Category: NY

JOCKEYS & SARATOGA SPRINGS NEW YORK RACE TRACK

~ LouLou ~ 4 Comments

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     After several summers in Saratoga Springs, I discovered I loved thoroughbred horseracing. All my life I’ve been a performing arts spectator. I never watched any sports on television and only attended baseball games when my father needed a companion. The art of performance led me to experience the racetrack as live theater.

     The racetrack is a stage, the jockeys are the actors, and the men and women that fill the bleachers, the picnic grounds, the Turf Club, and the private boxes are the audience. The racehorse is the star celebrity.

     The tickets for admission, like any show, are based on your seating. You can walk through the gates for $3.00 or buy a box for $100,000 a year. The collage of human emotions, drama, suspense, and danger are key components to good theater.

     Gambling personifies the Shakespearean twist of the racetrack. High rollers and drugstore cowboys wager to win. Some men walk out with a grocery cart of recycled cans; some walk out with enough money to buy a racehorse. They leave by the same gate, and the next day, they return for more. But why, I ask, is thoroughbred racing not considered an all-around American sport? Why don’t jockeys get athletic respect? These two spheres of lightning truth struck me while I trampled through the mud one rainy August day at Saratoga Racetrack.

I asked around for opinions. The Governor’s bodyguard remarked that it was a good question. He did not think gambling was the reason because people always bet on sports. He thought maybe that it was because, as kids, we don’t learn to race horses, like baseball and football. The public is naïve about jockeys because they have never raced. Another answer I heard was that 200,000 fans fill a ballgame on any given day and that those numbers don’t compare with horseracing.

     I’m not a gambler,  and I don’t ride very well, but I am a drama whore. I took my notebook to the jocks’ room to ask the jockeys what they thought about this irregularity in sports. Jose Santos had a few minutes to spare.

     “Jose, do you feel like America thinks of you as an athlete?”

     “We don’t get the respect that we should. I think it’s the gambling. This is the greatest racetrack in America, and there is gambling in every sport, but when you come to the track, you see it right there, and people cannot avoid it. Pound for pound, we are more fit than most athletes.”

     I asked Jose what he does aside from riding. He jogs three miles every day and walks for a mile. He reminded me that if he goes down with the horse, his strength is what gets him back up again. Another misconception is that jockeys only ride for 2 minutes. Well, the race is 2 minutes, but they ride every day of the year. They do not take breaks.

     “How does the public perceive you?” I asked.

     “In Europe, they are treated like movie stars. Over here the jockey is just another person, and in sports, the jockey is low. I wish we had more respect, but we don’t get the publicity.”

     This feels like the guts of the truth; our little minds like to align with other like minds. The leaders of the pack go to football and baseball, and the media follows behind.

     Jose remarked that he only felt real enthusiasm and support when he won the Triple Crown. Otherwise, they get a little column in the paper with the results. “The Racing Form is 100 pages, and nothing is written about us.”

     “What if there was a Jockey Magazine?”

     “Well, that would be great. Then, the companies would be interested, and we’d get sponsors. When I go out to the park and run, I wear Nikes too.” He chuckled.

    “Have they ever approached you for sponsorship?”

    “No, I don’t expect they will.”

 A few days later, I found Jerry Bailey before a race. It was a cinch to get into the jocks’ room in those days. That was before Elliott Spitzer sipped all the fizz out of Saratoga Race Track. These days the Press can’t walk inside the Jocks’ room.  Jerry hopped onto a counter and extended his hand.

“How are you?”

“Great, Jerry, thank you for meeting me.”

“Sure.”

“Jerry, I’m very interested in the lack of sports sponsorship offered jockeys. Why do you think that is?

“Because no one is promoting us.  If you don’t do anything to promote us, how does anyone know? They have bobbleheads and gimmicks like that, but there isn’t even a Jockey Calendar. Excuse me now; I’ve got to ride a race.”

