My grandmother was Frances June Merritt, and she lived as if the work of her hands and the shape of her character were the same thing.
She grew flowers not because a garden was required of her, but because she thought living beauty had a purpose all its own.
Her kitchen was a room in which every object belonged somewhere, and that somewhere counted. The cast iron hung by size on hooks she put up herself in 1974. The spice jars carried her handwriting and sat in alphabetical order because
