There is no place I would rather be than digging in the dirt, fending off evil pests and nurturing my baby plants to full production. Living pretty far south of the Mason-Dixon line, I am fortunate to have an incredibly long growing season to work with. The ground begins to stir from its slumber in early March, and it does not return to dormancy until late November. My home, and my garden, sit in a suburban neighborhood that lies in the outermost reaches of a huge metropolitan area. The city of which I am a resident includes 300,000 souls, a major league baseball stadium, two major amusement parks, the largest retail intersection in the United States and more corporate restaurants than you could swell your stomach with in a month of Sundays.
Construction signs are up everywhere for new retail shopping, expanding highways and new homes.
The booming real estate economy may be one thing that pushes me toward the solitude of my flowerbeds, where I can take refuge from the jackhammers and cranes for a few quiet moments with my grapes, tomatoes and peppers. I grew up in this bustling town. And the 5-mile radius surrounding my home was nothing but corn fields and grazing pastures until just a decade ago. My folks live a few miles south, in a small community of 20,000. Progress is forcing their roads wider and schools larger as residential and commercial developers seize some of the only open spaces available in our metropolis, as it bursts at the seams.