portraits I've created using Digital Art.

My Father, Phil Spector

Maestro Leonard Bernstein

My rendition of the Let It Be album, with the kids of the Beatles

 

Some of my Digital Artwork that I created.

 

 

It Feels Like Love-Word by Louis Spector-Music and Voice Ai generated.

A song I wrote back in High School. 

Am I Truly Free-Words by Louis Spector-Voice and music AI generated.

 

THE BOOK'S PROGREES AND A BRIEF STORY BEHIND IT

 

It’s been a long journey, but it’s almost at its end. I’m not referring to my life—hopefully, I have many more years ahead—but rather to my memoir, a project I started over 17 years ago. While I’ve scrapped earlier versions and started from scratch more than once, this version feels final. The only step left is to have an editor review it, ensuring it’s ready for publication.

Writing this book has been a journey of personal growth, not just in terms of age and wisdom, but also in my writing skills and my acceptance of the life I was given. The biggest challenge was stepping aside and becoming the writer, not the child or young man reliving the pain. By doing that, I became the observer, able to decide what served the story and what didn’t. It’s tempting to say everything, but I made a rule: don’t be the boy who cries wolf.  What I’m saying is, once you get your message across, move on.  Otherwise, you’ve saturated your book with repetitive situations that eventually become diluted to the reader.

When I first started, the tools available to writers were far more limited than they are today. There was no Grammarly, no ChatGPT, no AI assistance. I worked with WordPerfect, Spell Check, and a Thesaurus—tools I thought were more than enough at the time. I believed the first draft needed to be untouched by anything external, written purely from the heart, the pain, the anger, the love, and the sadness. It didn’t matter if it was messy, filled with run-on sentences and misspellings, because the goal was to get the story down on paper.

That draft was something only I could fully understand because I knew the meaning behind every sentence and chapter. If the memoir was meant for my eyes alone, it would have stayed that way, but it wasn’t. So, I began revising. Draft two became draft three, and so on. Eventually, Grammarly came into the picture, and I started over. Then, ChatGPT arrived, and once again, I began anew. Yet, through all those revisions, everything still started with that raw first draft—the one I wrote on my own.

What I’ve learned through this process is simple: if you feel like writing your story, just write it. Don’t worry about how polished it is at first. Get the emotions, the thoughts, the ideas on paper. There will always be time to clean it up later, but the heart of your story needs to come first.

As I reflect on this long process, the title The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive feels fitting. Like the house in a fairy tale, my life seemed inviting on the surface, but it was filled with challenges and deeper layers that took years to truly understand. Early next year, readers will have the chance to see this journey—one of overcoming obstacles, finding validation, and discovering myself. It’s a story about having everything and nothing at the same time. About not judging a book by its cover, or a house by its exterior, because you may never see the gem inside—or the cage behind the door.

The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive

 

THE

GINGERBREAD HOUSE

ON

LA COLLINA DRIVE

 

 

My Life

Caged Behind

Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound

 

 

 

 

Louis Spector

Chapter 1

 The Christmas Kids

 

 

In mid-December 1971, Mrs. Erickson, a social worker in her late forties, drove up the winding road of LaCollina Drive in Beverly Hills, focusing on one thing: securing a home for my brother and me. We were five-year-old foster twins with learning and behavioral challenges. Even though we'd been bounced from place to place for the past year or so, Mrs. Erickson believed this time would be different. She thought she had finally hit the jackpot.  

I sat alone in the far back of the station wagon, next to a plastic milk crate with my name taped to the side—"Louis."  Another crate sat beside it with “Gary” scrawled on it in the same blocky letters. The crates held everything we owned, but I wasn’t thinking about what was inside. My eyes were drawn to the world outside, to the large houses that outlined LaCollina Drive.   Gary sat up front, next to Mrs. Erickson, staring out the window just like me, but with many questions and a voice full of curiosity.  He was the brave one, always ready to face whatever came next.

Mrs. Erickson had made sure we looked our best—freshly trimmed hair, clothes neatly pressed, everything just so. Before we arrived, she gave us last-minute reminders. “ Remember, be on your best behavior,” she said, her voice carrying a hope I didn’t quite share. I had heard those words before, in front of other houses, with other families.  Still, there was something different about the way she spoke this time like she really believed in what was about to happen; after all, who would reject two kids so close to Christmas?   

As we turned into the driveway, past the wrought-iron gate left wide open, we spotted many signs warning us: “No Trespassing,” “Electric Fence,” and “Beware of Killer Dogs.”  I could hear the barking before we even passed the iron gate. Once we drove in, two massive German Shepherds lunged at their chains, their snarls cutting through the cold air. For a moment, I held my breath, watching them thrash against their cages, but Mrs. Erickson just smiled and said, “Don’t worry, they can’t get us.”  I tried to believe her, though the house looming ahead didn’t feel like the kind of place where you didn’t worry.   

