didn’t get supplies at first; they had to wait till everything was shipped to Europe. They got what was left over, which wasn’t much. He ate cocoanut bark for two weeks and had no water.
โI can remember so well the first Japanese soldier I saw. He was sneaking through the jungle, only thirty feet off. I donโt know if I shot him, but he dropped. I donโt like to think I killed anyone, and it bothers me to this day that I had to kill. The Japanese were good soldiers; they had better ammunition than us. We fought all day, and we always ran out of ammunition before they did. Iโll never forget Christmas Day of 1942. We went into a trench to get ahead; the fellow ahead of me was cut wide open, and the guy behind was shot. I just lay there on the ground. If you moved you’d be shot. It was so bad; I lay there all day and night. โ
โDid you think you were going to die?โ
โI didnโt let myself think that. I promised God that if I ever got out alive I’d never complain about anything in my life again. Nothingโฆ nothing could be worse than that day.”
โYou kept the promise, didnโt you?โ I asked.
โYes, I have.โ
โAnd thatโs why the war changed your life?โ I said.
โThatโs right. Every day is a beautiful day after you’ve lived through war, at least for me,” he said.
Excerpt from manuscript. All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced without the author’s prior written permission.
SILHOUETTE of a Taos night out in 2006. It begins with the sunsetโa bubble-gum pink sash that swirls like taffy just above the distant hillside. The transcending forms and colors in the sky distract me; they silence me, keeping me from turning on the television or answering the phone.ย
The sunset has settled into my routine. I watch it from the roof garden over our Adobe Home and Gallery every night. ย In the midst of dressing to attend an art auction at the Millicent Rogers Museum, the sun has vanished. The sky turns Taos blue; a luminous oil pigment canvas blue that appears like an endless tunnel you can walk through. As I descend the staircase and cross over the mรฉnage of piles shoved in a corner to allow SC to paint, I think, โThis is going to be my home. Iโm still hereโ Adventures in Livingness
In the courtyard where new flagstone has been laid, and a mud ditch blocks the exit, Rudy hitches me on his back and carries me out the side entrance through Tony Abeytaโs yard. Tonyโs yard is piled with sand from our flagstone project, and my high-heeled black suede shoes are not at all practical for crossing New Mexican dunes. This is how the evening begins.ย Out in the parking lot, we circle around once and stop in Robertโs gallery. He has offered me his turquoise squash seed necklace to wear at the auction. The necklace is from Turkey, and sells for $1,800. Millicent Rogers events always attract women with extravagant jewelry, and Robert knows I have no such possessions. He hands me the necklace and says, have fun.
At times like this, I can forget the faces and routines I lived in Solana Beach and feel swept into a labyrinth of unfamiliar vignettes. There are two police cars in the rear of the parking lot, the church looms like a fortress of wet mud, and SC is listening to The Band CD we picked up in Santa Fe. I slide into the car, ensuring my shoes donโt fill with gravel.
There is very little street light along the desert road, and cars approach you at disarming speeds. For newcomers, the pale yellow line that separates oncoming traffic, roaming animals, hitchhikers, leather-clad bikers, and abandoned pets is of no comfort or value. Boundaries and civilities between people are vague, and sometimes, conversations elope into poetry.ย
At the Millicent Rogers Museum, the director, Jill, who is there to welcome each guest, greets us at the carved wooden doors. This museum was once a home, like most museums in Taos.Each room is an envelope of Native American jewelry, ceramics, paintings, weaving, textiles, and metalwork sealed with Millicent Rogers’s ethereal presence. By coming to Taos and bridging her New York chic with southwestern individuality, she set global trends in fashion, art, and living.ย he museum collection includes some of her designs that evolved from her residency in the desert. She moved here in 1947 and died here in 1953. Although she could have chosen anywhere in the world to live, she settled in the unaltered, surreal lunar beauty of Taos.
I wandered through the tightly packed rooms, alternately viewing the guestโs attire and jewelry. The woven wraps, belts, and hats worn by men and women form a collage of individual expression.ย Almost everyone seems to attract attention by the texture and color of his or her attire. It is a festive traditional look, with southwestern accessories paired with jeans or silk dresses.ย If you come to Taos, look for a belt buckle, one piece of Native American jewelry, and one piece of art.
When the auction was announced, I admired the same etching as the woman next to me. She remarked that the artist was also the teacher of one of her children. I learned that Ellen had six children and 11 grandchildren. She was petite with curly blonde hair, and I liked her instantly. I told her I was a writer.
โSo am I,โ she answered.
Rather than talk about her work, she began talking about her daughter, who is also a writer.
โIโm so lucky–all my children and grandchildren are creative and artistic.โ
It was obvious that her life was a garden of earthly delights and that she had raised many roses. When the auction began, she vanished, and I quickly viewed the art before returning to the two etchings. They were both sold.
As I was walking out, I bumped into Ellen. She was clutching the etchings.
โSo, you bought them,โ I said.
