I grew up in a gardening family. If the phone rang at 8 am on a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday morning I knew we were going to Grampa John’s to pick something in the one-acre garden. It took about an hour to get there, plenty of time for me to come up with a new plan of escape. I did not like working in the vegetable garden. “Did not like” is mild. I sneaked off every chance I got. Maybe I’d go try to put salt on the tails of the wild kittens. I don’t remember for sure why we did this but Grampa John probably convinced us it was how to catch them. Or I could go stand in Grammie Rita’s way while she prepared a huge lunch for us. Or read the Enquirer, a rag newspaper I didn’t ever get to lay eyes on elsewhere. Eventually someone would find me and make me get back to work in the garden. These days the garden is my place. Having my hands and feet in the soil keeps me grounded. I’ve been gardening and putting food up for my family for close to 50 years.