The mansion looked like an abandoned mausoleum, long forgotten as it looked tired and worn by years of neglect. Ivy snaked its way up the thick Spanish styal stucco walls, wrapping itself through the broken shutters and onto the balcony.  A fountain sat in the center of the driveway, but it was dry, weeds sprouting from its two tiers. Mrs. Erikson got out of the car, telling us to stay put while she rang the doorbell under a sign that read “Never Mind the Dogs, Beware of Owner.”  I was happy to stay where I was—away from the barking dogs, away from the strange house.

But Gary couldn’t sit still.  Moments after Mrs. Erickson stepped away, he darted towards the fountain. I watched him climb in, kicking at the dead leaves that had gathered in the basin.  Not wanting to be left alone, I eventually joined him in kicking the dead leaves around.

Though expected, no one seemed to be around to let us in. Hoping a last-minute decision hadn’t been made,  Mrs. Erickson continued ringing the doorbell.   Then, through the wrought-iron gate, a brown Rolls-Royce drove in, parking next to the fountain.  A tall, burly man with a no-nonsense demeanor stepped out, barely glancing our way as he approached the front gated door where Mrs. Ericson was standing.  Moments later, the back door of the Rolls opened, and a petite woman with dark, thick hair emerged, her eyes immediately locking onto us. 

“Who are those boys, and why are they in the fountain?” she asked, bewildered. 

“They’re the twins,” Mrs. Erickson explained, trying to hide her anxiety. 

A second man stepped out from the Rolls—a short man wearing elevated boots, giving him a few extra inches and a wig that looked more like a helmet than an actual wig. His face was pale, and his eyes were concealed behind tinted glasses. The moment he saw the bewilderment on his wife’s face, he shouted, “Marry Christmas!”  while extending his arms in an exaggerated welcome gesture.  It seems we were that year's Christmas gift.

Gary and I scrambled out of the fountain as the man approached. He licked his thumb to wipe away the dirt from my face. He then brushed his fingers through my hair, removing dead leaves. He did the same for Gary, then turned to his wife and said proudly, “Are they not perfect?” She just stood there, not sure what to say.

The burly man, who Mr. Spector called George, unlocked the front gated door, and we entered the foyer, dominated by an enormous Christmas tree forced to bow under the weight of the high ceiling.   The area we were in had a few holiday decorations scattered about, but mostly, it was a shrine dedicated to the couple we had just met: Mr. and Mrs. Spector. 

Two large black-and-white portraits of the Spector hung on the wall like they were the king and queen of the castle; the portraits were separated by an ornate vanity mirror that hung between them. Below them was a marble table cluttered with photos, framed letters, newspaper articles, and a peculiar small bronze statue of a monkey sitting atop a stack of books.  It was scratching his head while examining a human skull. Next to it was a photo of Mr. Spector sniffing something from a spoon, with the caption: “A little snow at Christmas time never hurt anyone.”

The photo was from Easy Rider, a movie in which Mr. Spector played a drug lord. It starred Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, and it was rumored that they only wanted to use Mr. Spector’s brown Rolls-Royce, similar to what happened to Norman Desmond in the movie Sunset Boulevard. However, Mr. Spector wouldn’t allow them to use it unless they gave him a part in the film. The scene he was in had him in that car, sniffing cocaine and selling drugs to the two actors. 

With no place to sit, as the only two chairs in the foyer displayed record albums, everyone just stood around, talking.    Among the albums were “Let It Be, by the Beatles, “Imagine” by John Lennon, and a few Christmas albums, all produced by Mr. Spector.

  Usually, neither my brother nor I would have hung around, but because we had no idea where the backyard was or if there was one, we had no other choice but to stay close by with the adults. 

Then, a woman in a white uniform appeared down the hallway, leading a toddler by the hand. She was the nanny and had released the toddler near us to observe our interaction while introducing us to him. “These two boys are going to be your brother.”

We were told the child's name was Donte, who resembled Mrs. Spector. However, as Gary crouched down to introduce himself, Donte bit him on the leg. In response, Gary shoved him, causing Donte to collapse in tears.

Mrs. Erickson rushed to Gary, quickly examining his leg and then proclaiming it was a minor flesh wound.  The lady in white then snatched up Donte as Mr. Spector waved it off by ordering George to take everyone to the kitchen for ice cream. In the meantime, he took Mrs. Erickson down the hall to another room.

