My mother's garden lay on the southerly side of our old house

between the edge of the yard and a dense woodland which belonged to an

unsociable uncle. I found little of interest in this garden in spring with its neat orderly rows Poppa and his trusty mule had laid off. Nor in early summer when the labor of Mama and my older siblings resulted in flourishing stick beans, hearty red tomatoes, sweet corn, and green onions.

Ah, but when fall came, when the last of the vegetables were about all gathered from this plot of ground, this was my favorite time.

Morning glory vines that had escaped the hoe ran riot among the rows and blossoms in every color would come laughing to

greet me and turn that corner of my world

into a rainbow.