 Of all the risk-takers and entrepreneurs in the world, horse racing is the champion in all categories. If I decided to understand the business,  attend every race, meet every owner, jockey, and trainer, there’s no chance I’d understand anything more because I do not love the horse the way a jockey does, and you can’t fool the horse!

   During the Hall of Fame Induction presentation at Saratoga a few years back, D. Wayne Lucas made a speech that drew a full house of gregarious applause. This is an excerpt:

 “You ride a great horse, and the owner wakes up the next day and decides to switch to Bailey. The adversity is gut-wrenching, bringing you to your knees and humbling, whether you’re a rider, trainer, owner, or breeder. There’s one thing that will keep you going, and that is simply your attitude. Attitude is the most important decision you make every day. Make it early, and make sure you make the right one. You will have a very full and very peaceful life.”

 Maybe it’s time for a Jocks Nike, call it the Two Minute Nike. 

  

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        ~ LouLou

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        STEPS AWAY FROM ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS    

        Achievement knocked down the barrier of fear. It feels like lifting off from ground level; I am floating like I used to be in the swimming pool, and I am only at my desk reading the news from my attorney. From one beginning to an ending, five years later, after tedious research, unscrambling legal language, and searching for the meaning behind the case references, this journey is over. I won the lawsuit against the bank that attempted to foreclose on my home and Dodger, my ex-partner of thirty-five years, who, for still unknown reasons, pursued the foreclosure.

        Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

         Agape, eyes widened, nerves settled like snowflakes; the joy of achievement cannot be understated. During this phantasmagoria, life beyond research, consulting with foreclosure agencies, banking laws, and regulations, I detached from my passion for adventure, creativity, parades, parties, and socializing; I sat alone, and resilience shadowed, then enflamed like a log of fire, encapsulated into a daily doctrine. Music by Ennio Morricone, blue note Jazz, the everchanging scenery of seasons, phone conversations with friends who released ambers of comfort, confidence, and advice, and TCM films nuzzled my fatigue.

         Some days, I remained in bed, staring at my Icart Ladies of Leisure prints, or sat by my favorite window seat and studied clouds, birds, and leaves. The blossom of tenacity grew into a tree trunk and taught me the art of persistence and emotional strength, which were missing links in my character.

        Achievement in fine-tuning relationships, setting down the needle gently instead of plummeting riffs and arguments. In the present, as you all know, if you read the news, our culture has replaced argument and debate with assault and violence.  I digress; renewed confidence in my aptitude to fight battles, disputes, and disappointments without Dodger is as solid as concrete.

        The next episodic internal journey is regaining my passion for opening the door to interaction with strangers and discovering newness in that engine of life. I hope this admission reaches others who are experiencing depriving themselves of love within and without.

        STRANGERS THEN LOVE

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        From Anais Nin Diaries 1939-1944. 

        “I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.” 

        JANUARY

        SNOW, ARTIC BLAST, ICE, FREEZING. Maelstrom of inconveniences toppling down in every nook and cranny of body, home, and outdoors. I wore a long-sleeved liner, wool sweater dress, rabbit poncho, and over that, a wool wrap, laptop mittens, sherpa leggings, wool socks, and boots. Mornings, eight degrees, afternoons eighteen, and the absence of sunlight grids my spirit. Repetitive lessons in endurance, tolerance, and acceptance. The outer world stenches corruption, propaganda, cruelty, violence, and haranguing reporters. The election year dominates the bunkum reporting.  

        It’s been almost a month since I texted or called Dodger. Somedays, I enter the memories, a reel of episodes on our cross-country road trips, hiking barren, narrow, unclaimed paths in Baja, mountains and canyons in New Mexico, and lakes and forests in upstate New York. They appear to be aberrations of myself; I am unrecognizable as he is, too. 

