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(#130) PALLIDO:
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In 1955, my family moved from Fresno to suburban Sacramento. Our new house was in itself unprepossessing, but was planted in the middle of ten acres of old olive orchard. As soon as the car stopped, my brothers and sisters and I dashed out and began cramming this favorite, exotic food into our mouths as fast as we could and just as fast spat the bitter, uncured olives out again. I've wondered since just how anybody could possibly have figured out a way to turn this inedible fruit into something good to eat. How many olives wait in vain for the magic that gloriously transforms them? How much do we miss every day in the ordinary things that surround us? My ignorance makes me feel that I am a blind man stumbling through a world of color, a deaf man sleeping in the midst of music. |