I grew up in the suburbs south of Denver. My young mind found our somewhat overgrown yard fascinating. I followed the cats around in the summertime and watched them make lairs in the warm shade of weed patches. Here they dozed, bore their babies, and tore birds apart. Later, I attended UC-Santa Cruz, earning a B.A. in biology and another in natural history. California shocked me. Shaggy redwood trees towered overhead outside my dorm window. Winter was wet, not cold and dry. The botanical world entranced me. It bounced out of dormancy in January to strut its stuff. I began to hatch plans for a garden of my own. Reveling in nature is extraordinary. You can learn as much about her as yourself. But soon enough you run into the plight of the planet and ask yourself, "what can I do?" I settled on a career in which I could combine nature "out there" with human nature, earning a Masters degree in Environmental Planning from UC-Berkeley. I have since worked in different capacities in the environmental planning and public health fields. I met my husband-to-be in graduate school and we later moved to Seattle. By this time, I had a terrible itch for a garden. And, as you'll read about, the soil surrounding the house nearly thwarted our plans. Today though, I am gardener-in-chief. This arrangement works well for the plants and the marriage. I never expected that building and caring for a garden would lead to writing a book, much less about microbes--and with my husband. I am still in shock.I expect I will always prefer what goes on outside of houses. Plants and people do things for one another, and as often, to one another just as dramatic as what happens indoors. Sometimes I jump and cheer with delight, other times I scream inwardly, appalled at what I see unfolding in front of me. Rarely am I bored.