Even though I could have clambered over the crumbling concrete wall, I preferred the screech of the rusty iron gate as the hinges were forced apart, allowing me entrance into the secluded garden.
             With their shiny leaves and baseball-sized raspberry colored blooms, giant old camellias towered above me at the entrance like sentries. Signs of my grandmother's tender and constant attention could be seen in every inch of the green and jewel-toned landscape, from the perfectly pruned peach trees to the ruby colored daylilies, bursting like roman candles from the center of a mass of slender, emerald-green leaves. A mocking bird glared and warbled a warning from the branch of a huge white oak tree, filled with chartreuse spring leaves. At the base of the trunk rested a copper birdbath, its portly base balancing a generous bowl brimming with crystal clear water so inviting that I could never resist touching it to see if it was as icy cold as it appeared.
             The copper had aged years ago to a brilliant patina. I plucked a stray oak leaf from the shimmering water to restore the bath's pristine appearance. The mocking bird continued to eye me warily as I moved away from his favorite spot.
             The sweet perfume of the dwarf gardenias hit my nose as I started down the broken stone path that meandered around the private yard. Purple irises dipped their blooms in the breeze, seeming to nod a greeting as I continued on my tour. Bumblebees hummed in my ears as they sped by, searching for the succulent blooms on the abundant fruit trees. The sweet perfume of the tea olives and lilacs lured me further down the path, toward the back corner of the garden, farthest from the house and the world of adults.
             And there it was, peeking through the drooping branches of the weeping cherry tree, the old red-brick outdoor stove, my favorite part of the garden. The iron grill grate was black with age and years of use. The bricks closest
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