Write about an appliance, a weapon, or a vehicle being put to a use for which it was not designed.

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I’ve always thought the cheerful cottage exterior of Nana’s house suits her well. It’s poised but welcoming, with freshly painted shutters and slightly crooked front steps. She adores gardening, and it’s obvious in the kaleidoscopic glow of colors and textures that make up the front yard. As I trudged up the pathway, my shouldesrs straightened a little, like they always do. I breathed deeply, and was instantly met with the familiar and comforting smell of green. Freewheeling and fluffy candy-colored hydrangea bushes framed the walk on either side. Flowers spilled forth from the base of trees and poked their bright heads out of every possible cranny. It looked like one of those Thomas Kinkaid paintings, but real. Approachable.

But my favorite part of Nana’s garden was the back garden, hands down. I cut around the side of the cottage and squeaked open the garden gate. It was better than a doorbell, and I knew she would be out in the gazebo, her private retreat.

The back garden is the essence of Nana. Her sense of whimsy runs completely unchecked there, since it’s surrounded by a stand of tall pines that block the view from the neighbors. The birdsong was the only thing that broke the blessed silence as I rounded the corner. I missed it so much, living in the city. Emerging into the sun I caught sight of the gazebo, rising gracefully from the center of the garden. Several paths meandered out from it towards the shady spots under the trees where benches awaited. All around were riotous flowers, bursting from every type of pot, bucket, barrel, and container imaginable. Among my favorites were the antique washing machine and dryer. They were the standard fifties variety, rusted out in spots against their minty-green exteriors. Nana had removed the doors and joyfully planted them full of herbs, sweet-smelling chamomile, and trailing ivy. Where sections of the sides had crumpled with rust, tiny daisies and strawberries filled the void. Inside the front of the washer I could just barely see the top of Ivan, the little yard gnome with his cheerful grin and pointy hat. Guardian of the gazebo, he had a tendency to wander to whatever obscure corner caught Nana’s fancy. He was never in the same place twice, and it was my own form of nostalgic “Where’s Waldo” to try to track him down.

I smiled as I headed for the gazebo. Nana was within, tiny and sitting perfectly straight. She wore pink, her favorite color, and smiled at me radiantly from under her floppy hat as I stepped inside. There was a dainty tea table set for two. Nana’s lined but lively eyes betrayed a definite impish sparkle. She knew I was a coffee girl.