The tractors that go bombing past our house. Farmers apparently don't believe in speed limits or slowing down for anything. They are going drive their massive tractors as fast as they possibly can, making as much noise as humanly possible, while hopefully taking a few pedestrians out as they go..

And then there are the crows, hundreds of them squawking at each other in the clump of trees by our garden. I take the dog out for his last pee of the day and look around my lush garden. Suddenly the neighbor's dog starts barking and CAWWWWWWW. They start. It's loud here.

I am starting to think I should be a hermit, living in a cave with no noise or traffic. Or, for that matter, people.

OK. Painting almost finished, client almost happy.

This English summer is testing my capacity for the amount of times I have to wash the two pairs of jeans that I own. Every time I walk the dog we both come home covered, and I mean covered in mud. My clothes are soon to disintegrate and I am seriously considering a pair of waterproof trousers. This has made me realize one thing....that one day I may even end up with a sweatshirt with a Labrador on it, or something. equally hideous...God my life has changed. Am I to become a crazy haired country woman, roaming the country side, muttering to herself and who puts her dogs before any other living creature? Quite possibly.

I spent three hours on the phone this morning with a friend who is living in the U.S. Three fabulous hours, talking about cushions, husbands, kids and then back to cushions again... it was a therapy of sorts, I feel ready to start the day now. Except it's now lunchtime. The kids lessons haven't been done, the dog needs walking and the house is a tip...exellent...

In order for the children to get their ice-cream (It is Saturday after all..) we had to walk the dog in the rain. It is raining upwards, they thought they might die of "wetness" and we only just made it back. We got back into my freshly cleaned, hoovered and de-mudded house and the dog, even after my vigorous rubbing with yet another towel proceeded to rub mud not only all over the carpet, but on the walls as well. He is now lying, exhausted in a heap on the legs of my easel. I , in my prophetic wisdom foresee me wiping mud off walls for a long time to come, while hoovering up chewed bits of trainer/paintbrush/plastic toy.

Luckily, in this instance, a zoo volunteer had already reached her and was standing with her looking around for me, understanding that the wild-banshee-type shrieking she and everyone in the vicinity could hear was THIS KID'S MOTHER. I arrived moments later, shaking and breathless, and gathered my baby into my arms, and the zoo-volunteer smiled at me and walked off. And then I strapped my kid into her stroller and wouldn't let her out for the rest of the afternoon no matter how much she fussed. And when people in our group tried to make pleasant conversation with me, I'd stare blankly at them and nod vaguely, no longer having the ability to comprehend or make small talk of the mommy variety. And we got through the day, and she's fine. Doesn't really remember it. Bears no lasting emotional scars or anything.

But I haven't taken the kids to the zoo since. It's like this mental barrier I'm having difficulty getting over:

Zoo + Small Children + Mom Burdened With Cooler and Backpacks = ULTIMATE HORROR!!!

At some point, I'll get over it and take them to zoo again. Like maybe for a high school graduation present or something.

I know, I know. They'll be fine. They're older now. I'll be fine. Everything Will Be Fine.

But then again... who needs the zoo, really? I mean, we've got the Discovery Channel. And the Internet. We can watch exotic animals right here at home. It smells better that way, too. 

Oh, well. I could go on and on about this, but that's not what I wanted to tell you about. What I really want to tell you about is this groundhog that lives under our shed with her four babies.

We first discovered this groundhog mama and her babies about 2 months ago when she first brought them up to daylight to see how tasty the grass in our yard was. We were actually getting ready to go out somewhere when I saw her crossing our yard followed by her four rambunctious little ones. Wanting to get a picture, I very quietly stole upstairs to grab my camera. But the minute I reappeared in the dining room with it, the girls looked at me and said: OOOOHHH!!! What is it? And then they looked out the window and saw those little groundhog babies, and that was the end of it. Out the door they went, and all hell broke loose.

As it is wont to do in my backyard.

From time to time.

