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Same Place, Different Time

Same Place, Different Time

Here we are again in the side yard where the grass was always greener than in the front or the back of the house. The baby tree behind us was planted by our father because both Linda and I loved the scent of mimosa. We weren't getting along well with dad at this time and the tree was a kind of peace offering from him. It didn't work. The cultural divide between parents and children was almost unbridgeble then. Behind our long hair, we were probably whispering about the war or the civil rights movement, two verboten subjects in our home.

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