The ruins of my garden had been visible from the deck for some time, but I had not yet ventured outside. It was time to get out there and acknowledge the ravages of time. To neglect, weep, and get to work — as my grandma used to say — to formulate a rebuilding plan.

My husband helped, but he wasn’t a gardener.

He knew where everything was, but it was a jumble in there. WWII paraphernalia rubbed shoulders with broken clocks, radios, mysterious machinery.