Tuesday, October 9, 2018

The Wailing Woman


By Kimberly Mack
Residents in the small, upscale community of La Jolla said sometimes you could see her walking on the beach just before dawn, when the tide was out and fingers of fog clung to the top of the cove and nearby hills.  But, you could only see her for a few moments and then she’d disappear.  Sometimes over the sounds of the surf pounding on the rocks, you could hear her crying.  In town they called her “the wailing woman.”  I didn’t believe these stories, of course.  I'd never seen a ghost.  Nor, did I want to.

I was house-sitting for my cousin and his wife one weekend.  They had a beautiful home overlooking La Jolla Point.  I’d been up late trying to work on my book when I fell asleep.  Sometime later I woke on the sofa and was stunned to notice it was almost dawn.  I rose to put another log on the fire.  It was then I heard her.  It was soul-wrenching sobbing and seemed to echo throughout the house.   I quickly went to the balcony and scanned the beach below.  She was there; standing on one of the rocks, oblivious to the pounding surf as it washed through her.   Her transparent arms stretched upwards, towards the sky as if reaching for someone or something.  Her cries were none I’d ever heard before, almost like a wounded animal.  They were gut wrenching and disturbing.  My heart was pounding in my chest as I stood rooted to the railing.  Then she turned and looked right at me.  I felt sucked into her dark scrutiny and could not move had my life depended on it.  Her eyes were full of such despair and something else I could not identify.  Then suddenly, without warning my legs turned to jelly and gave way beneath me.  I crumbled in a heap on the deck.   When I came too, the woman was gone and the sun was rising, its giant orb casting a golden light across the water, banishing all things dark and mysterious.  I welcomed it.    I felt cold all over.  There were only the sounds of the waves crashing and an occasional gull crying.   I turned and made my way back into the house telling myself to breathe.  As I rounded the corner of the living room, I glanced down at the hard wood floor, suddenly puzzled.  There was water beneath my feet as if I had spilled something.  I know I had not.   I froze, understanding suddenly dawnng.  I was not alone.   She was here.  

Friday, September 14, 2018

Beyond the Mists of Forres

The village was dark and silent except
for the howl of a lone wolf from across the ravine. The air had turned cool with the approach of fall. The young woman shivered slightly
as her dark green eyes scanned the deep forest.
All was still – it was a good sign.
It was time. Pulling the hood of
her long black cape over her waist length raven hair, she let out a thin
whistle between her small white teeth to summon her beloved black wolf. Moving silently forward through the trees she
treaded lightly in her breeches and boots. Glancing up, she smiled. The light was good tonight. Nearly a full moon, but not yet. She had time.
A rustle in the bushes made her turn to catch the wolf coming to her
side with his fresh kill of rabbit still clenched between his jaws – his dark,
amber eyes gleaming in the dark. He dropped his prize at her feet.
“Ah, there you are.” Kari whispered as she reached for her
bow and arrows, and slung them over her shoulder.
“We must be off Wolf.
Make haste with your meal. It may
be your last for some time.”
A nearby knicker met Kari’s ears and she smiled again. Softly approaching was her devoted steed Dario. His dark bay coat and beautifully shaped head
gleamed in the moonlight as he nuzzled her cloak for a lump of sugar.
“Ah,” smiled Kari, breathing in his scent, and feeling his
energy. “You know my heart well, my dear
friend. I cannot resist you and well you
know it.”
Scooping her hand into a pocket of her cloak, she withdrew a
tasty treat. Dario dipped his head,
sniffed at Kari’s hand and the sweet disappeared. She quietly stroked his forehead, adjusted his
bridle, and spoke softly.
“We must make haste this night Dario. We must make our way home before the moon is
full.”
Kari looked into the dark beautiful eyes of her magnificent Friesian,
and a current passed between them.

