Capturing A Moment in Time

The desire to capture a moment in time has always been part of my nature...

So began my college essay, typed on a typewriter, back when there was no such thing as a Universal App, only blanks to fill in on dozens of pages, carefully unstapled and imperfectly aligned under the paper bail.  

(I looked it up -- that's the name of that silver roller bar!)

My dad photocopied the applications at his office so I could do rough drafts.  Because once you started typing, the pressure was on.  There was no going back.

Greetings from 1987, where everything was analog...  

OPEN

It's 2025.

When I open my eyes in the morning, this is what I see.

It's just a photo, framed on my bedroom wall, but I've planned it this way.  It's purposefully placed, a kind of "photo-therapy."

This one image is everything I need to get out of bed:

Morning light.
Street sounds.

A gentle breeze.

Hope, piled high, for the day ahead.

It's the view from my Paris Airbnb, which I admit was a nice place to be first thing in the morning.  

I can still feel that duvet on the toes of my bare foot, smell the owner's leather jacket hanging in the closet, hear the bell ting on the city bus below.

But there's more.

This photo captures a moment I always savor -- even at home -- that delicate space between asleep and awake.  

In this moment, I haven't yet put my leg on,

or seen my crutches stacked up,
or tried to digest food, 
or juggled "too big" ideas,
or tackled the "to-do" list on which I'm already behind.

I'm not yet zapped of energy -- or frustrated by discomfort -- as I trek the distance others go without much effort at all.  

In this one moment, there is just me and that open window.  My body is not fractured, and the day is still whole, pointed with possibility like sun through a magnifying glass.

It's all the motivation I need.

On New Year's Eve in Scotland, at the stroke of midnight, people open the doors of their homes -- front and back -- to let the old year escape and the new year rush in.

My friend Jen will tell you we did it this year.

"Quick!  Go!" 

In my small apartment, she rushes to open the "front" hallway door while I yank open the "back" door to the balcony.

It's raining outside.  The air blows cold with moisture, car horns, and the boom of fireworks we hear but can't see.

(By time I remember this tradition, it's 12:15 AM, but we get it done!)

The new year is OPEN for business, and I open my whole self to it.

Open door.

Open window.
Open mind.

Open to ideas and experiences, no matter how small.

Open intestines (DIGEST!) and lungs (BREATHE!).
Open eyes -- and senses.

Open book(s) -- and inkflow.

Not every day will feel this way, I know.  Some days, I won't be able to leave the apartment because of leg issues or abdominal pain.

Other days, I'll carve a slow path around the block.  

On the best days, I'll explore locally.  Or, if I'm lucky, farther.

Wherever I go, I'll write.  

I've got other projects too.  Ideas are plentiful this time of year.  The journey may change shape along the way, but isn't that what adaptive travel is all about?

I'm "open" to it.   (Want to come?)

Get up.  Get dressed. 

Let's see what's beyond that window.

Happy and healthy new year!
Rebecca

Mile Marker 13,255

Buongiorno et bon matin...

...from the Italian Market!

Yes, I know that's a language mashup, but that's where I am.  

Qui. Maintenant.  Here. Now.

Mile 12,615 =  Kilomètre 20,302

I'm gearing up for travel.

In just two weeks, I leave for Paris -- yes, Paris! -- to join travel writer Rolf Potts, and a whole new group of classmates for the advanced version of the travel memoir class I took there last summer.  I can't wait!

So I'd better brush up on my writing -- and walking.

Here at home, my little red car, "Happy," has just passed her 10,000th mile.

To celebrate, and sneak in some walking/writing, we drive down to our old favorite, Gleaner's, for a coffee and stroll through the Italian Market. 

The smell of baking bread leads the way.  
It fades into roasted coffee,

sugared dough,

melted tar, 

and garbage juice, spilled from a leaky bag.

In the first three blocks, I hear four languages:  Spanish, Italian, Cambodian (I think), and Greek. 

  

And this one??

