When I leave there, I pick up some fried chicken and take it home where I eat by myself at the picnic table in the backyard. Well, not really by myself. Buster Loo sits beside me on the bench and stares at my chicken like it might fly off. “Today is the day,” I tell Buster Loo when I give him a small piece of meat. “Mama’s going to get her garden on today.” He sits up on his hind legs and waves his paws. He wants more chicken. I go inside and change clothes, then go out to the garage and dig around to see what I can find. I know there’s a wheelbarrow in there somewhere; I just have to find it. When I do, it’s under a pile of junk that takes me thirty minutes to rearrange. Finally, the wheelbarrow is free. And just above the spot I cleaned out, I see the tools—Gramma Jones’s tools. They’re hanging in nice neat rows on a piece of Peg-Board on the back wall of the shed. It’s the same place they’ve always been; I just forgot they were there. Under the Peg-Board is a set of old cabinets, also in the same spot since I was a kid.
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