a:1:{s:5:"entry";a:1:{i:0;a:12:{s:2:"id";s:8:"15347890";s:4:"hash";s:32:"cb93586b58552d6b4755f348c15e1a29";s:11:"requestHash";s:17:"frontporchrambles";s:10:"profileUrl";s:37:"http://gravatar.com/frontporchrambles";s:17:"preferredUsername";s:17:"frontporchrambles";s:12:"thumbnailUrl";s:61:"http://0.gravatar.com/avatar/cb93586b58552d6b4755f348c15e1a29";s:6:"photos";a:1:{i:0;a:2:{s:5:"value";s:61:"http://0.gravatar.com/avatar/cb93586b58552d6b4755f348c15e1a29";s:4:"type";s:9:"thumbnail";}}s:4:"name";a:3:{s:9:"givenName";s:4:"Mrs.";s:10:"familyName";s:4:"Gran";s:9:"formatted";s:9:"Mrs. Gran";}s:11:"displayName";s:17:"frontporchrambles";s:7:"aboutMe";s:427:""First and foremost, Gran was a storyteller. She could weave words and magic and fairies and spinning wheels and talking trees into stories I could barely keep up with, hanging on each word as I danced in my seat with excitement. Gran said her storytelling was on account of all the books she’d read in her life, and she figured my dancing was on account of that last glass of lemonade..."  -- from Going Home, by Mary Batson";s:6:"emails";a:1:{i:0;a:2:{s:7:"primary";s:4:"true";s:5:"value";s:26:"info@frontporchrambles.com";}}s:4:"urls";a:0:{}}}}