George led us down a long, arched hallway, but as everyone continued on, I stopped at a large tapestry—taken in by its many characters: Goofy, Donald Duck, the Seven Dwarfs, and many more, all gathered around a television. Their focus was not so much on the television as on what was emerging from it, with a little help from Tinker Bell’s magical wand.  It was Micky Mouse, who appeared excited to be among the others.  For a moment, I imagined myself in the same situation, magically showing up in a family's home and being welcomed with open arms, but the fantasy faded when I realized I was all alone in the hallway with two large ominous black statues towering over me atop pillars, with empty eyes and scantly dressed in gold. 

Feeling uneasy and unsure where George and the others went or where the kitchen was, I headed to the pair of slightly ajar doors that I saw Mrs. Erickson and Mr. Specter go through. 

The room was dimly lit, as no sunlight could get through the closed drapes that counseled the glass doors leading out to a terrace.  The two were talking at the far end of the room, in front of a large stone fireplace that had absorbed the room’s chill.

I stood atop the staircase in the shadows, gazing around the enormous room in wonder.  The ceiling, high above me, had thick wood beams the lengths of the room, with murals painted in sections between them.  The red velvet upholstery on the furniture was old and worn, as was the light gray carpeted floor. Below the steps, on my left, was a black grand piano with music sheets scattered atop, but what caught my eye was the dome-shaped aquarium positioned on a pillar at the bottom of the steps. 

As I stood, waiting for an opportunity to speak, I watched the various fish swimming about the aquarium, accompanied by a deep-sea diver, a sunken ship, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  There was also a pirate who had been long dead, with a sword piercing through where his heart once was.  Despite his fate, he was still drinking from a jug of whiskey, of course, with the aid of air bubbles.

Though I was not focused on the conversation between the two on the other end,  I couldn’t help but overhear Mrs. Erickson when she stated, “If there’s a problem, I’ll take them away.”  Though she said it once, it echoed in my head as it became clear that I could be gone before the end of the week or even the day, which wouldn’t be the first time. 

I quietly stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind me, only to be met by George, who towered over me.  Though I assumed he would tattle on me and march me back into the room, much to my surprise, he asked, in a deep voice, “Would you like some ice cream?”

In the kitchen, Gary and Donte had already finished their bowls of ice cream. As I took a seat across from Gary, a hefty man got up from where he was sitting and started preparing my treat: a banana split topped with sugar pearls, candy confetti, and cherries. After he placed it in front of me, he retreated to his chair.  With a smile, I ate the most scrumptious dessert I had ever had.  

After Mrs. Erickson left, Mr. Spector and his wife showed us to our room at the top of the stairs. Considering we were meant to be a surprise, the room was not set up for us, let alone a child.  The writing desk had all the amenities one should have, but not nessasarly what should be accessible to a child, such as scissors, sharp letter openers, heavy marble paperweights, and a glass ashtray. Many magazines were also placed atop a coffee table, not appropriate for the children.   

The room also had its own bathroom and closet, but the closet remained locked.  Once we were alone in our room, and after putting our things away, we tried to leave to go outside and play,  only to discover the door locked.  Confused, we attempted to open it again, but with no luck, so we started going through all the furniture in the room as if we were on a treasure hunt, though we were not looking for anything, just feeding our curiosity.   

Later in the evening, our door was once again opened.  The nanny entered and invited us downstairs for dinner, along with Donte.  Neither of the parents joined us.  When we were done, we were escorted back upstairs, but instead of going to our room, the nanny, whose I was told to call Mrs. Taylor, took us to Donte’s room.

His room was designed for a child, with its many adorned stuffed animals, a hanging mobile of birds in flight, and Disney characters mounted on the baby blue walls.  A lavish and sophisticated musical carousel that serenaded the room with Brahms’s Lullaby was positioned atop his fancy dresser.  Next to the elegant piece, a pair of bronzed baby shoes proudly showcase Donte’s birth announcement, which reads: “PRESENTING THE SMASH HIT PRODUCTION OF DONTE PHILLIP SPECTOR.” 

It wasn’t known at the time, but Donte had also been adopted. However, the birth announcement was sure to keep that information a secret. I even read somewhere, years later, that Mrs. Spector had often worn a pillow under her blouse whenever guests came by to visit. It was at Mr. Spector’s request, as he wanted everyone to believe she was pregnant. Once Donte arrived at the house, those birth announcements were passed around to friends, completing the deception.    

After Mrs. Taylor put Donte to bed,  she took us to our room, prepared us for bed, and locked the door before leaving. 

Over the next few days, we received new clothes, and everything on and inside the desk cleared out, including all the magazines. However, the closet remained locked.  Most of our time was spent at the house, in either Donte’s room or ours, with Mrs. Taylor reading stories to us or supervising us.  In that time, we became used to being locked up. 

