Sometime during January or February, Rehoboth Beach residents seeking respite from the winter’s cold often head south. Many of them come to Fort Lauderdale, where I live. But, if you live in Fort Lauderdale, where do you go for a winter break?

Like my Rehoboth friends, I go south—further south—to Key West. Or, at least that was my destination on a recent long holiday weekend. I’ll wait until spring before heading north. I drove down U.S. 1 to the very end, to the Conch Republic. My only prior contact had been a four hour cruise ship layover several years ago and that was just enough time to whet my appetite for a return visit.

Key West’s fabled history includes pirates, rum runners and outlaws of every stripe. The Keys have really been the South’s equivalent of the Wild, Wild West. Harry Truman had his second White House there and Hemingway and Audubon produced some of their best works while living in Key West. There has always been a strong artsy-fartsy flavor to the Key with more than a tinge of lavender overlay. Even the Key West Bank flies the gay flag on its flagpole.

On my first night in town, I stopped by several gay bars. At my initial stop I walked in and then walked out. It just wasn’t my type of bar. But a few doors further on I found a place at the end of the bar and ordered a bourbon and water. After a few moments of silence the lanky craggy faced fellow on my left with skin that looked like leather raised an eyebrow and inquired, "You visitin’?"

"Yeah," I replied as I put a ten on the bar to cover my drink.

"Most of us down here drink rum," he observed with a hint of disdain...

"Or Coronas," chimed in the peach faced rotund man sitting next to him.

"Well, sometimes I drink those as well," I volunteered. "But tonight it’s bourbon. Actually, I’m an equal opportunity drinker—scotch, bourbon, rum, vodka—whatever you’re trying to get rid of, I’ll take it," I smiled.

"Stayin’ for the drag show?" was his next question. "It starts at nine."

"I doubt it," I replied. "I’m not much into drag."

Then I added, "I really don’t get it. It seems such a put down of women. The exaggerated makeup, the bursting bosoms, the far-out costumes—they’re really pretty ugly."

At this point an authoritarian voice from a portly, shaved-head middle aged man further down the bar chimed in. "Well, you’ve got it all wrong," he loudly exclaimed. "Drag is a paean to femininity. It glorifies the woman."

"That’s an interesting point of view," I retorted. "I’ve never thought of it that way."

"Well, you need to open your mind," he continued rather belligerently. "Where are you from, anyway? Someplace like Idaho or Montana?"

"Actually," I responded. "I’m from Philadelphia, Washington, Rehoboth Beach and most recently from Fort Lauderdale. But since we’re speaking of opening my mind, might I suggest that you consider whether all people from Idaho and Montana really have closed minds or whether that’s just your stereotype and your closed mind."

I left the dowager queen sputtering at the bar and I moved on. Fortunately, that outburst was my only negative experience while I was in the Keys.

On the positive side, while I was lounging by the pool of the gay guest house where I was staying the man on the next chaise introduced himself as being from Rehoboth Beach.

Immediately we began the litany of do you know so and so. When I commented that I wrote the column Gay and Gray in Letters, he immediately embraced me and claimed that he read the column all the time. He may have been lying through his teeth but what an ego boost to be in the city of Hemingway, Capote, Tennessee Williams and other literary luminaries and be recognized for my writing in Letters.

The biggest thrill of my weekend, however, was to accidentally discover Nancy Forrester’s Secret Garden. I never saw it mentioned in the standard guidebooks or in the free maps, but I found it through a small notice in a gallery window. Tucked away at the rear of 518 Elizabeth Street this garden, open to the public, is a wooded acre that has been lovingly developed into an aesthetic and environmental gem.

I strolled through beds of ferns, bromeliads and lush tropical vegetation enthralled by the soft pink, lavender and white orchids dripping from the trees. The tall trees that had been spared by recent hurricanes provided a high leaf canopy of shade. On my casual walk I stopped frequently not only to inspect the variegated plantings but to inhale the soft scent of jasmine or to hear the soft gurgle of a fountain or stream. The stillness, the gentle moist breeze, the rotting vegetative earth odors are about as close to holy as I get, but I was aware that this was more than a garden—it was sanctuary. As one who has gardened all his life, I was filled with gratitude and admiration for the devoted gardeners responsible for this oasis.

By chance, as I left the garden, I met the garden’s creative genius, Nancy Forrester. I met her on a day in which she admitted her spirits were down. As we chatted it became obvious to me that Ms Forrester was in the grieving process that goes with loss. She wasn’t grieving the loss of trees and plantings to Wilma or Katrina or any of the other hurricanes that have buffeted the Keys. She was grieving the impending loss of her garden.

Personally, she has financed the garden which began simply as her backyard and she has gone into debt to the limit of her credit in order to establish and maintain this "historical, cultural, botanical and spiritual" oasis. As it grew and expanded, support for her efforts developed into the Mana Project which is dedicated "to preserving the last undeveloped wooded acre of land in the heart of Key West’s historic district." Now, she acknowledges, at some date in the not far distant future she will have to sell the property, which is also her home and a home for artists in residence.

The standard visitor response has been, "Oh when you sell, you’ll have plenty of money. An acre in the heart of old Key West must be worth millions."

That’s certainly true. But what isn’t recognized or acknowledged is that when Nancy Forrester sells, her loss and the loss to the community are irreplaceable—even by money. The garden isn’t, and never was, an economic venture. It’s a love affair of a woman who’s an artist with her environment and her community. Money will never pay for, nor refund, the investment of her energy, sweat, tears and self.

What was so refreshing in my visit with her was to recognize that Ms. Forrester is one of those rare individuals who are not defined by what she owns or by money. She’s defined by what she has created and the likelihood is that the garden will be replaced by another "tasteful" townhouse development.

If you’re in Key West, forget the honky-tonk on Duval Street. Skip the Truman Museum and the Hemingway house if your time is limited, but don’t leave town without seeing Nancy Forrester’s Secret Garden—open 365 days 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. but closed for lightning and high winds. Check out www.greensong.org or nancy_forrester@yahoo.com.