Athens People. If I had turned right at Lumpkin this morning, as I usually do, I would not have met Karen Witten. But I crossed Lumpkin and began the long walk down the Broad Street hill, lingering a moment or two at Broad and Finley to renew my acquaintance with the cobblestones that have ushered me and so many other pilgrims into the presence of The Tree That Owns Itself.

When I reached Pope, I turned right, partly to avoid an even longer trek back to the downtown parking deck, and partly to pay my silent respects to Hill First Baptist Church. When the church gathered, some time ago now, to say farewell to my colleague Larry Blount, who died young, the spiritual tide that engulfed the congregation washed over me, standing at the back of the sanctuary, leaving me with the strong conviction that Larry, perhaps alone among all I’ve mourned, received a proper send-off.

As I moved beyond the church on Pope, I encountered something unexpected. To my right, in a hollow between the back of the church and a row of wood-frame houses, vegetables grew in neat rows and patches. Here — only a block or two from the 40 Watt and the arch — was a garden. And walking slowly through it, carrying (I think) one of those plastic grocery bags, was a diminutive gray-haired woman. She was dressed so modestly, and she carried herself with such humble grace, that I thought she might be homeless. As I watched, she stopped, midways of the garden, and busied herself. I realized then that the garden was no mere waypoint for her, but a workspace. She was the gardener or, as it turns out, one of them.

She is Karen Witten. Karen, a physician, has spent more time in Addis Ababa than in Athens. For more than a decade, she worked closely with Ethiopian scientists to try to rid the country of the scourge of malaria while her husband Wray, a lawyer, helped build Ethiopia’s system of legal education. About two years ago, Karen and Wray retired to Athens, moving into a house near what is now the garden, but was then just a kudzu-dominated patch of open space.

The story of the garden’s creation and of its tending by a diverse community of volunteers should be told, and the telling already has begun. This week’s Flagpole (as Karen pointed out to me) includes an excellent feature on “the hand-made garden.” After you’ve read the piece, drop back by. I’ll post a few more images when they’re ready, and I’ll add a detail or two to the story.

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