        FEBRUARY

        MATURITY has caught up with me, and I am viscerally aware of this pendulum as replacing the nonacceptance of my lifestyle and future to hardened acceptance, which is a relief. I used to be full of follies, gaiety, and impulse; inner choreography is now critical thinking, studied decisions, and a spoonful of distrust. Instead of unleashing all that I think and feel with strangers, the narrative is split between inching closer to listening rather than personal tete e tet. Once a week, I go outing to the social club, where I find conversant strangers, couples, singles, divorces, and a variety of ages, and yet they all have a commonality that I don’t, they seem genuinely satisfied with their lives, one comment this, after asking the bartender how are you, he smiled, slapped the polished wooden bar with both hands and replied, I couldn’t be happier. Then he opened his phone and showed me a photo of a baby boy. His expression soared through my senses, and I adulated with compliments. Another evening, I opened a conversation with a couple next to me, and for the next hour, I learned of their life; children, travel, cruises, especially, ” Oh, you’ve never been on one? You must go, you’re so perfect for a cruise.

        ” I’m uncomfortable with more than twenty people.”

        “ I don’t believe that for a minute.” Wendy was really fit to her name; she wiggled in her seat, her hands never at rest, and her thoughts poured like raindrops. Her husband, Christian, nodded a lot, and when he tried to speak, she ran right over him. A few times, he rolled his eyes at me. They’d been married thirty-five years, looked to be in their early fifties, and semi-retired.  I left feeling love, had tipped our kinship, a surprising need to leap from trivialities to more substance.

        RESOLUTIONS OF THE WEEK.

        ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

        My memoir, published in 2017, Cradle of Crime-A Daughter’s Tribute is old news to me. Not to Charlie. I met him as he was renovating a house across the street. I didn’t introduce myself as Luellen Smiley, just Luellen. I asked if he would take a look at my house for an estimate on painting. He was sweet, a mountain man with a long white beard and hunting boots. Last week, he texted me,” I read your book, my friend and I exchanged Goodreads suggestions, and I told him to read your book.” How did he connect me to my book? I didn’t ask, and now it piques my interest. I’d walk across the street and ask him, his truck is there, so is the ice, and I don’t feel like skating and falling on my butt.

        Winter in upstate New York to a gal from Los Angeles is likened to living in the North Pole. Going on five years, my last, I’m not resentful and scouring, but I am not acclimated. Indoors I dress in sherpa from head to toe and wear those finger mittens. Today it is full-throttle rain showers. The street is vacated of traffic and the public, it’s a good day to work on my next book. On my desk are a few writing books, the favorites: Henry Miller on Writing, The Diaries of Anais Nin, and Albert Camus’s The Stranger. I haven’t bought a current book in years, the last one was Sam Shepard, The One Inside. I like Miller’s passage: ” The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds.: he takes the path in order eventually to become that path himself.”

        Aging in my seventies delivered opening windows to restoring, rearranging, and repairing my persona, personally and in public. If you’ve read any of my essays, then you know explicit is the vortex that moves my thread. Restoring the brick-and-mortar of truth is at the forefront; the next layer is a confession of what I cannot speak in person to anyone, even my closest pals. The third is abstaining from too swift a pen; I’m always in a hurry: I prepare food quickly, walk as if I’m late for an engagement, and wash dishes with perfunctory interest. Everything when I think about it. I know why that is, my father. His shadow was always behind me as I went about my teenage activities at home, so I rushed to get out.

        Last week, I stopped taking the powerful Lorzapam medication for neurotic anxiety. My heart raced when I opened an email from my attorney, when a stranger knocked at the door, or when I entered a public place alone. A new sideways rain shower just filled the window pane above my desk. Here is the fourth restorative: get outdoors! I don’t walk in snow or ice, but good old water rain, which I call God’s tears, is one of my favorite nature adventures.

        Admittedly, my writing has granulated since moving here. It is tiny in thought and not always tied up neatly. My persona in public needs to be side by side with wine in a dining setting. What I contribute must be joyous and humorous because one of my favorite human activities is to evoke laughter and smiles. I broke away from my taverns and abstained from alcohol for a week. In the second week, visceral and bodily alarms have gone off. I’m lucid, motivated, and even decisive.

