Twenty-one years ago, when Andy Turocy moved from Provincetown, Massachusetts, to a 1732 colonial on an idyllic forested road in Georgetown, the “garden,” such as it was, was nothing but two apple trees and an expanse of boring lawn. In his mind’s eye, though, just as he knew the house was home the very first time hesaw it — “I’m living here. This is it. I’m not going any further,” he’d said to himself — he immediately saw the the promise of the yard.