First impressions can be deceiving, although over time, I have found that my perceptions are usually astutely accurate. My valise had been unpacked by Sophie, Anne's longtime, live-in maid when I was invited to join some of the guests for a stroll in Central Park. It was a mild winter and we weren't too bundled up. One of the wonderful qualities about New York is how stylish the ladies dress. As we passed the doorman at The Carlyle he tipped his cap. I suppose in deference to the appearance of our entourage. Presumably, he took note of Anne's other guests, a stately Mother and daughter of French origin. We American's have always looked to Paris, as the source of so much that is artful in design. Belle and Ginger were a formidable duo as we crossed Fifth Avenue on our way to the park. They were quiet and dignified and seemed to enjoy the fresh air. On this particular late afternoon in Central Park the sun descended behind tall buildings, it's fading light was thick and golden as honey, creating a picturesque panorama as we walked around the playground.
FOUR…a short story
Steven Braddock seemed to value variety more than permanence. Una Jackson was his third wife, and not his last. The circumstances of how they met are vague in my memory and probably of little consequence to this story.
When you are seven, your powers of observation are not necessarily highly developed. My memory of Steven Braddock is thus. He was tall and his shoulders were slightly hunched. He had a long lean face and body. He was always neatly dressed, and wore a hat with a brim on it when he went out of doors to cover his thinning gray hair. He was somber and spoke little in my presence. So perhaps he did not care for children.
Besides being very matter-of-fact in her attitude and approach to life; Una Jackson was short, stout and bow legged. Her square face was well lined with deep wrinkles on her forehead and cheeks. She had clear, bright blue eyes and wore rimless glasses. By then she had false teeth that may have been responsible for the set angle of her mouth and jaw, although she had a ready smile. Whether gardening or working about the house, she wore a full apron that covered the front of her simple, open neck cotton dresses. Her gray hair was parted on the side with waves and a puff of short curls that she kept in place with a hair net. She had a special bucket outside to catch rainwater for washing her hair and was firmly convinced of its natural and superior quality over tap water.
MISS JACKSON...a short story
When I opened my eyes it was dark--darker than any shadow in the moonlight. The gong from a bell had awakened me. What hour of the night was it anyway? When I attempted to move it felt as if elephants were sitting on my chest. Bewildered, I tried to get my bearings. Other familiar sounds that were always comforting and reassuring were absent. My hands easily touched the edge of the mattress. It was not my bed. My alarm was followed by panic. In an instant, my world had become the single bed upon which I awoke. Rapid waves of thought were pounding in my head.“Why is it so dark? What has happened to me?” I wondered to myself in silence. My head ached. The soft down pillows were no cradle for my anxiety that increased with each breath. “Calm, try to be calm,” I half prayed and pleaded. Oh, Lord have mercy, where am I?”
MARIACHI…a short story
Trust like the sun casts its bright light filling our hearts with love. Our days are full of hope and the shadows of the moon bring contentment as we slumber. In the garden of life very few things are more arresting than a single butterfly dancing in the air.
BUTTERFLY SONG…a short story
When visible the HOLLYWOOD sign is surreal in the distance. A mocking yet revered landmark reminding all that this little haven is still bound to the world where fantasy and reality collide. Here the dreams of fame and fortune mix in the sun and shadows with the mighty and the meek. Each individual hoping for inspiration that will ignite their imagination and instantly define and elevate the art of poetry and prose, a melody played, a song sung, a canvas painted, or in just living life. Art embraced is an ascent of the spirit.
We are awe struck by those few who have the genius to create great art and are often deaf and blind to masterworks in our midst. The anointed, enlightened and unaware progress toward infinity their flawed humanity a miracle, their own existence a masterpiece.
