Hayter for Oct 5, 2025
Home again, home again from Washington
“Home is the sailor home from the sea and the hunter home from the hill.” Robert Louis Stephenson wrote the poem “Requiem” many years ago. He didn’t intend to relate his words to Kay and me, but we have just returned from a visit to Stills Hill and across a narrow strait that reaches two areas of the Pacific Ocean. That definitely applies to any reference to “sea and hill.”
For an update, Kay and I were flown back to Houston recently by Alaska Airlines. The flights to and from Washington State involved some tight seating arrangements. Had Kay not volunteered to take the middle seat on both flights, I would have needed to remove the thin armrest separating me and the lady who had been occupying the aisle seat. It might’ve given me room to lay my head, but it would’ve looked bad.
That being said, the passengers on both of our flights were as nice as they could be. Kay and I have been so blessed with being around many kind people during our trip in Washington. The same can be said for a trip to Victoria. Curt, Rhonda, Susan, and Col. Don, were among the five of us who wanted to tour the famous Buchart Gardens. I had been pleasantly ignorant of the 55 acres of trails that ran up and down hills and valleys, each featuring a total of 900 varieties of blooming flowers.
Kay and I brought along our passports so we could join Curt, Rhonda, Susan, and Col. Don on the trip to Victoria. I’m proud to say that my passport now has its first stamp on it. It reads “Canada Border Agency --Victoria.” The agent merely wished to see my passport, but I asked if she would also stamp it, so I would have evidence of a trip to Canada. She looked proudly at me after I asked for my passport to be stamped.
In Victoria, we boarded a city bus that stopped at least 57 times (give-or-take) on route to and from the Buchart Gardens. There were enough seats aboard the bus for the six of us. After the first five stops, there were no seating places for anyone else, yet the driver kept picking up passengers at each stop. Curt and I, being among several of the gentlemen aboard, gave up our seats to the ladies standing in the aisle. I was proud to do so, and completely worn out after both bus rides.
The aisle was packed, so I wisely put my wallet in my front pocket to keep Curt from picking my pocket. It’s been my experience over the years that you can’t trust anybody on a bus. – That was a joke. Everyone we encountered on this trip was beyond kind. That includes Curt and the rest of my kinfolk.
It cost $71 apiece to enter Buchart Gardens. If I had it to do again, I would’ve stayed in the city and eaten popcorn while watching movies. Before judging me, let me say that the entire garden was beyond beautiful. It’s just that after 30 minutes I grow weary of flower gazing. I would’ve been embarrassed, but had my Dad been there, he might have lasted 20 minutes. There’s something about our DNA that doesn’t speak well for flower tours.
We did have a nice late lunch while at the Gardens. We each got hamburgers, fries, and a glass of tea. It would’ve tasted much better had it not cost Kay and I a total of $60 plus a tip. Kay wisely explained to me about the overhead at the Gardens. The place is far away from any grocery stores and from the home of each person working there, which adds to cost of everything. Kay is the whitener of my darkened attitude.
After my 30-minute walk inside a tenth of the Gardens, I was tired and bored staring at flowers and people with cameras. Col. Don seemed to be loving it all. The man ended up sending each of us 50 photos of some of the beautiful people and flowers at the gardens. I now have pictures of the beautiful sites that I missed.
After a three-hour walk through the Gardens, by all but Kay and me, and the rest of the group found us sitting on one of the benches outside the gift shops and restaurants. Kay would’ve been with the rest of them, but she developed a migraine during her ride over, that didn’t go away during her walk in the Park. After the four met us, we all had to wait two hours for our bus to arrive.
When it showed up, Curt and I gentlemanly gave up our seats and spent our time clinging to the metal poles beside the seats on the bus. We made it back to the Airbnb shortly before 10 p.m. A whale of a day it was. I’m glad I went along, but I would’ve felt much better had I waited for Col. Don’s photos.
Sunday morning Kay and I went with Curt and Rhonda for church services at the Grandview Church of Christ. Curt taught a lesson and then preached a sermon. Both made me feel proud as could be of my nephew, and eventually guilty as all get out about my behavior at the Gardens.
His lesson was about showing kindness to all. We are not the judges of anyone. We are to show kindness and concern to any and all. Get this! He had his lesson planned before we ever went to Buchart Gardens. And I doubt he anticipated how poorly I would act while walking around a billion flowers and hundreds of tourists.
All the while, I couldn’t lose the thought of my bad behavior at the Buchart Gardens. All I can do now is blame my DNA for my lack of patience. Faris Hayter donated most of DNA to me. I loved the man dearly, even though he gifted me with his gene pool. You couldn’t escape a gene pool if you tried. end
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