So, out the door the kids went, with me trailing along after, and the groundhog mama sort of panicked and ran for it, and assumed that her babies would run along with her, I guess. Within moments, she'd dashed around towards the front yard. Her babies tried to follow her but they couldn't keep up, and at the last minute they all dashed under our little plastic picnic table and hunkered down. All of them, that is, except for one little guy.

See that little guy over at the right? The one that's SEPARATING FROM THE GROUP? Who do you think he reminds me of?

If you guessed my youngest daughter on that day at the zoo, you win the GRAND PRIZE. I'm not quite sure what the GRAND PRIZE is yet, but it's yours. Or it will be, just as soon as I figure out what it is.

Right after I snapped that shot, that little guy scooted even further away from his family and hid himself under the bushes along the side of the house. The girls were both cooing and shrieking with excitement by now, and the cat was Slowly Waking Up From Her ENDLESS Nap to see what was going on. And where was Mama Groundhog?

Oh, yes. Right there. All the way around the front of the house, hiding under my car.

My car, and the long trek back around the side of the house, it all began to take on these surreal aspects of... oh... I don't know... an elevator, and a long flight of stairs, maybe?

And the sound of my daughters shouting and laughing in the background sounded an awful lot like the din you might hear at the zoo on a summer day, when you desperately want your own voice to RISE ABOVE the noise so that your baby will hear you and know that you are on your way.

And the cat? Why, that was the predator, of course. And IT ONLY TAKES A SECOND. (Well, actually, the cat never really woke up completely. She is, after all, old. And the laziest damn thing I've ever met. But just pretend that she was drooling and ready to pounce. My analogy will work much nicer that way.)

I looked that Mama Groundhog in the eye. Honey, I said to her. I've been there. I've done that. Let me help you. I retreated, gathered up the (still half-asleep) cat and the kids, and herded everyone back into the house. The lone little groundhog had by now tried to cross the porch and get back under the shed, but got stuck halfway there and was now a frozen tableau of terror that looked like this:

I gave him a wide berth and went inside and waited. And after a while, the Mama Groundhog managed to come back around and pick up the three that were huddled under the picnic table, plus this Wild Child, and take them all back to the safety of the Den Under Our Shed.

With the excitement over, the girls were dispatched back to their previous task, which was finding all the library books and piling them up on the table for a final count before we returned them. After that, it was time for everyone to use the bathroom. I looked out the window one more time before we left and saw this:

She'd taken them all back home, and then started bringing them up one by one to eat. She stayed right next to each baby and never let her guard down again. I would have tried to talk to her, but I knew better. She was way too frazzled to make any attempt at conversation. I've had my own close-call, after all. I know what it's like. I gave her one last nod, and took my kids off to the library for the day.

They're all still under my shed, as far as I know. Sometimes, late in the evening when I'm doing the day's dishes, I see the Mama Groundhog from the kitchen window. I wish I could tell her how I admire her for her good mothering. How there was never a chance that the cat could have ever caught them. How proud of her I am that she's managed to return to the zoo so quickly.

As I walked back down the gravel road, I saw the Friendly Neighbor walking toward me on the way to his mailbox. As I remembered to ask him about the egg-bound hen, I forgot my gloom over the newspaper story and asked him how the chicken was doing.

"She's fine," he reported cheerfully. "It took her three days, but the egg finally came through. The interesting thing is that all the time she crouched in the bushes, clucking in discomfort, at least one of the other hens would take turns crouching beside her, clucking to her. It seemed like the other hens were comforting and encouraging her."

We contemplated the intelligence and solidarity of the free run chickens with admiration. He happily added, "The chickens are laying very well now; we get up to four eggs a day. Some eggs are very small; others are quite large."

He added more to my chicken lore. "I've been picking our strawberries. The chickens like berries. I always have some ruined by slugs and other pests, so I toss them to the chickens. Now, one chicken waits by the gate. When she sees me coming, she starts a quiet, low clucking. The other hens hear her and start running to the gate to get their share of the berries."

I told him about Random Granddaughter and how she explained to me after leaving her visit to their chickens and ducks how a butterfly emerges from a chrysalis.

