My family moved a number of times when I was a child. The first home I remember was near the center of Toronto, a little house that has long since been torn down and replaced by a modern monster. From there we moved to one of the city’s up-and-coming eastern suburbs where we had an older home on a larger property, then to one of its established western suburbs where we had a very normal home on a very normal suburban property. But wherever we lived, whatever the size of our home or land, one thing remained constant—we always had the best gardens in the neighborhood.
We had the best gardens because my father was a landscaper, an artist whose medium was soil, grass, trees, and flowers. He would have considered himself a hypocrite had he made other properties beautiful but not his own, so in that way our home was always a display of his authenticity, a showcase of his ability, an expression of his artistry.
My favorite was the one in Unionville, the one that had the largest home and the biggest gardens. The front yard was a work of special beauty, and it was
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