“It’s not lying. It’s theatre.” |
| Linda: OK… let’s move this conversation from nostalgic reminiscences about our lives in Greenwich Village, Playboy, and the 1960s to these current lives of ours…because time is fleeting. It’s 1995. And, to put this into awesome perspective: on April 18th, you reached your 51st birthday. Sparkle: And I never thought I’d live this long. Linda: You know, in all these years of hanging out on the planet, messing up, learning and unlearning stuff, I’m finally starting to figure out that it’s time to clarify some goals, some visions, time to project them onto the future. Visualize them. Visualize something that...something that will walk me—walk us--into a powerful future. Try to film something in your mind…like a movie on a big and flickering screen… |  Sparkle and Jill |
Sparkle: Good idea. Unfortunately, I've never been good at that. Maybe it’s time. Maybe.
Without sounding totally trite here, what I really believe is that I have to take my life one
day at a time, Jill. I'm very much into that. All my past problems stemmed from getting
too worried about too much, too stressed out about what the future had to offer me.
That's what I'm still working on, Jill. That's what I'm working very hard on right now;
finding something to be optimistic about. That’s what I'm doing.
Linda: I use the projection into the future idea to move me into something I want to
make real. ‘Cause, yeah, you can inherit money, or you can marry rich, or you can win
the lottery, but you're still going be alone and you're still going be responsible for what
happens to you and how those things come about. Aloneness is the constant for me.
Personal optimism and crazy determination are what I rely on. I mean, face it, you and I
are never going to be 21 or 35 again. So, we don't have any choice about those years.
We don’t have to know how to do 35, or how to do 42, or 50!
Sparkle: That's right. Maybe I can figure out how to do 51 and a half, or how to do 52.
Linda: Uh huh. And we both can figure out how to do 54, 55. And beyond.
Sparkle: But I have to remember that I'm an alcoholic and an addict. I can’t be
responsible for the past or for any of that anymore. I can just be responsible for today.
Without sounding totally trite here, what I really believe is that I have to take my life one
day at a time, Jill. I'm very much into that. All my past problems stemmed from getting
too worried about too much, too stressed out about what the future had to offer me.
That's what I'm still working on, Jill. That's what I'm working very hard on right now;
finding something to be optimistic about. That’s what I'm doing.
Linda: I use the projection into the future idea to move me into something I want to
make real. ‘Cause, yeah, you can inherit money, or you can marry rich, or you can win
the lottery, but you're still going be alone and you're still going be responsible for what
happens to you and how those things come about. Aloneness is the constant for me.
Personal optimism and crazy determination are what I rely on. I mean, face it, you and I
are never going to be 21 or 35 again. So, we don't have any choice about those years.
We don’t have to know how to do 35, or how to do 42, or 50!
Sparkle: That's right. Maybe I can figure out how to do 51 and a half, or how to do 52.
Linda: Uh huh. And we both can figure out how to do 54, 55. And beyond.
Sparkle: But I have to remember that I'm an alcoholic and an addict. I can’t be
responsible for the past or for any of that anymore. I can just be responsible for today.
"I can’t be responsible for the past or for any of that anymore.
I can just be responsible for today."
To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself.
--Soren Kierkegaard
--Soren Kierkegaard
Some mornings, when I wake up, it takes me a minute or two to enter the day; to choose to enter the day. My dreams are so exciting and baffling. I want to engage the players, characters, and situations some more. No such luck! My dog wants to go outside; my cats want to be fed…I throw back the covers as the intriguing dream recedes. Fades. Disappears. I turn my mind to the reality of another day, another gift from the Universe. One dream world diminishes as another takes shape:
Today!
What dreams, I wonder are still mine as I begin my octogenarian years? What dreams are yours??
A. Lucid Dreams
B. Daydreams
C. Bigger and Better Dreams
D. Postponed Dreams
E. Nightmares
F. All of the Above
Do our dreams depend on where we focus our attention?
Here’s the thing: Yogi Berra was right: “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”
The entire future is still available.
So, what if some mornings my leg cramps for a minute! So, what if the face I face in the bathroom mirror looks momentarily unfamiliar? So what!
I splash water on that face and tell her to smile from her heart. I find some shoes. I feed the insistent cats and my patient dog…
I go outside. There it is: the air, the ground, the sky. My chickens. And the birds!
