JAYSPEAK

A HUGE shoutout to all those wonderful people who contacted me privately to tell me how much they appreciated my sharing the things i did in my post “BookEnds”, many of whom appreciated the parallel in their own lives, especially in these times. So now, I am moving on. Sorta. Remembering Christmas during my childhood. It was a happy time for many post-war years. Also, few cameras, no television, so most of the memories are “in my head”. So you will have to “imagine”. Haha. Try it! You might like it! Haha. Beautiful trees, Santa Claus and coca cola! Haha.

We had a lot of good traditions at Christmas.  Mother would spend the entire month of December shopping, ordering items, finding out what people wanted, buying and wrapping presents and decorating the house.  The house would be a winter wonderland.  She had Christmas decorations that lived in boxes in closets somewhere in the house.  Out they would come at Christmas.  Santa’s, reindeer, holly, arrangements wreaths for all doors. She spent a LOT of money on Christmas decorations.  Wonderful handmade stockings for the mantle.   And always a gorgeous tree, decorated with gorgeous ornaments. 

On Christmas Eve, Mother and Daddy would give presents to LOTS of people.  They had a lot of friends. Daddy had a lot of people in his company and he gave presents to most of the families and all of his employees.  He would have special gifts made to give something to everyone who worked for him – mugs, ash trays, books, booklets, plaques.  They both LOVED Christmases and were generous givers.  I don’t remember Church being part of Christmas Eve or Christmas day, but we were all members of the First Baptist Church and went to all their Christmas services and events.  There were lots of parties and gatherings. And, usually, there was a Christmas pageant in which my sisters and I would be some part of the Nativity characters.

On Christmas Eve, Mother would load Daddy’s car with gifts for his family, her family, our (the children’s) friends and their friends.  Then, Daddy and I would deliver them to all recipients.  It took most of the day.  Daddy would drive up to the house, and it was my job to find it and take it to the front door. Then, after all presents were delivered, we went home for egg nogs and supper. 

Mother would cook for days, making boiled custard, fruit cake, cakes, pies, cornbread for the dressing, homemade rolls and whatever else need to be cooked beforehand.

On Christmas morning, the family would gather in the living room to see what Santa had brought.  Each child (Patricia, Barbara, Janet) would have a spread of beautiful things in a display.  And there were would be lots of presents wrapped under the tree.  So, after we gathered to “find” what Santa left, we would open presents – one at a time (so everyone could see who got what.  Presents were from family, friends, and some businesspeople for Mother and Daddy.  Then, we had to display our gifts for everyone to see what each person “got.”.  The children took a turn being “Santa” and delivering a present to the recipient.   The goal was to make a person feel part of the celebration. That would take most of the morning. All of this went on for YEARS!

Then, late morning, family from Atlanta (Mama Dorough, Lillian, Rose and Clarence, JoAnn) And Daddy’s family from Gainesville (his family had died young, and his brother Uncle Beamus) arrived for the day.  Everyone came with more presents and special homemade foods.  Nuts were everywhere as well as compotes of candies.  Homemade fudge, homemade divinity with walnuts.  More gifts, visiting, by everyone.  The house and table were gorgeous with silver and candles and all the “good dishes”.  I especially like the silver goblets (used for ice water).  The aromas were divine.

We all ate and visited for hours.  And the children could NOT be “excused” to go back to their rooms.  I had to stay until the bitter end until everyone left the table. 

And Christmas Dinner at 2:00 p.m. A HUGE meal with the same favorites every year – turkey, dressing, giblet gravy, white rice, sweet potato soufflé with toasted marshmallows on top, petit (canned) English peas with butter, homemade rolls with butter and homemade jelly, celery, olives, carrots, cranberry sauce, Lillian’s handmade cranberry relish. I was always glad when I could leave the table, and everyone went home. And each year, Mother did everything she could to help everyone feel included and “special”. Brava, Mother!

Over the years, I tried to make this happen for my children, as best I could.  And I did, a lot of years.  I hope they remember.  And, most times, Darrell enjoyed it without ruining it for everyone.  I always held my breath and prayed he would not ruin it for the children. And, often, he didn’t. That was great!

And wonderful memories.  I was lucky without realizing it. And, to close, we have Emily’s monologue from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town that expresses a lot that is in my heart. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!  

“I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all, everything. – I cant look at everything hard enough. (pause, talking to her mother who does not hear her. She speaks with mounting urgency) Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead.

You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it – don’t you remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another. (pause, looking desperate because she has received no answer. She speaks in a loud voice, forcing herself to not look at her mother) I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast.

