It was the start of a beautiful, sunny day; and even though the warm weather had not yet arrived, the budding plants had plans of their own. It was evident that winter was winding down and spring was waiting patiently around the corner.

The sun warmed the chilled air as I sat on the concrete steps of the back porch alongside my neighbor. Zi Mike was his name. He sat there pensively, looking over his future garden lot. Although I called him “Zio,” he wasn’t my uncle. It was a term of respect given to Italian seniors.