The commuters roaring past on U.S. 40 would never spot it. The minivans full of kids and soccer balls zoom right by. And the developers? They might see only strip malls waiting to be built.
But Don Harrison, retired engineer, self-styled naturalist and old-timer, knows where to find the 2-foot-tall marble marker chiseled with its cryptic, outdated message: "14 M To B."
"B" is Baltimore. And "14 M" is 14 miles. To Harrison, it's a quaint reminder of what Howard County once was - beautiful, rural, a long way from the city.
Out here in the suburbs, where people try to escape urban ills, you still hear much talk of big-city problems, of crime, traffic and constant rush. Of farmland disappearing. Of a paradise lost.
"Across the street was fields and just a few little buildings. Now it's a shopping center," says Harrison as he sits in his four-bedroom brick rancher, a hundred feet from U.S. 40. "I can't get out of my driveway in the morning. I grew up in this county, and I think this county has pimped itself to development."
Harrison and his wife, Donna, see the consequences all around them. There are obvious problems such as the robberies on U.S. 40's commercial strip, and the traffic that has become burdensome and dangerous.
Then there are more subtle problems: People buy big, new homes with giant mortgages they can't afford unless both parents work. Their children grow up surly and disrespectful, cut through the Harrisons' yard, and smoke and drink under their trees.
"They do whatever they want to do because no one's supervising. They're raising themselves," says Donna Harrison.
"We are the dinosaurs," Don Harrison says, "but we didn't have these problems as dinosaurs."
After World War II, the first wave of Baltimoreans moved west out U.S. 40, past Catonsville and into Howard County.
The exodus has continued ever since, in increasingly wealthy and conservative waves, making this an affluent stretch in the nation's sixth-richest county.
Now, about 20,000 people live in the corridor, many in planned communities with cul-de-sacs, look-alike homes and wide roads traveled by late-model minivans. In the fall, their children will go to good public schools or pricey private ones.
In short, this is a place where the American Dream lives on.
Cynthia Williams, born of a blue-collar Baltimore family, moved to the community of Valley Meade, just off U.S. 40, in 1965. She was 18, newly married and astonished to be moving into the country, and so far from the city.
"This was more than I ever dreamed of in my whole life," Williams says 31 years later as she stands in her shady, brick home with a well-groomed lawn. "I guess in those days, life was boring because you did the same thing everyday. But we were happy because we didn't know any better."
Since then, she has watched the world grow more complex and troubled as premarital sex became more common, liberal ideas took over schools and respect for man and God waned.
Williams, a born-again Christian, finds strength in religion, but she says the new suburbanites seek only money, cars and huge homes - at the expense of the deeper joys of faith and family.
"We may be economically better, but our children are not better," Williams says. "They're not really happy. They're not at peace with themselves. And I think that's sad."
Marianne Becker, a psychotherapist living in The Oaks community near Patapsco Valley State Park, sees the consequences in her young clients.
"I just see so many stressed out kids," she says. "I have suicidal teen-agers who are clients. They're suicidal, and their mothers are out working full time, so where's the safety net?"
Becker tried to work full-time when she first became a mother. Now she works two evenings and one day a week so she can spend more time with her two children, ages 9 and 11.
"They needed more care-taking. They needed social exposure and time with their mother," Becker says. "We had no leisure time, no quality time."
Worries about crime
Across the street, Dave Ratajski stands in his driveway dressed in shorts and a blue polo shirt. A cup of coffee is in his hand. His blue-eyed husky, Ashley, is by his side. It is 10:30 on a weekday morning, and this one-time banker is relaxing at home after dropping off his children at camp.
Ratajski, at 50, hasn't retired, but five years ago he traded the corporate world for a couple of part-time home businesses. In the deal, he got to coach his son's Little League baseball and basketball teams. And he has rediscovered the ultimate suburban reward: the barbecue.
"I'm home now, so I can crank up the barbecue at 5:30, 6 o'clock. Before it was 7:30, 8 o'clock and more of a problem," he says, smiling at the transformation. "I'm a house dad."
He is bullish on the economy, the country, even his neighborhood, but he worries about the crime and traffic on U.S. 40. The entrance to The Oaks is a few hundred feet beyond the crest of a hill.