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![]() A while back, we invited listeners to send us a short story or a poem about their homes for a feature called "Stories from Home." We're resurrecting this feature, but we're calling it "First Person" a place for you to give us your stories, poems, or short fiction. So far it's been a resounding success with entries from all over the countryand beyond. Frankly, we're a bit overwhelmed. Be patient with us as we continue to post the best of the bunch. June 14, 1931, My Father Read to Me By Gloria Sanders (05/08/08) It was my seventh birthday, and my father read to me. That he was idle, sitting on the back porch, was an amazing thing. We lived on an Iowa farm. He had cows to milk, pigs to slop, a pair of horses to hitch and work, crops and pastures to tend. The morning chores were done, it was raining buckets and he could not get out into the fields... Read more... The Blue Iris By Mary Grace Dembeck (05/08/08) They grew, those irises, in our ragged little backyard in the city when I was a young girl — their gracefully cupped petals and trailing falls rising above most other growth nearby. We called that yard "our garden", but it was a wild affair: moonseed tangling with tea roses for supremacy along the derelict fence; basil, marjoram and mint in fragrant bandy by our kitchen door; varicolored morning glories and scarlet four 0'clocks riotously dividing up the day. But it was the blue irises — smelling so incredibly blue, (or so it seemed to my young mind), that have always lit my memory. We never tended them, fed or divided them, as knowledgeable gardeners would — we never knew we should, yet they grew for us year after year. Read more... |
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