Stretch. Bend. Move. Breathe. Walk. Skip. Sing. Hum. Look. Listen…and say aloud, “I Love My Life!”
Go ahead. Risk it! Risk being optimistic, determined, grateful…
What do you want; what do you need? Where does your dream live?
Keep speaking your dream out loud. Keep thinking about it, considering it, praying for it, wanting it, going for it, trying it, starting it, finishing it, doing it…
That’s the spirit!
May we give ourselves permission to ask for what we truly want at 100 %.
…The trip – The book – The poem – The project – The phone call…
Today!
What dreams, I wonder are still mine as I begin my octogenarian years? What dreams are yours??
A. Lucid Dreams
B. Daydreams
C. Bigger and Better Dreams
D. Postponed Dreams
E. Nightmares
F. All of the Above
Do our dreams depend on where we focus our attention?
Here’s the thing: Yogi Berra was right: “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”
The entire future is still available.
So, what if some mornings my leg cramps for a minute! So, what if the face I face in the bathroom mirror looks momentarily unfamiliar? So what!
I splash water on that face and tell her to smile from her heart. I find some shoes. I feed the insistent cats and my patient dog…
I go outside. There it is: the air, the ground, the sky. My chickens. And the birds!
Stretch. Bend. Move. Breathe. Walk. Skip. Sing. Hum. Look. Listen…and say aloud, “I Love My Life!”
Go ahead. Risk it! Risk being optimistic, determined, grateful…
What do you want; what do you need? Where does your dream live?
Keep speaking your dream out loud. Keep thinking about it, considering it, praying for it, wanting it, going for it, trying it, starting it, finishing it, doing it…
That’s the spirit!
May we give ourselves permission to ask for what we truly want at 100 %.
…The trip – The book – The poem – The project – The phone call…
Are you waiting for APPROVAL? From whom? For what?
Are you weighing risks? What if you do “it”? What if you don’t? Suppose you had done it?
What would you risk doing now that you would not have risked when you were younger?
What would you NOT risk now that you did or would have risked in the past?
What are the basic risks of “Showing Up”?
In Baghdad, I weighed the risk of (possibly/probably) getting quite sick against the risk of insulting the generous, internally displaced Iraqi woman who graciously offered me a glass of Tang-like beverage as I stood in the bombed-out, makeshift living quarters that she shared with her large and struggling family.
Some say I shouldn’t have risked it!
Some say, “Of course, you drank the Tang!”
How do you deal with (so-called) RISKS?
Here is a magical poem that inspires me. Maybe it will inspire you:
Are you weighing risks? What if you do “it”? What if you don’t? Suppose you had done it?
What would you risk doing now that you would not have risked when you were younger?
What would you NOT risk now that you did or would have risked in the past?
What are the basic risks of “Showing Up”?
In Baghdad, I weighed the risk of (possibly/probably) getting quite sick against the risk of insulting the generous, internally displaced Iraqi woman who graciously offered me a glass of Tang-like beverage as I stood in the bombed-out, makeshift living quarters that she shared with her large and struggling family.
Some say I shouldn’t have risked it!
Some say, “Of course, you drank the Tang!”
How do you deal with (so-called) RISKS?
Here is a magical poem that inspires me. Maybe it will inspire you:
My personal creed for Life first developed on the playgrounds of my early childhood. By mastering the monkey bars and conquering the see-saw, I gained early confidence and uncovered nascent indications of creativity and determination.
MONKEY BAR METAPHORS
On the Monkey Bars, there is an exquisite moment when it is necessary to take a swing of faith and trust one’s ability to travel onward. Let go from behind, swing forward, reach, grasp, hold, let go from behind, swing forward, reach, grasp, hold, let go…
Intent on moving forward, I choose to let go of what is or was holding me back.
Navigating Life reminds me of navigating the monkey bars. It is about rhythm, courage, intention, plus the gravity-defying aim of making one’s way across to the next place, and the next…
It’s still a good metaphor for the ever-moving me as well as for those who consider opportunity, courage, movement, and continuation to be among the most interesting and important drivers of life?
