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After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? for Quant 2024 is part of Quant preparation. The Question and answers have been prepared according to the Quant exam syllabus. Information about After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? covers all topics & solutions for Quant 2024 Exam. Find important definitions, questions, meanings, examples, exercises and tests below for After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?.

Solutions for After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? in English & in Hindi are available as part of our courses for Quant. Download more important topics, notes, lectures and mock test series for Quant Exam by signing up for free.

Here you can find the meaning of After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? defined & explained in the simplest way possible. Besides giving the explanation of After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?, a detailed solution for After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? has been provided alongside types of After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? theory, EduRev gives you an ample number of questions to practice After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store.Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill ontheir feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there.Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation.I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison.Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?a)It grew in spite of being neglected.b)The cats would eat all the plants before they grewc)It flourished in an unlikely spot.d)It didnt grow well because of lack of sun.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? tests, examples and also practice Quant tests.