In the early 40s I was five years old and I remember Mom getting out the old jelly jar. She would clean it and put clean water in it. She and I would go out into a huge field next to our house. People in town told us that a house had burned down, but flowers came up every year, in early spring.
We would pick daffodils and violets. As they would fade, I’d go over and get a few more. After they got through blooming, Mon’s garden was in bloom. So now we had more flowers in the jar.
I remember one year toward the end of summer, Dad came home from work, tired and dirty. He looked at the jar that should have been empty, and said, “Where did the flowers come from?” My mom, who would never lie, said, “The garden.” He smiled and went in to clean up. Mom just failed to tell him it wasn’t her garden.