Picture this: it was the roaring twenties, a garden party in full swing, the ladies in feathered hats, men in pinstripe suits, and a garden that looked like a pocket of time. The lawn was a buttery green canvas, laid out by a team of gardeners who’d sworn an oath to the great Sir Reginald Hummingbird, the gardener's pet. At the far corner, a massive oak stood, its branches like an old man's arms wrapped around the world. In front of the oak, a row of daffodils stood up like little gold banners, swaying to the jazz rhythm, each bulb a little reminder of the great 1920s flappers dancing at the back. The whole garden smelled of freshly cut roses and a hint of mint, which I later discovered was the old gardener’s secret for keeping bees happy. Then, there was a little gazebo, built from reclaimed wood, with a string of lanterns that hummed in the night, creating an illusion of a tiny spaceship landing on the lawn. People would gather there, sipping champagne, telling stories about the "golden age," and a boy named Tommy would run between the rows of roses, tripping over a stone that looked like a fossil from the Jurassic era, and the crowd would laugh. I was in the front row, wearing a pair of bright orange socks, and I felt like I was back in the 1920s, riding a motorcycle with a woman who could sing and dance like no one else. That’s the memory that stays with me, like a scent of an old perfume, forever lingering in my mind.