In July of 1991 I left New York City and moved to Greene County, where I found a sweet little bungalow for dirt-cheap rent. "Screened porch, privacy, views," an ad in the Woodstock Times had promised. Several hours later I stepped onto the porch, accompanied by the landlady.

The floor under my feet felt good right away. Was I home at last? When I entered the kitchen and saw the deep, porcelain sink, I began reaching for my checkbook. But it was the yard that really did it. The yard stole my hungering country heart away and never returned it. Shoot - I could plant some pretty posies here, have a cookout, lie naked in the sun, or mow a bit of grass. What a find!

Stretching away on one side of the house was a flat, weedy lawn in full sun with nothing in it but a big old lilac bush. Beyond it lay a flowery, wet meadow and black-green mountains that seemed to visibly breathe and pulse on that hot steamy day. "Would you mind if I made a small garden for flowers and vegetables?" I asked the landlady, after handing her a check. "I'm a professional gardener - I'll do a nice job." She smiled and nodded. I dashed to Brooklyn - literally in the middle of the night - emptied my sparse loft in dumbo, and slept in the house two days later. For weeks, months, I could not wipe the smile off my face. "Just wait till you see it," I gushed to my envious city friends.

In September I marked out a rectangular plot - 22 x 30 feet - and thoroughly tilled the soil. After hauling away tons of rocks and gobs of perennial weeds, I dug in piles of horse manure - complements of my landlord. I devised a simple plan on paper that consisted of raised beds and narrow paths. By Thanksgiving I had laid out the garden and put up posts and rails for the stick fence I planned to build come spring. Winter was mild and there was hardly any snow. I spent hours at the living room window, gazing at my virgin garden. In early March, I was outside collecting hardwood saplings - ash, oak, hickory, maple. Several weeks later I was looking at a lovely, rustic fence - just like the one I had dreamed of making for years. For several weeks that spring I packed the garden with all sorts of everyday annuals - sunflowers and morning glories, string beans and tomato vines, and every kind of salad green I could think to include. Summer was wet - the garden exploded. In a word, it was magic.

Twelve years later my small garden is, in most ways, better than ever. Oh, yes, the fence is falling apart here and there; I do regular battle with resident groundhogs; and an evil colony of staghorn sumac seems determined to take over one of the beds (I'm winning - ha, ha, ha). But here's the good news: the garden has evolved, it's learned to speak its name, and it's shown me who is boss (gardens have a way of doing that, and it's best to fall in line). As I write, a pair of hummingbirds (a couple?) are darting about madly among this year's planting of various Mexican salvias - cool-blue "Argentine Skies," elegant "Purple Majesty," and flashy "Scarlet Spires." The meadow is alive with joe-pye weed, Queen Anne's lace, and goldenrod. Did I say I was happy in the Catskills? Perhaps I'll even buy a place someday. After all, my rent was increased by a whopping $50 dollars last year! I may have to get a real job. On second thought, the porch beckons and a jug of iced sun tea is calling my name. Thirsty?