My mother’s friend is an eighty year old lady who is eternally positive and endlessly generous. Her attitude to life belies a terrible past. She was one of the blonde Polish children removed from her family by the Nazis and put into a camp to turn her into a good German. Her memories of that time are excruciating. Yet, despite it all (or maybe because of it) she takes pleasure in every small thing around her. On one of her annual visits to our house, she saw this spirea and was overjoyed. Now, every time I look at the bridal exuberance of this bush, I think of this lady and of the happiness she brought to everyone whose life she touched.