My best wishes to everyone for a Merry Christmas and for health and happiness in 2018. Thanks for all your support of my books and for reading the Musings on my website.
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Hello everyone. I’m presently on a cruise in Australia and New Zealand. Doug is at home looking after things. If you would like a copy of the travel logs that I’m doing, please leave me a note on the contact page on this website. Thanks.
Well, as it turns out, a great deal! A few months ago, I ordered the DNA test from Ancestry—and, no, I’m not on commission with them but this is an endorsement.
I spit into a small tube as per the directions and mailed it off in the enclosed box to an address in Ireland. Not long after, I received notification by email that the tube had been received, was being processed, and I would soon find out about my ancestral roots up to a thousand years ago. The results were surprising in that such a large percentage showed ancestry from Great Britain and such a small proportion linked me to Germany: 67% Great Britain (England, Scotland, and Wales) and 14% Ireland (Ireland, Wales, and Scotland) for a total of 81%. Those percentages would be primarily from the Legge/Collings, Greenfield/Racher, and Beatty/North branches of the family. Legge or Legg/Collings or Collins – Ancestors of my Grandpa Herman Collins There has been a fair amount of research done through Ancestry on the Legge—sometimes spelled Legg—side of the family. My great-grandmother, Matilda Legge, was the eldest daughter of Moses Legge and Mary Ann Croft—both originally from England. I hope to expand on the information that I put in my first book about my great-grandmother’s family. My grandfather’s surname was not originally Collins as we believed and as I noted in my first book. My great-great-grandfather’s last name was Collings. My sister and I located one of my mother’s cousins from Ontario, and he sent me a copy of Henry Collings’ obituary (1812 or 1813-January 23, 1894). Henry was born in England and came to Lanark County, Canada, at the age of six with his parents. (Lanark County is southwest of Ottawa.) My great-great-grandmother was Catherine Brooks, born in Lanark County on August 3, 1824. Henry and Catherine were married January 28, 1845, and moved to Barrie and Collingwood and then to Lot 27, Concession 2, Arran Township. She died August 18, 1901. Henry and Catherine are buried in the cemetery in Tara, Ontario. The eldest of their ten children was Edward, my great-grandfather, whom I suspect was the person who dropped the g in Collings so that the surname became Collins. So, I’m not as Irish as I thought I was, but certainly more British than I had predicted. Greenfield/Racher – Ancestors of my Grandma Eva Racher/Rachar Collins Most of my grandma's side of the family—the Greenfield/Racher branches—were British as well. Unfortunately, I haven’t obtained much information on the Greenfield side, but I’ll work on that branch at some point. My great-grandmother Ida Greenfield Racher/Rachar was the daughter of George Greenfield and Martha Parsons Greenfield. Both surnames Greenfield and Parsons reflect British ancestry. Now that I have the family history information from the Racher side of the family, my plan is to further develop that family tree in my records. The information in my first book is limited because I didn’t know that the Racher/Rachar name had been changed by Nightingale Racher (born July 1, 1739, in Buckland, Hertfordshire, England; died March 25, 1803, in Cambridgeshire, England). His father’s first name was also Nightingale, but the last name was Redshaw. Further back, the name is recorded as Reshere. Even further back, the name is again recorded as Redshaw, so the surname Redshere may have been an incorrect spelling in the records. Whatever the exact surname and spelling, there is no doubt that the Racher/Rachar family has British roots. Family history research would be so much easier if only ancestors—or the people recording their names—hadn’t changed the surnames and the spellings! Beatty/North – Ancestors of my Granny Beula North Lohr My granny’s ancestors—the Beatty and North branches of the family—are from Great Britain as well. My great-grandmother, Gertrude Beatty North, was a daughter of William Charles Beatty and Sarah Isabelle McCreight. The Beatty family was Scots-Irish, originally from Donegal County, Republic of Ireland. Ancestors of Sarah McCreight, my great-great-grandmother, have been traced to Glasglow, Scotland, and County Atrium, Northern Ireland. There was a lot of movement between areas centuries ago—for example, John North was born about 1624 in England and went to Ireland in 1649. His grandson, Caleb North, is my direct ancestor, and Caleb sailed from Cork, Ireland, to Philadelphia in July 1729. He bought 69 acres of land in Gilberts Manor, Pennsylvania, in 1734. (William Penn had claimed land