He nickered softly, and pawed the ground with a strong foreleg. He understood and was eager to do his mistresses’ bidding. Taking a final look
around the village, Kari swung herself upon Dario’s back and softly called to Wolf. Electricity suddenly filled the night air and
sensing the urgency of his mistress, Dario spun and cantered through the woods
as graceful and silent as a gazelle.
The evening light was good, but it mattered not, as Kari knew
the way well. It was a two day ride home
to her lands. With any luck Dario would get
her there well before the full moon. An
hour into their journey, Kari slowed Dario to a walk, and let her thoughts
wander. Somewhere to her left flank was Wolf,
always her protector. She could sense
when he was near.
Kari made good time stopping only briefly for some
nourishment, and to see to her other needs.
Her excitement grew as she closed the miles toward home. Urging Dario on through the last of the
forest, she broke onto the crest of the small hill where her property
began. The sun was just rising behind
her, and the vision that unfolded before her made her breath catch in her
throat. How she loved her home and her land. She halted Dario to admire the view. Its
beauty never left her wanting. The
lushness of the hills and green grass always brought her a sense of peace. All was calm in the early dawn light. Her well guarded keep filled her with a sense
of pride.
Urging Dario on, her thoughts drifted back to her visit with
the old woman in the village. She had
been difficult to find and surrounded by loyal kinsmen. But once Kari announced herself and requested
an audience, she was welcomed. Her long journey had been worth it. For three days and two nights they
talked. Some of the old woman’s mumblings
and visions puzzled Kari. The place she
described was filled with foreign sounds and edifaces. Kari bit her lower lip in puzzlement. She knew of no such place the woman
described. She could only hope she would
be able to make more sense of it when she reached her home. She would follow the old oracle’s
instructions. Until then, the peace she
so desperately sought would continue to elude her.
Kari stiffened. A low
growl interrupted her thoughts. Wolf was
warning her. She was not alone. Suddenly a sharp whoosh filled the air as an object made contact with a nearby tree. Dario snorted and reared. Kari kept a firm, but calm hand on the reins
and whirled in the direction from which the airborne object had come.
Angered that someone would dare to accost her on her own
lands filled her with fury. She was well
known and only a fool would dare to attempt such an action.
“Who goes there?” she cried, grabbing her bow and arrow. “Make yourself known or suffer the
consequences!” She wondered sharply why she
had not sensed any danger. But she
knew. She had been distracted with her
thoughts.
“Make your presence known!” she called out, scanning the edge
of the forest. “Show yourself!”
A low chuckle and rustling was immediately heard, followed by
more laughter as a dozen men on horseback moved out of hiding and into the
clearing. Kari breathed a sigh of relief
and lowered her bow and arrow. By all
that was holy, she could have shot him.
It was her twin brother, Noel.
“Ah, sister,” laughed Noel, smiling broadly as he approached
her on foot. “Such a fierce warrior you
are! We’ve been tracking you for the last
mile. You did not pick up our
presence? How deep in thought you must
have been.”
“You bloody oaf!” she
cried, rankled that he would choose such a method to make his presence known. “I could have injured you!”
Kari dismounted and was immediately wrapped into her
brother’s massive arms as he engulfed her in a powerful hug.
Noel gazed upon his sister’s lovely face. Her green eyes gazed back at him clear and
open to his close scrutiny. Her
alabaster skin glowed with good health.
“You look well,”
admired Noel with the grunts of the others.
“Your journey has agreed with you it seems. Was it a
success?”
“Aye,” she murmured matching her strides with her brother’s as
they walked across the lush grass. “What news is there from home?”
Noel put his arm around Kari as his men joined them. “There is naught, but that Uncle is frothing
at the mouth to see you.”
Kari smiled and tugged at Dario’ reins to follow. “And, how is our dear Uncle?” queried Kari. “How fares his gout?”
A grin lit Noel’s handsome face bringing forth a flash of
white teeth and a twinkle to his green eyes.
“The same as his
disposition, I fear. He limps with
greater pain everyday whilst he roams the halls grumbling to himself. He has been impatient for your return. He is anxious for the cure you will surely bring
him with your herbs and libations.”
Kari smiled in return as a vision of her cantankerous and
aging white-haired Uncle came to mind.
She would attend to him with the herbs she had acquired first thing.
“So,” continued Noel, halting Kari mid stride. “Was your mission a success? Did you find the old woman?”
Kari stopped and let her gaze wander over her brother and the
men behind him that were family to her.
“Aye!” she breathed anxious to share her excitement. “She was there Noel!” she cried clutching his
arm. “She knew who I was. She had
knowledge of what I sought! She grows
old, but she is well tended.”
“Tis good then,” replied Noel with a nod. “And, what of the other matter we seek?” he asked
in earnest. “Had she any news?”
“Yes,” gleamed Kari. “It
has been as we suspected. Our parents
were not killed. They are alive. She
has had many visions. We sat talking
into the wee hours. Her visions are
strong Noel, and we share the same sight.
She believes they have been held prisoner these many years. She fears for the place they are in. She feels a sense of urgency.”
“Where?” growled Noel,
his jaw tightening, his eyes becoming a hard green glint. “Does she know where?”
“Nay,” breathed Kari.
“But she has described the place, and ‘tis ugly.”
“We must find them,” resolved her brother. “Let us make haste,” he continued as he
turned to his horse and his men. “You
need to get home and rest. Then we will
talk.”
“We ride!” He called
out to his men, swinging up into his saddle, turning his great steed towards
the top of the hill.
Kari eagerly nodded and quickly mounted Dario. All securely mounted, they thundered down the
hill and across the valley towards home; beyond the mists of Forres.

