Episodios

  • A Nearly Extinct Private Language

    A Nearly Extinct Private Language
    Jun 10 2025
    In this story, a nearly extinct private language. I’m Joanne Greene.
    Every family has its special phrases. You know, the ones that crack you up while everyone outside of the immediate circle tilts their heads like a dog saying “huh”?
    Can you ever agree on whether it’s mischievous or mischeivious? (The former.) Is it “on accident” or “by accident”? Clearly, the latter.
    In 2002, years before my sister Rayna was too sick to laugh, her husband created a lengthy document entitled The Joys of Raynglish, “the language of Rayna Gay Rosenzweig Rodvien.”
    To begin, everyone in Rayna’s life had a series of nicknames. Our mother, Irene, was also known as beans, ahrene, beans a roo, beans terrific, and of course ahrennee gabeenee.
    I was affectionately referred to as jo, Jo Mamma, josphesus , Mademoyzel, Josephine, and simply, the plumber (with a Boston accent, plumah). (Some of you might remember Josephine the plumber.)
    Phrases like “What’s your story, morning glory?” What’s your matter? And How are you this very morning?” were her frequent salutations.
    If you were running late, and God help you, she’d say “Yo! Move it or lose it!” “We’re late, for a very important date!” “Get crackin’” or “Hoof it to poof it”
    When her memory failed her in the moment, she’d refer to nouns as whootsa matootsies, thingamajiggy, whatchama call its, whoozie whatsits and the ever populular whatcha ma floozy.
    Other notable Raynglish words and phrases: Correctamundo! Hold your pants! Whoop de do!” Don’t staht with me Busteroo!”, You ain’t whistling dixiola and Let’s blow this pop stand; we’re outa here.
    And if you think I’m running out, perish the thought. From my big sister I learned
    “What part of the word NO don’t you understand?
    “I’m not deaf, I’m just ignoring you”
    And “Any port in a storm”…that one is so useful.
    I miss all the Yiddish we used to share – chatchkees, fapootsed, shilpkes, ungapachkeyed, mishegass and Shayna panemal…madela, punim or tatela.
    Chocolate – milk, never dark – was Rayna’s love language. She proudly described herself as a tootsaholic – someone who would start popping tootsie rolls before 10am. Here motto: chocolate: It’s not just for breakfast anymore. Once her cancer was stage four, she’d order hot fudge sundaes as her main course for lunch. And heaven help the waiter who didn’t bring it with everyone else’s salad, or worse, tried to pass off chocolate syrup as hot fudge.
    Children were Rayna’s favorite people – Most were munchkins; all were cutesy tootsy.
    And when her children mispronounced or misused a word, that’s it. It was now part of the lexicon. Thus, United Market became Mynited. Grandma Essie didn’t live in Miami; she lived in her ami. If more than one phone call came in for someone, they were POPLEAR. A homerun or extra credit was FABLEEOS.
    So many words and phrases acquired their own suffixes. For instance, if someone said the word Life, Rayna would add “to life, to life, l’chayim!” If she heard someone referred to as rude, she’d respond by saying “rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.” To “you got it”, she’d add “Totoya”… Progress would then necessitate her adding “is our most important product.” And “I don’t know” would elicit “That makes two of us.”
    And finally, her verbal love language…
    Topogeege….(you might remember the mouse on the Ed Sullivan show)
    Mista Pista
    Swootzie
    And Tootsie me doots.

    I’ve got places to go, people to see, she’d say…. F you and the horse you rode in on! And her signature display of gratitude, THANKING YOOM!
    Thanks to Bob for gathering all of this and so much more in one place. Here’s hoping that your private language brings you joy.

