By: Ardis E. Parshall - December 13, 2016 My mother could have planned an invasion of Mars with such precision that the quartermaster would have had the exact number of moist towelettes needed to wash the last red dirt off the last pair of human hands, with no waste and no shortage. She approached Thanksgiving dinner with the same competency. Early in November, she planned the menu – not just a listing of “mashed potatoes” and “p...
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