Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

Was it a dream? Was it me in the raspberry patch, cutting off old canes and uprooting chickweed as bluebirds warbled excitedly about the sunny skies? Was is it actually true, those robin songs in the morning hour of March 9, or were my ears playing tricks on me? Was it a mirage, that sun, to draw me outdoors, to drink from the fountain of fresh air? Was it me, with Atlas garden gloves, in the big, round flowerbed, to clean away winter's deadness to reveal emerging shoots of life, green with promise? That overgrown row of yarrow in my garden is gone, but was it me that exerted energy with garde...