Please come to Boston/Denver/L.A./Rochester4

A friend in upstate New York finally told me a secret I'd never heard rumored in up-to-date Los Angeles: "There's folk music in the cast," she wrote. "Why don't you quit stagnating and come back here?" She promised that we'd both make it through the winter somehow, and maybe each write a novel, to boot, while the snow was falling, and I could be starting a career as a folksinger in the coffee houses and colleges of New York and New England.
I came east a month later, in November, 1974. All the world was gray and brown, and the first heavy snow had fallen two days before. Sometimes life begins to sound like a series of bad punchlines. My friend had switched Muses and taken up with an artist. She never spoke to me again.

And I feel the winter coming
And I think it's time to go5

But I stuck it out. I shovelled snow, cleaned houses, unloaded trucks, and got a position at a music school janitor again. And I met a lot of friends, the kind who will not only give you a room and a meal when you need them, But put up with you when you are down and not letting the world forget about it.  I even gota birthday party.