There was a wooden picnic table under the grape arbor, where Zelma sat all day when she wasn't actively gardening. She shelled peas, wrote letters, and mended clothes there. The older she got, she said, the less she wanted to be inside. Following Zelma's model, I will age ungracefully until I become an old woman in a small garden, doing whatever the hell I want. There was a time when this would have sounded unfulfilled to me, if not downright depressing, but now I look forward to it. Robin Chotzinoff From the Introduction