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The Daylilies

My mother had a way with plants, and her flowers were a summer-long frenzy of color.

She always planted daylilies, their long stems holding up orange clumps of color to the height of car windows passing by the southwestern corner of our Boise property. This was one-half of a block of land my folks bought in 1947, when I was two. The block was a garden and cow pasture owned by a Mr. Quarbridge, who had never developed it. Continue reading

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The Greatest of Ease

The second time I spotted him lolling about on the top of the feeder, I grabbed a broom and rushed out the door, waving my threatening wand and yelling like a mad dog. The squirrel rather curiously observed all this until I actually started to swing, at which point he quickly and rather casually jumped down to run off. Sure, I pulled my swing, because I didn’t want to bash apart the feeder or actually hurt this talented squirrel, but I figured the near-miss and my angry scolding would teach him a lesson.

Silly me. Teach a squirrel a lesson where food is involved? Instead it only seemed to make an alarm of the back door latch. Now the squirrel had time to saunter off. Continue reading

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