Missing my chocolate boy

It was two years ago today and I still miss my sweet chocolate boy. I named him Luther Martin,  after Martin Luther King Jr. A hard name to live up to. But, in my mind, he did.

img_2382

Even as a puppy, he tried to retrieve my eight-year-old daughter out of the pool.

He loved cantaloupe. He knew he was loved.

And when the new “kids” came around, he accepted them, too.  img_3504

We took him to our homestead in the Texas Hill Country where you can look far into the distance. I didn’t know it would be his last time. But Luther knew.

Because he stared at the sunset, then into the darkness.

1513786_10204240750877275_3313449601050543704_n

10882102_10204240752597318_2850837300766958982_n

Two years ago yesterday, he celebrated his last Christmas with the family. He ate a full plate of “Christmas”.

Two years ago today, as Luther lay on a pallet at the vet’s office, I fed him two McDonald’s cheeseburgers so he could rise up and meet his sunset.

And so, he did.

 

 

Poor Ol’ Possum

Poor ol’ Possum O’Connell. He didn’t expect the law to show up at his door this early in the morning.

unknown-2

 

“This ’bout the Beauty Saloon, ain’t it? Didn’t mean to cause a ruckus, but that no-account had it comin’. I fess up. I wasted a good brew when I throwed it on his shirt. I got swole up, is all.”

Mr. O’Connell trained his bloodshot eyes on Sheriff Tobin and then on Giovanni. He ignored Captain Van Riper.

“Not here about that, Possum,” Sheriff Tobin said. “We’re here about the murder of the temperance woman, Marcy Sanders.”

Possum bolted out of his chair, knocking it down. “I swannin’, I never kilt nobody an’ I don’t plan to. I ain’t an eye-fer-an-eye kinda feller,” he said, looking at me.

Giovanni picked up the chair. “Hell, we know that, Possum. Calm down.”

Sheriff Tobin removed his hat and patted the table. “Just sit for a spell and hear us out.”

O’Connell did as told, rubbing his beer gut.

Sheriff Tobin stuffed his hands casually in his back pockets. “Miss Duecker, here, says you remember seeing Miss Sanders, the lady with the yellow scarf, at Menger’s.”

Mr. O’Connell let out a shiver. “Gotta show…show…show y’all somethin’.” He Retreated to his bedroom and returned with a cat under one arm and a yellow bonnet under the other. “This here,” he said, lifting the cat up to his shoulder, “is mine.” He placed Dawg on the floor and held out the bonnet. “This here belonged to Edna. She loved this head wrap. Had it fer many years. Thought about burying her in it, but I jest couldn’t do’er…couldn’t do’er. Wanted to have it to remember her by.”

Van Riper shifted his weight from one leg to the other and heaved a deep sigh.

“Anyhow,” Possum continued, sitting again, “that’s how I come to remember that yeller scarf. Bright as this here bonnet. I’d been drinking Menger corn juice thinkin’ ’bout Edna when I saw that scarf round that woman’s neck. Almost like Edna done sent me a wink, wink, wink from heaven.”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello.

 

Boxing Tradition and life metaphors

(Featured image is my play on words)

Yes, it is Boxing Day. But in my life, it means I wrap my hands and plunk on my 16 oz. gloves. But it means more…

screenshot-2016-12-26-12-25-18

Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn

My grandfather boxed whenever a traveling carnival came near his town. If he beat the headliner -which he usually did- he earned 5 whole dollars (a lot back then).

My dad boxed in the Army and later became a ref.

37-119-19_pt_instr-verticalcrop_quote_2-jpg

My dad at 18

I’ve been boxing for almost twenty years. I don’t hit people. I hit bags and pads. But I hit like I am boxing myself out of a corner. What I’ve learned are a few metaphors on life.

-protect yourself at all times (stand up for yourself)

-don’t be the one who goes down for the count (stay alert)

-roll with the punches (go with the flow)

-don’t let down your guard (be aware)

-don’t pull any punches (be honest)

-don’t hit below the belt (stay kind)

img_2359-2

A painting I did after seeing a match at Madison Square Garden

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Joe Louis, of course

Her Loaded Broom

small

Madam Volvino down the road would have scammed the Wild Bunch. I pictured that dolly-mop charging a lower fee for her bawdy house services and then afterward, jiggling her fat rump straight to the law to collect the one grand in Bounty—one grand for Butch alone.