Thursday, September 13, 2018

A Treasured Gift



By Kimberly Mack

I miss my grandparents. I think of them often. They were the most supportive and loving influence in my life.  Many years ago, long after their passing, while I was living in San Diego, I suddenly had the urge to find their old house. So, I pulled out my map and set out in my gray mustang.

I remember very clearly the first time I saw my grandparents. My mother had died after a long illness when I was seven. My father decided to send my older sister, Judy, and I to San Diego to live with them until he could get settled in Los Angeles.

It was early in December when we left Michigan. There was snow on the ground, and the sky was gray. I watched Judy push her loafers through the snow as we were getting into the car. She said it would probably be a long time before she saw snow again, so she’d better make it good. She was 11. It’s funny how some things remain crystal clear in your mind and others are so easily forgotten. I clung to my father’s hand on the way to the plane. My hand felt so small in his. Trying very hard not to cry, my sister and I got on the plane. We didn’t speak much. I held her hand and she gave me her dolls to play with. I chewed the purple ball of gum my father gave me. He told me if I chewed the gum my ears wouldn’t hurt. I don’t think I ever took that gum out of my mouth the whole way to California. I remember the pilot telling us if we looked out the left side of the plane, we might catch a glimpse of the Rockies. Sometime later his voice again floated over us to announce our air speed and arrival time in San Diego. Then we were on the ground and walking down the ramp of metal stairs into a hot blast of Southern California heat. I was wearing my red wool coat and couldn’t wait to take it off. It felt itchy and uncomfortable, where before it had been warm and snuggly. But I soon forgot about the heat, for my grandmother and grandfather were standing up ahead on the tarmac calling and waving to us. My grandmother, Meme, as we called her, was holding out her arms. I broke into a dead run and straight into her embrace. My grandmother had a wide smiling face, shining brown eyes and her short hair was streaked with gray. My grandfather was wearing a suit and a hat, and his blue eyes were twinkling at us. They took us home and I began to feel safe. We lived with them for two years.

I hadn’t seen the house in over thirty years, but I was excited and filled with a sense of purpose. I felt my grandmother’s presence as if she knew I was coming. I could easily picture her answering the door at my knock and I’d fly into her arms just as I did that day at the airport.

Traffic on the freeway was light and I found my grandparent’s street with little difficulty. I smiled as I drove past the park with the Eucalyptus trees, remembering my bike route planned by my grandfather. When I began to approach the house I could barely contain my excitement, and I held my breath. There it was; 2332 Myrtle Ave. As I slowed down, my eyes swept over the tangerine colored Bougainvillea covering the gate to the walkway. It looked just the same. The blue shutters on the front windows, the maroon garage door, everything looked the way I remembered. I felt as if I had been transported back in time. Any moment my grandmother would come walking out through the garage, her gray hair escaping from her hairpins, her stockings sagging around her ankles, calling me to come in for dinner. It was a weird feeling. I drove on to explore the rest of the neighborhood. Although excited, I also was aware of a feeling of sadness. They were both gone, as were most of the residents from those days. I could not stop time, nor could I bring them back.

Passing the house one last time I peered through my window. It was then I noticed a young girl sitting on the front lawn reading a magazine. She looked up. It was clear I had been studying the house and thought she might think my behavior odd, so I pulled over and got out of the car. She was friendly as I introduced myself and explained that I use to live with my grandparents in the house when I was a little girl. She looked to be in her late twenties. When she told me her landlady was home and invited me in, I couldn’t believe my luck. I jumped at her invitation. As we walked through the familiar gate to the front door, my mind became flooded with more memories.