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    5 m
  • Sleep Interruptus

    Sleep Interruptus
    May 16 2025
    In this story, sleep interruptus. I’m Joanne Greene.
    When I opened my eyes, I noticed that I was in a very comfortable bed, my son’s bed, that is my son and his wife’s bed, the fourth bed I’d slept in that night. This nighttime bed hopping is part of my role as grandma. Yoyo, they call me. It’s a moniker first shared by my great nephew, now 25 years old.
    The night began with a reading of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile, a classic story that teaches acceptance of differences, kindness, tolerance, and flexibility, with a healthy dose of humor. Axel was a very tired four-year old, after a day at the STEAM festival, operating a flight simulator, drilling with safety goggles, building a small wiggle bott, assembling a light switch, reading books at the library, and completing a transportation puzzle. I lied next to him in his bed until his steady breathing let me know that he was, in fact, asleep. Then I snuck out of the room for a break until I would be inevitably called to do the same with his older sister, Lisette, once her aunt said goodnight after listening to her read Shel Silverstein poems. Predictably, she requested that Yoyo come up and stay with her for a while.
    After watching the final quarter in which the Warriors won their playoff game, I got into bed to read. Ten minutes later, I was fast asleep. And it’s a good thing because, an hour later, Axel arrived to join me in bed. He fell back to sleep; I did not. When Fred arrived, he was shocked to see a sleeping child and kindly agreed to carry him back up to his own bed. Finally, sleep returned for me. But not for long. When Lisette arrived and shook my arm, I startled.
    “Why do you always jump when I wake you up?” she asked. Apparently, her parents are so accustomed to being awakened this way that they just open their eyes. She crawled into bed between us but then reported that she felt squished. And so, I walked her back upstairs and, in hopes of returning to sleep as quickly as possible, I got into her bed. But she was coughing intermittently, and squirming around, and it was both too light in her room due to the projected stars on the walls and ceiling, and too warm for me. And so, when she calmed down enough for me to escape, I did.
    Returning to my original bed felt great, until Fred started snoring, and then cracked his knuckles. I hate the sound of cracking knuckles. And then I felt sorry for myself, wanting only some peace and quiet. I tapped him on the arm and said that I was going up to our son’s room and hoped to sleep in. And, by that I meant that I’d like not to be disturbed, at least for the first morning shift.
    About an hour later, I heard the pitter pat of little feet. The door to my son’s bedroom, my temporary sanctuary, was opened and closed. Loudly. Axel then went downstairs to sleep with Grandpa, after hearing why Yoyo wasn’t in the bed.
    I awoke at 6:58am, which may sound early but, in fact, was a relatively civilized time to arise when in charge of the littles. I stumbled downstairs in search of coffee, a veritable lifeline, and began making their breakfasts. How is it that I love everything about this so much. I can sleep next week when we’re home. Or maybe even here tonight, when their parents will be the first line of defense. Sleep, for the most part, is overrated.

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    4 m
  • There's More Than One Boston Accent

