In the fall, my mom would boil potatoes on the stove. I remember the sound the metal lid made as it rattled and how the windows in the house would fog. During the winter, I made a roof over the outside basement steps with blankets and then piped the clothes dryer vent into it. In the spring, my dad would offer a fifty-cent piece for the first person to spot a bloom in the tulip tree. In the summer, I picked red raspberries in the woods near my grandmother's garden and then made a place among the thorns. There was a pen of hunting dogs nearby that would howl every time the six-o'clock whistle would blow.
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Almost touching, No one ever is to blame