SEE-SAW THOUGHTS
The unorthodox see-saw maneuvering of my long-ago youth indicated an aspect of my personal style. Most kids shared the see-saw with another friend—preferably a friend of a similar weight. The two teeter-totterers would sit facing one another and go up and down, using their feet to launch themselves upward, over and over. That was not my see-saw way. No, I preferred to mount the see-saw in the middle, straddle my legs on either side of the fulcrum, stand tall, and lean my weight sharply from side to side to control the movement of the see-saw. Challenging balance. Right, left, right, left. Balance. The rule of this solitary exercise was to maneuver the see-saw back and forth, as fast as possible, pushing both sides perilously close to the ground—without bumping. Of course, sometimes, I bumped. Once I recovered my balance, I prepared for the next bump.
From those teeter-tottering playground experiences, I learned that, in big life, bumping is inevitable. Also, the act (the gift, the talent) of letting go is something to hold on to…
“The world is but a perpetual see-saw.” Michel de Montaigne
On the Monkey Bars, there is an exquisite moment when it is necessary to take a swing of faith and trust one’s ability to travel onward. Let go from behind, swing forward, reach, grasp, hold, let go from behind, swing forward, reach, grasp, hold, let go…
Intent on moving forward, I choose to let go of what is or was holding me back.
Navigating Life reminds me of navigating the monkey bars. It is about rhythm, courage, intention, plus the gravity-defying aim of making one’s way across to the next place, and the next…
It’s still a good metaphor for the ever-moving me as well as for those who consider opportunity, courage, movement, and continuation to be among the most interesting and important drivers of life?
SEE-SAW THOUGHTS
The unorthodox see-saw maneuvering of my long-ago youth indicated an aspect of my personal style. Most kids shared the see-saw with another friend—preferably a friend of a similar weight. The two teeter-totterers would sit facing one another and go up and down, using their feet to launch themselves upward, over and over. That was not my see-saw way. No, I preferred to mount the see-saw in the middle, straddle my legs on either side of the fulcrum, stand tall, and lean my weight sharply from side to side to control the movement of the see-saw. Challenging balance. Right, left, right, left. Balance. The rule of this solitary exercise was to maneuver the see-saw back and forth, as fast as possible, pushing both sides perilously close to the ground—without bumping. Of course, sometimes, I bumped. Once I recovered my balance, I prepared for the next bump.
From those teeter-tottering playground experiences, I learned that, in big life, bumping is inevitable. Also, the act (the gift, the talent) of letting go is something to hold on to…
“The world is but a perpetual see-saw.” Michel de Montaigne
When I was eight or nine, my Grandmother Bailey regularly instructed me to slather my face with Pond’s Cold Cream every night. This would stave off wrinkles. Well, of course, I didn’t follow her advice! Cold Cream was greasy and it had a scent (I can still conjure that Pond’s olfactory unpleasantness). It was a bit too "old-grandma" for my taste.
Anyway, I wasn’t worried about wrinkles. I was worried about freckles!
Freckles were an unfortunate imperfection; an imperfection that was unavoidably visible on my face, arms, and skinny little legs. Sure, wrinkles may have been a horrible reality to old people—but I didn’t have wrinkles and I was lifetimes away from being old. Why be concerned about some future, future thing I couldn’t imagine?!
Classmates called me “freckle-face”.
In third grade, Brian, who could barely read and who sat at the desk behind mine, posited that I had probably been left out in the rain when I was a baby and my hair got rusty and dripped on my face. Middle school boys suggested that I should stay out in the sun a lot more so all the spaces between my freckles would fill in and it would look like I had a tan. I knew that wouldn’t work. It felt like thoughtless taunting.
My own mother suggested putting urine on my face to bleach the freckles—like “they” did in Ireland, according to her. I knew my freckles (ha, “like the back of my hand) and I could instantly see a reddish-brown speck anywhere in the freckled landscape of my body and recognize it as a foreign mark. A smudge. Some dried butterscotch spots. A careless peanut butter smear from lunch. Playground dirt.
I could not wear dresses with polka dots.
Had those myriad rusty freckles of mine been numbered--by an angel or perhaps by a supremely gifted Artist—I imagined being able to draw a line from number to number to number thus revealing a beautiful map or code or figure that illustrated the meaning of life or solved the secrets of the universe.
As we know, years come and fade into the past; into memories. I stopped being concerned about freckles long ago. Freckles do fade with age and indoor living. The bothersome issue passed.
Eventually and inevitably (I can’t say I wasn’t warned), the “future, future” showed up. It’s here. It’s been here for a few decades now. And, since I’m still on the planet, it is clear that I’ve entered an unenviable stage in many a mature woman’s life. Let me now speak the dreaded “W” word: Wrinkles.