It's barely 7:30.  The sun is still low.  The sidewalks are shady.  The breeze feels uncommonly cool.

I pass a bookstore, not yet open, with boxes stacked outside.  A scribbled sign says FREE.  The middle box sags with paperbacks of The Babysitter's Club, piled high like a mound of rainbow jimmies.  (Or "sprinkles" for you out-of-towners.) 

When I reach Passyunk (say "Pash-yunk"), a cheesesteak truck is parked inside an overgrown community garden.  

Pretty much Philly in a nutshell.

I turn onto a narrow street of rowhomes.  

A mirrored chrome railing reminds me of an 80's rollerskating rink.  A toddler's kitchen playset sits atop a metal grate.  How many toys (and shoes) have been dropped through those cracks?

It's a good leg day so far.  

On days like this, I feel like I could walk miles.  But I know better.  

The sun is getting higher.  

My prosthetic's getting looser.  

While I'm comfortable, like now, my feet and mind can wander.  But it's early yet.  

I need to save energy -- and precious leg time -- for the rest of the day.

So I turn up 7th, back toward the car.  

This patch of road used to be part of my bike route to work.  I pedaled through here every morning for years.  

I knew where cars rolled through the 4-way stop.  I knew where every pothole was.  

It looks different now. 

Smoother.  Brighter.

I almost don't recognize it.

But then, come the bikers.  

They whisper by in clusters, two and three at a time, helmets strapped, backpacks bouncing behind them in crates and saddlebags.  

7th Street, I realize, has become a bike superhighway.  

It feels good to walk among them.

When I arrive back at the car, my coffee cup is empty, but my notebook is full. 

And I'm happy to be here.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Infinity in One Block

Hello from Mile 12,480.

At 7:40 AM, the clouds hang low, but the heat stands on tiptoe, poised to soar.

It's summer in Old City.  I'm used to it.  

I get out early.  

Walk when I can.

It's a "good leg day" so far.

So on the way back from getting coffee, I don't go straight home.  Instead, I pass the doorway of my apartment building and cross the street onto Elfreth's Alley.

It's 100 (or maybe fewer) feet from my door, but when I step onto that cobblestone walkway, I travel.  

Not just because Philadelphians have been walking this block since colonial days, but because I've been walking this block.  For the dozen years I've lived across the street from it, Elfreth's Alley has always been there for me. 

It gives me a place to travel -- without going anywhere at all.

For a few summers, I volunteered at the museum here, meeting travelers from around the world.  I loved answering their questions:

"People still live here?" they'd ask, pointing to an Amazon package on a doorstep. 

(Yes, and they get deliveries.) 

"Women were really homeowners?" 

(Yep, and business owners too.)

And my favorite... 

"Where can we get ice cream?"  

(Franklin Fountain -- try the peach!)

During the pandemic, I wrote a middle grade novel set here.  To this day, each time I walk past the 2nd house on the left -- with its olive green gate and fanshaped flag on the door -- I think, "That's where the Mitternights live."  The Mitternights are an imaginary family who exist only on my pages.

On so many mornings like this one, I walked here with my foster daughter, "Rainbow."  She'd dart between the houses, beneath the canopy of trees that mark a narrow opening called Bladen's Court.  

There, she'd hop along the stones till she reached the old water pump, where she'd hang from the handle, pretending to yank it.  I'd saunter behind, focusing my footwork and sipping my coffee.

To me, it was an easy place we could go for fresh air.  To her, the Alley was a playground.

On this block, I've "sweated out" of my prothesis. 

I've toured with out-of-town friends.

I've crowded with tourists under a tiny roof in a thunderstorm.

I've tripped over the cobblestones. 

I've even fantasized about buying one of these houses, fixing it up, and opening an Airbnb.  I've told my neighborhood friends we should do it together.  They're not quite on board - yet. 

When you get to know a place -- really know it -- it holds unlimited possibility.  You see it up close.  It can encompass the past and future, a whole world in just a few steps.

