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"Swanging"
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About halfway through my morning run, just about the time droplets of "dew" were running down my face and I wasn’t looking none too good for the wearing, a red Ford Ranger pick-up truck pulled up beside me, stopped and a man, gray in hair and weathered in face, rolled down his window. “Boy, I tell ya, I love that swang.” It took a second for his words to register.

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