โOh, yes, I had to have them.โ
She left me with a beaming smile and a closing remark I often hear: โWelcome to Taos.โ
I love hearing that so much I donโt want to stop saying, I just moved here. After the auction, we stopped in Marcoโs Downtown Bistro, where we joined an improvisational party. It started when Marco introduced us to his friends, Pablo and Joan, who were visiting from Santa Fe.
The dim, glowing melon adobe walls of the bistro, Marco hugging everyone, Joanโs melodious, high-pitched laughter, Pablo telling jokes, Rudy laughing, and then Philip arriving to tell stories crossed over from strangers in a bistro to a fast-rolling film. The conversation and laughter surfed breathlessly from one person to another.
Joan remarked, โMy fifteen minutes. This is the best for me. The first time you meet someone, you’re both talking without effort. Itโs so perfect.โ
We closed the bistro past midnight. Marco had gone home. Joan decided to stay at a friendโs house. Philip agreed to drive to Santa Fe the next day, and we took Tylenol before bed.
Not every night out in Taos is like Joanโs fifteen minutes, but chances are you will have something to write home about. The beginning of Gallery LouLou Taos, NM
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BOOKS FOR SALE FROM MY RESEARCH COLLECTION.BASED IN NEW YORK. PREFERRED SALE OF FIVE OR MORE. HARDBACK $14.00 SB $6.00 + MEDIA MAIL. INDIVIDUAL PHOTOS ON REQUEST.
Luellen Smiley โ Some book sections are highlighted but otherwise in good condition.Bugsy Siegel’s book, Mr. Mob & King of the Sunset Strip, sold.
THE BATTLE FOR LAS VEGAS SB – DENNIS GRIFFIN
BUT HE WAS GOOD TO HIS MOTHER – SB R. ROCKAWAY
ย
MOTOR CITY MAFIA SB – SCOTT M. BURSTEIN
THE BOYS FROM NEW JERSEY SB โ ROBERT RUDOLPH
CHICAGO HB- DAVID MAMET
DOUBLE CROSS- HB SAM & CHUCK GIANCANA
GANGSTERS AND GOODFELLAS HB AS TOLD BY GUSS RUSSO
THE STARKER HB โ JACK ZELIG ROSE KEEFE
MOBBED UP HB – JAMES NEFF
BOUND BY HONOR HB – BILL BONNANO
THE PUBLIC ENEMY SB โ HENRY COHEN SCRIPT
NAZIS IN NEWARK SB- WARREN GROVER
THE VALACHI PAPERS PETER MAAS
BLOOD RELATION SB – ERIC KONICSBERG
THE OUTFIT SB โ GUSS RUSSO
TOUGH JEWS โ SB RICH COHEN
THE MAFIA MURDER OF JFK CONTRACT ON AMERICA-HB DAVID SCHEIM
ORGANIZED CRIME HB โ PAUL LINDE
CAPONE HB- JOHN KOLER
LITERARY LAS VEGAS SB -The best writing about Americaโs Finest City MIKE TRONNES
HONOR THY FATHER SB – ( MY DADโS) GAY TELESE
MURDER INC SB BURTON TURKAS โ SID FEDER
THE LAST MAFIAOSO HB – OVID DEMARIS
ALL AMERICAN MAFIOSO SB- THE JOHNNY ROSELLI STORY CHARLES RAPPLEYE & ED BECKER. SIGNED.
PICTORIAL BOOKS
FABULOUS LAS VEGAS HB โ MICHELE FERRARI STEVEN IVES
ORGANIZED CRIME- PLAYBOYS PICTORIAL HISTORY HB RICHARD HANNER
FEBRUARY 3RD 2024EXCERPTโFROM A NOVEL IN PROGRESS
ย .
ย After weeks of metallic gray, the sun broke through, decorating Greta’s room. She is recovering on her bed, floating in Jazz instrumental music, remote in hand and undecided about what to watch. Last night, she socialized at her two taverns’, chatting with Weeds, a man with pockets full, which he offered Greta. For the next thirty minutes, he unplugged a breathless dialogue without inviting Greta, and she knew he was so lit up that he was unflustered when Greta said, ‘ Maybe take a break and eat your food.’ He continued to disentangle his weekly activities, what he thought about the waitress, some local gossip about the bartender who had been fired, where he grew up, and his wife’s battle with lung cancer. โ I am so sorry for you both.’ He thanked her and then sealed his tรชte-ร -tรชte as he ate. Greta took this moment to bid farewell and crossed to the other tavern for crab fritters. The bar was uncluttered, and she sank into the stillness. Her mood flicked into an irritableness, a discourse with the state of her life. The resurgence of the weekโs disputes, mishaps, and the approaching day she would be moving, and still directionless. It wasn’t until she was home, swathed in five blankets that she overcame the anxiety until she couldn’t find her phone. She searched all the prominent places, the car, kitchen, entry, and bedroom. โ โOh, for the love of God, I left it at the tavern. How humiliating. Maybe Iโll find it in the morning.โ Over the last few days, she has practiced positivity, rearranging her thoughts like a chess board; instead of choosing fear and remorse, she repeated every morning, I’ve come this far; what could be worse than the last five years.
