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I was born and reared in Wellman, Iowa, population 977 in the 1970 census. My father owned the local hardware store, and some of my fondest memories are locked in the bed of his old black pick-up truck. Those were the days when kids were allowed to ride in the open-air beds of trucks: no seatbelts, no windows, no elements of danger. As we pulled up to a farm or a house to make a delivery, I would hop out of the truck and run alongside the still-moving vehicle. My job was to warn my father of potholes or deep puddles, and to shoo away the cows, chickens, and turkeys on the dirt drive.
When the winters were long, and the air frigid, my parents closed off our upstairs rooms, forcing my sister and I to sleep on the main floor, sharing a bedroom. I looked forward to the re-opening of the second floor each spring. One of my favorite pastimes was to sit in the upstairs window, which was as high as the main fork of the enormous oak tree in our front yard. From that vantage point, I could observe the squirrels running in and around the tree. They have an immense sense of playfulness, but are also hard workers. In the fall, they worked for hours at a time, collecting acorns and hickory nuts, and burying them in what they hoped was a safe place. From those springs and falls I spent watching in the upstairs window, this story was born.
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