The trowel bent in my hand; I was afraid it might. There was one last year that did the same thing. Thinking it a piece of junk, I pitched it aside. The trowel I used for years is lost somewhere in this garden, probably green bushes grew large over it or the ivy buried it. It was strong, like a little spade. There is a penknife of Ted’s around here someplace too, and a silver fork I was using to separate the tiniest seedlings. (Things do turn up, though, Just found clippers lost months ago, hanging on a trellis). Why don’t the useless things get lost?

It is early winter in the year 1942. The United States has just been attacked by a foreign power and the annihilation of our Pacific fleet is complete; the fence-sitting is over and the U.S. has officially entered the war. We will no longer simultaneously send humanitarian aid to the Chinese, and scrap metal and petroleum to Japan. Our country is shaken and enraged. And aroused. Our monumental defense production will soon pull us the rest of the way out of the Great Depression.

When I was little I remember being taken by my great-aunt Taddy to a church at the corner of our street to watch a wedding party assemble. Maybe she knew the family, maybe not. But we did it more than once, and if a church was within walking distance of our house, we went. We would watch the folks gather, admire the flurry of the pink and blue-clad bridesmaids, and then the arrival of the bride. The church was surrounded by a green lawn and in the summertime there would be strawberry socials on tables set under the tall trees.