(In my view, anyway.)

I've signed up for another travel writing class -- the "advanced" version of the one I took last year with Rolf Potts. 

I am super excited for the opportunity.  I'll be in Paris again -- to learn, observe, and write about the city in new ways!

But also... I'm a bit rusty.  

And sort of an imposter.

My classmates will be worldly and well-traveled.  (I've checked out their websites!)  Some have written books.  Some have made a life out of going to, living in, and writing about new places.  

They don't seem to walk the same few blocks day after day.

I wonder what I'll write about.  How my adventures will compare.

It's not a new question.  I expressed it to Rolf last year at my one-on-one writing conference.  

Is there a place for me as a travel writer -- one who takes small steps in small spaces?

He thought there was.  He encouraged me to go deep, to shape my experiences into stories only I could tell.  

I don't go everywhere and can't do everything, yet is there something special -- even unique -- about slowing down and zooming in?

Day to day, I may not travel far.  

But I can see infinity in one block.

And maybe that's a perpective the world needs too.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Perhaps... Paris

Bonjour from Mile 12,062!

Perhaps I'm in Paris...

Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!

Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is puréed with local tomatoes. 

Normally I'd just grab takeout.  But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.

I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at Cést Deux Euros, the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.

In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." 

Perhapsing is a technique I learned in my travel memoir class --  a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations.  It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm perhapsing.  

So, I am. :)

It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.

Picture this:  One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.

At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!

But then I move in.  Park myself on a pillar nearby.

(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)

She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle.  

Mom is closer to her, more engaged.  
Dad sits farther back, on his phone.

They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so perhapsing is my only option.  I observe -- and put the clues together.

"Mommy, watch!"

"One!" Cartwheel.  
"Two!" Cartwheel.  
"Three!" Cartwheel.

She cascades across the courtyard.  Mom laughs.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind.  

Mom poises her camera.

The girl shoots a peace sign.

Puts her hands on her hips.

Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.

Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.

Then the girl skips to her father.  Pokes her head between his face and his phone.

"Daddy, did you take a photo?"

He looks up.  Smiles.  Pecks her on the cheek.

I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this perhapsed dialogue, and all the details I've perhapsed about this family.

It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.

Au revoir, Palais Royal!

At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.

The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table.  

It's odd on both counts.  

We're at Talula's Daily, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.

I listen in -- and start perhapsing.  (Perhaps the man's name is Herb...)

"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.

Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger.  

"Well, what do you think of that?"

He pauses.  "I just don't think you have to try so hard."

"She's young.  She's having health problems."

"So?"

"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard.  You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon.  She used to work at the hospital, you know."

Herb touches the knot on the bag.  He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure.  

"You mind?" he says.

She sighs.  "Whatever you want.  I'm very agreeable today."

Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems.  Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that.  Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. 

For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.

It's a good place to be.

I look up from my journal.

It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain.  

Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris.  

I get up to leave.  

Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container.  

And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground.  

By some miracle, I catch it.

I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...

Perhaps... I'm still me. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca

A Toast to Paris - and My Peloton!

Mile Marker 12,030:

When my plane lands, my iPhone automatically resets itself to Philadelphia time. 

The next morning, in a haze of jetlag and dreams, I manually reset my Swatch.  An hour later, I realize I've moved the clock's hands but accidentally set them on Paris time, again. 

It feels good to be home...

...especially when my family surprises me
in the arrival hall of the airport!

But I'm not quite ready to let go of Paris.

In the next few postcards, I'll be sharing some work from my Travel Memoir class, as I learned to capture Paris on the page.

On our last day of class, we were assigned to write an ode, eulogy, or toast about our Paris experience, to be shared at a farewell party that evening.

Thanks to classmate Joe for this photo!

I chose to do a toast.  

Here it is (lightly edited)...

Bonsoir everyone!

On my first morning in Paris, I got lost for 3 hours -- just 5 minutes from the door of my apartment.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get oriented or find my way home.