We don’t have time to look at one another. (she breaks down sobbing, she looks around) I didn’t realize. All that was going on in life and we never noticed. Take me back – up the hill – to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Goodby, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners? Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking? and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths? and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. (she asks abruptly through her tears)

Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? – every, every minute? (she sighs) I’m ready to go back. I should have listened to you. That’s all human beings are! Just blind people.”

Best, Jay

This is what is on my mind.  I have been afraid to write this or tell this my entire life. But, I have been feeling overwhelmed.  I have set small daily goals and aimed for consistency rather than perfection. And I need to get a lot of negative thoughts out of my head.  What am I doing about it? Thinking a LOT.  About everything.  What I know to be true from my own experience.  And I am listening to a lot of classical music. 

I need to be patient.  “It is OK not to be OK.”  Because of circumstances, I have become a sedentary, introverted person for a while.  SO, I need to do a daily 20 minutes exercise program for at least a month to feel better.  What???  A month?  Yes.  It is not going away this afternoon.   Welllllll, patience is NOT my strong suit.  Duh.  And, I have been so anxious that I have had two more cerebral incidents that are now affecting my vision.  So, I am writing this post with the hope that writing it will help me to heal. I am not ready to give up, and maybe I can help someone else in the meantime.

This week, I have made myself walk around the block every day.  AND, in the middle of the night, I keep having new awarenesses that I have called “Kaleidoscopic Shifts.”  I have written about that before in Jayspeak.    NOTE: this is more than you ever wanted to know, but this is my world and welcome to it for a few minutes.

Last night, before I went to bed, I watched “Holidate” on my Eurobox. And I thought how different it is for young people these days. They have no clue what I went through. And they never will. Along with no vaccines for whooping cough, polio, measles, smallpox, chicken pox, and the flu. (As I anxiously await the Covid-19 vaccine in France) They also did not have birth control pills. They were “discovered” in 1960, approved by the FDA on July 23, 1960. People did not use “The Pill” for several years because of warnings and side effects. I was using (like everyone else) the “rhythm” method, if at all. It was not part of a date, during those years. AND there was a terrible stigma attached to it, especially pregnancy outside of marriage. There were shame and judgement attached from one’s family and community. And abortions were frowned upon BIGTIME. The most popular and safest solution (at that time) was to go into hiding somewhere, have the baby, and put it up for adoption OR marry the father and suffer the family shame.

Last night – around 2 or 3:00 a.m, I had some WOW moments when a lot of things fell into place.  Some background. Here in Paris, I am living an important moment of my life.   I am in a bookend.  My life abruptly changed when I was 20, travelling on a European Tour”. I had dated and been pinned to Darrell Macintyre from Madison, Wisconsin for a year.  Darrell was popular, good-looking, and sexy.  Sooooo…

I found out that I was three months pregnant from a doctor in Amsterdam.  Suffering from daily morning sickness, what to do????  I wrote Darrell.  He told me he would marry me.  I did not want to marry him. So, he told me to get an abortion in Paris and gave the name and address of a woman to call. I left the tour (which was going on the train to Paris) and flew to Paris.  I called the woman and made an appointment to come by to meet her at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. 

I went to her apartment on the left bank of Paris at 10:00 a.m. It was near the Seine.  I met her.  And she told me to come back at 3:00 p.m. and to bring 50 francs for the procedure.  I left.  I knew I would never go back to that apartment. I knew that I would marry Darrell, have my baby, and live happily or unhappily ever after.  I could take the family and hometown shame.  And that is what occurred. I wrote a letter to Mother and Daddy, telling them about my plight. I remember dropping that letter into a red mailbox on the street.  My sister Patricia called me at my hotel in Paris.  I talked to Mother and Daddy. I remember that call.  Mother was concerned about the shame she would suffer. Daddy told me he loved me.

I immediately flew back to Atlanta.  They hurriedly planned a wedding.  Darrell and I were married on August 17, 1957. We did not either one “love” each other, but that did not matter.  “Saving face” for the family and the community (of churchgoers) is what mattered.  The marriage is a long story. What is important here is that I told my daughter.  I never told my sons.  To this day, they don’t know.  Now, I don’t think they would care.  Times are too different.   But Tracy suffered.  I suffered.  And Darrell was not good to her.  Or me.  Or to my son Craig.  And we all suffered. We still are, at this late date.  It needs to STOP. 

