I suspect I have a brilliant botanically-inclined neighbor, though I do not know his name.

He seems to have developed the perfect species of tree to grace Wyoming landscapes.

Sort of.

Yes, it’s true. Well, sort of true.

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I was young, I had car money in the bank and I dreamed large dreams of buying a red convertible that my collie Laddie and I could pilot across the country to Cody, where we would live happily ever after.

Boy, was I stupid.

Not for dreaming of Cody. I'd dreamed that one ever since I bought my first pair of beaded moccasins at Frost Curio here as a young girl.

But a convertible in a Wyoming winter? How smart is that?

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The end of June means it's almost July, and July always brought that bane of my much younger existence: Summer Camp.

Yeah, yeah - most children dearly love summer camp, which always means snickering with friends, fireside sing-alongs, marshmallow roasts, canoeing, staging skits and plunging into cold lakes after long nature hikes to the top of Bald Mountain.

My Summer Camp experience was sorta different from all that.

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My oldest son called me before Thanksgiving, his voice quite somber.

“I have something to tell you, Mom,” he said.

“What’s the matter, Son?” I asked, dreading his reply.

I feared the worst: somebody had contracted cancer or some other terminal disease; their new car was stolen from the driveway, just like the old one had been; their cat died; or ... who knew? The world is filled with disasters.

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