    There's More Than One Boston Accent
    May 2 2025
    In this story, there’s more than one Boston accent. I’m Joanne Greene.
    For many, if not most of you, the words “merry”, “marry” and “Mary” are all pronounced the same way. Merry, merry, merry. But for me, born and raised just outside of Boston, they are three distinct words…Listen closely.
    “Merry” is generally associated with Christmas, as in MERRY Christmas.
    “Marry” is what happens at a wedding. She will MARRY her partner.
    And “Mary” is a name. Mary J Blige…Mary Oliver…Mary Quite Contrary.
    There’s nothing that gives me the heeby jeebies more than someone trying and failing to deliver an authentic Boston accent. And people do it all the time, in person and – worse – in movies.
    Insert example of bad Boston accent
    It’s a litmus test. Actors can master a British accent, a southern drawl, or Brooklyn speak with minimal effort but the real sound of any number of Boston accents must be and rarely is right on the money. Either the person is from Boston, has at least lived in Boston, or they haven’t. Case closed. Mark Wahlberg , Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, …..these actors can pull it off, precisely because they were, at one pivotal, formative time in their lives, proper Bostonians.
    Boston accents can be funny…or erudite…They can make one sound as dumb as rocks or as smaaaht as a very smaaat Hahvad educated cah.
    Insert excerpt of Smaht Cah commercial
    The subtleties are worth noting.
    Take the word horse, for example, HORSE.
    It’s “HAHSS”, if you come from, say, most of Boston proper
    In Southie, South Boston to the uninitiated, it might sound more like “HAWSS”
    Where I grew up, in Brookline, the mounted police (mounties, of course) rode a “HOOAS”.
    One common thread in all Boston accents is the dropping of the “r” sound…but don’t get too carried away with this rule as Bostonians also add an “r” sound, when it’s not there, to separate two vowels. For instance, “Rayna and Bob” in a standard American accent becomes “RayneranBob” in the mouth of a Bostonian. The nuances abound, which is why the accent is so tough to get right.
    When I first moved to the San Francisco Bay Area and applied for an on-air job in radio, I was told that I had to lose the regionalism. What regionalism I questioned? Californians often mistook me for a New Yorker, but I assured them that what they were picking up was East Coast, possibly Jewish, energy and speech patterns. I went to a voice coach and worked on it, which is why I eventually did get hired to speak on the radio and why, today, only the most sophisticated accent detectors can pin me down as a gal from Brookline.
    I share all of this in the hopes of saving you the trouble, and avoiding the inevitable humiliation, of trying & failing to imitate a Boston accent. Maybe, just maybe, you can say “pahk the cah in Hahvad yad” but that’s it. Promise?

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    4 m
  • My Relationship With Words

    My Relationship With Words
    Apr 4 2025
    In this story, my relationship with words. I’m Joanne Greene.
    When I was 2 years old, they couldn’t shut me up. I babbled with unintelligible sounds until I landed a few words and, from then on, it was Chatty Cathy. Continuous communication. By the way, Chatty Cathy was a doll in the late 50s early 60s who spoke when you pulled her string, a doll my parents would not let me have, for obvious reasons. They didn’t need more words. To save their sanity, they sent me to preschool at age 2 which, in 1956, was damn near revolutionary.
    Words have always been my jam. Numbers were taken by my math majoring siblings and bookkeeping mother. I, on the other hand, was excited to discover that bookkeeping has three double letters in a row (two o’s, two k’s, two e’s.) And that’s where my fascination with bookkeeping ended. I passed notes to my friends to get through long afternoons at Hebrew School, sent letters all summer to anyone whose address I’d snagged, and kept diaries from the time I could hold a pen. Words have always served me. I could turn them inside out, make them rhyme, and express my deep inner thoughts even when alone in my room. I fancied myself a writer, which was why, in high school, when I was NOT accepted into theAdvanced Placement Creative Writing class, I thought my future was shattered.
    The hopefuls were gathered into a classroom, after school, and given 20 minutes to write an essay, a poem, or whatever else based on a one-word prompt: CRYSTAL. That’s it? I gulped. Crystal? And then I got to work.
    Somehow, the lined notebook paper on which I wrote has survived all these years. At the very top, under my name, is the date: March 26, 1969. At the risk of hopelessly embarrassing myself and in the hope of giving the rest of you a good laugh, here goes:
    My Crystal.
    My crystal: a multitude of purpose
    A many-sided reflection
    A king of schizophrenic hypocracy (misspelled) of a cut up being
    An ice cube melts to droplets and, like my crystal, reveals transparency.
    I see the reverberating pierces of ambiguity (did I mean pierces or pieces?) and vision….through reality unto my dreams.
    Me as a whole is many times duplicated, and I begin to interpret…a bit.
    But then I re-look…re-see…and reconsider. (re-look is not a thing)
    Ah, it isn’t solely me who is cut up…and reappearingly formulated (also, incorrect)
    It is also my eyes.
    And since my tools of vision are reflected also, then I can’t see through to the end.
    My crystal is useless, for there is no meaning.

