Clutching her tan suitcase, Thelma stepped aboard the Greyhound bus. With her free hand, she swept a film of dust from an empty seat. Dust. It was like a crazed intruder. “What is it like anyway,” Thelma wondered, “that Golden State?”* During the writing of “Living with a Limp,” I would periodically pause and immerse myself in scenes of the imagination. The aim was to relive as best I could a crisis here, an adventure there from true-life happenings of a bygone era. I had been granted the luxury of catching bits and pieces of story as shared and then repeated in various settings by my near and distant kin through the years. “Limp” is personal for me.