"That's a very smart little girl," he said with admiration. "She listens and follows instructions very well. I gave her a peanut to feed the squirrel. First she was waving the nut around, but when I suggested she hold it still, she did as I said and let the squirrel take the nut. Then we told her how to pet the chickens, and she did that very gently and calmly."

I explained how she had been practicing petting with Sylvie, her mommies' affectionate cat, the ideal child-training pet.

"I had a nice talk with her mom as well," he continued. "Her Mommy is a very interesting and intelligent woman. We can tell that RG is a child who's received a great deal of love and attention.

"They're certainly welcome to visit us any time. I hope your daughter can come as well next time." In a reassuring manner, he added, "You and your wife are welcome, also." I thanked him, silently glad to know that we are regarded as fit company to visit along with the stellar Random Granddaughter. We shook hands and parted in the cheerful July sunlight.

As we drove back to the road, we noticed a trailer parked on lot #1. My wife, even more introverted than I, hates to approach strangers (when we are lost, I am the one who will ask people for directions), but noticing that there were two people standing next to well-drilling equipment, she agreed we should stop and ask them if they were finding water.

As we began talking to the couple (who turned out to be the people I now refer to as The Friendly Neighbors), we learned that they were about our age (old as dirt, another affinity group), moving from the mainland to have five acres of their own for more privacy (another affinity group), and enthusiastic organic gardeners. Bingo! Introvert Mrs. Random and introvert Mrs. Friendly Neighbor were now instant buddies. When their well hit water a week or so later, we figured their good fortune a quarter mile from where we were thinking of buying, we were in lottery-winning territory.

Now I will use a couple of silly examples, though valid, I suspect. Suppose John and Mary (imaginary names) like to take off their clothes and have intimate relations with strangers in a group setting. (We don't, and I suspect my readers don't, but such people exist.) When such people move into a new city, the first thing they look for is the local "Swingers" group.

One of the funniest cartoons I ever saw in Playboy magazine (how I got a free subscription to Playboy and how my marriage survived is another episode of my memoir yet to be written) went like this:

An obviously very jaded and depraved middle-aged couple is sitting in their living room with a very dewy-eyed and innocent young couple (probably very recently married).

The young man is answering a question just posed by the older man. The innocent young man says, "Swing? Well, it's kind of late, but sure. Where do you keep your swing set?"

The strangest part of this joke is that my wife and I had a similar experience (well, not an experience, per se, so you are not shocked), but an encounter that might have been on a road to such an experience, except the other couple was a little more observant and realistic than the cartoon couple, so the question was never posed to us. Or maybe I was just imagining things. We'll never know. But even my wife got weird vibes. Another story to be told another time.

The other comment I have about affinity groups is that there are people who like to take their clothes off in the company of strangers but not necessarily engage in intimate relations. In America, such people in a new area ask where the nearest nudist colony is. In France (apparently-I've never been there), such people ask where the nearest beach is.

Whether swingers or nudists are extroverts or introverts, I'm not sure. In most cases, they probably get pretty good mileage. Or at least don't show their mileage that much.

I asked Random Granddaughter, "When the beets get ripe, should we make Mama eat some?"

"Yes!" said RG, in a very definite manner.

RG's mommies should understand that this is a little girl who keeps track and keeps score and does not forget.

Today I went in and there were three, yes THREE, customers besides me, for a total of FOUR customers.

The guy behind the counter said (and I am dead serious here):

I have never seen this post office so busy!

And George, if you're out there, Tewt the Newt says you want to mail out your Christmas packages from our post office this year.

Picking blackberries has always been a summer tradition for me.  One of my fondest childhood memories of my Grandma Hoffman was joining her to pick them one summer morning.  We started out early in the morning and walked out past the barn and corral where the sheep were kept, and turned south down the lane that led toward the bottomland.  I remember her wearing a wide brimmed straw hat that tied under her chin with a scarf.  She took with her a pair of gardening gloves and I soon learned why.  The berries were growing along the fence line there in great profusion.  She chattered away as she picked, instructing me on how to go about the task.  I'm sure most of the berries I conquered ended up in my mouth.  I remember being somewhat intimidated by the task, but Grandma knew what it was all about. In no time we had enough for a pie. 