    You can see why I was rejected. Undaunted, I kept writing…and also correcting people who made glaring verbal grammatical errors. What’s worse, nails on a chalkboard, or having to grit your teeth when someone says “her and I went to the movies”? EEEEEE There’s a difference between your sandwich and you’re like a sandwich. A lot is not one four letter word. Than and then are not one and the same. You get the point. My nieces and nephew called me a grammar nazi. Thankfully, I was able to make the point with my two sons that incorrect grammar can lead to (obviously incorrect) assumptions about your intelligence, your education, your knowledge base. Their grammar, I breathe a sigh of relief, is not a problem.
    The thing about words…as wonderful as they are for expressing our thoughts, creating beauty and meaning, addressing societal needs, helping people to cope and move through challenging times, is that they, words, can heal and they can hurt. I’ve learned, over the decades, that sometimes…every now and then…it’s best if I just listen and keep my words to myself.


    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    5 m
  • Escaping Flames

    Escaping Flames
    Mar 21 2025
    In this story, I escape some flames. I’m Joanne Greene.
    It was 1979 in San Francisco, and I was flying high as a news anchor at the legendary FM radio station, K-S-A-N, affectionately called KSAN. I was in love with Fred Greene, morning show producer and part time jock, and my career was the envy of aspiring radio journalists. Metromedia, KSAN’s parent company, had brought in a new General Manager from Los Angeles to “right the ship.” He’d successfully turned big profits at KMET in LA and the suits in NY thought his approach would work in SF. However then, as now, LA and SF are very different beasts.
    It took one, maybe two, officious memos from the new GM, for the staff to start revolting, some more dramatically than others. On one particular day Thom O’Hair, longtime San Francisco air personality, had taken a tab or two of acid. He and my news partner Chris Stanley were on a tear about the new GM whom they’d renamed from L. David Morehead to El Nuclear Warhead. Taking their loud protestation outside the station, they quickly found themselves pounding shots at the Financial Corner, the bar on the next block.
    The combination of LSD and alcohol wasn’t new to O’Hair, but I was concerned that the results would be unpredictable at best, particularly since I was to anchor the news in his afternoon air-shift. They returned from the bar at 2:55 and Tom went directly into the studio to cue up his first record. As I walked into the studio to deliver the 3pm newscast, I saw something different in O’Hair’s eyes. He’d often displayed a mischievous glint, but this was something else - something maniacal, diabolical. Oh no. What’s he going to do? I held my breath, and my stack of papers. Would he turn on my microphone and let me do the newscast? Would I be able to do my job and leave the studio without incident? Instead, as the song was ending and I was gathering my stack of notes and miscellaneous wire copy from which I would tell rather than read the news as was our signature KSAN style, O’Hair grabbed my papers, flipped a Bic lighter which he pulled out of nowhere, it seemed, and set my news copy on fire.
    Oh. My. God. I was holding a torch. News flambe. My eyes doubled in size as my jaw dropped in shock. In a nanosecond, I started blowing and by some stroke of luck, I apparently had enough air in my lungs to turn my news copy into charred ashes just as the record ended. Tom opened my microphone and walked out of the studio chuckling. Somehow, somewhere, I found my voice.
    “It’s 3 o’clock and this is KSAN, San Francisco,” I heard myself say. And then I went on to ad lib a newscast. It wasn’t pretty, but I made it out of the studio five minutes later with a shred of dignity, a healthy dose of anger, and the knowledge that, like my ancestors fleeing persecution in Europe, I was a survivor.



