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Wild ashes. Reminds me of a childhood memory. There was a very old silted in pond on our farm that my uncle (he is only a couple of years older than I ) and I used to catch crawdads in. Growing along the bank was a stand of persimmon sprouts that were about three or four inches thick. You could jump from the pond bank onto one of them and bend it over almost to the ground and ride it like a horse. We called them 'wild asses'.
BKB
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"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body.
But rather, to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming...WOW, What a Ride!"
Our Friend, Tony "Gator" Hunter 1953-2007