“Sir,” he said, “how many hours a day do you spend out here?”
Dad thought about it.
“Six,” he said. “Maybe seven. More in June when the weeds are bad.”
“Every day?”
“Every day God gives me.”
Tyler wrote something on his clipboard. He looked over at the big gray house. At the empty deck. Then back at the garden.
When we got back to the porch, Tyler took a deep breath. He looked uncomfortable. He kept tapping his pen against the clipboard.
“Mr. Lindqvist,” he said, “I’m sorry. I really am. But a complaint’s a complaint. The ordinance says agricultural use over a quarter acre in an R-2 zone requires a special permit. You’ve got about half an acre out there. And you don’t have a permit.”
“Never needed one,” Dad said. “My dad grew this garden. His dad before him.”
“I understand. The zoning changed in 2019. When they rezoned this whole stretch of Ridge Road for residential development.” Tyler looked genuinely sorry. “It’s a grandfathered use, technically, but only as long as nobody complains. And somebody complained.”
