Mid-February, wafted on the cool morning air; perfume was my garden — encapsulated in memories — sour cherries — the acid stings. It was here that Lynn Anderson sang I beg your pardon*. You never promised me a rose garden, though the scent lingers.
Concrete walls replace picketed fences — the ideal life exemplified by the 1950s suburban dream. Here the houses are built in the 1930s English country…
