She remembered the fragrance of grapes on her grandma’s heavy vines. Her tears moistened the winter soil around her young vine as she remembered the one lost to a driveway for a new house. In February, she trimmed back the vines as her uncle had taught her long ago. She watched as the early spring filled the vine with tiny potential grapes. Her grandson delighted in the soft new clusters. There was only one thing she forgot-it wasn’t yet May, even though the spring had been hot and early. One night, a late frost fell unexpectedly. She arose to, a withered vine, one cluster of tiny grapes remained. Ironic, that it had been one of her favorite books-The Grapes of Wrath.