        From Anais Nin Diaries 1939-1944.

        “I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.”

        ‘

        MENTAL WOWS AND BOWS

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        May 10th 2017–FROM MY JOURNAL

                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.’

          “Police, open up.”  You couldn’t cut her tension with a semi-truck head-on. She opened the door to five male Policeman and a Medic. 

               “ Greta we are here because someone is very concerned about your welfare. I understand you made a reference to taking your own life.”

               “ Who called you? It was Aaron right?”

           “Yes. 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?”

          “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?” 

        “I don’t know, I’m trapped.” Then I noticed they were not convinced.

        “I think you should come with us for an evaluation.”

        “No, that’s not necessary, Really, look at me. I’m enjoying a movie. ” Greta got back on the bed in a gesture of defiance. 

        “We think it is.”  We have an ambulance out front.

        “What? Oh God. No, I’m not going.”

        “You don’t have a choice. It won’t take long, if the Physiatrist thinks you are not in danger they’ll release you.”

        “I’m not going in the ambulance.”

        “Okay, you can ride with me in the patrol car.”

        “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 Cuckoo’s 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?” 

        “ How are you? What’s going on?”

        “ Oh God, I said the wrong thing to a friend, and he called 911.”

        “ I’m sorry to hear that. Are you here for evaluation?”

        “Yeah, can you do it?”

        “ No, I’m assisting in another department. Don’t worry… I’ll talk to the Physiatrist so you get through quickly. It’ll be fine. Just wait here.”

        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.  It’s about two am and Greta is thinking about her birthday; another sort of ménage 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. 

         “It is a big deal!  I always was taught to celebrate friends’ birthdays with everything,” 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.‘ She 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, “It’s her birthday.” She reminded Greta of her childhood when her father hired magicians and clowns to entertain at her parties. Greta felt sensationally spoiled, and that’s 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 felt his 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.

        OF MICE AND WOMAN

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        In the mood for pasta tonight, a few hits of green chili to flavor fest the marina, shrimp, garlic, and heaps of asiago cheese, yes sounds good. One step into the kitchen, and there on the electric stove burner is a mouse … I screamed, did you hear me? Then I stomped my feet and it lowered back into the passageway.

        ” I need emergency treatment, you won’t believe what I just saw,” The receptionist at Pest Control, replied, it sounded like she may be smiling.

        ” What?”

        ” A mouse found his way up to the stovetop grill, I mean not all the way, half his body was visible! ” She chuckled, for a full minute.

        ” I’m more afraid of mice than bears, foxes, or anything. I know it sounds irrational but I didn’t grow up here. “

        ” Well, let’s get you scheduled… let’s see now, we can get there on Thursday next week.”

        ” I cannot go in the kitchen..”

        ” Gee, I am sorry. I noticed that we were there in March of this year.”

        “Yes, nine-hundred dollars here! You won’t charge me for this next visit.”

        ” Well, let me see what I can do.”

        Enter, Gary, with a toolbox, and a howdy doody kind of introduction. He appeared as interested in ridding mice as I do shoveling snow. He’s going to retire soon, he says as he pokes around the kitchen, points to the openings, talks some more about retiring, and applies a bit of killer foam behind the stove.

        He sets a few traps in the basement as I watch and snap photos.

        ” Are there any dead ones in the traps from last time?”

        ” Sure, I see two.”

        “Okay, I’ll be upstairs.”

        I covered all the stovetop grills with pot tops, ordered disinfectant, and covered every counter with paper towels. I went out to dinner for the next week, feeding on grilled sandwiches and soup. More sightings and drips of mouse visits provoked a second call to Family Pest. They sent out another treatment expert. Gary shuffled in, forty years younger than the previous technician.

        My friend JoMarie who is Martha Stewart without a TV show told me to place pine cones dressed with cinnamon. So I listened.

        ” Mice are difficult, they slip through a fingernail-wide opening.”

        “Well, then let’s foam up all those fingernails.”

        ” I’ll set some traps downstairs. I will move the stove out and see if there is an opening.”

