By Elizabeth Clark Wickham

As a girl I found my enchanted garden in my mother’s jewelry box. I would perch on a corner of my parents’ bed and listen as Mom mesmerized me with the stories behind the pieces.

Most of the jewelry was from my father, who - for a man of power drills, love of all mechanical processes, and fascination with military aircraft - had astonishingly delicate taste. Above all, he favored flowers, and so my mother’s magic garden grew a bracelet of swirling gold buds or, my favorite, an intricately carved ivory rose pendant. In his selections, Dad would avoid pomp without settling for plastic on the other end of the spectrum. The pearls or the small opal earrings were hand-picked and most likely found at an old-fashioned jewelry store off the beaten path. This was the test of love. Each piece from my dad represented a sacrificial act from a man who hated shopping as much as Matthew from Anne of Green Gables.

That’s why I was surprised when, years later, Dad took an active interest in the search for the right kind of lace for my wedding dress. Discussing the differences between Chantilly and embroidered tulle with Dad was amusingly unexpected, but that he would be willing to engage salespersons on the matter left me speechless.

The lace was elusive, however. I ransacked store after store in Madrid, Spain, close to where my fiancÂŽ and I would be married. Every brilliant “find” was too heavy, too busy, too plain or too expensive. I called my parents and wailed, then opted for the stores in the city where they lived.

Dad was not merely our chauffeur. He marched right up to the fabric bolts in the stores. He stroked the lace.

“Mmmm. Looks like a tablecloth.”

The Spanish ladies in the store stared at us.

“This one, Dad?”

“Nope. Living room curtains.”

Finally, the owner of an old-fashioned shop off the beaten path (of course) convinced us that he would order the ideal bolt of lace for us. He knew what we wanted and could find it.