My library has a booming donation program, which is sometimes a good thing, and sometimes a dusty, grimy, dead spidery thing wrapped in a clingy layer of dust.  We actually decided to keep this book about Joni, the quadriplegic.  We need more autobiographies since that's an annual assignment for the 7th grade English classes.
          Joni was just too earnestly '70s to pass up, with the Dorothy Hamill hairdo and that grin clamped around the ink pen.  The color scheme of the book makes me think of Holly Hobbie and bell-bottom corduroy trousers.

Oh, Joni...  We're laughing WITH you.
          Incidentally, I just happened to flip through the book to the beginning of chapter 8, which reads:

          When I returned from California, I stoically and glibly thanked God for whatever purpose He had in the fact that I wouldn't get the use of my hands back, that I couldn't ever marry Dick.

          Poor Joni, forever denied dick...