I have reached and gotten accustomed to the Wrinkled Years. What the “present, present” is revealing to me about my “past, past” is that I never spent my long, long life hiding from the sun or strangers, or chance, or dangers. So, no wonder they all found me. Wrinkles invaded my face.
Note to Life (as it goes on and on): Freckles fade: Wrinkles remain.
Alas, it's too late for Pond's Cold Cream.
Anyway, I wasn’t worried about wrinkles. I was worried about freckles!
Freckles were an unfortunate imperfection; an imperfection that was unavoidably visible on my face, arms, and skinny little legs. Sure, wrinkles may have been a horrible reality to old people—but I didn’t have wrinkles and I was lifetimes away from being old. Why be concerned about some future, future thing I couldn’t imagine?!
Classmates called me “freckle-face”.
In third grade, Brian, who could barely read and who sat at the desk behind mine, posited that I had probably been left out in the rain when I was a baby and my hair got rusty and dripped on my face. Middle school boys suggested that I should stay out in the sun a lot more so all the spaces between my freckles would fill in and it would look like I had a tan. I knew that wouldn’t work. It felt like thoughtless taunting.
My own mother suggested putting urine on my face to bleach the freckles—like “they” did in Ireland, according to her. I knew my freckles (ha, “like the back of my hand) and I could instantly see a reddish-brown speck anywhere in the freckled landscape of my body and recognize it as a foreign mark. A smudge. Some dried butterscotch spots. A careless peanut butter smear from lunch. Playground dirt.
I could not wear dresses with polka dots.
Had those myriad rusty freckles of mine been numbered--by an angel or perhaps by a supremely gifted Artist—I imagined being able to draw a line from number to number to number thus revealing a beautiful map or code or figure that illustrated the meaning of life or solved the secrets of the universe.
As we know, years come and fade into the past; into memories. I stopped being concerned about freckles long ago. Freckles do fade with age and indoor living. The bothersome issue passed.
Eventually and inevitably (I can’t say I wasn’t warned), the “future, future” showed up. It’s here. It’s been here for a few decades now. And, since I’m still on the planet, it is clear that I’ve entered an unenviable stage in many a mature woman’s life. Let me now speak the dreaded “W” word: Wrinkles.
I have reached and gotten accustomed to the Wrinkled Years. What the “present, present” is revealing to me about my “past, past” is that I never spent my long, long life hiding from the sun or strangers, or chance, or dangers. So, no wonder they all found me. Wrinkles invaded my face.
Note to Life (as it goes on and on): Freckles fade: Wrinkles remain.
Alas, it's too late for Pond's Cold Cream.
Four hundred, sixty-five dollars and fifty-eight cents is the exact amount of money owed to me by BookBaby, the company that printed and “distributed” my memoir: STILL MOVING. Four hundred, sixty-five dollars and fifty-eight cents is the total amount of my earned commissions on book and Kindle sales from December 29, 2000--the pre-publication date--through the end of April, 2021.
Ta-Dah!
Let me break it down a bit more. The “retail” price of my memoir is $17.95. The less than laudable figure of $465.58 represents this naive, overly-eager, first-time author’s dollar share of sales on: 125 paperbacks ($360.03); 22 Amazon Kindles ($73.70); 2 Bookbaby Bookshop sales ($17.95); 1 “i-book” ($3.50); and 1 Amazon Kindle-CA ($3.51). On a better side—if not a truly “the good side”, in December, I had the foresight to purchase two hundred and fifty paperbacks at the special customer price of $10.80 a copy. These I sold privately—or gave away. For the purpose of this rant, I did not factor in those sales.
Ta-Dah!
Let me break it down a bit more. The “retail” price of my memoir is $17.95. The less than laudable figure of $465.58 represents this naive, overly-eager, first-time author’s dollar share of sales on: 125 paperbacks ($360.03); 22 Amazon Kindles ($73.70); 2 Bookbaby Bookshop sales ($17.95); 1 “i-book” ($3.50); and 1 Amazon Kindle-CA ($3.51). On a better side—if not a truly “the good side”, in December, I had the foresight to purchase two hundred and fifty paperbacks at the special customer price of $10.80 a copy. These I sold privately—or gave away. For the purpose of this rant, I did not factor in those sales.
