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  • I was very small, but remember it clearly. The day was perfect for drying. Rows of snowy white sheets graced my grandmother’s clothesline and billowed out in the summery breeze. The sky was so blue and the puffy, white clouds looked like you could reach up and touch them. I tried, but couldn’t quite reach even with a few jumps thrown in.

    I stretched out on the ledges behind her house to stare at the show the sheets were making and, of course, do a little daydreaming. In my childish mind the sheets were almost exactly like a wagon train and soon I was off on the prairie bouncing along in a prairie schooner. It was wonderful and exciting. I made up all sorts of stories and entertained myself for a considerable amount of time which was probably all of ten or fifteen minutes.

    Then to take my mind off what was beginning to creep into it, I began stacking some old bricks and making villages. It was okay, but nowhere near as much fun as what I was hatching up. I walked back to where I’d been before and sat down. I watched as a gust of wind caught the sheets once more and peeked inside. Yup, it would be just right. I wouldn’t have the reins, but I’d be riding in style in the back. Another puff of wind came and I slid into my wagon. The clothes pins let go and I landed in a white, tangled heap on the ledges. My journey proved short and I had to report what I’d done to my grandmother who'd washed the sheets in an old wringer-style machine in the first place. I didn’t know enough to understand how much work that entailed, but I did feel some remorse. I explained what I’d been trying to do and why. She didn’t even scold me. She just smiled. I wonder if I would do the same.
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