Where Does My Help Come From?
In my last post, I told you about my Papa and our love of gardening together. He often commented that people were going to think he was terrible to his granddaughter, because I often kept working on those pesky weeds even when he had stopped to take a break. When the strawberries came in, he often scolded me for eating more than I put in the basket. Fortunately, he always said that with a smile on his face. After his heart attack when I was about 81/2, things were different. He had little energy for gardening, so my uncle tried to take over some of the work, but things just weren’t the same. Then, one bright, sunshiny July day, the unthinkable happened. Papa collapsed right in the middle of his precious strawberry patch. Once again, I wasn’t qu...