Not Right

She gave two reasons, my mother did. Rationale for why she wouldn't be teaching me to cook. Recall that it is the early '60's in the South and thus her words may seem intemperate. First, there is the matter of my husband. No, I didn't have one at the time, but she was sure that I would.....eventually. Therefore, no need to teach me any culinary secrets as I would surely be concentrating on preparing whatever my husband liked to eat. I can't remember if I were incensed by this statement but surely I fumed just a bit. Secondly, if she tried to impart her cookery knowledge, she'd have to do so upside down. All the tasks would be alien to her right-handed brain. Fair enough, I suppose.

Those of us whose dominant hand preference is shared by a mere 10-15% of the population encounter such challenges routinely. With twice as many men exhibiting the trait as women, I'm part of a rather rarified group. If you seek definitions for left-handiness, you will find a collection of uncommon words. Sinistromanuality. Sinistrality. Mancinism. Hmmm. All sound inauspicious to me.

There's more. The French word for left is gauche which means 'clumsy,' 'awkward,' or 'graceless.' In Chinese, left means 'improper.' Could it be that these words were created by right-handed people?

Research indicates that the elite (as I like to think of the demographic) left-handed population is rife with above average high achievers. Of the last seven United States Presidents, four have been left-handed. Some might argue that among those seven, at least a few skewed the high achievers appellation.

Traditionally, left-handed students were unacceptable and every effort was made to 'correct' this problem. Extreme measures, including physical force, were often employed. The young child could but submit. The physical and psychological effects of such a major change to one's functions are profound.

At the age of five, I began first grade at a small country school. Almost immediately, my otherwise very competent teacher began to try and change the way I wrote. My mother, not a person to challenge authority, arrived in my classroom shortly thereafter. She made it very clear to Mrs. Hays that I was left-handed and left-handed I would always be. Thanks Mother.

I've noticed that men generally turn their left hand to the right and then proceed to write. I do not. My left hand remains perpendicular to the paper as I begin to form letters. The difference is demonstrated in the photo of President Obama signing a document and a high school photo taken when I was editor of the school paper.



Because there are so few lefties in the world, products are designed for the majority. Left-handed golf clubs can be purchased, as well as scissors crafted for ease of use. Try using a hair dryer whose buttons are on the wrong side. Or an iron. It is always necessary to turn the ironing board around in order to use it successfully.



When sitting at the table, lefties try to sit next to a fellow left-handed diner or select a position where nobody is sitting to his/her left. Otherwise, the potential for bumping a dinner guest is greatly enhanced.

I've wondered if I'd be a more competent driver if I lived in a country where people traditionally drive on the 'wrong' side of the road. Would my consummate left-handedness be an asset?

In homage to my dominant hand, I wear my watch on my right wrist. The face is turned inwards and therefore I can access the time quickly if I am busy writing or performing some other task at the moment.

My dear husband, who has grown accustomed to my left-handed quirks, designed our kitchen island to oblige this trait. He set the stovetop off-center and created a small area closest to the refrigerator for depositing items extracted from the cold. The genius of the island is that the commodious workspace is located to the left of the stovetop.



Computers offer opportunities for frustration. My mouse must be reconfigured each time the CPU is activated. For some reason, the wireless Logitech mouse will not retain the 'secondary' aka 'left-handed' position. Curious.

Have you ever noticed that left-handed people appear to clap backwards? Well, they do. We hold our right hand steady and use the left hand to slap its palm. Generally, left-handed people can be identified at an event simply by observing their clapping technique.

During my pregnancy twenty-nine years ago, I created a list of desirable traits for my daughter. Being left-handed made the list but she most definitely is not. I thought perhaps the gene might transfer but I'm much happier that she has her daddy's blue eyes.

How I came to be left-handed is a mystery. Both my parents were right-handed as was my brother. Three of my grandparents were right-handed and most likely also the grandfather I never met. A sprinkling of cousins manifest the trait and it's present in the next generations as well.

With all the necessary life concessions which left-handiness requires, I rather like the distinction. Somehow it sets me apart. Makes me different. I always notice others who are left-handed and feel a sort of transitory kinship.

Though my life has been minimally impacted by injuries, I have had a few accidents. A broken kneecap. Hyper-extended fingers requiring a cast. Broken toes. Bruised arch. All on the left side. Wonder what that means, if anything? Maybe I am truly gauche as the French would say.

No, that's not right.

