A cold October wind has scattered dead leaves across the fields like confetti. Leafless trees line the road like abstract skeletons. Our tires crunch in the gravel as we turn into the driveway to our new country home.

'Who's gonna clean up all those leaves?'� my wife, Betty, wonders gawking out the car window.

'Hey,'� I say, 'we're in the country. We're twelve miles outa town. I doubt there's a street sanitation department out here.'�

'Humph!'� She says, folding her arms across her chest.

'C'mon, Betty,'� I say, 'We moved out here so we can be independent. We're gonna grow what we need to live. We're gonna live off the land, we're gonna'�'� I pause and sweep my hand across the breadth of the windshield. "We're gonna coax our roots out of this land.'� I beam at her proud of my little speech.

We stop in front of the house. 'See those?'� I say pointing at a few dead stalks protruding along the path to the house. 'Flowers! They're dead now, but this spring they'll brighten your day.'�

'Yeah,'� she says, 'Like that lovely window box you had with pigeon poop splattered all over.'�

We get out of the car. 'Betty, look! That's a garden, a real garden, not a window box of geraniums. We can grow anything we want. We can grow flowers, we can grow food, we can grow'�'�

Betty prods a mound of dirt with her toe. She uncovers a bone and gasps, stepping back. I see the skull of a small dog. 'Look,' I say, 'somebody has already planted a puppy.'�

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