On my second day in Paris -- which was Day 1 of our class -- I stopped to admire a single red rose petal, which someone had dropped on the top step of the Metro.

It had been a long, full day with more walking than I'm used to, and I was exhausted.  

While commuters rushed past me up the stairs, one after the other, I paused on every step to rest my legs. 

I felt like that rose petal, left behind in a city that moved too fast. 

Would I be able to keep up with the pace of Paris -- and my "able-bodied" classmates?  

I knew it wouldn't be easy for me.  I'd been preparing for this trip all year.

This included walking 16 blocks to and from work, which, I predicted, would be the distance from my Paris apartment to our classroom building.  It was the first time I'd walked to work since my amputation 12 years ago.

My friends joked that I was training for the Tour de France.  

(And they weren't far off!)

On Days 2 and 3, Paris picked up the pace. 

I nearly got trapped in a turn style at the Pyramides Metro.  I wrote about a Spanish family in the Jardin du Palais Royal.  I gave up my seat at a sidewalk café for a family of 11 from Boston -- and ended up next to a family of Japanese Youtubers, dramatically unboxing a cheesecake.

Along the way, I settled into our classroom space, aptly called a "Cocoon."

There, I was swept up by the momentum of all of YOU -- my classmates -- travelers, writers, and now friends.  Turns out, I didn't have to keep pace on my own.

You became my peloton.

By Day 4, I finally had the energy to join everyone for an evening out.  

As [new friend] Kim and I walked through the Parisian drizzle to the Metro together, I spied -- not just one petal -- but a whole bouquet of roses, scattered along the wet pavement.

This time, I wasn't the only one
who stopped to admire it!

Tonight, on our last night together, this is a toast to MOVING ON.

Not toward a finish line or to writing "the end" -- but to new beginnings, new travels, and new friends.

To moving forward in whatever directions we choose, with creativity and companionship...

...TOGETHER.

À bientôt, Paris.

Je t'aime!

Rebecca

P.S.  Merci beaucoup to our leaders Rolf, Diane, & Kiki -- and my peloton -- for a Tour de France I'll never forget!

Allez!

Twelve years ago this week, I wrote a little post called Go!

July 9, 2011

See that look on my face?  

That cautious smile of joy and relief.  After 8 long months of recovery and rebuilding, I had finally reached the start of a new journey.

I thought those first steps would propel me full speed ahead.  I thought I already had the hang of it.

Little did I know, we don't face the starting line just once.  

We step up to it day after day after day... (x 12 years and counting!)

Now, as I pass Go for the dozenth time, I'm preparing for yet another change in direction. 

My friends joke that I'm in training for the Tour de France.  

And they're not far off.

Soon, I'll be embarking on a travel writing course -- in PARIS!

(Remember author Rolf Potts who inspired Mile 9,393?  He's teaching it!)  

It's true.  I have been training for this.  

Walking longer and farther.    

Adjusting my prosthetic socket.

Doing PT exercises to aid my digestion.

Sweat-testing my leg.

This whole year, I've been working to get my body (and hardware) in shape to keep up with "able-bodied" classmates while trekking around Paris in the summer heat.

Of course, as I near the finish line, plans unravel.

My body reacts terribly to a new medication.  My prosthesis clicks and beeps in all the wrong places.  Even my household appliances are on the fritz...

Help!  I need a sign.  (Or maybe fewer signs!)

Enter the Tour de France.

(The real one!)

I'm just a spectator, but I take its lessons to heart.

These riders are the best of the best.  They've dreamed and trained and, in many cases, crawled their way back from life-threatening injuries to qualify for this epic race -- 21 stages in 23 days -- the most challenging event in professional cycling.  

I see their steepest climbs and sharpest descents.  I cringe when they crash.  I watch with wonder as they get back on their bikes.

There are 22 teams.  

Which means 22+ strategies.  

Which means their plans unravel too,  

Often as they near the finish line. 

They just pedal harder.

