I am writing in the treehouse today. The crabapple down the hill has finally bloomed in snowy white. I can smell the fragrant flowers and hear the bees swarming over them from here. The usual weekend sounds are competing though � birds, yes, but also lawn mowers, leaf blowers and the occasional chainsaw. Every now and then I hear one of the horses, now nearly invisible behind the summer wall of foliage, sputter or whinny. I can see two does through the trees, way back in the far corner of the wooded side yard by the surveyor�s stake. They are dining on tender young leaves. One I can only see when she raises her head to look around. Another is gnawing on a honeysuckle just above her head. I can see her jaws rapidly moving, her pale brown ears, outlined in black, laying back as she raises her head to bite. My friend M. jokes that we live in Paradise. Sometimes it does feel like the Garden of Eden.

AJ and I bought some mixed flower seeds at the market and planted them in a flowerbox on the south-facing deck outside his bedroom window. We�ll be growing vegetables there too, soon. The peas and arugula we�ll plant from seeds, but we�ll buy the tomatoes and peppers already started from the nursery, because I�ve never had good luck with those from seed. AJ has his heart set on planting pumpkins, but I�m not sure I can find a spot of ground that is both sunny enough and hidden from the road. We are not supposed to grow vegetables in our yards here. I believe the regulation is a relic back to when the neighborhood was first developed. The area was mostly rural and I think the intent was to make it clear that this was not a farm. It seems a bit archaic now.

The other problem, though, is the wildlife. I have been waging an accelerating battle with the raccoons, who are getting increasingly clever in their attempts to dismantle my bird feeders. They have figured out how to undo an elaborate series of nearly closed hooks in order to remove the feeder that hangs from the spiny hawthorn, despite the fact that that feeder contains seeds that they don�t like to eat. As of this week, they have figured out how to scale the seven foot pole holding up the feeder with the sunflower seeds, circumventing the squirrel baffle somehow. I may have to give up feeding the birds, which is a shame. I love the bright yellow finches that congregate on the hawthorn branches, singing merrily. One cheeky fellow sat on a branch and scolded me while I was moving the flower box away. They will find other places to dine if I don�t get the feeder back up soon. Besides the raccoons, there are, of course, innumerable rabbits and of course the aforementioned deer. I have a feeling pumpkins wouldn�t last long enough to become jack-o-lanterns unless I could figure out a way to fence them. Fences are also verboten here except for the wandering split rails that hold in the horses and a few other decaying remnants from the original farm that predated the development.

The neighbors have returned in their noisy vintage Volkswagen bug, startling the deer off down the creek bed. In a flash of white tails and rustling leaves, they are gone.

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