That was the start of a long relationship with blackberries.  They were also part of my life as a teenager.  We lived in town then, but the family farm was just a few miles away.  I remember using the promise of the sweet, savory fruit to entice any girl I happened to fancy to join me on an outting.  If I got turned down after mentioning the need for long pants and sleeve shirts to keep the bugs and stickers off, I figured she probably wasn't the girl for me anyway.

As an adult, I'm proud to say that my two fine sons were raised on blackberry pie.  Fresh fruit pie is a tradition in our family and we eat it anytime of day.  We're talking scratch here.  We've got an unspoken rule that says no store-bought crusts are allowed in the house. Apple pie is great, but when  blackberry season arrives, I'm the first one out the door, bucket in hand.  I use a cherry picking bucket with a harness that holds five of those little green plastic berry baskets. That way I can use both hands to get the fruit.  I go armed with clippers to get the extra canes out of the way, and wear plenty of clothing.  Grandma Hoffman taught me well.

If you happen to read this before the end of July, come out and help yourself.  Stop by the tasting room and I'll tell you how to get to the best spots.

Thanks to my son, Robby, for the photographs. He's a pro, literally. Visit his website at www.roberthphotography.com for more of his stuff.

Our pet goat named Buddy was killed by black vultures yesterday. He is the 8th death in the last 3 months due to the salvage predators, black vultures.

Buddy's mother had to be put down for an unfortunate reason and this little goat was lovingly cared for by our family. 4 nights he slept by my bedside for evening bottle feedings and came to work with me on landscape projects. Since there had been many goat killings we placed him in a pasture with 3 adult horses and thought he was safe.

I had spoken to a North Carolina Fish and Wildlife agent 4 weeks ago regarding these killings. He seemed to receive this information rather lightly. He was quite surprised that most of our goats were averaging 20 pounds when killed. 20 pounds could be one of our dogs, our cats or even a small child.

I would think great suffering was endured because of the blunt bills and weak feet of these birds.

 It is said the eyes of prey are pecked out, blinding them for an easier kill.

Since I work much of the time at home I am well aware of the many black vultures scoping our pastures looking for their next meal. If they are flying low enough, their wing span completely shadows the sun and visible from within my home. Before I was aware Buddy was killed I noticed several black vultures flying low over our pastures. That is not a good sign. They are always here and I have a feeling their next goat will be prancer, the oldest goat on our land.

If anyone has some answers, please send along to us. It would be greatly appreciated.

Diana Gardner-Williams  www.dianadigsdirt.com

I must confess I feel strongly about this one.

As a person who teaches in the city and lives in the country, near a riverside, woodland and farmland. I am still saddened to meet Year 6 children in my school who have never been in woodland, or seen a cow! Milk comes from the supermarket (I have been told so by a bright 11 year old).

We need to get children out side and back in touch with nature. I run a yearly trip to my house, 30 children, my house and garden, 5 minutes walk to woodland, 10 seconds to a field and 5 minutes to the river. The village farmer takes the children around the farm yard, into the Bull in the barn and into the cow field, entertaining with children in RED uniform, the terror amuses me! I tell them that cows and bulls are colour blinds but they are yet to be convinced!

Every year the trip is a success, every year the children and parents thank me and every year I do it again.

I have taken this from the Country Living Magazine website - join in, it is a must wherever you teach, town, city, village or rural:

Country Living Nature Table Campaign

I love our 3 dogs we purchased from the Guilford County Animal Shelter. I have designed their dog lot with comfort and function in mind by using various leftover stone, brick, wood and roofing material. Nothing but the best for Greta, Monty and Moby.

This is the entrance of their dog lot. It was built within a wooded area to provide shade in the summer and sun in the winter. I had some brick, boulders and stone leftover from some of my landscape projects and decided to create a nice walkway for us and 12 tiny paws. I loved combining different materials for their rustic retreat.

