Steinbeck's (1902–68) recurring hope was for happiness in a garden. He cultivated many plots along the way–in Los Gatos, Monterey, Sag Harbor, Somerset–but there was one to which he returned. The hope flourished in a cottage in Pacific Grove. The three rooms under the big pine had been the family's summer retreat since John's infancy. “This was the ‘home’ to which Steinbeck kept returning throughout his life.” These are the words of his third wife, the one with whom he would succeed in making the cottage a home, and, in succeeding, surpass the need for it. In times of crisis (the year is 1948) it had been a place to come to:

Steinbeck was to call one of these big pines the “repository of my destiny,” and it would overarch his experience in ways he could not have foreseen. He was to find and lose this garden many times. The rhythm of repossession and eviction so characteristic of his life was one that also came to shape the energies of his work.