for himself in Pennsylvania which was later sold in auctions—part of that was Gilberts Manor.) My Beatty and North ancestors were very early arrivals to the Northeastern United States. The spit test shows a significant number of my ancestors in Pennsylvania, New York, and Michigan from 1700-1800. Family history records concur with the results of the spit test. Then, in the 1800s, their progress west is noted to South Dakota, California, and, in the case of my great-grandparents (John and Gertrude North) in 1903 to what would become Alberta, Canada. That information corresponds with the oral and written histories that have been passed down on my granny’s side of the family. Hein/Lohr – Ancestors of my Grandpa Lester Lohr My grandfather’s ancestors—the Hein and, particularly, the Lohr sides—were also early immigrants into the United States. They too liked to roam and moved repeatedly, mainly seeking better opportunities and land. The Paul Hein and Mary Dankoff Hein family emigrated from Lorraine—then a part of Prussia and now a province in France—in 1862. The records suggest they immediately struck out for, first, Wisconsin, and then made a permanent move to Alton, Iowa. The Lohr side of the family arrived in the United States even earlier; in fact, so early that no one that I know of has been able to identify their exact arrival date and point. Seven or eight generations back from me, we think that Valentine Lohr came to Pennsylvania from Germany in the early to mid-1700s. We do know that my great-great-great grandparents, Solomon and Mary Lohr, lived in Centre County, Pennsylvania. Based on my recent research at the historical building in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania—the seat of Centre County—they were on the tax assessment records in 1827 and 1828. We’re still working on that branch to try to find out where Solomon Lohr—probably accompanied by his brother or cousin named William Lohr—came from when they moved to Centre County. Some family research suggests they lived in South Carolina. The Remaining 19% -- Some Ideas If my ancestry is 81% from Great Britain, then what were the results for the remaining 19%? The 8% Europe West (Germany, France, Belgium, Switzerland etc.) identified by the spit test would be the Hein/Lohr ancestors I assume. I expected this percentage to be much higher given the fact that my paternal grandfather was German/Prussian. Here’s an interesting oral family story that may explain why the percentage is not higher. My great-grandmother, Kathryn Hein Lohr, maintained she was descended from Prussian Royalty, probably illegitimately if the research is correct. She stated that Frederick William III (1770-1840) of Prussia was her great-grandfather and that Prince Albert (1809-1872) was her grandfather on the Hein side. So, if my great-grandmother was correct, there may have been some blending of European royalty in her father’s background given that royalty in different European countries tended to intermarry. That may account for the percentages being somewhat different than expected. When I find time, I’ll investigate this possible link more. My spit test also showed 6% Scandinavia (Sweden, Norway, and Denmark). Now I know why a woman in Denmark insisted that I looked like a Dane and kept telling me that I should understand the Danish language. I don’t have any answers or theories on this percentage except to say that perhaps marauding Vikings were responsible? The remaining percentages from my spit test included 2% European Jewish (perhaps on the Hein side?), 1% Italy/Greece (perhaps Romans who migrated north?), and 1% Europe East (Poland, Russia etc.). The final 1% was classified as perhaps West Asia. So, is Ancestry’s DNA spit test accurate? Based on the family history that others have done and that I’ve tried to add to, I’d say a resounding “Yes!” Of the 313 fourth cousins and closer of mine that also had the spit test done through Ancestry, I know about ten of them. Those ten are close relatives—second, third, and fourth cousins mostly—since I don’t have any first cousins. (My parents were only children.) Almost daily, more cousins are identified on the Ancestry Site as additional people take the spit test. Now, my project—probably lifelong—is contacting those 313 cousins to try to figure out our relationships! I know there is more detail in this Musing than most people want to read, but if I can get the facts out there for other family research fanatics to locate, then my chances of gaining information about my ancestors increase. If anyone reading this is interested in finding out about their ancestors, the DNA test through Ancestry is efficient and probably reflects the largest data base available. You too can meet hundreds of your cousins online. Happy spitting! “Mom, there’s an ad on the bulletin board at work for golden retriever puppies for sale. Will you come with me to look at them?”