This a refreshing, wonderful story in the fact that I got to see the unfolding of Allen Smiley and Ben Siegelโs story through the eyes of Allen Smileyโs daughter. I got to see the point of view of someone who personally knew Allen Smiley, the other side of him: the family man and her reactions to discovering her fatherโs past, secrets, and how people viewed her father and the Mafia. To my delight, the author also included journals and files relating to the criminal speculations of Ben Siegelโs murder which helped shape the bookโs framework. I felt like a detective myself as I read through the story and found out more and more about her fatherโs other life.
Greta got into bed early and started watching Feud, a new series about Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, played by Jessica Lang and Susan Sarandon. The film etches overcoming a middle-aged woman’s obstacles in life: men, finances, rejection, and loneliness.
A knocking at the door, ‘Oh no, I don’t want to see anyone.’
โPolice, open up.โ You couldn’t cut her tension with a semi-truck head-on. She opened the door to five male Policeman and a Medic.
โ Greta we are here because someone is very concerned about your welfare. I understand you made a reference to taking your own life.โ
โ Who called you? It was Aaron right?โ
โYes. He said you made a remark that disturbed him and he wanted us to check on you. Did you say you wanted to take your own life?โ
“Not in the way he interpreted. I’m not going to commit suicide I just need a break from tortuous gaslighting.”
” Who is gaslighting you?”
” My ex-partner of thirty-five years and his demonic girlfriend.
“How can you resolve this?”
โI donโt know, Iโm trapped.โ Then I noticed they were not convinced.
โI think you should come with us for an evaluation.โ
โNo, thatโs not necessary, Really, look at me. Iโm enjoying a movie. ” Greta got back on the bed in a gesture of defiance.
โWe think it is.โ We have an ambulance out front.
โWhat? Oh God. No, Iโm not going.โ
โYou donโt have a choice. It wonโt take long, if the Physiatrist thinks you are not in danger theyโll release you.โ
โIโm not going in the ambulance.โ
โOkay, you can ride with me in the patrol car.โ
“Well, let me put on some lipstick. A girl can’t go to the Psychiatric Ward without lipstick.”’ They smiled, and in her pajamas and robe, she slid down into the back seat of the Patrol car avoiding neighbors’ observance.
The ward was a take-off of One Flew Over the Cuckooโs Nest. One woman was shaking and mumbling herself out of a drug withdrawal, the nurses were telling jokes, one man was in a hospital gown striding up and down the corridor, talking to himself and Greta seated on a chair watched. In the distance, she recognized Lally, a potential renter of her home.
” Lally, can you come over a minute?”
โ How are you? Whatโs going on?โ
โ Oh God, I said the wrong thing to a friend, and he called 911.”
โ Iโm sorry to hear that. Are you here for evaluation?โ
โYeah, can you do it?โ
โ No, I’m assisting in another department. Don’t worry… I’ll talk to the Physiatrist so you get through quickly. Itโll be fine. Just wait here.โ
I thanked him and ten minutes later I was led into a private room with bars on the bed. A nurse took my vitals, then a Doctor asked a few questions like,’ What day is it?’ and then she left without adding anything very comforting. Another knock on the open door and a petite female tiptoed in. She infused sincerity and concern into that bleak sanitary room, and I opened up the story from start to finish. She used expression, voice, and patience to keep me talking. She didn’t inflame the rage against Dodger, she suggested I find counseling and asserted that I was indeed in a very traumatic situation. ‘ I will call the the department supervisor and suggest you be released.’
The six hours Greta was in the hospital centered on the absence of a phone call or email from Dodger. Aaron must have told him to get the address. Itโs about two am and Greta is thinking about her birthday; another sort of mรฉnage of meaning, she feels like ten years have passed rather than one. Another doctor came in and released Greta, with a promise to call for counseling. She slipped into a cab in her pajamas and went home. Never had been so terrified of losing control.
The next afternoon brightened when Audrey showed up with roses, champagne, a gift basket, and a happy birthday balloon. She sang the entire birthday song and danced around Greta as she opened the gifts.
โIt is a big deal! I always was taught to celebrate friends’ birthdays with everything,โ her smile remained and Greta’s surfaced. She told her the story of the previous night and Audrey just sat there, eyes widened like two camera lenses, and told her. “I know you would never commit suicide.‘โShe cradled Greta as they walked downtown for dinner. One of her gifts was five hundred dollars. Greta was so stunned she tried to return it, but Audrey blatantly resisted. At our dining table, she waved at guests and waiters with her long arms, โItโs her birthday.โ She reminded Greta of her childhood when her father hired magicians and clowns to entertain at her parties. Greta felt sensationally spoiled, and thatโs not always an indulgence, sometimes it is the only path to joy. The end of the evening placed her in front of Facebook where friends posted birthday wishes. It was a blessed day and a reminder that she is loved. Aaron was trying to help, and Greta felthis concern with appreciation. There is no replacement to cure your mental doubts than a visit to the Physiatriscat Ward.
Six years later, upright, achieved, and grateful for that day.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 