It was infinitely possible for me to leave home and become an adventuress, because I was so secure in the knowledge that my father would always be there for me, would always love me, and would always want me to “Come home. Love, Dad.”

November 17, 1971

My dear Shelly,

The days roll on changing their length to weeks and months and going by thro’ the years – which brings to mind a children’s poem”

There was a crooked man,

And he went a crooked mile

He found a crooked sixpence

Against a crooked stile

He bought a crooked cat,

Which caught a crooked mouse

And they all lived together

In a little crooked house.