Wriggling golden bundles of love awaited Heather and me when we arrived at a home in the Somerset area of southwest Calgary. The mother was an average-sized golden, and the father was a very big-boned fellow. Heather chose the puppy that would be named Julie. Right from day one, Julie exuded friendliness and greeted everyone with boundless energy and a licking frenzy. Julie went everywhere with Heather—except to work, of course. They made the 8-hour drive to the cabin at Wakaw Lake where Julie rode regally in the boat. They went through the drive-thru at Tim Horton’s near their home in Calgary where Julie enjoyed a timbit. Julie liked it even better when Heather’s friends came to the house. Julie once ate an entire plate of wings before anyone else got one! Everyone in the neighborhood saw Heather taking Julie on regular walks, or, was that Julie taking Heather for walks? As Julie grew, she became stronger and stronger. There were a few mishaps, including when I went to take Julie for a walk one day when Heather was working. Julie couldn’t wait, and when I turned my back to lock the front door, she gave a mighty tug. I don’t recall flying backwards off the step, but I do remember Julie standing over me and licking my face. Blood poured from a cut on the back of my head that required three stitches. Of course, I forgave her because she was still a big puppy and just being Julie, but I had my first concussion. After that, I let someone else hang on to her leash. When we started building our home on the acreage, Doug took Julie to the site on several occasions and let her loose. Julie roamed and explored. She found the pond—and it just happened to be the day after Heather had paid to have her groomed. One day, Doug heard her barking and barking. When he investigated, Julie was standing over a dead coyote. Fortunately, she never found a skunk, badger, or porcupine. Doug and I liked Julie’s golden personality so much that we acquired Hayley dog. In 2008, Julie went on the longest car ride of her life—all the way to San Diego County, California, to her new home. She loved climbing the hills around Encinitas and liked to play fetch by the ocean. The family later moved to San Marcos where Julie got to know all the neighbors. My favorite memory of Julie is when our newborn granddaughter arrived home from the hospital. Julie understood that she now had a sister and brought a stuffed toy to the baby. They became great pals over the years. When Doug and I visited, Julie seemed to remember us. She wagged her entire body, brought us her blanket or a toy, and, yes, licked any patch of bare skin she could find. As the years passed, Julie started to show white in her golden color. She was ageing but still very loving. The walks became gradually shorter although she was always eager to go. She just sometimes forgot that the way home was as long as the way there and would be short-of-breath by the time they got back. In the early summer of 2017, Heather reported that Julie was not doing well. She was finding it increasingly difficult to eat. She didn’t seem to be in pain but spent more time secluded under her favorite tree in their yard. On August 19, 2017, Heather phoned to tell us that Julie had passed away. She was 13 years and almost 4 months old—a very good age for a big dog. Right until the end, Julie kept wagging her tail and licking. Julie: You brought many hours of happiness to your human family. You were our friend and companion. We love you and miss you. Several stalks of wheat sit in a large vase by the front door of our acreage home. They remind me of my roots growing up on a farm in central Alberta. The memories which follow are a shortened version of the story Harvest – In Golden Fields from my first book Roots & Adventures: A Prairie Childhood.