Each stage ends in utter exhaustion.   

And then -- in the blazing sun of the next day -- the riders take their places at another starting line ALL OVER AGAIN.

They know nothing of me -- with my little Peacock subscription and my even smaller TV screen.  I'm just another fan watching from afar, a former biker, shouting Allez! from my couch in Philly.

And yet, I feel connected.  

It's their RESILIENCE that resonates most.

I'm amazed how they step up to that start line and embrace a new "stage" -- day after day after day.

It's been 12 years, and I'm approaching 12,000 MILES on a prosthetic leg. 

Journey willing, that start line will be Paris!

And if I'm lucky, I'll watch those riders from the sidelines -- as they sprint toward the finish of their final stage -- and I'll be shouting Allez! in person.

I'll send you a postcard. 

Allez!

Rebecca

P.S.  I found a sign :)

A Better Place to Be

Newport, Rhode Island could be the set of a Hallmark movie.

From our table at the Corner Café, Natalie and I get a peek behind the scenes.

Just off camera:  Three middle school moms sneaking out early while their teens are still in bed.  A young bearded guy on a barstool.  A woman with 2 little girls in ribbons and party dresses.  And a wrinkle-clothed regular who shuffles out for a smoke while his breakfast is cooking. 

It's Sunday, 7:30 AM, and we're surrounded by locals.

What are their lives like here?  

Why are they out so early on a weekend? 

As we wait for our eggs, Nat and I write the script.  We imagine who they are, why they're here today -- and what brings them together at this little breakfast spot across from the local school.

It's fun.  Relaxing.  And I'm happy to be here among them.

Travel is tricky for me, especially in the mornings.  Which makes this moment -- the mug of coffee, the sticky jam, the thick multigrain toast -- an extra special treat. 

It's the end of our weekend in Newport and, like any good Hallmark movie, the town has pulled us in for a hug.

Last night we met a student from the yacht-building academy, who happened to be our waiter at Knot Norm's.

He introduced us to the "lobster bowl."
(Not roll!)

Before that, we met Lew, a science teacher from Northeast Philly, who has settled in Newport for his retirement.   

He gave us a history lesson
at the Touro Synagogue!  

And because we're us, we also took ourselves on a tour of the library! 

It's the Redwood --

one of the oldest in the country!

In 2 short days, we've made ourselves at home here -- mansions and all.

I could get used to this. :)

And why not?

The air smells like seafood and campfires. 

Church bells chime on the hour.

Cars come to a stop at every crosswalk. 

And there's water anywhere we wander.  

We give up trying to figure out which waves are which...

...and just enjoy the splash of sunset.

Days flow better here.  

Sunrise is 20 minutes earlier.  (Really!)

And red leaves abound, making spring feel like fall.  

We call them "Newport Maples."

We can't get enough.  It's like a show we want to binge-watch, yet savor at the same time.

We shop at a local bookstore.  

Meet a local artist.  

Become regulars at the local coffee place.

Where we sample the local drink, of course --

Coffee Milk!

We even learn what the local pineapple symbol means...

Hospitality!

Newport is not perfect -- or easy.   Nowhere is.  

Even with trekking poles, I can only manage a small portion of the Cliffwalk.  I get too hot too fast.  I nearly sweat out of my leg and die of thirst along the way. 

(Ok, exaggerating a bit...
but it's not my finest moment!)

That's just one example.  

I feel slow and "stumbly" a lot of the time.  Throughout the weekend, we stop so I can tend to leg adjustments and other physical needs.

In that way, it reminds me of a different road trip many miles ago -- back at Mile 21 -- my first time traveling after my amputation.  

Back then, I had the idea that if I just practiced enough, I'd somehow find my way to a better place -- to where I was before the accident.

My gait (and feelings) have evolved over time, but I still grapple with similar challenges.  

Now, I've realized, they're just part of the journey.

In an instant, we're back home, and that harbor breeze is just a memory.  

Philly turns hot and sticky. 

