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I heaved my bag of potting soil onto my kitchen table, grabbed a knife and slit it down the middle. Lowering my head, I closed my eyes to winter’s endless snow and inhaled. Deeply.

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The heady scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted through the front garden as an anonymous figure secreted two jars of unopened pickles onto a finely appointed doorstep. One jar contained kosher spears, the other sweet slices.

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Walking down the sidewalk of a densely populated Southern city, in the most genteel of neighborhoods filled with well-tended homes of historical architectural interest, a gentleman close to my heart came face to face with a chicken.

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Zorro has his signature look. The cape, the mask covering the upper half of his face, his tailored trousers and shirt, all black. Zorro’s hat, the sombrero cordobes, pulls the ensemble together. I love Zorro. Who doesn’t? Certainly not the man opposite me on the other side of the gas pump do…

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In my dream there is a well-groomed, good-looking man in his prime years walking down my front steps toward my front door. He pauses half-way down the walkway, looking not at my beautiful flowers, not at the crab apple tree friends planted as a house-warming gift 33 years ago. Instead he obs…

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It’s a dangerous business, walking out one’s own front door, climbing into a truck and towing a vintage 1967 Aristocrat Lo Liner to a secret backcountry campsite for a short getaway.