Now, through simple arithmetic, I have deduced that four hundred and sixty-five dollars ($465.58) is thirty-two dollars and forty-two cents ($32.42) short of the number that my author’s cut must reach before BookBaby cuts me a check.
This is Life—not “death of a thousand cuts”!
Surely, the magic number of five hundred dollars ($500.00) looms on my near-future BookBaby Author’s accounting page.
Note to Self: do not permit your confidence and optimism to waiver or be thwarted by the reality of your current (and far less than stellar) publishing circumstances. You are “still moving” towards a resounding small “S” success. May is such a friendly and promising month.
As any first-time author, who has dreamed of good reviews and positive results and who has traveled the long and winding road of independent publishing, will attest: a self-publishing adventure is not for the faint-of-heart. Most, who have traveled this road—fraught with unintended consequences and helpful and unhelpful revelations--might pause before recommending this path to the easily discouraged.
In the beginning, (wherever that was) I actually thought writing the book would be the most formidable road-to-authorship hill to climb. In my case, getting to the acceptable PDF stage took years. And more years.
With the creative, fun, writing part of my journey had been conquered to my satisfaction, a bigger task confronted me: dealing (and fighting) with a professional editor. Oh, the editing and re-editing! Oh, the criticisms and critiques; the disagreements and misunderstandings!
One might surmise that that fourteen-month ordeal represented the most difficult part of producing a book. Pause. Breathe…
Actually, no. My fragile little memoir still had to weather the storms of confusing and frustrating DESIGN decisions. Disparate opinions were borderline abusive. Consensus was elusive on everything: the front and back covers; the typeface; the paper color and weight; the margins; the spine; the photographs; the dingbats.
What, pray tell, is a “dingbat”? Isn’t that how Archie Bunker referred to his wife?
Frustrating squabbles and intractable opinions about design and marketing concepts stalled the desired progress. The entire production year was full of difficult discussions, major and minor misunderstandings. Far too many hurtful remarks knifed through cyberspace. Senseless arguments among my hand-picked team of valued supporters and creative professionals made my head spin. Tragically, it redounded to the loss of a treasured friendship. Deeply painful. And maybe, in the end, that was the most difficult part of it all…
So, to reiterate: May is a particularly friendly and promising month. And who doesn’t love June!
This is Life—not “death of a thousand cuts”!
Surely, the magic number of five hundred dollars ($500.00) looms on my near-future BookBaby Author’s accounting page.
Note to Self: do not permit your confidence and optimism to waiver or be thwarted by the reality of your current (and far less than stellar) publishing circumstances. You are “still moving” towards a resounding small “S” success. May is such a friendly and promising month.
As any first-time author, who has dreamed of good reviews and positive results and who has traveled the long and winding road of independent publishing, will attest: a self-publishing adventure is not for the faint-of-heart. Most, who have traveled this road—fraught with unintended consequences and helpful and unhelpful revelations--might pause before recommending this path to the easily discouraged.
In the beginning, (wherever that was) I actually thought writing the book would be the most formidable road-to-authorship hill to climb. In my case, getting to the acceptable PDF stage took years. And more years.
With the creative, fun, writing part of my journey had been conquered to my satisfaction, a bigger task confronted me: dealing (and fighting) with a professional editor. Oh, the editing and re-editing! Oh, the criticisms and critiques; the disagreements and misunderstandings!
One might surmise that that fourteen-month ordeal represented the most difficult part of producing a book. Pause. Breathe…
Actually, no. My fragile little memoir still had to weather the storms of confusing and frustrating DESIGN decisions. Disparate opinions were borderline abusive. Consensus was elusive on everything: the front and back covers; the typeface; the paper color and weight; the margins; the spine; the photographs; the dingbats.
What, pray tell, is a “dingbat”? Isn’t that how Archie Bunker referred to his wife?
Frustrating squabbles and intractable opinions about design and marketing concepts stalled the desired progress. The entire production year was full of difficult discussions, major and minor misunderstandings. Far too many hurtful remarks knifed through cyberspace. Senseless arguments among my hand-picked team of valued supporters and creative professionals made my head spin. Tragically, it redounded to the loss of a treasured friendship. Deeply painful. And maybe, in the end, that was the most difficult part of it all…
So, to reiterate: May is a particularly friendly and promising month. And who doesn’t love June!
