We are right in the middle of high spring. All the plants and trees are looking their very best.

I have a low growing, somewhat shady area that is performing better than I’ve ever seen. In full bloom are perennial candy tuft, wood hyacinths, ground phlox, Grandmother Eye Veronica and violas. These plants have been there for decades and spread reliably over the years.

Do not lose hope for your vitex or crape myrtle. They look dead but will come around.

I sincerely hope to get peppers, tomatoes and eggplants planted this weekend. It finally feels safe from frost. They finally are getting a little size. The greenhouse hasn’t been that warm most of May.

This Memorial Day weekend is like no others. I wonder if we will entertain scores of visitors, enjoy backyard BBQs or put our toes into the chilly Atlantic?

I know I’ve mentioned family members and their wartime service in past columns. My Dad was aboard a mine sweeper which searched the Tokyo Harbor right before the surrender. He watched with binoculars the dignitaries on board the USS Missouri that day in 1945.

My uncle Dan was wounded on the climb up Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima.

A few years ago Ken Kohane sent along a letter about his experiences arriving wounded in Boston after his stint in Vietnam. This past week I received another note from him which bears repeating in its entirety:

“While me and tens of thousands of other American boys were sweating and bleeding and dying in a country 10,000 miles away, this President was literally playing golf because he had ‘bone spurs’ as a deferment.

“At 19, I had to make the hardest decision of my life. The war was a s***show when I got drafted. A few acquaintances, kids that hung around with other guys around Billings Field in Boston where I grew up, had come home wounded or dead. Up at the corner of Baker street where it meets the West Roxbury Parkway is a plaque for Paul Reed who died over there. I knew him. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t make it back, however, I couldn’t dishonor my dad and all those other fathers in our neighborhood who had served in WWII, the Korean War, and, I believe, Old Man Proudy who lived across the street was a WWI vet. So I made the only choice I felt I could although every fiber of my being wanted to run. I went. I reported for the draft.

“That morning, my father, Gail my girlfriend, and one of my little sisters holding Dad’s hand walked me to the train. That first step onto the train, looking back at the three of them, passing the yards I had played in my whole life, hearing the sound of the train taking me into a future I wanted no part of... I took that step onto that train because I had been raised to have respect, honor and, yes, bravery. I went.

“I don’t know what this President has gone through, however, his actions show me over and over that he has never learned honor, respect or bravery. I am ashamed that he is the face of this country.

“Some more Vietnam thoughts. Thinking of Sgt. Evans who was maybe four feet away from me the day I was wounded — the day he died — and that kid from Texas (damn I don’t remember his name, a good kid, loved Texas) told me when we got home he would show me Texas.

“Andy from California, who would talk about the day after his high school graduation swimming in the Pacific Ocean with his girlfriend in the morning and skiing that night. They died beside a road outside of Pleiku. The kid from Puerto Rico, who one night sitting on a rock with me, told me how beautiful Puerto Rico was and how much he missed his family. He was gone a few days later, mortar attack. And so many others.”

Thank you so much, Kenny, for this remembrance and for your service.