        He pulled it out, and alas, a five-by-five opening into the basement.

        “ I have to have this blocked off right?”

        “Yeah, that’s a good idea, we don’t do that.”

        ” I figured.”

        The next call went to a carpenter, he showed up and hammered in sheetrock as he talked about his six kids. He is twenty-four, I tried to do the math, maybe it’s a sympathy card. He agreed to take care of five more repairs in the house and charged me modestly.

        A week later after three canceled appointments I crossed his name off the list and explored more carpenters on the web. This will be the seventh I called. Paul showed up, speaking amicably, obliging, harp-like voice and, ready to work. That was two weeks ago, he said he had a bad cold. I’ve read about Lazy Girl Jobs, but carpenters and handymen? Half the population in my village are in the trades so I’m miffed. Utube is not going to teach me how to drywall ceilings, replace a window, box in a pipe, or bring down heavy antique furniture from the attic down thirty stairs without falling down, and most likely on a mouse.

        I’m an elf who spends her days writing, translating legal documents, and fussing over the unfixed. I’d rather be monitoring sunshine, waves, surfers, and seagulls… until then, home away from home are adventures in livingness. DEL MAR, CA.

        ADAPTATION-HOME AWAY FROM HOME.

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        Sunlight seeps through the glass window and tickles the silk flowers, autumn leaves left over from the last street clean-up, lay flat and lifeless.

        The street is silent this weekend, the neighbors with three high-pitched voluminous barking dogs are gone, and I notice my shoulders softened from the daily dose of their irritation. The neighbors are tucked indoors, avoiding the freezing atmospheric clutch of winter. In the village, it is Shop Local weekend so I took a walk and stopped at one of the gift shops. A mirage of unrelated items from chocolate bars to errings, tai die dresses, and scented candles crusaded side by side. The owner repeated her lines, ‘ I represent eighty-one New York artists so if you have any questions, no question is refused.’ Feeling brave I asked, What is the meaning of life?’ The result was not what I expected, she did not respond, and the other shoppers, maybe two chuckled. Time to move on.

        Rarely do I run into anyone I know, my circle here is a half-circle of acquaintances. The next stop is the Social Club where my curious humor is appreciated.

        ” Jackie! She just started a few weeks ago. At first interaction, this twenty-something woman avoided conversation, not even a smile. After a few sips of a Manhattan, I pulled out my mini perfume sample.

        ” Do you like this?” she sniffed, I watched.

        ” Oh, I love this, What kind?“

        ” Tom Ford Noir.”

        “I Love Tom Ford, he’s so expensive.“

        That’s why I buy the body spray, sixteen ounces, forty dollars. I’d rather turn the heat down than go without perfume.”

        At that moment, we leaped into gal pals. The Social Club serves up exotic cocktails, irresistible tacos, and an assortment of soups and salads, my kind of table setting. Horace the Bar Manager wears a beret and is always somewhat distracted by his list of duties. He moves behind a narrow back bar pathway as if he is power walking, and always greets me with a genuine ‘How are you LouLou!’.

        I meet a cluster of female bar-friendly women, who invite me into their festive fiasco of celebration for one reason or another. We may never see each other again, but the moments count. Sometimes we exchange emails or phone numbers. The adverse effects of alcohol are sometimes diminished for undiluted expression.

        I’m learning to understand upstate New Yorkers, their resilience to extreme climate, limited source of funds, pragmatic decisions, family comes first foundation, and quizzical curiosity when they learn I moved from San Diego to purchase a Victorian rental property in Ballston Spa, ‘ Why did you do that?’ I answered, ‘ I fell in love with the quaintness and the house.’ Still visibly unconvinced, I wonder if they think I’m in hiding or avoiding some criminal offense. I’ve not met one person from San Diego, Los Angeles, or Santa Fe, NM in three years. Maybe if I dressed in Pendleton or Northface, I wouldn’t stand out.