The landlady was an elderly woman named Lila, of small build, with dark hair and of a European descent I couldn’t quite place. She had a pleasant face etched with wrinkles and warm brown eyes. She offered me tea. I was very touched by her kindness, but not wanting to put her to any trouble, declined. I explained the circumstances again of driving by the house. She told me to make myself at home and look around. I was elated and felt as if the house knew I was there.
Not too much had changed. I wandered through the main entryway and found myself in the kitchen. It had been slightly remodeled with new cabinets and counter tops. I glanced at the table past the long counter and remembered the mornings before school. One of the things my grandmother would fix with my breakfast was a cup of hot cocoa with three small marshmallows. She always served it in one of her yellow china cups. I took a special joy in the cocoa and always wished the marshmallows would last a little longer. The lunches she packed for me always included the bag of Fritos I loved. I shared some of my memories with Lila. I smiled as I told her my grandmother always enjoyed a pot of tea after dinner. I would sit with her while she would peer deep into her cup at the pattern the tea leaves had made to see our fortunes. She had wonderful stories, and I loved to listen to her talk of the days she and Pappy were younger, and the exciting places they had lived around the world when he was a Commander in the Navy.

We wandered back into the dining room. I was especially anxious to see my grandparent’s bath and bedroom. As I walked down the hall, I caught my breath. I could swear it had the same odor. I couldn’t believe it and felt myself trying to get a thorough whiff. It was a scent I always associated with my grandmother. A clean smell of lavender and cedar. Yes, it was all the same, and I felt the urge to gently reach out and touch the cabinets outside their bedroom.

When I arrived at the stairs that led down into the living room, I paused. This room brought back memories mostly of my grandfather. He would sit in one of his big reclining chairs for hours. I remember when I first came to them; it was weeks before I ventured into that part of the house. He was quiet, and I think I was a bit afraid of him. But, I finally struck up my courage and approached him. We called him Pappy. I discovered later he never liked that name, but somehow it had stuck. Pappy taught me many things. I learned how to count change (a most intimidating task). He taught me to boil water, and how to make my first fried egg. Later, I graduated to the preparation of pudding. We would play The Spider and the Fly, and giggle when he caught me. At Halloween Meme made me a princess costume, complete with magic wand, and Pappy took me ‘Trick or Treating.’ He made me my first skateboard, using wheels from a pair of my skates and a piece of wood. It was the best skateboard I ever had. He showed me where I could ride my bike in the neighborhood so I wouldn’t get lost. I played hopscotch on the sidewalk with little pieces of chain he bought me from the hardware store. We’d watch TV; shows like Rawhide with Clint Eastwood, and Perry Mason, starring Raymond Burr.

I turned and began to go up the stairs leading to my old bedroom and playroom. There were rolls of brown carpet on the dark tiled stairs and cans of unopened paint. It was then I learned Lila had rented out my old bedroom and playroom, so those doors were locked. I was disappointed. As we passed what use to be my old playroom, I suddenly remembered my first discovery of Pappy’s old Royal typewriter. I spent many happy times punching the old metal keys as I wrote funny little rhymes and poems for my grandmother. It was the memory of the old Royal typewriter that was the most significant for me. When I was 13 my grandparents bought me a green Smith Corona typewriter. I loved that typewriter and spent hours writing stories and lugging it everywhere I went. Whenever it needed to be repaired, Pappy would see that it got fixed, and we would take the bus into town to the repair shop. I used it so much I always needed to buy new ribbons. I still have my typewriter and will never part with it.  It is a treasured gift.  For years, Meme subscribed to numerous writing journals for me, predicting I was going to be a writer. She bought me my first Webster’s Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus. She was always there to encourage my writing. She read everything I wrote, and always gave me constructive criticism and advice.

The last place I had to see was my grandmother’s beloved garden. She would spend every evening watering and tending it. I had many fond memories spending the evenings nearby collecting snails or making mud pies. But, I was to be sorely disappointed. Once the garden had been thriving with colorful Birds of Paradise, roses and a variety of flowers. Now there was nothing but weeds and dead overgrown brush. It made me sad. I felt like crying. Like my grandmother, her garden was gone as well.

We walked back towards the house and I felt it was time for me to go. I thanked Lila. She had been so kind to let me into her home. She smiled and I impulsively hugged her. As she went back into the house, I walked up the pathway towards the gate. I turned for a final look and silently said goodbye. It was time I returned to the present.

