By Ariele Johannson
March 12, 2012 (San Diego)--When I was growing up on Long Island, New York, my family often visited my grandparents who lived in Jamaica, Queens. Upon arrival at their home on 130th Avenue, we would go right out the back door into Grandma Rheba’s garden. I was small and remember it as if it were a lush secret garden with really tall plants; hollyhocks and tall vines of beans and peas trained onto strings reaching up to the sky. Besides being unexpected, it went on forever wrapping around a little shed and an abandoned car into another whole growing area next to a parking lot. We kids were always allowed in the garden. The city traffic whizzed by, but I don’t think I ever heard it. I was in some kind of a heaven.