Many years ago, when my son was starting kindergarten, we lived far enough away from school that he needed to ride the bus to get there. My husband and I took turns walking with him to and from the bus stop.

While I drank coffee and watched Anthony, my husband struck up a friendship with the West Indian woman whose house was on the corner.

Her name was Cecily. She was often out working in her beautiful garden, and my husband was also a gardener, so they had this in common. They often traded plants back and forth (e.g. dug things up and gave them to each other).

Cicely had a giant, mature Japanese Maple tree that covered a third of her corner lot. Keep reading