Most of the houses there in the little foothill town, including Howard's, had small garages out back that were accessed from the alleyway. Some of them had been converted into workshops or 'mother-in-law' apartments. Out front was a small yard with wood picket fencing, a California olive tree on the right side, an English walnut in the side yard. Each spring, Howard's mother planted pansies around the olive tree in little bunches that she brought home from Callahan's Department Store where she worked for so many, many years. Blue, yellow, red, white, some variegated, and so on. As Howard watched her plant those precious little pansies, he was only dimly aware of the love she put into it. It wasn't until many years later, as he so sadly remembered her indelibly etched in his thoughts, remembering how she so carefully removed the delicate little pansies from the cardboard egg cartons and so gently squeezed the root soil, and with even more care, added planting mix and placed them in the little hollowed-out places around the olive tree. Without calendar, the neighbors always knew when they had seen the last frost and the arrival of the vernal equinox to the foothills. However, Howard never thought to come close and ask his mom if he could help. Perhaps he sensed that this was part of her private world by which she watched the passing of her years, the passing of her life. After his mother died, for a long as anyone could remember, each spring the neighbors would watch as the now-old man planted those same little pansies from Callahan's around the olive tree on the right side of his front yard. His mother was seventy-four when she planted her last little flat of those pansies, but then only in her dream of so long ago as she gently faded away. Although her wrinkled face showed no pain, neither did it show a sense of relief.