I drove home marveling at the events of my trip. I realized that somehow I had been given an incredible gift. What a wonderful surprise it had been to be able to go inside my grandparent’s old home to look around, and to relive so many happy moments. I made a mental note to write Lila a thank you card as soon as I got home.

An hour later I pulled my Smith and Corona out of my closet. Setting it on my desk, I opened the case and lovingly gazed at the green and gray machine. I checked the ribbon and rolled in a sheet of paper. My fingers hit the keys.  I miss you Meme and Pappy.
©Copyright 2011 Kimberly Mack

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Writing With Passion – Falling In Love With Words

Write your first draft with your HEART. Don't think or analyze it - just write. The passion with which your idea comes from is your driving force.  It’s your ignition.  Turn it on, let it quicken your heart and give you goose bumps.   Do you over-think when you first fall in love or see your newborn for the first time? Discover a new piece of music or food you like?  Not at those first moment s of discovery.   You’re swept away by your passion and feelings.  There’s magic in your passion.  Let yourself get excited by your ideas and your words.  Let yourself fall in love.  It’s a journey.  Enjoy it. 


The second draft is the time to engage your mind.   This is your re-writing process.  You’ll see what works in your story and what doesn’t.   This can be difficult, because we all have egos.  If a particular paragraph or sentence is awkward and doesn’t fit, you may need to put your ego on the back burner and re-think it.  Does it serve your character(s) or story?  If not, take it out.  If you feel lost, go back to your beginning.  Think about what you’re trying to say, what your objective is.   Your passion is where it all begins.  It’s the birth.  If you need to, take a break and step away for a few hours or a few days.  You’ll be surprised by what you’ll see when you return.


 When you think you’ve got it just right – you’re ready to edit.  Although this is the final stage it’s one of the most overlooked.  A writer, as in any other occupation, needs to know the tools of their trade – proper spelling, punctuation and grammar.   Your work represents your integrity and professionalism.  If you’re unsure, look it up.  I do.  Or, if you feel the need, take a class at night school or your community college.  It is well worth your time and an investment in your future.   You don’t want to grab your reader with your passion and enthusiasm, and then lose them because of poor spelling or punctuation.    Learning the mechanics is easy, but you can’t teach the passion.  That’s your gift!  So, begin your piece with passion and polish it off with proper spelling and punctuation.   


Good luck, enjoy falling in love.  Let me know how it goes!

Sunday, August 5, 2018

The Slow Burn


Photography by Kimberly Mack


The rain had barely cooled off the city. The suffocating heat was a killer. I was driving back from visiting an old pal of mine in Echo Park. I left an hour later, twenty bucks lighter and wishing I’d never gone. I decided to step into my favorite watering hole to shake the heat and my mood. Fifteen minutes later I stepped through the door of The Formosa. The place was quiet. It was early.  I waved to Joe. He was wiping down the bar. I took a seat.

He nodded. “Hey Mick. How are things?”

“Not bad,” I said reaching for my cigarettes.

“What’ll ya have?”

“Give me a bourbon, would ya Joe? Heavy on the ice.”

He nodded, threw the bar towel over his shoulder and moved away. I lit a cigarette and turned to check out the scenery.

The Formosa was a favorite of mine. Even if you weren’t thirsty, it was a great place to people watch. Nobody really bothered you. If they did, Joe would throw 'em out. Or, if you were broke somebody would always loan you a couple of bucks. If you got really lucky, somebody would pay you back. I was hoping I’d get lucky.

So, there I was, minding my own business, working on my second bourbon when I saw her. She was sitting in the back booth facing the door. I could tell just by looking at her she didn't belong.  A voice in my head said, “Careful Mick.” I didn’t listen and moved further down the bar. She lifted her eyes and looked directly at me. Her eyes were the deepest blue I’d ever seen. Like the color of the sea on a hot summer day. I stopped breathing. She looked away. Somebody fed the jukebox and the music of Miles Davis floated out. I heard the front door slam and laughter. It echoed down the bar and off the walls. I watched her nurse her drink. She had small, well manicured hands with red nail polish. There was no ring. She looked at me again. I nodded. She gave me a little smile. That was my cue. I took it and moved towards her table.

“Mind if I sit down?” I asked. She shook her head, her dark hair floating around her shoulders. I sat.

“Would you like another drink?” I asked. She shook her head. Her hair danced again with the movement.

We looked at one another across the table. A few seconds passed. Her eyes had flecks of green. She wore no makeup, other than red lipstick. Her skin glowed like freshly polished porcelain.

