E. H. Griffith

About E. H. Griffith

Summer comes up slowly over Squirrel Hill, the light sliding down through Frick Park's ravines long before it reaches anybody's front yard. E. H. Griffith works those hours — mowing, edging along the walks, string trimming what a mower can't reach, and hauling the clippings off before the heat sets in. Lawns in this city are rarely flat; they terrace, they roll toward the alley, they climb a wall of stone and railroad tie. The satisfaction is in a stripe laid straight across ground that never wanted to be straight, and in the clean line where turf meets sidewalk. By the time the block is awake, the yard simply looks like it has always been kept that way.