L. A. Little-Freed
Copyright 2012 L.A. Little-Freed
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For every nut, there is a bolt. In my machinist days I was always hunting for a bolt to fit my nut and when I did, it was a small victory. It would take this little nut thirty-seven years to find her bolt, but when I did, I found I’d been sitting next to him for ten years.
I have written a book, I just don’t know what kind of a book it is. Maybe we could call it an autobiography, but I’m only covering forty-two years. How about a memoir? That evokes a picture of an old lady in a black dress, limping around with her cane and when asked if she still has an active love life she says, “Dearie, I hung crape on that thing years ago.” This is not me. I still wear scrub tops with holes and shorts. I am still here.
This is a love letter hidden in a conversation, disguised as an autobiography, and masquerading as a book.