Two Left

Family stories form the fabric of relationships. Some bring laughter or tears, others chagrin. Too often these stories metamorphosize until their origins are obscured, the facts muddled and the content mythologized. In our particular family there's only agreement that one reason we bought the lot on which our house resides is that I wanted to be close to my favorite grocery store, Vons, nestled in a nearby mall. One could stand in the middle of our street, look to the left, and two blocks away, grocery nirvana. Well, maybe not quite, but a serviceable store nevertheless.

The small mall occupies an easily accessible corner. When we first moved to town nearly thirty-five years ago, a bowling alley anchored the westernmost front section of the mall. The eastern neighbor was a local grocery called Market Basket. At the southern edge of the complex, J.C. Penny thrived. It was so popular that citizens occasionally saw Frank Sinatra (yes, that one) strolling through enjoying an ice cream cone.

In the middle of the space, a hometown department store, Walker Scott, provided for area families' needs with reasonable prices and fifties type friendly service. From bedding to toys, kitchen gadgets to clothes, the two-story business flourished. One Sunday, as I entered the store from the mall side, I nearly collided with a compact gentleman, clutching a man purse. It was Liberace. Truly. I'd noticed his splendid white Rolls Royce with personalized plates in the parking lot but did not expect such an encounter. Once inside the store, I found the sales staff excitedly chatting about their famous customer. It's just that kind of town.

When we first moved here, Thrifty drugstore was situated in the center of the north face of the mall. Very often we'd stop there for delectable ice cream at a nickle a scoop. A small barber shop nearby offered reasonably priced services and a talented staff never too busy to serve the drop-in customer.

During the years when I required many baby-associated items, I shopped with delight at the Watermelon Seed. Unique baby and little girl clothes, cuddly toys, lacy pillows. Each purchase promised many smiles.

New stores appeared, old ones vanished but for quite some time, every storefront was filled. Occasionally I thought that the array of businesses blended well with my family's needs at the time. KB Toys sold age-appropriate products and True Value kept us supplied with Terro ant killer. Claire's collected many dollars as earrings, bracelets and necklaces were purchased for a stylish teen-ager. Miller's Outpost often carried just the right jeans for Dad or daughter. A bookstore was welcomed and all too soon disappeared. The same fate befell a very nice shoe store.

Small restaurants specialized in comfort food and attracted devoted customers. Among the favorites were Karla's and the Red Kettle Grill. A minuscule food court included a McDonald's which may have the distinction of being the only outpost of that chain ever to be shuttered.

I cannot imagine how much money I spent at the Hallmark store. Cards, ribbons, gift bags, holiday decorations. I bought them all. In fact, I was such a frequent customer that the staff recognized me instantly and often gave me suggestions, knowing my particular tastes very well.

Several times, an unexpected occasion required a quick trip to Payless for inexpensive shoes that, even if worn only once, were worth the investment. Radio Shack provided the same service for endless extension cords, batteries, power strips and the like.

One of my favorite stores is Office Max. It's not quite as good as Target for simply losing oneself in the aisles, but it is geographically closer. I can walk there. The print shop has faithfully prepared my holiday letter and family reunion newsletter for years. Computers, furniture, printers and their ink, envelopes of every type, jewel cases for CDs/DVDs, and reams of printer paper have migrated to our house from Office Max. The staff is friendly, accessible, and almost always very knowledgeable.

With the country's dire economic condition, it is easy to understand that 'our' mall would not escape. The dwindling of stores began slowly. The donut shop-gone. Claire's-vacant. Food court-empty. Gottschalk's (Walker Scott's replacement)-closed. Karla's-serving no longer. Vons-abandoned. Rite-Aid (Thrifty's replacement)-moved to another part of town. Payless-locked. True Value-now located on the south end of the city.

This week, the death knell. It's Office Max's turn. A battered sign proclaims, "40% off everything but furniture and computer related products" "Store closing November 18th." My husband and are not surprised, but certainly saddened. We visit, load up our basket, perhaps for the last time, and chat with the staff. Charlie, someone we've known for years, says that the mall is in foreclosure. With the store's lease expiring, an attempt was made with the bank handling the foreclosure to reduce the monthly lease payment. Disappointingly and maddeningly, the representative indicated that the bank did not have the authority to reduce the lease amount. How can this approach make any sense? Isn't it good business to have a property occupied, even with less revenue being received, than empty, with no money forthcoming? I guess not.

