It's one of my earliest memories: kneeling on the soil next to my grandmother in her lush front yard just to the left of her Mary on the half shell, her hair tied back with her ever present babushka. She clips a dead marigold and hands it to me. I look at it, brown and crinkly in my hand, then look up at her in askance. "Look," she says, and peels back the dead leaves. Inside, a pocket of seeds spills into my hands. Mary- I called her Babcia, because in her native Polish that is how you say ... Read more »