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From the euphoric heights of the Muir’s Sierras, through Steinbeck’s blooming Central Valley, and down to the glitter and seethe of Didion’s Los Angeles, from the glorious antiquity to the gleaming modern, I carried my tubed tree. I did not insist on planting it somewhere there within the forest. Nor did I disappear the wisp of it when my son was not looking. I had decided, at least for the time being, to keep it, to carry it with me. I did this even though I realized that a sequoia actually can’t, in spite of the packaging’s promises, “grow anywhere.”
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