Pop Goes the Memory

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I was young, maybe four- or five-years-old when my Papau first walked me over to the weeds growing along the creek bed in late summer. Little yellow flowers grew from the leafy green area in the shade, but we weren’t on a mission to sniff the flowers. “These here are poppers, Wren.” He pointed one of his big, thick fingers at the small, green, pickle-shaped thing hanging underneath the leaves. . . .

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