For years, our daughter, who has an often wry way with words, has referred to our local mall as the 'dirt mall.' Perhaps she is prophetic. Dirt is what it is becoming. Only two stores left.

A Novel Name

They were older soldiers, Southern farm boys already in their thirties. Within three days of each other, they enlisted at Camp Shelby, their futures fractured by conflict. Maybe they met immediately and sensed a comradeship that gave them comfort as they faced unfamiliar trials and eventually, terror.

Reading his enlistment document, I learned of a 1907 birth date, an unknown first name (Nathaniel) and that he'd graduated from high school. Personal particulars included his height (70") and weight (137 pounds.) A scrawny serviceman no amount of rations could make plump.

His new buddy was a bit younger, having been born in 1910. His education had ceased after two years of high school when full-time work life commenced at a commercial laundry in his hometown. Despite regular physical labor, this 67" tall man weighed 175 pounds according to his enlistment papers.



It's March 1942 and maybe the two men wondered, just for a moment, if they'd survive the Army's arduous basic training. After an additional stint at Camp Polk, Louisiana, the twosome is sent to the Desert Training Center in southeastern California. Living in tents, coping with scorpions, and enduring nearly unyielding heat, they prepare for the African campaign.

By the time the men are ready, Rommel has been routed and no more American soldiers are needed in north Africa. The younger man is sent to Georgia and eventually to France. His buddy's military journey is not known. What is important is that somehow both soldiers survived horrific experiences and returned home safely.

The younger man was my daddy. He was a person who communicated quietly, worked an excessive number of hours every week despite his service-related injuries, and never ever complained about anything. From an early age, I knew that the war was not a topic to be discussed. Rather, Daddy chose to focus on the friendship he'd enjoyed with the gangly Alabama native.

A few years after the war ended, with my brother and I having been born, trips to visit Daddy's good friend became part of our family's schedule. Often we'd stop by his house on our way back from visiting my mother's people in Georgia. It was only natural to address our host as 'Uncle' and his delightful mother as 'Aunt.'


I love the sound of his name. It's almost as if it were created by an author seeking to define a hero character for a short story or novel. Perhaps William Faulkner or Tennessee Williams could have incorporated the name into their works. Maybe even Eudora Welty. His unique middle name must have originated somewhere in his ancestry. Combining it with his surname created a perfect amalgam. Dupree Bibb, aka 'Uncle Pree.'

The Bibb family home stood on a small rise in the countryside outside Aliceville, Alabama in the western part of the state. The house itself was not new but almost surely post-ante-bellum. Possibly built in the 1890's or early 20th century, its small porch was topped by a balcony, festooned with decorative woodwork.



Inside, a wide hall provided room for a staircase ascending to the second floor. To the left, a parlor, never used during our visits. On the right, a bedroom occupied by a maiden aunt whose name might have been Florence. Walking through the central hallway, a formal dining room was situated to the left. A long screened-in back porch offered respite from the summer sun and a grand space in which to play. An old cistern was enclosed at the end of the porch, providing cool, clear water for drinking and household uses.

The heart of the house was the spacious kitchen. The stove might have been wood-fired and most certainly it was in constant use. A large wood table with six or so chairs commanded the center of the room. I recall a calendar with Norman Rockwell prints heralding each month.

From the busy stove, Aunt Hattie produced the most delectable biscuits ever eaten and divine Lemon Icebox Pie. I'm certain that my young self showed no restraint and ate far too many of these treats.



Uncle Pree was a 'Watkins' man. He sold the company's products from his pick-up truck, traveling country roads to reach his isolated customers. The Watkins line included vanilla extract, vitamins, and other products that any family might want or need.

He was also a quiet man whose frame remained nearly gaunt. With no children of his own, Uncle Pree delighted in our visits. We always felt like family.



Did the two former soldiers talk about their Army days? It's likely that they did not for they belonged to a generation who saw their service as a duty. Once completed, it necessitated no further discussion.

I last visited the Bibb household as a college freshman. The hospitality I enjoyed in that setting remains with me today.

Recently, I searched Ancestry.com for additional information about Dupree Bibb. Amazingly, I discovered someone whose great-grandfather was a sibling of Aunt Hattie's. The Bibbs were included in her posted family tree. There was also an infant's photo which is identified as possibly being Dupree himself.



Energized, I contacted the family tree's owner and explained my connection to her relative. Shortly thereafter, I received an enthusiastic e-mail from Peggy. Apparently intrigued by my story, she shared her own memories of Aunt Hattie. I responded with several historic photos which her sister will show to their 85 year old father.