    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    5 m
  • What to Take When Forced to Evacuate

    What to Take When Forced to Evacuate
    Mar 7 2025
    In October of 1991, we lived in the Oakland Hills…the area in which the tunnel fire, also known as the Oakland Firestorm, killed 25 people, injured 150 others, and devoured 2,843 single-family dwellings and 437 apartments. Thankfully, our home was unharmed but the same could not be said for many of our friends. Before the fire was controlled, we were briefly allowed into our home to salvage precious belongings. We took videotapes, photo albums, and journals – irreplacables. We thought about taking the bird but concurred that having our family and dog at my sister’s house was enough of an imposition. We loaded up Birdy’s food dishes and wished her the best. I thought of that day recently as the Palisades and Altadena fires raged in Los Angeles. What would I take today if we were evacuated?
    Most of our photos and videos reside in the cloud; most, though not all, of my writing is safe in Dropbox. I would still grab my oldest journals, the small books that recorded my eighth-grade thoughts on racism, the agonizing wait for my high school boyfriend to call, the fear of losing my identity during my first pregnancy (how, I couldn’t imagine, would I still be me and be a mother?), and the anticipatory grief as my mother and sister simultaneously moved closer to death. These are bits and pieces of me, glimpses into my unfiltered musings, that occasionally ground me and remind me that at my core, I’m still that adventurous, imaginative, outraged, loving, anxious, creative little girl.
    I wear the jewelry that carries meaning – my wedding ring, an identical twin to Fred’s, that was created from gold from our previous lives and shaped into interconnecting infinity signs; my mother’s engagement and wedding rings, soldered together to give them added strength having been worn by her, or me, for nearly 100 years. I would grab my earliest photo albums, with pictures of my parents on their honeymoon, of my siblings and cousins before I was born, of my 9th grade classmates, of my bunkmates in pajamas, of my dorm room at Northwestern.
    I would bring my dog, Moxie, of course, because the thought of life without her unconditional love and big brown eyes, her annoyingly endless licking of my face, would be impossibly challenging if we were in exile. I would grab enough pills to get me through a week, maybe some fruit and nuts, and as much water as I could manage, and a first aid kit. I’d wear low rise hiking boots to keep my feet dry and my body safer if falling on uneven terrain, plus layers of clothing and a waterproof outer layer.
    I understand that my clothing, as well as my new Vince sneakers and comfy navy boots, can all be replaced…..that books, while incredibly meaningful, don’t need to be owned….and that art, while unique and inspirational, can be made again.
    All of what I’ll bring will fit easily into either of our cars. But what will Fred bring and how in hell will I convince him to leave the bulk of his precious possessions behind? I console myself with the thought that each of us gets to choose what to bring, even if we can’t come up with a reason. And if I didn’t have even a moment to gather the items that cannot be replaced, I would assure myself that surviving a disaster with my family intact is really all that would truly matter.

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    5 m
  • Taking Our Temperature

    Taking Our Temperature
    Feb 21 2025
    In this story, we take our temperature. I’m Joanne Greene.
    Now I understand why the elderly have always worn cardigans. They’re easier to put on and take off when our collective thermostats die.
    Case in point. This morning. There was frost on the ground, so I bundled up before taking my dog and grand dog for a forest therapy walk in the woods. Gloves, a beanie, and a parka seemed about right. And it was. For about 10 minutes. Then, off came the hat; I’ve never liked things on my head. Fifteen minutes later, the gloves came off…and I don’t mean that metaphorically. It was actually warm, in the way that California sun can trick you into believing that summer is approaching, even when plants are frozen. Eventually, dogs bounding around, in and out of mud puddles, off leash, it occurred to me that I had to keep track of all the items I was holding….gloves, hat, leashes, phone, headphones. You get the picture.
    It made me think of yesterday, when the family room felt so cold that I pulled a big cushion up to the fireplace and flipped the switch to get the fire going. I know…is it really a fire when you don’t need kindling? Answer: yes. We live in fire country. Case closed.
    I warmed up in minutes and, soon, was losing layers. Too hot. Too cold. Why can’t I seem to get it right? Did I worry about any of this when I was younger? Absolutely not. I grew up in freezing conditions and we wore knee socks and skirts walking to school in the winter. Did we talk about frigid thighs? Never. We just took it for granted that that’s how we were supposed to feel in winter. And then there was summer, which brought not just heat but stifling humidity…the kind that has you showering multiple times a day because as soon as you dry off, you’re bathed in perspiration again. Boys sweat; girls perspire. What?
    My husband’s hands and feet are always cold. It’s the price he pays for low blood pressure which, on balance, is a good tradeoff. But the downside is that we’re regularly negotiating about room temperature, when to turn the fire on and off, whether to leave the glass door in our bedroom open – just a sliver – when he says it’s unacceptably cold. Some couples have issues over money. Not us. We see eye to eye on just about everything, except for the damn temperature. “Is it hot in here?” I ask. Again. And again. And again. He arrives in the kitchen, having crossed the garage from his office to get there, and 9 times out of 10, he’s shivering. Are we going to have to heat the garage? Buy tiny heating pads for his feet? Install fans on every side table so that I don’t have to run out into the backyard mid-streaming show to feel a breeze? I don’t think so. Instead, maybe we just stock up on cardigans.