“You have a name?” I asked, trying to get the ball rolling. She nodded.

“Leonore,” she whispered.

I leaned towards her to hear.

“Mick,” I replied, offering my hand. She hesitated, then quickly placed her hand in mine. She was trembling. I watched her.

“You okay?” I asked.

She looked away and rummaged in her purse. She pulled out a handkerchief.

“Please,” she said raising her eyes back to mine. I saw the threat of tears. “Would you get me out of here? she whispered. "I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a mess."

I nodded. I was in big trouble. I was about to go down for the count. We left The Formosa and walked out into the muggy night air. The heat was suffocating. I couldn't have cared less.

Monday, July 9, 2018

The Perfect Daughter

Courtney stood in the doorway.  Her heart pounded with the frenetic energy of a trapped Hummingbird fighting for life.  She tried to concentrate on her breathing.

“Mama?” she whispered in the darkness. “Mama? Are you awake?”

She peered into her mother’s bedroom hoping today would be a good day. As she stepped into the disheveled room, with the smell of illness permeating the air, she approached her mother’s bed. She held her breath. She could see her mother’s pale face upon the pillow and her chest rising and falling. She leaned down and gently laid her hand lightly on her mother’s frail, thin shoulder.

“Mama?” she repeated softly.

Her mother slowly opened her eyes and focused on Courtney.

“And cut!” cried the director. “Damnit Courtney!  What is with you today?  You moved off your mark again! Now let’s try it one more time and please do it like we rehearsed okay?"

Courtney cringed and felt her anger rise. She knew she hadn't blown it. But, she didn't argue and moved quickly back to her starting mark for another take. This job was a nightmare. Had she not been so desperate for the work, she would have quit. The director, Al, was sadistic in demanding needless takes and lighting changes. He was deliberately malicious to crew and talent alike. He had created an atmosphere of almost unbearable tension on the set. Word had it he was a frustrated actor himself and on a steady diet of coke, and God knew what else. At first, she thought he had bad allergies or a cold. But on her second day of shooting she’d found out from a second-line-prop man it was drugs.

“Just try and stay under the radar kid, and you’ll do fine,” said one of the production assistants.
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” she murmured. She was in three more scenes today.
But, she made it through her second day, and then, her third and fourth. Today should be her last day and she’d make enough to pay her rent and buy some food. The utilities would have to wait a little longer. God, how she hated living like this. She was in a constant state of anxiety and there were times she had to concentrate just on breathing. To make matters worse, she wasn’t feeling well, probably due to lack of enough sleep. She moved to her first mark and concentrated on the scene. Prop men and gofers swirled around her. A makeup lady touched up Courtney’s face.

“You’re doing fine, honey,” she whispered to Courtney. “Just hang in there one more hour and we’ll break for lunch.” Courtney nodded. At least she’d get fed today, that was some comfort. She had no food at home other than a can of tuna, a couple pieces of bread and two tomatoes.

“Okay people!” hollared Al. “Let’s get moving! Time is money!” Courtney wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and concentrated on her character. Al’s grating voice echoed through the soundstage. “Lights! Speed! And…ACTION!” Courtney moved forward into the room.

“Mama?” she whispered in the darkness. “Mama? Are you awake?”

And, as Courtney whispered her lines she was suddenly transported back to her own childhood in Illinois. She was seven years old and walking into her mother’s dark, depressing, cave-like bedroom. Her mother had been drinking again. Courtney could smell the liquor.  The depressing aroma was forever hanging in the air. How she dreaded those mornings. She never knew what to expect.  Her memories of always trying to be the perfect daughter came flooding back.

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Living in Hollywood Heights and the Mystique of the High Tower


Photography by Kimberly Mack
by Kimberly Mack
Living in Hollywood Heights in the early 1960’s as a child with my father was exciting. He had a two bedroom apartment at the top of Rockledge Road, off of Camrose, nestled in the hills behind the Hollywood Bowl. He would often entertain. His guests consisted of creative and colorful personalities, ranging from advertising executives, to directors and actors. Many nights I would lay in bed listening to their laughter and the clink of glassware, too excited to sleep. His apartment offered a panoramic, breathtaking view of Hollywood. At night, the twinkling lights of the city below would stretch out like a carpet of sparkling, colorful jewels. His rent was $150 a month. What were once apartments surrounded by obscure stairways and bougainvillea, are now multi-million dollar homes.