As I am writing these words, I believe that Daddy's spirit is pleased that I remember his best Army buddy with great affection almost seventy years after their Camp Shelby days.

The Sticker Lot Turns Silver

She leaves us alone to wander the rooms and initially we're favorably impressed with what we see. Enough space for everyone, reasonable price, acceptable flooring. A definite contender until we reach the master bedroom with its oversized soaker tub anchoring the space. Rejecting that property, we drive through the surrounding streets.

Between two decades-old houses, there's a vacant lot. A hand-written sign, stuck in the dirt near the street, proclaims the property's availability. Henry copies the phone number and, fearing that someone else might have the same idea, carefully moves the sign further back on the property to a less visible area.



Within a short time, we're the new owners. Construction begins with the incomparable Mark overseeing the project. He is meticulous, with an unerring style that combines form and function. Craftsmen adhere to his rigid standards without complaint. We bend occasionally to his suggestions and never fail to be impressed with the outcome. It's almost as if he's building for his family rather than ours.



With five people to accommodate, the square footage is commodious. Split bedrooms assure privacy with the center dedicated to shared activities. The custom design derives from two floor plans we admired and then tweaked to meet our family's needs. Walls are moved, archways curved, an extra bath created. Soaring ceilings enhance the living and dining rooms. A split marble fireplace elegantly embellishes one corner.

With chocolate carpet and smooth pavers, the house seems endless. Cabinets fill the ample kitchen and surround a large garden window. Spacious closets magnify each bedroom, almost encouraging the occupant to continue accumulating possessions.

When it's time to dig the pool, Henry takes a stick and draws the design in the backyard dirt. A large rectangle with spa to the side. Deep enough for a diving board with steps the length of the pool in the shallow end. Our unique swimming pool.




During the construction period of about five months, Mark sets a small trailer in the front yard. Some of his workers live there and protect the equipment and supplies. His commitment to quality is unequalled.



It's October and our venerable home is twenty-five years old. Within its walls, a family of five once lived. Now it is only we two. The children are adults and reside far away. My mother has been gone nine years.

In the silence, we hear their voices and see their precious bedrooms as they once were. The house contains abundant memories, punctuated by a precocious three year old, now a mature twenty-eight, who proclaimed this location as the 'sticker lot.' Very logical, given that it originally contained only such plants in abundance.



Walking from room to room, absent faces can almost be viewed. From distantly located family members to local friends, we've been continuously honored by the presence of so many people dear to us who've visited our home. The comfort cannot be contained or adequately measured.

In some ways, we've become this house. A bit older, rehabilitated here and there, altered in purpose by time and circumstance, still strong together. Positively worth celebrating.

Knowing Your Place

Are we perhaps fitted with an internal GPS at birth which guides us, sometimes via unexpected detours, to our geographical destiny? As a young person, I longed to leave the familiar. I didn't know where I was headed but was certain I wasn't there yet. My map was small, primarily defined by my native state. Before my teen-age years lapsed, I'd relocated thousands of miles away and yet my journey wasn't complete.

At an even younger age, my husband saw beyond his small New York town and recognized an unrelenting quest for the west. The Air Force kindly deposited him twice in the region and the third time he made the move permanent.

With such parents as examples, we should have realized that our daughter would inherit wandering genes. While remaining in the same time zone, she's deserted the desert and claimed a wet, woodsy zip code as her own. Thus Portland is an annual destination for us with the specific time period chosen to fit within her busy schedule and coincide with the area's warmer months.

We're acutely aware that our visits need to be contained and that they sometimes twist her bustling calendar uncomfortably. We haven't forgotten where we belong.

As this September's visit fades to memory, these are my favorite Portland impressions:

A brewpub meal followed by a visit to Pix for a pastry called 'Amelie,' a chocolate bombe confection with hazelnut creme.



The Way Out West music festival souvenir tendered from daughter to dad.



Meeting Caitlin's new work colleagues inside an impressive National Historic Site registered building.



A moment of silliness as Henry and I, resplendent in orange, pose during an Oregon State event in a city park.



The staircase moment with mom and daughter.



Our favorite couple's exhilerating agenda.



Feeling like family at the Lilly gathering.



Admiring PDX Jackie's garden, tended with obvious love.



Dangling an old shoelace and then watching a dancing laser beam intrigue the grandcats, Georgia and Enid.



