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Weekly Contest #372
SCRITCH, SCRATCH It was 1981 and I had lived in my small, yet comfortable apartment for several months. I’d eagerly rented it due to its proximity to the North Quincy train station and its easy access into South Boston where I taught elementary school. My apartment was street level in a house in a quiet, family-oriented neighborhood. The house was at the end of a dead-end street near marshland that was part of the Neponset River Watershed. I was happy with my set up even though my traditional parents disapproved that I was living on my own. ...
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