The next month was May, a fine sunny time, and Thad seemed to forget about most everything else, to look at him. I’d walk past Thyme street and always see him with a spade or watering can in hand, singing softly to the flowers, whom he called ‘my dear buds,’ because he’d heard that helped them grow, and as far as I can tell, that was true, for by June they were absolutely splendid. The remarkable thing was that even though he always seemed to be there, every friend he had, and he had many then, told me about how good he was to them—he had wiped every tear, spoken every plain speech about how they were valuable dear people, had patched knees and darned yankees and washed abrasions. And made that garden grow.

TO be continued!