In 1964, when I was just eight years old, my uncle Tim passed away. He was a carpenter and roofer, and an avid hunter, fisherman, and farmer. We spent many days at his farm, and I liked helping him so much that he made me a pint-sized green wooden wheelbarrow and spray-painted my name in cursive on the sides — in gold. How I loved his garden, which was where he would mostly be when our family arrived. Sometimes, he waited for me in the rhubarb patch with a bowl of sugar. With his knife, he’d cut off some stalks, and then we’d dip them in the sugar and eat while sitting in the sun, talking. I adored that man.