It’s my birthday tomorrow. I won’t be working. Ever since I borrowed the idea from an older, smarter editor I admired. There were other attributes I learned: a yen for three-button navy suits, strong Italian drinks, American nonfiction writers from the 50s and 60s.
But back to why I most often spend my birthday in a garden. It is not as if mid-January is the most productive growing time. No fruit on the trees, few flowers to be found. But it is somehow inextricably tied into the gift of stolen time.
