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Grandma Rolfsrud died in 1935, a hardy pioneer who struggled to survive on the lonely prairies of western North Dakota.
We’re told that these iris descend from bulbs she nurtured at the homestead, saved from rooting hogs and punishing drought, just for the joy they might bring.
We don’t know if it's true.
We don’t care. Each spring they help us remember the grandmother we never knew.
