Golden Honey Jars on a Sunny Counter in Sweetwater

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By eleven o’clock, the sun had burned the dampness off the grass, and the aisle between the booths was crowded with people from town.

Evelyn stood at my elbow, wrapping a jar of our honey in tissue paper for old Mr. Henderson.

“Look at the bottom of this one, Mabel,” he said, holding a jar up to the bright Georgia sky. “It’s getting that cloudy continue reading …