Storytelling—words and images—constitutes action.
That’s what happens here.
After I moved back to Southern California from New York City, I took a quiz that said that my ideal car was a station wagon. Ridiculous, I thought—I was driving a racy red BMW sedan
We have a guest blogger here at Practical Voodou. Archie Waters is finally ready to share his story of the stressful summer of 2021.
Waiting for the "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland a young man approached us. "You're Nancy Egan, aren't you?" I had no idea who he was.
At the gala celebrating the 50th Anniversary of the founding of the Society for Marketing Professional Services, our group of longtime members sat laughing and talking like children at the kids table on Thanksgiving.
I have been spending a lot of time with the Guadalupe over the last few months.
Last May when we returned to Santa Monica for a visit, we were greeted by the same weather that had welcomed me when I moved to Ocean Park 20 years ago.
Della became a widow on her 35th wedding anniversary. At 58 she was not sure what she would do.
My Grandmother would entertain us with her stories. Some evenings, at our urging, she would recite
The Spell of the Yukon by Robert Service, the sad improbable tales of Sam McGee and Dan McGrew.
There were lessons in the lyrics.
The Golden Rollin' Belly, a pub with British pretensions and waitresses in wench costumes, had opened that summer just in time for the race season at the Del Mar track.
Last December was the first month in over 30 years I did not send an invoice to a client.
As I puzzled over the wide selection at Murray’s Cheese, the cheesemonger asked what I was reading. I said Hemingway's The Dangerous Summer. "Ah, a mahon," he recommended
We were 1950's free range kids. Woolman Street was our playground—we ran down the sidewalk and clambered up the steps to our small yards and porches to play.
Just outside my window the garden brings hope and solace. It has lessons if we pay attention.
I am the last person in my family to have known my grandfather Tom Liss. He died when I was 7, five years before my sister Dianne was born.
It was the first Saturday of spring, March 23, and the conditions couldn't have been better — 70-degree temps and an offshore wind.
After a brief honeymoon in Salt Lake City, the couple arrived in Shelby, Montana, crossing the threshold of their new home on Valentine's Day.
It's not quite dawn and I am standing at the top of a dune at White Sand National Park. Cold, anxious and mesmerized by the breaking light, I can't believe I am here.
Coq au Vin is the signature dish in my culinary repertoire. I use Craig Claiborne's recipe from the tattered New Times Cookbook that was given to me by my sister for my first Christmas as a newlywed in 1975.
He said his name was Leslie as he smiled and gestured to his collection of cowboy hats. "Visiting from out of town?" "New York City," we replied, which was no doubt our first mistake.
It was my first time in the city, and I was, as New Mexicans like to say, enchanted.
The three of us, my sister Dianne, nephew Eamon and I, were standing on Jackson Street in front of what had once been my Grandmother Egan's house.
I don’t need a valentine to remind me that I am loved.