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    4 m
  • Shameless Maternal Pride

    Shameless Maternal Pride
    Feb 7 2025
    Safe to say, we all want the same for our children – that they feel loved and valued, that they respect themselves and others, and that they be resilient. If you’re lucky enough to see your child become a parent, you’re in for a treat. You get to watch from the sidelines as they learn what it means to give selflessly, to love from the very deepest place in their hearts, and to hopefully practice the best of what you strove to impart.
    My older son spent a month at his in-laws home in San Malo, France recently, and toward the end of the month, he wrote his ten month old son a letter. He was kind enough to let me share it with you here:

    Luca my boy.
    What a wonderful trip we just had together. You were a bit sick when it started. You had an ear infection and lots of wax in your ears. Your teeth have been coming in. You have two top and two bottom now. Changing timezones is never easy and it took you a while to adjust. But when all of that was over, you again shone as your happy self. We got to spend a lot of time together, especially in the mornings before the rest of the house was awake. Your mother needs her sleep. When I would hear you whimper or cry, sometimes waking me up, I would come into your room and pick you up out of your crib, still in your sleep sac, and you would nuzzle against me, happy that I was the one to get you and confident that a bottle was near. Well, sometimes not so patient if you were really hungry. But more often I recall you giggling as I made the bottle. After some milk, I would change your diaper and dress you, we’d go back into the kitchen where I’d put you on the floor to crawl a bit and say hi to your stuffed animal friends. The bear. The otter. The lamb. But you were more interested in the wicker baskets with the chestnuts, turning them this way and that as you lay on your back. You have a strong grip. One day you reached for a weight used for an old scale that I hadn’t even noticed. You pulled it off the shelf, allowing it to fall the 4 or 5 inches to the ground, thankfully not onto your hand or fingers. It was surprisingly heavy and would have undoubtedly broken some bones. Was another lesson for me in paying attention to your new abilities and wide-eyed curiosity. But on an average morning, I would make the coffee, maybe sweep the floor, put away the dishes… I would pick you up and we would open the curtains as the darkness outside began to turn to light. One day I explained the passage of days and years by circumnavigating the dinning table with you in my arms, spinning around and around. We’re the earth and every time we see the table it’s like the sun coming up and night turning to day. You liked the spinning, or maybe just being in my arms. I loved spending the mornings with you. Eventually it was time to wake up mommy. We would go into the bedroom and I’d put you in bed next to her and you would reach out to touch her face, never gently. Doucement, doucement, comme ça, she would say as she took your hand and stroked her face with it. If I remember nothing else from this trip, may it be these mornings.

    The world can be burning or flooding due to climate change, while wars and dire poverty bring undue suffering to millions…yet, sometimes, somehow…I'm lucky enough to bask in the pleasure of moments like this.

    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
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    5 m
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