Early one morning near the beginning of summer, Mister Jones opened the back door of his house and stepped into the light. He angled the brim of his hat to the sun, lit, tamped, and relit his pipe, then picked up the shovel that leaned against the house and continued on to the far corner of his lot. Once he’d begun, he dug without pause, stopping only for lunch and the lemonade that Mrs. Jones brought out every hour or so, for it was, I recall, a frightfully hot summer. Our backyards were separated only by a low fence that Mr. Jones had put in several years before, and we had a full and easy view of this seemingly commonplace event.
“Looks like Mister Jones is putting in more roses for Mrs. Jones,” I remember Ma saying as she looked out the window by our breakfast table.

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