Corn in the Front Yard

I remember knowing eccentric old women--one who had a talking myna bird named "Tammy"--another who kept all of her past copies of the New York Times and every shopping bag she'd ever gotten. I always found these women charming, but I never anticipated modeling myself after them--at least not intentionally.

This spring, however, I found myself wanting to grow corn in my sunny front lawn--even though the street is lined with large formal Tudors. To accommodate this urge, I allowed my father, the most steadfast and intense gardener I know, to put in eggplants, tomatoes, cucumbers, dill, basil and beans right in the front perennial beds. From the street, no one can tell that a little kitchen garden is being tended. But I feel a bit funny when the Jaguar convertibles and Cadillac Escalades cruise by when I'm out weeding and hoeing. My front yard is supposed to betray any sense of practicality--everyone irrigates chemically-fed grass and well-pruned, but useless bushes. The front yard is merely for show.

The mailman comes on foot every day and he often looks longingly at my garden--as if conjuring up some distant memory of warm tomatoes--freshly picked. I think I'm becoming the eccentric woman in his life.