Grandpa Lester Lohr loved machines; Dad (Lloyd Lohr) loved horses. As a result, I have memories of horses, bundles, stooks, and threshing machines as well as later memories of swathers and combines. Until the end of the 1950s, at least part of my family’s harvest was still done traditionally. My parents had about 40 Percheron horses, most of whom earned their keep. Each summer we showed some of those Percherons at exhibitions and fairs throughout Alberta, including the Calgary Stampede. My Dad’s motto was “we work our show horses and show our work horses.” Grandpa thought Dad was old-fashioned in his desire to use horses. Dad used to counter by saying that horses always started and kept going, unlike machines. When I was four and five, I used to “help” Granny Beula Lohr when she took dinner to the field. (Dinner is the mid-day meal in the countryside.) I remember: slabs of roast beef; riced potatoes; thick slices of her homemade white bread spread generously with butter; peas from her garden in a fresh Jersey-cream sauce; cobs of corn dripping with butter; generous pieces of chocolate cake; several sealer jars of lemonade—the lemons sliced in half and squeezed on a green depression-glass juicer—with sugar added; and, steaming coffee in a thermos. To keep the food hot, Granny wrapped the pots and dishes in towels and along with the durable plates, white mugs, and the tin salt and pepper shakers, everything was quickly placed in wooden apple boxes in the back of the blue, one ton truck. She sat on a cushion and put another one behind her so that she could see over the steering wheel and reach the pedals. Then we’d bounce across the field in the truck to pull up a short distance from the harvest crew. Down came the tailgate, and Granny spread a “field” tablecloth on it and laid out the food. The cloth I remember had red and white checks. The men ate in shifts, usually standing, sometimes squatting on the ground. They took turns eating so that the threshing machine kept operating. I remember deafening noise, choking grain dust in the air, itchy chaff that snuck under my clothes, Granny’s scampering to set everything up, Grandpa’s gnarled hands wrapped around a coffee mug, Dad’s deeply tanned Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank straight from a sealer jar of lemonade, all in a surrounding of golden fields and huge prairie skies. Grandpa was always in charge of the threshing machine. At an earlier stage in the harvesting process, a binder had been used to bundle the grain. The bundles—usually seven with a center bundle anchoring and the others leaning up against it—had been stooked earlier. As well as Grandpa, Dad, and the hired man, two or three other men were recruited to help with the harvest. Dad drove the least experienced team, usually a young horse on the right paired with a seasoned veteran of the harvest on the left. (The experienced horse was on the left because that was the side closer to the thundering threshing machine.) It didn’t take long for the horses to remember or learn their job. Dad tied the lines to the front of the rack, used verbal commands and, sometimes, the end of his three-tined pitchfork on the lines to guide the team around the corners as he walked along and pitched the bundles onto the bundle wagon or rack as it was more commonly called. Once the rack was full of bundles and there was an opening at the machine, the rack would be drawn up as close as possible to the threshing machine. Since threshing machines were loud, vibrating, dusty things with huge turning belts, the ‘new’ horse had to be guided in calmly and patiently by Dad and the experienced horse. Once the rack was in position at the machine, pitchforks were used to throw the bundles into the huge maw of the threshing machine. I remember the flowing rhythmic arm movements of a good bundle pitcher. After the men had finished eating, Granny re-packed the apple boxes, put up the tailgate, and the two of us climbed into the truck. We once again bounced across the field as she tried to avoid ruts, gopher and badger holes, and whatever else was out there. Back in the kitchen, Granny washed and dried the dishes—by hand, of course. Then she baked a batch of cookies, made sandwiches, juiced more lemons for lemonade, and boiled coffee for afternoon lunch, again taken to the field. She also prepared and took full suppers to the field if the weather and the daylight held. Often though the men came in for a late supper at dusk but only after they watered, unharnessed, fed, and brushed the horses. Granny also insisted that the men sweep themselves off with a broom she kept at the back door for that purpose before they entered the house for supper. After one more session of washing dishes after supper, Granny cleaned up the kitchen. The next morning she was up before daybreak and made another full early morning breakfast. Although harvest is often thought of as work in the fields, I will always think of harvest as including long hours in the kitchen. Harvest has changed a great deal since the 1950s; what remains the same are the long hours in the kitchens and in the fields. If these harvest memories have piqued your interest, the Bar U Ranch National Historic Site near Longview, Alberta, will be harvesting the traditional way on the weekend of September 16 and 17. For more information, call 403-395-3044 for information about exact harvest times or check this website: http://www.pc.gc.ca/en/lhn-nhs/ab/baru/activ/evenements-events We have a bumper crop of saskatoons and raspberries so after picking a couple hours a day, I dream of purple and red blobs. I freeze the berries individually on large trays and then