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orange tree, crickets


...that summer I decided to spend it at theirs. We browned up fast, the daily routine was spent out in the yard. Some evenings they'd have all the bums and hippies over, howling like Indians, smoking like chimneys - hydrated by good Nancy's spiked orange concoctions. They already had a little daughter who wandered around barefoot in the yard and in the house. She cared for herself, dressed up and danced with soul in her heels.

When she listened to her papa's records and did not dance, she'd lie on the ground with her little hands on her tummy and her eyes closed. It terrified me to imagine what fire this child would possess when she grew.

The poor turntable worked hard labour that summer, day and night.

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