Only hours ago, Butch, Sundance, Kid Curry, Deaf Charlie, and William “News” Carver trotted off in three different directions. Carver said he’d soon return for Lillie and ride her off into a sunset dream. Like Sundance did with Etta last night. More girls to replace.

I counted again. Expenses, already deducted, included the vast amount of food Reba had cooked up for the entire house, the twenty bottles of French Gosset champagne—one of which I kept for myself—and the Cuban cigars—one of which Reba kept for herself. And, of course, the girls’ wages.

The familiar wide-hipped, narrow-waisted woman sidled through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, balancing a silver platter piled with dirty dishes. “Lawd have mercy,” Reba muttered.

“Too much on your plate?” I asked, laughing at my pun.

“Them wily bunch might be good at train robbing, but they ain’t worth nothing when it comes to sprucing up behind themselves.” Reba set the tray on the counter and then plunked into the chair closest to my desk in the kitchen’s corner. She stared at my grin. “What? It ain’t funny, Fannie Porter.”

“Isn’t funny,” I corrected. “Besides, this is the last for the Wild Bunch. The whole country’s chomping at the bit to catch them, especially the Pinkerton Agency. Gang’s splitting up.”

“So they says.” Reba grinned and shook her head. “I tells you what is funny. You chasin’ a known killer round the house with a loaded broom.”

“Wasn’t funny at the time.” Last night, Kid Curry, too liquor-seasoned to keep his chin above his neck, broke two of my rules. First, he entered my bedroom without permission, and then he tore my silk sheets with his spurs before I managed to shoo him out. “He promised to send new ones.”

“Mmm. And I’s growing catfish in my garden.”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello.

 

My gift to you

I painted this on the first day of the Iraqi war and named it “Peace Bubbles.” (I sold this painting and believe it is hanging on a wall in a yoga studio in NYC)

Whatever traditions you celebrate this season, I hope your life is filled with peace, acceptance, grace, hope, kindness, joy and LOVE.

All the best to you, my blogging buds! – Carolyn

 

peace-bubbles-11-2

What will the neighbors think?!!

f89af7e17f01a2fd6b96f943c0ba869b

The virtuous Meta, misled to the wrong “boarding house,” has been offered a job. A the bordello!

Smiles, genuine and kind, surrounded me. Never in my life had I met others who so easily accepted a bookworm like myself and appreciated my talent as a pianist. I was a grown woman capable of making independent decisions. Besides, I came here to Discover a world full of new possibilities.

I swallowed my apprehension, hoping I wasn’t about to make a grave mistake. The brothel madam continued smiling, her expression framed with hope.

I unhinged the teeth biting my tongue. “Do you think we could have the piano tuned?”

From The Last Bordello.

 

 

 

“A Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote

Why don’t I remember this movie? So grateful to have seen this!

da-AL's avatarHappiness Between Tales (and Tails) by da-AL

Writing can be an x-ray into the soul. Truman Capote led a troubled life. Oh, what sensitive gorgeous stories resulted!

His “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” was made into a movie starring Audrey Hepburn.

Breakfast at Tiffanys Poster from Wikipedia Photo thanks to, Wikipedia

That photo, along with Hepburn at the prime of her iconic gorgeousness, are the best part of the movie. What drivel that movie made of Capote’s genius novella! It boiled Capote’s nuanced character study of love between a straight woman and a gay man into nonsense — a chain of cliches, the worst being Andy Rooney’s bigoted portrayal of a Chinese landlord.

Ah – but now I’m getting off track from telling you about Capote’s succinct mini-masterpiece, “A Christmas Memory.” The short story, featured in numerous short story anthologies, premiered in 1956, in Mademoiselle Magazine.

An early photo of Truman Capote, thanks to Wikipedia Capote at 23, thanks to Wikipedia.

The essay is Capote’s gift to us about his own childhood experiences, after his parents divorced…

View original post 136 more words