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September 4, 1993
Dear Bud,
“Shamelessly wild!” That’s what I thought when I returned last week from my summer travels and stood on the redwood deck and looked out on “Grampa’s Garden.” With several hours of daylight left, I began weeding this plot that I named The Earl F. Grossmann Memorial Garden after your grandfather died last year.
Thyme and peppermint were creeping everywhere; rosemary was brazenly reaching out and intermingling with the wild-colored zinnias. The mums flowed over and through the tangles of parsley. Sage cascaded down the hillside.
I sweated and labored, got dirt on my face and under my nails. I prickled my ankles on thistle thorns and bloodied my knuckles on stones. My palms stung from the hickory handles of hoe and mattock.
When I rose to survey my progress, the sun was long departed, and the full moon was rising over the fir trees. My knees creaked audibly, my back ached deliciously. And—wonder of wonders—I saw that I had tamed the wilderness!
Oh, Bud, you know I don’t mind a little chaos here and there in my life. But from what you have told me of your grandfather, I felt I just couldn’t allow his garden to get so unruly.
I took a satisfying drink from my water jug and tasted the salt and dust of my upper lip. Then I sat down on the weathered wooden chair beside the E.F.G.M.G. and breathed deeply of the intoxicating sweetness of pinched peppermint, plucked rosemary, and uprooted garlic.
I leaned back in the chair and rested my head against a dogwood tree. As night birds began their vespers chorus—accompanied in the bass section by our frogs—I drifted into a dream of Earl Grossmann, whom I never met, and of you—his grandson—whom I haven’t seen for a long, long time.
Send me some more stories of your grandparents, Bud. But before you do, write to your grandma and tell her a friend of yours says Thank you!
Love,
KATHARINE
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