The yard when we moved here was a tangle of phlox and ferns, a garden reluctantly abandoned by the old woman who lived here before us. Like neighbors who turn up blinking in the sun after a winter indoors, the descendants of these perennials reappear each spring. Today my grandchild Anne is in the garden at ease, a rare treat for a mother of an athletic two-year-old. But soon Jack wakes up, eager for action.
“Why don’t I take him...
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