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I went out to the garden to inspect and was shocked to discover this.

My very own freakish scarecrow, now deceased, and yet….still here! As if lying in state.

Why isn’t he gone yet? What cruel trick is this that I come upon him thus? What next, shall we float him down the river like the lily maid of Astolat?
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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Or compost him.
Whichever makes the best blog post.
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What an unexpected reminder of my favorite stories! Thanks Suzanne! I’m off to find my Arthurian legends
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