Repeated visits to multiple Burgerville locations for healthy turkey burgers and delectable smoothies.

An Italian evening featuring four young people being carded as we get to know the charming and delightful Portland friends, Conor and Jonathan.

Wandering the labyrinth at IKEA, hunting for new shelving to accommodate Caitlin's escalating book collection.

Rediscovering Kettleman's Bagels, the best export from Long Island.

Snuggling under an umbrella as unpredicted rain drenches sidewalks and streets.

Blissfully flitting from one Nordstrom's to another in shopping abandon.

Admiring newly purchased clothes for the young professional and wryly realizing that the Junior Department may be part of her past, not her future.

Hearing about a possum encounter in the front yard and the plucky dash inside sans animal.

Pondering menu selections at the Thai restaurant nestled among the food trucks in downtown.

And finally, listening intently to that 'Disneyland' voice, observing repeated smiles as life slices are detailed and knowing that she's found her place and her person with whom to share it.

Clothing Optional

Whenever I think I don't know how to dress, I go to the airport. It is in that setting that I am able to get straight about fashion. That is, I can quickly see that few people know how to dress. Even when about to board a plane, perhaps to visit a loved one, see an exciting new town/country, walk into an interview, or comfort someone who has experienced great loss, clothing thoughtlessness is rampant.

I look around at those assembled near the departure gate and I am stunned. What happened to these people when they got up this morning and looked in their closets? Were they still asleep? It is not possible that all of them are color blind, stripes and checks impaired. Do I spy pajamas? Is that underwear posing as outerwear? Does that young woman know how cold it gets on a plane and that her postage stamp sized shorts won't lengthen automatically?

There's a little girl, perhaps three years old, who hasn't quite reached the liberating age of dressing herself. I bet she has opinions that are strong and maybe not worth fighting. She's wearing a tutu. With leggings. Very festive but it may be uncomfortable when sitting on a plane for hours. A good mom brings a change of clothes. Make that several.

Within this mostly motley assemblage, there are a few people who must subscribe to "Vogue" or "Gentleman's Quarterly." Obviously they're going somewhere important. They must be important or believe themselves to be so. Smartly attired in au courant fashions, I wonder if they are so clothed at the grocery store. What am I thinking? They don't go to the grocery store. Much too mundane for their lifestyle.

My dear husband responds to my dress lament with these kind words, "But you never think that." Only all the time. I'm insecure about my choices, too staid to be sensational (not that I seek that sobriquet) and committed to colors that are anything but bright. I am wearing khaki, the all purpose traveling hue.

I've had plenty of advice. Mostly from my fashionista daughter. She moans when she peeks in my closet and only occasionally sees a garment that is appealing. With this reputation it is a wonder that I'm often successful choosing clothes for her. In fact, one of my great joys is seeing her wear something I saw first and couldn't resist buying for her.

One of my daughter's friends, a most special person in both our lives, has written that she enjoys seeing photos of vintage Jackie clothing. I look at some of the photos from the '50's, 60's and '70's and can't help but smile. Maybe fashion sense fades away, like parts of one's memory. Maybe ordinary replaces awesome as practicality becomes more important than style.

My fashion-indifferent husband continued to comment on my dressing dilemma with these words, "Somebody who comes to me for clothing advice must be pretty desperate." He's wrong. Really wrong. Frequently I tote several possible wardrobe selections into his office and ask which one he thinks I should choose for the day. He's good. Really good. A talent vastly underutilized.

I figure that seeking his advice on clothing is somewhat like asking what he wants for dinner. Sometimes daily decisions become too burdensome. A fresh approach revitalizes an otherwise mundane task. After all, he's the one who sees me the most.

We've been talking about apparel intermittently and last night he asked a question for which I had no informed answer. Discussing the 60's, he pondered when women stopped wearing girdles. I just don't remember but suspect it may have coincided with the incorporation of pantyhose into ladies' lives.

As a young lady, I owned multiple girdles. No extra padding was required. I was amply supplied by nature. My girdles tortured my physique in shades of yellow, white and black. They held up hose and held in skin. Living in the hot and humid South, girdles also inhibited breathing and were gladly shucked as soon as possible.