So, I needed to get back to Paris before I died. It was important to me. That is where it all began. It IS important to me. If I am to heal. And Trump, vaccines, and lockdowns have not helped. I don’t expect any of you to understand or care – times are too different. “Holidate”. I have kept it inside for too many years, and my health is suffering. Miracle? Bookends? Is it “a wrap”? I hope not. I make NO apologies to those who think these things are better left unsaid. I am FURIOUS at what all of us went through for self-righteous ——- « to save face. ». Life Lessons? Hardly ! Time will tell.

Best, Jay

Actually, I am not having a good day. I probably should not try to write today, but here goes anyway. So many things are swimming around in my head that I need to slow down.  And my head plays tricks on me, I am sorry to say. Sometimes it is clear as a bell. Others, not so much. Today is one of those “not-so-much” days. But, I have resolved to stay alive and “keep breathing”.

So, it is easy to stay inside and write. Plus, it is 39 degrees out there. However – soon – after Christmas – I must get out and exercise consistently – no matter the temperature. My life literally depends on it.

It has been 4 years since Steve died , and I spent my first Christmas without him. Alone. 2016. In Nice. Ugh.

I have heard that in the first year or two, the survivor of a good marriage either dies or resolves to go on. What? Die? No way! I chose to “go on”. But going on did not mean going on in the same way.  Hmmmmm.

There is a period of “redefinition.” Well, when I was still in Nice, I felt like I was leaping into a void as terrifying as death, “redefining.” In addition, I had a small stroke, or two. So, at age 82, I moved to Paris. Haha. I have decided to stick around, stay alive, and keep breathing IN PARIS. And now, I am trying to “heal’ as I redefine. In Paris. Don’t ask. I am trying not to “think” too much. Yet….. YOU WHAT?????????? YOU MOVED WHERE ????!! Hey, just go with it. And, I am NOT dispensable. QUITE THE CONTRARY. SO ARE YOU!!!

Anti-vaxxers? What???  We don’t even have a vaccine on the market, yet.  And blame?  I read and realize that a lot of people are thriving on creating confusion and throwing a flood of disinformation out there. So, I am resolving – sorta – to stop thinking.  I am standing on the sidelines. I am watching it all unfold and considering learning how to cook!! 

Someone said, “Sometimes, you have to make peace with the fact that you are the villain in someone else’s story even if you thought you were doing the right thing at the time.   You don’t get to narrate their experience.”  POW!  Bingo! I am making peace that I am the villain in a LOT of my family’s story. And, I don’t get to narrate their experience. So,………

MEANWHILE,…….. I watch too much news. On the news, I see graphs showing spikes everywhere and deaths in the WORLD. OK, mainly the USA, but they are largely unheeded. That makes me very happy that I live in France. I get regularly warnings from the French government and instructions of what to do, in case…… So, I have taken extra precautions because I don’t want to die. I am in “keep-breathing” mode. And, then I read and hear about unrelenting death dismissed as a hoax or discounted as a flu. What?????? Conspiracies. The truth is everywhere but disbelief takes over.

BREAKING NEWS – Hey, calling a disease a “conspiracy” and calling an election unfair does not make it so. Attorney MACINTOSH here: Charges require specific allegations and then proof. As a plaintiff’s attorney, you can take my word for it. We have neither here. Voters, not lawyers, choose the President. Ballots, not briefs, decide elections.

I am glad that vaccines are coming. I am glad. YES, I want it (when my turn as a “senior” comes). I have no problem with any of it! What is the big deal? I am glad that restaurants will open again, and I will feel like walking and travelling and socializing and dining out. I don’t care that I will limp inside or walk with a cane. I am in “keep-breathing” mode. And, when I think about being blamed for doing things I did in my past, I want to stick around anyway, stay alive, and keep breathing. According to Pope Francis, “This is a moment to dream big, to rethink our priorities — what we value, what we want, what we seek — and to commit to act in our daily life on what we have dreamed of.”–

For the record, this happened in 1918. My parents were 16. So, get a grip! Probably a LOT of yours (parents) were young, too. AND there was a World War I going on at the same time. This gives you something to think about.

SO, Here I am – in Paris, broken (sorta), but breathing. Happy to see the sky outside my window (I could not see the sky in my Nice apartment or in the Studio in Paris 6e.)

And, I am reminded of one of my favorite songs from “PiPPIN” – “Corner in the Sky”. Here are the lyrics (with some edits from me)

Everything has its season
Everything has its time
Show me a reason and I’ll soon show you a rhyme
Cats fit on the windowsill
Children fit in the snow
I want to feel I fit in anywhere I go.

Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free

Have I found my corner of the sky?

Every man has his daydreams
Every man has his goal
People like the way dreams have
Of sticking to the soul
Thunderclouds have their lightning
Nightingales have their song
And don’t you see I want my life to be
Something more than long….

Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free. Have I found my corner of the sky?

So many men seem destined
To settle for something small
But I won’t rest until I know I’ll have it all
So don’t ask where I’m going
Just listen when I’m gone
And far away you’ll hear me singing
Softly to the dawn:

Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free

Have I found my corner of the sky?

Best, Jay

Turkey With a French Dressing: The Gentle Art (Buchwald) of Humor

Novembre 16th, 2018 par Anthony Bulger
#Paris, #Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is the one day in the year which, as O. Henry reminds us, is purely American. It’s also the only day when overeating is considered a patriotic duty. And when, according to another keen observer, we surpass the French in culinary matters…

Spare a thought on November 22 for those Americans living in France who will try to recreate the comforts of home by putting on a proper Thanksgiving spread for friends and family. Cooking-wise, this can be a challenge, which is tacked in many different ways depending on the size of the party. For example, the students at the American University of Paris are so numerous that they have to celebrate in the sanctuary that is the chapel and theater of the neighboring American Church, in the 7^th arrondissement. The university staff prepare the turkey and stuffing and ask each person to bring a different dish. Smaller groups of people find it easier to manage, but some of the basic logistical headaches remain.

Things are easier today, of course. One of upsides of globalization is that exotic ingredients such as yams, butternut squash puree, and creamed corn are (relatively) easy to find here in Paris. Back in the day, though, special expeditions had to be made to Fauchon, a gourmet emporium on the swanky Place de la Madeleine, to hunt for essentials such as cranberries. Those food-buying missions were not always successful, even though we boned up on our French vocabulary beforehand (« Avez-vous des canneberges ? » – « Qu’est-ce que c’est ? »). Those of us with no access to a PX store or no visiting American friends would generally have to improvise for some of the side dishes.

Discover our list of the best American grocery stores in Paris. Pictured above, the shelves at The Real McCoy in the 7^th arrondissement.

Then there was the critical problem of the turkey. We would patiently explain to a puzzled butcher that we wanted a real turkey, not a pimped-up chicken. Something that would feed a whole table of hungry Americans and their autochthonous guests. And no, we don’t want any fancy stuffing, thank you. How do you say “all the fixings” in French? Oh, and please, please remove and dispose of the bird’s head!

Even when a proper-sized fowl was found and prepped, another hurdle would crop up: the design of French ovens, which weren’t intended to accommodate a fifteen-pound Butterball. Various workarounds were found nonetheless, though one attempt at roasting an enormous gobbler over a makeshift bonfire in a friend’s backyard was a dismal, carbonized failure. Yet despite all the logistical hurdles and ingredient compromises, dinner was usually a success, leaving everyone feeling at one with their fellow human beings. In any case, after a good meal it’s easy to find a kind word for anyone, even one’s relatives.

But before slumping on the sofa to watch recorded football highlights on TV, or, in the case of French guests, to argue about the upcoming elections — for there are always elections looming on one horizon or the other in France — a time-honored ritual would take place. Pushing the empty plates aside, we would bring out a copy of the International Herald Tribune (known universally as the IHT, now the International New York Times) and turn to the back page. One of the guests would read aloud an article written in a strange lingua franca and purporting to explain Thanksgiving to the bewildered French. Here it is:

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Le Merci Donnant

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant. Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pèlerins) who fled from l’Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts’ content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai) in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pélerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pélerins was when they taught them to grow corn (maïs). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pélerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pélerins’ crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more maïs was raised by the Pélerins than Pélerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges. Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.

It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilomètres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:

“Go to the damsel Priscilla (allez très vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.

“I am a maker of war (je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar (vous, qui êtes pain comme un étudiant), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden.”

Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable à être emballé), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (rendue muette par l’étonnement et la tristesse).

At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: “If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?” (Où est-il, le vieux Kilomètres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pasauprès de moi pour tenter sa chance?)

Jean said that Kilomètres Deboutish was very busy and didn’t have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilomètres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, Jean?” (Chacun a son goût.) And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well-fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilomètres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.

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“The piece was bylined Art Buchwald, a Pulitzer Prize-winning commentator renowned for poking fun at American politicians and hobnobbing with the rich, famous, and powerful in Washington D.C. So how did this Beltway insider become an expert — albeit a tongue-in-cheek one — in explaining U.S. history and tradition to the French? And why in the prestigious IHT?