        On another night, in desperate craving for French Fries, I stopped at Henry’s Pub. The man next to me opened the conversation,

        “You’re not from here are you?”

        ” What gave me away?”

        ” The way you dress, it’s a nice jacket.”

        ” I just wear what’s in the closet, urban clothes I suppose.”

        ” That’s cool. Where are you from?”

        ” Los Angeles.“

        ” I’ve never been there, I’m planning a trip to Hawaii, my first time.” He outlined a history of why now, breaking up with his girlfriend, and then he jump-started into a conversation about needing a haircut. This went on for some time, although he was almost shaved. Then he went onto his beard. I listened attentively, imitating interest because he needed to talk, and I knew that feeling so well. Sometimes conversation is not what we need but what the other person needs.

        ON THE SOLO STREET OF DREAMS

        ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

        I am not afraid to write the truth, to stare and embrace the reflection. It appeared last night; a thought manifested in an abstract way; a torch of light, a rainbow, an open door that symbolized a guide to contentment, and peace of mind, it felt reachable if only I evaporated into the sensibility, allowing change, a complete transformation from this encampment of isolation and fear of making the wrong decision.

        HONESTY-REMEMBER

        ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

        Except from a work in progress.

        Greta dressed in pink jeans, a pink striped polo shirt, and low-heeled pumps. As she opened the door she thought, and said out loud one step to go. She flipped down the top of her car to ride visible, a sort of rehearsal to adjust to the main street on a Saturday afternoon. Storm clouds churned and after checking the weather channel, rain coming in one hour, Greta closed the convertible and went back indoors. Not truly disappointed as she’d stayed up till three am watching the Shooter series on Netflix and woke at eight.

        (I use the name Greta in my manuscript because of this, my father repeatedly scolded me when I said, I want to be alone, he replied, ‘Who do you think you are Greta Garbo?’)

        Journal June 10th.

        The street was quiet except for the barking dogs so I sat down to write, and let the paper stare back blankly. I switched over to Facebook and viewed my feed, the Rolling Stones, Italy Travel, Artnews, Creative Non-Fiction, Emily Luxton Travels, and Jazz photography. Voyeurism, the normalcy of our culture, to watch life from a screen, I’m guilty because I’m at heart a loner, a drifter that moves on the outskirts of socialization. When discourse and confrontation knock at my door, I go dormant to the world outside. My mask is not convincing, So, I bear up, like today, and take nature as my friend; a patch of blue, gray skies, the sun tea cup surprise, the birds and chipmunks on my lawn, and the occasional passersby who are living in their world. At seventy only two lines matter: I’m proud of you, and you could have done better. HONESTY.

        POP-UP FRIDAY FOLLIES

        ~ LouLou

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        RELOCATION…SENIORS

        Featured ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

        My direction is following Lawrence Durrell, “Spirit of the Place,” and living where I would never expect to live. I wish I could control my impractical, impulsive, and annoying spirit of adventure. I think about architecture, Jewish deli’s, Italian restaurants, at one movie theater built in the 1930s, and neighborhoods of unfamiliar lighting, expressions, and conversations. Gambling on yourself is how much you can adapt, change, influence, and accept the days of your life.

        In my syndicate, there must be a dozen pals with the same unsolved equation. Is it age that blocks me and maybe you from relocation, or is it the trauma and stress? What liberation to just pack a suitcase and board a plane like in the movies. Separation from the familiar. The spirit of adventure has arrived. My home sold and so relocation isn’t a muse any longer, it’s reality. Today, coincidently is Independence day and so am I. It is a day of nostalgia. The Rudster painting Follies. It took two summers to remove the aluminum siding, scrape, caulk, prime, and paint my chosen seven colors to resemble a wedding cake. Mr. Doolittle built the home in 1883 as a wedding present for his daughter.

        The Rudster painting Follies. It took two summers to remove the aluminum siding, scrape, caulk, prime, and paint my chosen seven colors to resemble a wedding cake. Mr Doolittle built the home in 1883 for his daughter as a wedding present.