By Gloria Bares When I was young, I loved gardening days with my Dad. I’d see him, clippers, snippers and spade in hand. walking toward our backyard, his garden, his second home. I remember his six foot two inch frame, curled over the flower beds of zinnias, daisies, geraniums. Nasturtiums–orange, red-orange and yellow– spilled lazily over the borders….

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