Could someone please re-write this back over in your own words.
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. Whenever I found myself feeling claustrophobic or overwhelmed in the city, I would close my eyes and think of Grandma and Grandpa's country home. It was the most peaceful place I had ever been, and even now, decades later, I could still remember every detail of my last visit:
Rocks and dirt clods clanged against my car as I drove off the highway—if you could call it that—and onto the gravel path that led to my grandparent’s home. I wasn’t used to off-roading like this, so I took the turn a little too sharply and spun my wheels on the driveway, throwing up showers of tiny rocks. I pressed on the brakes, rolled down the windows, and turned off the car, taking in everything around me.
A gentle breeze rustled through the willows that stood gallantly in the distance. The open air, so rare and fleeting in the big city, smelled of orange blossoms and freshly baked apple pie. Or maybe that was my imagination. Either way, I wished I could bottle the fragrance and take it back with me.
The sun seemed to be basking in its own rays. It hovered over the horizon, and bright fuschia and apricot collided with the deep blue sky. I could hear the distant sound of pots clattering in the kitchen as Grandma fixed me up a home-cooked meal, and Laney, their cow, faintly mooed in the distance.