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But some little boy had scratched his name into wet cement. I could easily imagine Dag having done the same kind of thing when he was a child. These s...reets were his home. He probably grew up near this very place. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t making a saint out of him and revering the neighborhood he grew up in. But it really got to me that this was his neighborhood and his neighbors would want to know about him.I quickened my steps back to the Swedish American Center, took my knäckebröd. Bill and I danced a few dances (again, I enjoyed mynew flexibility and earned a few appreciative stares), but we mostly sat,talked, and cuddled.After a while, Bill suggested we go out to his truck. It was a warmevening, and at that point I think I would have done anything not to beleft alone in what seemed to be a large and overactive place. We walkedto his truck arm and arm, and after we climbed in he pulled out a bag andoffered me a beer. A little alcohol was just what I needed after. More

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