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May 7, 2010

I never chop green onions without thinking of my mother’s father. He had a little garden down by the creek which separated his property from the high school where he was principal for so many years (to my mother’s chagrin).  He grew vegetables there – my grandmother was responsible for the splendid flower gardens and fruit trees – and his favorite was green onions.  As soon as the green onions were ready in the spring, he’d pull them out of the ground and eat them with pleasure, whistling on his way home as if he were a schoolboy again.