You know, people always discounted me, too.

You know, people always discounted me, too.

I have decided that, in memory of my father, who died on either March 17 or March 18, 1962, I am discounting my memoir. I mean I am discounting the price of my memoir–that book is nothing to discount!

I have NINE of these on Amazon!

You don’t have to believe me. I have NINE of these reviews on Amazon!

The price for the e-book on Amazon and on Smashwords is now $2.99. Go to my page about my Memoir for all the links.

Due to the technical difficulties beyond my control mental capacities, I decided to go the coupon route to discount the price on the paperback version to $7.99. Use the following code to get $4.00 off the retail price: ZKRYQPY8. This code is good indefinitely.

I'm pretty sure this guy generates these wacky codes. Sorry.

I’m pretty sure this guy generates these wacky codes. Sorry.

As always, putting up a review of the book on Amazon, Smashwords, Goodreads, your blog, and the site of any famous agent or Hollywood producer would be just swell!

And spread the word that the book is now more affordable but just as witty and poignant as ever!

Okay, that's very impressive. You can really spread things. But spreading the word about my book would also be great.

Okay, that’s very impressive. You can really spread things. But spreading the word about my book would also be great.

And now, for a little snippet about my father from the book, again in memory of him…

Here he is, my Daddy, Bobby, with my mom's parents and baby Tina.

Here he is, my Daddy, Bobby, with my mom’s parents and baby Tina.

When all you have of your father are photographs and papers with his name on them, he is a two-dimensional character in a three-dimensional world. No wonder I was so confused about him.

My parents’ marriage endured a little more than six years. I obtained information about my father by asking questions (mostly asking my mom when I was old enough to be seen and heard) or by uncovering things I wasn’t supposed to see. My father was all of the following things to me at different points in my life: stranger, hero, angel, devil, victim, and flawed human being.

But he was never a father.

The people who knew him—if anyone ever really knew him—and knew about what happened to him, didn’t want to talk about him “in polite company.” I guess “polite company” included children, specifically, my sisters and me. Was it because the people who knew were trying to protect us? Was it because they were trying to protect themselves from reliving their own pain or shame? Was it easier to erase him than to acknowledge him? Does it even matter?

My father wasn’t the only secret in our family, but he was the best-kept one. He was such a well-kept secret, in fact, that I wasn’t fully aware that I had once had a father until I was almost ten years old. Before then, I believed that fathers didn’t really exist except on television. The TV fathers were, of course, handsome, wise, and kind, even when doling out much-needed punishment to their children for their childish shenanigans. I didn’t have a father, though, and I didn’t feel I needed one because I was the last little girl you’d find involved in any kind of shenanigan.

Growing up with a mystery father affected me more than I could ever have imagined. I can’t say whether the secrets my family kept from me served me or not when I was young. What I can say is that, once the secrets were revealed, the truth about my father explained a lot about me. Which helped explain why I felt so lost.


I have so few memories of my father that I can claim as my own that I can count them on the fingers of one hand.

1. I was crawling into the bathroom while he was sitting on “the john.” He told me to go away.

2. I was sitting on his big lap and we were playing the game “hot and cold” with a piece of plastic fence from a farm set. We were both laughing. His laugh came deep from his belly and went all the way up to his crinkled eyes.

3. I was sitting beside him in his pick-up truck. Tina was sitting on his lap and he was letting her drive, or at least hold her hands on the steering wheel. I was awestruck that my five-year-old sister was driving that big truck up our twisting driveway. He told us not to tell Mommy, which made me wonder if Tina’s driving or Daddy trusting us not to tell was the best part of that truck ride.

4. He was very angry about something. I knew he was angry because he was yelling and I could feel the fury in the air. It felt hot and shaky. I thought I heard him say that he was going to shoot a rabbit. Then my mom started crying and yelling at him to stop. I didn’t understand why she got so upset over a rabbit. When he slammed the door to the trailer, I think some glass broke.

Daddy died when I was four. I call him “Daddy” because that’s who he is when I remember him.

What did he leave behind?

1. Three little girls. Lisa (who had just turned two), me (age four), and Tina (who was just about to turn six and was sick with some kind of trouble that made her pale, thin, and important).

2. My twenty-nine-year-old mother, who became the official head of the household, when all she ever wanted to be was the best wife and mother known to mankind.

3. A small life insurance policy, unpaid bills, not much cash, and the trailer we were living in. Mom sold the trailer and used the money she had to bury him and buy a brand new Ford Fairlane 500. It was black with a gray vinyl interior. Mom called it “Nellie.”

4. His family, which didn’t support my mom or us girls, either financially or emotionally. Since my grandpa was a dentist and lived in a real house, I figured he was rich and would help us. But I don’t think he believed in charity. Maybe he wanted to build our character, as if losing Daddy wasn’t enough to teach us how be characters.

Golly, this is good. Why'd ya have ta stop? Guess I'll have ta git Ma or Pa ta buy the book, I gotta see why this Lorna gal is so lost.

Golly, this is good. Why’d ya have ta stop? Guess I’ll have ta git Ma or Pa ta buy the book, I gotta see why this Lorna gal is so lost.