transfer them to containers. I’m fast running out of freezer room. There’s never a dull moment in acreage life. The highlight of my morning was cleaning up the remains of a dead skunk—mainly fur with an amazingly small skull attached. Now I know why Hayley dog was going out every morning and sniffing the air! After that undertaking, writing this monthly musing was a delight. No matter what needs to be done, I always find time for reading. This summer I decided that I’d read some romance just to see if I could ever write it. Everyone in the writing world knows that writing romance is the route to a healthy bank balance. There’s only one problem: According to my husband, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. I think that’s an accurate statement. Therefore writing romance without being romantic may be an issue. However, I’m not easily deterred so I thought if I read some romance, I might “get a feel for it.” Well so far all I’ve done is avoid gagging in parts of the books I’ve attempted. I tell myself it’s not necessary to do a critique on every book I read, but that analytical part of my brain refuses to turn off so that I can study author’s technique in romance novels. Conclusion: I’ll leave the romance writing to the authors—mainly women—who are so good at setting the scene and describing the action. They certainly know how to get readers to turn pages right to the end even if we’ve figured out the ending after reading the first paragraph. My favorite read this summer is not a romance: A Man Called Ove by a Swedish author named Fredrik Backman. Of course, I read the English translation. This is a well-crafted novel about an elderly curmudgeon who has a “big heart” in more ways than one. What I found fascinating was that Backman only told the reader information when it was absolutely essential to the story. I found his prolonging of detail a refreshing change from the authors who write so much unnecessary description that I start skipping the flowery fluffy details so that I can find the plot before I forget what has already happened. Backman’s book is at times poignant, other times hilariously funny, and contains so much of life’s lessons without the reader realizing that the author is making valid comments about the value of life and relationships. I’ve now reserved some of Backman’s other books through the library system. As always, I continue reading non-fiction. I enjoyed Glacier Skywalk about the building and experiencing the cantilevered glass-floored walkway located in the Sunwapta Valley at the boundary of Jasper National Park. The authors are Clea Sturgess, Trevor Boddy, and Jeremy Sturgess (architect) and the stunning photos are by Robert Lemermeyer. I must get to that Glacier Skywalk and have a look for myself. If you are interested, check http://www.brewster.ca/attractions-sightseeing/glacier-skywalk/?utm_source=bing&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=glacier%20skywalk%20canada&utm_content=%21acq%21v2%2129613074452-10590540756-4634135180&utm_campaign=s-glacier-skywalk-us-ca The second non-fiction book I enjoyed is 25 places in Canada every family should visit, compiled by Calgarian Jody Robbins. What a wonderful book to help celebrate Canada’s 150th Birthday. We certainly have amazing places, events, and people in this vast land of ours. Check out Jody: http://www.jodyrobbins.com/more-about-jody/ Hopefully it will rain soon so that I have more summer reading time. Don’t forget that you can comment on my website and let me know what you’ve been reading. And, hopefully, the only skunk you’ll find this summer is the type that I cleaned up today—well past the point of being able to spray anyone or anything. There are so many ways to preserve and share family history. One way that family history has been passed on in my family is through shrubs and perennials. Our flower garden tells the story of what my grandmothers—Mary Evelyn (Eva) Racher Collins and Beula Louise North Lohr—valued.
Grandma Collins’ hansa rose bush is blooming profusely. It’s the citadel of the rock garden, and its commanding presence at the entrance requires clipping for me to even get into the rest of the area. The heady clove aroma of the petals puts me right back in Grandma’s front yard of her house just a block off Main Street in Stettler, Alberta. That hansa bush has followed us—from our home on Calder Avenue in Saskatoon where we first brought it from Grandma’s front yard when she sold her house in the summer of 1988 and moved into the Heart Haven Lodge. The hansa bush struggled in its new location, and I remember asking a worker at a garden center if I should give up on it. He told me to “give it time.” We moved to Calgary in 1995, and the hansa rose bush moved with us. The only place to put it was in the north-facing back yard where it didn’t get enough sun. But, it persevered although it didn’t fully bloom. When Doug and I moved it to our developing acreage in the spring of 2005, we placed it at the top of the newly formed rock garden facing southeast. Since that time it is laden with roses from mid-June until early September. I remove dead canes and trim it back a bit in the spring. Columbines, bronze bearded irises, and thyme grow around its base. I have no idea how old that hansa rose bush might be, but I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t in Grandma Collins’ front yard so I know it’s at least as old as I am. The hansa rose was developed in 1905 in the Netherlands. It was widely planted on the prairies because of its hardiness and resistance to disease. I wish I knew whether it originally came from my grandparents’ farm near Fenn, southwest of Stettler. They