I knew a kid named Mattie whose family lived in an old farmhouse on the edge of town. They had a big yard with various trees, including a small cluster of plum trees by the big open field we used for playing baseball. Mattie loved those plums; the only problem was, the bees liked those plums, too, and he’d get stung, and run crying into the house for his Mom’s first aid.
Later, sting medicated with ointment, he’d come back outside, and drift closer to the little plum orchard again.
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