My mother brought me up to believe it is sinful to be lazy. One summer, when I was 10, I found myself having to devise a plan that would spare me from painting the picket fence around our Sheridan, Wyo., home. I found an answer that has stood me in good stead in my later life.
"How do you sell flowers?" I asked my mother. She suggested I could call all the hotels and cafes in town. Some said no; others just hung up. "That isn't the way you do it," my mother advised. "You have to paint them a picture....
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