moved into Stettler in 1946, and my guess is that the rose bush may have been planted at that time. I regret not having asked more about its history when Grandma was still alive to tell me that story. My Granny Lohr’s garden and yard were wonders. I’ve never seen a farm yard as lovely, and she grew a diverse blend of flowers. What I remember most are the ferns, the snapdragons, and the violas—which she called “Johnny jump-ups.” We dug up some of those ferns from Granny’s yard and planted them first in our Calgary yard and then at the acreage. They spread slowly but surely, and, with some help from me relocating them where I want to expand the fern bed, they thrive in the shaded areas under the back deck. They co-exist beautifully with the multi-colored columbines and astilbes. One of my fondest childhood memories is helping Granny water the flowers in her yard. Granny let me gently snap open the snapdragons’ mouths as we wandered the yard with sprinkling cans in hand. Now my grandchildren help me water when they are visiting. Although our youngest grandchild waters his feet as much as the flowers, he’s always eager to help. Johnny jump-ups (violas) grew on the path from the back door to the base of the windmill in Granny’s and Grandpa’s yard. I loved the violas little cheery faces. Now I let violas roam almost freely wherever they wish in our yard. I buy three pots of pansies—one for each grandchild. I inadvertently left the pansy pots on the floor of the upper deck and came home to find that all the petals on two of the three pots were neatly snipped off. I blame the rabbits as I’ve seen them on the back deck. They must have been full because the third pot of pansies was untouched. As we celebrate Canada’s 150th birthday on July 1st, I remember the flowers that grew in the yards of my grandparents. One more way to pass on family history and celebrate this great country of Canada is to keep the flowers and plants blooming. Happy Canada Day to all my Canadian readers. As any resident of southern Alberta will tell you, we get ferocious winds. We had a quick storm come through last evening with wind gusts that bent the trees but with surprisingly little damage—at least in our yard. I had all the pots of plants that I could move under cover, and the others survived surprisingly well.
I’m always impressed by the strength of perennials. Bleeding hearts—particularly the pink ones like those in the picture below this musing—love the soil in our yard and thrive not only north-facing, but also east and west. The west-facing white bleeding heart plant is shaded by tall, advancing delphiniums which also grow like weeds here. Those of you who know me or read my musings regularly know that I am dangerous in greenhouses where the brilliant colors and intoxicating smells can result in a spending spree. I’ve actually been quite contained this year. We did plant a couple more sandcherry shrubs this spring. I love their tiny pink flowers. They have proven to be the hardiest of the purple-leaved shrubs. The other day I was crawling around on rocks like a mountain goat weeding the rock garden and pulling out some plants in order to have others thrive. I realized that what seemed like a good idea ten years ago to plant three thyme plants and two strawberry plants has expanded into quite a tangled mess. The strawberry plants were flowering profusely, but with the squirrels, raccoons, and goodness knows what else around, we humans never see a strawberry. We dug and pulled grass and thistles for a total of ten hours out of the raspberry patch in the garden. The raspberry patch in the yard doesn’t require quite as much time, but both are extremely productive. We also have about fifteen Saskatoon bushes—the fox and coyotes eat the saskatoons on the bottom third of the branches, the birds eat the berries on the top third, and we try to get the ones in between. We have a few native Saskatoon bushes on the acreage as well, but we leave those for the birds and animals. Usually, I freeze about 40 one-litre containers of raspberries and saskatoons which last us most of the winter. If all the berries ripen that are now showing, we’ll be in for an extra-large harvest this year. Doug and I talked about this being our last vegetable garden. We can only grow selected root vegetables—potatoes, carrots, and parsnips—because we don’t have a high fence to keep the animals out. There’s too much crawling around on my hands and knees thinning carrots and parsnips to make it worthwhile. Plus, we go to the Farmers’ Markets for peas and beans so we might as well buy all the fresh vegetables there. We may keep the pumpkins as the grandchildren like them. We have five plants which will spread to fill the rest of the garden space. This year I purchased the pumpkin seeds labelled for jack-o-lanterns; previously, we had the regular pumpkins in quite unique jack-o-lantern shapes—mainly tall and skinny. I only rescued eight last year out of about 30 pumpkins that grew—the deer and moose took bites out of the rest. The least they could do is eat the entire pumpkin instead of randomly sampling a bite here and a bite there. I can see and smell the nightshade petunias—deep purple with white blotches—as I sit at my desk writing this musing. Although I seem to spend most of my time either taking the pots of annuals down or putting them back up depending on the whim of the winds, summer wouldn’t be the same without their bright colors. The bleeding hearts and other hardy perennials remind me of the need to endure while still sharing beauty during our short growing season. Happy Gardening everyone! |
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