Daddy could grow stuff. Here, I was telling him not to bend over, let me get it, lest he take a tumble into the turnips. And he was muttering something to the effect of not telling him what to do and he’d been doing this for years and blah, blah, blah. And then he pelted me with a radish. For a 77 year old man, he had a hell of an arm. This patch of dirt belonged to the neighbors. They shared it with us. In a way that neighbors in my mind haven’t done for quite a long time. We grew things together, and became friends. So, it was more than basil and strawberries and tomatoes and cukes and stuff. And flying radishes. It was a small garden that yielded big love. That’s how it always was with Daddy. Small seeds and big dreams often yielded epic shit in the form of the just “little things.” Lather, rinse, repeat.