My summers through age seven were spent running through the small graveyard across the street from our very large church. The small graveyard housed the settlers who died after 1845, and it included a little log cabin where school was first held for the immigrant children (and maybe some of the Chippewas from the region).
My sister, older than me and much more daring, insisted we play in and around the log cabin, and to get there we had to run across and (you guessed it) crush the wild violets that grew in the shade. Yes, I do have a remarkable memory, but what made these summers stick out in my mind was the caretaker, Mr. Zucker. He hated us kids running through his domain and threatened to give us trouble. Now I do feel bad that I ran over the violets!