A Little About Me
I am an adventure seeking ponderer of the mysteries of the universe, writer of children's books (represented by Stephen Fraser of the Jennifer DeChiara Literary Agency), and lover of anything involving armor, archery, or swashbuckling.
MAY 2-3, 2020
Share the Joy of Reading with
14 February 2020
Holy Schlamoly – honored that my post “2 A.M.” was
- FROM MRS. HUMBUG TO YOU – A (sort of) Holiday Greeting
- IT’S DECEMBER? WHAT HAPPENED TO NOVEMBER?
- ODE TO ME BONNIE BLUE PLAID WELLIES
- THE CASE OF THE PURLOINED PICKLE
- MINDING MY Ps AND Qs – A Punctilious Quest
- MINING 4 MEMORIES IN THE LEAST LIKELY PLACE
- SECRETS, LIES, and SFOGLIADELL’
- IN HOT PURSUIT OF THE UNTETHERED MIND
Member Since 2007
© 2012-2019 Donna Gwinnell Lambo Weidner
Punishment for ignoring said © is, at best, death by hanging from the tallest yardarm. Content may be shared for non-commercial use as long as credit is given to Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner and linked to http://donnaweidner.com All photo, art, and media content that is not my own are for representational + non-commercial purposes. I do my best to give credit where it is due.
BLOG-MATIES I VISIT
Category Archives: ROAD TRIP
I woke up this morning, with my back to a tree wond’ring how on earth my chin hairs had grown past my dimpled knees. The last thing I remember, someone cried out, “trick-or-treat!” Now it’s suddenly December? Are those gnomes … Continue reading
Oh, y’ve done me well, me bonnie blue plaid wellies, always keepin’ me from sinkin’ deep in bogs squishy, black, an’ smelly. I’ve enjoyed our strolls across lush fairy glens, twistin’ up trails o’ sweet smellin’ heather,
Extreme weather boots. Hat. Insulated gloves. Balaclava (baklava, optional) Back, neck, hand and foot heat packs Thermal socks…and…and…and. The list was long. About this time three years ago, I was packing for an arctic adventure. Thirty-six months ago, I had … Continue reading
The only thing missing from the stone tower resting up against a craggy cliff side along the southern California coast is a sixty-foot silken braid trailing from the top window slit to the rocky beach below. Well, maybe the thick, … Continue reading
Quimmer. Stranded. Separated from his pack. About as visible as a grain of sand stuck to the smooth side of a seashell, the dog stands on a slab of sea ice floating atop the placid waves of Scorsbysund. Four days ago, … Continue reading
“I’d rather be here, with you, than anywhere else in the world.” When the man in the mountain spoke, it wasn’t with words. A wave of warm air rippled across his furrowed forehead, crept over his craggy face, and burst … Continue reading
Clouds of steam rise from bubbling pits on the pocked landscape. It smells like Beelzebub is venting a batch of burned hard-boiled eggs from his sizzling subterranean scullery far below our hiking booted feet.