Her name was Mrs. Woods. Her age was elderly. Her home was modest frame, but in the back and side yards chickens roamed free. Most important of all, in the winter she had a fireplace in which glowing logs crackled and coruscated flame. I was moving from childhood to teenager. I would eagerly go visit her after school. She told me stories as we toasted by the fireplace – fascinating stories of her childhood when growing up in the South. She had fun telling me stories, I could tell. I could also tell she liked me as much as I liked her. What did she teach me? The sweetness of affection not imprisoned by age.
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