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My grandparents were magical gardeners. Theirs was not so much a garden but a small farm. I would lose myself for days in the carefully laid rows of nascent food that stretched from the rocks of Lake Huron to the sand of Lake Michigan.

Likely the garden was a typical size and I was much smaller (who knows if memory ever really serves), but the space seemed massive to me. In the summer my brother and I would trail my grandfather, picking sticky green beans from trellises and digging up worms to catch fish from the lake. My grandmother would fry the fish and boil the beans and dinner was ready. It was a kind of childhood experience that was etched in my heart every summer.