Then, on Christmas Eve, dressed in our new clothes, we were told Santa Clause was downstairs, but first, Mr. Spector wanted to make sure we were appropriately dressed, and so once again, he licked his thumb to wipe away any dirt from my face then brushed his fingers through my long hair styling it as he pleased.  When he felt we were ready, he handed Gary and me a clip-on tie to fasten to our shirts while helping Donte with his regular tie.  Then said, “Are the three of you ready to meet my friend Santa?”

As we left our room to go downstairs, the house was suddenly filled with music echoing through the vents, vibrating the windows and doors. The songs were familiar seasonal songs but with an orchestrated symphony of sound. The one that intrigued me the most was Marshmallow World. I couldn’t imagine what a world like that would be, but I was excited to find out. 

Since I had never been downstairs after dark, I had never seen it illuminated by the Christmas tree or the many characters outlining the hallway greeting us. For a moment, I believed in magic and that perhaps Tinker Bell was real. Sitting next to the tapestry of the magical moment was Mrs. Spector, waiting for us while drinking a glass of red wine.  

Under the tree, we found presents with tags displaying our names. As we knelt to open them, a door behind us swung open,  and in walked Santa Claus, with a thunderous sound of music flowing from the room he came from.  Recognizing the eyes behind the fake white beard, I realized Santa was George, dressed in a red suit, shouting, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” with a bag full of more presents hanging over his shoulder.     

Though the gifts were wonderful, what moved me most were the tags that read: From Mom and Dad, as I was officially acknowledged as a part of the family, a permanent fixture in the Spector’s home.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I stared at one of the gift tags on my nightstand. It was small, flimsy really, but in my hands, it felt heavy with meaning. "From Mom and Dad," it read. For a long time, I turned the tag over and over, tracing the words with my fingers. Could that really be true? Was I theirs now?

Gary was sound asleep beside me, but I couldn’t close my eyes. Instead, I got up quietly and went over to the large French window. I opened it just a crack, feeling the cool air against my face. The world outside seemed so far away, the lights of the other houses blinking in the distance like stars. They were families—real families. Was I finally part of one too?

I wanted to believe it, with every part of me. The presents, the tree, the music—it was more than I’d ever imagined. But somewhere, deep down, something felt off. A part of me couldn’t shake the unease of the locked doors or the way Mrs. Spector had looked at us when we first arrived, like we were part of something she hadn’t planned for. I wanted so badly to belong, to be part of their world.

In my dream that night, I was walking down a road toward a house in the distance. A woman stood at the front door, waving. I thought I knew her—maybe she was my mother. I started to run, but the house never seemed to get closer, and no matter how fast I went, I couldn’t reach her. Then, I was in the back of the station wagon again being driven by Mrs. Erickson, the house and the waving woman fading from view. I pounded on the back window, shouting for Mrs. Erickson to stop the car, until the glass shattered, and I was falling into darkness.

I woke up with my heart racing. The room was silent, the only light coming from the moon through the window. I stood up again, staring out at the distant houses, and something clicked inside me. In the dream, the woman hadn’t been waving me toward her. She had been waving goodbye.

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but for now, I had a home. I had a mother and father. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it might be true.

Side Note: This is not the finished version, some changes will take place. 

 

BETWEEN THE HOURS OF FOUR AND FIVE

  

    Between four and five, the store of wonder is always open, and all are invited to enter. Though the hour of operation is relatively short, to some, it feels like a lifetime, while to others, not nearly long enough. 

Within the store, there is much to see and do, but because it is only open for a short time, it is impossible for anyone to see and do it all.  Unfortunately, there is a catch, you could only visit the store once in your lifetime, but what you do once inside is up to you.

Some spend unlimited money, others less, while others have no money to spend and instead browse around. There is one other catch; nothing leaves the store besides what you brought in.   The money you spend is merely for the enjoyment, opportunities, and pleasures others can only witness.

Though the store is only open for an hour, not all can stay the length of time but only a brief moment. Then there are those who are denied entrance altogether, not by the owner but rather by those who feel they don’t deserve entry for whatever reason. Perhaps it is felt that their entrance could take away from someone’s enjoyment, opportunities, and/or pleasure, so they are denied even to step foot into the store.

As for me, I am from a harsh yet wealthy family and was not allowed to touch or participate in anything, yet still, I was amazed and blessed with all that I saw.  Some of it was good, some not so much, but still, I wouldn’t change a thing.  

Shortly after I arrived at the store, I was separated from my family, and it was only then that I truly enjoyed my time there.

I am now halfway through the hour, and soon the store will close. There is still much to see, explore, and learn, and I’m excited to continue onward. It is now twilight, and some of my time is being spent looking over the things I have already seen and hoping there might be another store to visit once this one is closed.

The title is derived from the number of letters it takes to spell out LIFE (4) and DEATH (5)