The summers at my grandmother’s house in Canada were always filled with beauty. The ambitious grass of the two and a half acre lot would rustle and swing with the passing of a breeze and soaked up the nourishing warmth of the sun. Sitting serenely on the border of the property was a gently sloped mountain that never failed to burst into a breathtaking display of green aspens, oaks and maples. The wood-paneled cottage itself was a well-loved, red, sanctuary that housed 19th century hand-made snowshoes and a satellite T.V. It was bordered on one side by rolling flowerbeds and an open, green yard on the other. The tiger lilies, black-eyed susans and roses, though beautiful, forced the lavender to spill out onto the grassy walkway and the sunflowers to stand at attention.
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