Hey, Sparkle, remember when we shared that apartment in Greenwich Village, back in the early 60s? And remember how we used to buy a “dime bag” of marijuana from Shawn Phillips but it was really a nickel bag because Shawn, the cute and talented twelve-string guitarist, always kept half for himself?
And remember the afternoon we hung out with Shawn and his famous friend Barry McGuire at the Hotel Earle, near Washington Square and smoked pot and Barry surprised us one afternoon (or was it night?) by snapping amyl nitrate capsules under our noses?
For the first time? Remember?
Days later (I’ll never forget) you and I went to the pharmacy on Sixth Avenue and bought tampons and then pretended like, “Ooops! we almost forgot--your grandmother asked us to buy something for her heart palpitations!”
“What was it? Amyal? Ameryl? Nite something, nite, nitrous? Oh, yeah, amyl nitrate! Yeah.”
And the pharmacist sold us a whole tin of it. For your non-existent grandmother. And we popped one ampule while we were walking back to our apartment and started laughing uncontrollably and fell down on the sidewalk. That was hysterical! Remember? Remember all of that? Did we--for even a minute--stop to think how stupid it was? No, we did not. Was it dangerous? Yes, extremely dangerous. Did we care?
We didn’t.
Oh, and remember when we used to go uptown to buy cocaine from Ray, the impeccably dressed, exceedingly classy, and mysterious black pimp who had a brace of white Afghan hounds? And remember how we joked that he didn’t know how to pronounce his own last name? Prochez? Pershay? Pacher? Preshee? Did we think we were invincible? We did. Were we? It seems that we were back then, way back then.
When did the invincibility charm of wild youth wear off, Sparkle? When did the magic protection spell expire? When did the charm of stardom turn into the sudden and jarring alarm of has-been-ism? Is this pain and discomfort felt by two perpetual wannabes better or worse than the pain of becoming a “has been”? And is that more or less painful than living life as a “never was”? We weren’t “neverwases” were we?
And remember the afternoon we hung out with Shawn and his famous friend Barry McGuire at the Hotel Earle, near Washington Square and smoked pot and Barry surprised us one afternoon (or was it night?) by snapping amyl nitrate capsules under our noses?
For the first time? Remember?
Days later (I’ll never forget) you and I went to the pharmacy on Sixth Avenue and bought tampons and then pretended like, “Ooops! we almost forgot--your grandmother asked us to buy something for her heart palpitations!”
“What was it? Amyal? Ameryl? Nite something, nite, nitrous? Oh, yeah, amyl nitrate! Yeah.”
And the pharmacist sold us a whole tin of it. For your non-existent grandmother. And we popped one ampule while we were walking back to our apartment and started laughing uncontrollably and fell down on the sidewalk. That was hysterical! Remember? Remember all of that? Did we--for even a minute--stop to think how stupid it was? No, we did not. Was it dangerous? Yes, extremely dangerous. Did we care?
We didn’t.
Oh, and remember when we used to go uptown to buy cocaine from Ray, the impeccably dressed, exceedingly classy, and mysterious black pimp who had a brace of white Afghan hounds? And remember how we joked that he didn’t know how to pronounce his own last name? Prochez? Pershay? Pacher? Preshee? Did we think we were invincible? We did. Were we? It seems that we were back then, way back then.
When did the invincibility charm of wild youth wear off, Sparkle? When did the magic protection spell expire? When did the charm of stardom turn into the sudden and jarring alarm of has-been-ism? Is this pain and discomfort felt by two perpetual wannabes better or worse than the pain of becoming a “has been”? And is that more or less painful than living life as a “never was”? We weren’t “neverwases” were we?
| If there had been a contest, Sparkle, to crown the most beautiful Playboy Bunny of our day, you would have won, Bunny Cheryl. You would have beat out Lauren Hutton, Debby Harry, Kathryn Lee Scott, and all the other remarkable young and ambitious women who quit Playboy and went in search of fame and fortune. Some girls had clear goals. And support. “This little Bunny went to market; this little Bunny stayed home; beef, no beef; all the way…” |  |
Linda Durham discusses her memoir in an online author event with the Santa Fe Public Library
Linda joins Lisa D Liguori and Linda Waldo on their podcast, Living Visibly Over 50, to chat about her memoir Still Moving, and her life.
Wonder & Wander
A collection of thoughts, musings, and milestones from author, wonderer, and wanderer, Linda Durham.
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