My right foot doesn't feel right.

And at 10 PM, the city launches a new construction project, sending a monsoon of dust and gravel into my beloved balcony garden.

I lie in bed and imagine moving to Newport.

I know, I know.  I'm sure reality would catch up with me there too.

Eventually.

Maybe Nat and I will put our heads together and write that screenplay.  Or maybe the Corner Café will be the setting for my next novel.

I like to think of our characters back there in Newport, still living their lives.  Kinda wish I could join them.

Who wouldn't want to step inside a Hallmark movie?

It's just a better place to be.

P.S.  Writing this postcard made me think of this song by Harry Chapin.  It's not about Rhode Island, but it's a sweet story - and one of my faves.  If you need an 8-minute vacation, give it a listen. :)  

Happy travels!

What place gives you that "back-to-normal" feeling?

At Mile Marker 9,525...

I shop.  

At a bookstore.

In person.

A trip to Inkwood Books is always a treat.  But after 14 months of browsing online, this feels like a luxury vacation!  

Just imagine...

Plant an Idea

Greetings from Mile 9400 --

Where ideas take root in Washington Square!

Mônica and I always walk the same route.  

Fewer decisions about streets and sidewalks leaves space for other things - like talking about her children's books or my November novel, or even this next step on the blog...

Walk Until Your Day Becomes Interesting

Mile Marker 9393:

What's interesting about your walk?

Ok, go.

Got nothing?  

Nope.  Me either...

What's your story?

Mile Marker 7816:

Stay calm, breathe; you're in good hands, competent hands; these hands can save your life; they've saved others' lives, applied bandages, hooked up IV lines, removed pain; relax, that one drip will bring relief; inhale the tingling that feels like fireflies in your head; lie back on the clean, sterile sheet, newly spread across the gurney just for you; stay calm, breathe; relief is just moments away; brace yourself for the long haul; inhale past the tube in your nose and throat, scratchy and hard-to-swallow; embrace the heartbeat of the hospital; bandages on and off; new IVs every three days; nurses in and out, 7 to 7, like sunrise and sunset; stay calm, breathe; lie back against the raised head of your bed; press a button, help will come; the days will start and end and start again; time will crawl by; keep your eyes on the second hand of the clock, the one that hangs on the blue wall across from your bed (a blue darker and more muddled than the sea or sky); count the minutes, the hours till morning; watch the tiny DVD screen; stare out your doorway into the dim light of the corridor; close your eyes; stay calm, breathe.

Whew.  

Robot Mom

Mile Marker 6,100:

Yep, that's me.

A lot has happened since my last blog post.

On an unsuspecting Monday at the end of November, I got a phone call.  And 90 minutes later, I became a mom.

How to Climb Anything

Mile Marker 5373:

I stand on the floor, fingers curled around the start holds.  Carabiners locked.  Leg locked.  

"Climbing!" I call.

And whoever's belaying me -- Sarah, or Sara, or Marian, or Jacki, or Peet, or Julia, or Carly, or Alyson, or Jake  -- calls back.

"Climb on!"

Those two small words launch me up the rock wall.

My goal this summer had nothing to do with climbing...

C'est La Vie!

Mile Marker 4946:

Your sorrow will become smaller, like a star in the daylight that you can't even see.  It's there, shining, but there is also a vast expanse of blue sky.

--Alice Hoffman, Survival Lessons

"You've been busy."

That's what my surgeons said when they walked into my hospital room the day my mom hung the article on the wall...

A Book?!

Mile Marker 4240:

I took my first step toward a thousand miles on July 9, 2011.

Today marks 5 years and 1 month of taking tiny steps toward a very large goal -- and telling my story along the way.  It's turned into something pretty cool:  224 blog posts (including this one), readers from 10 countries (according to Blogger stats), and over 140,000 page views!

I always figured friends and family would follow my journey, but I never imagined the story might appeal to others, or take on a life of its own.

That's where Donna comes in.