This is dry laid on top of stone screenings. You could use sand also. Just make sure all stone and brick are tamped with a mallet to ensure minimal movement.

This is great because when it's time to feed them I never have to get my feet wet.

Inside the dog lot or run, is where a little more elbow grease was used. There is a slight slope where stone was used to terrace the entryway for a stone patio. The saying, "Never poop where you eat" doesn't apply to my dogs. Because of the hard stone surface I can quickly wash away any droppings with a hose. This was also dry laid, however, because of digging some mortar was used in specific places for those favorite excavation spots.

The dog house is very accomodating and spacious. The home was raised off the ground by 4x4 posts and constructed with odd pieces of lumber.

The shingles were leftover from the construction of our home and makes a wonderful protective barrier.

The roof has another function as well, a lookout post. It's like having their own roof garden. The roof has enough pitch for rain to run off, but not enough so the dogs can enjoy the great outdoors on an elevated surface.

The roof was designed with a slight overhang. This enables me to place their food bowl underneath and provide another lounging area for the dogs. Thick stone was placed around the perimeter where moby loves to lay because of its cool temperature.

The rest of the dog area has a thick layer of stone screenings for easy poop clean up. The finely ground stone material is great for digging as well because there is little mud an we can just rake it back into place.

The water source is a few feet from the dog lot and also designed with recycled stone.

Doesn't your pets deserve the best.

Happy Planting!  www.dianadigsdirt.com

Diana Gardner-Williams

Landscape Design and Installation

I really don't think we can cut back any more than we have. We are people who have chosen a lifestyle that takes us away from the violence, crime and stress of the city, back into nature, gardens, peace and quiet, but we are taking a beating financially for our choice. Others must feel the same. Will this force people to move to the cities, ending a way of life? It seems less and less financially feasible to live and work in the country. These are interesting times, full of change. It is tough to make decisions that will reflect well on both the environment, and the mental and physical well being of my family.

Yeah, me too.  Until Monday, that is.  This bad boy showed up and, in less than half an hour, all the pesky wheat standing between me and my berries and cherries was g-o-n-e!  Yes, I can now just walk straight across to where I know the bounty is, rather than have to walk aaaaallllll the way around the wheat field and then hack through the weed trail that is the narrow space between the wheat and the trees/bushes/berries/cherries.

I called the kids to witness the grain carnage (because there will NEVER be wheat there again) and they thought it was just about the coolest thing ever.

McH is now on the brink of ordering the shed he wants, which is actually more of a barn at this point because, yes, I have agreed that if we have a place to house them, and if we have a pasture ready for them, and if we have the money for them, and if we can find a good deal, then maybe NEXT year we will get a couple of horses.

You see, for the almost 12 years we've been married now, I've heard over and over about McH's horse.  The horse he had as a teenager and LOVED.  The horse his mother had to use as payment to the divorce lawyer.  The divorce lawyer who McH has a deep and abiding disdain for.  The man has wanted another horse for as long as I have known him (McH, that is, not the lawyer.  I don't know the lawyer.  The last anybody heard of him he was on his way to the pokey).

And then there is L~, my middle daughter.  Unlike her older sister, she doesn't read much.  Oh, she can read.  She can read very well, actually.  She just doesn't like to.  Unless, of course, we are talking about her own personal copy of Cherry Hill's Horse Care for Kids (or whatever the title is).  The girl is horse obsessed.  The truth of the matter is, at her age?  I was also horse obsessed.  Oh. my. word.  I wanted a horse.

So here I sit, wanting my husband to be happy (not that he's some miserable, crotchety fool, stumping around the house grumbling about his need for a horse, but  you know what I mean) and wanting to give my little girl something I never got (which, yes, yes, I know, is what leads to spoiled, entitled children).

Whatever.  The Wheat is Gone!!!!!!!! (and please tell me I'm not the only one to hear Glen Frey singing in my head when I say that).

And George, if you're out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.