I went to visit recently with my camera in-hand. It was early. The heat the forecast had promised for that weekend had yet to arrive. It was the perfect time of day for my hike, and visit, to my childhood stomping grounds.

Hollywood Heights was my own personal playground growing up. It is a treasure of hidden stairways and paths. I was free to roam wherever my adventuresome spirit and inquisitive nature would take me. And, it was on one of my explorations that I discovered the High Tower and the elevator.

The High Tower was built in 1920, and is clearly visible from Camrose. Its image was designed by Architect Carl Kay (1892-1973). It is well named, and looks like something out of a gothic movie. The tower houses a creaky elevator with an iron gate that takes its passengers to the high-rise apartments above. Today, the elevator is accessible only to residents who have a key. But, in 1963, I use to play in it. My sister and I would venture into the dark mysterious cavern, holding our breath. We’d close the heavy iron door and press the button, waiting in the eerie quiet. Then, groaning and shaking like a tired prehistoric beast, the elevator would slowly climb up to Broadview Terrace, and let us out at the juncture where Broadview and Los Altos Place meet.

Today, it is as though time has not made any mark here. The views are still breathtaking. The four homes that surround the High Tower, designed and built by Kay between 1935 and 1956, remain. The only evidence of recent activity is at 2186 Broadview Terrace. In February of this year there was a brief electrical fire. It is the same house Elliott Gould’s character, Philip Marlow, lived in when he starred in the 1973 movie “The Long Goodbye.” The inside suffered the bulk of the damage. The slight smell of smoke still lingers in the air. The house only waits to be restored.

As the years have passed, the notoriety of the High Tower and the Hollywood Heights area has grown. Not only is it a popular filming area, but is mentioned in the book “Walking LA,” by Erin Mahoney. The well known mystery writer, Michael Connelly, also mentions the High Tower and the surrounding neighborhood in his 1993 book “Echo Park.”

I begin the last leg of my journey as I search for Alta Loma Place. It is tucked around a corner, appearing at first glance to be a dead end, deceiving its visitor. I persevere and follow the walkway. It makes a hard left, and I begin my descent down the steep incline to the Hollywood Bowl. It is quiet, with an occasional resident carrying their groceries. The heat that was predicted is beginning to kick in. A lone lizard scampers across the path into the colorful gardens. I smile at his presence. His oasis is a rich treasure for him to explore.

As I make my way up Camrose to my car, I pause and glance up. I can see my father's old apartment high up on the hill. The sound of laughter and music floats out over the street. Someone is having a party.

Reprinted from the Tolucan Times

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Under the Boardwalk

Hungry for the beach?  Check out my Under the Boardwalk shot I took at Santa Monica. 

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/under-the-boardwalk-kimberly-mack.html

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Monday, April 9, 2018

We Rock the Spectrum Kid’s Gym - A Special Place for All Kids

By Kimberly Mack

Dina Kimmel, a successful entrepreneur, is giving to the community, and word is spreading. She is giving strength, love, patience, and acceptance. Kimmel, president and owner of We Rock the Spectrum Kid’s Gym in Tarzana, has designed and built her kid’s gym with a specific clientele in mind. Thirty percent of the children that come through the door are children who have been diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder, or ASD. It all started with a little boy named Gabriel.

It was in 2009 that Kimmel learned that her youngest child, Gabriel, was Autistic. He was two years old. Kimmel and her devoted husband Tim, feeling overwhelmed at this news, set out to learn all they could about Autism.

The Kimmels discovered that no two children’s symptoms are alike. There is a wide spectrum of symptoms. There are approximately 46,000 children born every year in the U.S. that will be afflicted. But, when detected early enough and treated, many children go on to lead more fulfilling and independent lives. There is hope.

Motivated by her love and drive to help her son, Kimmel then took over the space of her son’s previous gym, and designed the only Open Play occupational sensory gym in Los Angeles. All of the equipment and games are colorful and beckoning. Great care was taken to avoid any possible sensory overload. Everything was designed to enhance and improve sensory skills, strengthen coordination, and teach crucial communication skills and social interaction. There is an arts and crafts room, and an abundance of sensory-fun toys. Everything is designed to provide a fun and safe learning experience. It is a happy place and a gym children love. Kimmel’s seven-year-old daughter, Sophia, is a regular visitor, and Kimmel is thrilled she has been able to discover games and activities that her two children can do together.

