REAL OR VIRTUAL, UP TO YOU:

It's a June Thursday afternoon in the high hills they call mountains in rural north central PA. The low ground is still mushy, but the cows are already grazing on the hill overlooking the red brick farmhouse next to the creek. The barn cats have had two litters already, and the last remaining chicken is teaching the kittens who's who around the place. Soon, in the early evening, the does will bring the fawns down the hill.

Hardiman is just finishing touching up the yard with the little John Deere. Praise and Lemur (her step-daughter), are changing about a dozen cat pans. They have given up struggling to "clean" the house, knowing that the gritty red dust from the gravel road, over across the small cornfield, that goes up the hill, will only settle back in as soon as they're done. The PortaPotties are on the way and the neighbors have been visited to discuss the impending parking problem. The pop-up camper, the back addition, and the spare rooms-- all have been aired and stocked with wildflowers and fresh springwater. Hardiman thinks there'll be room for a couple of dozen tents, too. He's hoping a couple of people will want to go canoeing with him over at the state park.

The dining tables have all been taken out onto the porches. The front porch, right on the hard road where the trucks and ambulances flash by, is set with the summer rocking chairs and the Coleman lanterns. The back porch, with the hill stretching beyond, is wired for amplifiers, and the hill seems to be waiting to bounce sound all over the county. Pillows all over the downstairs of the house await people who want to relax and set a spell, and a fire's been laid in the paneled room for the chilly north PA nights. Just in case there aren't enough afghans and comforters.

The gas grill, dutch ovens, and 24" cast iron fry pan are all scrubbed out and ready to go. All the kitchen counters, the refrigerator, two large freezers, and even the smaller freezer are cleared for whatever food people will bring.

And the songbooks and copier are set out in the dining room, near the PortaStudio and boxes of blank tape. Hardiman comes in, sees all the instruments littering the living room, and says, "The Mudcateers aren't even here yet, and it already looks like a F**king music store! How many d'you think're coming?" Praise replies with a grin. "Well, there are a lot of Mudcatters, lots just in PA and Ohio-- it could be big. But don't fret about it, honey, we can always hit WalMart for more TP. And I'm sure no one'll stay longer than a week, once we show 'em the coldwater outside shower you rigged! Unless we invite one or two to move in! But don't worry-- I am sure that anyone who comes will send us a message first!"

From far away, echoing around the base of the hills surrounding the farm that surrounds their house, Hardiman thinks he hears the sound of an old-timey banjo coming closer. Praise grins, and soon they see a Harley up around the curve. "Is that a boombox, or is someone actually playing while they ride..."