The memoir that started it all. Linda's electrifying rise through clubs, dance halls, and concert stages — coast to coast, on her own terms.

I guess you could say I came from a musical family. My dad played the banjo, my mom the piano, and my brothers played guitar. I came from country roots. My dad would remark after I had become a professional singer . . .

“You know, you could be better off if you sang country and western songs. You know, Loretta Lynn has her own bus and employs lots of people. You would be good enough if you just sang some decent shit!”

I never wanted to be anything else but a singer. Where I got my vocal abilities, I’ll never know ‘cause my dad didn’t sing, and my mother, God bless her, sang with enthusiasm, but definitely off-key.

I used to think breathing was overrated. I was blessed with tremendous lungs, which allowed me great breath control. I was a singer, but that’s not the only place or occasion in which this came in handy. My lungs also helped by being able to clear out a gay bar to warn people of a police raid. When I was a kid, my lungs helped me to go underwater from the shallow end to the deep end of our public swimming pool. One big gasp and, before long, I was there at the end. Unfortunately, one big gasp didn’t help me to yell when my older brother insisted I masturbate him. No, then, I couldn’t breathe; I was very quiet.

“Lots of people out there for this,” my dad smirked. He wasn’t impressed. I looked around to see him looking out the side from the drawn curtain. I was too busy trying to get myself up on a wooden chair that was placed there for me to reach the microphone. My brothers were tuning up their guitars. It was our turn to make our bid at the local talent contest held in Fulton High’s gymnasium. I was three and a bit; they were thirteen and fourteen years old, Ben and Frank, respectively. My name is Linda, which, although mundane, was better than my dad’s idea of a joke, and that was to name me Luebering Lil from Cow-Shit Hill.

“Will ya’ll put your hands together and welcome the Caldwell family. With three-year-old little Linda singing for us: “You Can’t Have My Love.”

“Oh, man! Look at all those people. Here goes.” I remember distinctly milking the crowd the best I could with cuteness and sound.

“Just git that big long Cadillac

Hit the road and don’t come back

Don’t show me that roll of bills,

‘Cause, it won’t lead me from these hills.”

The crowd loved us!!! I made sure as I took a bow that my cowgirl hat would come off

. . . yep! Everyone “ahhhhh.” WE WON!!!

The lights and the performances could hide a lot of pain — but not forever.
As the front of a dynamic six-piece band, Linda lived the dream. Stages, nightclubs, devoted fans across the Southwest. But behind the spotlight was a woman running from childhood trauma, drowning the noise with cocaine and alcohol, and chasing love in all the wrong places.

When her partner died and the band dissolved, her career and her life shattered. What followed was decades of grief, economic hardship, and the painful grind toward understanding why she kept standing in her own way.

Second Act, Third Chances is a memoir of raw honesty and fierce resilience — a story of damage, healing, and the courage to start all over again.

If you've walked through your own dark times and are looking for hope — this book was written for you.

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