This sense of togetherness seems to be at the root of the gym’s mission.

“My gym is a place where all kids – despite their differences — can have an equally fun time,” Kimmel says. “The gym has the best top notch occupational equipment in it that is essential for kids on the spectrum and just good old fashion fun for typical kids.”

This month marks the gym’s one year anniversary. “I love it,” Kimmel beams, looking around. “So many people need to be given a safe place where they feel comfortable. It’s my home, and we’re all family.”

Kimmel has also built a dedicated team of licensed therapists, each highly accomplished in their own field of expertise. Her support staff consists of licensed occupational and behavioral therapists, social workers, and language and fitness specialists. They are all compassionate professionals. They work tirelessly with parents to reach their child’s goals in both group and private sessions.

Regularly scheduled Youth Fitness classes held by Coach Kee, a certified children’s fitness specialist, are popular and contagious. Her classes are designed to build self confidence and improve self esteem, as well as help the children to develop agility, balance, cardio, courage, and leadership. Her women’s fitness classes are equally popular.

“I have an amazing staff,” Kimmel states. “I’m very blessed. I’ve gotten such a welcome in the area, and I’m very proud of what this has done for the community.”

And We Rock the Spectrum is a bona fide deal. “To use a gym with the equipment I have in it usually costs $150 an hour, and we simply charge $10,” Kimmel says.

In addition to their regularly scheduled classes, they also have special events, private play dates, and birthday parties. They offer their own online store of toys and gluten-free snacks.

“With Autism on the rise and not everyone able to afford to pay the expensive prices for private therapy, We Rock makes it easy for just $10. It’s a place where special needs kids and their family and friends can play too!”

Reprinted from the Tolucan Times
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Saturday, March 31, 2018

Bill Dauber Tells Journalism Students “Bring It to the Table”

By Kimberly Mack

Bill Dauber, professor of journalism at Los Angeles Valley College, and advisor of the Valley Star, tackles the question: “What is the future of journalism?" as guest speaker of LAVC’s Journalism 108 class Tuesday night.

Journalism is changing the way we get our news,” confirms Dauber. “New media is moving in new areas, becoming more democratized. Digital media has been eating away at advertising profits and cutting into the number of print jobs. Those jobs are disappearing.” Ten years ago, the Los Angeles Times had a news staff of 1,300. Today, that number is closer to 720, making it one of the hardest hit newspapers of our time.1 In 2010, the LA Times daily circulation of 600,449 was down from the previous year’s figure of 657,467.2 Revenue and circulation continue to make a downward descent, as papers struggle to give birth to new sales strategies, such as inserting links into their on-line editions to increase readership.

Dauber shares an interesting fact. Although, advertising revenue and circulation for newspapers across the country have been negatively impacted with the evolution of digital media, such is not the case for college newspapers. The opposite is true. “Because,” says Dauber “advertisers are trying to specifically reach the students.”

Dauber further shares that one of the things he does like about digital media is that it offers much more access to newspapers. He is an avid and consistent reader of The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and The Atlantic Monthly.

Having been a reporter for the LA Times, and The Orange County Register, Dauber’s advice to journalism students is “Be familiar with social media. You need to know it, and read about it. Write a blog. Find out what you are interested in. Develop an expertise, and ask what can you offer that is different.” Dauber elaborates, citing Andrew Sullivan’s blog, The Daily Dish, as an example. Sullivan, a political commentator for The Atlantic Monthly, provides people with an analysis, posting what he thinks about each news item. Sullivan found a way he could contribute. “You need to bring something to the table with whatever you are doing,” Dauber tells the class.

His final piece of advice was take advantage of the many journalism and mass media courses at LAVC and other colleges.

Yes, the future of journalism is changing. But, wherever digital media takes us going forward, Dauber’s message is clear. “Bring it to the table.”

Professor Dauber has been teaching at Los Angeles Valley College for nine years. He graduated from the University of California at Irvine with a degree in history. He’s been a reporter for the LA Times, the Orange County Register and is author of “The Real Las Vegas: Life Beyond the Strip.”


1. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/business/media/03paper.html


2. Retrieved from http://www.medialifemagazine.com/artman2/publish/Newspapers_24/Newspaper-circ-declines-lessen-again.asp  

The Wailing Woman

By Kimberly Mack Residents in the small, upscale community of La Jolla said sometimes you could see her walking on the beach just befo...