Poor deer. Tangled in Christmas lights. I was assured he would be fine but he will have to shed his antlers. Let’s all grow antlers for the new year!
In his support, let’s all grow antlers for the new year and be bigger and better than ever!
Photo is of the real Madam Fannie Porter who was made famous by harboring Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch.
The portal to the unknown inched open and revealed a handsome woman, her head held high like a proud Thoroughbred. Her eyes looked stitched with a dark-brown thread of authority and were the same color as her perfectly coiffed hair. Perhaps in her thirties, she wore a lavishly brocaded burgundy gown that cinched her waist and revealed her curves. And her shoes! I had read that Mrs. McKinley had worn such shoes at the president’s inauguration—white satin slippers beaded with color.
“Miss? How can I help you?”
“I…I’m Meta Duecker.” I hated my fear, my uncertainty and lack of confidence. “It seems I have been misled to this address. I was hoping for a glass of water and directions, perhaps?”
“Meta, I’m Madam Fannie Porter. Please come in.”
She grabbed the heavy hatbox and steered me away from the inappropriately dressed women in the parlor.
“Have fun, boys,” she said to the salivating men.
Frozen, I averted my eyes from the coquettish prostitutes and their clients and focused on the opulent décor.
To my left, an ornately carved baluster led to upstairs. Through the upstairs banister, I counted six closed doors. A grand chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and a large gilded mirror above the hearth doubled the brilliance of the room and cast a sensual glow on the two red-velvet settees and the wingback armchairs upholstered in Oriental fabric. Next to the chairs sat tea tables covered in tatted lace. A slightly faded Persian carpet lay beneath the furniture. Never had I seen such grandeur.
“Meta? Shall we?”
I followed the madam through the parlor to the right. An old upright piano stood in the corner just before the swinging doors. The wood, soft to my touch, yearned for attention.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Me in the 1970’s. I think I was 16. I still have this guitar!
Music ‘tis the calm for the soul
its lingering presence of tone
So sweet the sound, to which I’m bound
Doth keep me from being alone.
Refrain! I beg the timbered tone
Do not renounce these ears!
For with it not, the peace once sought
Is severed when once sincere.
-CDW
“What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet.” – Woody Allen
Keep open your mind
Keep open your heart
fill your pillows with feathers
to comfort a loss
Breathe in the new air
fragrant and warm
relax into being
the wonder you are.
-CDW
HAPPY NEW YEAR, MY FRIENDS!
After my sweet mom died, I made this shadow box for my heartbroken father. (These are paper doves, not stuffed!) Together, Mom and Dad had always enjoyed the sweet sound of mourning doves and kept their bird and squirrel feeders full. Now, my parents live together in a softer place.
The poem is Emily Dickinson’s:
Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches on the soul
and sings a tune
without the words
and never stops at all.
(excerpt)
For this coming new year, my wish for all of you is to feel the love, peace, joy and hope in the soft tickles of feathers.
Blessings all,
Carolyn
Scoot and me are late to school. I don’t like being late because everyone stares and Miss Primrose expects a ‘reasonable excuse for tardiness.’
Scooter pulls out his pocketknife and strolls to the front, his happy eyes aiming at the wood he’s about to shave into invisible.
“Emma June?” Miss Primrose says.
“I’m sorry, Miss Primrose,” I say, glancing at Frank who’s giving me a half smile. “Scooter had himself a bit of an adventure.”
The class giggles and I want to punch them all in the face. What’s wrong with an adventure? At least the ones that don’t make someone carry a grudge. Daddy said Mama still loves me. There’s hope in that.
I try so hard to remember what happened toward the end of the carnival, but everything is jumbled up like bad scrambled eggs. Carla was in better shape than me, but she fell asleep on the ride home when Mama and Beauty had the fight. I remember fading in and out while they argued. I remember upchucking more than once. There’s nobody to tell me what happened except Mama.
So many questions I wanted to ask Daddy that morning when I woke up to find Mama gone. The only answers were Daddy’s tears. “We’ll work this out. Don’t worry. We’ll work this out,” he had said. And then his words faded as he shuffled away to his bedroom and closed the door.
I don’t know how to help him work things out any more than I know how to make Mama come home. I might as well try picking up shadows.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket (1928)
I thought about gluing Oreo cookies to his knee caps but thought he looked knobby enough. Besides, the black and white might have overshadowed his slippers!
painting by CDW- for my daughter before she grew up!
I wrote this a while back as a blues song. If only I could hear Taj Mahal bring it to life! Check his “Ain’t nobody’s business but my own.”
I met him once, had my picture taken with him. Wish I could find it for you! But, you know. I’ll find it when I ain’t lookin’.
I’m ain’t hungry ’cause I got my tunes
Ain’t thirsty, ’cause I’ve paid my dues
Hope you don’t mind me sayin’
But I sure like playin’ these blues, uh huh.
I sure like playing’ these blues.
I got the flow going, but my boat’s kinda slowin’
I’m just one paddle short of a row
You know
I’m just short one paddle for a row.
I ain’t weary ’cause I dreamed all day
Stayed up all night just to here myself play
I’m not sleep deprived
’cause I just arrived
I’m just little tired ’round the edges, but hey!
I got that sultry timing’, just ain’t so good at ryhmin’
I’m just two jiggers short of a lime
But I’m fine.
I’m just two nickels short of a dime.
So if you think you hear me comin’
hit the road and start a thumbin’
just float me down an oar a’fore you go
Cause I’m short one paddle for a row, you know.
I’m just short one paddle for a row.
But I sure like playin’ these blues, uh huh.
I sure like playing’ these blues.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 