People watching as I wait for my flight to be announced, I reminisce about earlier days. I first flew in 1964 from Phoenix to the old Dallas Love Field. On that hot August day, I was appropriately encased in a navy pencil skirt (hem falling just below the knee), a sleeveless navy shell, a white jacket (long-sleeved for heaven's sake) with navy piping, and navy three inch pointy-toed heels. And that girdle anchoring my hose. The gloves were in my purse. I would have worn the matching hat but it was back home. Somehow the flight seemed more stylish. I know I was.

Once Upon A Quarry

Looking around, we see no evidence of the limestone which provided the impetus for such staggering beauty. Yet it must be hidden beneath the verdant greenery and ceaseless flowers. Intent on banishing the bleakness of a colorless pit, one very determined woman spent the early years of last century creating a Japanese Garden. While her husband's cement-production business flourished, the plantings multiplied and eventually 55 lush acres nearly consumed the original site.



Almost instantly, I know that mere words cannot convey the breath-taking beauty of Butchart Gardens, about half an hour north of Victoria, B.C. No description is grandiose enough. The walkways must be wandered, the blossoms inhaled, a lifetime of adjectives consumed in an awkward attempt to relate what is being seen. With over a million visitors a year and a Canadian National Historic Site designation, the gardens always mesmerize regardless of the season.



Many incredible gardens are sprinkled throughout this world. We've seen quite a few of them and are especially fond of Kew Gardens outside London. However, Butchart Gardens belongs in an emeritus status. For us, it has no peer. When I mentioned this assessment to a staff member, the lady smiled sweetly. She intimately understood the difference.



Traveling with camera in tow, I'm accustomed to capturing scenes that are wondrous, inspiring, unique. However, I don't recall another location where it is necessary to wait your turn for nearly every single shot. Each camera-wielding (or smart phone equipped) visitor perceives the exquisite beauty all around and is determined not to leave without it.

There are no dead flowers or faded petals. Grass looks as if it were painted, not planted, it's so perfect. Whimsical topiary animals peek from hidden places. The bumblebees must be on nectar steroids as they are huge and abundant. Wood and rock has been woven into nature alongside the perfect juxtaposition of flowering and non-flowering plants. Even the wooden trash containers are topped with plant bouquets.



With ample signage, we're initially directed to the Sunken Garden with its syncopated fountain. Pausing momentarily to absorb the view, we sit on a perfectly placed bench. Arising, I catch one foot on the metal leg of the bench and quickly fall onto the gravel pathway. It's just another jaccident. (I have so many of them that I've coined a new word. It's a combination of my name and 'accident.') A cut palm begins bleeding but is quickly repaired with an ancient Band-Aid plucked from my purse. My jeans probably prevent any significant damage to either knee. I'll check for bruises later. I'm up, revived by Nurse Henry, and ready to continue the tour.



Turning toward the Rose Garden, we realize that blooms are fading but enough remain to provide a sense of their earlier florescence. Through a Torii gate, we enter the original Japanese Garden. That these plants can survive a Canadian winter is amazing. Lily pads crowd water features, conical hats hide lights. We walk to Butchart Cove where the founding family once kept a houseboat and entertained regularly. Float plane trips and sightseeing boats are available today for visitors to enjoy.



In front of the stunning Star Pond, we ask a tall, thin, possibly Scandinavian, young man to take our photo. He obliges with three views. They'll not appear in this format as one will likely be our Christmas card choice.



Next we enter the Italian Garden. It is stately, precision designed, very different from the surrounding versions.

In the Plant Identification building, the experts are asked what background they've acquired for their assignment. One responds, "A passion for plants." That's more than enough.



With multiple dining choices, we are torn. The Blue Poppy Restaurant offers spaghetti and meatballs plus a whole wheat pita with wild salmon salad. Desserts are totally deserved after all that walking. Chocolate mousse and an airy raspberry lemon chiffon slice of pie with a crust that contains Kirsch looks terrific and tastes even better. Sublime actually. Our server is a young man who's embarking upon a 'gap year' before attending college. He tells us that he hopes to join 'the forces' and thus save his parents the cost of his education. He plans to be a nurse. We learn the 'the forces' refers to the Canadian military.



One expects a colossal gift shop to match the grandeur of the grounds. There's no disappointment as aisles are trolled for parting gifts. Seeds that attract butterflies, 'can't fail' seeds for the girls to plant (marigold variety), flower postcards, and a tea bag holder adorned with a single musical note for the Portland resident will leave with us.



Reluctantly, we must leave this pastoral paradise. Infused with such splendor, we're immensely grateful that the third generation of Butcharts proudly preserves the family's botanical heritage.