Memorial Day ushers in the summer for most Americans. When I was a child, summer days burst with wonder and adventure. Even the most jaded adult, I believe, still clings to a notion of summer as a time of leisure, pleasure,  and contentment all tinged with magic. Sit in your yard or your neighborhood park and listen to the birds sing as the evening falls. Then, tell me if you disagree.

Since my wife and I bought our home, gardening has become my warm-weather avocation. Each year, we attempt to plant more flowers, more vines, and more vegetables. Some plants thrive and bestow us with a bounty of color and even food. Others sadly sit in the soil until giving up the ghost.

While tending to our tomato plants or sitting beneath the comforting shade of our cherry trees, I find myself experiencing the aforesaid wonder of a child. I watch the bees buzz from blossom to blossom. I listen to the squirrels dash across the fence. I breathe in the wet scent of the earth. I feel the refreshing touch of the wind upon my skin. In the garden, I lose sight of the world, its troubles and my own.

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