The reason is that Buchwald originally wrote the piece while living in Paris, where he began his writing career in 1947, after leaving the United States courtesy of the GI Bill to study in the City of Light. He, like many twenty-something Americans at that time, saw himself as an honorary member of the Lost Generation writers who had made Paris their actual or spiritual home. “My dream was to follow in the steps of Hemingway, Elliot Paul, and Gertrude Stein,” he explained. “I wanted to stuff myself with baguettes and snails, fill my pillow with rejection slips, and find a French girl named Mimi who believed that I was the greatest writer in the world.” ‘

This is an article that came to my attention that I thought was fun on this Thanksgiving. Also, it is just another day in France. I am planning to roast a chicken this afternoon. As someone said on Twitter, “It is just one freakin’ Thanksgiving. Get a grip!”

From France,

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Best, Jay

Which do you choose? Pretty. There is too much ugly going on in the world today. So, I choose pretty. And, specifically, I choose flowers. And, even though I love flowers of all kinds, I choose roses. Duh. This is not new news for those who know me. But, a bit of background.

For most of my life, I have loved flowers. When I was little, Mother grew flowers for fun. She would buy seeds at the hardware store (owned by my Uncle Beamus) and plant them in the back yard. I specifically remember sweet peas. But, that is because they were easy to grow. She would try roses, but she did not do what roses wanted her to do. They did not thrive under her care. Haha. But, that did not keep me from loving them. I would see them in the florist and at funerals and weddings but not in the back yard or front yard. She did well with geraniums. Here in Paris, people grow geraniums a lot. And Azaleas. I think that Azaleas are difficult, but people buy them a lot. Not me. I don’t spend a lot of money on flowers here (so far) but that may change. But, I digress…..

So, when I was living in Westwood in Los Angeles (just after I married Steve in 2005), I got a new Blackberry phone with a camera. So, on my early morning walks, I started using my camera. I would see a rose bush, and take an up close and personal picture of a rose and post it on Facebook. Then I would post that rose on Instagram. And, then on a website called Foap. I sold this image to “Getty Images”

Then, Steve and I started writing books for Amazon. And, one of the first books I wrote I called “Capturing Beauty”. I took 200 of my favorite rose pictures, added a quotation that I liked and published it. It was lovely! I wanted the pictures in color and that was very expensive, making the book expensive. And, the pictures were matt. I wanted glossy. Not to be. Ok, I would do matt. Well, I would also do a Kindle version in color. It was lovely. Converting to kindle took a hired expert and that was expensive. But, I did it anyway.

But, I have never promoted that book. I have never promoted my books – period! So, I have resolved (especially during lockdown) to begin to change that. They are not best-sellers. But they are fun. And “Pretty”… And I am limited in what I can photograph with my Paris location for now because of lockdown. Soooooo. That is the background.

I did a new cover that I LOVE! And, I don’t have any copies of this book. I gave the last copy to a restaurant owner (GUISEPPE) in Nice, who LOVED it.

I autographed it for him.  I had brought it to give to my friend Christine – who was treating me to a birthday lunch, but Giuseppe wanted it, so I promised to get Christine another one.  I still owe Christine that book. 

I don’t have any updated paperback copies of my books or Steve’s 8 books. I have vowed to get copies with new covers for my bookshelf, but – with all of the moving and knee surgeries – I have it on my “to do” list. And all of the covers need to be updated to Paris. That is a chore for another time. But, today, I am going to share with you “Capturing Beauty”. I published two books in that genre, but “Capturing Beauty” is my favorite. (the other one is “Moments in Time”)

The book is lovely. (I think). It is filled with 200 of my favorite rose photographs. Each rose has an accompanying quotation to go with it – favorite quotes and photos that I wanted to include. I need to get copies on my own bookshelves. Here is the cover:

It is for sale on amazon.com in the paperback (coffee table version) and Kindle versions. It says I live in Nice (4 years in Nice) and now I am in Paris. ToBeUpdatedSomedaySoon. But, I will help you take a look. Here is the link on Amazon (if this works).

And, there is information about me on Amazon Author Central (all needing to be updated at another time). But, the book is lovely. And, I don’t plan to change that. So, I would love it if you would introduce yourself to my Amazon personality and bookshelf. I am in the process of re-editing “Janet Tallulah” so that it “flows” better. It is my favorite of my writings but it needs work (which I am doing and enjoying). Stay tuned.

Best, Jay