He stands proudly, gnarled, twisted, whispering in the breeze. He’s been here for one hundred years or more. He’s steadfast, strong and rather unattractive. My late mother would say how much she hated him. His red needles would drop all over her grass and the brick patio. Annoying sweepings required. He extends and thrives. HisContinue reading “Georgette Gerdes: The Culprit (Plumbers’ Dream cont.)”
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